New England White (35 page)

Julia followed, not because she wanted to go into those woods, but because she wanted to hear the end of the story. They stepped into the trees, mostly conifers, so tall and thick that the sun slowly vanished. It was like walking at twilight, even though it was the middle of the day.

“Is all this your property?” she said.

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered, following his dog on surprisingly light feet.

“But who—”

“Please, Mrs. Carlyle. Trust me.”

They reached a clearing. Goetz was there, tail wagging happily. Trapped beneath her paw was a gleaming black loafer, owned by a man with very large feet. The toe had been nibbled. Mitch Huebner crouched, lifting the shoe with the barrel of the gun. “Huh. Looks expensive.”

“Yes, it does,” said Julia distantly.

“Want it? I don’t have much use for these fancy shoes.”

Julia shook her head. She wanted nothing to do with it. “Neither do I,” she said.

Mitch Huebner shrugged and threw it deeper into the woods, but Goetz thought he was playing and immediately fetched it.

Back at the house, she said, “Mr. Huebner, listen. What you were saying about Gina—”

“My daddy said you have to pick your fights, and it would be better for all concerned if he picked a different one.”

“You found the diary ten years ago.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Carlyle.”

About the time one Horseman was running for his first term in the Senate, and another for his first term as a governor.

“Did you tell anyone you had it? Ten years ago, I mean?”

An unfathomable shrug.

“But you gave the diary to Kellen Zant. And never saw it again.”

“Uh-huh.”

She hesitated over the next, obvious question. “Why does it matter that I’m not white?”

Mitch Huebner shook his head. Remonstrance? Refusal? Or just good old-fashioned Yankee reticence?

“Was it”—admitting to herself the final horror—“are you saying…the boyfriend…the college boy…was he…black?”

“The boys who picked her up were white.”

“I need to know this, Mr. Huebner. I
need
to know.”

Still the stony silence.

Sinking fast, Julia tried again. “And only Kellen knew who she was seeing that night.”

He nodded, busying himself with a sudden urge to polish the fender of his truck with a dry and dirty rag. “See why I don’t want to know?” He tossed the rag into the back seat. “They killed him for it.”

“I see.”

“I think it’s time for you to go, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“I guess it is.” Her voice was wooden. Too much was happening. Lemaster had not been in the country, she reminded herself. Even if he knew her—and Mitch Huebner had not even confirmed that the boyfriend was black—he had not been in the country. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Huebner.”

A moment later she was in the Escalade, but no sooner had she started the engine than he appeared beside her window, smiling uneasily, holding a small package.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from Professor Zant. He said to give it to you.”

Fear and fury mingled. “To give it to me? And you waited till now?”

“He said to give it to you if you asked about my father’s diary. And only if you asked about the diary.” He stepped away from the car, unsmiling. “Time for you to go,” he repeated.

She drove half a mile into the woods, keeping her eyes peeled for a man missing a shiny new loafer. A natty dresser like Tony Tice, say: she had heard he was out on bail. Then, seeing no one, she pulled to the side of the road and opened the package.

Of course.

Another mirror.

Or, rather, a piece of one.

It was the cheap mirror he had bought at Luma’s Gifts, the price tag still on the handle, broken jaggedly down the middle so that it reflected only half her face, which seemed appropriate. And a business card—
A. W. ACME, LAND SURVEYORS
, it read—and, below, in Kellen Zant’s zagging, left-sloping hand, “—
Secretary
?”

Oh, this should be a big help.

She turned the card over, and found a note in the same writing:

My dearest sweet J—Bring the mirror to the straight man. And if you have trouble finding Shari Larid, take a train. Always, K.

More of his word games. Utter gibberish.

But beneath the mirror was pay dirt. Two yellowed pages torn from the missing diary. Julia looked up and down the road, settled in, and began to read.

