The Body in the Ivy (27 page)

Chris saw the stirrups just as the ether cone descended. The last thing she remembered was someone screaming, “Don't kill my baby,” and that someone was her.

 

Hélène Prince was looking forward to graduation and life thereafter. She would be cum laude—it would have been summa if she hadn't stumbled a bit during her oral defense, much to the surprise of her advisor, who had been so pleased with her written work. A family friend had arranged a job for her at one of the top galleries in Paris for the summer, then she'd return to the city and another plummy position there. She'd been offered modeling contracts in both cities and hadn't decided yet whether to go that route. She'd been featured in
Town and Country
when she'd come out and had had offers ever since, but she wasn't sure she wanted to be a model with all that implied—a mannequin. Just another face and body. There was so very much more to her than that. Andrew was transferring from Harvard Law to Columbia. She was waiting until the fall to break the engagement. He'd begun to bore her, but she didn't want to make waves just yet. Her parents adored him, but it was Andrew who would be the ball and chain in the circles she'd be traveling in, circles where he wouldn't fit in at all.

Pelham, however, had been the right choice. She would never regret it, she thought. There were a few
things she still had to do, though. She ticked them off on her long fingers. They were as pure white as the rest of her body. She stayed out of the sun, knowing the dramatic effect her skin made with her dark hair and those deep purple eyes. Poor Elaine. No one would ever believe they were twins. She tapped her ring finger, “Maggie,” and then her middle finger, “Bobbi.” The others had all been taken care of—at least for now, for the Pelham years.

The most recent letter she'd slipped under Bobbi's door informed her that her original signed confession would be on the president's desk tomorrow. Prin had watched the Dolans arrive, swarming around their pathetic daughter, as pathetic as she was. They had driven up to the dorm in a brand-new Rolls. Tacky
and
pathetic. They deserved what she was about to do to their darling daughter.

There was a letter for Maggie, too, with photos. Little Margaret had graduated early from popping pills to other highs, and Prin had been there to record it all. Mrs. Howard had entered the dorm in the Dolans' wake. She went to the bell desk and asked that her daughter, Margaret Howard, be “summoned.” Then she walked off toward the housemother's suite, teetering on heels too high, wearing a violently-colored silk print cocktail sheath. Totally, totally wrong. Poor thing. She was no doubt looking forward to Student Body President Margaret's speech at the graduation ceremonies. Something that was not going to happen. It had been hard to mask her inherent dislike of Maggie lately—so big, so awkward, always wanting something. Well, she'd served her purpose. As had the others.

Thank God her mother had such exquisite taste, Prin thought. She'd had identical ivory silk dresses made for her daughters to wear beneath their robes. She'd never dressed them as twins; what suited one didn't suit the other and it was the other who was always suited. But she'd told them that for this one ceremony, she wanted them to dress alike, and even though the style, a slightly Grecian draped bodice with a short, straight skirt, looked as if it had been designed for Prin alone, it didn't look bad on Elaine.

Today, tonight, another day, another night, and then it would all be over.

 

The dog's leash was tangled in the low branches of one of the rhododendrons that grew in one glorious swath in the low valley next to the library. Phoebe had been reluctantly saying good-bye to the librarians, who had been such a help to her these four years, also bidding farewell to her favorite carrel, down in the basement, next to some heating pipes. No one else ever wanted it, and for that reason alone, Phoebe had remained faithful.

As she freed the dog, she murmured, “Don't worry, boy. That's a good doggie. What a handsome doggie.” She was rewarded by a slurpy lick of his tongue. As she unwound the last part of the leash, the dog leaped up, barking and wagging his tail happily. The object of his affection was a tall, gray-haired man approaching rapidly. “There you are, Connor!” he said in obvious relief before turning to Phoebe, taking the dog's leash from her hand.

“I can't thank you enough. For an old man—and I
mean both of us—he can sometimes put on quite a burst of speed. I'm Professor Shaw and you must be graduating, or a very recent alumna. Don't think I've had you in class, though. I teach chemistry.”

He put out his hand, and Phoebe shook it. The dog did the same. It was obviously a well-rehearsed routine, and she started to laugh until the name struck her.

“Shaw? Chemistry? I mean, no, I haven't had you and I'm afraid I must be going—”

“I don't mean to keep you. It's just that I'm so grateful. Connor and I have been together for a long time.”

He must have had two dogs, Phoebe thought in despair, trying to think how to get away without being rude, yet resolving not to introduce herself in return.

“Is something wrong?”

Her face had always been an open book. She took a deep breath. This was meant to happen. Some kind of cosmic coincidence. That she should rescue one of Professor Shaw's dogs so close to graduation. She had to tell him about how she had been responsible for his other dog's death. But how? She eased into it.

“You, and Connor, must miss your other dog. Were they mates?”

