Christina led them into the dining room, where a woman from the school kitchen had decanted lasagna and salads from aluminum trays onto the founder’s Victorian china. When they had served themselves and settled around the table, Maggie said, “Your sister spoke to me about her research. What was she working on?”
“She was so excited about her book,” Suzanne said. “She’d shown a chapter to an editor in New York and she was sure it would be published.”
Maggie and Hope exchanged a look. A book? A book that might have something in it that someone wanted suppressed?
“What was it about?”
“Velázquez. She loved him, it was a thing. Knew every picture, knew the names of his models. He used the same ones over and over, you can recognize them easily. She knew his whole life story, from a Portuguese immigrant family in Seville to the court of Philip the Fourth. Believe me, I feel as if I’d had a past life in seventeenth-century Spain.”
“A scholarly study, then?”
“Oh no. That wasn’t Florence. She was a teacher always. This was a novel for the girls, my girls and the girls she teaches. Philip the Fourth once had a contest to find the greatest painter in Spain. Velázquez won. He was a young man in Madrid at the time, and Philip made him a courtier.”
“Wait, that’s Florence’s story, or that’s true?”
“True.”
“What was the painting that won?” Hope asked.
“The Expulsion of the Moors from Spain.”
“Where is it?” Hope got out her phone and started poking it while Maggie looked disapproving. They had an ongoing disagreement about screens at the table.
“It was lost in a fire. In Florence’s book, it’s a girl who wins the contest. A girl painter who trained in the studio with Velázquez in Seville. Velázquez helps her by pretending the painting is his, and then gives her credit when she wins. I was so looking forward to reading the rest of it.” She started crying again.
Before they parted, Suzanne had admitted that she didn’t want go alone to talk to the police the next morning. She was afraid she’d weep through the interview and not properly hear anything or say what she wanted to say.
Maggie said, “We’ll go with you.”
“There’s no need for you to do any of this alone,” Hope added.
Chapter 6
Sunday, April 26
They picked Suzanne up after morning prayers at school and headed for White Plains.
Detective Bark was waiting for them at an IHOP on Hamilton Avenue. He was in civvies, off duty and ready for a big breakfast.
“Detective Phillips will be here in a minute,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind this place. It’s close to my house and the food’s better than at the police station.”
The waitress, suddenly at their elbows, said, “You folks ready or do you need a few?”
Detective Bark said, without looking at the menu, “A Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity and a large coffee.”
“Three of those,” said Hope, handing the waitress her menu and Maggie’s.
“And for you, hon?” the waitress said to Suzanne.
“Just coffee, please.”
Detective Phillips arrived and asked for coffee as well. Bark introduced her to Suzanne.
They sat in silence for a time until Suzanne said to Bark, “I understand you’ve talked with my brother-in-law.”
“We have.”
“Well, don’t believe everything he tells you.”
“Do you mind telling me what you mean?” Bark asked.
“Florence was afraid of him. He was up to something. She didn’t know what it was, but when she asked him, he got angry. One day last winter he tried to kill her by throwing her laptop down the stairs. And there were strange gaps in his schedule, days when he’d disappear and wouldn’t explain where he’d been.”
“What do you mean, tried to kill her? Was she holding the laptop or something?”
“I meant, he did the angriest thing he could do to her. With no provocation.”
Phillips asked, “What do you mean he’d disappear?”
The waitress was back with the coffees.
“She didn’t know if there was another woman, or what it was, but he was defensive and mean and suspicious of her, the way people are when they’re guilty of something themselves. And she could tell he was snooping around in her computer when she was out.”
Bark had taken out a notebook and a pencil and laid them on the table. “And how did she know that?”
“She could see that he’d been looking at her search history, and was pretty sure he was reading her e-mail. She confronted him about it and he began to scream at her.”
“Do you know what kind of things he said?” Phillips asked.
“Why couldn’t she understand how angry it made him to be doubted. That was always the mantra. Then he picked up her laptop, ran to the stairs, and threw it over the banister. She was terribly upset. She ran down to the kitchen. She planned to go out the back door and drive to a friend’s house, but her car keys weren’t in the bowl where she always left them. That was when she got really terrified. He had known in advance he was going to fight with her and had taken her keys so she couldn’t get away.”
Detective Bark made some notes, and the waitress arrived with their Rooty Tootys. Maggie stared at hers. It was a stack of pancakes half a foot high with sliced peaches and whipped cream on top. She picked up her fork.
“Then what happened?” Bark asked Suzanne with his mouth full.
“The house was quiet for a while. She stayed in the kitchen, near the door in case he came at her again. After a while Ray came down the stairs and then she heard the TV come on in his study. He had turned on the hockey game. She went to the door, and he didn’t even look at her, he just said ‘What kind of new computer do you want?’”
Bark emitted a chortle and made a note in his book.
“You sound as if you saw it all.”
