Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (25 page)

Before, when he’d claimed her father was always there with
them, he’d been speaking metaphorically. That had made him uneasy enough. Now,
Dad was literally here. In Madison’s house. His actual, physical presence had
Troy’s doubts biting deep. A part of him was thinking,
Crunch time
. Madison had to make a decision.

And the longer the silence continued, the more he feared she
had made it already.

Troy finally gritted his teeth late in the morning on Sunday
and phoned
her.

“Oh, hi.” Madison sounded less than enthusiastic to hear from
him. Imagination? He didn’t know. Her voice was low, almost a murmur.
“Um...Dad’s still here. This isn’t a good time.”

Troy’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t said his name.
So Dad doesn’t know who she is talking to?

“He stayed the whole weekend?”

“Yes. Yesterday we toured wineries and we’re just heading out
the door to have brunch at Cordray.”

Cordray was the fanciest—and priciest—restaurant in town. Troy
hated to think how much even brunch there would run.

“I won’t keep you then,” he said.

“Dad’s been really opening up to me.” Nearly whispering, she
sounded awed.

He wondered what he was supposed to say to that.
How nice?
When what Troy was thinking was that the
timing of Dad making nice was suspicious, given his curiosity about the
investigation. Troy wanted to say, yeah, that’s great, but why didn’t Dad open
up to you twenty years ago, when you really needed him? Or even ten years
ago?

Angry and frustrated and yes, damn it, jealous, he still
managed to clamp his mouth shut. After a minute, he said, “I’m going to be out
of town the next day or two.”

“Oh?” But she didn’t sound very interested. In fact, he heard a
murmur, as if she’d momentarily covered the phone. “Listen, I really have to go
now,” she said into the phone.

Troy had to work to get any words past the ball in his throat.
“See you” seemed enough. He ended the call without waiting for a response. Small
of him, but, goddamn it, his hands were shaking.

His worst fears had just come true. With Daddy here, “opening
up” to her, Troy might as well not exist. He hadn’t heard even a hint that she’d
missed him, had been thinking about him. Nothing.

He’d been afraid all along that he couldn’t compete with the
asshole of a father who filled her world.

So now I know.

Despite everything, Troy was stunned. Sick. Hurting.

After talking to Madison, he went out to his garage-studio with
the intention of sitting down at the wheel for the first time in weeks. But
instead he looked blindly around and knew he wouldn’t throw any pieces worth
firing.

For the first time, he got a genuine glimmer of what his mother
had been going through, why Dad’s death had completely wrecked her. Grief was
one thing; this was something else. If a buddy, devastated by a breakup, had
said to him, “I can’t live without her,” he would have considered it romantic
drivel.

He felt as if he’d been in a car accident, was in shock but had
somehow stumbled out of the car. The pain would hit any minute. Right now, the
worst was the disbelief.

Even with all his recent doubts, he had believed Madison loved
him, too. Underneath the fear had been a completely unjustified faith that they
were meant for each other.

Troy walked back into the house and straight to the
refrigerator. A beer or two or six sounded real good right now.

Mom,
he thought,
I am so sorry. Now I get it.

He tossed his phone on the kitchen counter and carried the
first two bottles out to the patio.

* * *

H
E
FELT
LIKE
shit the next morning
when he boarded a twenty-seat commuter plane that took him to Walla Walla, where
he caught a flight on a slightly larger plane to Boise.

There was a good reason why he rarely drank alcohol, aside from
the example his parents had set and the fact that he hated feeling out of
control. He also didn’t metabolize it well and got hangovers.

Wouldn’t you know, the airplane bounced and bucked over
scattered cumulus clouds like a ride at the county fair, making his stomach
lurch. Even at his best, Troy wasn’t a fan of flying. His fingers dug into the
armrests and he braced his feet on the floor, as if that would do any good if
they went down. He closed his eyes, then slitted them to verify that there
actually was a puke bag in the slot on the back of the seat in front of him.
Then he shut his eyes again and endured.

