Gray and overcast. Slight drizzle.
British sunshine.
He could just as well be back in the Lake District, he thought. But if he were back in Berwick, he wouldn't have this juicy story, now, would he?
The espresso machine hissed and rumbled, pouring a perfect shot into his heated demitasse cup, a precise seventeen-second pour, with luscious golden crema.
Simon pulled the cup, savoring the aroma, the start of a glorious new day.
Dead white girls, he mused, sipping the rich brown coffee.
Dead Catholic white girls.
In crack town.
8
MONDAY, 12:50 PM
They split up for lunch. Jessica returned to the Nazarene Academy in a department Taurus. The traffic was light on I-95, but the rain persisted.
At the school, she spoke briefly to Dottie Takacs, the school bus driver who picked up the girls in Tessa's neighborhood. The woman was still terribly upset by the news of Tessa's death, nearly inconsolable, but she managed to tell Jessica that Tessa was not at the bus stop on Friday morning, and that no, she didn't recall anyone strange who frequently hung around the bus stop or anywhere along the route. She added that it was her job to keep her eyes on the road.
Sister Veronique informed Jessica that Dr. Parkhurst had taken the afternoon off, but provided her with his home address and phone numbers. She also told her that Tessa's final class on Thursday had been French II. If Jessica recalled correctly, all Nazarene students were required to take two consecutive years of a foreign language to qualify for graduation. Jessica was not at all surprised that her old French teacher, Claire Stendhal, was still teaching.
She found her in the teachers' lounge.
'Tessa was a wonderful student,' Claire said. 'A dream. Excellent grammar, flawless syntax. Her assignments were always handed in on time.'
Talking to Madame Stendhal hurtled Jessica back a dozen years, although she had never been inside the mysterious teachers' lounge before. Her concept of the room, like that of many of the other students, had been a combination nightclub, motel room, and fully stocked opium den. She was disappointed to discover that, all this time, it was merely a tired, ordinary room with a trio of tables surrounded by chipped cafeteria chairs, a small grouping of love seats, and a pair of dented coffee urns.
Claire Stendhal was another story. There was nothing tired or ordinary about her, never had been: tall and elegant, with to-die-for bone structure and smooth vellum skin. Jessica and her classmates had always been terribly envious of the woman's wardrobe: Pringle sweaters, Nipon suits, Ferragamo shoes, Burberry coats. Her hair was shocked with silver, a little shorter than she remembered, but Claire Stendhal, now in her midforties, was still a striking woman. Jessica wondered if Madame Stendhal remembered her.
'Did she seem troubled at all lately?' Jessica asked.
'Well, her father's illness was taking quite a toll on her, as you might expect. I understand she was responsible for taking care of the household. Last year she took nearly three weeks off to care for him. She never missed a single assignment.'
'Do you remember when that was?'
Claire thought for a moment. 'If I'm not mistaken, it was right around Thanksgiving.'
'Did you notice any changes about her when she came back?'
Claire glanced out the window, at the rain falling on the commons. 'Now that you mention it, I suppose she was a bit more introspective,' she said. 'Perhaps a little less willing to engage in group discussion.'
'Did the quality of her work decline?'
'Not at all. If anything, she was even more conscientious.'
'Was she close friends with anyone in her class?'
'Tessa was a polite and courteous young woman, but I don't think she had many close friends. I could ask around, if you like.'
'I would appreciate it,' Jessica said. She handed Claire a business card. Claire looked at it briefly, then slipped it into her purse, a slim Vuit- ton Honfleur clutch. Naturellement.
'She talked about going to France one day,' Claire said.
Jessica remembered talking about the same thing. They all did. She didn't know a single girl in her class who had actually gone.
'But Tessa wasn't one of those who mooned about romantic walks along the Seine, or shopping on the Champs-Elysees,' Claire continued. 'She talked about working with underprivileged kids.'
Jessica made a few notes about this, although she was not at all sure why. 'Did she ever confide in you about her personal life? About someone who might have been bothering her?'
'No,' Claire said. 'But not all that much has changed since your high school days in that regard. Nor mine, for that matter. We are adults, and the students see us that way. They really are no more likely to confide in us than they are in their parents.'
Jessica wanted to ask Claire about Brian Parkhurst, but it was only a hunch she had. She decided not to. 'Can you think of anything else that might help?'
Claire gave it a few moments. 'Nothing comes to mind,' she said. till» I m sorry.
'That's quite all right,' Jessica said. 'You've been very helpful.'
'It's just hard to believe that… that's she's gone,' Claire said. 'She was so young.'
Jessica had been thinking the same thing all day. She had no response now. None that would comfort or suffice. She gathered her belongings, glanced at her watch. She had to get back to North Philly.
'Late for something?' Claire asked. Wry and dry. Jessica recalled the tone quite well.
Jessica smiled. Claire Stendhal did remember her. Young Jessica had always been tardy. 'Looks like I'm going to miss lunch.'
'Why not grab a sandwich in the cafeteria?'
Jessica thought about it. Perhaps it was a good idea. When she was in high school she was one of those weird kids who actually liked cafeteria food. She hiked her courage and asked: 'Qu'est-ce que vous… proposez?'
If she wasn't mistaken-and she desperately hoped she wasn't-she had asked: What do you suggest?
The look on her former French teacher's face told her she got it right. Or close enough for high school French.
'Not bad, Mademoiselle Giovanni,' Claire said with a generous smile.
'Merci.'
'Avec plaisir,' Claire replied. 'And the sloppy joes are still pretty good.'
Tessa's locker was only six units away from Jessica's old one. For a brief moment, Jessica was tempted to see if her old combination still worked.
When she had attended Nazarene, Tessa's locker belonged to Janet Stefani, the editor of the school's alternative newspaper and resident pot- head. Jessica half expected to see a red plastic bong and a stash of Ho Hos when she opened the locker door. Instead she saw a reflection of Tessa Wells's last day of school, her life as she left it.
There was a Nazarene hooded sweatshirt on a hanger, along with what looked like a home-knit scarf. A plastic rain bonnet hung from the hook. On the top shelf, Tessa's gym clothes were clean and neatly folded. Beneath them was a short stack of sheet music. Inside the door, where most girls kept a collage of pictures, Tessa had a cat calendar. The previous months had been torn out. The days had been crossed off, right through the previous Thursday.