“It happened right before Christmas. They always spend Christmas with us. The girls love Aunt Florey, and Ray doesn’t have any relatives he speaks to.”
“Really?” Hope looked up from her Rooty Tooty. Her unlamented ex-husband had family he didn’t speak to.
“He has a sister who came once when he thought he’d had a heart attack. She spent a half hour with him in the hospital. Then they learned it was just a panic attack, and the sister went home. He has two brothers Florey never even met.”
“They live far away?”
“Yonkers, I think.”
“Huh,” said Bark. You could drive to Yonkers from White Plains in twenty minutes.
“So at Christmas, she kept describing the laptop thing to me. Over and over, the way you do when you’re trying to . . . you know, the way you do.”
“Perseverating,” said Maggie.
“That’s the word. My husband took Ray off to a computer store so we could talk. That’s when she told me that if anything happened to her, we shouldn’t think it was an accident. I asked her why she didn’t leave him, and she said he didn’t have anyone but her, and she hoped he’d get over whatever it was that was making him so angry. She claimed the marriage had been really good in the beginning and she was holding on to that. She was such an optimist. And way too kind.”
“What kind of computer did he get her?” Bark asked.
Suzanne, who had been about to cry again, recovered herself and squinted in an effort of memory.
“You know, I can’t remember. It was a little one. Very light. He wrapped it up and put it under the Christmas tree. I can see her opening it. She was so pleased, as if it was just so sweet of him.”
“Where is it now?” asked Bark.
Both Maggie and Hope stopped eating.
“You don’t have it?”
“We do not. It wasn’t in her car, or in her classroom or the house.”
“How about her phone?” Maggie asked.
Bark shook his head. “Nope. We got nothing but what she was wearing.”
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“And what about the cause of death?”
Bark shuffled his feet under the table and poured some creamer into his coffee. “Do you mind telling me, again, what your interest is in this case?” He was looking at Maggie.
“The board has hired me to consult with Christina Liggett through this difficult time for the school.”
“The school where Florence worked.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, thinking, then asked, “Is that common?”
“Yes, especially for a first-time head.”
“So you’re what, a professional coach or something like that?”
“Just a retired school head.”
“Don’t they call them principals?”
“Sometimes.”
She could see him thinking, hoity-toity private school people, and hoped he wouldn’t decide to shut them out.
“My nephew got sent to some boarding school in New Hampshire,” Bark remarked. “I didn’t see the point myself, but it did him a world of good. I’m actually hoping he’ll join the force.”
Hope said, “My son is a deputy sheriff.”
Bark looked surprised and held out his fist. Hope gently bumped it with hers. Buster to the rescue again. They exchanged some data about the department Buster was with in Maine, his hope of making detective.
Detective Phillips had her phone out and was working with it under the table.
Maggie said to Suzanne, “Does Ray often have panic attacks?”
“He’s had a couple, but with the first one, they didn’t know what it was. The EMTs came and took him away on a stretcher. He had to stop flying after that. The air marshals put him on disability.”
They had all finished eating. The waitress came back to offer more coffee and Hope asked for some fruit for the table. Maggie was thinking that if she ate any more she’d have to have her stomach pumped but they hadn’t quite gotten what they’d come for. They made small talk until the waitress came back with a plate of cut-up fruit and a pile of forks.
“You didn’t say,” Maggie ventured, watching Bark spear a chunk of pineapple, “if you’ve got a cause of death.”
Bark looked at her as if to say, you know I’m supposed to be asking the questions. He seemed to decide What the hell, since so far they’d helped him more than he’d helped them, and besides, it was the woman’s sister sitting across from him.
“She was strangled. Hyoid bone broken, no water in her lungs.”
Suzanne put her hands over her mouth.
“Sorry,” said Bark.
Before they went their separate ways, Bark gave Suzanne a business card. charles n. bark, detective first class. On the back he wrote his mobile number. “If you ladies think of anything else that might be helpful, give us a jingle,” he said. He and Phillips watched the three walk off to Hope’s car.
“What’ve you got?” Bark asked Phillips.
“Margaret Detweiler ran the Winthrop School in New York City until her retirement last year. As stated. No record of any kind. Hope Babbin has had quite a few moving violations. She was married to someone called Henry Babbin Jr., a hedge fund guy, divorced many years ago, decree sealed, but she must have been left well fixed, judging from real estate records. Lives in Boston now, has two kids, a doctor in Boston and the deputy sheriff in Ainsley, Maine, Henry Babbin the Third. I wouldn’t want to drive with her, but there’s nothing suspicious.”
“That’s a relief,” said Bark. When civilians inserted themselves into criminal cases, “just trying to help,” it was all too often the case that it was themselves they were trying to help by muddying tracks, or interfering with the flow of information. And if it was just random nosey-parking, they could still do plenty of damage while making themselves important to the press or on the Internet.
