Death at the Wheel (20 page)

Curious, and by now feeling that I had a right to know everything that was going on, I picked it up and read it. It was not, as Julie had claimed, a letter from her husband. It was from Thomas Durren. A sickly romantic, intimate, and sentimental letter. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Julie and Dr. Durren had been lovers. Yet I could have sworn, from what she'd said and how she'd acted, that Julie cared for her husband despite his faults and was genuinely sorry about his death. It was a puzzle, but one I was too weary, just now, to consider.

On the other hand, after all that had happened, I was no longer so concerned about protecting Julie's privacy. Tomorrow, somehow, I was getting rid of that briefcase and everything in it. Maybe I'd send it to Julie's lawyer. I really didn't care, as long as it was out of my hands. It seemed like everyone involved with Calvin Bass was either a thug or a liar, including Julie herself. I was fed up with the whole business. I turned off the light and sank into an exhausted sleep.

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

If you'd asked me when I groaned and turned off my light, I would have said that I was never getting out of bed again. That was how tired I felt. But I surprised myself, bouncing out of bed at an early hour, surging with energy and ready to slay dragons or wrestle weasels. I was bouncy only until I landed on my feet. Then nerve cells in every part of my body sent swift and desperate messages to my brain saying, "gently, gently."

I limped gently to the bathroom, showered gently, changed the bandage on my leg, swallowed some Advil, and finished drafting a proposal for the Northbridge School. Applying the every-cloud-has-a-silver-lining theory to my own life, I noted that at least I wouldn't have to do aerobics for a few days. The morning dawned gray and gloomy as I drank strong coffee and labored at my desk. When it was finally a civilized hour to call, I phoned Andre to confirm that he was still coming—people have the rude habit of getting murdered at inconvenient times—and went to work. Neither of us mentioned Dunk Donahue, and I didn't mention my nocturnal visitors. Andre worries about me.

The DJ was hosting a call-in of the ten most erotic songs of all times and playing the nominations to get our reactions. Some of the suggestions were pretty good and soon I was speeding down Route 128 with the windows down and music blasting, rocking orgasmically in my seat. Another car whirled past me and I saw that the man at the wheel, his face a mask of bliss, was rocking in just the same rhythm. Safe sex for the nineties.

Sarah was going to have a fit, I thought, as I left the Northbridge proposal on her desk, and there was still time to get more work done before the phones started ringing, crises were reported, or I had to head out to the King School. At least I liked the people at King. I was staying busy because it was my way of not dealing with the things at work that were worrying me, like Sarah's moodiness and Suzanne's secretive irritability. Sooner or later I was going to have to start asking them questions. It was my job. I was the fix-it lady.

Like me, a lot of people arrived at work early. I could tell by the time the phones started to ring. I spent an invigorating hour handing out advice and making appointments before Suzanne and the baby arrived. I held out my arms and Suzanne handed him over. Normally, though I found him cute and cuddly, I had no desire to imitate Suzanne. This morning, as I kissed his soft, sweet head, I felt a strange melting inside, imagining holding a child of my own. And Andre's.

Suzanne, always a fine reader of minds, grinned wickedly. "Baby lust," she said. Her teasing look changed to exasperation as she stared at my face. "What happened this time?"

Not wanting to worry her, I said, "Would you believe I hit myself in the face with a hand weight?"

"And why are you limping? You also dropped a weight on your foot?"

I was only half listening, thinking that I'd been up for hours and still hadn't done anything about the briefcase. "You wouldn't believe what Aaron put us through yesterday. I think I'm getting too old for this."

"Older, maybe, but apparently not wiser. Is there something going on that I should know about?" She didn't have to say she didn't believe me. Of course, I could have asked her the same question. "Okay, play the strong-and-silent type," she said, and changed the subject. "I'm considering a long weekend in Bermuda. Just me and Junior and Paul. Any problems with that?"

"Just jealousy."

