Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour (15 page)

21
When Ray returned to the gatehouse, he found Gary Zatanski sitting at a desk in the rear of the small building working through a pile of papers. “Is this still a good time for a tour?” Ray asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” Zatanski replied. “Gives me an excuse to put this off and get some air.”

“That’s what I like to use when the weather’s good.” Zatanski said, pointing to a mountain bike leaning against the back of the gatehouse as they climbed into a golf cart. “I’m trying to keep my fat ass from getting any bigger.” As they slowly rolled up the long curved road that wandered through the campus Zatanski asked,

“What do you want to see?”

“Give me a sense of the school from your view of the world,” Ray said. “And I want you to tell me about the students and the staff. Is there anyone I should be especially curious about? I’m not looking for rumors, but I’m sure you see a lot of things in the course of your work that probably most other people here aren’t aware of and… ”

“Don’t really want to know,” interrupted Zatanski, completing

Ray’s thought. “Yeah, I can tell you about lots of things about this place that Warrington doesn’t want to know,” he said in a mocking tone. Then he became somber, “Since it happened, Ashleigh getting killed, me and the boys, well it’s all we’ve talked about. Who could have done it, what possible motive?” Zatanski’s face was a study in sorrow. He pulled into a clearing near one of the dorms and parked. “Like I said, she was a real cutie, just full of life. We’ve seen a number of guys, Ashleigh’s boyfriends, come and go.”

“And Dowd, he seemed to be the current love interest?” asked Ray.

“He’s been around on and off for a couple of years. But sometime late last spring he seemed to become the main man. I don’t think she was seeing anyone else. If she was, she wasn’t bringing him on campus.”

“Are there ways to get a vehicle on campus other than the main gate?”

Zatanski grinned. “You know what I said about show business. We’ve got one secured entrance, but we’re sitting on several square miles of land here.”

“Any other roads in?”

“No roads, not even two-tracks. There’s this old stone fence around most of the property, but anyone could scramble across that. And there are areas out back where it has completely disappeared; the stone probably ended up in someone’s building project. There are lots of footpaths and bike trails the kids use to get to the village or God know where else.”

“And they do?” Ray asked.

“They’re kids, and the school isn’t supposed to be a prison. They’re not supposed to leave the grounds without signing out,” he laughed, “well, kids are kids and who’s to know?”

“Could you access the school grounds with a four-wheeldrive vehicle?”

“With a real off-road vehicle, like a Wrangler, it would be a piece of cake.”

“Tell me about the students, what are they like?” Ray asked, taking the conversation a new direction.

“Well, they’re not the angels Warrington would have you believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything bad, but, like I said, they’re kids. They sign this pledge to uphold the school rules every fall, and I think Warrington believes most of them follow it.”

“And they don’t?”

“They’re kids. I see a few of them off in the woods smoking from time to time. And we find the occasional beer can or wine bottle in one of the old barns or outbuildings. And more than once in the last few years I’ve stumbled across a spent condom or the remains of a roach. But compared to what most high school kids are doing,” he raised both hands, fingers spread, “hey, that’s not much. They work ’em real hard in class, and they got lots of other things to keep ’em busy.”

“But there must be the occasional bad apple?” Ray probed. “Yeah,” agreed Zatanski, “what do the experts say, five percent of the population is goofy? And we got some of those. But I don’t see anyone who’s bad goofy, criminal goofy, not since I’ve been here. Heard stories about the past, the early days, when things got a bit wild. But that was probably true of every high school in America at the time. We don’t have much of that now. Just normal teenage stuff. You’re not going to find your killer among the students.”

“Faculty and students, anything going on there?” “You mean romances?”

Ray nodded.

“No. Most of the teachers are near retirement. I don’t think so.”

Ray refocused the conversation. “How about the staff. Anything curious there?”

“Staff, no. Mostly locals, you probably know many of them. Just good, steady people who are happy to have a regular paycheck and health insurance—something that’s pretty scarce around here. And I doubt if any of them had much contact with Ashleigh.”

“Faculty?” ask Ray.

“A few drunks and oddballs, but most of them seem to be hardworking and dedicated. Can’t imagine any homicidal types.”

