The Affliction Page 22

  “What, a naked selfie?”

  “Yes. She wasn’t very good at it; you can see her arm holding the phone and most of her face is cut off, but you can see her mouth and enough of the rest of her. But for the boy, it was a joke. Or a bet. She was so young, she didn’t have much to show off, but he took a screenshot and apparently posted it someplace where all their friends could see, and then her phone filled up with slut-shaming, including from the girls she used to group-text with ten times a day.”

  “That’s all on her phone?”

  “Yup. Boys asking for BJs, girls calling her pathetic, and thirsty, and a slut.”

  “I suppose a BJ is what I think it is.”

  “I suppose so too.”

  “Is school always like this?”

  “Pretty much,” Maggie said. “It doesn’t usually all blow up at once, but it’s mostly all happening all the time.”

  “I have no idea why you retired,” said Hope wistfully.

  They were in upper Manhattan, keeping pace now with New Yorkers on bicycles, hunched over their handlebars, streaming along Hudson River Park in the evening light. There were runners in T-shirts and tiny shorts pounding along as well. When they were passed by two joyously smiling Rollerbladers in nun’s habits, rosary beads swinging, Hope said, “God, I love New York.”

  “Amen,” said Maggie.

  “To be continued. I’ll drop you at home. I’ll be at the Town Club for a couple of days, and then we’ll see.”

  Chapter 13

  Sunday, May 3

  Charlie Bark was at home on Sunday morning, waiting for his younger daughter to suit up for Ultimate Frisbee. Her team was playing in a tournament, and he was driving her to Poughkeepsie. She had just gotten her license but he wasn’t crazy about letting her drive herself, and anyway, if she took the car, he’d be stranded. His mobile rang.

  “Hey, Charlie,” said the desk sergeant on weekend duty at his shop. “Sorry to catch you at home.”

  “You didn’t really catch me, I’m out the door with my kid.”

  “This won’t stop you, I just thought you’d want to know, I just got a call from the sheriff’s department in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. Someone turned in a lady’s purse. Money’s all gone, but there was some ID in the name of Florence Meagher, address in Rye-on-Hudson. That’s your murder vic, isn’t it?”

  Bark was suddenly all nerve endings.

  “Where was this again?”

  “Stroudsburg, PA.”

  “Where is that exactly?”

  “Hang on, I’m googling it.”

  “Never mind, I can do that. When—”

  “Here it is, here it is. Northeast Pennsylvania, on I-80, just over the Delaware Water Gap.”

  Bark was beginning to sweat down his back, a prickling itchy sensation. “When was it found?”

  “Well, that’s unclear. It was turned in at some visitors’ center at Lake”—he paused to sound it out— “Wall-en-pow-pack a couple of days ago.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “Hold on, I’ll google it—”

  “Don’t! I’ll do it. Just tell me exactly what you know.”

  “It was turned in a couple of days ago, that’s a quote, I don’t know how many, at this visitors’ center. It’s kind of off-season, and no one knew exactly what to do with it, I mean I guess they put it in a lost and found for a while.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “I don’t know. The wallet was gone but somebody finally searched the pockets, probably hoping for change, and they found a library card or receipt or something with a name on it, so the next time someone was going to the big city, they dropped it off. Detectives ran the name through the system and called us.”

  “Where is the bag now?”

  “It’s on its way, he’s having a deputy drive it over. What do you want me to do with it?”

  Bark was torn between an intuition that this was the crack in the wall he’d been waiting for, and the knowledge that if he didn’t drive his daughter to her game, she’d go with kids who were about as safe at the wheel, when their friends were along, as a carful of guys in beer hats after the St. Paddy’s Day parade.

  “Log it in and lock it up, will you? I’ll be in soon as I can.”

