I said, “Did you tell the police that Miss Ferrell wouldn’t play along, perhaps?”
His haggard face turned scarlet. “Of course I did,” he snarled. “But they think somebody might have been searching her room that morning. They can’t find her grade book; they don’t know what was going on or who might have been having problems. And I doubt that any parent or student would dare put the pressure on me now.” He leered. “But perhaps I don’t know all she did.”
“What about Egon Schlichtmaier? Have you talked to the police about him?”
He ran his hands impatiently over the cottony mass of hair. “Why are you so interested? Why not just leave it to the authorities?”
“Look, the only person I’m worried about is Julian. I want to know who would give him this scholarship and why.”
He tugged the lapels of his sport coat. “Julian Teller is a fine student.” His lips closed firmly.
I mumbled something noncommittal, and Perkins said he’d see me that night for the last of the college meetings. The bell signaling class change rang, and I made noises about it being time for me to leave. But instead of the usual metaphorical sendoff, Headmaster Perkins merely swiveled back to the painting by Turner’s great- grandson. As I left his office, my mind groped wildly.
Someone searching her room … they can’t find her grade book…
In the hallway I saw several seniors I recognized. All avoided me by looking away or starting to talk animatedly to the person nearest to them. Discovering two dead bodies can get you ostracized, I guessed. Except by Macguire Perkins, who came lumbering down the hall and nodded when I said hello. I pulled his sleeve.
“Macguire,” I said, “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh well, okay.” He led me out the school’s front door.
I looked up. For that was where he was, this lanky, painfully acne-faced basketball star ? way up. A blue plaid lumberjack shirt hung out over jeans that ended in weathered hiking boots. No preppie outfit for the headmaster’s son.
“I want to talk to you about Miss Ferrell.”
“I, uh, I’m real sorry about Miss Ferrell.”
?So am I.?
“You know, I know she was mad about my college visit, and… other stuff, but I think she liked me.”
“What other stuff?”
“Just,” he said, “stuff.”
“Like having your driver’s license suspended for drinking and driving? Or stuff like your use of steroids to muscle yourself up?”
His scarred face turned acutely red. “Yeah. Anyway, I stopped the steroids. Last week, I swear. Ferrell was talking to me about it, said I could be strong without them, like that.”
“She was right.” I hesitated. “There’s something I need, Macguire. Something she might have feared would get stolen.”
“What?”
“Miss Ferrell’s classroom might have been searched last Saturday. It was a mess when the police got to it. I’ve just had a talk with your father and it made me think… . Listen, I need her grade book. You of all people know your way around this school. Is there any chance she could have hidden it somewhere?”
Macguire looked around the snowy parking lot before replying. Was paranoia a side effect of his brand of drug abuse?
“As a matter of fact,” he said reluctantly, “I may know where it is. You know, being tall, I see things other folks don’t see.”
“Tell me.?
“Remember when I read my essay about I.U. at the front of the class?” I nodded. “She has those big posters up there by the blackboard. Behind that framed one of that arch in Paris, I saw something. Like a brown notebook. I could go look…”
“Please do.” He trundled off, and within two minutes he was back, grinning triumphantly. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. Another quick visual scan of the parking lot. “Luck,” he said simply. He pulled out a brown fake-leather spiral grade book and handed it to me. I hadn’t brought a purse, so I just held on to it.
“Give that to the cops,” he said. “Maybe it’ll tell them something.”
My heart ached for this sad, loose-limbed boy. “Thank you, Macguire. I was so worried about you Saturday morning. You seemed so nervous about the test.”
“What, me?” He backed away and held up his hands in protest. “Your cookies were great. I thought later, why should I have been so worried about the SATs? I’m not going to be somebody by going to Harvard. What the hell, I’m never going to be anybody.”
20
I phoned Tom Schulz when I got home in the hope that he might have returned from Lakewood. No luck. I told his machine I had Suzanne Ferrell’s roll book with the class grades, and where was he? The evening’s event loomed and I knew I had food to prepare. Still, I was getting close to the answers to a lot of questions; I could feel it. Cooking could wait. I sat down at my kitchen table and opened Suzanne Ferrell’s grade book.
It was larger than most grade books I had seen, about eight by eleven instead of four by six, and with many more pages. The notebook was divided into three parts: French III, French IV; and CC. When I flipped to it, CC proved to be college counseling. There I saw an inked list of the top-ranked seniors: I. Keith Andrews, 2. Julian Teller, 3. Heather Coopersmith, 4. Greer Dawson, 5. Brad Marensky… . A quick check showed that Brad Marensky and Greer Dawson were in French III; Julian and Heather Coopersmith were in French IV. Keith Andrews had also been in French IV. They were all, including Macguire Perkins, in college counseling.
In French III, Brad Marensky had a solid stream of C’s and B’s; his midterm grade was due to be a B minus. Greer Dawson’s showed wide swings: two F’s early on, the rest B’s. Her grade: C. Julian had made A’s at the beginning of the quarter, then a B and an F on a quiz last week. He had also received a B minus for the midterm. Heather Coopersmith had B’s punctuated by two A’s, and was due to receive a B plus. Keith Andrews had received all A’s and one B. There was a line through his name.
Well, that didn’t tell me much. Or if it did, I hadn’t a clue how to interpret it. Would this finally all come down to mathematical calculations of grades? Is that what people would kill for?
With some trepidation I turned to the college counseling section. In addition to the class rank, the students were listed alphabetically. Reactions and conferences with the students, headmaster, and parents had been duly noted in careful handwriting.
KEITH ANDREWS-Disillusioned by recent trips to universities. Parents in Europe. Wishes he could join them, visit Oxford,
HEATHER COOPERSMITH-Mother worried. Sat next to her at dinner. H. says mother obsessing on college thing because father dumped. Wants control of life. Jealous of K. Claims others have $$ they can spend to help their kids get into college. H. dreamy and distant. Wants less structure, less pressure in academic life. H. says mother a pain. RECOMMENDED: BENNINGTON, ANTIOCH.
BRAD MARENSKY-Parents brought in media rankings. Wanted to know Dawson list! They think B. “deserves” top-ranked school. Says stories about them offering fur coat to admissions director at Wiliams untrue. But do I think it would be a good idea? (Said no.) Unpleasantness from last year apparently resolved. B. indifferent to schools, but seemed to be watching me. Told me he wanted to be ‘far away from parents.” Asked, ?Did I know?” I said, about what? No response. H. doesn’t have a clue. RECCOMMENDED: WASHINGTON AND LEE, COLBY.
GREER DAWSON-Very difficult. Wants Ivy League or Stanford, but SATs not high enough; grades erratic. Parents offered me a year’s free meals if I’d recommend her. Not amused. H. warned, “trouble if the school doesn’t get Greer into Princeton. RECOMMENDED: OCCIDENTAL, UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.
MACGUIRE PERKINS-Asked about drinking record, drugs. Said he has talent for drama, but he thinks not; says he’s depressed. Recommended psychotherapy. H. opposed, looks bad. RECOMMENDED SCHOOLS FOR BASKETBALL: INDIANA, N.C. STATE, UNLV.
