The Body in the Ivy (21 page)

Rachel Gold was the last to go in, waiting until she could safely pass by with her valuable, her guitar. She chose to believe that every time the bell clattered, pulling her from sleep, it was a real fire. That she would descend into flames and be devoured. If so, she wanted her guitar with her. Ashes to ashes. There was a certain comfort in the thought.

A figure dashed from the parking lot and, breathless, joined her.

“Whew, I almost didn't make it! She always locks the fire door after a drill. What's with all these drills, anyway? I'm beginning to think Liz is compensating for being a secret pyromaniac.”

It was Prin. Rachel turned around, walked straight back out into the darkness, and waited in the chill night until Hélène Prince was gone.

 

“But it's pouring! Can't you take the bus—or a cab?”

“Phebes, we have an agreement. You get to use my car whenever you want in exchange for picking me up at the T every once in a while.”

“But by the time I walk to the village and get the car in this weather, you could be back here if you take the bus or a cab.”

“Don't you go getting all logical on me,” Prin chided laughingly. “I have a ton of shopping bags and I'm certainly not going to haul them around anymore. It was bad enough on the trolley.”

Phoebe tried one more tack.

“I really shouldn't be driving. I'm getting one of my colds and just took a pill.”

“No one is asking you to operate a forklift. Just a car. A very small, easy-to-maneuver car. Now, get going. Those cold pills don't kick in for an hour anyway.”

Phoebe sighed. “All right. I'll get to you as soon as I can.”

Prin's parents had replaced her Karmann Ghia with a sporty silver Mercedes convertible on her last birthday. Elaine hadn't wanted a car and opted for a new sailboat instead. Sailing was her great love. Since only second-semester Pelham seniors were allowed to have cars, Prin kept hers garaged in the village at a body shop owned by a man named Pete. Over the years Pete had been only too happy to make some extra bucks
from Pelham students this way, and his back lot was always filled. It wasn't a very well kept secret, but if the college knew about it, they had never let on. Just as they turned a blind eye to the girls who kept their horses at a local stable, also against the rules. The horse rule had been put in place during the Depression to make the haves a bit less obvious. The campus stable was closed and converted to faculty housing. Since the Pelham scholarship program was nascent in those days, virtually every girl
was
a have, so the rule made no sense from the beginning and the act a pointless gesture. The car rule was a pure and simple attempt to keep the young women from leaving campus unless accompanied by a properly vetted companion. Sign-outs with a male companion asked not only destination, but the date's name, address, phone number. “Why not Social Security number and identifying birthmarks?” Rachel had quipped after the Bluebook meeting freshman year.

Pete's shop wasn't far from campus, but as Phoebe slogged her way along—her slicker, rain boots, and umbrella doing little to keep her dry—it felt like forever. She had been flattered by Prin's offer last fall. Another indication of the close bond between the two. She'd never met anyone like Prin before. It wasn't simply her physical appearance, her startling beauty, but her comfort level in her own skin, a basic, animalistic self-confidence that spilled over to those around her. Phoebe's family noticed the change in their shy, highly intelligent daughter that first Thanksgiving freshman year and congratulated themselves on having pushed Pelham, Mrs. Hamilton's alma mater. Phoebe's private
high school had been coed and the fact that she had been at the top of her class in every subject isolated her. The boys felt threatened and the girls weren't interested in having a “brain” for a friend. Her mother had tentatively broached the subject of Phoebe's lack of popularity, but her daughter had merely been puzzled. “You mean you want me to deliberately do poorly, so boys will like me better?” Put that way, Mrs. Hamilton demurred and Phoebe graduated number one in her class, the valedictorian, all alone. Her social life had consisted of dancing school first, then the cotillions and tea dances de rigueur among her family's social class. She came out—looked almost pretty in a long white satin gown on her father's arm coming down the staircase at the Waldorf—then went back in again. Prin had taught her to use some makeup and brought her into Boston for a good haircut. She took her shopping. Money was no problem for either girl and soon Phoebe was as well dressed as her friend, but somehow the outfits never looked quite right on her. The trendy Mod look didn't suit her slightly pudgy body. Miniskirts revealed her thighs as slightly too much of a good thing. She looked best in her preferred jeans and turtlenecks, but not wanting to hurt Prin's feelings, she donned her Op Art paper dresses when the occasion called for them, and Prin's other choices. This was usually to accompany Prin on a double date or to a campus mixer. Phoebe was under no illusions that she was being asked out as a favor to whomever Prin was dating. She didn't mind. It was fun to be with these mostly Harvard men in their Brooks Brothers oxford-cloth shirts and their striped ties. Despite the way she dressed herself, Prin
liked her men to hold to tradition and once sent her date back to change when he appeared in a Nehru jacket. Men were not something Phoebe had ever thought about much. She assumed she'd marry one of them someday, but in the meantime, she liked being at Pelham with all her friends and not having to think about such things. But most of all, she loved her classes. Here she came into her own. The professors encouraged her, and her classmates often congratulated her on a presentation or asked to meet for coffee to talk more about something she'd said. Girls
did
want to be friends with “brains,” at least Pelham girls did. This empowerment was headier than the champagne Prin always insisted their dates order when they went out together.

