New England White (32 page)

CHAPTER 34

THE LOOKING-GLASS WORLD

(I)

T
HE FORTY-THIRD
G
RAND
N
EW
E
NGLAND
Orange and White Cotillion was held as usual at a fancy Boston hotel a few days before the new year began: cocktails, then dinner, then dancing, sometimes until dawn, the upper crust of African America letting its collective hair down as, cool and successful, it regarded itself with approval. White America knew nothing like it, and nothing about it. Ladybugs had started the tradition, first in New York, then in Washington, now in eight different regions around the country, back when the presentation of young women to society by the great and near-great families of the darker nation actually mattered, and there was no place else to do it. Nowadays fewer and fewer of the teenaged girls had any interest in playing the debutante. But the Grand Orange and White Cotillions went on. Members of Ladybugs still wore the traditional white gowns accented with something orange, and their guests—once upon a time it had been husbands only—wore white tie, although Julia, standing in the ballroom with Lemaster and Marlon and Regina Thackery, spotted two or three couples in which both partners wore white gowns, the outcome of two years of vehement argument.

“I think Bitsy’s wearing the same dress as last year,” said Regina, their contretemps in Kimmer’s driveway quite forgotten.

“It’s a new one,” Julia assured her. “I was with her when she bought it.”

“Well, it looks like the same one, and I know I’ve seen that purse.”

“Last year she wore backless.”

“You call that a back?”

Lemaster and Marlon meanwhile had drifted into a knot of the well-to-do men of the New England branch of the nation, six or seven of them gazing benignly over the crowd as if recognizing the differences in class: not like the old days, when the Clan was small and hard to enter. Lemaster was doing his thing, telling raucous jokes that kept the whole bunch of them tittering, captains of industry and politics and the arts captivated by the wit he never displayed at home. On occasions like this, Julia often felt they had passed through the looking glass into a magical world in which Lemaster was a charmer rather than the affectionately distant man who shared her bed, and she herself was the center of other women’s attention and envy. Now, as Regina gossiped on and on, Julia strained to overhear the men’s conversation, fascinated as always by her husband’s ability to enthrall. She heard nothing but the laughter.

“They should be dancing,” said a voice next to her. “And so should you.”

Julia turned, and smiled, because Aurelia Treene, in her mid-seventies, remained one of her favorite novelists, and one of her favorite people, even though they saw each other only at events like this. Aurie was tall and slim and gentle, with a quiet, sober-eyed authority that told you she had seen it all. She and Mona had been cronies and rivals in Harlem, back in the day, although Aurie hailed from Tennessee. She used to visit the house on North Balch Street at least once a year. Nowadays she lived in Maine.

“How’s your mom?”

“Thriving.”

“She’s a great lady.” The dance floor was crowded and the band was loud, but Aurelia never raised her voice. A cone of silence seemed to have descended over them. “There’s still a lot she can teach you.”

“I know.” Julia sipped her champagne. Aurie’s delicate hands were empty. She chose an orange shawl to complement her gown. She had arrived unescorted, and had danced a few times, usually with surprised and flattered women, most of them married. “We just don’t see each other often, and you know how she hates to talk on the phone.”

“That’s very sensible of her, under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“With what’s been going on.”

This time Julia turned toward her. “What’s been going on?”

Aurie grinned and tapped the side of her forehead, as if to signal that Julia must know perfectly well what she was talking about. A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes. Julia took a fresh one. Aurie took one too but did not sip. She changed the subject. “You must be very proud.”

“Proud?”

Pointing with her glass. “Of Lemaster. It’s a huge honor. Huge. It’s bestowed on so few men.”

“Well, of course. Although being president of the university has its complications, and some members of the faculty seem ready to string him up, it’s been—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

Aurie’s hand gave Julia’s shoulder a quick, clawlike squeeze. “Come on, Julia. I have a lifetime’s worth of sources to draw on. You don’t have to keep your secrets from me.”

“What secrets?” An awkward grin. “What am I forgetting that Lemmie’s accomplished? Because the list is so long”—oh, how she hated being the dutiful wife, hated it!—“that it’s not easy to keep track.”

“That he’s the Bubba.”

“He’s what?”

“The Bubba. So the family tradition continues.” Another squeeze, harder. “You don’t have to pretend. Sure, outsiders aren’t supposed to know, but I do have my little pipelines into the frats.”

