The Body in the Ivy (30 page)

“Stop it! Stop it!” Maggie screamed. She had her briefcase slung over her shoulder, hanging from its long strap close to her hip. She reached inside and pulled out a gun.

The sun had risen and it was going to be a beautiful day. The storm had washed everything clean. Even the air seemed crystal clear.

“You don't want to do this, Maggie,” Elaine said.

“Charles got this for me. He was nervous about having me drive at night without some kind of protection. He taught me to use it, too. I'm actually an excellent shot. I always wondered if there was something he wasn't telling me. Some reason he had for wanting us both to keep guns in our cars, but I don't ask him to tell me everything and vice versa. I didn't want to leave it in the car back on the mainland. I was afraid someone might steal my little Mini—they're very desirable, you know—and then the gun might be used irresponsibly. It's registered, of course. All legal. Charles made sure of that,” she prattled on.

It wasn't Elaine who was crazy, Faith thought in despair. It was Maggie.

“Now we're going to take a walk out to those cliffs where we had that lovely picnic when we came. Please move along. Afterward, I have to find all the others, tell them how you forced Mrs. Fairchild over the cliff, followed her in remorse, then get back here and hoist the flag.”

It was quite a To Do list, Faith thought as she walked across the lawn and around to the back of the house where the cliff path started.

Maggie was still carrying her briefcase. Faith had the
wild notion that she would force Elaine to sign a document affirming her gift to the college before killing her. Elaine was directly in front of Maggie. Faith was in the lead, her mind racing through various scenarios. Unfortunately, the only ones so far involved at least Elaine, or herself, getting shot.

“Please listen, Maggie,” Elaine said. “I'm sure these have all been accidents, nothing premeditated. Your husband is a lawyer and will get you a very good lawyer. What you're doing now will only make things worse. How will you explain the bullets from your gun in our bodies? It's low tide. From the cliff, we'll end up on the rocks, not in the water.”

This was one of the scenarios Faith had been trying
not
to envision.

“I'm very good at thinking on my feet. Don't you worry,” Maggie said smugly. “Now we've had enough talking. That was Bobbi's and Gwen's problem, too. Look where it got them. I wouldn't have been forced to do all this if you four had simply kept your mouths shut.” Madam President was momentarily Madam Schoolmarm.

They continued on in silence, except for the occasional shriek of a gull overhead.

If only they had taken the path by Chris's lean-to, Faith thought. But then by the time Chris got to them with her trusty Swiss Army knife, it would be too late. But still, harder for Maggie to explain.

They were in the woods. The sun hadn't risen high enough to penetrate the pines and it was cold. It was harder going, too. The path was strewn with debris from the storm. Ahead Faith could see the opening that
led to the field and high cliffs. Behind her Elaine stumbled and Maggie cried, “Watch it!” Over her shoulder, Faith saw Maggie move closer to Elaine. The gun must be squarely aimed at the writer's back.

The path ended and they emerged into the bright sunlight, the meadow stretching before them. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

“Now!” screamed Faith, coming to a full stop and pushing Elaine to the ground out of the way as she herself dove for Maggie's feet. As she had hoped, her sudden exclamation, as well as action, had startled Maggie just enough for Faith to pull her down. Elaine immediately threw herself on top of Maggie, who was frantically trying to aim the gun at one or the other of her assailants. It was a wordless struggle, punctuated by grunts, as Faith tried to twist the gun from Maggie's grasp. Maggie pulled the trigger. The shot was so close that Faith was sure she had been winged. Exhibiting strength only a personal trainer could produce, Elaine had Maggie firmly pinned. She pulled the trigger again, and again the shot went off into the grass, well away from her intended target. Finally Faith leaped up and dashed the short distance to the path, seizing a rock she had spotted on their way out. It was the work of a moment to pound Maggie's wrist. She released the gun and Faith grabbed it, turning it on Maggie as she undid her belt and pulled it through the loops of her jeans.

“This will have to do for now. Let her up and tie her hands behind her back. I've got her covered.”

Slowly Elaine moved off and Maggie stood up, but before Elaine could bind her, Maggie ran across the field
to the edge of the cliff. They soon caught up with her at the edge. She was looking straight down.

“I can't do it; I've never been good with heights,” she said sorrowfully.

“Did Dad reach you?” It had taken Becky Stapleton enumerable tries to reach her younger sister in Nicaragua, and she doubted her father would have the same perseverance, especially in this case.

“No, what's wrong? Is it Mom? Has something happened to Mom?”

“She's fine, Callie. But, well, she's taken off.”

“What do you mean ‘taken off'? Taken off where?”

“You remember she was going to some kind of Pelham thing on somebody's island? Apparently she came home from that early and left a note for Dad on the kitchen table saying she was on her way to the airport to catch a plane for San Francisco and that she'd rented an apartment on Russian Hill for the rest of the summer and maybe longer. That she was going to write a book.”

“A book? About what?”

“She didn't say. Dad read me the whole note. I don't think she wants a divorce, she signed it ‘love.' He wants me to go up there and talk to her. Talk some sense into her was the way he put it.”

“So, are you?”

