Death at Charity's Point Read online

  I murmured “Umm,” to encourage him to keep talking. But he evidently felt he had told me enough.

  We walked the rest of the way in silence. I followed him back to the grassy quadrangle where most of the school’s buildings seemed to be grouped. We took the path past the administration building where my BMW was parked, past a couple of plain-fronted brick buildings, which I thought either contained classrooms or served as dormitories, to a more modern structure. This one, also, was constructed of brick, but there was varnished wood and glass, too, and its facade offered more facets and angles to the eye.

  “Student Union,” said Binh. “Auditorium’s around the other side. Rina’ll be there, I think.”

  We climbed half a dozen wide steps, pushed through a set of big double doors, and found ourselves in a dimly lit lobby. Binh motioned me to be quiet, and pushed open another door. I followed him into a theater. The aisle sloped down toward a brightly lit stage where several sweatshirted and blue-jeaned figures moved around. Binh made his way down the aisle and took a seat in the front row. I groped my way behind him and slid into a seat next to him.

  Up on the stage a tall young woman, indistinguishable from the others except by the clear aura of command which she emanated, was gesticulating with one hand while she held in her other a sheaf of papers. “You’re a clown pretending to be a wall, Scott. The audience has to get the humor in this. Broaden it. Ham it up. It’s supposed to be funny. Slapstick. Loosen up. Have fun with it, for heaven’s sake.”

  “That’s Rina Prescott,” whispered Alexander Binh. I nodded.

  “Okay, then,” the woman continued. “Let’s do it again. C’mon, kids. Let’s pretend we’re enjoying ourselves up here. Okay? Quince? Thisby? You guys with us? Okay. In your places. Let’s take it from, ‘Gentles, perchance you wonder…’ Prologue, go ahead, now. Remember. It’s supposed to be silly.”

  Binh leaned toward me, his shoulder touching mine. I inclined my ear to him. “Midsummer Night’s Dream. She thinks these kids can put Shakespeare over.”

  “Just a minute! Okay. Everybody stop.” Rina Prescott interrupted the speech of the boy on the stage. She came to the edge, by the footlights, leaned over, and peered toward us. “Who’s in my theater? Who’s there, anyway? Hey, Peter. Give me some house lights, will you?”

  Suddenly Binh and I were exposed as the auditorium filled with light. The woman squinted for a moment, then abruptly stood up. “Mr. Binh, what can I do for you?” She clearly indicated by her tone that she did not particularly desire to do anything for Alexander Binh.

  “Ah, Miss Prescott. I have a gentleman here who’d like to talk with you for a moment?” Binh made it a question.

  The woman dropped her hands against her thighs and shook her head. “Damn it,” she said, her voice low and intended only for us, “I’m working. I know you can see that. I’ve got a show to put on in nine days, Mr. Binh. Do you mind?”

  Binh stood and moved to the edge of the stage. Rina Prescott stood, hands on hips now, and glared down at him. She was, I estimated, in her mid-twenties. Short, black hair, and a good face under the scowl it wore at the moment. She looked fine in her jeans. After a moment she moved toward Binh and squatted at the edge of the stage. He spoke to her in a low voice. As she listened, she glanced in my direction, seemed to study me for a minute, then returned her attention to what Binh was saying. I saw her shake her head. Binh touched her shoulder and whispered something else to her, and then she shrugged. Binh patted her arm and came back to sit beside me.

  “Take ten, kids,” said the woman. “Don’t go away.” The actors, who had been sitting on the stage while their director conversed with Alexander Binh, stood and began milling around. Rina Prescott hopped nimbly down from the stage and came toward me and Binh. I stood.

  She held out her hand to me. Her grip was firm, masculine. “I’m sorry to interrupt you…” I began.