The rain was coming down steadily. Prin couldn't have known how bad it was out, Phoebe thought. If she had, she'd never have asked Phoebe to pick her up. Prin wasn't like that. Phoebe knew that something had happened between Prin and Lucy Stratton, but she didn't know what. Phoebe would never ask Prin directly, but from the little Prin had said, it was clear that whatever happened had been Lucy's fault. And Gwen! Was it Prin's fault that she happened to be on the Vineyard just after Andrew and Gwen had broken up? Granted, Gwen might not want to be in the penthouse since Prin was seeing Andrew—it would be awkward, but she shouldn't blame Prin. Weren't they all supposed to be sisters? And in any case, why wasn't Gwen mad at Andrew? Phoebe had seen her talking to him when Phoebe had been on the bell desk and Andrew had come to pick Prin up. It was almost as if Gwen was trying to get him back, flirt
ing away like crazy. Andrew didn't seem interested anymore. Phoebe felt sorry for Gwen.

Of course it was terrible about Rachel's brother. Prin
had
talked to Phoebe about that. She'd discovered he was a homosexual. Phoebe had been shocked. Max hadn't seemed like one, but many artists and musicians were. Thank goodness Prin had discovered it
before
they were married. Tragic for Rachel and her family, but tragic, too, for Prin. She had really loved him, loved him still, she had confessed to Phoebe after a double date and a lot of champagne. She'd kept a picture of the two of them tucked in the side of her mirror along with other photos of her family, Andrew, even Phoebe. One day Phoebe had gone into Prin's room to leave her some notes she'd taken for her in a class she couldn't make—Phoebe hadn't had a class that period and Late Nineteenth-century European Art was interesting. Glancing in the mirror, she saw that the picture of Prin and Max was missing. The part that showed Prin was torn to pieces and scattered on the floor; Max's picture was gone. It had to have been Rachel, poor girl.

She was almost at the garage. Prin had been very generous about letting Phoebe use her car, but she'd only used it twice. She really didn't have any use for one, and if she had, she could have brought her own from home. It wasn't a rule she would have had a problem breaking. You could break a rule if by doing so you didn't harm someone else or yourself, she thought. If she broke this rule and got caught, it would cause harm to herself, but not a great deal. You didn't get kicked out for this kind of thing. It was just another
symbol of the college's authority, the whole in loco parentis, antediluvian stuff still rampant at Pelham. Phoebe was heavily into symbolism these days and was proposing to write a senior thesis on “Symbolic Discourse as Represented by Madison Avenue in the Twentieth Century.” She was an economics major, but had taken an equal number of courses in the English Department. She already had two file boxes filled with three-by-five note cards, and her advisor thought she might be able to get it published in one of the academic journals.

There was no one at the garage. She went around to the back, past the floodlights that showed the downpour was even heavier than she'd realized. She hated going to the lot at night. Pete kept a Doberman chained up and, as usual, it burst into a frenzy of manic barking when Phoebe passed by. She knew the dog was there as a warning—a symbol—and couldn't get loose, but it always terrified her. She loved dogs and missed her own, but this one seemed to be an entirely different sort of animal, some kind of nondog. It was hard to find the car in the rain. They didn't have regular parking places, but she finally located it, unlocked the door and got in, grateful for the refuge from the rain—and the dog. The engine started right up and she drove out onto the side street that led onto Main Street.

The rain was coming down so hard the wipers made little difference. She hunched toward the windshield, peering desperately as it cleared occasionally, following the taillights in front of her, ruby-red pinpoints in the night. It was slow going.

At the T stop, Prin ran toward the car, pulled open
the passenger side door, and tossed her bags behind the seat.

“What took you so long?” she said, obviously annoyed.

“Have you looked out the window?”

“Now, Phebes, it's not like you to be sarcastic, and very unbecoming. Can't wait to show you what I got. Très cool dress for Princeton next weekend. The slip is the same color as my skin and a sort of crocheted dress goes over it, not crochet like your grandmother's doilies, but crochet like Verushka would wear. Very short—it ends at my crotch—and the whole effect if you look quick is of total nudity.” She laughed. “Then a great number from Kitty Haas's store, and I had to have shoes, plus—Jesus!!! Look out!!!”

