Back To School Murder #4 (20 page)

“Do you know where Elizabeth is?” she shouted over the lunchtime din.

They exchanged a conspiratorial glance and shook their heads.

“I'm worried that she'll miss the bus,” persisted Lucy.

“Oh, she'll be back in time,” volunteered Melissa.

“So you know where she went?” accused Lucy.

“Not really—but she's real responsible,” added Emily.

“Was she alone?” Lucy was beginning to feel like Elliot Ness.

The girls exchanged another look.

“Listen, this is no joke,” advised Lucy. “I'm worried about her.”

“She went with Lance and some professor guy. He came into the reference room all excited and said he was a friend of Miss Tilley's…” began Melissa.

“And how great it is that we come to the university every year…” added Emily.

“And how he had this plant that blooms only once every hundred years and that anybody who wanted to see it should go with him,” concluded Melissa.

“A century plant?” asked Lucy.

“That's it!”

“And where is this century plant? In a greenhouse or something?”

“I didn't listen to that part,” confessed Emily.

“Me either,” added Melissa. “But Lance was real interested and convinced Elizabeth they should go.”

Great, thought Lucy, turning and marching across the lobby to study the campus map. Elizabeth discovers she's allergic to practically every plant on earth and promptly becomes an amateur botanist. Studying the confused jumble of buildings that constituted the campus, Lucy wished she were back at little Winchester College, where she knew her way around. The state university was much bigger and all the buildings looked similar, constructed of brick in the same utilitarian style.

Lucy finally found the Arbuthnot Conservatory—a conservatory for plants, she fervently hoped, and not music. It was tucked behind the admissions office and next to the gym so it shouldn't be too hard to find. It was already a quarter to twelve, and if she couldn't find them by ten past or so, she would have to head back to the bus herself. What then? She brushed the thought from her mind; she'd simply have to cross that bridge when and if.

A sign obligingly placed opposite the student union pointed the way to both the gym and the admissions office. Lucy hurried off at a brisk pace. She hoped Elizabeth had remembered her inhaler—they could be growing any variety of plants in the conservatory and she was bound to be allergic to some of them.

She had been doing much better, Lucy reminded herself, and hadn't had any more attacks since seeing the allergist. That probably meant she was taking her medicine, but Elizabeth bristled so much whenever Lucy brought the subject up that she couldn't be sure.

The conservatory was farther than she'd thought. Lucy checked her watch and saw it was already nearly twelve. A steady stream of students was pouring from the buildings, and Lucy was headed against the flow of traffic. She began studying the faces of the oncoming students, hoping to spot Lance and Elizabeth.

Finally she stopped a young fellow in a plaid shirt and asked for directions.

“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I'm a poli sci major.”

“Just behind that brick building,” said his companion. “You can't miss it.”

Great directions, fumed Lucy, considering all the buildings were brick. She headed in what she hoped was the direction of the girl's wave. This was ridiculous, she realized. Even if she found the right building, how would she ever find Lance and Elizabeth? How could her daughter be so irresponsible? She'd like to wring their necks. And if anything had happened to Elizabeth, that Lance would get a piece of her mind.

“Mom—what are you doing? You're going in the wrong direction!” Lucy looked up from the asphalt path, straight into Elizabeth's puzzled face.

“Are you okay?” she demanded.

“Sure, Mom. But we've got to get back or we'll miss the bus.”

“I know that. Why do you think I was looking for you?”

“Calm down, Mrs. Stone. Everything's under control,” volunteered Lance.

“Don't you tell me to calm down!” Lucy exploded angrily. “What were you doing taking Elizabeth to a greenhouse? Don't you know she's allergic to plants?”

“Mrs. Stone, there are plants everywhere.” Lance's tone was extremely reasonable. “This place is covered with trees.”

“Well, that's different,” insisted Lucy, who was in no mood to be rational. “You gave me a terrible fright. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm sure,” sighed Elizabeth. “But I'm not so sure about you. You look awfully pale. Have you eaten?”

“No—I was looking for you.”

“Don't you think you're overreacting?” asked Elizabeth, reaching into her backpack and producing a packet of cheese and peanut butter crackers. “Here. Eat these. You'll feel better.”

How did this happen, wondered Lucy, as she meekly followed Lance and Elizabeth back to the bus. She was supposed to be the mother; she was supposed to be in charge. She had every right to be angry with Elizabeth. But somehow Elizabeth had managed to turn the tables on her. Suddenly she was the rational caretaker, and Lucy was the one who needed to be taken care of.

She opened the packet of crackers and ate one as she walked along, a step or two behind the kids. They made a cute couple, she had to admit it. Lance was taller than Elizabeth and tilted his head attentively toward her. They seemed comfortable with each other and were obviously having a good time. Probably laughing at her expense, she thought with a flash of paranoia, then shrugged the idea away. When she was a teenager, her mother was the last person she thought about.