Julia shook her head in sliding confusion. Maybe it was the champagne, because she felt like the moron at the genius convention again. “I’m sorry, Aurie. I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“So what are you saying? That he told you the real name? Not Bubba, but what the Empyreals really call their second-in-command?” A thrilling shiver. “Now, that’s delicious, Julia. Truly delicious. What did he tell you? Come on. Share.”

Julia stared. “Are you saying that my husband is the…the second-in-command of the Empyreals?”

“You didn’t know? Oh, Julia, don’t tell me you have one of those old-school types, follows all the traditions, outsiders can’t know what’s going on, et cetera.”

“Lemaster’s as old-school as they get.”

“So he’s doing the successor? The whole business?”

“Successor?”

“The Empyreals recruit them young. Well, you probably know that. A lot of the members groom their own sons. Of course, Bay Dennison didn’t have children—” The patent surprise on Julia’s face stopped her. A mask dropped over the writer’s elegant features, just like that, as if she and Lemaster were indeed part of that secret, looking-glass world but Julia remained an outsider. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Congratulations. But, please, forget I mentioned it.”

In the corner of her eye, Julia spotted Lemaster coming toward them, waving and smiling, obviously ready to dance again for his fans. Aurie looked ready to depart. Julia said, “Wait. Wait a minute. Tell me one thing.”

“One.” She sounded annoyed, probably at herself, for letting the cat out of the bag.

“I think the reason Lemaster didn’t tell me is probably that Empyreals are old and dying.” Watching Aurelia’s face. “They are old and dying, aren’t they? An unimportant, minor social club, not even mentioned when people list the prestigious ones? I am right, aren’t I, Aurie? Aren’t I?”

“Of course they are.”

“You’re sure?”

The novelist glanced at the approaching Lemaster, then smiled at Julia in radiant dismissal. “Oh, you are so cute. So cute.”

Aurie kissed the tip of Julia’s nose, and returned to her entourage.

(II)

T
HEY HAD THREE ROOMS
in the hotel, one for the parents, a second for Aaron, and a third shared by the girls, for Vanessa had prevailed in the latest battle of wills with her mother and had not been among the young women formally presented tonight. Julia and Lemaster went upstairs around one in the morning. Lemaster went to bed. Julia made mother’s rounds. Aaron was on his cell phone. Jeannie was asleep, but Julia sat up watching a silly comedy Vanessa loved, glancing intermittently at her youngest to be sure she did not wake and listen to the horrifically foul language; although perhaps she was absorbing it anyway. Julia and Vanessa stretched out on the bed, holding each other the way they used to. They talked a bit and laughed at the movie a bit, and then Julia jerked her head up to find Vanessa snoring and the digital clock informing her that it was close to three.

She crept back to her room, put on her nightgown, crawled between the covers, trying not to wake her husband.

He woke anyway.

They kissed and petted a bit, but proved too tired for anything energetic, so instead she left her head on his shoulder while he stroked her neck and shoulder the way she liked. They talked about the dance, and about faculty politics, and about what Preston might be up to in Mexico. Then Julia asked why he hadn’t mentioned to her about being elected—she was not sure what the right word was—the Bubba.

“We’re sworn to secrecy, Jules. You know that.”

“But you told me Bay Dennison used to be the…whatever you call the head of it.”

“The Grand Paramount. Sometimes known as the Author.” He laughed in the darkness of the hotel room. So did she. Another tradition of the darker nation was these fantastic titles. “There. I told you an Empyreal secret. Happy now?”

She kissed him. “So—you are the Bubba?”

Another station break before the news resumed. “Yes, Jules. I am. Now, please. We can’t discuss any more.”

“Can you just tell me what ‘Bubba’ is short for? Aurie said there’s another name, a name used just among insiders.” Silence. She tried again: “Well, then, tell me how long you serve.”

“Ten years.”

“Why so long? I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“Because we’re patient people.”

A drowsy interlude. It felt nice to learn a few of her husband’s secrets, even if she sensed the deeper, more fascinating secrets hiding just beneath them.

“Lemmie?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can I ask you an important question?”

“Those weren’t important?”

She refused to be deterred. “Aurelia said the family tradition was continuing. What did she mean? Is there an Empyreals chapter in Barbados?”

Again he made her wait. “Aurelia has a big mouth,” he said.

“What did she mean, Lemmie?”

“I wouldn’t know, Jules.”

“Then what about the successor? Have you picked one?”

Silence.

“Then tell me something else. Are the Empyreals really old and dying? Aurelia laughed when I told her that. Remember how upset Mona was when I told her we were getting married? She wanted a man from one of the more prestigious clubs. That’s what she said. She was furious when you wouldn’t leave the Empyreals for the Boulé or the Guardsmen. Remember? We laughed at the idea that she took the social scene so seriously. We laughed, Lemmie.”

