The Dead Place (8 page)

The discovery of Lily Slocum’s body was all anybody could talk about at the university president’s party the Friday night two weeks after the body was found. Even with that gap of time, there’d been talk of canceling it. Ian had been pulled into an emergency faculty meeting when the police officially identified the body pulled from the river. After much squabbling, the decision was made to proceed as normal with all classes and campus activities, but with the understanding that for the remainder of the semester every official university function would observe a minute of silence in Lily Slocum’s memory.

“She wasn’t an especially memorable student,” an aging professor of philosophy confided to Kate as soon as the minute was up.

They were standing on the back lawn of the president’s house, a pillared Greek Revival monstrosity that some of the faculty privately and mockingly referred to as “Tara.”

“A bright enough girl,” the old man said, “but not brilliant, not an original thinker.”

Kate twirled the olive in her martini and glanced over his balding head, contemplating an escape route. What was the man’s point? That Lily Slocum’s death wasn’t a great loss? That only original thinkers deserved to live?

Despite the drought in the summer and an equally dry fall, the president’s manicured lawn was still lush and green. She was surprised some student environmental group wasn’t protesting the overuse of water. Japanese lanterns hung in the trees, and young men and women wearing plain black uniforms circulated among the colorfully dressed crowd bearing trays of drinks and various canapés. It was all very pretty, very tasteful, and she very much wanted to leave.

“Did you have her as a student?” the professor asked, and Kate pulled her attention back to his froglike face.

“No, I didn’t know her. I don’t teach at Wickfield.”

He blinked in surprise, and she excused herself to go in search of Ian. She couldn’t spot him, and it was hard to navigate through the crowd. She jumped when someone laughed loudly near her, blushing when her nervous reaction caught another’s attention. Turning abruptly, she narrowly missed colliding with a rosebush as she tried to bypass a crowd loudly discussing evidence found at the crime scene.

She shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t as if Ian had asked, at least not in words, but she knew that he wanted her with him, knew that it was expected that a spouse would make an appearance at these events.

“It’ll be outside,” he’d said when he told her about the party, and she’d heard what he was really saying, that she should be able to handle a crowd outside.

Only she couldn’t. She struggled across the lawn, her heels sinking into the overwatered sod, her drink clutched in one hand, purse in the other, as she searched the crowd for her husband.

A large man hurrying the other way bumped into her and Kate lost her balance, falling forward. Martini and glass flew in a wide arc while her purse dropped like a stone, and in that split second between realizing she was going to fall and trying to brace herself, Kate was suddenly jerked upright.

“Steady there!” a man’s voice said, and Kate recognized Jerry Virgoli. His eyes widened in surprise when he realized whom he’d rescued. “Well, hello!”

“Hi.” Kate stooped down to retrieve her purse, brushing the last of her martini off her slacks. “Thanks for the save.”

“No problem.” Virgoli plucked her glass off the lawn and deposited it on a passing tray. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I wondered if you’d given any thought to my proposal.”

Kate’s head ached. What was he talking about? “I’m sorry?”

“For a show. Size to be determined by you, of course, but given the limited space, I thought a small selection of paintings might be best.”

“A show?” Kate repeated dumbly. She felt as if she were back in the assisted-living community where her parents had spent the last years of their lives, only this time she was the one suffering from dementia.

“Didn’t Ian tell you?” An expression of anger flashed across Virgoli’s face, a flicker that passed so fast that Kate thought she must have imagined it. It startled her when he laughed. “I guess he’s just so busy.”

“What didn’t Ian tell me?”

“We’d like you to do a show at the gallery. It’s a small space, but we’ve had some nice shows and I’m sure we’d get a good response—”

For a minute Kate felt the desire, that familiar hum of interest in what she’d choose to hang and where. It was only a moment. Like a flashlight with dying batteries, the light burned bright for a few seconds before fading away to nothing.

“I’m not doing shows right now,” she said.

Jerry Virgoli nodded as if he agreed. “Of course, under the circumstances I completely understand. Ian explained that, but I wanted you to know that the possibility exists, that we do have a nice gallery in Wickfield.”

Kate nodded, forcing a smile, but she wondered what exactly Ian had told this man. It sounded as if he knew about what had happened to her. Did everybody know about it? What had Ian said about her? Did everybody know about the assault? Did he discuss it with other people?

Suddenly, the voices in the conversation next to theirs rose and she heard a man say, “They’re very hush-hush about the sexual-assault aspect, but we all know that’s what happened.”

Were they talking about her? Blood rushed to her face. She felt flushed and her head thumped like a metronome. She looked at Virgoli’s moving lips, but the only thing she could hear was the conversation nearby. “You can understand the need for discretion,” a woman said. “It’s not as if they’ve caught somebody.”

No, no, it wasn’t her. They were discussing Lily Slocum. Sound rushed back and Kate could hear Virgoli say, “In the future, of course, we’d like to have an expanded Fine Arts wing complete with a larger, university-funded gallery space, but that will require a consensus of faculty—”

He prattled on, and she could follow enough to know that he wanted something that Ian somehow had the power to provide, but she couldn’t concentrate on it, her mind flashing to the paint mixing on the floor of her studio and the scent of blood. The crowd seemed to press in on her and the thudding in her head grew stronger.

“So what do you think?” Jerry Virgoli was looking at her, demanding an answer.

“I’m sorry,” Kate said. “I’ve got to go.”

She stumbled across the lawn, shying away from people who stepped in her path and hating herself for doing it. She thought she might cry and how stupid was that? This was all so stupid. It was over, a thing of the past, just a few minutes of a life, so why did she have to keep thinking about it?