“What other dog? My sister, interfering soul, decided I needed company after I lost my wife many years ago and gave me Connor, a tiny bundle of chocolate-colored fur. We've been together ever since, and I bless my sister daily.”

“But what about the accident? I thought your dog was hit by a car last year.”

“A car grazed him one rainy night, but he got right up, not a scratch on him. It was my fault for taking him out in such miserable weather, then not paying attention when I crossed the street.” He was looking at her curiously and asked again, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, it is,” Phoebe said firmly. “By the way, my name is Phoebe Hamilton and I
am
a graduating senior.” She leaned over and scratched Connor between his ears. “I'll look for you in the academic procession, sir,” she said to the professor as they left.

She watched them stroll off toward the lake and imagined throwing a stick for Connor. Someday she'd have a dog like that. No, make that two dogs.

She'd been so relieved that she hadn't thought about Prin. About what Prin had done. Now the enormity of it hit her—a hit-and-run. It was evil, pure evil. And with the clarity that truth sometimes brings, Phoebe realized that Lucy, Gwen, Chris, and Bobbi were Prin's victims, too. The whisperings, the rumors she had loyally refused to believe were all true. And Rachel. Max! Her legs started to give way beneath her and Phoebe sat down hard on the grass. Max had loved Prin with all his heart. How could Phoebe ever have thought otherwise? And Prin had not just broken her lover's heart, but killed it. Prin didn't deserve to live.

 

There was no moon. No stars, but the twinkling lights of the surrounding towns and Boston, far off on the horizon, were like a necklace against black velvet, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds surrounding the tower. The May night air was cool. Prin had put on her graduation dress and said she wanted to come up here one last time. She
felt as if she was saying good-bye not just to Pelham, but to her girlhood. Graduation was a rite of passage into adulthood. Her fingers caressed the perfectly matched pearls her father had given the twins, hers slightly pinker than Elaine's, more striking against the milky smoothness of her neck. She lit the joint she had brought with her and inhaled deeply, holding her breath as long as possible until her lungs burned and she let the smoke out with a gasp. She kicked her shoes off and walked barefoot toward the low parapet that surrounded the top of the tower. Between the decorative Gothic spires, there was just room enough to sit, or stand. She stepped up onto the brick ledge, holding tightly to one spire with her left hand while she took another hit. And then she was flying. Flying out into the soft black night, her hair streaming behind her, becoming a part of it.

Flying—and falling.

“Gwen Mansfield's been murdered,” Faith said.

The room was quiet for only an instant. It was hard to tell where the screams were coming from, but soon Rachel's voice rose above the rest, reducing them to moans and whimpers.

“That was the plan, wasn't it!” she cried. “Somehow or other you were going to keep us here and pick us off one by one. You sent that man away after the first day. The first day that was meant to make us believe that this was going to be a pleasant reunion, not a bloodbath. I don't care if you think one of us killed your sister. Your
sister
was a killer and you're one, too!”

Elaine tried to speak. “Shut up!” Rachel had lowered her voice, but the impact was the same. “Just shut up! We're not safe in our rooms! You've got keys, I'm sure. That's how you killed Gwen. And poor Bobbi…she
probably thought you wanted a massage. We're not safe anywhere in this house.” She appeared to be about to attack Elaine, taking several steps toward her, arms raised, then abruptly wheeled about and ran toward the door into the kitchen. Faith stepped to the side as Rachel pushed the door open. Before it closed, Faith could see Rachel racing up the back stairs to the second floor.

Once again, the group was stunned, but not for long. Chris looked around wildly like a caged animal and, without a word, ran onto the porch and down the stairs. Elaine cried, “Stop. Chris, you don't know your way! Stop!” then turned to the rest and said, “She's insane, Rachel, that is. Please, believe me, I had nothing to do with these deaths.” She brought her hands together in a dramatic pleading gesture.

“But someone here did, and by saying this, I'm not excluding you, by the way,” Lucy said. Her voice had trembled at first, but was getting stronger. “Now what we have to figure out is whether we should follow Chris and Rachel's examples or all stay together where we can keep an eye on each other.”

“Together,” Maggie, Madam President, said decisively. “I vote we all stay right here in this room until we can get off this cursed island.” She pronounced both syllables in the adjective like a thespian. “I propose that Mrs. Fairchild accompany each of us to our rooms to get whatever we need—reading material, handwork, clothing perhaps—and we stay right here until help arrives. How long can this fog continue, after all? We should be able to raise the flag in the morning.”

“What happens tonight? When we're sleeping?” Phoebe shuddered.

Maggie had it all figured out. “We sit up in shifts of two, except for Mrs. Fairchild, whom none of us can possibly suspect. She can take one of the watches alone.”

Stifling the urge to ask why she couldn't be an extremely clever serial killer, Faith nodded. It was a plan and at the moment a plan was what they needed.