  “Want me to e-mail you a picture, when it gets here?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  Alison Casey had been hanging around the stable the last few days. Ellie Curtin was being a bitch to her. Pinky, her roommate, had moved to Ms. Liggett’s house because her hair was falling out, and Alison sort of missed her. Sunday afternoon she had nothing to do except go smoke in the maintenance shed behind the pool building, which wasn’t that much fun by yourself. The glee club had gone off in a bus for a concert in Hartford. The jocks were having color war softball and lacrosse games. The grinds were writing term papers or studying for exams. She herself was supposed to be writing a paper on John Brown’s Body, this long poem, but she couldn’t sit still. The TickTalk board was full of chatter, some of it not very nice about her, but she had nothing to add, no one to show off for. She didn’t have anyone to talk to.

  Honey Marcus was schooling her dressage mare, Ginger Rogers, in lateral movements in the outdoor ring when she noticed Alison sitting by herself on a folding chair she must have carried out from the stable, watching. It was a hot day for early May, and she was sitting in full sun, her eyes behind mirrored sunglasses. Honey danced the horse on a diagonal from one corner of the ring to the opposite end. She trotted with long elegant strides the perimeter of the ring, then she made the lateral move from corner to corner the other way. Over and over, the improvement in style invisible to the untrained eye. When Honey was satisfied that the horse had learned all she could absorb in one session, she turned Ginger and brought her to a halt facing Alison. Then she reversed four steps, as if taking a bow. Alison smiled.

  “Do you want to try?” Honey asked.

  “Ginger?” Alison asked, sounding startled. Ginger Rogers was a lot of horse, for all her delicacy, young and spooky. Alison had seen her buck like a baby when Honey had her on a longe line.

  “No, she’s done for the day,” said Honey. “But why don’t you go down and tack Free Willy? You’re ready to start some little jumps, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t have a helmet,” said Alison.

  “There are extras in the tack room.” She slid off Ginger Rogers and pulled the reins over the mare’s head. At a gesture, Alison came to hold the horse’s head while Honey slid the stirrups up to the top of the leathers. Then she took the reins and started walking toward the stable. After a minute, Alison fell in beside her. She wasn’t used to being alone with grown-ups.

  In the stable, as Honey untacked her horse, she said to Alison, “Go get Willy,” and Alison went.

  By the time Ginger was cooled and curried and brushed and back in her stall, Alison had her horse groomed and tacked. She led the horse to the mounting block, and Honey held Willy’s head while she mounted and adjusted her stirrups. Alison’s fear was palpable, but Honey was unperturbed. She knew the girl only a little, but she knew the horse a lot.

  After a warm-up out in the ring, Honey started them trotting over poles laid flat on the ground. Alison tensed and took a hank of mane in her hand, a measure of her fearfulness, but Free Willy could have earned a teaching degree in his own right. He clipped neatly over the poles, never varying his gait, until Alison’s body relaxed and she posted smoothly through the obstacles. Next, Honey put the pole up to the first rung between posts, barely a foot off the ground. This was the momentous change, a jump. More of an elevated rocking motion than a departure from earth, as Willy took it, and Alison felt the surprised flush of success that Honey had meant her to. Her weight had been too far back, but Willy didn’t care, and by the time she’d done it five more times, she’d gotten it right, felt the horse gather himself for the hop, and moved her weight to above the withers in sync with the
animal.

  “Ready for a notch up?” Honey asked.

  Alison, who for quite a number of years hadn’t had such sustained individual attention from an adult who wasn’t angry at her, said, “Okay.” She meant No, that’s enough, but Honey was already moving the pegs up the posts and replacing the pole. At a signal from Honey, Alison moved Willy into a trot along the rail away from the fence, and then with a very small tug of the rein, turned him toward the jump. The horse did the rest. Broke into a loping canter, gathered himself, and popped over the fence, and never complained when Alison missed the moment and landed back on his kidneys as he hit the ground. Honey said nothing; she just motioned with the crop she carried that Alison should do it again. By the time she had really gotten into the rhythm, Honey was smiling at Alison. Honey’s smile was a rare thing.

