Lovely, Dark, and Deep (16 page)

I was off like a rabbit before they could investigate, running on winged feet to my car. I was out of breath and giggling hysterically with embarrassment and fear of exposure. I got in and closed the door softly, started the car, and was about to drive away, not turning on my headlights until I'd reached the end of the street, but I paused. A car was pulling into his driveway. I saw him run out a moment later and talk to the driver through the car window. Why stand there and talk? I wondered. Why not go inside where it's warm? Why freeze to death, like I'm doing now?

Taglieri must have thought the same thing, because he finally escorted the driver, whoever it was, up to the porch, and then into the house.

Well, what have you accomplished? I asked myself sternly, watching the little clouds of condensation made by my breath in the freezing car. You know that Taglieri has a television, that he likes sports replays, and he favors them over kisses from his wife. I punched the steering wheel with gloved hands. Spying wasn't my cup of tea. I needed to do something constructive, something that could get me results. Tomorrow would be a busy day, but I was going to find time to talk to the police.

I was silent as a ghost when I got home, tip-toeing past Mr. Altschul's door, creeping on socked feet into my own apartment, hanging my coat on the wall. When I got into my bedroom, I took off my clothes and tossed them on the floor, then crept to the bed where Jack slept to retrieve my pajamas from under my pillow. Jack woke, squinted at me, and said, “Hey. What kept you up so late? Why are your cheeks so rosy? Did you go outside, Maddy?”

“Hmmm?” I asked, hoping he'd fall back asleep.

“Hey. You don't have any clothes on.”

“No, I'm just getting my—”

Jack was suddenly more awake. Men are so predictable sometimes. “Aren't you cold? Come here, I'll warm you up.”

Since I was cold, and he was undeniably warm, I complied with this idea, and soon Jack had me feeling much warmer; in fact, we threw off the covers entirely and did some energetic exercising on the bed. “Warmer now?” he asked against my ear.

“Mmmm,” I agreed, my limbs twined comfortably around him. One of the many benefits of sex, I thought sleepily, is that it can distract an interrogator from those pesky questions that someone might not want to answer.

The
next morning I woke to find Jack sleeping with a cherubic expression, almost like Veronica's. I kissed him. It was Saturday, the day of the coffee house. Jack awakened and realized this with a start. “Show day,” he said, kissing me back. I might have encouraged him a bit more, as a sort of encore to the previous night's festivities, but Jack said, “Want to have breakfast together? Because after that it's a busy day. I've got to do some last minute school stuff, then I have to practice and do a sound check later on.”

“Sure, breakfast it is,” I said. “Let's eat here, though. I don't have the energy to go out in the snow.” The day did look rather gray and unfriendly.

“Okay, honey,” Jack said, ever jovial. “Who's cooking?”

“Let's see,” I mused aloud. “Who made dinner last night, did most of the babysitting, and cleaned up the house afterwards?”

Jack laughed. “Okay, I cook. Let me take a quick shower, and then I'm on it.”

Once the water was running, I called Fritz, lying on my bed, lowering my voice so that Jack wouldn't hear me. “Fritz,” I said huskily.

“Madman. Why so quiet?” His voice suddenly became annoyed. “Are you crying?” he asked disgustedly. “What are you watching—
Shirley Valentine
?
ET
?
Terms of Endearment
?”

“No,” I huffed. Geez, you cry once at a movie and they never let you forget. “Just listen. Do you know any kids from St. Roselle who were druggies?”

Fritz opted for hyperbole, as usual. “Who
wasn't
a druggie, Madman? The whole school was on drugs.”

I sighed. “I need a name, Fritz, someone I can actually interview.”

Silence.

“Fritz?”

“I'm thinking. I suppose you could talk to Smudgy.”

“The kid always covered in ink and lead? Would he have the manual dexterity to do drugs?”

“He had kind of a habit. Then he joined that club for stoners, called Don't Do Drugs, or something.”

“Sasa?” I asked.

“Sure. Anyway, Madman, I have to go. I have the 11:00 shift today, and I have to anoint myself.”

“Don't tell me—Judy is working today.”

“She might be. Anyway. Gotta go.” He rang off, telling me that Smudgy's name was in the book, under Wallingford.

