Arcadia Falls (13 page)

“Something Vera Beecher made up. I think it’s half darjeeling, half assam, and some kind of spice. It’s pretty good.”

In the spirit of fitting in, I agree to give it a try. I recognize the tea I had yesterday in the dean’s office and which Sheriff Reade had in his thermos. I still can’t identify the spice, but it’s certainly growing on me. I wander over to the French doors and pretend to be fascinated with the view. After being lectured by Colton Briggs I’m not quite ready to reengage with anyone. It occurs to me that this is one of the few social occasions I’ve been to in sixteen years that doesn’t revolve around either Sally’s education or Jude’s business. Perhaps I’ve lost the knack of being myself.

I scan the room for Shelley Drake, but she’s missing from the scene. I feel a twinge of guilt that I might be the reason she’s late.

I turn back to the French doors, wondering if anyone would notice if I slipped out, and immediately catch sight of Shelley on the lawn in front of the copper beech. The bright halo of kinky gray hair would be hard to miss even if she weren’t flailing her arms in the air. She’s talking to two students whom I also recognize: Chloe Dawson and Clyde Bollinger.
Chloe looks like she’s crying, while Clyde, his hands in his pockets and head bowed down, seems to be trying to make himself small. What, I wonder, could the two of them have done to make Shelley Drake so angry? She hadn’t struck me as a particularly strict teacher.

“Someone must have tampered with Shelley’s art supplies.”

I turn and find a short man who, despite the heat, is wearing a three-piece velveteen suit. Even if the suit weren’t bottle green, his pointy ears and sharp cheekbones would make him look like an elf.

“I met her earlier and she seemed so … easygoing.”

“Ha!” The barking laugh is much louder than anything I would expect to come out of such a diminutive person. “Shelley’s got the whole free-spirited artiste thing down to a tee, but unfortunately she’s also inherited the curse of the Sheldons—what they called nerves when her great-great-aunt Honoria took the rest cure with S. Weir Mitchell, and manic depression when her mother took poetry classes with Anne Sexton at McLean, and what we call bipolar disorder now.” Moving closer, he stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear. “Dean St. Clare made her agree to having her meds monitored by the infirmary before letting her back this year.” Although I’m half-repulsed by this man, I find myself leaning in when he whispers again. “Not that she’s the only one.”

I should, I realize, feign disinterest and get away from this malicious gossip, but instead I raise an eyebrow and ask, “No?”

The little man grins and sidles next to me so he can indicate whom he’s talking about. “You see the rumpled tweedy fellow talking to St. Clare? That’s Malcolm Keith.”

“That’s
Malcolm Keith? Didn’t he publish that famous story in
The New Yorker
back in the early eighties that everyone thought was brilliant?”

“Yep. He got a six-figure contract from Knopf on the strength of one story and then never wrote another word. He’s on Antabuse to keep him from drinking. He’s also got to report to the infirmary to make sure he’s taking his medicine.”

“Gosh, I feel a little left out. The party’s obviously at the infirmary. I guess I could sign up for B
₁₂
shots. I have been a little anemic.”

“That’s the spirit,” my new friend says, clapping me on the back. “I go for bee allergy shots once a week, more to see the mental health parade than to protect against anaphylactic shock. I’m Toby Potter, by the way. I teach art history—eighteenth-century painting’s my area: Boucher, Fragonard, great fluffy nudes and girls in pink dresses, that sort of thing.”

“Meg Rosenthal. I’m interested in fairy tales in nineteenth-and twentieth-century literature….” I stumble a bit, unused to identifying my academic interests as my area of expertise rather than some eccentric pursuit to keep a bored Great Neck housewife entertained, but Toby Potter beams, turning his ugly face almost beautiful.

“Marvelous! You’ll find nineteenth-century children’s literature good preparation for this place: it’s mad hatters and goblins all around. Oh, speak of the devil, there’s Shelley now, collaring the dean. I hope she’s not going to make a fuss.”