They were on the side street not far from the body shop. A man walking his dog suddenly crossed in front of them. Phoebe cut hard and swerved toward the sidewalk, but there was a sickening thud. She pulled over and stopped, then panicked and sped to the next corner, turning left.

“Stop, you idiot! Stop!” Prin screamed. Phoebe did and Prin got out, sprinting back toward the scene of the accident.

Phoebe felt completely numb. She had no idea why she had sped off. She had intended to get out of the car when she'd stopped the first time, go back, offer help. Find out what happened. She covered her face with her hands. She didn't want to find out what had happened. She kept hearing the sound, the thud as the car connected with—what? hit and run, read headlines in newspapers. hit and run. She was a headline.

Prin was back, dripping wet. “Get going. Turn right at the next street. We can get to the garage that way.”

Phoebe didn't move.

“Shit! Get out and let me drive. You killed the dog, by the way. Professor Shaw's dog. And you're damned lucky you didn't kill him. All the neighbors are there. No one saw me—I stayed behind some bushes—and what's more important, no one really saw the car. He only remembers it was silver. Do you realize how much trouble you could have gotten me into?” Prin was livid. She started to drive off before Phoebe could get in the passenger's side, then stopped the car and waited.

“Get in, get in! I don't have all night! Pete will have to bring the car to his brother's shop in Medfield right away. That should be far enough away. Damn! I liked this color. And Pete is going to be pissed at having to go out on a night like this. It's going to cost me—or rather, you.”

Phoebe was so tired she could barely move. She started to fasten her seat belt reflexively and then let it drop to either side. What was the point? She had killed a dog. She wasn't sure who Professor Shaw was—she thought he taught chemistry—but in that brief moment, she had seen the dog in the headlights, a chocolate-brown Lab who had turned his broad face toward the oncoming car with happy, doggy anticipation. A beloved dog, a trusting dog. His tail had been wagging.

She started to sob. “I'm a murderer,” she cried, then repeated it again loudly, “I'm a murderer!”

During the night, the storm had worsened. Above the howling winds, Faith heard the sound of breaking branches and falling trees. It was hell outside—and something very like it inside. After a blast of thunder followed by a burst of lightning so close that the next must surely hit the house, someone had screamed and several doors had opened. Faith had opened hers as well and heard someone ask, “Is everything all right?” which was answered hysterically by Phoebe, “No! Everything is not all right! One way or another we're all going to be killed!” Two doors closed abruptly, and just as Faith was about to go offer whatever comfort she could to the poor woman, Phoebe slammed her door shut. As Faith was closing her own, more gently, she saw Chris Barker slip out of her room and down the
stairs. In search of a cup of cocoa or something stronger to soothe her frayed nerves?

Faith had served dinner early, sounding the brass gong at six o'clock. The food she had left out earlier had hardly been touched and the refrigerator showed no apparent inroads. The women
must
be hungry, she thought, and she went for comfort food, even though it was not particularly seasonal. Beef stew, or boeuf bourguignon (see recipe, p. 318) if she was pressed to give a name to the offering more in keeping with the status of her employer. It had been simmering all afternoon, filling the house with a reassuring fragrance, the smell of onions, garlic, applewood-smoked bacon, fresh thyme, mushrooms, red wine, and the meat, smells to drive away the specters of the storm and Bobbi Dolan's death. There were egg noodles to go with the stew and a large salad with a cheese course to follow. For dessert she'd made an old-fashioned rhubarb crumble (see recipe, p. 321), which those who wished could have with homemade vanilla ice cream. It wasn't the way most of these women usually ate, but it was the way Faith felt they needed to eat now, although she was aware that some of them would only pick at their plates. She was wrong. There was only one noneater, Gwen Mansfield, who remained sequestered in her room. Earlier when Faith had walked by her door, the sound of keyboarding was clearly audible. The woman was obviously devoted to her work—or to avoiding any and all contact with her former classmates.