“I need to go to my room first. I need the bathroom,” Phoebe said.

Elaine did not offer her private stairs, so they went through the dining room. Phoebe seemed to be having trouble getting her breath, and by the time they reached her room, she was hyperventilating. Faith pushed the woman's head down between her knees and looked around for a bag of some sort. Remembering the brown paper bag the book she'd bought at the newsstand had come in, she dashed across the hall to her room. Phoebe was soon breathing normally, but Faith folded the bag and put it into her pocket for undoubted future episodes. These were not mere anxiety attacks; the woman was terrified. All the women were terrified. While Phoebe was in the bathroom, Faith reflected on this fact and its corollary. Either someone was a consummate actor or the murderer was not one of them. But it had to be. There was no one else on the island—or was there?

She had to get out of the house and look around before it got too dark. The fog wasn't as heavy as it had been earlier and she needed an immediate answer to the question that had loomed for days. Where was Brent Justice? Was he alive? Could he literally be an
instrument of Justice, acting for his employer, who did indeed intend to pick them off one by one—including Mrs. Fairchild, her cook, witness to it all? She added herself to the list of terrified women.

After Phoebe, Faith escorted each woman to her room. Passing by Rachel's door as she followed Elaine down the long hall, Faith noticed that it was open and ducked her head inside to take a quick look around. There was no sign of the woman, or her guitar and case. Rachel was trusting herself and her most treasured possession to the elements.

Later, following Lucy to her room, Faith tried Chris's door. It was locked, as she'd expected. Unlike Rachel, Chris had gone straight outside, where she would be spending a very cold night, Faith feared, unless she could find her and bring her some warm clothing. Telling Chris about the watches of the night would not convince the woman to return to the house. Faith was sure of that. “Watches of the night”? Where was that from? Tom would know. Tom—a longing for him pierced her so sharply that she almost cried out. And then the words of Watts's hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” from Psalm 90, filled her whole being:

She followed Lucy into her room and watched her gather a few magazines and books, a sweater, a bathrobe—nothing remotely lethal, the robe didn't even
have a belt. They would all see this night out together and the dawn would bring hope and help. Repeating the words to the hymn silently again, Faith felt less alone and hope flickered.

No one was hungry and no one wanted anything to drink, not even Lucy. It was obvious that each woman intended to keep all her faculties about her and was remaining on high alert. Faith doubted that even those not on the official watch would dare to sleep. It was Phoebe, in fact, who had made the notion of sleep impossible. “What if it isn't one murderer, but two? Two of us acting together, most likely Elaine and someone else. You knew who she really was, Lucy. The two of you have been in touch. You and Elaine, sisters in crime.” She gave a slightly hysterical laugh.

“I haven't seen Elaine since 1972 and she knows why. The idea of teaming up with her makes my skin crawl, but you have a point. No volunteers. We'll put our names in a basket and Mrs. Fairchild can draw out the shifts,” she suggested.

The late afternoon sun was struggling to find its way through the fog, and Faith took advantage of the moment, telling the group that she was going to the boathouse for the flag—she assumed it was stored there—so she could fly it upside down as soon as dawn broke. There would be boats about, she was sure. The fishermen would be eager to haul their traps, and check for any storm damage, after these days of forced inactivity.

“The flag
is
in the boathouse. If not on the shelf by the door, then in the drawer beneath it,” Elaine said.

Faith left the room, got warm outerwear from the
downstairs closet in case she found Chris, outfitted herself, and went through the kitchen door. The relief was immediate and enormous. She understood why the two women had opted for the comparative safety of the outdoors rather than remain in the house. The storm had left the air clean and cool. As she walked through the misty fog, she could see that branches were down everywhere, yet already the flattened grasses were springing back up. She took a deep breath, tasting the sea so near—the sea that would provide escape.

First she got the flag, and started down the path to Justice's cabin. It was so washed out in places that the water threatened to spill over into her high rubber boots. When she reached the cabin she saw that aside from a few shingles on the ground, it seemed to have weathered the storm well. Inside, it was as she had left it earlier. If he had been back, he'd left no trace. She was about to leave, when she noticed something under the bed, something wrapped in a blanket. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Was it Brent Justice, a shrouded corpse? She forced herself to walk over and look underneath. Whoever or whatever it was, it wasn't Justice. It was much smaller. Not wanting to touch the cloth, she took a broom that stood at the side of the door and used it to edge the bulky mass out into the center of the room. She noted with relief that whatever it was, it was too light to be a body. Still using the broom, the handle this time, she teased a bit of the blanket back. A guitar case. Brent Justice may not have been here, but Rachel had, wrapping her precious instrument to guard against the moist air and hiding it away.