  Alison walked the horse to cool him down, then followed Honey back to the stable and proudly went through the routine of untacking, grooming, and returning the horse to his stall as Honey did odd housekeeping jobs and kept an eye on her. When she was done, Honey said, “That wasn’t so scary, was it?”

  Alison, who had in fact been terrified through most of it, said, “No, it was great.”

  “Come back tomorrow and we’ll raise the bar.”

  Alison ducked her head, meaning okay, or maybe. And she made no move to leave.

  Honey said, “Want a Coke or something?”

  After hesitation, Alison said, “Sure.”

  So Honey led the way upstairs.

  This was actually not a practice she wanted to establish, the crossing of the line with a student into her private life, but she sensed something. At the top of the stairs, instead of inviting Alison in, she said, “I’ll be right back.” When she came back out, Alison was sitting on the top step, looking down the hill toward the campus. Honey sat beside her and showed her two cans of iced tea. “This is all we’ve got,” she said. “Peach or lemon?”

  When they both had their drinks open, they sat side by side and watched Main Street dozing in the afternoon light. Honey waited.

  Finally Alison said, “I know something I should tell somebody.”

  “What would that be?”

  Alison took a sudden interest in a burr that was caught in her jeans, above her barn boot. She studied it, then pulled it out and flicked it.

  “A girl has a key to the pool.”

  Honey turned to look at her.

  “Where the body was found?”

  “Yes.”

  “What girl?”

  “Lily Hollister.”

  Honey stared, then asked, “How do you know this?”

  “I caught her coming out with her hair wet. I saw her lock the door outside Miss Scheinerlein’s office.”

  “When was this?”

  “Months ago.”

  “And you’re sure she wasn’t just locking up for Greta? Ms. Scheinerlein?”

  “Yes, because the JV swim team was away at a meet. Coach wasn’t there. No one was supposed to be in there.”

  After a beat, Honey asked, “And how did you happen to see her?”

  Alison had hoped not to be asked that. But she answered after a pause, “I was coming back from the village. I took a shortcut.”

  Honey understood that this meant she was on that part of the campus at a time she should have been somewhere else and was hoping not to be seen herself.

  “Lily Hollister is the girl who found the body,” Honey said, after thought.

  “Says she found it,” said Alison. “She hated Mrs. Meagher.” And with a sudden stab of alarm, Honey couldn’t tell if Alison was frightened or was trying to ruin someone’s life.

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday, May 5

  Pam Moldower was mooching around the faculty lounge Tuesday evening, waiting for the signal to go up to the dining hall for dinner, when Honey Marcus came in. Pam was startled to see her in a skirt; it occurred to her she might never have seen Honey’s bare legs before. Pam thought that if she had legs like that, she’d wear miniskirts at all times.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said as Honey took a seat at the central worktable and picked up the sports section of the paper. “You coming in to dinner?”

  “I thought I would. Greta is off somewhere, and I don’t really cook.”

  “You picked a good night for it. It’s chicken fricassee.”

  Honey nodded, as if she hadn’t registered. She turned the page of the paper. Then she put it down and said, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Is Lily Hollister in your dorm?”

  “No, she’s in Sloane Two. Her best friend is in mine, and I see a fair amount of her. Why do you ask?”

  “You know. Greta works with her. Someone mentioned something about Lily the other day and I wondered if it was true. Thought I should ask someone who knows her.”

  Pam was well aware that this sentence meant “someone besides Greta.” Interesting.

  “What was it? About Lily?”

  “That she didn’t like Florence Meagher very much.”

  “Oh,” said Pam. “Well, that’s an understatement.”

  “This is some well-known fact?”

  “A truth universally acknowledged,” said Pam.

  Honey sat with that. “I didn’t really know Florence, but we—well you know. Lily and Greta. What did Florence ever do to Lily?”