  “Me too,” she said. “People think this is fun and games. They don’t seem to understand. This is my job. They pay me to do this. I don’t suppose you allow people to walk into a courtroom when you’re delivering your summation to the jury or something so they can discuss their personal problems with you, do you? Or do you say, ‘Excuse me, please, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but I’ve got to go and have a little chat with this person I’ve never met before, and I’ve got to do it right now, because this person is very busy and has made a special trip to our courtroom just to talk with me, so take a break and I’ll be right back?’ Do you?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Prescott. I didn’t…”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Her voice was only a shade friendlier, but I thought I detected a smile crinkling in the corners of her eyes. “It was Elliott, right? Sure. Beef-witted sod!”

  I grinned. She frowned. “What’s funny?”

  “Beef… what?” I said.

  She smiled, then, and it transformed her face. Her eyes, especially, glittered and danced. They were the green of spring leaves when they first burst open, bracketed by tiny wrinkles at the corners, as if they had stared at the ocean and sky for many hours from the tiller of a sailboat. Her tall, slim body had fooled me, and I revised my estimate. Early thirties, at least.

  “Beef-witted,” she said. “That’s the Bard, of course. Best oaths you can find are in Shakespeare. Look, Mr. Coyne. Mr. Binh told me what you’re after, here. I really can’t help you, anyway. George was a nice man. I don’t know anything about his death. Okay?”

  “If I could just ask you a couple of questions,” I said.

  She sighed heavily. “Look. I said I can’t help you. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m busy.” She turned away from me.

  “If we offend,” I said, “it is with our good will.”

  Rina Prescott whirled to face me. “You know the play?”

  I grinned at her. “I played Quince once. Many, many years ago.”

  She stared at me for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Good for you,” she said. “Hope it went over. Right now I’m worried about his particular production. We’ll leave the house lights on for you so you can find your way out.”

  She hopped up onto the stage and stood, her back to Binh and me, and clapped her hands. “Okay, people. Back into positions. Let’s go back to Philostrate. Come on, now. Move it.”

  Binh touched my elbow and jerked his head toward the exit. I nodded and followed him out. As we opened the door at the rear of the theater, I heard Rina Prescott call out, “Okay, kill those house lights. Come on, up there, lighting crew, bring up the spot. It’s night, remember.”

  Binh and I walked out of the building into the bright sunlight. We stood for a moment before the building. I shook a Winston from my pack and lit it.

  “Wow!” I said.

  Binh shifted his eyebrows and flashed a quick smile. “She’s right, of course. Anyway, you really didn’t think you’d learn anything here today, did you? I mean, you are going through some requisite motions, I assume.”

  I looked at him for a moment. He returned my stare with neither hostility nor humor. Neutrality, I read there. Patience. Boredom, maybe. His look said, “I don’t give a shit,” but I didn’t read “Up yours” in it.

  Finally I said, “I understand you probably have better things to do with your time than escort me around your campus, Mr. Binh, and I apologize for putting you in this position. However, a man has died. We think it’s important to understand that death.”

  Binh’s expression didn’t change. “You’re doing your job. I’m doing mine. I’m instructed to introduce you to some of our staff. Fine. If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll take you to Miss Wolcott.” He turned on his heel and glided away from me. I dropped the cigarette butt, stepped on it, and hurried after him.

  “Who’s Miss Wolcott?” I asked when I caught up to Binh.

  “Latin teacher. Also Greek.”

  “And she knew George Gresham?”

  “We all did. More or less.”

  He led me diagonally across the grassy quadrangle.
Dandelions bloomed in clumps here and there, making bright yellow washes of color against the pale green spring grass. Big old oaks and maples and a few surviving elms grew up from the manicured lawn, casting broad areas in shade. Here and there young boys and girls sat or lay, some engaged in quiet, intense conversations, some dozing, and some with their faces close together and fingers entwined.

  Binh stopped by one girl sitting with her back against a thick tree trunk. She wore a long, full dress. Bare feet peeped from beneath its hem. A notebook lay opened on her lap. Her face was lifted to a beam of sunlight which streamed through a hole in the foliage above her. Her eyes were closed. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose.