Zatanski paused and looked over at Ray. “I’ve never worked homicide, but I can imagine the dance. I just can’t think of anyone capable of doing this,” he exhaled heavily, his body sagged in a defeated pose. “I just wish I could give you something useful.”

“Tell me about the drunks.”

“Well, you probably know about Jessica Medford.”

Ray nodded. “Occasionally we’ve had to send someone over to the Last Chance and pick her up, especially since Todd Danforth died. When the guys do their nightly rounds, they sorta check on her.”

“Why?”

“We found her passed out in a snowbank last winter. She didn’t make it from the car to her front door. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”

“Anyone else, drinking problem?” Ray asked, watching Zatanski closely.

The response was a long time in coming. “No, not really.”

“No one?” Ray pushed.

“I thought you didn’t want to work at the rumor level,” Zatanski retorted.

“Don’t think I am,” Ray said, holding Zatanski in a hard gaze.

“Helen Warrington, if that’s who you’re asking about. Yes, she had a bit of a problem. But I think she’s got it under control. She’s been going to AA for a year or more. Heads out late in the afternoon, must go to town for the meetings. Sort of about the same time she used to go to the bar.”

“Every day?”

“Weekdays, mostly. She seems to be pretty religious about it. Not that it’s made her any more pleasant.”

“How about drugs?”

“Don’t know everything that goes on behind closed doors, but I don’t think so. Not this crowd, maybe twenty or thirty years ago, not any more.” Zatanski backed up the golf cart and turned onto the main drive. “How about I do a circle of the campus and grounds so you’ll know where everything is?”

“That would be very helpful,” Ray said, settling back into his seat.

22
Ray pulled onto the long asphalt drive that wound up to a large house overlooking Lake Michigan’s shore. Ray had never been up there but had been familiar with the massive building since construction began—it was one of a strain of new mega-homes going up on ridgelines throughout the region, structures that insulted the eye with their intrusive design, inescapable size, and questionable architectural heritage. Newspapers increasingly called them
McMansions
.

Ray parked in front of one of four garage doors, each an elaborate piece of joinery in a dark-stained wood. He followed the brick path to the front of the house, taking in the exterior—a mix of cultured stone, rough-sawn cedar, and stucco. Bright copper sheeting shone from the roof of a tower incongruously grafted to the far end of the house.

Ray pushed the doorbell on the side of the entrance—the double oak doors suspended in a portal formed by a ponderous post and beam frame—and heard a Westminster chime reverberate inside. He stepped back and gazed at the building; the red eye of a surveillance camera blinked at him from under the soffit. He heard two deadbolts, one after another, slide back.

The diminutive Alan Quertermous stood in the doorway, his hand extended, his greeting polite, formal, and stiff. He motioned Ray in with a sweeping gesture of his right hand.

“Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you,” responded Ray.

Quertermous led him into the great room; oak timbers

supported a vaulted ceiling. A prow-shaped, glass-clad wall cantilevered over the lip of a ridge. Ray walked near the windows and watched the whitecaps break on the shore a hundred yards below. Everything smelled new: paint, wood, varnish, and leather.

“If it weren’t such a gray afternoon, I could offer you one of the best views of a sunset on this coast of Lake Michigan,” said Quertermous, his voice high-pitched and nasal.

“Superb location and this room… ”

“It is fabulous, isn’t it? Just fabulous. The architect and I went around and around about this,” he raised his short arms toward the ceiling in a benediction-like gesture. “I had him redraw the plans several times, and we got as far as the framing, and it still didn’t feel right—the proportions. I had them tear out most of the framing and do it again, but,” he made a broad movement with his right arm from right to left, “the final result was exactly what I had hoped for.” He looked at Ray, his tone was triumphant. “It’s not often in life that we can get things to turn out exactly as we visualize them.” He stood and watched his guest carefully examine the structure.

