percent of the people who were here can be eliminated,” I heard Tom Schulz say to a member of his team. Julian and I were mute while the other seniors, finally dismissed, somberly filed past. I could feel the students’ eyes on me. I didn’t look up. All I could hear was my heartbeat.
When the lobby was again empty, Schulz sat down on the bench next to Julian and me. He said that Julian and his friend Neil had been the first to arrive that morning after the gray-haired faculty member, whose name was George Henley. Henley, it appeared, had found the outer doors unlocked upon his arrival shortly before 8:00. He had been given a set of keys by Headmaster Perkins, and had assumed Miss Ferrell, who was assigned to help him set up that morning, was “around somewhere,” because the door to her classroom was open, although the light was off. No, the unlocked doors had not puzzled him because of the headmaster’s much-touted belief in the “environment of trust.”
“What we’re looking for,” Schulz said wearily, “is how this could relate to the Andrews murder. Know anyone who had problems with this woman? Someone who maybe disliked Keith too?”
I repeated what I had already told him about Egon Schlichtmaier and the supposed romantic link with Suzanne Ferrell. He asked if we had seen any exchange between them-we hadn’t. Or between her and anyone else.
“This took place at the school. Because of what’s already happened here, we need to look at the school first,” Schulz insisted. “Is there anything else?”
A number of people, I told him numbly, might have resented Miss Ferrell. Why? Schulz wanted to know. Because of their own highly emotional agenda concerning grades, recommendations, the college issue. She was the college advisor, after all. And there were things she might have known. From what I had learned about the school in the past couple of weeks, the place seemed a veritable repository for secrets.
“Jesus Christ,” Schulz muttered under his breath. “When does anyone around here have time to learn? What about this headmaster? Any animosity there?”
“None that I know of,” I said, and turned to Julian, who opened his hands and shook his head dumbly.
“We’ll talk to him.” Schulz looked at me. I could see the strain of this second murder in a week in his bloodshot eyes and haggard face. “She’s been dead about six hours. Our surveillance guy can verify when you left your house, so you’re not a suspect.”
“For once,” I said dryly. I felt no relief. “Either one of you feel okay to drive?” Schulz asked. Neil Mansfield of the bumper-stickered VW was long gone. Julian said, “Let me take Goldy home in her van.” His face was bone- white. “Will you call us later?” he asked Schulz.
Schulz gently touched the side of Julian’s head. “Tonight.”
Snowflakes powdered the smooth lanes made by the CAT. Snow continued to swirl. The pumpkins edging the drive were now mounds of white, their leering faces long ago obscured. Julian edged the van around State Highway 203’s winding curves. I wondered how I would tell Arch about Miss Ferrell’s murder. After a long stretch of silence, I asked Julian how the tests went; he gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Know what I feel like doing?” he said abruptly.
“What?”
“I need to swim. I haven’t been near a pool in two weeks. Probably sounds crazy, I know.” He fell silent, concentrating on the increasingly treacherous road. Then he said, “This stuff at the school is getting to me. I can’t go back and sit in that house. Do you mind?” He gave me a quick sidelong glance. “You probably don’t feel like cooking.”
“You got that right. A swim sounds good.”
We parked in front of the house. With the heavy snow, it was hard to tell if anyone sat in one of the cars lining our street. Schulz’s surveillance cop had to be there, I told myself. Had to.
Once inside, I gratefully stripped off the caterer’s uniform and quickly slipped into jeans and a turtleneck. We gathered swimsuits and towels. There was a message on the machine from Marla: Could we come by for an early dinner? She had finally located Pamela Samuelson. Pamela Samuelson? Marla’s taped voice reminded me: “You know, that teacher out at Elk Park Prep who was involved in some kind of brouhaha with the headmaster. She really wants to see you.” Marla added cryptically, “It’s urgent.”
I dialed Marla’s number. The private nurse said her charge was taking a nap. Don’t disturb her, I told the nurse. Just tell her when she wakes that we’ll be there at five.