Back on the bus, Lucy wondered if Elizabeth was right. Was she overreacting? Why was she making such a big deal out of things? So she'd lost her job—so what? It happened to people all the time. She would pick up and go on. And so she'd nearly slipped into an affair—these things happened. She should be grateful that they had stopped in time. After all, if she had gone ahead and Bill had found out, it would have been a disaster. For her, and for the kids. She shuddered.

Something had held her back, she realized, and it wasn't her own sense of virtue. She had been ripe for an affair, but somehow she had never quite trusted Quentin. She found him attractive, all right, but she never felt as if their relationship was developing naturally, at a normal pace. Quentin always seemed to be pushing things, trying to manipulate her. Sometimes, it was almost as if a third person kept coming between them—Carol Crane.

Why, just the night before he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, and then instead of murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, he had asked her about Carol! He hadn't really been interested in her at all, she realized, he just wanted to know how her investigation was going. Well, now she knew what he had been trying to hide, she thought, nodding grimly to herself. Carol had already forced him out of one job; he must have been terrified of her. Was she blackmailing him, wondered Lucy. Had she threatened to tell Winchester College authorities about the sexual harassment incident?

Lucy suddenly felt cold despite the warm weather and wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her arms. The one person who had an overwhelming reason to kill Carol Crane, she realized, was Quentin Rea.

W
hen Lucy picked up Zoë from the day-care center, after returning from the state university, Sue had bad news for her.

“I think she's coming down with something. Has anybody in the family been sick?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead in concern.

“Toby had the flu last week.”

“Well, I wouldn't be surprised if Zoë's the next victim. Poor baby.”

Zoë was indeed a poor baby, up most of the night with an upset stomach. Lucy changed the bedding in the crib twice, tossing the soiled linens into the washing machine in the wee hours of the morning. Sleep was impossible; all Zoë wanted was to be held and rocked. She finally went to sleep around five-thirty, giving Lucy a scant hour of sleep before she had to get the family up at a quarter to seven.

When Bill left for work, and the older kids left for school, she fell exhausted into bed. She slept until eleven when Zoë's cries woke her.

“How's my girl?” she asked, lifting Zoë out of her crib. Her hair was damp with fever, but she was no longer fretful. Lucy changed a very messy diaper and carried her downstairs. Clear fluids were definitely the order of the day. Fortunately, she still had plenty of ginger ale and chicken broth from Toby's bout the previous week.

Lucy's energy level was low, so she was content to lie on the couch with Zoë on top of her stomach and watch cartoons. Occasionally she would flip the channels to something a bit more interesting, like a soap opera or a talk show, but Zoë had no interest whatsoever in Erica Kane's problems, and she absolutely refused to watch a rerun of Norah's talk show. Norah might be a household name with millions, but Zoë much preferred Casper.

Giving up, Lucy flipped back to the cartoon station. Picking up the
TV Guide
, she discovered Mr. Magoo was next. Things could be worse, she thought, stuffing a pillow behind her head. She stroked Zoë's silky hair and nuzzled the top of her head with her chin. The medication she had given her seemed to be working; the fever had definitely come down.

When the kids came home from school, Lucy handed the baby off to Toby and took a long, hot shower. Alone in the bedroom, she took her time dressing and spritzed on some cologne. After nursing four children through assorted childhood ailments, she had learned that she could take better care of them if she took a little extra care of herself.

She picked up her watch to strap it on, and realized it had stopped. She would have to get a new battery. She opened up her jewelry box and took out her good watch, a delicate gold and diamond affair her mother had given her for Christmas. It was similar to the one Carol Crane wore.

She checked the gold watch to see that it was still running, and was surprised to see that the time was off. It was an hour behind. She gave it a little shake and adjusted the hands, then went downstairs to see how Zoë was doing.

The little toddler was just fine, apparently feeling more like herself. By the time they sat down to dinner, she had also regained her appetite and demanded something solid to eat. Lucy gave her some toast fingers and she polished them off, getting quite a bit of grape jelly on her face in the process. When it was time for Lucy to leave for class, she was apparently fully recovered and enjoying a game of patty-cake with her father.

Lucy started the Subaru and checked her watch; it was running fine. She hadn't worn it in quite a while, not since New Year's Eve, she realized. Now they were on daylight saving time, but she hadn't had any occasion to reset the watch until today. It wasn't slow; it had just been running on standard time.

Driving to the college, her thoughts turned to Quentin. She hoped he wouldn't be angry with her for bailing out the other night. While she was hardly experienced in affairs of the heart, especially illicit ones, she did know that thwarted lovers usually harbor a certain resentment toward uncooperative partners—at least they did when she was in high school. Then she had spurned the affections of a football player and he had refused to speak to her for most of senior year.

Pulling up at a stop sign, Lucy hoped Quentin would not have a similar reaction. If he was angry with her, he could make things very awkward for her. He could embarrass her in class, he could give her low grades, he could even fail her. The thought made her stomach whirl—she had invested too much money and effort to risk failing. Especially since her newspaper career was going nowhere, and she was thinking even more seriously of getting her teaching credentials. If she failed this course, she might as well give up the idea of getting certified.