"Aren't you and Andre off to San Diego soon?"

"Barring emergencies," I said. "He's talking about living together again."

"Well, Paul is talking about a new job." Her innocent statement dropped like a bomb between us.

Suddenly there were butterflies in my stomach. I liked this life, this partner. I didn't want Suzanne quitting and moving away. Butterflies and a peculiar sense of relief. Now I knew why she'd been so touchy lately. "New job where?"

Her smile was huge. "Southern Maine. It's a great opportunity for him. We could just move the whole business... Oh, but you've just gotten your condo all fixed up, haven't you? And what would we do without Lisa and Bobby? Darn it. Everything's so complicated. Love. Life. Work. And motherhood. Motherhood makes all the rest of it look like a piece of cake."

I handed the baby back, picked up my jacket, and shoved some papers in my briefcase.

"Hey, wait a minute!" she said. "I've finally worked up the courage to talk about this and you're leaving?"

"Believe me, I'm not trying to avoid you. Not after all the anxiety I've experienced, trying to guess what's going on with you. Got a ten-thirty meeting at the King School. We'll talk when I get back?" She nodded, relieved, and I rushed out into the gray day, quickly checking my shoulder for drool.

It was a heavy, gray day. Much warmer, the air thick and sticky, with a damp clinginess that sent me straight to the air conditioning. It was the season of unpredictable weather—warm one day, freezing the next. As the Advil wore off, a slight headache nagged at my temples. I knew it would get worse as the day went on, growing until my head was filled with mean little dwarves pounding on anvils. The low pressure would give a lot of other people headaches, too. By rush hour, the whole world would be cranky. But not as cranky as I'd be. The rest of the world hadn't been manhandled—not personhandled—twice in the last day. And probably most of their partners hadn't just announced they might be leaving.

I was feeling exceedingly depressed and put-upon when I pulled through the gates at King. Even though I was moving heavily and felt like those same dwarves had been clog dancing on my body, my spirits rose when I walked into the room. It was good to see my old friends again, good to feel wanted and appreciated. The head, Denzel Ellis-Jackson, a strikingly handsome man, was one of the few people I'd ever met who made me feel petite. Arleigh Davis, head of the trustees, was a blunt, practical, energetic person, absolutely devoted to the school. Her rock-solid calm in the face of calamity—and King had had its share—was a model for us all.

And there was Yanita Emery, the assistant head. Yanita had come to EDGE because she was tired of being assistant dean at a junior college where they'd treated her like a token. I'd sent her on to King even though I'd wanted to hire her myself—I do have my unselfish moments—and she was thriving under her heavy load of responsibility.

One thing I could always count on at King—sensible refreshments. We sat in the great hall of what had once been a turn-of-the century mansion. The high ceiling and thick walls kept things cool, silent fans stirred overhead, and there was good iced tea and crabmeat sandwiches. In such a pleasant atmosphere, it was easy for us to agree on a strategy for writing some grant proposals King wanted our help with, and in record time I was lightly fed, cooled, complimented, and back in my car with pleas to get a speedy start on their work ringing in my ears.

South of the city with time on my hands. A dangerous combination. My conversations with Rita and with Rachel Kaplan buzzed in my head and impulsively I decided to drive to Dover and see if I could locate the mysterious Nan Devereaux, the new woman whose presence in Calvin Bass's life had been so threatening to Julie. Who had, according to Dr. Durren's reluctant admission, made Julie so nervous she'd followed her husband to Connecticut. Being a partner in a firm where getting work depends on selling myself, I've learned to be bolder than my upbringing allowed. Now I know that "nothing ventured, nothing gained" is often true.

The worst thing that could happen would be that she'd refuse to talk with me. That's probably what she would do—refuse to see me—but I've been surprised before. Sometimes, especially when there's been a sudden shock, people need to talk, and often their circumstances haven't let them.