“I remember.”

“But were we right? Or are there aspects of Empyreals I don’t know about?”

“Of course there are aspects you don’t know about. We don’t talk to outsiders, and you, my love, are an outsider.”

So much for that line of inquiry. Still not ready to surrender the delicious campfire stillness, she tried another.

“Lemmie?”

“Hmmm?”

“Remember the year Gina Joule died?”

“Was murdered.” Hard and unforgiving.

“Yes.” She squeezed him gratefully for that one. “The year she was murdered. When you got back from England, in, what? May?”

“June.”

“Were people still talking about the…murder?”

“Not much. Not really.”

She hesitated. “What about Mal? Or Scrunchy? Did they talk about it?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“What I mean is—”

“It’s after three, Jules. We have a long drive tomorrow.” He slipped free of her and rolled away, leaving her alone in the chilly darkness.

CHAPTER 35

A FRIENDLY CONVERSATION

(I)

“I
T’S GOOD OF YOU
to make time to see me,” said Bruce Vallely with a smile. This was only his second time in the president’s office, and he wanted to put no foot wrong, especially after his embarrassment with Marlon Thackery.

But Lemaster Carlyle was as friendly as one could ask. “Not at all, Bruce. It’s the least I can do. May I say again how sorry I am for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s Laurie? She’s at Penn State, isn’t she? Star of the track team?”

“Something like that.”

The president smiled and nodded. He consulted no notes. Instead of seating Bruce across from his massive desk, he had waved him to the sofa, and a sprightly assistant had brought tea. It was the first Tuesday in January, 2004, and the university was barely back in session. “I understand she wants to be a veterinarian. Is that still right? And Brucie? Still the terror of the Navy? Wasn’t he serving on a submarine?”

“Yes, sir. USS
Michigan,
in the Pacific Fleet.” Lemaster was good at this. Bruce had to give him credit. He reminded himself that he had to be on his guard. The president remained a murder suspect, even if nobody but Bruce and maybe Trevor Land suspected him.

“Didn’t follow his father into Special Forces?”

Bruce was surprised. Lemaster’s eyes glittered at his little coup. Nobody’s service record had “Special Forces” written on it. Somebody would have to know where to dig; and have an insider to do the digging. “No, sir.”

“So—what can I do for you, Bruce? I understand this is about poor Kellen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lemaster poured out. “Trevor told me that you’re helping. I think that’s a splendid idea.”

Bruce was not sure many people outside the movies actually said the word
splendid.
“Just doing my job, sir.”

“You can dispense with the ‘sir,’ Bruce. This isn’t the military, and our wives were close.” He crossed his legs and sipped his tea, the very picture of relaxation. “I’m glad you’re looking into this, Bruce. I don’t believe that robbery story, and I’m sure nobody else does either. I’m hoping you’ll come up with some answers.”

Bruce had his notebook out. “Can you tell me why you don’t believe the robbery story?”

“Maybe instinct. It’s too convenient.”

“Convenient?”

The president snorted. “The man gets shot on the eve of a meeting with our Senior Trustee? Who tells me Kellen had some information that would be useful in the election? Yes, Bruce. I think it’s too convenient.”

“Do you know which side the information was supposed to help?”

A stiff shake of the head. “No. I don’t think Cameron does either, but you’re free to ask him.”

“Can you describe your own relationship to Kellen Zant?”

“We didn’t have one. Long ago, before Julia and I married, she and Kellen had a close personal relationship. I’m sure you know that. Since then, well, our work did not bring us naturally into contact. Most of the time that I was a law professor, Kellen was teaching at Chicago or Stanford. He came back to town just before I went on the bench, but he was in the econ department. Then, when I was away, I was…away.”

“I understand that Kellen Zant and your wife remained friends.”

For the first time, Lemaster Carlyle deflated a bit. “I suppose.”

“Did that bother you?”

“That they were friends? I suppose.” The smile faded, but Bruce quickly saw that his quarry was not, as he had thought, put out. The smooth features became earnest. “Bruce, listen to me. This all stays confidential, right? You see, the trouble is, when Kellen and my wife had their close personal relationship, he hurt her very badly. He was in most ways an abusive man. Not physically, I suppose. But there is such a thing as emotional abuse, and it can be just as wounding. My worry was that he would manage to hurt my wife again.”

