A Truth for a Truth (10 page)

Norma looked worried. “Now it’s going to be even harder for you to get one of Reverend Dorchester’s sermons for the anniversary book, isn’t it? I mean, he’s gone, and I’m sure his wife is too upset to be helpful.”

For a moment I drew a blank. Then I remembered that two weeks ago, I had mentioned I still needed one of Win’s sermons for the chapter devoted to his ministry. But this was Norma, and nothing remains buried in Norma’s gray matter.

I nodded vigorously. “That’s right. In the hoopla after Win’s death, I forgot all about the sermon.”

“You do have the one he preached two Sundays ago.”

“But I want something he preached during the years of his ministry here.” I’d found sermons in our archives from every other minister since the turn of the twentieth century, but nothing from Win. The lack seemed odd.

“Maybe one of the older members still has a copy,” Norma said, her brain audibly whirling. “We could ask in the newsletter.”

“Good idea. Will you put that in? He told me he had a print version of every sermon he’d ever preached, but they were all packed in storage back at their last home. He even checked his computer, but he didn’t have anything that old with him . . .”

“You’ve looked through the archives?”

The archives were on the third floor, in what was nothing more than a commandeered attic, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. I’d insisted on archival quality envelopes and cases plus a dehumidifier, which January emptied every day, but even that was a stretch for our antiquated wiring. With profits from the sale of our history, we hoped to renovate and divide a small room in the second-floor religious education wing. Half for teaching supplies, half for church history.

“I’m headed up there now,” I said. “Got my car out front.”

“Looking for more sermons?”

I was already on my way, but I turned and smiled without stopping. “Among other things.”

I didn’t add that the “other” things were mentions of Marie Grandower, and anybody else who had been at the Dorchesters’ party. I’m the historian, right? I wasn’t snooping.

I was just doing my job.

There’s nothing about Emerald Springs Middle School that a tax levy and two years of construction can’t fix. The tired brick building is three stories capped by a perpetually leaky roof. Unfortunately, neither the levy nor new construction are in sight. We have a strong contingent of citizens whose motto is: “We sent our children to that middle school, why can’t you?” The fact that the school is now many decades older and out of date is immaterial.

Buildings are important, but staff is more so. Luckily the middle school is filled with devoted teachers and administrators with innovative ideas. Schools are a huge part of community life in a town like ours, and volunteerism flourishes. All in all, Ed and I are satisfied with Deena’s education.

On the Tuesday after Easter, I parked in the strip designated for visitors and started toward the front office, where I signed the visitor’s book, picked up a badge, and asked where to find Stephen Collins, Deena’s former debate coach. I knew this was his free period, because I had called ahead. Neither Ed nor I had been able to get another word out of Deena about why she quit the team. Ed’s inclined to let this go, but I’m not. Deena has a strong sense of duty and a tenacity that serves her well. I couldn’t remember her dropping out of any activity this way, not midyear, and certainly not without telling us.

So here I was, being nosy again.

I followed the office volunteer’s directions up a set of well-trod stairs to the end of a hallway lined by classrooms. I passed laboratories and a multimedia room the PTA had raised money to provide in the fall. I found Mr. Collins in the last room on the left, perched on the edge of his desk surrounded by a group of four chattering girls, none of them familiar.

This was a man I had liked on sight. Stephen Collins is tall and thin, inclined toward turtlenecks or polo shirts and khakis with hiking boots. His hair is longish and curly, and when he moves—which is often—curls bounce around his face exuberantly. His smile is always welcoming, and he radiates charm. I suspect most of the girls in his classes are madly in love with him.

As I watched, one of the girls said something that made him laugh, and he slung his arm around her shoulders for a moment. Not a hug, exactly, more of an affirmation. Then he shooed them away with long-fingered hands.

“Scat now,” he said. “I’ve got papers to grade. Trust me, you don’t want me to be tired tonight when I’m grading your essays.”

In a moment the girls were pushing past me, a giggling gaggle with braces and flat chests, on the brink of greater beauty.

“Do you have a moment?” I asked from the doorway.

He tilted his head and tried to place me. I know that feeling well. I often experience it at church social hours.

I helped. “Aggie Sloan-Wilcox, Deena’s mother.”

His eyes lit up, and he nodded. “Come in. What brings you up here? Deena’s not in my class this year.”

“Or on your debate team.”

He looked surprised. “That’s old news.”

“Not to us. She just told us.”

He didn’t respond. His smile didn’t fade, but I detected a new wariness. My antenna was well and truly raised.

“We were surprised she didn’t tell us sooner,” I added. “But not as surprised as we were that she’d quit.”

“Kids this age change their minds a lot.”

“Not Deena. She’s loyal to a fault.”

He moved behind his desk and started stacking papers. “It’s not disloyal to leave the team. Middle school’s a time to experiment.”

“I would agree if she was doing something else instead. But that’s not the case.”

He didn’t look up. “Deena’s a smart girl. She’ll figure out how to spend her time.”

“Can you tell me any reason why she might have quit? Was she having problems with some of the other debaters? Was it too time-consuming?”

“We work hard, but nobody complains. I try to make the process fun for the kids. It’s not a big team, so I’d know if the others were hassling her. Nobody was.”

I was increasingly mystified. Something was up here. Stephen Collins had gone from being openly friendly to evasive. I couldn’t imagine that he had no idea why Deena, who had been so involved, had quit.