The airplane bounced a couple of times on the runway, too, an
appropriate ending to a flight he’d rather not have taken. Head throbbing,
stomach rolling, he exited the plane and headed straight for the car rental
place.

Troy made himself stop for lunch before bearding Margaret
Berlongieri Chaffee in her place of business. A sandwich settled his stomach
enough for him to tolerate a couple of ibuprofen for the headache. At this
point, he wasn’t letting himself think about Madison.

Who had finally left a timid message last night.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t talk this morning. It was sort of a
strange weekend, but good. Um, I don’t think you said where you were going.” Her
voice had become more and more hesitant. “Well, I guess I’ll wait until you
call.”

When hell freezes over,
he’d
thought, his mood savage.
She guesses she’ll wait?
He guessed she’d eventually get the point when he
didn’t
call.

And yeah, Troy knew his behavior wasn’t very mature, and
probably he’d get over it, convince himself he’d misinterpreted her end of that
last conversation and call. Because he was pathetically in love.

But right now, he had a job to do.

He parked and walked into the hospital where Ms. Chaffee worked
in the business office. He showed his badge and asked to speak to her.
Wide-eyed, the receptionist scuttled away and a moment later a rather plump
woman with improbably red hair emerged from one of the small offices. Radiating
shock and dismay, she hurried forward.

“You!” She turned her head sharply when the receptionist
returned. Her eyes were so dilated, he’d have suspected a head injury if he
hadn’t known better.

“I’m Detective Troyer,” he agreed. “It’s not very private in
here.” The offices were little better than cubicles. “I saw a coffee place
across the street.”

After a moment she nodded jerkily. She collected her purse and
excused herself to the now avidly curious receptionist.

The coffee shop was empty enough; they had it almost to
themselves. It wasn’t a Starbucks, but otherwise the ambiance wasn’t that
different from the coffee shop in Seattle where he’d sat down with Sally
Yee.

This time he ordered an iced chai tea, Margaret one of those
frothy sweet drinks that were really desserts laced with caffeine.

They sat at the back and looked at each other. Troy saw a woman
who looked her age and maybe a little more. He wondered if she really was a
redhead. She was buxom, which would have appealed to a womanizer like Stephen
Coleman.

“I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Margaret’s voice shook with the force of her emotions.

“You’d be better off if you’d said, ‘yes, I saw Sally Yee and
was so embarrassed I ran away, so I don’t know what else I can tell you,’” he
said mildly. “I’m afraid you made me curious, Ms. Chaffee.”

“I don’t understand why.” Her stare was defiant, but the fear
was there in her hazel eyes. “I never went into the gym. I
did
run away.”

“Did you know Mr. Coleman’s previous lover had been another
student?”

After a moment she shook her head dumbly.

“But when you saw Ms. Yee, you understood.”

She bent her head and looked down at her cup. “Yes.”

Where the hell was this going? His instincts told him she was
telling the truth—she hadn’t gone into McKenna. So what could she possibly have
seen or done that, thirty-five years later, she still didn’t want to say out
loud?

“What did Mr. Coleman do once you pulled away?” Troy asked.

“He called after me, but I didn’t stop.”

“Did he follow you?” Hell, maybe this wasn’t about Mitch King
at all. Had the bastard raped this woman?

She shook her head, still not looking at him.

“Did he go on into the gym?”

Her answer was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

A nod.

He filed that away. Why had no one seen Stephen Coleman once he
entered the building?

Chance. Killers got lucky, like anyone else.

Refocusing on Margaret, he thought,
Okay.
Now what?

“When did you hear about the murder?”

“The next morning at breakfast.” She didn’t mind telling him
that. “Everybody in line at the cafeteria was talking about it.”

“Did you know Mitchell King?”

“I sort of knew who he was.”

She’d been a sophomore, he recalled from his notes. No reason
she would have gotten to know a senior. Unless, of course, she’d been a
blackmail victim. Troy didn’t believe she was, though; if anything, she’d
relaxed subtly when he asked about her relationship with King. She felt safe
there. So whatever had her wound so tight wasn’t personal between her and this
mostly unknown senior.