“It’s magnificent,” Ray observed. He turned and faced Quertermous, who was standing next to the counter that separated the living room from an adjoining kitchen. He was pouring Scotch into a heavy, purple-tinted tumbler. Ray scanned the room, two display cases and one bookcase had been built into the paneled walls. Several large oil paintings, medieval battle scenes in gilded Rococo frames, and one piece of metal sculpture in the style of Calder, were hung at eye level, each carefully illuminated from above by small spotlights. Two large chairs and a matching sofa, all covered in thick, dark leather, and an end table made from the hatch cover of an old sailing ship surrounded a large fieldstone fireplace. Ray could see a collection of guns and knives in display cases. He moved closer. The knives—collector quality, polished blades, handles of exotic wood, stacked leather, and antler— were arranged on crimson velvet. Every space appeared to be filled. He moved on to the lone bookcase, quickly scanning titles by Leo Strauss, Allan Bloom, Ayn Rand, and Friedrich Nietzsche.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I always have a Scotch when I get home from work. May I offer you a drink?” asked Quertermous, coming to his side. “I also have a pot of fresh coffee.”

“Coffee, please,” said Ray as he followed Quertermous to the counter. He picked up the Scotch bottle, examined the label, and set it back on the black granite countertop.

“That’s an exceptional single-malt, hard to get that in Michigan,” Quertermous commented. “I buy it by the case in Chicago.” He poured some coffee into a delicate cup and set it on a tray.

“Are you a Scotch drinker, sheriff?”

“When I was younger, but it doesn’t seem to agree with me these days.”

“Pity, it’s one of life’s rare joys. Sugar, cream?”

“Black,” Ray responded.

Quertermous carried the tray with the whiskey tumbler and cup over to a table, waved Ray to a chair at one side and settled on the near end of a couch. He ran his hand over his carefully combed hair, reddish on top with gray at the temples. He crossed his legs, left over right, and straightened the crease on his trousers. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here. I was uncomfortable with the idea of having this interview at school. There’s been so much talk since Ashleigh got herself killed. That’s all the kids are chatting about. I think when any of us are seen with you or your, that young woman… ”

“Sue Lawrence.”

“Yes, her. I think we immediately become suspects.” He took a sip of whiskey. “Silly isn’t it, but that’s how adolescents think. This whole sad affair has been so disruptive; it’s ruined the fall semester. I don’t think we’ll get things back to where they should be until after the Christmas break. So tell me, sheriff, what can I help you with?”

“Two things, actually. First, we’re trying to piece together the last few days of Ashleigh’s life; who she was with and if she said anything to anyone that might suggest she felt she was in danger.”

“To answer your first concern, I have no idea who she was with,” Quertermous answered in sneering tone. “And if she felt she was in danger, I’m sure I would have been the last person in whom she would have confided.” Quertermous left his response hanging for several seconds and then asked, “And the second thing, sheriff?”

“At the staff meeting when Ian announced that Ashleigh had been killed, you reacted rather strongly, suggesting that this was bound to happen. I would like to know what you meant by that.”

“Yes, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was so angry.” He took a long sip, his gaze shifting to the gray horizon.

“The cause of your anger?” Ray probed.

“Well, I think my immediate response had to do with her defense of that crippled kid Warrington hired. But it goes deeper than that. Ashleigh has been a pain in the ass since she was hired. No, it even goes back further than that; it goes back to when she was a student here. Mrs. Howard was extremely evenhanded with students. But Ashleigh was treated differently; she was always special. And I think there was always this reckless streak, perhaps something she inherited from her mother.”

“Could you elaborate?” Ray asked, the ghost that he had been suppressing since the previous evening suddenly released into the room.

“Ashleigh came to Leiston as a freshman. She was very small for her age and sort of immature. Her mother had just died, and her father, from what I understand, wasn’t anything more than a sperm donor,” his tone derisive. “Mrs. Howard, being her guardian and all, was overly solicitous and spoiled her rotten. Frankly, I think the other students resented her. But no one said a word. We all respected Mrs. Howard too much.” He paused and, getting up, took Ray’s coffee cup. “Let me freshen your coffee,” he said.

Ray watched him mix a fresh drink before pouring the coffee. After Quertermous was seated again Ray asked, “Are you suggesting that the motive for these murders might be traced back to something that happened when she was a high school student?”