  “Poor Florence. She tried so hard. You’d have had to see her in action to get it, but . . . she had this laser instinct for the kids who were lost or wounded. She’d make special pets of them.”

  “Like the Goldsmith kid.”

  “Exactly. She tried it with Lily, and Lily hated her for it. The idea that Lily was in need of anything that Florence Meagher had to offer. That Lily was in the same category as Jesse Goldsmith or Gussie Spoonmaker. She has quite the ego, our Miss Hollister. Greta never told you?”

  Honey shook her head. “She says she’s driven.”

  “I’ll say,” said Pam. “I don’t believe in spirit animals, but if I did, Florence would have been a cocker spaniel. Lily is more like a cave bear. Fine when it’s hibernating down there at the back of the cave while you’re up in the front eating your dinner, but Christ on a cracker, you don’t want to see it on its hind legs coming at you out of the dark.”

  The five-minute bell rang and Pam stood up. “You coming?”

  There was a pause, then Honey said, “In a minute.”

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday, May 6

  Avis Metcalf couldn’t exactly remember how she knew Maggie Detweiler. In her New York world almost everyone knew who Maggie was: legendary head of the legendary Winthrop School. Avis hadn’t sent her daughter—her late daughter and only child—to Winthrop. It was coed and the most intellectual of the city’s private schools, and the Winthrop girls had the reputation in some circles of being bullies in bloomers.

  Bloomers. When her darling Grace had been in school, girls still played field hockey in tunics and fantastically unbecoming pouchy pull-ups over their undies. Those had finally gone the way of the bustle, thank god. But Grace had been a gentler, milder sort of girl than the Winthrop world beaters, and Avis had chosen one of the all-girls schools for her, where she had thrived but from which she had emerged unmarked by any particular drive or interest. The only clear vision she had had for her future was that she wanted to be married and she wanted it to be nothing like the marriage of her parents.

  And she had been, and it hadn’t been. And now there was nothing left but Avis’s granddaughter. If Grace had gone to Winthrop instead, would. . . . No. Stop. That was not a permitted train of thought.

  For her part, Maggie hadn’t seen Avis since Grace Metcalf’s funeral. Maggie had gone because her school community was so shocked at what had happened, because there were so many ties from Grace’s family, and her husband’s family, to Maggie’s school community. She’d spoken to Avis at the reception after the service, which had been devastating, but distinctly f
elt that Avis’s body was there, upright and muddling through, but her heart and mind were in a medically induced coma somewhere else.

  Maggie had called Avis’s gallery to make an appointment and learned that Avis mostly worked from home these days, since she was a single grandmother. Now Maggie was in the elevator of Avis’s grand Park Avenue building, the doorman having announced her from below.

  Avis was waiting at her open door. Her smile of welcome was warm and the color had returned to her austere face with its high-beaked nose and deep eyes. Her hair retained most of its dark natural color, though it was shot through with white. She wore, to Maggie’s surprise, a long-sleeved T-shirt and blue jeans on her bony frame and laceless sneakers on her otherwise bare feet.

  “Pardon the déshabillé,” Avis said as she waved her in and led her to the living room. “My granddaughter and I take ceramics together on Wednesdays. I always come home spattered in mud.”

  “What a great idea,” Maggie said.

  “We’ve been at it for years. I’ve stuck with hand building but Lindy is on the wheel. She made me this,” said Avis, picking up a small but beautifully shaped bowl, glazed a pure sky blue, with a red dot slightly off center in the bottom.

  “That’s lovely,” said Maggie, who’d been to a lot of student art shows and meant it. “How old is Lindy?”

  “Nine.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Will you have some tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee if it’s no trouble.”

  Avis rang a little hand bell that sat on the table beside her chair, and a tiny woman in a gray uniform appeared, then bustled back toward the kitchen with her marching orders. It was like visiting someone’s grandmother, Maggie reflected, but of course, Avis was someone’s grandmother, and she had always been like someone from an earlier, more formal generation.