Midsummer Murder (17 page)

Surely no sane person would be jealous enough to kill their lover.

Especially not one who was known to be as promiscuous as Larry Cleveland.

She ordered Chicken Florentine. It was as far down the menu as she had read when the waiter returned. She handed back the menu. But what if the person wasn’t sane? Teenagers were as close to being irrational as you could get—attempting to find their place in the adult world, while battling raging hormones, and not really wanting to give up the comforts of childhood. A shy, friendless boy might lash out if he thought his hero was betraying him. And then panic and run.

She shook herself. Grappel’s insinuations were beginning to affect her objectivity. He had presented absolutely no evidence, just innuendoes and speculations. And if he could affect her in this way, what could he do to people who knew nothing of what was going on, were concerned for the safety of their children, or wanted to believe the worst?

What could lead a man to desire harm at the cost of the truth?

She looked over at Peter, who was talking to Rose. A good man, a compassionate man, and yet, at one time he had almost killed a man because of his anger.

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People committed murder for bizarre, sometimes insignificant, reasons. You could read it in the newspapers every morning, hear it on the news every night.

She had lost her appetite. She was pushing a piece of chicken around her plate, when Biddy’s foot pressed hers.

Lindy looked up and then followed Biddy’s gaze across the room. Marguerite had entered the restaurant and was stopping at tables, greeting the guests. Damage control, and a brilliantly strategic move. She seemed a little pale, but that could be from the muted candlelight.

Marguerite chatted for a few moments with Rebo, Juan, and two other company members sitting nearby, then said hello to a couple next to them. She called them by name. The Kravitzs. She probably knew everyone’s name. The sign of an accomplished hostess. Know your guests. Especially if they’re paying a fortune to send their children to your summer camp.

She stopped at their table. “Peter, Rose, I hope you’ve found everything you need in the theater?” Polite agreements. “And Jeremy tells me that you taught company class for the first time yesterday, Mieko.” She smiled at Mieko. Marguerite, as far as Lindy knew, had never even seen Mieko except the first night when the company was being introduced at the pavilion.

Any other person would have been nonplused, but Mieko just looked attentive and said, “Yes.”

“And you were quite a success.”

Mieko blinked. She must be rattled, thought Lindy.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re interested in teaching?”

“I—I suppose I might be.”

“We always need good teachers. It’s so hard to find people who not only know their craft but can instill that knowledge in others. I know you’re young, but keep teaching in mind for when you retire. It pays to think ahead.” Marguerite tilted her head. “Or do you plan to return to chemistry?”

“Chemistry?” Lindy said the word out loud.

“It wasn’t a secret was it?”

Mieko shook her head. “My father thought I should have something to fall back on.”

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“Very wise of him,” said Marguerite. She took her leave and continued her round of the room.

“You have a degree in chemistry?” asked Lindy. “I had no idea.”

“I knew,” said Peter.

“I didn’t,” said Rose. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Mieko’s lips pressed together. On anybody else it would have been a shrug. “People tend to treat you the way they think you are, not as you really are. A degree in chemistry is a—liability.”

Lindy saw Peter cock his head as he regarded the girl thoughtfully.

Bet you didn’t know that,
thought Lindy.

“I see what you mean,” said Biddy. “It’s sometimes best just to let people take you at face value than try to construct you out of what your past has been.”

“But your past is a large part of what you are,” said Rose.

“Of course it is,” said Biddy. “But a person is more than a sum of past experiences. They affect you, but they don’t always make you what you are. It’s how a person shapes his past and his future.”

Lindy nodded her head in agreement. Biddy was a clear example of that. Biddy’s one great love had died of AIDS. And whereas it certainly had curtailed her love life for a while, it hadn’t made her bitter.

“Well, I don’t know how we got so philosophic,” said Biddy. “Being at an arts colony, I guess. Did you know that Eudora Welty actually spent a month here?”