“I don't know. I mean, maybe Mom just needs some space for a while.”

“Yeah, but it's still a little strange. Going off like this. It doesn't sound like Mom.”

“I'll tell you another strange thing. On top of the note, she left some flowers. Made into a circle, like the ones she used to make us when we were little, for our hair.”

 

“I used to sit outside your door in the hall and listen to you play.” Rachel and Chris were walking through Central Park. As soon as the police had given them permission, they had headed for the airport, and at the last moment before flying home, Chris had accepted Rachel's invitation to spend some time in Manhattan. There was an unspoken desire on both their parts to stay with each other a little longer, to try to process what they had been through in some way, even if just by strolling in the sunshine as they were now. They had spent that last night in the woods together. Trying to keep warm and scolding herself for grabbing her guitar and nothing else, Rachel had crisscrossed the island, staying well away from the house. She had literally stumbled into the lean-to where Chris was crouched terrified. Whoever the killer was, they knew instantly it wasn't either of them, and they had shed
tears of relief—and fear—until dawn brought Faith's voice and, at long last, rescue.

“You should have come in,” Rachel said.

“No, I was afraid you would stop, and I think I liked listening alone. Your room was at the end of the hall, where it turned, and no one could see me.”

“I remember. That's why I chose it.”

“Was there anything good about Pelham?” Chris asked.

Rachel smiled at her. “Yes, friends. A real friend. I could tell you were out there all those times.”

“Because of the opening along the bottom of the door?”

“Possibly. Now let's walk over to the West Side; my mother's expecting us for dinner. She's making brisket, forget that it's summer and chicken salad is no kind of meal anyway, a direct quote. I keep a guitar at their apartment and you won't have to sit in the hall. Not unless you say the brisket is tough.”

 

Phoebe James had also gone straight to the Portland airport after giving her statement to the police, and had booked the next flight to Colorado. The camp director had been resistant about releasing Josh until she added another check to the already hefty fee Wesley had paid them to keep Josh for the summer. When she finally was allowed to see her son, her heart almost broke. He was covered in bites and had lost ten or more pounds, making his skinny frame seem totally emaciated. His face was sunburned, but drawn. He stank of sweat and something else—something she had only smelled in hospitals in the rooms of her parents when death was close.

She opened her arms and he collapsed into them, both mother and son sobbing. Phoebe was tempted to demand her check back in lieu of suing the camp for negligence and God knows what else, but she just wanted to get her child out of that hellhole. Tough love? What had been the love part?

She drove the rental car to the first decent-looking motel she could find and they stayed there several days, lounging around the pool, eating—in Josh's case, whatever he wanted. Phoebe had started a strict diet. They flew back to New Jersey on the fourth day. When her husband returned from work he was shocked to find the dogs, his wife, and his son in what had become his private castle—the twins were a pleasant distraction the rare times they were home. He was even more shocked when Phoebe informed him that she had retained a lawyer and was filing for divorce. She was giving the children the choice of staying with her in the house or leaving with him wherever he decided to go.

“But Phebes, you must be out of your mind!”

“Don't call me that, and I've never been more sane in my life.”

“But you don't have any grounds for divorce. You've always gotten everything you wanted! You bitch—”

“Please do not impugn my dogs, and I think you'll find I have grounds going quite far back. My lawyer dug up some interesting evidence after I found these.” She held up the black lace thong and corded silk whip she'd found on the back of the master bathroom door. Definitely not hers.

Wes lunged for them, swearing at her and vowing to leave her penniless.

“You can have them. They've been photographed. Now I want you out of here before the kids come home. Josh has chosen to remain with me. He's going to help me do some landscaping this summer, then we may take a trip to see a friend of mine in San Francisco. I'll talk to the girls and either they or I will let you know what they decide. Your suitcases are in the garage. I'll be donating them and the contents to charity if you don't take them now.”

The doorbell rang.

“That's my lawyer. She was afraid you might get ugly with me. I told her you were basically a coward—bullies usually are—but she thought she'd come by just in case.”

Phoebe walked toward the door.

“Good-bye, Wes.”

He pushed past her and the woman waiting outside without another word. A few minutes later they heard him burn rubber backing out onto the street.

If it all hadn't been so sad, Phoebe would have laughed.

 

“Don't worry, Aunt Hope, I'll only let his feet get wet.” Amy Fairchild took her cousin's chubby hand in hers and patiently kept pace with him across the sand toward the water. She turned once and waved back at her mother and aunt, who were sitting under a large beach umbrella. Amy loved Sanpere Island in Maine, where her family went in the summer, but the Hamptons definitely had better beaches, and way warmer water.

“More iced tea?” Faith asked her sister, reaching for
the Thermos she'd brought filled with strong, sweet, very cold tea—the kind she liked to drink with barbecue, the kind she associated with the South.

“Love some.” They'd eaten all the sandwiches Hope had made, egg salad with lots of chives on some kind of artisanal sourdough bread, the crusts trimmed off. Hope's culinary skills were limited to this specialty, although as she was quick to point out, she did vary the bread from time to time.

