Somebody Else's Daughter (44 page)

Jack called an emergency faculty meeting, ushering teachers and staff members into the large conference room, around the oval table. Because the attack had happened on school property, he said, it was the school's responsibility to address the tragedy as if the victim had been one of their own. He had informed the nearby psychiatric hospital, should any of their students need counseling, and members of the clergy were on hand to offer their support. They were on top of the situation, he assured everyone, and the staff, sheeplike, Maggie thought, in their willingness to comply, nodded their heads almost gratefully.

Maggie had put on her best suit, a buttercream Chanel that she'd found in a vintage shop in Sheffield. It was cheerful, like the sun, she thought. She tried not to think about the odd circumstances of the girl's death. According to the police, she'd been flying on drugs at the time—her pupils had been dilated—which Maggie interpreted as a blessing. They would know more, they'd told Jack, after they received the coroner's report.

Later that night there was an ice storm. The naked trees shook and broke like glass. She made dinner for her family
like a good wife,
but none of them could eat. Ada retreated to her room, and Maggie could hear her crying. She'd only been nine when the girl at Remington Pond was found. She'd been her favorite babysitter, Maggie recalled, and it was likely that it was all coming back. Maggie went up to her room and sat on her bed. “Are you all right?”

Ada gripped her stuffed panda bear and turned away. “Just leave me alone,” she said.

That's what I'll do,
Maggie thought. On the way out of the room, she noticed a Scrabble board under Ada's bed, the letters strewn across the carpet. It gave her pause. She met her daughter's eyes, but just now could not begin to address the sadness they contained.

She went downstairs and stood at the table looking at the food.
So much waste,
she thought, and left it there, and went into the living room and lay down on the couch. The fish bowl, she noticed, had been removed, and Jack had straightened up the piles of books and emptied the ashtray, no doubt preparing the room should anyone stop by, the police, for instance. Sleet rushed against the window. The whole world seemed to be breaking, she thought, watching the wild shadows on the ceiling. The night before, he'd brought her tea at bedtime; he'd sat there watching her drink it, then he'd helped her under the covers, pulling them gently under her chin. There'd been a moment between them, something in his eyes. She'd slept better than she had in months. When she woke with the sunlight on her face she'd felt refreshed.

It wasn't until she'd gone downstairs and seen his shoes, which were wet and muddy, that she understood he'd gone out when she was sleeping, and that he'd put something in her tea to make sure she stayed that way.

Now, even the gin couldn't touch her fear, the gnawing dread in her belly. She woke disoriented in the wild darkness. Her clothes were damp, her body coated with sweat. An awful foreboding consumed her. Where was Jack? With difficulty, she pulled herself up and wandered through the house, looking for him. There were things she noticed in the kitchen. The ice tray on the counter, scattered cubes of melting ice. The bottle of gin, nearly empty. She stood there for a moment, then poured some of it into a glass, swallowed it warm, coughed. A slow heat sank down her back. The wind gusted against the windows. She looked down the narrow hallway at the closed door, the stripe of light underneath.
What is he doing in there?
She walked to his office and opened the door. He was lying on the floor in a fetal position, his head resting on his hands, which were pressed together as if in prayer. Gratefully, she couldn't see his face.

Get up, you pathetic bastard,
she thought miserably.
Get up!

But she said nothing, and backed out of the room, soundlessly closing the door behind her.

In the morning the detectives appeared at Pioneer. From her office window, she watched her husband lead them around the campus. He seemed cheerful and solicitous, as if they were prospective parents and not cops. When they knocked on her door, she cleared her throat as if there were something jammed inside of it. Words crept out, weakly, like little bugs. Jack said, “They want to talk to you about Ted Squire.”

“I see.”

The detectives came in and sat down. The taller one, Croft, was holding a student's paper—it was Teddy's story about the pit bull. She recognized it because she'd been the one to make all the red marks on it.

“Edward Squire,” Croft said his name. “What can you tell us about him?”

“What is it you want to know?”

“I don't know,” Croft shrugged casually. “What kind of student is he?”

“Average,” she said.

“Average?” Croft looked surprised. “You gave him a D-minus this quarter. That's significantly below average, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Heath?”

“He's easily distracted. Attention deficit disorder. Not to mention that he's severely LD.” She saw that he wasn't familiar with the term. “Learning Disabled,” she clarified.

“So he doesn't read so good, is that what you're saying?”

So well,
she thought, but only nodded.

“You read this? These are your comments?”

“Mr. Gallagher wanted my opinion.”

“Uh huh. I see.” He put on his bifocals and held up the paper and read her comments. “Far-fetched, implausible, disorganized, poorly structured.” Croft looked at her pointedly. “That's some critique.”

“I only wanted to help him.”

“What do you think now?”

“What do I think?”

“Now that you know what these dogs are capable of. Do you think you'd still use that word?”

“I'm sorry, Detective. What word?”

“Implausible.”

She shook her head, she couldn't look at him. “I don't know. I suppose not.”

Croft took out a cigarette and just as she was about to tell him that smoking was not allowed, he lit it. “This Mr. Gallagher, that's his real writing teacher, correct?”

The way he said it,
his real writing teacher,
seemed deliberately insulting. Again, she nodded, noticing that there weren't any red marks on the story Nate had corrected. “I guess Gallagher had a different take on it,” Croft said, showing her the grade he'd given the boy, an A.

“He was entitled to his opinion,” she muttered. “I'm just wondering what you're getting at here, Detective.”

“What I'm getting at?”

“Are you suggesting that the boy had something to do with this?”

“I might be.”

“She was attacked by an animal, sir. That's not exactly something one can premeditate, is it?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised, Mrs. Heath.”

