Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (8 page)

CHAPTER SIX

“A
RE
YOU
READY
?
” Troy asked
quietly.

Madison nodded even though she was consumed with guilt at the
trap she was laying for her own father—and that’s what this was, however much
she wanted to believe she was doing the right thing. She closed her eyes
briefly. This had been the deal. Troy had come up with a list of questions that
now lay in front of her. His handwriting was bold and easy to read in case she
panicked midway. They’d talked through every eventuality, too, including how far
she should go with the claim that they had a witness who placed Guy at the gym
within the same time frame as the murder.

Troy looked pointedly at the phone in her hand. Sucking in a
deep breath, she found her father’s number and, after only the briefest of
pauses, pushed the call button.

He answered after the third ring. “Madison. Good to hear from
you.”

That was warm and fuzzy, for him. He’d never called her by any
pet names. She had been about ten years old when she’d shyly told him that Mom
had started calling her Maddie. Dad had snapped, “What’s she trying to do to
you? We named you Madison. That’s a name with dignity and strength. Don’t let
her demean you, Madison.”

Now, she understood a little of what he’d meant. Madison
was
stronger, Maddie softer, maybe more feminine. But
at the time a pet name had translated into her mind as affection, and she had
been desperate to feel loved by either of her parents. Nonetheless, the next
time she saw her mother, she’d firmly told her that she preferred to be called
by her full name.

“Dad,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to put you on speakerphone.
I’ve been teaching myself to quilt, and I thought I could do it while we’re
talking.”

“Quilt? Good God, Madison.”

There’s the Dad I know and love,
she thought wryly. “I’m enjoying it,” she said simply, touching the speaker
button on her phone and setting it down on the coffee table, halfway between her
and Troy. “How was your trip to Japan?”

He told her, surprising her by being more expansive than usual.
Very aware of Troy sitting across from her, his elbows braced on his knees and
his eyes keen, she nonetheless asked questions in appropriate spots and even
laughed a few times at her father’s stories.

“How did the great time capsule weekend go?” he asked,
surprising her again. He’d remembered. “Did you raise a lot of money?”

“I did.” She smiled. “Even better than I expected. Did you know
Rob Dayton?”

“Software,” he said promptly. “He was a year or two behind me,
I think. Can’t say I really knew him, but I’ve followed his career
recently.”

“He wrote a check for a million dollars.”

“He can afford it,” her father said. “I put a check in the
mail, by the way. Have you received it yet?”

“No. Thank you, Dad. I appreciate your support.” She thought
about asking how much the check was for, but stole a glance at Troy and closed
her mouth. Dad wouldn’t be stingy—he’d never bother with something like a
fifty-dollar contribution, but she didn’t suppose he would be supporting his
alma mater to the tune of a million bucks, either. Dad’s memories of his time at
Wakefield didn’t seem to be that fond.

Her eyes met Troy’s, which a minute ago had glinted with
amusement when she’d been so obviously indulging in the self-satisfaction of her
success. Now his eyes were resolute.

“Dad, there was a lot of talk this weekend about that murder
here on the campus your senior year. You never said much about it.”

The silence was longer than it ought to have been. Madison
caught herself leaning forward until she practically hung over the phone. Troy
stared at it, too, lines deepening on his forehead.

“It didn’t have anything to do with me,” her father said,
sounding abrupt. “Shook everybody up, of course. Sure as hell, nobody took a
sauna by himself again the rest of that academic year. Having the police on
campus day after day asking questions guaranteed one hell of a finals week, I
can tell you.”

“Did Mitchell King have a girlfriend?”

He made a humming sound as though he really was thinking back.
“I seem to remember they’d broken up not that long before. The police must have
looked in that direction, but word was she had a solid alibi. Some all-night
study thing, I think.”

“It doesn’t sound like a woman’s kind of crime,” Madison
suggested tentatively.

Troy nodded his approval at her.

“No, it doesn’t, but if you make someone mad enough, who knows
what can happen.”