As she parked the car in the student lot, Lucy wished she'd worked a little harder on that Carlyle paper. If it had been a really solid piece of work, she could appeal a low grade, but she knew she had slapped it together at the last minute.

Lucy mounted the stairs slowly, and walking down the corridor to the classroom, she almost turned around and went home. Why bother, she asked herself. Why expose herself to Quentin's scorn? She had a perfectly good husband who really didn't want her to work. There was more than enough at home to keep her occupied—the last few days had shown her that—and Zoë deserved a full-time mother. She had been there for Toby and Elizabeth and Sara, and Zoë should have the same attention.

Reaching the classroom doorway, Lucy swallowed hard. This was silly. If she was going to give up, she had to have a reason. It was stupid to surrender before the battle had even begun. She squared her shoulders and marched into the room, eyes straight ahead, to her usual seat.

She sat down without even glancing at Quentin, and began rummaging in her bag for a pen and notebook. Not until she had arranged everything to her satisfaction did she risk taking a quick look his way. To her surprise, he gave her a big smile.

Reflexively, she smiled back, but she was puzzled. This was not what she had expected.

“The Victorians invented the houseplant—true or false?” he asked the class, opening the discussion.

“I never thought about it before, but I think it's probably true,” said Mr. Irving. “Every Victorian parlor had an aspidistra, I know my Aunt Edith was tremendously proud of hers.”

“You're right,” said the professor, once again beaming a big smile toward Lucy. “They collected plants from all over the world and built greenhouses and conservatories to house them. Why?”

Lucy didn't have the faintest idea and she was too distracted to give the question much thought. In fact, after Elizabeth's excursion to see the century plant last week, Lucy didn't want to think about vegetative themes in Victorian literature at all. More interesting to her was the professor's unexpected friendliness. Puzzled, she furrowed the forehead she had carefully applied alpha-hydroxy lotion to just an hour before, and chewed her pen.

“You're looking very thoughtful, Mrs. Stone,” said Quentin. “Any ideas?”

Lucy started. “Not really—I guess their houses must have been, uh, heated enough that the plants wouldn't die,” she said, hoping she didn't sound too stupid.

“Very true…” he said, smiling broadly and nodding encouragingly to her. “Thanks to technology, such as the replacement of open fireplaces with more efficient stoves, houses were warmer than they had ever been.”

What's going on here, she wondered. Instead of being angry with her, Quentin seemed to be going out of his way to be friendly. This wasn't what she had expected. When she was in college, it was assumed that a girl who got more than she'd bargained for had simply given the wrong signals. And even at Country Cousins, the women who had worked there for a while warned new employees never to go to the storeroom alone. George, the night-shift supervisor, was always leaning over their shoulders to adjust their computer screens, and often his hands would stray from the brightness knob.

The women at Country Cousins never made an issue of George's behavior—they needed the jobs. But things had changed, Lucy realized, especially on college campuses. The student newspaper accounts of the accusations against Quentin were proof of that.

Of course, thought Lucy. No wonder he was being so nice. He was probably terrified that she would complain to the dean. After all, even though he had been acquitted, he had lost his job, and it had taken him a long time to climb back onto the tenure track. A second accusation would mean the end of his teaching career. She remembered her suspicions on the bus yesterday, when she had realized the danger Carol Crane posed to him. Carol's presence in Tinker's Cove had threatened him and Carol had died.

The pen slipped from Lucy's fingers, and she stooped to retrieve it. Lifting her head, her eyes met Quentin's. He paused midsentence, losing his train of thought, but quickly recovered. He was terrified, she realized. He was terrified of her, and that was why he was being so nice.

The class was over and the students were filing past the professor's desk, picking up their Carlyle papers. From their disappointed expressions, it looked as if few had gotten the grade they were hoping for.

Lucy got to her feet, picked up her bag, and walked woodenly to the front of the room. If he can smile, she told herself, I can smile.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, his voice tight. “You look a little pale.”

“Something's going around,” she said. Her face felt as if it would crack, she was smiling so hard. Her heart was racing, and her hand trembled as she reached for her paper.

“You're shaking,” he said, his lips twisting into a crooked smile. “I hope you're not worried about your grade. I understand how difficult it is for you, with all your other obligations.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, not quite knowing what he meant. Was he being sarcastic? Was he telling her it was all right with him, that there were no hard feelings?

She walked out of the room and down the hall, flipping through the paper. Finally she got to the last page. A big “A” was scrawled in red ink. She was so surprised that she stopped in her tracks.

“How'd you do?” came a friendly voice from behind. She recognized a fellow student, a man she had seen working on the fish pier.

“Much better than I expected,” she said. “I got an A.”

“I'd faint if I got an A,” he joked. “Listen, you don't look so good. Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“Thanks,” said Lucy, grateful for his companionship. “It's a pretty interesting class…” she began, intending to keep up a steady stream of chatter. She didn't want to think about Quentin anymore, and she certainly didn't want to think about how afraid she suddenly felt. She just wanted to go home.