“Did you have a final that morning?”

She visibly tightened up again as she shook her head.

She really,
really
didn’t want to
meet his eyes, which intrigued Troy.

“What did you do after breakfast?”

For a long time, she didn’t move. Maybe a minute passed, second
by second. And then she did lift her head, and he saw torment in her eyes. He
was careful not to move a muscle.

“I went to see Stephen. I knew where he lived. I’d...been
there.” Shame stained her cheeks, but her voice was growing stronger. “I
thought...maybe I had misunderstood Sally’s reaction.”

“Where did he live, Ms. Chaffee?”

She named a street and he nodded. “It was only a couple of
blocks from my dorm.”

“Was he home when you got there?”

“I didn’t think so at first.” All the misery her youthful self
had felt was there on her face and in her voice, but something else now, too.
Resolution, and maybe relief. “Then I smelled smoke.”

He must have twitched. Or maybe something happened to his
expression because she flinched, retreating until her back must have been
pressing painfully against the hard chair.

“From his chimney?” Troy asked, as if merely curious.

Margaret eyed him warily for a moment, then shook her head. “It
seemed to be coming...over the house. So I went around and saw him in the
backyard. He had a rake in his hand, but he wasn’t burning that much. It was
weird because, you know, it was almost Christmas. I mean, the leaves would have
long since fallen. And the smoke smelled funny. I remember gagging.”

“Did you look closely at the fire?”

“I think he was burning clothes,” she said flatly.

“When he saw you, how did he react?”

“He seemed crazy. His hair was standing on end and his eyes
were wild. It was like he’d slept in his clothes. He said, ‘What are you doing
here?’ in a rude voice.”

She was staring into the past. Troy had seen people like this
before, reliving an experience they had suppressed for too long. He was careful
to speak softly, not to make any big movements.

“Did you ask him about the night before?”

“First I said, ‘What was that with Sally Yee?’ And he said
nothing, as if he didn’t know what had gotten into me. I asked what he was
burning and he said it was trash and none of my business.” Her eyes focused
suddenly, intense and burning, on Troy. “I said, ‘Did you hear about Mitchell
King? You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you? Like see what happened,
or...’” She swallowed. “He started yelling at me—was I nuts, how could I even
say something like that? And I clapped a hand over my mouth because the smoke
had drifted my way and I gagged. Then I noticed his shoes. They were white
athletic shoes, I think pretty new, and they were splashed with something I at
first thought was paint, but it was a rust color.”

“Did he lay a hand on you?”

She shook her head. “I got scared and turned and ran.” Tears
sparkled in her eyes. “I was in love with him,” she said so quietly he had to
lean forward to hear her. “I told myself what I saw couldn’t be what I thought
it was. I think I almost believed it.”

“Did you continue your relationship with him?”

Shame-faced, she shook her head. “I withdrew from his class the
next semester. I avoided him and never talked to him again. I talked to my
parents about changing colleges, but I couldn’t tell them why and they patted me
and said look what good grades you’re getting, of course you don’t want to
leave. When I got back that fall for my junior year, I heard he was gone. I was
so relieved.”

Troy smiled at her. “You have been an enormous help, Ms.
Chaffee. Thank you for having the courage to tell me this.”

“He did it, didn’t he? He killed Mitchell King.”

“I think it’s possible he did,” Troy said carefully. “I will
need corroborating evidence that may be impossible to find, however. But yes. I
also think you were very smart to run that morning.”

Her breath hitched. “I should have told.”

He didn’t have to say,
Yes, you should
have.
It wasn’t necessary. She knew.

“Why did he do it? He was a
professor.
And Mitchell King was only a student.”

Troy told her about the blackmail scheme, and her expression
became even more stricken. “The whole thing happened because of
me?
”

“No. It happened because of him.” Troy let his voice grow hard.
“Coleman preyed on female students. You weren’t the first, or probably even the
second or third. You were a kid. Nineteen years old.”