Judy was one of about a thousand girls that Fritz was in love with. She worked with him at Barnes and Noble. I'd shopped there before when she was behind the counter, and Fritz acted like a total fool to get her attention. Nothing had really changed in that respect since Fritz was about four and flinging himself down on the sidewalk to make our neighbor Jenny laugh.

I laughed to myself; Fritz and women. Then I got more serious, thinking that in a year Gerhard would probably be a married man, with a daughter. How long would it be for Fritz? And me, of course. I was getting hitched in two short months, and I'd become a member of the married adult world.

While I pondered my ascent into maturity, the phone rang. I wondered if Fritz was calling back with more information. “Hello?” I asked.

“May I speak with Madeline Mann?” asked a sweet female voice.

“This is she. May I ask who's calling?”

“Madeline, this—” she lowered her voice. “My name is Cheryl Yardley. Jeremy Yardley is my husband. I saw this card that you gave him, and I wanted to talk to you.”

“Really?” I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “What about?”

“Madeline, I work at the high school. St. Roselle. I saw what happened with Sister Francis. I had lunch with her yesterday. When I saw her wheeled out, I got so crazy—”

I lunged for my notebook, flipped it open. “You're—Sherry from the mailroom?” I asked, reading Taglieri's quote.

“That's right. Madeline, I'm so upset about this. First I heard them talking at lunch about poor Rachel, and then this happens. Something weird is going on, and I want to talk to you. If my husband had the courage, he would do it. I'm going to give him a gift I should have given a long time ago, and help him get something off his chest.”

She was talking fast, and she was agitated. Her words had me springing up and looking for clothes. “Where should I meet you?” I asked.

“How about Selby's Diner?” she asked. “In about an hour? I'll get Jeremy to come with me.” The sweet voice, I realized, was reinforced with steel. She hung up before I could ask more.

I was about to find out why Jeremy Yardley felt so guilty. He'd been suffering with guilt for years, his wife had implied, and now she wanted to end it. Did that mean he killed his sister? And if so, why not confess that to the police?

Jack and I had a quick breakfast together, both of us pretending to be leisurely. I told him I had a lot of little errands to run today; he agreed this was a good plan, since he wouldn't be around much. Our minds were elsewhere as we munched Jack's scrambled eggs.

I waved him off, finally, then darted to my Scorpio and drove to Selby's.

I didn't know what Cheryl looked like, but I didn't see anyone young in the diner, so I sat down and ordered a coffee from an elderly waitress. And I waited. Now and then I glanced nervously out the window, hunting for an unfamiliar but anxious face.

The next thing I knew Jeremy Yardley was at my side, looking reluctant, with a thin and sweet-faced girl who looked about nineteen; I knew she was Fritz's age, but she had that eternally youthful look that would probably follow her through life. She had brown hair and freckles, and blue eyes that looked honestly into mine as she introduced herself and sat down across from me. “I'm Sherry,” she said. “You know Jeremy, right?” She actually pushed him forward.

“Yes. How are you, Jeremy?” I asked, shaking his hand, too.

Jeremy looked the same, except that a certain vulnerability had crept into his face, and if I had to venture a guess at a glance who was making the decisions in this couple—today, at least—it would be Cheryl.

“Can I order you anything?” I asked, as the waitress came back.

“Just coffee for us,” Cheryl said absently, picking at the corner of a menu.

The waitress disappeared, not thrilled by the order, and Cheryl Yardley got down to business. “Madeline, I know you've been looking into things, for whatever reasons. And Jeremy figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.” Jeremy was looking out the window, part sulky child, part chastened spouse, but it was obvious that he was listening very closely.

“The thing is, Madeline,” Cheryl paused as the waitress poured their coffee. “Jeremy was starting to do drugs. Back in school, when we were sophomores. He was getting into stuff, for various reasons—”

“I was pissed at my sister, basically,” Jeremy said defensively. “I found out what she'd been into when I was a kid. It started just as a way to piss her off.”

“I thought you got along well with Rachel,” I said.

“I did. But she was a hero to me, you know, and—”

“You were disillusioned?”

“Bingo.”

Cheryl seemed in a hurry. “Anyway, Madeline, I only told you that to tell you that Jeremy was getting deeper into stuff. I was worried. Then they asked him to sell.”

“Who asked him?”