  “This is Jenny Wolcott.” The girl’s eyes popped open. “Jenny, Mr. Coyne would like to talk with you about George Gresham. And,” he said, turning to me, “if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you. I’ve got some things to do back at the office, and I’m not sure who else it would be worth your while to talk to, anyway. You can find your way out?”

  I nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

  He shrugged and walked quickly away.

  Jenny Wolcott patted the ground beside her. “Pull up a seat, Mr. Coyne. What can I do for you? And why are you looking at me like that?”

  I laughed. “You know, I imagined you were—well, older. Like Miss Partridge, my old Latin teacher. She had a bald spot on the back of her head and a mustache that she bleached. I do have this unfortunate tendency to make stereotypes.”

  Jenny Wolcott smiled prettily. “Apology accepted.”

  “It wasn’t exactly an apology,” I said. “Matter of fact, it was supposed to be kind of a compliment. You’re very young and very pretty. I didn’t expect that.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “How well did you know George Gresham?”

  Her eyes flickered, then met mine. She nodded her head slowly. “I knew him—I knew him pretty well, Mr. Coyne. He was, well, like a father to me, sort of. This is only my first year here at Ruggles. It’s a pretty closed little world, you know, and a public school girl from Des Moines can feel pretty out of place in a dour old New England prep school. You know?”

  I nodded.

  “And George, he was really the only one who made the effort. Oh, there were the men—well, never mind that. You know what I mean. But George, he wasn’t like that. I mean, he seemed to really care if I was happy here. There was nothing sexual or anything. He was just nice to me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Do you remember anything about the way he was before he died? Anything unusual about the way he acted? Did anything happen to him that you know of?”

  She widened her eyes a little. “I know what you mean. I’ve tried to think about that ever since I heard that he—that he, you know, killed himself.” She shrugged her shoulders and gave me a wan smile. “He was a sad sort of man, anyway. You never knew what he was really thinking, because he always seemed to be focusing on you. He was so concerned about how I was doing that we never really talked about him. I feel very guilty about that. I was so selfish. He must’ve been very unhappy, very lonely, to do that. And I never even thought about him and his problems. Maybe I could have helped him. I could have at least encouraged him more. To talk about himself.” She flapped her hands in her lap. “Anyway, he didn’t.”

  I nodded and smiled at her. I took my cigarette pack from my pocket, hesitated, and offered it to her. She shook her head. “Do you mind?” I said.

  “No. Go ahead.”

  I lit the cigarette. “Did his suicide surprise you?”

  “Oh, well, sure it did. I mean, no offense, but isn’t that kind of a dumb question?”

  “Yes. I guess it is. What I meant was, when you heard that his death was caused by suicide…”

  “Can you imagine,” she interrupted, “anyone you know killing himself not surprising you?”

  “You’ve got a point,” I said. “Okay, then, what about George’s other friends? I’ve met some of them. Mr. Baker, the baseball coach. Mr. Elliott, of course, and Mr. Binh. I met Miss Prescott briefly.”

  She looked at me expectantly. “What about them?”

  I waved my hands. “I don’t know. Anything that would help me understand this.”

  Jenny Wolcott stared at the hole in the leaves over her head toward the sunlight that streamed down on her. She didn’t speak for what seemed like several minutes. Finally she said in a low voice, “I don’t think those people knew him at all. He never talked about them. I thought I knew him. I thought I was the only one.” She turned to look at me. “Now I’m not so sure of that. Maybe no one knew him. Anyhow, it doesn’t much matter, now, does it?”

  I stood up. “I guess you’re right, Miss Wolcott. I’ll let you get back to your work. I appreciate your time.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “That’s okay. I enjoyed talking with you.” I lifted my hand to her, then headed back for my car. My digital watch read 4:37. I calculated that, if I took my time, I could pass by Gert’s at a little after five. A bit early. Still, I could nurse an Old Fashioned or two, and then, fresh-baked striped bass…

  I sauntered across the lawn, enjoying the clean air with its hint of salt water and May flowers. I hadn’t learned much to help Florence Gresham. Life at The Ruggles School went on, closing in on whatever void George Gresham had left in it, and I supposed the most responsible thing I could do for Florence would be to help her fill in her own void. If I hadn’t discovered any definitive reasons for this solitary man to end his own existence, I certainly didn’t feel I had uncovered anything that could contradict the verdict of suicide, either.