The conversation turned to literature. Peter showed an unexpected knowledge of feminist writings. Rose confessed that her favorite reading matter was forensic thrillers, which led into a debate on whether genre fiction should be considered literature. Lindy hadn’t had so much fun since her night course in the Brontës at the local community college.

The restaurant was empty by the time they left the table. They separated in the hallway, and Lindy and Biddy returned to the main house.

They were walking along the hall when a motion in one of the alcoves caught Lindy’s attention. She stopped abruptly. Two figures were concealed partially in shadow. Two male figures, arms linked around each other, looking out into the night. Rebo’s hand slipped down to Juan’s butt. Lindy bolted forward.

Biddy grabbed her by the elbow. “What are you doing?”

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“Stopping a public display that has no business being public.” She stalked over to the couple.

Rebo turned around. “Hi, Lindelightful. Want to join us?” He raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue over his top lip.

“No, and I think the least you two could do would be to save this for the privacy of your own room.”

Rebo’s eyes widened. Juan frowned.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Juan asked.

“It isn’t what’s wrong with me—”

“Is something wrong with us?” asked Rebo, scrutinizing her with questioning eyes.

“Uh, no. But in light of recent events, I think you should keep your feelings and actions to yourselves.”

Neither man replied, just looked at her incredulously. Lindy’s stomach began to burn.

“There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. It’s not like I threw Juan on the floor while the world watched on.” Rebo’s rich voice was suddenly cold. “Don’t expect me to change my beliefs to fit this week’s fashion,” he said.

“You’re
not
Lillian Hellman, but this could easily turn into a witch hunt. Think what you are doing.”

“I’m looking at the stars with the man I love.”

Lindy was taken aback by this straightforward declaration. She hadn’t thought of Rebo and Juan as being in love. Just two people thrown together and making the most of it. Rebo’s use of the word

“love” startled her.

Juan attempted to move away from Rebo. Rebo tightened his arm around him. “Do you have a problem with that, Lindy?”

She swallowed. “You know I don’t—ordinarily—but—” She felt her face grow hot. “It’s just that Grappel . . .” She stopped. Tried again. “I just don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”

“Is that what it really is? Or is it that you don’t mind knowing about us, as long as you don’t have to see it?”

“Rebo . . .” Juan whispered.

“No, Juan. I’m sick and tired of always having to fight everybody just to be able to be myself. It’s okay if Paul mauls Andrea in front of the entire camp, but Juan and I are not even allowed to act natural.” He turned on Lindy, his voice vibrating with anger and 112

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disappointment. “It’s okay for a bunch of football players to prance around in the end zone and pat each other on the butt.” His voice dropped an octave. “ ’Cause it’s a man’s sport.” He cocked his head at her and said in his normal voice, “Ever wonder what goes on in those locker rooms?”

“I don’t care what goes on in their locker rooms. They’re not my problem.”

“I’m not your problem.” He paused. Took a deep breath. “You’re just like all the rest of them.”

She shook her head. “You know that I’m not.” She looked at Juan.

His eyes moved away.

“You’re just as hypocritical as the rest. People like you make me sick. You’re even worse than the guys that dress up in sheets and burn crosses. At least they’re honest.” He grabbed Juan by the hand and dragged him away.

Lindy stood alone in the alcove, heart beating against her sternum, searing heat shooting through her stomach, her throat constricted. She wanted to call him back, apologize, but she only stood there while the tears formed slowly in her eyes. Was she a hypocrite? She hadn’t thought so. But she had never been confronted with . . . what? She’d never felt uncomfortable about displays of affection before, not until they had come here. It was because of what had happened. Didn’t Rebo understand that?

No, he saw her as a traitor. A liar. A hypocrite. And maybe that’s just what she was. How could she let one incident, one vengeful man that she didn’t even like, make her turn against her friends?

She should go after him. Try to explain. But her sense of shame kept her riveted to the spot.

God, she had botched that. She meant to protect them, but she had only alienated one of her best friends. But dammit, he knew she was his friend. If he hadn’t been so uptight, he would have realized what she was trying to do. It was just as much his fault as it was hers. To hell with him.