Elaine Prince had sent Faith to her sister's in a limo, and during the long trip when Faith wasn't napping she talked to Hope, trying to tell her everything that had happened. They were still talking this morning. Last night when Faith had arrived, it had been straight into a tub, and then into bed in one of Hope's comfy guest rooms with Amy curled up next to her. Faith's impulse had been to detour to Ben's camp and pick him up—she wanted all her chicks near—but she didn't yield to it, calling the director instead to say where she would be. In one of those serendipitous moments that can happen in life, Ben was right there, happy to hear from her and impatient to get on with that afternoon's capture the flag game in equal amounts.

“I feel so guilty for getting you into it all!” Hope had been saying this, or variations of the sentiment, since Faith had first called.

“That's ridiculous. How could you possibly have known?” Faith reassured her, as she had done each time. And it was true. A catering gig that would result in the discovery of two bodies, the certainty of a third, the denouement to a forty-year-plus mystery, and a close brush with death for oneself? The catering
part had been virtually nil; she had done very little cooking. She thought of all those fabulous foods going to waste out on the island, the fantastic kitchen—and the exquisite joy she'd felt when she'd heard the approach of the first of what turned out to be many boats.

Boats. There had been boats on the island. Recalling Lucy's skills—and possibly that of some of the others—Elaine had had Brent remove the Zodiacs, canoes, and kayaks to a secluded beach accessible only by water at the base of the cliffs. The part about being cut off from the outside world was, however, true. Brent had some sort of marine radio, apparently, but it disappeared with the man himself.

Maggie had refused to say anything more as they had made their way back to the house, remaining stubbornly silent as they tied her up more securely once they reached it. She was being charged with Bobbi Dolan's and Gwen Mansfield's murders, but until Brent Justice's body washed up, she couldn't be charged with that. Nor with Prin's death.

“She'll crack,” Faith said. “She seemed pretty close to it when she was telling us to shut up and when she marched off to the cliff.”

“Don't be so sure.” Hope had been struggling with the notion that the president of her beloved alma mater was not only a murderer, but mentally unbalanced. “You just want to know everything that happened.” Recollecting what her sister had been through, she quickly amended her thought. “Not that you don't have a perfect right, and of course, we all want to know. But remember who her husband is. I'd be very surprised if
counsel hasn't moved to suppress what she said to you already. Look at how the press is handling it.”

This was true. There had been a brief article buried in the Portland paper and copied by the
Boston Globe
and the
New York Times
alluding to the “tragic accidents” and that President Howard of Pelham College was in custody for “observation and questioning.”

I could get used to this, Faith thought, digging her toes into the warm sand. Moms and kids during the week hanging out at the beach. No worries. Dads, significant others, et cetera, arriving for the weekend. Quentin, Hope's husband, had stayed in the city in order to pick up Tom at Penn Station. She'd called her husband still in D.C. and given him a much-abbreviated version of the events that had occurred during her time on Indian—no, it was Bishop's, she reminded herself—Island. Depending on traffic, they'd be at the house in time for an unfashionably early or fashionably late dinner. Again she thought about the sumptuous supplies Elaine had stocked, but there was nothing shabby about the meal tonight. Chunks of fresh swordfish were marinating in lime juice, getting ready to be strung on skewers with cherry tomatoes, peppers, Vidalia onions, and summer squash. Besides the shish kebabs, Faith planned to grill additional vegetables: eggplant, more squash, and more onions. There was rice pilaf with wild mushrooms, and a Gorgonzola cheese soufflé in the fridge waiting for the oven. Hope had stopped her there and insisted on buying some scrumptious-looking fruit tarts for dessert, as well as all sorts of hors d'oeuvres, hot and cold. Both their husbands were proverbial “big hungry boys,” who never showed the calories they put away
with such gusto, much to their wives' delight—and envy.

She looked over at her sister; only one year separated them. They were almost twins, fraternal ones. For as long as she could remember, there had always been Hope, and for her sister, there had always been Faith.

One mystery would remain. Elaine had denied tampering with the three small vases on the mantel in the living room. She had assumed that the roses had wilted and that Faith had removed them. And Maggie's denial, unlike other of her statements, had had the ring of truth. So how had the contents spilled? Three roses, three people. If they had stayed on the island longer, would more flowers have fallen—until there were none?

 

Elaine Prince made good on her promise of a chair and money for Pelham's writing center. She also endowed two scholarships in Bobbi's and Gwen's names. She paid off the mortgage on Brent Justice's sister's house, his sole survivor, and promised to pay the high shore-frontage taxes for her lifetime. She'd sent checks to Rachel and Chris. When each sent them back, she'd called them and convinced them to take them. They were gifts, not hush money or compensation or anything else that might have crossed their minds. She told them she wanted to see them—in New York, not on the island. Faith Fairchild had accepted her fee, and when Elaine asked her if she would come to the city to cater small dinner parties occasionally—Elaine would send her plane—Faith agreed.

The reunion on Bishop's Island had oddly enough resulted in the renewal of old friendships, but the most important result, Elaine thought, as she sealed a letter to her assistant, Owen, was that at long last Hélène Prince was—dead.