As they ate—and in Phoebe and Maggie's cases, heartily—the women had been silent. What conversation there was seemed to be devoted to the food and the
weather. Safe topics. And even then, not much about them. The silence was not a comfortable one, not the silence of old friends enjoying a meal so much that there was no need to talk. It was a “Let's eat and get it over with” kind of silence. All of them ate rapidly. Under the surface, Faith sensed a frantic kind of energy—and fear. It erupted twice. “Have you ever been out here during a storm this bad?” Chris had asked Elaine, who replied coolly, “No.” And Phoebe's immediate follow-up, “There
must
be a way for you to get some help! We could be stranded for days with…” She didn't need to finish the sentence. Everyone knew what she was talking about. A corpse. Elaine had explained again that flying the flag upside down was the SOS signal, and that in light of the meteorological conditions, she thought this both impractical and impossible. She'd smiled after answering, and Faith would have been hard put to say whether the expression was meant to be reassuring or patronizing. Faith had offered coffee and after-dinner liqueurs in the living room, but most of the women demurred. Lucy poured herself a large brandy and left without a word. Rachel and Chris had both slipped away as soon as they had finished eating. Only Elaine, Maggie, and Phoebe remained, a band of survivors huddled together before the fire, which Faith had made. It was one of the useful skills Tom had taught her, unable to believe that, like the rules for touch football, this had not been one of the things she'd learned as a child. It reaffirmed his conviction, as Faith had told Rachel, that New York City was an occasional destination, not a final stop in life.

Before she'd cleared the table, Faith had knocked at
Gwen's door and asked her if she'd wanted a tray. Gwen cut her off as she was describing the dinner menu, saying that she would call down to the kitchen when and if she wanted anything. Although the house had no way to communicate with the outside world, it was totally wired within. As in a hotel, you could call any room from your room phone, including the kitchen. Faith had been tempted to say that room service would shut down early due to weather conditions. She wanted to escape to her own room, too. The group in the living room had dispersed and there was no need for her to stick around. No one had wanted a second cup of coffee, although all of them had refreshed their drinks before leaving. Fortunately, Gwen had called just as Faith was finishing the pots. Ms. Mansfield wanted a bottle of Pellegrino, a BLT on white toast, and a brownie. “Just one.” She had been very specific. “Crisp bacon” and “not too much lettuce.” So, these were her own particular comfort foods, Faith had thought. Childhood favorites? She'd taken the tray up, knocked, and heard, “Just leave it, thank you.” On her way back downstairs to finish cleaning up, Elaine had emerged from her end of the hall and asked her to “Spare me a moment.” Faith had expected some sort of acknowledgment of the difficult situation they were in and perhaps thanks for the role the caterer-cum-undertaker was playing. She'd been wrong again. “Leave the lights on in the kitchen in case anyone wants a midnight snack and we'll continue to do breakfast as a buffet, lunch, as well.” It had been as if nothing was wrong, that this was the Bishop's Island version of an English country house visit and the mistress was instructing
the staff. The thought had prompted Faith to bring up Brent's disappearance.

“Isn't it odd that Mr. Justice hasn't shown up? Shouldn't we be worried?” she'd said.

Elaine Prince had looked annoyed. “I told you not to be concerned. He's more than a little eccentric and is riding out the storm in his own way.” Dismissed.

But where? Faith had screamed silently.

Now, after another sleepless night, she went to the window. It wasn't as dark as it had been yesterday and she could make out some of the damage. The row of tamaracks on one side of the meadow had been uprooted; each pushed forward by the force of the wind, but so neatly that they looked as though someone had laid them out for planting, instead of the reverse. It was still raining hard, but the thunder and lightning that had thwarted all her attempts to sleep had abated. The storm was winding down, she hoped, and felt a sudden rush of elation. Soon they could fly the flag; a boat would come and take them off the island. She had been trying not to think of Tom and the children. When she wasn't able to help herself and did, she had felt a sense of total despair. Would she ever see them again? Bishop's Island had come to feel like a place totally removed from the earth, a place so far away from all that was near and dear to her that she might never be able to get back. It wasn't just the storm that had robbed her of sleep, but panic. Now with the promise of an end to this nightmare, she dressed quickly. The flag was probably in the boathouse. She'd ask Elaine and get it wherever it was, ready to hoist as soon as possible. Should she pack? No, there would be time for that later. She
wanted a cup of coffee, and even more, the familiar routine that went with it—grinding the beans, measuring the water, and the smell. She imagined it drifting up here and seeping under each door, carrying its message of normalcy. Nothing bad could happen when coffee was brewing.

The corridor was empty and she couldn't detect even the slightest rustle as she passed each door. Gwen's tray had been left outside hers and Faith picked it up. Not even a crumb remained.

 

“Thank you for coming so promptly. I'll call the others in a moment.”

“Others? I thought you said you had something you wanted to discuss with me in private.”

