“A love letter.”
“Close. Love and money are like ham and eggs in Smedler’s mind... Here. Better cash it, junior, before the old boy discovers he’s flipped.”
Aragon opened the envelope she gave him. It contained a check for two weeks’ salary and a note in Smedler’s handwriting: Giving you 2 wks leove of obsence. Don’t blob. WHS.
“Blob?” Aragon said. “Is this in code?”
“Smedler makes his o’s and a’s alike. He’s giving you two weeks’ leave of absence and doesn’t want you to blab to the others in the office... Why did you ask him for a leave of absence?”
“I’ve contracted an obscure tropical disease which requires prolonged—”
“Come off it. Why did you ask him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then he really has flipped. Kind of a shame. He’s not actually a bad guy underneath all that evil.”
He got in the car and turned on the ignition but Charity didn’t take the hint.
“I bet I know just where you’re heading, junior,” she said. “To San Francisco to see your wife.”
“Mr. Smedler orders me not to blob, I don’t blob.”
“He didn’t mean me. He couldn’t. I’m his confidential secretary.”
“You are a blobbermouth and he knows it.”
“Oh come on, junior. Just give me a hint.”
“I’m going back to school,” Aragon said with some truth. “I need a refresher course.”
4
Holbrook Hall was located on the former estate of a turn-of-the-century cattle baron. Its stone walls were part of a government work project of the thirties but the main gate with its electronic eye was strictly modern and so were the outbuildings scattered here and there throughout the grounds. They were redwood structures that looked like bungalows.
The atmosphere was strangely quiet for a school. There was no shouting, no laughter, only the noise of a power mower and the whinnying of horses. As he passed the corral Aragon saw that two of the horses were under saddle and had recently been ridden too hard and too fast. A moment later the riders came into view, a pair of adolescent boys wearing western boots and cowboy hats pulled down over their foreheads. At the sound of the car they raised their thumbs for a ride.
Aragon opened the door and they both got in the front. They were about fourteen years old, dirty, tired and morose. Tears mingled with sweat, and water leaked from the canteens they carried.
“What are you guys up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Not a thing.”
“We took a ride.”
“We got caught.”
“We going to visit my mom in New York.”
“We forgot the sandwiches.”
“We going to surprise her.”
“My mom, too.”
“She’s not your mom. We’re not brothers.”
“My mom’s right tight close by in New Orleans.”
“We forgot the sandwiches.”
The boys were let out at one of the bungalows and Aragon proceeded on up the driveway to the main house of the estate, a Mediterranean-style classic. Its tile-floored foyer served as the school’s reception room.
At one of the desks a young man sat typing, slowly and thoughtfully, as though he was writing his memoirs. The other desk was empty except for a large blue bird eating peanuts. The nuts were being shelled for him by a teenaged girl with the slant-eyed, sweet-tempered look of a Down’s syndrome child.
The man said, “Knock it off, Sandy. We have company.”
“A friend?”
“Sure.”
The girl rose, the bird flew out the window, and the young man turned back to Aragon.
“Are you Mr. Aragon?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Holbrook’s expecting you. Lovely morning. Nothing beats spring. Come this way.”
Mrs. Holbrook’s office with its red leather upholstery and semicircular desk was more imposing than its occupant. She was a tiny woman with short curly white hair and dimples and soft blue eyes that appeared somewhat baffled.
“Please sit down, Mr. Aragon.”
“Thanks.”
“This is a distressing situation. A school like ours is hard hit by any scandal. We are dependent on grants and donations. Our fees are high but they simply don’t cover our costs and we need benefactors like Mr. Jasper. He’s been very generous in the past... And there’s Cleo herself, of course. She must be considered.”
“Yes.” He wondered how far down on the consideration list Cleo rated.
“The other students don’t know, naturally. I let it out that she was suffering from chicken pox — I picked something contagious just in case any of them thought of going to visit her... I must say I’m surprised at Cleo. It’s not like her to do something like this.”
“What is like her?”
“To withdraw when things don’t suit her, to refuse food and wander by herself down to the stable or the poultry pens. These young people often have a strong rapport with animals. She’s a timid girl, overindulged, overprotected. A positive step like running away and being able to stay away this long is quite amazing. Nothing has prepared me for it. Well, practically nothing.”
“Does ‘practically nothing’ mean a little something?”
She hesitated before replying. “At the last staff meeting Cleo’s name came up. One of the counselors reported that she seemed to be gaining self-confidence, was even getting a little feisty. He felt it was a step forward and the others agreed.”
“By others, are you referring to teachers or counselors?”
“Here they’re the same thing. We avoid the word teacher because it sometimes has a negative connotation these days.”
“What counselor made the observation about Cleo at the staff meeting?”
“Roger Lennard.”
“Did he have a special interest in Cleo?”
“Not in the way you might mean,” she said dryly. “We hire as counselors for the girls men who are not — ah, interested in women. And vice versa for the boys. It minimizes staff-student romances, which can be a problem even in a place like this. Some of the parents refuse to admit that these young people have the same sexual drives as other young people. We deal with them as best we can.”
“There’s no chance that Cleo was romantically involved with Mr. Lennard?”
“None.”
“None?”
“He’s gay as a goose.”
She walked to the other end of the room, pausing to straighten one of the class pictures hanging on the wall. She had a small, neat figure and her yellow linen suit looked expensive. She wore no jewelry except a wedding band.
“Exactly what’s the matter with Cleo, Mrs. Holbrook?”
“Most likely a combination of things. It’s hard to separate mental retardation from emotional retardation. Cleo’s a dependent, passive little creature. She’s never made a decision in her life, never been expected to, wouldn’t be allowed to, probably. So we can’t tell for sure how she’d act on her own. I myself suspect that among other factors she has a mild form of epilepsy. But our attempts to get an electroencephalogram were unsuccessful. As soon as she saw the needles she became hysterical and the Jaspers took her home. For accurate results, the patient’s cooperation in an EEG is necessary, so no further attempts were made. What a pity. Because if epilepsy should turn out to be part of her problem, it can be treated. Another method of treatment, of course, would be complete separation from her brother and his wife... Here I go again, speaking out of turn, diagnosing, practicing medicine without a license. But when you’ve been in a place like this for over thirty years you see so much repetition it tends to make you oversimplify. Cleo is, like all of us, complex. As we say, exceptional.”