Her righteous indignation lasted her through the walk back to the main house.

Self-recrimination joined her as she went upstairs to bed.

113

Ten

The police returned early the next morning. Lindy was awakened by the sounds of cars in the parking lot below their room. She and Biddy watched from the window as the men received their orders from Sheriff Grappel and dispersed. One of them was accompanied by a dog. It seemed ludicrous, one dog, ten men, and thousands of acres of treacherous wilderness. Where were the helicopters? The teams of search specialists?

At breakfast, they learned that Grappel had set up a command post in the Loie Fuller studio. They would make uncomfortable housemates, thought Lindy. Fuller, an early twentieth-century iconoclast and pioneer in the use of lighting for the stage; Grappel as stuck in his ways and resistant to change as anyone could be. Or was he? Did he plan on letting things get out of hand here, so he could clean up on the proceeds from the town take-over? He was fighting a losing battle if that was the case. The town would never get this land, and in the meantime, young people were being sacrificed to someone’s greed.

Unless Grappel was right about Robert, and Lindy was letting her own prejudices influence her thinking. It was no good. She had to be objective. Someone needed to look at the situation without all this emotional involvement. Even Biddy, who would normally have a list of suspects by now, seemed unable to act. She was more upset about the way Jeremy was treating her than she admitted. Lindy glanced across the table. She had never seen Biddy disengage herself from a situation before. She must be regrouping, gathering her strength. But for what?

Surely, Larry Cleveland’s death was an accident. The sheriff had no evidence that she knew of that said otherwise. If any other 114

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official had been in charge of the investigation, it would have been cleared up by now.

That’s what they needed, Lindy decided, as she and Biddy left the house for morning class. An unbiased investigator. But could a person just call another police station and say things were being mishandled and could they please send in somebody else? She didn’t think so, but she knew who to ask.

As soon as she thought about Bill Brandecker, she became calmer.

He would know just what to do. Of course, he would yell at her first. It had become almost a ritual with them—like being read your rights. Twice Bill had helped them when the company had become involved in murder. After the second case, Lindy and Bill had become friends, meeting once or twice a month for lunch when Bill’s teaching schedule at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and her schedule as rehearsal director had permitted.

It was an uneasy alliance. Bill was amiable—usually—confident, refined, and wonderfully clear thinking, but he had a quick fuse, and Lindy had been the brunt of his exasperation more times than she cared to remember.

Should she call Bill and ask for his help? It was summer. He wasn’t teaching. And as far as she knew, he was sweating July out in the city.

“Hey, isn’t that Glen’s car?” asked Biddy.

A silver BMW pulled into the driveway.

“Looks like it, but he isn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.” Lindy squinted against the sun. “Nope, there are two people in the front seat.”

She and Biddy continued across the driveway and the car came to a stop. The passenger door swung open.

“Hey, Mom! Wait up. It’s me.”

Lindy whirled around as she recognized Annie’s voice. Annie?

Here?

Her daughter ran across the drive, legs lean beneath her shorts, thin arms pumping as she ran. She threw herself at Lindy and hugged her.

“Surprise!”

Lindy glanced over her head at Glen who was getting out of the car, then back to Annie. “Are you okay? Why aren’t you in Europe?

Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing, except the last three weeks of our tour got canceled. So instead of moping around in Geneva for the summer, I called Daddy 115

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and hopped on the first flight to New Jersey.” Annie pulled away and looked at her. “Glad to see me?”

“You bet.” Lindy gave her a squeeze.

“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said to Glen.

“Figured I’d drop her off and get over to the tournament.” He leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll try to get back tomorrow in time for the performance.”

Lindy held Annie at arm’s length. “I think you’ve grown.”

Annie pulled her shoulders back and stuck out her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Hope springs eternal,” she said.

Lindy gave her a mother’s once-over. She looked healthy and happy. She had inherited her mother’s lean body, but her hair and eyes were dark brown like Glen’s.