Faith decided to keep following the path on this side of the island. Perhaps the writing cabin was farther along and Justice might possibly be holed up there. On that first day, Faith had gotten some sense of the island and this was the most wooded portion, the ideal location for a sequestered retreat. The rest of the island consisted of meadows, originally kept mown by sheep but now mechanically; a bog; some rocky beaches; and at the very end the steep bluffs. The light was fading fast. She couldn't stay away too long. Were the women back at the house even now wondering what might have happened to her? But no one had any reason to kill Faith. She hadn't been a part of their deadly history. She didn't know anything—or did she?

An animal was scurrying along on one side of the path, making a slapping noise against the carpet of wet leaves. A large animal. A deer?

The more likely, and more deadly, alternative was just entering her mind when the attack came. She heard herself make a noise that was intended to be a scream, but as she began to lose consciousness she could sense it was barely a gasp. Then there was another sound—sounds. Someone was speaking to her.

“I didn't know it was you! I thought it was one of them! I'm so sorry!” Christine Barker was bending over Faith. “I didn't hit you very hard. The wood was wet and slipped out of my hand, thank God. Are you all right?”

Faith sat up and rubbed the back of her head. She'd have a lump, but that was all. The few milliseconds she'd been out had been as much from shock as from the blow.

“Come with me, off the path. It isn't safe to be where they can find us.” Chris seemed to be assuming that Faith, too, was seeking sanctuary in the woods. At the moment, it didn't seem like such a bad idea and she allowed herself to be led deeper into the pine forest. The trees obscured what little light there was, and Faith turned on the flashlight she'd brought.

“I'm afraid I acted too impulsively. I should have gone back to my room,” Chris said, glancing at Faith's flashlight.

“I have a jacket for you and some other things,” Faith said. “I'm hoping that it will be clear enough tomorrow to raise the distress signal, and once we do, there will be fishing boats that will come and rescue us.”

“Whoever's left of us,” Chris said, paused, and remembered her manners. She might be hiding from a killer in the middle of a drenched forest, but certain amenities must not be forgotten. “Thank you for the clothes. It was very kind of you to think of me.”

Behind a large boulder, the kind dropped by the last glacier that studded this part of New England like nonpareils, she'd made an impressive lean-to from pine boughs. She took Faith's hand, and they ducked inside. It was snug and almost warm, especially with the two of them. The boughs gave off a wonderful fragrance. Under any other circumstances, Faith would have been delighted.

“They're all in the living room, taking turns in twos, to keep watch. It's going to be a long night,” she said.

“I don't want to go back,” Chris said with an echo of childish stubbornness in her voice.

“I didn't think you would, but I have to. Rachel is out
here somewhere, too, but she did go back to her room, so she'll be able to keep warm.” Faith didn't mention the guitar. She'd replaced it exactly as she'd found it. It was Rachel's secret. And what else was Rachel keeping secret?

Chris seemed to be thinking something over.

“Why do you have to go? You can't imagine that I'm the killer. If I were, I'd have finished you off on the path just now.” She pulled out an elaborate Swiss Army knife. “I always carry it. It's the one especially for gardeners. A friend gave it to me.” This explained the woodcraft. Faith had been wondering how Chris had managed.

“No, I don't think you're the killer and I'm not sure why I have to go back. Because I have the flag? Because I said I would?” Or, she said to herself, because she had to know what was going on, her insatiable curiosity oft regretted by her husband.

Chris sighed, and then said, “I did want to kill Prin, though. When I heard she was dead, I was glad. Glad I didn't have to and glad she was dead. I never believed the suicide story. At first I thought it was an accident. She liked to go to the top of the tower and she was probably stoned. Over the years, I've thought someone got to her first—that someone went up with her.”

“What did you mean the other day when you said she had killed your baby?” Faith asked softly.

Chris curled up and rested her head against one of the jackets Faith had brought and that Chris had wedged behind her.

“I was very, very naïve. Girls were in those days, although my story is as old as the hills and probably still
going on. I thought it was true love. It was on my part. I adored him. He was a professor. Today they'd have him arrested, I suppose. Sexual harassment. I had never had much experience with boys, men. I spent my summers on my grandparents' farm, living in a kind of dream world—all very safe and secure—until my grandmother died, that is, and my grandfather developed Alzheimer's.

“Near the end of senior year when I found out I was pregnant, I was thrilled. See what I mean by naïve?” She gave a little laugh that really wasn't one, catching in the back of her throat. “Long story short. He wasn't thrilled—not at all—and he called in his longtime good buddy Prin, a fact I did not know, to handle the situation. I was so devastated by his reaction that I didn't even realize where Prin was taking me. I thought we were going to the city to spend the weekend in her family's apartment, an act of kindness on her part. I certainly couldn't have faced going back to campus. She took me to the city, all right, but not to that apartment. I still have nightmares about the ether cone descending over my face. Those hands, no gloves. A bright red ruby pinkie ring.”