“There’s more. They were involved in solving a murder in rural Maine last fall. Sheriff’s department had the wrong suspect, these ladies smoked out the right one. They got a confession, tied it all up with a bow. Pretty interesting case. Sheriff had to retire, I gather.”
“No kidding. Got a conviction?”
“Hasn’t gone to trial yet. Looks good, though. I sent you the link.”
“Thanks.”
Lily Hollister returned to campus Sunday night. Both parents accompanied her, anxious to be sure that Lily was really ready. The three were in the Manor House Inn dining room when Hope and Maggie came in to have their evening meal. Hope took one look at Lily’s mother and exclaimed, “Caroline!”
Mrs. Hollister looked up in surprise and then jumped to her feet, her face alight with pleasure. The two embraced each other, exclaiming over how well each looked, and how small the world was.
“This is your husband?” Hope was asking, as her old friend tried to introduce her to Hugo. To Maggie, Hope said excitedly, “This is Caroline Westphall, I used to . . .”
And Caroline said at the same time. “So nice to meet you, Hope used to run with my older brother . . .”
“Her much older brother . . .”
“We all hoped she’d married him.”
“I should have.”
“There’s still time,” said Caroline. “He’s single again.” Then they both laughed at this ridiculous serendipity, although, to be honest, in their world this sort of thing happened all the time. Meanwhile, Hugo was politely standing with his napkin in his hand. Lily, eyes cast down, was picking at the crust of the toasted cheese sandwich she wasn’t eating.
“I’m so sorry, we’re letting your dinner get cold,” Hope exclaimed as Hugo said, “Won’t you join us? They can put together some tables . . .”
“No, please sit down. You should be together tonight.” Before Caroline would let her go, she made Hope promise they could have breakfast together in the morning.
“Well, tell all,” said Maggie as the waitress/maid of all work, whose name they now knew was Lenore, led them to their usual table.
“I haven’t seen her since I broke up with her brother. She was about the age Lily is now. She looks as if she’s thriving. Married to Hugo Hollister, well well well.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“If I remember right, and of course I may not the way things are going, she married young, a guy the family couldn’t stand, so when he went bad she stayed much longer than she should have, just because they had warned her.”
“What kind of bad did he go?”
“The usual. Other women. Oh, and I remember, he thought he was a genius in the markets and lost vast piles of money. Hers.”
“I know she’d had previous children. Hugo mentioned a stepson.”
“Two children, if I remember.”
“Does she have piles of money?”
“She does, poor thing. It makes you such a target.”
Lenore came back and announced there were no specials, it being Sunday. They ordered and Hope asked for a bottle of Sancerre.
“So what happened with you and the brother?” Maggie asked.
“At the time, I thought we just outgrew each other, but hindsight says it was actually the piles of money. His parents were so sure they understood how the world worked better than anyone else, and how everything should be done, and how lucky I’d be to be one of them. There was just no chance that he was ever going to come home and say, ‘Let’s move to Wyoming and live in a tipi. Let’s go to Crete and dig up Minoan ruins.’ At twenty-four he had the exact same receding hairline as his father and I just couldn’t face it.”
“But Hugo can.”
“Face the piles of money? Well it’s ugly work, but someone’s got to do it.”
Chapter 7
Monday, April 27
Knowing she wouldn’t see Hope at breakfast, Maggie rose early and went for a walk. She had gotten all the way to the cemetery and the pond where she had first seen Jesse Goldsmith up to his repellent tricks. The morning was mild and fresh and the view sufficiently inspiring that she decided to pause there and ponder the mighty Hudson below, and the mighty mess t
he Rye Manor School was in. She had just chosen a carved stone bench beside the grave of a little girl who had died in 1947 on her sixth birthday, and was trying not to think about the heartbroken parents coming to sit in this spot, watching the light on the river, watching themselves grow older as their child never would, when she saw two figures in the distance strolling toward her, deep in conversation.
As they drew closer, she recognized Hugo Hollister. The other was a short man in running gear. His doughy physique suggested that the exercise outfit was more atmospheric than functional. He had a very round head and dark thinning hair, and she was fairly sure he’d been at the reception for the visiting committee. The treasurer? Lyndon something? He was talking with great intensity to Hugo, who asked brief questions, then listened intently to the man’s voluble answers. When the two were so close to her it would seem like eavesdropping if she didn’t declare her presence, she stood, and Hugo at least finally saw that they weren’t alone.
“You’re up early,” he called, smiling as his companion fell silent in midsentence.
“School folk have that habit,” said Maggie.
“Have you both met? This is Lyndon McCartney, the treasurer of our board.”
“Lyndon McCartney,” said the other, offering his hand and talking over Hugo. “I saw you at the reception when the appraisal began, but I don’t think we met.”
“Appraisal?”
“Evaluation. Sorry. I’m in real estate.”
They shook hands. “I understand you’ve stayed on to counsel Christina,” said McCartney. He would have been part of the executive group that made the decision to hire her, Maggie knew; if she had to guess, she would infer that he’d been against it.