Desperate Measures (29 page)

"Derrick Meecham must have a lot of money. This address is in Beacon Hill. It's a couple of blocks from where my parents live."

Rush hour slowed their progress even more, but finally, shortly after six, Jill steered from the Massachusetts Turnpike onto Columbus Avenue, from there to Charles Street through Boston Connnon, and then into the historic, exclusive district of Beacon Hill. Pittman studied a narrow, tree-lined, cobblestoned street. On one side, a spiked wrought-iron fence enclosed a small park, while on the other side, nineteenth-century brick town houses cast shadows from the lowering sun. Jill turned a corner, and here gated driveways separated some of the mansions. Through the metal bars, Pittman saw courtyards, gardens, and carriage houses converted into garages.

"And this is where you were raised?"

"When I wasn't at private schools," Jill said. 'It's beautiful." "It can also be a trap. That's why I moved away to real life. "At the moment, I'd prefer to escape from real life."

Ahead, a Mercedes pulled away from a line of cars parked at the curb, and Jill eased into the space. When she got out, she straightened her tan skirt and put on her green blazer. "Do I look presentable?"

"Lovely."

"Just remember, when we knock on the door, whoever opens it is going to make an instantaneous judgment about us, based on how neatly and acceptably we dress."

Pittman reached into the car, took his tie from his gym bag, and put it on. He hoped his shirt wasn't too wrinkled. His slacks and sport coat were as clean as he could make them.

"If I understand your logic," Pittman said, "I'd better not identify myself as a reporter."

Jill nodded. "The kind of wealth we're dealing with is extremely class-conscious. The press is definitely considered beneath them."

"Then what angle are we going to use? What I tried at Grollier? That I'm writing a book about the academy?"

"Better yet, you're a history professor who's writing a book about the academy. Academics have privilege."

They went up a half dozen stone steps to a large, polished, weathered oak door.

"It probably dates back to the early 1800s," Jill said.

Pittman grasped an iron knocker and tapped it against a metal plate secured to the door.

They waited.

Pittman knocked again.

"Maybe no one's home."

"I don't see any lights in the windows," Jill said. "Maybe they've gone out to dinner."

Jill shook her head. "Any respectable Boston Brahmin doesn't go out to dinner this early. Besides, Meecham's elderly. I doubt he strays far from home."

Pittman raised his hand to knock on the door again, but he was interrupted as he heard a lock being freed. The knob was twisted. The door came slowly open, revealing a short, frail-looking white-haired woman who wore a tasteful highcollared blue dress that had long sleeves and a hem that almost covered the support hose on her swollen calves and ankles. She had liver spots on her deeply creased skin. She opened the door only partially, squinting through her thick glasses at Pittman and Jill. ,yes? Do I know you?" Her voice was tremulous.

"No, ma'am," Pittman said. "My name is Peter Logan. I'm a history professor from across the river. " He referred to Harvard. "I apologize if this is an inconvenient time for me to be calling, but I was wondering if I could speak -to your husband about a book that I'm writing,"

"History professor? Book? My husband?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm doing one about some American educational institutions,, the classic ones, and I'm hoping that Your husband can answer some questions that occurred to me.', "Questions? My husband?"

Pittman's stomach sank. She keeps repeating what I say, turning my statements into questions. We're wasting our time, he thought. She's senile. She doesn't have the faintest idea of what I'm talking about.

The woman raised her head. "I don't know what questions you have in mind, but I'm afraid my husband can't answer them. He died a year ago."

The shock of what she said and the lucidity with which she said it made Pittman realize that he'd severely misjudged her.

"Oh." He was too surprised to know what to say. He knew he should have considered the possibility that Meechani would be dead by now, but the fact that the grand counselors, except for Millgate, were still alive had made Pittman hope that those associated with the counselors would still be alive, as well.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said. "The alumni association at Yale told me that Derrick Meecham lived here. I assumed that their records were up to date."

"They are." The woman's voice became more tremulous. "I don't understand."

"Derrick Meecham does live here."

"Forgive us, ma'am," Jill said. "We still don't understand. My son."

"Mother," a man's refined voice said from inside the house. "I thought we agreed that you had to save your energy. There's no need for you to answer the door. That is Frederick's responsibility. Where is he, by the way?"

The door came all the way open, and Pittman faced a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. The man had a broad forehead, graying hair, steady eyes, and the, solid expression of someone used to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed. His three-piece gray pinstriped suit was the most Perfectly tailored that Pittman had ever seen.

"Yes, may I help you?" the man asked without enthusiasm. "This man is a professor," the elderly woman said.

"Peter Logan," Pittman added. "I teach history at Harvard . I've made a mistake, I'm afraid. I wanted to speak with your father, but as I've just learned, he passed on. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Speak to my father? What about?"

"I'm doing research on the history of Grollier Academy. The man didn't react for a moment, didn't blink, didn't seem to breathe. "Grollier?"

"It's had such a major influence on American government, I thought it was time to investigate what makes it unique."

"it's unique all right. " Cars drove by on the street. The sun dipped lower, casting shadows. The man continued to stare at Pittman Then his chest moved. "Come in, Professor... . I'm sorry, could You repeat your name?"

"Logan. Peter Logan. This is my wife, Rebecca. She's a historian, also.

"Derrick Meecham. " The man offered his hand, once more saying, without enthusiasm, "Come in."

The man locked the door and led the way, escorting his mother along a wide wood-paneled corridor that had landscape paintings, forests and farmhouses, on the walls. The frames looked old, enough to be from the nineteenth century.