Bruce nodded and made a note. Then he asked, without looking up, “Do you have any reason to think Professor Zant was hurting her?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

But Bruce was sure he followed just fine. “I mean, in recent years, say. Since Kellen Zant returned to campus. Had he hurt your wife in any way?”

“I hope not.” Leaning back again. “I’d like to think I would have heard about it.”

Bruce noted the careful wording, the lack of a clear denial, but decided, rather than pursuing it, to file the dissimulation away for future reference.

“I just have a couple of questions about the night you found the body.”

“Of course.”

“You stopped the car because you had an accident.”

“The embarrassing answer is yes.” A rueful shake of the head. The phone buzzed several times, but Lemaster ignored it. “All right, it’s a sharp turn and there was a storm. Still, I’ve been driving that road for six years. I never missed the turn before.”

“Did anything special happen to make you miss the turn? A deer in the woods, something like that?”

“I’m afraid not. I have no excuse.”

“You didn’t slow down because you saw the body in the ditch?”

Again the bonhomie vanished, and the icy careerist peeked out, the friend of Presidents of the United States and billionaires. “I understand why you need to ask that question, Bruce. I was a prosecutor. I know how the process works. Let me save you some time. I didn’t kill Kellen Zant. I didn’t arrange for anybody else to kill Kellen Zant. I didn’t know his body was there when I had my accident. All right?”

“Yes, sir. I wasn’t going to ask those questions.”

“But you wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t wonder.”

Bruce allowed that one to slip past him, for he was bureaucrat enough to recognize that there was no right answer. “Just one more thing, sir, if I could.”

“Please.”

“According to people who were there, you left the dinner that night three times to take calls on your cell phone.”

“Sounds about right.”

“The thing is, I’m told that ordinarily you’re quite scrupulous about not answering your cell during a meal, especially an official meal, except for emergencies. May I ask who called you, and whether there was an emergency that night?”

He ticked them off on his fingers. “One call was from my daughter, who was out at the movies. She wanted to arrange a pick up time. One call was from the White House. I always answer when the President calls—the big President—but this time I told him I was busy on college business and asked if I could call him back.” The look on Bruce’s face amused him. “Yes, people do that. He’s just a person.”

“And the third call?”

Lemaster Carlyle frowned. “I only remember two. Are you sure there were three?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Well, I’ll consult my records and see what I can find out.” Smoothly, magically, Lemaster had moved Bruce to his feet and across the office. They shook hands. “Thank you for taking this on, Bruce. Really. We all appreciate it.”

Bruce fired his last arrow. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

“Please, Bruce. That’s an even older game.”

They laughed together, but it was plain that the president’s good humor was fraying at the edges, which was probably what Bruce intended. The sprightly aide was back, his job plainly to usher the visitor out. It occurred to Bruce that he had seen him before, but he could not work out where. “Those cell-phone calls. Were they on your personal cell or your university cell?”

A frown. “I’m sure my daughter would have called my personal phone. Probably the White House, too.”

“And the third call?”

“I told you. I don’t remember a third call.”

(II)

B
ACK AT THE OFFICE
, Bruce went over the notes of his interviews. Yes, the witnesses agreed, Lemaster had taken at least three calls, and one witness thought four. Two had been short, which would account for the pick up time and telling the President of the United States he would have to call him back, a feat of confidence or hubris that left Bruce breathless. The third call had been a long one. Everyone agreed on that, too.

Bruce longed to be official. To possess subpoena power. To be able to get into telephone records, bank accounts, credit reports, all the places where people leave their lives lying around. But he had no status. He was doing his bosses, and his university, a favor. All he could do was ask questions.

That is, he could ask questions when he could find witnesses.

In the back of his notebook were people he still had to see, including Nathaniel Knowland, who had lied about spotting Kellen Zant the night he died, and had not returned to school for spring term. He had interviewed Carol Lewin, who could prove she was out of town the night Zant died. But he was running out of witnesses.

For some reason, Rick Chrebet’s warning was tugging at his mind: evidence had vanished from police custody, including Kellen Zant’s cell phone. But why? Surely the phone company’s records carried all the information anybody could want. Cell phones. Wait. Flipping back a page, he noticed a possibility he had overlooked. The first two calls Lemaster Carlyle had received the night Kellen Zant died were on his personal cell phone. Suppose, just suppose, that the third had been on his official one.

Bruce pulled out his campus directory. Sure enough, the office of telecommunications fell under the domain of the secretary of the university. He placed a call to Trevor Land.

“I was wondering, sir, if you could obtain the call records for a particular cell phone.”

“Oh, well, Chief Vallely, I doubt whether the pertinent regulations—”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”