She felt again the slam against the table, could hear the repeated thud of his body slamming against hers and smell the blood, feel the blood between her legs. She didn’t want to think about that anymore. She pressed a hand against her temple, pushing, as if she could push all those thoughts away.

Where in the hell was Ian? At that moment the crowd blocking her view suddenly shifted and she caught sight of her husband. He was at the opposite corner of the lawn talking to a willowy-looking woman with bobbed blond hair, and she could see the woman nodding enthusiastically at whatever Ian said.

As she got closer, she heard him say, “The support you’ve generated for the center is truly amazing.”

“Oh, it’s a collaborative effort and of course it means so much to us in Drama.”

Kate was close enough to see that the other woman was lightly tanned, her skin carrying the creamy glow of youth and vibrant health. She moved her arms when she spoke, an intricately woven silver bracelet riding up one thin wrist as she gestured, disappearing into the folds of a lacy white blouse. Long, tanned legs shifted beneath a slim blue cotton skirt.

Ian was smiling, and then suddenly he saw Kate. “Oh, hi!”

“Hi.” Kate lowered the hand pushing against her temple and moved to Ian’s side. She waited for his arm to slide around her waist or his hand to reach for hers, but it didn’t happen.

“This is Kate Corbin. Kate, this is Bethany Forrester. She’s a professor in the drama department.”

Bethany Forrester smiled. She had blue eyes that matched her skirt. “It’s such an honor to meet you,” she said, extending a hand that Kate numbly shook. “I just love your work. You were one of the first artists whose work really inspired me.”

Kate felt suddenly old. Old and fat. And too pale next to this woman. “Thank you,” she said. Yeah, thanks for making me feel my age.

“Ian speaks so highly of your work.”

“Does he?”

“Oh, yes, and you know that painting he’s got in his office? The landscape of the field? It’s just beautiful. Ian’s always telling people it’s your work.”

“We’re each other’s biggest fans,” Kate said with a slight smile. She felt Ian’s eyes on her, but didn’t look at him. It was an old joke between them. Something they’d heard a couple say once on TV, a smarmy thing that they’d adopted years ago because it was so absurd.

“That’s so great,” Bethany Forrester said, not picking up on the irony. “I think that sort of creative, collaborative relationship is very rare.”

“You’re not married?” Kate asked, hand creeping up to press at her temple.

Bethany laughed. “No. Not attached at all.” She lifted a thin-stemmed wineglass to her mouth and the silver bracelet vanished up her arm again. A demure swallow and she lowered the glass, patting her full lips with a cocktail napkin. “I’m not averse to it, just haven’t found the right person.”

“Someone to collaborate with?”

The younger woman nodded. “Exactly. I mean, it’s not as if there aren’t plenty of people out there—”

“Of course.” Kate imagined that Bethany Forrester had probably had her pick of plenty of men. A string of broken hearts from here to Poughkeepsie.

“—but finding the right person just takes so much work.”

Kate nodded as if she understood, but the truth was that she’d been so young when she met Ian that it was hard to remember what it had been like to be single. Being part of a couple for so long meant that her fantasy wasn’t of meeting someone new, but of being alone.

“I’ve devoted more time to my career. Between performing and teaching, I don’t really have much time,” Bethany said, adding to Ian, “And of course there’s fund-raising.”

“And the academic community appreciates that.” Ian’s had a dopey grin on his face.

Bethany laughed. “You mean the money.”

“Not just that. I’ve heard all about your contributions to the drama department.”

Trying not to roll her eyes, Kate stepped closer to Ian and took his arm. “We really need to get home to Grace.”

“But she’s spending—” Ian stopped short, and Kate knew he’d remembered. It was a code they’d invented when Grace was a baby, a way of politely signaling to one another that they wanted to leave whatever social event was boring them. It had been a long time since either of them had used it.

“Yeah, okay.” Ian said. He hid his annoyance from Bethany, but Kate could feel it. Twenty minutes later, they’d made the rounds of thank you and good-bye and were in the car heading toward home. Ian drove fast, with sharp, jerky turns that broadcast his mood as clearly as if he’d yelled at Kate. She hugged the passenger seat and pressed her aching head against the cool glass of the window.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said finally.

“What?”

“Act so superior to Bethany Forrester.”

“I thought I was nice to her.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t like her. Why? Because she liked you?”

“She likes you, Ian, not me.”

He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “If you were so determined not to enjoy yourself, why did you bother to come?”

“I thought you wanted me there.”

“I want you there if you want to be there, not if you’re going to have a miserable time.”

Kate shifted her head to stare at him. The movement intensified the thudding, and she had to blink it back. Did he really think she willed herself to be unhappy? “I did want to be there,” she said. “I wasn’t feeling bad, not at first. I ran into Jerry Virgoli.”

Ian made an exasperated sound. “That’s enough to give anyone a miserable night. What did he want?”

“Something about having an exhibit. He said he’d told you about it.”

“He’s part owner of a rinky-dink art gallery in town and acts as if he’s curator at the Met. It’s very small and not at all prestigious despite his delusions of grandeur. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Kate felt her stomach unknot a little. So it wasn’t that he’d hidden it from her because he thought she couldn’t handle the pressure.

“Everyone seemed to be talking about Lily Slocum.”

“I heard that, too. I guess it’s natural, people are always curious about things like that. Is that what upset you?” He glanced at her and reached out a hand to cup hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s horrible.”

“Yes it is. Poor girl. Everyone’s worried that the publicity is going to be bad for the campus. You don’t want parents to think they can’t send their kids here.”

He turned onto their street and she was struck, as always, by how quiet and dark it was at night, so unlike the city. “Wickfield’s a safe community,” he said. “What happened to Lily Slocum is awful, but that’s one homicide in what, a hundred years? It’s not like there’s a pattern here.”