“The few times you’ve mentioned him, you didn’t sound as if you
liked Mitchell King.”

“I don’t remember ever talking about him.” Clipped and
forbidding, this was her father’s
I’m-going-to-shut-down-this-whole-topic-of-conversation voice.

“After I took the job here, we talked a little bit about
it.”

Madison would never have believed the atmosphere could be felt
so intensely through an open phone line. But during that silence, she changed
her mind. Maybe it was so charged because they couldn’t see each other’s
expressions. Or, gee, maybe it had something to do with her own gigantic
omission, the words unsaid:
Dad, just so you know, there’s
a cop here next to me listening to everything you say
.

You think?

“I guess we did,” her father said after the prolonged pause.
“No, Mitch was a sly little asshole.”

Surprised, Madison raised her eyebrows. Her father was always
blunt, but rarely crude.

“I don’t think anyone liked him,” he continued, “except for the
girlfriend, I guess. Temporarily.”

Troy mouthed a question.

“Sly? What’s that mean?” she asked, obedient to the
prompting.

“We lived on the same hall freshman year. I caught him a couple
of times listening at closed doors.” Distaste tightened her father’s voice. “He
liked knowing things. Then he could make use of what he knew. Get jabs in.”

“Into you?”

“Of course not,” her father snapped. “He got a reputation,
though.”

“Do you think that’s why he was killed? Because he learned
something he shouldn’t have about somebody?”

“What’s with the questions, Madison?” He suddenly sounded very
controlled and cold. “The investigation isn’t being reopened, is it?”

She looked at Troy, who nodded.

“There are rumors it might be. I’m guessing the college would
encourage it if the police decide to. You’d think people would have forgotten
about it, but they haven’t. Even the admissions officers still have to tap dance
around questions when they’re out promoting the college. Laying the whole thing
to rest would be really good.”

“There’s not a chance in hell after this many years,” her
father said brusquely. “Take it from me.”

Troy tilted his head in interest.

“Why do you say that, Dad?” Madison asked hastily.

“If anybody had seen anything or knew anything, it would have
come out then. I thought the cops figured it was a transient. Maybe even that
killer they arrested in Spokane a few years back.”

She knew who he meant. “I’m pretty sure he killed only women,
Dad. Anyway, once he’d been caught he confessed to some murders they hadn’t
known he committed. This wasn’t one of them.”

“Well, I wish anyone luck who thinks he’s going to try, poor
fool.” She could all but see his dismissive shrug.

Troy sat up. “Go for it,” he murmured, his compelling gaze
holding hers.

She swallowed. “Dad, I’m partly asking because I heard someone
say he saw
you
at the gym sometime in the right time
period. He assumed the police had talked to you, but you never mentioned it so I
was curious.”

Oh, God—she didn’t sound like herself at all. That had come off
as canned, which it was.

“What?” His voice shimmered with fury, although he spoke barely
above a whisper. “Who the hell said that, Madison?”

“I don’t really know.” She squeezed her hands together. “It was
somebody in a group, you know, just talking about the murder. I couldn’t tell
who said it.”

“If the police start investigating, then that’s who they should
talk to.” Every word sounded bitten off. “The only reason to sling around that
kind of accusation is to deflect attention.”

Madison couldn’t help noticing that her scrupulously honest
father hadn’t said,
I wasn’t there.

She closed her eyes, unable to look at Troy. “Did you go to the
gym at all that night, Dad?”

There was another of those quivering silences, this one raising
goose bumps on her arms.

“You know me better than that,” he said harshly. “At least, I’d
like to think you do. No, the police didn’t talk to me. They had no reason
to.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.” The quaver in her voice made her mad.
She had always quailed before her father’s usually quiet, scathing anger, and
she despised herself for it.

His anger
was
quiet, she reminded
herself. Guy Laclaire had a biting tongue, but he had never been violent. Never
even threatened violence. As Dad would put it, he might have chewed Mitch King a
new one, but he certainly wouldn’t have bludgeoned him.