CHAPTER 37

TWO MEETINGS

(I)

J
ULIA KNEW
A
CME
L
AND
S
URVEYORS
because they had done some of the drawings needed to get the approvals for Hunter’s Heights, a lengthy process in which the Landing threw up one fresh obstacle after another until Lemaster visited the first selectman with his friend Jerry Nathanson, managing partner at the biggest law firm in town, who kindly estimated the town’s likely cost for a litigation the Carlyles were bound to win. The village caved, the house was built, and, for a while, Tyler’s Landing was awash in envy. That Lemaster and Julia possessed so wonderful a house and such a paucity of local friends had given Mona a shiver of nationalist delight the first time Julia told her the story, while strolling the vineyards behind her mother’s house in Plaisance-du-Touch:
You should be happy,
Mona announced,
that you’ve got something that the Caucasians want and can’t ever have. Outside of the Oprah Winfreys and Tiger Woodses of the world, not many of our people can say that.
There was even a word for it, Mona announced, one that Julia suspected her mother of inventing on the spot, although it later turned up in several of the great woman’s essays:
Afrofactophilia.
The word, said Mona, warming to it, referred to a desire by Caucasians (as she, like Lemmie, was careful to call them) for
objets
collected or produced by the people of the African diaspora, another favored bit of jargon.
They hate us but they love our precious and pretty things,
she explained.
They covet
. Then she looked at her daughter through the eyes of the coquette and, for a dizzying moment, Julia thought she understood a small part of why her mother had always and only chased after white men.
And sometimes they covet our precious and pretty selves.

As Kellen had coveted Julia, and insisted, even after his death, on drawing her into his world.

She found Acme in a converted barn at the wrong end of town, and chatted with Amy Warren, who was the “A.W.,” using only her initials and mostly employing men, because women in her field were considered a joke. And Amy, as it happened, did indeed recall Kellen Zant, and had even told the police after he died. He came in only once, she said, and told them he was looking at waterfront properties and might need some studies done.

“Gave him my business card.”

“And then what?”

“Never heard from him again.”

Because Kellen was not really surveying a lot, Julia decided as she drove back to town, any more than he was really building a house. He was, once more, throwing up a smokescreen. Or sending a signal. The house was not the point. The signal was the point, and, once more, Julia suspected that she was the target. Everything scribbled on the business card meant something, and Kellen had imagined that Julia would figure it out.

(II)

S
INCE THE BACK OF THE CARD
was obscure, she started with the front. After all, the secretary of the university was named Land—a weak connection, but the best she could manage. They met for tea at the faculty club, but, alas, Trevor Land confessed, he barely knew the man, so many professors nowadays, and everybody so busy. “Progress. All for it, oh, yes. Publicity or perish these days. But does rather get in the path of our scholarly endeavor, Dean Carlyle.”

She muttered what must have been agreement.

The talk turned to the no-confidence motion some of the faculty were pressing, an attack on her husband motivated, it seemed, by a number of forces, not least his decision to impose a merger between gender studies and women’s studies, as recommended by his budget task force, but even more so by his close friendship with the occupant of the White House.

“Lemmie says it won’t come to a vote,” said Julia.

“Wouldn’t know about that. Not a member of the faculty senate. Not a political man, Dean Carlyle. Live and let live, kind of thing. Care about the institution.” A shy smile. “Think your husband’s rather the best thing to happen to the institution in decades.”

She smiled back.

And then he surprised her. “I understand, Dean Carlyle, that you and Professor Zant were friends, after a fashion.”

“After a fashion,” she agreed, cautiously, hiding her swiftly growing unease behind a finger sandwich.

“Only ask because he had friends and supporters among the alums. Lots of them. Anything they can do to help, one need only ask.”

“Help what?”

“Anything that might arise, Dean Carlyle. Anything that might arise.”

Plainly he was waiting, leaving the onus on Julia, who finally plunged. “Gina Joule was your goddaughter.”

“Indeed.”

“I think Kellen Zant might have been looking into what really happened that night.” Silence. “And, ah, there are these stories in the Landing. Old stories. That maybe the official version of that night’s events—”

His palm, chalky and commanding, arrested her comments. “Not really the sort of thing one enjoys talking about, Dean Carlyle.”