We switched to the Rover because of the roads. As we drove to the rec center, my heart felt like a knob of granite. Or maybe it wasn’t my heart that felt that way, but some unexpressed emotion that had solidified inside my rib cage. Was it fear? Anger? Sadness? All of the above.
I wanted to cry but could not, Not yet. I wanted to know if Arch was all right, but I reassured myself that of course he was. After all, he was in Keystone with his father, miles away from these ugly events. Just keep going, some inner voice said. Of course, that was what I had always done. But the rock in my chest remained.
At the pool Julian dived in at once, landing with an explosive crack that sprayed water everywhere. He plowed down his lap lane like a man possessed. I eased myself with infinite care into the water, then moved like a person drugged to the lane to Julian?s left. Closing my eyes, I allowed my arms to wheel into a slow crawl. Warm water washed over me. Twice I started to think about the events of the morning and accidentally inhaled water. I sputtered and changed to a backstroke, while in the next lane Julian repeatedly lapped me. After I had done a halting, uneven set of about twenty laps, I stopped Julian as he was about to do one of his rolling turns off the concrete wall. I was taking a shower, I told him. He said he was almost finished.
I shampooed my hair four times. The pine-scented shower gel would dry it out to straw, but I didn’t care. The sharp, woodsy scent brought back memories of boarding school with its comforting routines: history class, field hockey, wearing pearls to dinner and gloves to church. Too bad Elk Park Prep was not nearly so safe a place.
Waiting for Julian in the lobby of the rec center, I stood at the window, watching the snow. It drifted down like bits of ash from a distant fire. I suddenly realized that I was famished. Julian came out shaking droplets from his hair, and we drove in silence to Marla’s house in the country club area.
Marla greeted us with a shriek of happiness. Her leg was in a thick plaster cast that already bore a number of colorful inscriptions.
“I thought you might be along,” she said to Julian, “so I ordered you a grilled Gruyere sandwich along with our cheeseburgers. There’ll be jalapeno-fried onions and red-cabbage coleslaw too,” she added hopefully. Embarrassed to be so attended to, especially by someone in a cast, Julian flushed and mumbled thanks.
“Come on, then.” Marla hobbled forward. “Goldy’s been bugging me to find this person since last week.” Over her shoulder she said to Julian, “You may know her already.”
Pamela Samuelson, former teacher at Elk Park Prep, sat perched at the edge of a muted green and blue striped couch in Marla’s living room. A generous fire blazed inside a fireplace edged with bright green and white Italian tiles.
“Oh, Miss Samuelson,” Julian said in a surprised tone. “Eleventh-grade American history.”
“Hello, Julian.” Pamela’s hair had the look and texture of a much-used Brillo pad, and the fire reflected in her thick glasses. She was about fifty years old and slightly doughy, despite Marla’s introduction of her as “one of the regulars” at the athletic club. “Yes,” she said with a touch of irony, “eleventh-grade American history.”
“Pam’s selling real estate now,” Marla interjected with genuine sympathy. Realtors were not Marla’s favorite people. “She got shafted out at that school.”
I said, “Shafted?” Pamela Samuelson threaded and unthreaded her plump fingers. She said, “One hates to hang out dirty laundry. But when I heard about Suzanne, and Marla phoned me ? “
“You’ve heard already?” I exclaimed. Why was I surprised? My years in Aspen Meadow had certainly taught me the terrifying efficiency of the local grapevine.
“Oh, yes,” Pamela said. She touched her wiry hairdo. “The fall SATs. First Saturday in November.”
I glanced at Julian. He shrugged. I said, “Please, can you tell me more about the school? I hate to say it, but … dirty laundry may help us figure a few things out.”
“Well. This was what I was telling Marla. I don’t know if it’s relevant.” She fell silent and looked down at her hands.
“Please,” I said again. She remained silent. Julian got up and added a log to the fire. Marla studied her cast, which she had propped up on a green and white ottoman. I heard my stomach growl.
“Before I was dismissed,” Pamela said at last, “I gave a final exam in American history. The essay question