Not my father.

“It’s a mistake to reopen that case,” he said with finality.
“If anyone asks you, that’s what you’ll tell them. I have calls to make,
Madison. Glad this thing went off well for you. I only hope it didn’t stir up
crap that had settled at the bottom where it belonged.”

She barely had a chance to say goodbye before he ended the
call. After a moment, she leaned forward and hung up her phone. Then,
reluctantly, she raised her gaze to meet Troy’s.

* * *

H
E
FELT
LIKE
an asshole.
Damn,
Troy thought. He should have followed his first
instinct and taken his father’s testimony-from-the-grave to Davidson. He should
never have involved Madison, who looked miserable.

My doing.

Yeah, hindsight was a wonderful thing, he thought sardonically.
Too little, too late.

“This is hard on you. I shouldn’t have asked you to call
him.”

“I offered. I wanted to,” she reminded him.

“Did you?”

“I wanted...” What she wanted died unspoken.

“To turn suspicion from your father. I know.” He hesitated.
Say it.
“I’m not so sure we managed that.”

Alarm flashed in her pretty brown eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Troy said, as gently as he could. “Your
dad worked around the question real hard. He never said, ‘Hell no, I wasn’t
anywhere near McKenna Center that night.’” Troy held her eyes. “You were right.
He is an honest man.”

Madison gave a cry of despair and buried her face in her
hands.

Moving swiftly, Troy left his chair and sat beside her, pulling
her into his arms, though she stayed stiff and even briefly struggled.

“Hey,” he murmured into her hair. “We knew it might not be
easy. Don’t panic.”

She sagged against him, her face buried into the crook of his
neck. While he was expecting tears from her, he didn’t feel any. A couple of
long shudders shook her body. Troy kept on with the reassurances, his hand
making soothing circles on her back. At last he felt her take a deep breath,
after which she carefully separated herself from him. However reluctant he was
to let go, he didn’t try to hold on to her.

Face set, eyes dark, she looked at him. “You’re right. At least
he didn’t lie.”

Troy wouldn’t have put it quite like that; Guy had definitely
tried to lie by omission and misdirection. But to give him his due, that was a
step above the flat-out, direct lie he’d told his best friend the morning after
the murder.

“Impressions?” he asked Madison.

She curved her mouth into a smile that fell flat. “He’s utterly
opposed to the investigation being reopened.”

In turn, Troy grunted something like a laugh. “Yeah, I got
that. Are you going to follow orders and tell me it’s a mistake?”

“I think we can call it too late.” She made a face at him.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Except for the one betraying moment, she was hiding what she
was feeling well enough. She’d promised to help him get at the truth, and she
was following through, however personally devastating the process was. And
whatever the truth might turn out to be.

Madison Laclaire had guts. He hadn’t realized until now how
much he valued that particular quality in a woman. Somehow the issue had never
arisen before. Probably because he’d never been really serious about any
woman.

Or it could be that this surge of admiration and even relief
came in response to his recent observation that his own mother lacked this brand
of moral courage.

Nice thought.

He shook it off. “Coffee would be good.”

He followed Madison to the kitchen and leaned one hip against
the tiled edge of the countertop, watching as she poured from the carafe that
sat ready. He liked the room even though, according to her, it was a work in
process. The cupboards were old, dating from the 1940s or ’50s, he guessed.
Instead of replacing them, she’d laid on a new coat of paint—a dark, rich
red—then tiled the counter and backsplash in a checkerboard of white and dark
red. The floor had been stripped to the original oak planks and refinished.

After she handed him his cup, Troy carried it to the round oak
table by a window that looked out on her small backyard.

She sat across from him, cradling her own mug.

“He was there that night, wasn’t he?”

“Sounded like it to me.” He hated seeing her distress.
“Remember, he may have been there but saw nothing, and was only trying to stay
off the police radar.”

“But why would he care?”