“So you weren’t surprised by her death.”
“No,” Karen said.
“But if you—”
“We have a garden in the back,” Karen interrupted. “Do you like gardens?”
“I don’t know much about them.”
“You don’t have to,” Karen said. She smiled delicately. “I’m glad you came tonight. I guess you can understand that. I never thought it would feel this odd.”
“What?”
“To be absolutely alone.”
Frank nodded. “I’d like to see the garden,” he said.
“Good,” Karen said. “Come with me.”
He followed her around the side of the house to where the garden swept out before them, wet and gleaming in the evening dew. It was softly illuminated by small, bluish floodlights. There was a circular marble fountain, and here and there assorted pieces of statuary rose from flowerbeds or peeped over slender walls of carefully manicured hedge. It was beautiful, and for a moment Frank found himself oddly moved by it, as if the garden were a beguiling vision of an order and a contentment that were beyond his own grasp.
“We don’t cultivate anything that’s really exotic,” Karen explained. “The demanding ones just require too much.” She glanced at Frank. “Only the really hearty ones can make it on their own.”
“Do you have a greenhouse?” Frank asked.
“No. Only the garden.”
“Did Angelica like the garden?”
Karen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t ever forget where you are or what you’re doing, do you?”
Frank felt himself bristle slightly. “There aren’t too many things worth doing,” he said.
She turned away from him. “Well, do you like the garden?”
“It’s all right.”
“So you don’t like it?”
“It’s nice,” Frank said.
“What do you like, Mr. Clemons?”
“The streets.”
“Why?”
“They’re not like this,” Frank said, nodding toward the garden. “They’re not controlled.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I think that once in a while everybody ought to have to put everything on the line. Maybe that’s why I like the streets.”
“Violence, you mean?”
“If it comes to that.”
“But violence doesn’t solve things, does it?”
“I’ve seen it solve a few.”
She waited a moment, as if considering her next question.
“Was Angelica murdered?” she asked finally.
“I think so,” Frank told her.
“Yes,” Karen whispered. She shivered slightly, despite the warm, musty air that surrounded them. “I think I’d better go in, now.”
Together, they walked back around the house.
“That’s Angelica’s room,” Karen said. She pointed to a single dark rectangle. “She always kept the shade drawn.”
“I’ll have to go through it sometime,” Frank told her. “Is tomorrow all right?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here all day.”
Karen walked up the steps, then turned back toward him. “Go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll wait until you’re gone.”
It seemed an odd request, but Frank did not hesitate to honor it. As he walked toward his car, he knew that she was watching him, but he did not know why. And yet, he believed that he had somehow managed to break through to her. He could feel her eyes upon him as he walked away, and he knew that there was no hostility in them. He could feel some sort of line uniting them, one that stretched beyond the approaching gate, and farther still, to the other side of the city where the streets still clung to their anger, and his room waited for him like a lonely child.
10
It was almost nine the next morning when Frank arrived at Northfield Academy. It was located only a few miles from Angelica’s house, and its grounds were shaded by similarly elegant trees. A rich summer greenness swept out all around the few buildings that dotted the campus; their exteriors looked as if they’d been designed to remind students of the glory that was Greece. The main building was larger than the rest, and its tall, Doric columns looked down upon a wide, cobblestone driveway.
The summer session had already begun, and Frank made his way toward the building through a steady stream of students. They were very well dressed in the latest teenage fashions, and in their midst, Frank felt like some bit of flotsam that had somehow managed to enter a bright, shimmering stream.
The crowds of young people thickened as he entered the building. They flowed around him in all directions, glancing at him indifferently and continuing their own daily routines. But one of them finally took pity and stopped in front of him.
“You look lost,” she said.
“I am.”
The girl smiled cheerfully. “Maybe I can help you.”
“I’m looking for the headmaster’s office.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” the girl said brightly. “Just go straight down this hallway. It’s the last door on your right.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, and did as she had told him.
A single desk confronted him as he went through the door. A well-dressed middle-aged woman sat behind it. A short, slightly overweight man in gold-rimmed glasses stood over her, pointing something out in a letter. “Just change that one line,” he said, “and then get it out right away. Mr. Douglas has been expecting it for a while.” He laughed lightly. “I think we’ve sunk the hook in pretty deep on this one, and it’s time to reel it in.”
The two of them laughed conspiratorially, then the man looked up at Frank.
“May I help you?” he asked.
Frank pulled out his badge. “Frank Clemons,” he said.
The man’s face whitened. “Oh, yes, so sad,” he said. “Please come in.” He hustled Frank into an adjoining office and quickly closed the door. “The other detective said you’d be coming by. I can’t tell you how sorry we all are about Angelica.”
Frank took out his notebook. “Of course,” he said.
“There’s some talk of a memorial gift, actually,” the man said.
“You’re Albert Morrison, right?” Frank asked. “The headmaster?”
“That’s correct,” Morrison told him. “And as I was saying, a memorial gift has been discussed. Arthur Cummings has expressed an interest.”
Frank looked up. “You know Cummings?”
“Of course. He’s one of the trustees of the Academy.”
Frank wrote it down.
“And of course,” Morrison went on, “he’s very interested that the school be protected.”
“Protected? From what?”
“Well, to use an old Victorian word, scandal,” Morrison said. “I mean, she had been a student here. As you know, she was a member of the senior class. She only graduated a few weeks ago.” He smiled thinly. “One other thing, I want you to know that Northfield will cooperate fully with your investigation. After all, we consider every student, whether past or present, to be a member of our extended family.”
“When did Angelica graduate?”
“June first.”
Frank wrote it down.
“On the grounds of the Academy,” Morrison added. “That’s been our tradition.”
“How old is the school?”
“Fifteen years old,” Morrison said. “Angelica was a good student here. Her death is a tragic loss for the entire community of Northfield. I do think a memorial gift would be appropriate. I was thinking of a flagstaff, or, if the donations warrant it, perhaps even a new addition to the theater.”
“How many students were in her graduating class?” Frank asked.
“Twenty-five,” Morrison said. “It was a beautiful ceremony. We had a string ensemble. They played Mozart.”