“No one knew. He got notes in his locker, or stuff was left for him at the drop-off spot. Jeremy never saw anyone.”

I looked at Jeremy in disbelief. He shrugged. “It's true,” he said. “It seemed like a safe way to do things. Whoever it was remained anonymous, and we could always say “Hey, I just found this lying here. I didn't know what it was.”

“So they left you a note—sell this, Jeremy?”

“Basically. And I figured I could use the money. I wanted to take Cher to a dance. I wasn't thinking about morality. My sister and Cher, they taught me about that later.”

“Your parents?”

“I obviously hadn't listened to them,” he said. He was starting to lose his reluctant look, starting to have a sense of urgency, as though it mattered for me to get the story right.

I took a sip of my coffee, thinking. Cheryl, aka Sherry, rushed on. “I heard about this, Madeline, and I got upset. I told Rachel. I called her on the phone, and she asked where Jeremy got the drugs. It was cocaine, Madeline, a big bag of it. Jeremy could have gone to jail forever if they found him with that, and he actually had it sitting in his room—” Even now she seemed to feel the need to explain her intervention, although Jeremy didn't look upset. He looked at me with a frank expression.

“So she came to get it,” he said. “Rachel did. She came to see me, ransacked my room, found the stuff, and took it away under her habit.”

“You're not joking.”

“Seriously. But not before she sat with me, cried over me, told me she didn't want me to make her mistakes, that she'd made them for me so I could be free of all her problems. She told me she wanted me to make her proud, make Mom and Dad proud, because they all loved me so much.” He rubbed his face with both hands, as though it suddenly itched. I wondered if he was regaining composure.

I smiled at them both for encouragement. Jeremy sighed. “She told me something, Madeline. She said, 'Through Christ we are all capable of our own resurrection, Jeremy. You can start anew.' That's what she told me, and I wrote it in a notebook that night, because that was the night she died.”

I stared. “You're telling me that Joanna—Rachel—took away a bag of cocaine and was killed, what—hours later?”

“She saw me around three. She was hit by a car that evening.”

A motive for murder. Rachel had cocaine. Someone inside the school was pushing drugs, and trying to enlist kids to sell, as well. Rachel may have known, through her own experience, who that person was. Was that what happened? She confronted someone with the evidence, and they killed her?"

Jeremy nodded as he watched the thoughts flit across my face. “So I killed her, is what I'm telling you. I let her take the responsibility, and obviously someone took her out and took back the evidence.”

“That's only assuming that they knew Rachel had it. And that they feared Rachel knew their identity. That's a lot of ifs. I don't think you need to feel guilty, Jeremy.”

“That's what I've told him for years,” said Cheryl earnestly. “But he said how come the drugs weren't found? Whoever killed her took them, he thinks.”

“But they couldn't have,” I said. “It was a hit and run. Her room wasn't ransacked, no one broke into the convent, and certainly no criminal jumped out to frisk her when she fell. She hid it, Jeremy, it's the only answer. And whoever killed her must have had some other motive.”

Jeremy tried to maintain a tough façade, a disbelieving one, but his relief was palpable. He had finally told an objective party, and she hadn't called him a murderer.

“Listen,” I said. “I have another appointment this morning, but I'd like you to write down the names of some kids who also went to this “source" of yours. And where did you find these notes, anyway? And how did you find out about them?”

Jeremy blushed. “It was different for everyone. Mine was outside the school chapel. I'm sorry to say it, but it was the most deserted place in the school. There was this little pedestal where you could write your prayer requests, and put them in a basket. Behind the pedestal it was open, sort of like a podium. The notes or the drugs would be in there. An envelope with my name typed on.”

“The bag of coke was in there too?”

“Just sitting in a big envelope. My name on it. Inside was a note telling me what to charge, and what my cut would be, and not to try anything funny. When the stuff disappeared, I had to write a note, saying that my sister took it, and now she was dead. I never heard back from my pusher again.”

I thought about this. It was too weird, too unbelievable. And yet it happened, more than once over a span of ten or fifteen years. Which meant it wasn't likely it was a student masterminding the whole thing. I felt suddenly ill.

“Listen, I really appreciate this, Jeremy, Cheryl.” I looked at them both. “I will let you know whatever I find out. One last question, and I'll let you go. Do you ever dream about Rachel?”