But Shelley Drake seems to be doing exactly that. She looks like a wild woman—Cassandra on the walls of Troy warning her countrymen to lock the gates against that monstrous wooden horse. Her crinkly silver hair is floating around her face like an electric cloud; two feverish spots stain her cheeks. She’s practically giving off sparks. She goes straight to the dean and interrupts her in the middle of a conversation with Colton Briggs. At first Dean St. Clare looks annoyed, but then Shelley whispers something in her ear and the dean’s expression changes abruptly. They both rush from the room, leaving Colton Briggs standing by himself, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He lifts his teacup to his lips, but, apparently realizing it’s empty, spins on his heel and heads back to the urns.

“Now what do you think all that was about?” I ask Toby Potter.

“I don’t know. The last time I saw St. Clare so rattled was when that biographer from England came asking questions about Vera Beecher. Look … there they are on the lawn. It must have something to do with those students.”

I turn back to the French windows and see Ivy St. Clare crossing the lawn with a gesticulating Shelley Drake in tow. Halfway across, just past
the copper beech and near the ashes of last night’s bonfire, they meet Chloe Dawson and Clyde Bollinger. Chloe does all the talking, swiping tears away from her eyes. Clyde stands with hunched shoulders, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between the dean and his friend. A small crowd has begun to gather around the quartet. I recognize a few of my students from Folklore and Junior Brit Lit, as well as the Merling twins, who stand off to one side whispering to each other. I also see Hannah Weiss, who is leading a group of new students on a tour of the campus. Then I notice that Sally is one of the students in Hannah’s group.

“That’s my daughter,” I say, turning to Toby Potter, but I find that the little man has disappeared. Well, if he can abandon the party, so can I, I think, slipping through the open glass doors. Sally’s a perfect excuse.

Halfway across the grass I start to wonder if approaching Sally is really such a good idea. She’s talking to an Asian girl who’s wearing an
Invader Zim
T-shirt—one of Sally’s all-time favorite cartoons. She’d often complained that no one in Great Neck had ever heard of it. I don’t want to barge in if she’s just found a soul mate.

But when I get closer I can see that the color has drained from her face and she’s biting the ends of her hair—two sure signs that she’s upset. I head toward her, unable to stay away.

“Are you okay?” I ask when I reach her. “Has anything happened?”

“Sheesh, Mom! Why would anything be wrong with me?” She shakes her head so hard the damp ends of her hair swing against her face. “Haruko and I are just trying to find out what all the excitement’s about.”

Figuring that this is as close as I’m going to get to an introduction to her new friend, I turn to the girl in the
Invader Zim
shirt. “Hi, Haruko, I’m Sally’s mom, Meg …”

“Ms. Rosenthal, yeah, I wanted to take your class when I saw you had Neil Gaiman on the reading list, but it was closed out. Maybe next year.”

I smile, immediately liking the girl, and say a little prayer that this year Sally will hang out with smart, polite kids who have something on their minds other than boys and designer clothes. And aren’t into pagan sacrifices either, I think, glancing at the crowd that’s now gathered
around the embers of last night’s bonfire. The scene eerily mirrors last night’s festivity, with Chloe at the center making supplicatory gestures toward the stern figure of Ivy St. Clare. The only one missing is Isabel.

“Has anyone seen Isabel Cheney today?” I ask Sally.

She shakes her head. “I heard some girls commenting that she wasn’t at breakfast.”

“She didn’t show up for my classes either. I’d better go talk to the dean.”

I leave Sally and Haruko and approach the little circle gathered around Chloe. “Is this about Isabel Cheney?” I ask. “She wasn’t in class today.”

Ivy St. Clare turns her head toward me and snaps, “Perhaps you should have told someone.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but Shelley Drake speaks up instead. “Apparently no one noticed the girl was missing until lunchtime. She’s not in her room, she hasn’t gone to any of her classes, and no one’s seen her since she left the bonfire last night … isn’t that right, Chloe?”