“I understand. But you were as close to Merrill Joule as anyone.” When the secretary did not see fit to dispute this, she was emboldened. “Senator Whisted was Merrill Joule’s godson. I was wondering how well he knew the family.”

“The Whisteds are the sort of family who make a point of knowing everybody, Dean Carlyle. Rather helps in politics, one would imagine.” She sensed the distaste in his cultured voice. “No doubt the young man would have been over to the house for the occasional dinner, kind of thing.”

“So he knew Gina?”

“I would imagine so.”

Confirming part of Mary’s story: the photo. “Did he have an opinion on, ah, whether the official story was true? If that young black man was the, ah, killer?”

“One hardly wants to argue with the police. Still, family first and so forth. Rather think one would do anything to protect them, kind of thing. Still, not one’s job to punish, thank you very much. Told Merrill the same. Anna. Young Whisted. Vengeance won’t bring her back, kind of thing. Better to build up than to tear down.”

“Young Whisted? As in Malcolm?” The secretary sipped, but said nothing. Julia put down her cup and glanced around the faculty club, but nobody was listening in. “The only way you could have had that conversation was if Merrill and Anna and Mal Whisted knew who did it, and if that person was still alive.”

“You’ll want to meet Chief Vallely.”

“Bruce? Whatever for?”

“Talk to Chief Vallely,” he repeated. He sipped his tea and made a face, telling the world that everything that changed grew worse. “I believe the chief may be looking into Professor Zant’s death, kind of thing. Wouldn’t be surprised if he can answer the rest of your questions.”

“We already met, and, frankly, I didn’t appreciate the way he—”

“Dear me, look at the time. Always pleasant to see you, Dean Carlyle, but work won’t wait. Meeting out your way this afternoon, as a matter of fact. Happy to give you a ride home, sort of thing. But I suppose you would have your own transport, wouldn’t you?”

When she left the faculty club, freshly worried, she did not notice Bruce Vallely across the street in his red Mustang.

(III)

F
OLLOWING
J
ULIA
C
ARLYLE
was a minor and occasional part of Bruce’s investigation. He did not expect her to suddenly pull over to the side of the road, reach into a rotting stump, and pull out whatever Kellen Zant was working on. Or, if she did, there was no reason to think she would do it during one of the three or four hours a week that he had committed to the surveillance. Still, one never knew. However small the odds that she would stumble on the answer to the puzzle while he had her in view, they were even smaller if he never followed her at all.

The Escalade, hulking and powerful yet somehow smoothly purring, was easy to follow along the city streets. She was not heading for the expressway. She seemed to prefer returning home to the Landing the long way around. He stayed a comfortable block and a half behind her, close enough to catch her if she made an unexpected turn, far enough that she was unlikely to detect him in her rearview mirror.

She left the city limits and cruised into the town of Langford, and Bruce slowed further, putting more space between them, because the traffic was lighter. Langford seemed to be all strip malls and gas stations. Julia was driving very fast. He had heard that she liked to sing while behind the wheel, and wondered what kind of music she preferred. There was a rumor that Lemaster liked hip-hop. He found that one difficult to swallow, but tastes had a funny way of—

Somebody else was following her. A small white sedan. Had he not slowed, he would never have noticed. But when Julia pulled over to her usual gas station to fill up the gas-guzzling SUV’s enormous tank, the sedan pulled into the parking lot of the fast-food restaurant across the way. Bruce did not even slow down. He went straight past, parking at a small office building, where he could see the Escalade in his side-view mirror.

All right. It made sense. There were lots of people interested in whatever Kellen Zant had been up to. The more of them who believed that he had left whatever it was to Julia Carlyle, the more likely it was that she would pick up a tail.

He assumed that nobody was out to harm her. The point had to be to find whatever she intended to find.

Action.

The white sedan came sailing past him, pulling the same trick as Bruce, following from in front for a while, but doing so less smoothly. The driver pulled to the side a couple of blocks down the road. Bruce saw his face, and was so stunned that he almost missed the Escalade when it came along.

He put his car into gear and followed.

He recognized the driver of the white sedan. It was the sprightly little aide who had ushered him in and out of Lemaster Carlyle’s office.