I found the address in the phone book and got directions from a friendly gas station attendant. I was a little surprised they allowed gas stations in Dover, but even the very rich drive cars, or have them driven. The gas station was so well disguised as a little chalet I half expected Heidi to prance out when I stopped to ask directions, golden braids bouncing, and offer me goat's milk for my health. She didn't, though. Only a handsome, thick-necked jock-type in a ragged college sweatshirt and shades with two-day stubble and awesome pecs. Something for the matrons to salivate over. On such a gloomy day, it was a miracle he could see to pump the gas, but he was very nice about directions.

Nan Devereaux's house, looming at the end of a long drive, was big enough for about twenty-five people. The double cherry doors were solid and elegant and sported knobs and knockers that cost as much as my condo. A tiny, frowning maid answered the door, ascertained my business, and left me standing in the hall while she went to see if Ms. Devereaux would receive me.

The Hall, and it was a Hall with a capital H, was high and paneled with dark wood. The gleaming floors were dotted with gorgeous Oriental rugs. I stood on one of them, not wanting to mar the gleam with my damp shoes. On the walls and going up the stairs, a collection of dour ancestors glared down at me. Not a pleasant face in the lot. The maid was gone a long time. My leg hurt and I wished I could sit down, but this place was purely for show. There wasn't even an uncomfortable chair where one could perch to pull on boots.

From somewhere in the house, I could hear a woman talking. A one-sided conversation, so probably she was on the phone. A long, steady murmur with pauses. Then, so suddenly I jumped, the voice rose, loud and angry. "No, that is not what I told you at all. I think my instructions were perfectly clear. I told you to sell them all and that's precisely what I meant. So don't bother me with any more questions, just do as I asked and send the money to my bank." A crash as a receiver was thrown down, missed the cradle, and clanged to the floor. Then silence.

Finally, I heard footsteps coming my way and a tall, willow-thin woman in black slacks and a flowing white tunic came striding toward me. She had luminous blue-green eyes, pale blond hair pulled into a gleaming chignon, and cheekbones to die for. She stopped a few feet away, swept me with a supercilious glance, and reluctantly held out a bony hand. "Nan Devereaux," she said. Despite the icy appearance, she had a voice made for telephone sex.

"If you'll follow me?"

She turned without waiting for a response and glided out of the room. She walked like a ballerina, head high, chest forward, toes turned slightly out. I followed her to a cozy sitting room, all pale yellow walls and creamy furniture, with deeper yellow drapes drawn to shut out the gloom. She waited while I chose a chair and then sat on the sofa across from me. As she settled back among the cushions, her tunic draped itself around her body in a way that left no doubt she wasn't wearing a bra. Her elegant hands were carefully arranged in her lap, her long pink nails sporting a French manicure that looked like she'd been scraping off human flesh.

"Inez says you've come to talk about Calvin Bass," she said. "You've got a hell of a nerve!" I didn't respond but waited to see what she would do. If she was going to throw me out, why bring me in here? The shadow of a smile rustled her thin lips. "I've never met a female private detective before. I find it rather amusing."

I didn't want her to get the wrong idea. "I'm not a licensed detective, Ms. Devereaux. I'm just trying to help Julie out."

"The little mill-town princess? How noble of you."

Too bad he was dead. From what I'd heard about Calvin Bass, it looked like he and this icy snob were made for each other. Not wanting to spend any more time with her than necessary, I got right to the point. "What was your relationship with Calvin Bass?"

"Lust," she said bluntly, watching for my reaction. "I was very attracted to him and I believe the feeling was mutual. We had an affair. He lied to me, of course, as men in his situation will. He told me he and his wife were separated. That I couldn't call him at home because he'd just moved to a new place and was having trouble getting a phone installed. Don't look at me like that, Ms. Kozak. I'm not some sweet young thing, claiming I was led astray. I went to his place with him. A condo, nicely if sparsely furnished. There was no sign of a wife. By the time I'd figured out that he was still living with her, I didn't care. I was enjoying myself."