“Forgive me, Detective, but, it sounds a bit—”

“Far-fetched?”

She nodded.

He squinted at her. “I guess it's a good thing I'm not getting graded.”

He handed her back Teddy's story. “You might want to hold on to this. You never know, it might be worth something one day.”

Croft started walking out, but the shorter detective, Detective Whalen, stopped and thanked her for her time. “Would it be possible to get a look inside the boy's locker?”

“I think, under the circumstances, it would be all right.” She walked them out into the hall, down the stairs, to the row of lockers designated to the juniors. She stepped into the office to get the boy's combination. She could feel her heart turning dully. When she returned, Croft was talking on a cell phone, ignoring her. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, but she had the distinct feeling he didn't like her. She opened the locker for the men and stepped aside. There were photographs taped to the metal door, pictures of Teddy and Willa and Monica and Marco and even Ada, their little incestuous group— like an ad for Abercrombie, she thought with loathing. While Croft talked on the phone, Whalen dug around in the boy's locker. He found something and held it up.

“Look what we have here,” he said, holding up a dog collar for everyone to see.

48

Claire was in the barn when the cops came looking for Teddy. They pulled their car up to the house and went to the door. She took off her apron and put on her coat. It had gotten cold; it was starting to snow again.

“Hello.” She waved to them and they stood there waiting for her, their faces hard, grim.
This can't be good,
she thought.

“Mrs. Squire?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Detective Croft, Stockbridge police. This is my partner, Detective Whalen.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Is your son at home?” Whalen asked.

“He's at school.”

“We just came from there,” Croft said. “He didn't show up this morning.”

Claire frowned. “He got on the bus this morning.”

“He must have taken a detour.”

“Is he in the habit of cutting school?” Croft asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“A girl was attacked in the woods the other night.”

“Yes, I heard. They're saying it was that dog, the one that attacked the little girl.”

“Right.” Croft took out a picture. “Did you know her? Did your son know her?”

Claire sighed. Tears rushed to her eyes. “I gave her a ride once. She was a dancer. I don't know if he knew her or not,” she lied.

“She was a prostitute, Mrs. Squire.”

Claire shook her head. “I didn't know.”

Croft's eyes simmered with judgment. She could already tell he didn't like her. He'd heard things, she assumed. Rumors. Maybe he knew about Teddy's dad, that he'd gone to jail and would use it against Teddy, but she doubted it, and anyway Billy's criminal record had nothing to do with her. Maybe he resented the fact that she lived on Prospect Hill, with all the rich New Yorkers. She used to share the same resentment, but in her father's case it was different. Her father had earned his money the hard way, and had bought the house way back when, when real estate was cheap. Of course she couldn't convince the cop of it now. And why should she have to? It was none of his business.

“We have a witness who says your son was her last customer that night,” Whalen said. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“He has a cell phone.” She took out her cell phone and dialed Teddy's number, but he didn't answer. “Are you saying my son's involved? ” she asked, finally, not wanting to hear the answer.

“Let's hope not,” Whalen said.

Claire tried to call Nate at the school, but the school's machine was on. On principle, Nate refused to carry a cell phone, which was the single thing that infuriated her about him. “We're living in the twenty-first century!” she'd complain. She pulled on her coat and drove down to the school. She found him inside Walden House, giving a class. She knocked on the door.

Nate grinned and excused himself. “Hey. You okay?”

“Have you seen Teddy?”

“No, he didn't show up today.”

“The cops came looking for him.”

Nate frowned. “What? They think he's involved?”

“He was with her the night she died. He was her last customer.”

“Oh, God.”

“They have a witness—they're trying to build a case.”

“Not because of his story, I hope?”

“What story?”

“The one about the pit bull.”

“I don't know about that, but he was seen at a dogfight somewhere. One of our neighbors saw him snooping around his property—a week later somebody stole his dog—a white pit bull.”

“Sounds pretty circumstantial to me.”

“It sure as hell doesn't
feel
circumstantial.”

“Give me ten minutes to finish up here. Then we'll go look for him.”

She had found drawings in Teddy's sketchbook of houses he liked and, if she'd found them under different circumstances, she would have been incredibly impressed. He had talent, she realized. There were several drawings of one house in particular. It was a famous house in the area, up on Lenox Mountain, which had been built by its owner, an architect from Boston. He only used it on weekends. “He told me once he sometimes goes there to think,” she told Nate.

They pulled off the road, down a long narrow driveway. The house was a glass cube suspended dramatically over the mountain. You could see the reservoir down below. They parked and walked down to the house. A series of decks were stacked up the side. To their surprise, the sliding glass door opened and a man came out. He was Chinese, wearing a crisp white shirt and jeans. “Good morning,” he said, holding a mug.

“Hello,” Nate said. “This is rather awkward, but we're looking for someone. He's a boy; apparently he admired your house.”

“He was here.” The man looked distraught. “I thought he was a thief. I'm sorry. He's with the police now.” The man set down his mug and came down the stairs. He was handsome, Claire thought. He had a kind face. “I'm Fred Chow,” he said. “I live in Boston, this is my summer place. I came back this morning and found him sleeping in my bed. Imagine my surprise. He had a key, apparently. They found it in his pocket. He'd made a copy of the one I left under the flowerpot. I'll have to admit, he's clever.”

Claire felt a stirring of dread. “I'm very sorry,” she said. “If there's anything I can do—if he broke anything . . .”

But the man shook his head. “He liked the house,” he said, almost flattered. “He wants to be an architect. This he told me as they were putting on the cuffs. An interesting boy, your son. He's done drawings of it, apparently. I'd like to see them sometime.”