Chloe Dawson sniffles and shakes her head. “The last time I saw her was in the apple orchard when we were all chasing her. She was headed into the woods … and … well …” Chloe looks up nervously at the dean.

“The woods behind the Lodge are strictly off-limits,” the dean says.

“That’s right,” Chloe says, widening her eyes exactly as Sally does when she’s lying. “So of course I didn’t follow her. Isabel doesn’t think the rules apply to her.” She looks as if she’s about to start in on a tirade about her rival’s failings, but then she thinks better of it. “You think she could have fallen in the woods and hurt herself?”

I immediately think of the treacherous ravine—Witte Clove—behind Briar Lodge. When my eyes meet Shelley Drake’s I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. “It’s possible,” she says, turning to the dean. “We should start searching the woods now, before it gets dark.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” I ask.

The dean looks momentarily startled by my suggestion but then nods. “Yes, of course. I’ll go to my office and do that immediately. But I
see no reason to wait for them to start searching. It’s awful to stand by and do nothing. I’m sure the students will want to help look for their friend.”

“Really? I ask, surprised that the Dean would send her teenaged charges into the woods. But then I notice how upset she is and realize she’s probably remembering the days after Lily Eberhardt went missing. After all, she was only a teenager herself at the time. “That drop off the ridge is dangerous,” I point out very patiently. “Another student could get hurt.”

“Meg is right,” Shelley says, once again coming to my defense. “If we do allow the students to take part in the search it should be supervised by adults—at least one for every five students, I think. I’ll be happy to organize the search at the Lodge while you go call the police.” Then, turning to Chloe, she adds, “Why don’t you help me, Chloe? You can show me where you last saw Isabel.”

I see immediately that Shelley’s giving the overwrought girl something to do to help calm her down. And it seems to work. Chloe wipes the tears from her face and takes a long breath. The dean, too, looks calmer and more reassured.

“And you, Meg,” Shelley says before she leaves with Chloe. “You ought to change into long pants before you go, don’t you think?”

I’m about to object but then, remembering the thorn bushes in the woods, decide she might be right. I tell Sally that I’ll be back in twenty minutes and
not
to start until I get there. No matter what precautions they’re taking I don’t like the idea of her wandering around in those woods without me. Then I take off at a sprint, determined to match—or better—Dean St. Clare’s eleven and a half minutes to the cottage.

I
manage to get back to the cottage, change into jeans, and get back to Briar Lodge in a little under half an hour. I’m amazed at how much has been accomplished in that time. At the edge of the forest Shelley Drake is pacing in front of a long line of students and teachers like a general surveying her troops. There’s a teacher or staff person for every five students and each group leader has been given a whistle and a bright pink bandana.

“The bandanas were left over from a breast cancer benefit walk,” Shelley tells me, handing me my bandana and whistle. “Find a couple of students who don’t have a leader and make
sure you keep a good eye on them. We can’t afford to lose another one.”

Could we afford to lose the
first
one? I think, but I keep it to myself. Shelley is clearly harried. Her cheeks are as bright pink as the bandanas and her eyes nervously dart everywhere, as if she could rein in the chaos by sheer willpower. In addition to the students, there are two ambulances parked in front of the Lodge, half a dozen EMT workers, and, holding a German shepherd straining at his leash, a man in camouflage hunting clothes who is talking to Sheriff Reade. A little past where Reade stands I see Sally with her new friend Haruko, Clyde Bollinger, Hannah Weiss, and Chloe Dawson. I look around the crowd for another group to lead. As much as I’d like to keep Sally in my sights, I don’t want to crowd her. But then she looks up and waves me over.

“Why don’t you join our cell?” Clyde asks when I reach the group. “Professor Drake thought it was a good idea for the older students to mix with the new ones because we know the area better.”

“Clyde and I were both in the hiking club last year,” Hannah adds. “And Chloe wrote a paper on the history of the woods—”