I told him as much. “I’ve watched you with the kids. You’re very involved. You’re a friend and a coach. It’s hard to believe you don’t have a clue about this.”

He stopped stacking papers, and smiled disarmingly, but there was something about that smile I didn’t believe.

“It’s a fine line between friend and coach, friend and teacher. I walk it carefully. One of the things I don’t do is pry.”

“So one of your debaters comes to you and says she’s quitting, and you just say fine?”

“No. I ask enough questions to be sure there’s not something going on that I ought to know about. Then I stop.”

“So you did ask questions.”

“I’m satisfied Deena knows what she’s doing.”

I wasn’t satisfied
he
did. I moved a little closer. “Can you tell me what her reasons were?”

He considered a moment, then he shook his head. “I’m going to have to consider that conversation confidential.”

“What? First you say you don’t know why—”

“I didn’t say that. I said it wasn’t because she was being hassled by the other debaters. And I said it wasn’t a time issue.”

“You can’t say more than that? You won’t?”

“Here’s what I think. Let this drop. She’s good with her decision. I’m good with her decision. So we’re both fine. You’re the only one who isn’t.”

I wasn’t, and not because I don’t let my children keep secrets or change their minds. Because this time, I sensed there was something going on that Deena couldn’t handle alone.

We said polite good-byes, but it was likely Stephen Collins would see me again. And the next time I would know enough to ask the right questions.

I hadn’t seen Hildy since Thursday morning at Jack’s office. She’d written a formal thank-you instead of calling, which seemed strange to me. As convinced as Hildy is that I need training, I even wondered if this was meant to set an example. Was I supposed to write a note every time someone did a good deed or said a kind word in my presence? I was going to need a secretary.

More likely, I guessed she hadn’t wanted to face me. Her revelations had been painful. I had passed the story on to Ed, as I knew Hildy wanted, but he hadn’t been surprised. Seems Win wasn’t the only minister out there who’d fallen into an affair with someone in his congregation. It was a problem in every denomination, and ministers do talk among themselves.

Now, on my way home from the middle school, I decided to stop at Hildy’s little rental with a plate of homemade brownies Teddy and I had made. Hildy and Win had chosen a colonial on Robin Road, in an older residential neighborhood, not far from much pricier digs in Emerald Estates where Marie Grandower had an appropriately grand house.

Hildy’s new home might not be grand, but it suited her. It was tidy and cozy, brick and stone, old enough to have character and new enough to have en suite bathrooms. I couldn’t see Hildy mowing the expansive lawn on her own and hoped she didn’t try when there were plenty of teenagers in town who would be grateful for the job.

I took back streets, just because I haven’t gotten out of the habit of looking for rundown houses to flip. Maybe if I had gone a quicker way, I would have seen the police cars sooner. Instead I turned onto Robin near her house and saw several parked just in front. I was not pleasantly surprised.

Never one to drive on when I could be poking into somebody else’s business, I parked just beyond Hildy’s and took my keys—but not the brownies. I could see Hildy offering them to her uniformed visitors, and decided to avoid that scene.

An officer who didn’t look much older than Deena approached and barred my progress. “Nothing to see here, ma’am.”

I didn’t back away. “I’m a friend of the woman who lives here, and I want to be sure she’s okay.”

We were saved from a showdown by Hildy’s appearance in the doorway. I saw my chance and shouted her name. “Hildy! Over here.”

She saw me at once and started down the steps. I resisted saying “See!” like one of my daughters. I just smiled at the young cop, who sighed as he walked away.

While I waited for Hildy, I noted that the cops were taking boxes out of the house and loading them into a van. This did not bode well.

Hildy smiled a greeting, but nothing about the smile was genuine. In fact, she looked like somebody who’d just faced a hundred flashing cameras. Eyes wide and startled, smile frozen in time.

“Are you okay?” I rested my hand on her shoulder.

“They’re looking for evidence.”

“I guessed as much. Do you know why? Do you know what they’re looking for?”

She gave one shake of her head. “I called Jack. He’s trying to find out.”

“Do they have a warrant?”

“Well, no, I let them in. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Hildy!”

“Jack said my name just like that.”

“If you hadn’t agreed, then they would have gone to a judge for a warrant. And maybe they wouldn’t have gotten one.”

“I hate to put them to all that trouble. And I have nothing—”

“To hide. You said that. The problem is they might find something completely innocent you can’t explain to their satisfaction.” I was watching the latest trip to the van. The boxes made it impossible for me to take stock. “What kind of things are they taking away?”

“I don’t know. They asked me to stay out of their way. They’ve been in the kitchen, and upstairs in our bedroom and bathroom.”

I had a bad feeling about that. “Have they completed the autopsy?”

She gave a short nod. “They told me to go ahead and make arrangements for the burial. I have to call Ed. I’d like to do it Thursday morning.”

“Did they say anything about their findings?”

She looked away. “They said they still had more tests to complete, that it wasn’t conclusive. I—I didn’t ask more. It’s just all so terrible.”

I put my arm around her for a quick hug. “Look, why don’t you come home with me? There’s no point in standing around in there. We’ll ask the police to lock the door when they’re done. I’ll make lunch, then we’ll see if Ed’s in his office. If he is, you can go over and work out details.”

She looked grateful and fractionally less stunned. “What could they be looking for?”

I, too, was afraid to ask.