"You mean you aren't pregnant?" His eyes brightened.
"No, I am."
"Oh." He dropped his head back on the pillow. "Jody, you can't face this alone. Lying here has given me a lot of time to think."
"Do you love Karen?"
"No. I haven't even gone out with her."
"But you want to."
He drew a long breath. "Yeah. But that was then. This is now."
"Will you walk again?"
"Yes." He spoke with determination. "The doctors say I'll never play football again . . . but they don't know me. I don't care what it takes. I will."
"Everyone's back at school. My dad confessed to the murders."
"Mom told me." He didn't know what to say. "I wish I could be at Homecoming."
"Team won't be worth squat without you."
"Paul Briscoe will do okay. He's just a sophomore, but he'll be good."
"Do you hate me?" Her eyes, misty, implored him.
"No. I hate myself."
"Did you tell anyone—"
"Of course not."
"Don't."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get rid of it."
He breathed hard, remaining quiet for a long time. "I wish you wouldn't do that."
"Sean, the truth is—I'm not ready to be a mother. You're not ready to be a father, either, and besides—it may not be yours."
"But you said—"
"I wanted to hurt you. It may be yours and it may not. So just forget it. Forget everything. My dad's in jail. Just remember—my dad's in jail."
"Why would he kill Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie?"
"I don't know."
His pain medication was wearing off. Sweat beaded on Sean's forehead. "We were having such a good time." He pushed the button for the nurse. "Jody, I need a shot."
"I'll go. Don't worry. You're sure you didn't tell anyone anything?"
"I didn't."
"I'll see you later." She passed Mr. Hallahan, who walked back into Sean's room the minute she left.
"She's the one."
"No." Grimacing, Sean pleaded, "Dad, get the nurse, will you? I really hurt."
67
That same night Cynthia Cooper and Little Mim sifted through papers at Little Mim's beautiful cottage on her mother's vast estate.
"Why do you think April finally changed her mind?" Little Mim said.
"Had to be that she heard about Roscoe's affair with Irene," Coop answered. "Her hero suddenly had feet of clay."
The minutes from the various committee meetings provided no surprises.
Roscoe's record book containing handwritten notes made after informal meetings or calls on possible donors did pack some punch.
After a meeting with Kendrick Miller, Roscoe had scrawled, "Discussed women's athletics, especially a new training room for the girls. Whirlpool bath. Won't give a penny. Cheap bastard."
On Father Michael's long prayers during assembly: "A simple 'Bless us, dear Lord' would suffice." After a particularly bruising staff meeting where a small but well-organized contingent opposed athletic expansion and a film department, he wrote concerning Sandy Brashiers, "Judas."
As Little Mim occasionally read pungent passages aloud, Cynthia, using a pocket calculator, went through the accounting books.
"I had no idea it cost so much money to run St. E's." She double-checked the figures.
"What hurts most is maintenance. The older buildings suck up money.
"Guess they were built before insulation."
"Old Main was put up in 1834."
Cynthia picked up the last book, a green clothbound book, longer than it was wide. She opened it to the figures page without checking the front. As she merrily clicked in numbers, she hummed. "Do you remember what cost five thousand dollars the first week of September? It says 'W.T.' " She pointed to the ledger.
"Doesn't ring a bell."
Cynthia punched in more numbers.
"Hey, here's a good one." Little Mim laughed, reading out loud. " 'Big Mim suggested I butter up Darla McKinchie and get her to pry money out of Kendrick. I told her Darla has no interest in St. Elizabeth's, in her husband's career and, as best I can tell, no affection for the state of Virginia . She replied, "How common!"
Little Mim shook her head. "Leave it to Mother. She can't ever let me have something for myself. I'm on the board, she isn't."
"She's trying to help."
Marilyn's hazel eyes clouded. "Help? My mother wants to run every committee, organization, potential campaign. She's indefatigable."
"What cost forty-one thousand dollars?"
Little Mim put down Roscoe's record book to look at the ledger. "Forty-one thousand dollars October twenty-eighth. Roscoe was dead by then." She grabbed the ledger, flipping back to the front. "Slush fund. What the hell is this?"
Coop couldn't believe she'd heard Little Mini swear. "I suppose most organizations have a kitty, although this is quite a large one."
"I'll say." Little Mini glanced over the incoming sums. "We'll get to the bottom of this." She reached for the phone, punching numbers as she exhaled loudly. "April, it's Marilyn Sanburne." She pressed the "speaker" button so that Coop could hear as well.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Actually, I am," came the curt reply. "Roscoe's record book is priceless. What is this green ledger?"
"I have no idea."
"April, don't expect me to believe you. Why else would you remove these papers and accounting books? You must have known about the slush fund."
"First of all, given everyone's temper these days, a public reading of Roscoe's record book is not a good idea. Second, I have no idea what the slush fund was. Roscoe never once mentioned it to me. I found that book in his desk."
"Could Maury have started giving St. Elizabeth's an endowment?"
"Without fanfare? He was going to give, all right, but we were going to have to kiss his ass in Macy's window."
Little Mim bit her lip. "April, I've misjudged you."
"Is that a formal apology?" April asked. Yes.
"I accept."
"Sandy Brashiers couldn't have handled this," Little Mim admit ted.
"He'd have fumbled the ball. All we need is for the papers to get wind of this before we know what it's all about," April said.
"You have no idea?" Little Mim pressed.
"No. But you'll notice the incoming sums are large and regular. Usually between the tenth and fifteenth of each month."
"Let me see that." Coop snatched the green book out of Little Mim's hands. "Damn!"
"What?" Little Mim said.
Cynthia grabbed the phone. "April, seventy-five thousand dollars came in the week after Roscoe died. It's not reflected in the ledger, but there is a red dot by October tenth. For the other deposits, there's a red dot with a black line through it."
"Primitive but effective bookkeeping," April said.
"Did you know a Jiffy bag with seventy-five thousand dollars arrived in Roscoe's mailbox at Crozet on October"—she figured a moment—"twelfth. I'm pretty sure it was the twelfth."
"I didn't know a thing about it."
"But sometimes you would pick up Roscoe's personal mail for him?"
"Infrequently . . . but yes."
"Do you remember other Jiffy bags?"
"Cooper, most books are sent in bags like that."
"Do you swear to me you don't know what this money represents?"
"I swear, but I know it represents something not right. That's why I cleaned everything out. I didn't mind sitting in jail. I felt safe."
"One last question."
"Shoot."
"Do you believe that Kendrick Miller killed Roscoe and Maury?"
"Roscoe loathed him. But, no, I don't."
"He says he blew up in a rage."
"Show him the ledger."
"I'm going to do just that. One more question. I promise this is the last one. Do you think Naomi knows about the ledger?"
A pause. "If she did, we'd see the money. Even if just a pair of expensive earrings."
"Thanks, April."
"Are you going to prosecute me for obstructing justice?"
"I'm not the legal eagle, but I'll do what I can."
"Okay." April hung up, satisfied.
"Marilyn, I need this ledger. I won't publicize it, but I need to show it to Kendrick and Naomi. This is starting to look like money-laundering. Question is, was Kendrick Miller involved in it?"