Harrington.
25.
I knew it was Harrington from the gray hair floating serenely, like the tendrils of a flower, around his head. I knew him from his clothes. I knew he was dead. What I did not know was who was screaming. The general appeared on the patio in his West Point bathrobe. He grabbed me and shook me, saying,
I shouted at the general to call 911 and then Schulz directly. I ran up to check on Arch. He wasn’t in his room. I panicked and stumbled back down to the main floor. Arch was in the kitchen, leaning over a bowl of Rice Krispies to check for sound.
“Don’t go outside,” I said, my voice choking. “Something awful has happened.”
He looked up and straightened his glasses to regard me more clearly.
“You look awful, Mom,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
Before I could answer, one of the phone lines rang. Police, Weezie, who? What would I say? Another of the lines was lit; perhaps General Bo was already talking to the authorities.
“This is George Pettigrew from Three Bears Catering in Denver—” he began.
“Call later,” I said abruptly. “We’ve got a crisis here.”
“Young lady, trademark infringement is a crisis for some of us—”
I hung up. The phone immediately bleated.
“What?” I screamed.
“Stay calm,” said Tom Schulz. “General Farquhar just called here and said you found Harrington. Listen, don’t talk to anybody. I want you to make some excuse this afternoon and come down to the department. I need to talk to you about these people you’re living with.”
I said I would have to find someone to take care of Arch. But I would be there, I promised.
“Mom! What is going on?”
But before I could answer, I heard sirens. The fastest thing about this town was the fire department. I remembered that they always came when there was a suspected drowning. Unfortunately, I was certain it was too late for them to help. There was the buzz for the front gate. A groggy-looking Julian came into the kitchen.
“I overslept. When I went out to do my laps, the general said not to come out on the patio. What’s—”
“Just let me open the gate,” I said to both of them. “Then I’ll get back with an explanation.”
Julian and Arch exchanged looks. I pressed the button that would allow admittance to the fire department. How had this happened? I knew in some corner of my brain that I would have to give a statement, to tell again, as I had with Philip Miller, what I had seen.
But I had not seen anything. I had come outside and there he was. I didn’t even know why he had tried to swim with his clothes on.
“I want to take you out for breakfast,” I announced to Arch. He and Julian traded another look.
Arch assumed his serious tone. “I’m finishing my breakfast, Mom.”
“I want you to come with me into town.”
“Whatever.”
I went on, “It looks as if Brian Harrington might have drowned in the Farquhars’ pool last night.” I looked at Julian. “You can come with us if you want,” I added lamely.
Julian knew I didn’t really want him along. He mumbled a regret. Without eating, he left the kitchen.
Arch finished his cereal. As he spooned mouthfuls in, he swung his feet under the table. Was he sympathetic? Sad? I tried to think how I would feel if a neighbor had drowned when I was eleven. Arch’s eyes made an arc around the room and settled on me. He was afraid.
“I’m going to go talk to the police,” I said, “while you get dressed.” My watch said that it was eight o’clock. It was hard to think. What time did the school office open?
“I’ll call Elk Park Prep and tell them I’m not coming today either,” he said to my unasked question. “But you’ll have to write a note tomorrow.” He got up, rinsed his cereal bowl, then walked over to me. His large brown eyes held mine. To my surprise he hugged me.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Harrington, Mom. I’m sorry about Dr. Miller, too. And I’m sorry I haven’t been doing very well lately.”
I held him close, momentarily wishing he was little again so I could rock him. “Arch,” I said, “you’re doing fine. If you want to go live with your father, that’s okay with me.” That last part was a lie, but I wanted to give him his freedom.
His voice cracked. “I love you, Mom.”
I said, “I know.”
After the police questioned me, I couldn’t stay in that house. But I didn’t know where to go. Finally I left a note saying I was taking Arch to church. I felt awful about Brian Harrington. Seeing a dead body is not something you recover from quickly. Arch and I sat in a back pew and whispered.
I said, “I want to tell you again that I’m sorry I hauled you out of the pool. The thought of you down there in the handcuffs was more than I could take.”
“It was just so embarrassing.” His voice wavered. We were on dangerous ground. “And right before that we could all hear you fighting with Brian Harrington.”
“I wasn’t fighting with him!” I whispered fiercely.
“It sure sounded like it.”
My spirits took a dive. The last thing I needed was to be a suspect in a murder. I forced myself to think about something else.
I said, “I finished one of those Poe stories last night.” I started to tell him about “The Purloined Letter” as a dozen or so people began to straggle into the pews for Wednesday’s service of Morning Prayer.
“But what’s a project with a letter?” Arch whispered. “It’s not cool like a heartbeat or a gold bug.”
“We’ll think of something,” I promised as I opened a prayer book and pointed to where the service began. After what had happened to Philip and now Brian, I was frightened and needed comfort. It seemed like the right thing to do.
I had quit going to church when my ex-husband began making beautiful music with a choirlady. Interestingly, our Episcopal priest had seen nothing wrong with The Jerk’s liaison with Miss Vocal Cords. My cynical thought was that The Jerk could afford to give a lot more money to the parish than I could. But that priest eventually had left for greener pastures, and the liaison with the choirwoman had given way to a failed engagement to a high school geometry teacher. John Richard’s new girlfriend, Arch had told me, was Presbyterian or nothing. So I had started going back to my old parish. The new priest had welcomed me, and to my relief, had not asked me—as had his predecessor—to cater free luncheons for clergy meetings.
When the service was over and everyone was gone, Arch and I walked quietly down the nave to the intercession table. We knelt and lit a candle for Brian Harrington.
I called Marla from the church office. No answer. I called two of Arch’s friends who were not going to summer school. I got recordings saying the kids were at camp. Finally, I called The Jerk and asked the receptionist if Arch could stay with his father for the afternoon. Through the receptionist John Richard relayed the firm message that he was leaving the office at lunchtime. Take Arch back to the Farquhars, I was instructed, and Doctor would be over within the hour.
Reluctantly, I took Arch back. Sam Snead Lane was crammed with cars, both official and unofficial. The policeman in charge told me to go on down to the department to see Investigator Schulz. I left Arch in his room with strict instructions to go with nobody but his father.
Then I zipped over to the
When I climbed out of the van, he got out of his car. He said, “You find someone to take care of Arch?”