  As I approached my car, I saw that a knot of perhaps a dozen young people had gathered in the parking lot, blocking my way. There seemed to be a great deal of loud conversation and arm-waving. I started to walk around them when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Take some literature, mister.” It was a command, not a request. I do not, as a rule, take kindly to commands. I turned and faced a young man dressed in what appeared to be Army surplus fatigues—high boots, with baggy pants tucked in, a camouflage shirt, and a cartridge belt around his waist. I noticed that there were no cartridges in the loops. He wore a wispy adolescent goatee and a snarling grin. His head had been shaved bald.

  I shook my arm where he gripped me, and he dropped his hand. His other hand waved some sort of pamphlet in my face. I took it from him.

  Its title read Do You Know Where You Stand? in bold red letters. Beneath the title, in neon red against the black background of the cover, a large red swastika glowed. I held the pamphlet away from me with two fingers and dropped it to the ground as if it were a dirty diaper.

  “Not interested,” I said. I rolled my shoulders to get around him. He stepped into my path, still grinning, his dark eyes glittering like a cornered rodent’s. The other young people began to crowd around us. They wanted a confrontation, I thought. I wanted no part of it.

  “Afraid of the truth, mister?” said the bald kid softly.

  “Move,” I said.

  He held his ground. “I know your type,” he said. “Feed the niggers, vote for the commies, give your money to the Jews. Well, it’s gonna happen, and it’s gonna happen here, and you’d better be ready for it. So why don’t you just pick up that literature you dropped, huh?”

  I tried again to walk past him. His hand gripped me hard by my arm. His fingers dug unerringly into a spot just above my elbow, sending a shaft of pain to my brain. “Pick it up,” he said more loudly.

  I turned around slowly and put my face up close to his. I reached up and grabbed the strands of hair growing from his chin. “I said,” I repeated softly, “I’m not interested. Take your filth somewhere else, sonny.” I gave his little beard a hard tug and was gratified to see tears come to his eyes.

  “You’ll be sorry,” he muttered.

  “I doubt that,” I said, turning away from him.

  “Asshole!”

  This was a
different voice. It belonged to a girl who, at first, I took to be no more than twelve years old. She had the vanilla complexion and naive blue eyes of a pre-adolescent, with a little rosebud mouth and a tangle of blonde curls piled on her head like a fluffy helmet.

  Except those eyes were glowering at me, and that sweet mouth was twisted into a hateful sneer, and beneath her sweatshirt rose a pair of decidedly post-adolescent breasts.

  “You talk that way to your father, young lady?” I said.

  “Fuck him,” she replied.

  “Forget it, Barb,” said one of the other kids. “He’s too old to understand.”

  The bald boy spoke again. “It’s for your own good, man. Prepare yourself. Our civilization is collapsing. This—” and he again thrust one of his pamphlets at me “—explains it.”

  “Why don’t you kids go do your history homework or something?” I said.

  “History’s a lie,” said the kid with the shiny head. “It’s the future that counts.”

  I wondered what George Gresham might have said to this young fanatic. Something more rational than what sprang to my mind, I imagined.

  I shouldered my way through the kids and climbed into my white BMW. As I pulled out of my parking space, I saw that they were all watching me, identical frowns distorting their young faces. For an instant my mind flashed images of Berkeley and Chicago and Kent State in a rapid television kaleidoscope, and the phrase “the future of our nation is our youth” sprang to my lips. I repressed the urge to say it.

  “If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” one of them yelled as I backed out of my parking space.

  “God bless free speech,” I whispered as I drove away.

  CHAPTER 5

  “FIRM WRISTS, COYNE,” I told myself. “Don’t worry about being long.” I set the blade of the pitching wedge behind the ball, opened up my stance, moved my weight slightly forward, and glanced up at the hole.