They passed a brightly polished maple staircase, its banister beautifully carved. At the end of the corridor, lights glowed in several rooms, from one of which a tall man wearing a white jacket appeared.

"Where have you been, Frederick?" Meecham asked. "I found my mother answering the door."

"I thought she was upstairs," the man in the white jacket said. "I apologize, Sir. I didn't hear the door. I was down in the wine cellar, looking for the Rothschild you requested.

"Did you find it?"

"Yes, sir." "The '71?" "Yes, sir.

"Good. Mother, why don't you rest until dinner? Frederick will take you up to your room. Perhaps you can watch one of your television shows." Meecham's tone implied that he himself did not watch television.

Victory Garden is about to begin, Mrs. Meecham, " Frederick said.

"Yes," the elderly woman said with enthusiasm, allowing herself to be escorted into a small elevator.

As the cage rumbled and rose, Meerham turned to Pittman and Jill. "In here, please."

They entered one of the many rooms that flanked the wide corridor. There were bookcases with leather-bound volumes on them, mostly law books. The furniture was subdued, correct, and, Pittman assumed, more expensive than he would have dreamed. An Oriental rug stopped three feet short of the walls on each side, revealing a rich oak floor.

Meecham gestured. "Sit down. May I have Frederick get you anything?"

Pittman and Jill each took a chair across from where Meecham stood by the fireplace.

"Thank you, no," Pittman said.

"I was just about to have a cocktail," Meecham said, his hospitality surprising Pittman.

I don't get it, Pittman thought. He was ready to give us the bum's rush until I mentioned Grollier. Now he invites us in and wants us to have cocktails. Either he needs the drink, which it doesn't look like, or else he hopes a little booze might get us to talk more candidly than we normally would have.

"A cocktail would be nice," Jill said. "Whatever you're having. " "Vodka martinis."

"That would be fine."

Meecham walked to the door, opened it, spoke to someone, then shut the door again and sat on a Chippendale chair next to the fireplace.

He looked steadily at Jill and then Pittman. "Grollier Academy. "That's right. Your father went there, I believe," Pittman "Oh, indeed he did. But I don't quite understand. Of all the students who went to Grollier, why would you have chosen my father for an interview?"

"Because he was a classmate of the so-called grand counselors. Jonathan Millgate, Eustace Gable, Anthony Lloyd .

Meecham's features hardened. "I know who the grand counselors are. My father had no relationship with them after he left Grollier. "

"But evidently he was close to them at the time." Meecham spoke quickly. "What makes you think that?"

"In his junior year, your father enrolled 'in a course in political science. The number of students was quite small. Only six. The five grand counselors-"

"And my father."

It was the first time that Meecham had volunteered any information. Pittman tried not to look surprised.

"Yes," Jill said. "Naturally in so close an environment, especially on the subject of political science, your father would have heard ideas exchanged that might have explained the direction the grand counselors took in their political careers.

Meecham studied them. "My father never discussed that with me."

The room became silent. Meecham was through volunteering information.

"then perhaps he said something about the grand counselors themselves," Pittman said, "some kind of reminiscence when he read about them in the newspapers, something that would give insight into their formative ideas."

"He never discussed that with me, either," Meecham said flatly.

"No comment at all when he read about something controversial that they did?"

"Only that he'd gone to school with them."

Yes, Meecham had definitely stopped volunteering information. The room became silent again Someone knocked on the door. Frederick came in carrying a tray that held glasses and a martini pitcher.

"Frederick, we won't have time for cocktails after all. I just remembered that the San Francisco office is going to be phoning me in five minutes," Meecham said.

Frederick paused where he was about to set the tray on a sideboard.

Meecham stood, approaching Pittman and Jill. "I don't like conducting business in the evening. That's probably why I forgot about the telephone call. Let me escort you to the door. I regret I couldn't be of more help, but my father was a private man. He seldom talked to me about personal matters. Grollier was a long time ago." Pittman stood, as well. "One last question. I wonder if you have any idea why your father didn't graduate from Grollier. Meecham, whose gaze had been steady, blinked twice.

"He dropped out of the political science course that he was taking with the grand counselors," Pittman said. "And then he stopped attending Grollier altogether. "

"I've changed my mind, Frederick," Meecham said. "The San Francisco office can talk to me tomorrow. When the phone rings, tell them I'm unavailable."

"Very good, sir."

"Please, serve the martinis." "Certainly, sir.

Meecham sat again, looking uncomfortable. Pittman and Jill lowered themselves back into their chairs. Frederick poured the martinis and brought a tray to each of them, offering a choice of olives or pearl onions. Pittman sipped, enjoying the cold, smooth taste, suddenly realizing how little alcohol he had had to drink since he'd followed Millgate to the Scarsdale estate five nights earlier. Prior to then, he'd been really putting it away, guzzling it. He hadn't been able to face the day-and especially the nights-without it. He had needed to distance himself from reality. Now he couldn't allow anything to keep him from facing reality.

The situation became awkward. No one said anything, waiting for Frederick to leave.

As the door was finally closed, Meecham said, an edge in his voice, "What do you really want?"

"Just what we told you-to know your father's attitude toward Grollier and the grand counselors," Pittman said. "If you're aware that my father never graduated from Grollier, that he dropped out in his junior year and went to another school, it must be obvious to you that he had ambivalent feelings.

"Did he ever say anything about one of his teachers? Duncan Kline?"

Meecham's gaze became piercingly direct. "This has nothing to do with a book about education."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not here because you're doing a history of Grollier. " Meecham stood abruptly. "You know about Grollier. You keep talking around the subject, hinting about it, but you know. "