“Oh, I do, but it won't take long…” Gwen Mansfield was enjoying herself. She was experiencing the same high that she got when she made a killing on the Street—or when firing one of her employees for cheating her, for ineptitude, or worst of all, for timidity. She let the pause hang in the air knowing that if she waited long enough the other person would fill it. She sat down at the desk; she'd gotten up to answer the door. Her laptop was open, but all her files were closed. The room was pleasantly warm. Gwen had lighted the fire. With its rose-colored carpeting and floral striped wallpaper in similar tones, the setting was cozy, especially in contrast to the storm that raged outside. Gwen glanced out the window. The heavy damask drapes, lined to further block any morning light that could disturb a guest's slumbers, were still pulled back, resting on bright brass rosettes.

“Hideous weather,” she said.

“I'm sure you didn't call me in the middle of the night to come and talk about the weather. What is it? I'd like to get back to bed.”

“All in good time.” She paused again and smiled. It wasn't cat and mouse so much as cougar and mouse.

“I'm really too tired to play games.”

“Then don't.” It was fun to watch the confusion, even alarm, her words produced. She toyed with the idea of continuing in the same vein. But there was a chance her quarry would leave, and that wouldn't do.

“I wanted to tell you first, before the others.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I know Prin was killed—and who killed her.”

Gwen heard the sharp intake of breath and continued. “That's why we're here—because one of us killed her.”

“You must be insane! It was an accident. The police investigated, and the college! There wasn't anyone at the top of the tower with her!”

“Not by the time the police looked. Or the college,” she added ruefully and stood up.

“I'm going to bed. Good night!”

“Oh, I don't think so. Not yet. You see, it's been terribly boring here. Without an Internet connection, there wasn't a great deal that I could do, so I started writing a little story. A little story about a group of young women, and as I wrote, it all became clear. And I knew. Call it process of elimination, intuition, what you will.” Her smile was triumphant. “Perhaps I always knew.

“What I don't know is whether you planned it or not.
Not, I think. A question of being in the right place at the right time. Any one of us might have acted on the same impulse and I believe that's why we're here. We each had a reason. But I could be wrong. You may have planned it all in advance. It wouldn't have been hard to get Prin to go to the tower.” A falling branch crashed against the window. Gwen looked out briefly, then continued. “Saying it out loud does rather make ‘premeditated' seem the likelier possibility. After all, you had the strongest motive.” Her tone was congratulatory, almost as if she was praising someone for a job well done.

She stopped speaking. This time the silence remained unbroken for longer and this time Gwen was the one who broke it.

“Well, I think it's time I called the others.”

Gwen walked over to the phone by the bed, opening the lid of the elaborate decoupage box that echoed the wallpaper, to lift the mundane instrument out. She turned away as she did, preparing to sit down on the bed for her task. That was all it took. A few unguarded seconds. The blow was sharp and swift. She gave a startled cry and fell across the duvet. She'd turned the bedspread back earlier when she'd taken a short nap. A power nap—to be sure she'd be at her best.

The log from the pile tidily arranged in a gleaming copper carrier had done the job and was tossed into the flames, causing the fire to leap up. It had served its purpose, but something else was needed to finish the job. Something like the dagger-shaped paper knife from the desk.

It was perfect. Right place, right time.

Gwen's dinner tray had been left on the desk next to her laptop. There was still half a sandwich left.

 

Chris Barker was sitting at the kitchen counter when Faith entered. Had she been there all night? There was nothing to eat or drink in front of her and she was dressed in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt. When she heard Faith step into the kitchen, she wheeled around so suddenly that the stool she'd been sitting on crashed to the floor. She put her hand to her chest and stated the obvious, “You startled me!” then as an afterthought, “Sorry.” She bent down and righted the stool, not so much sitting back on it as collapsing.

“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come up behind you like that. I should have said something.”

Now that she was closer, Faith could see that Chris's bangs were wet and she'd taken her boots off, Wellies. The kind serious gardeners wear, the kind in the Smith and Hawken catalogue. She could also see what was in front of Chris. It was an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph.

Chris looked up at Faith. “I couldn't stand to be inside this house a moment more, storm or no storm. I waited all night, then at five it seemed as if it was letting up, so I went outside and sat on the boathouse dock. I was afraid I'd lose my way if I went into the woods. And a tree has fallen across the greenhouse. I thought at first I'd go there. Elaine will have to replace the glass—I'm rambling, aren't I?”

“Let me make you some coffee, or tea—and something to eat,” Faith said by way of a reply.

“Tea, not too strong, and just some crackers—saltines if there are any.”

Faith used crushed saltines as a binder in her crab cake recipe instead of potato. She'd requested a box in her food order and had put them in the pantry. As she retrieved them, she thought about Chris's request. This wasn't comfort food so much as it was invalid food. The kind of food Faith's mother gave them when they were sick, moving from ginger ale to weak tea to bouillon. Her first impression of Chris had been that the woman looked ill and this confirmed it. What was wrong?