Kids using drugs at Bexter? They probably do, like everywhere, but Josh never mentioned anything remotely like that. And he certainly wouldn’t put Penny in danger. But maybe he doesn’t know. On the other hand, it doesn’t need to be true. The caller could have made it up. It would be simple enough to concoct a believable and devastating scenario as a way to scam money from wealthy parents. Risky, though.
I shake my head, selecting a chunky cabled cardigan with regrettable buttons for the donation pile. Dorothy told Josh and the Head she’d gotten exactly the same kind of sinister phone call. But Dorothy’s calls occurred more than a week before Fee’s.
And now Dorothy is dead. She always knew everything going on at Bexter. Did she try to track down the caller? And whoever it was killed her in retaliation? Does that mean Wen and Fee are in danger?
I stop, midfold, trying to retrieve an escaping idea. What did I just think?
Dorothy always knew everything that was going on at Bexter.
Maybe-maybe she was the blackmailer.
I put my head down on the stack of sweaters and stretch out my legs, just for a moment, to think about whether my idea could work. Dorothy, knower of all Bexter knowledge and with access to every personal file and phone number in the place, gets wind of a drug ring? Students selling drugs? Or more likely, someone from outside. Dorothy’s lonely. She’s trapped in a menial secretarial job on a modest salary. Frustrated, bitter, having to cater to wealthy parents and pampered students. She can’t take it anymore and starts her blackmailing scheme. To draw suspicion away from herself, she pretends to get a semi-threatening but possibly prank phone call of her own.
When actually, she’s the one making the calls.
What if a parent who discovered her extortion scheme killed her? Even Wen and Fee? Well, okay, not them. But what if whoever is actually selling the drugs found out? And he killed her?
If Dorothy was the blackmailer and she’s dead, the envelope with the Dulleses’ check is still in the post-office box. And maybe there are others.
“Josh? Is something wrong?” I guess I fell asleep in my sweater pile. Squinting at my nightstand clock, I realize it’s after midnight. Why is Josh calling? What’s the noise in the background? I press the phone closer to my ear and remove a piece of fuzz from my lip. “Honey? Are you home? Sorry, I fell asleep and I just-”
“I’m still at Bexter,” Josh interrupts. Hs voice is tense. Guarded. This is no late-night cuddle call. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, what’s going on? It sounds like sirens. Are you okay?” A dozen disasters instantly present themselves, ugly little life-changing possibilities. Outside my window, white flakes glisten through the streetlights. It’s snowing again. “Are you okay?” I repeat. “Is Penny?”
“We’re fine. She’s home. Hold on.”
Muffled voices on the other end. Josh is talking to someone else. I close my eyes, straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what they’re saying. Whoever it is.
“You there, Charlie?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But hey, you’re scaring me. What’s…?”
“Alethia Espinosa. Dean of girls? Fell down the steps outside Garrison Hall.”
I picture Garrison, one of the newer classroom buildings, a three-story redbrick designed to look authentically colonial. The building houses mostly midlevel administrative offices. The steps are stone. And steep.
“Is she-? How did-?” My hand grips the phone, clamping it to my ear so I don’t miss anything. I hear cars, people talking, another siren. Josh is obviously outside.
“I don’t know,” Josh says. “We don’t know. It’s snowing again, the steps might have been slick. We suppose she was working late and fell as she was going home. She was out cold when the Head found her. Lucky he was there. Otherwise, I don’t know. She might have been there until morning. The EMTs are working on her now. And, Charlie? The Head also told me-Hang on, okay? Sorry.”
Am I too suspicious? I flop back onto my clothing-strewn bed, considering. That’s two “accidents” in less than two weeks. Dorothy. And now Alethia. Her best friend. And the Head found her? Why was he in Garrison? His office is in Main. The steps couldn’t be that icy. Yes, it’s starting to snow now. But barely. And the Bexter people are scrupulous about shoveling.
“Charlie?”
I sit up. “Yeah?”
“I had to go around the corner. Listen, sweetheart, there’s more. The Head told me there was apparently another phone call. Like the one Dorothy told us about.”
I start to tell him about Wen and Fiona, who must have taken my advice and reported their call. Then I decide-no. Let him tell me about it. Then I can tell him I already know. “Really? Who answered it?”
“Alethia.”
I made it to Bexter in record time. And I’ll be fine as long as no one makes me take off the ankle-length parka and substantial muffler that are hiding my sweatshirt and sweatpants. A stretchy wool cap camouflages my yanked-back hair. When Josh told me Alethia got a “Do you know where your children are?” phone call, I almost lost it. I insisted he tell the police, no matter what the Bexter hierarchy said.
Turned out, they’d already done that. And now the police are demanding everyone stay at Bexter for questioning, even though it’s the middle of the night. It’s frustrating that I can’t tell the police about the Dulleses’call, but no way I’m staying home. Annie agreed to stay overnight with Penny. At least I can sit with Josh until it’s his turn. If police are investigating, maybe this will all be solved.
We’d walked arm in arm down the echoing paneled hallway, deciding to wait for the police in Josh’s office. I can tell Josh is running on adrenaline. He tosses his parka on the couch, yanks open his tie, and for the millionth time, runs a hand though his still snow-damp hair. His jeans are soggy from the slush. He told me the dean of boys, Kent Bishop, is in the conference room already. Then they’re calling the new development consultant, Harrison something. Hope they won’t mind I’m here. But it’s too late if they do.
“Did they already interview the Head? What did the cops say about the phone calls?” Josh and I are nuking cups of tea in the ancient microwave he keeps on one of the bookshelves. I never come here without remembering this is where we first met. I’d appeared, without an appointment, searching for answers in what turned out to be a ruthless and deadly insider-trading scheme. I’d expected “Professor Gelston” to be a Mr. Chips geezer, wheezy and old-fashioned. Instead, I went weak-kneed, faced with my teen heartthrob Atticus Finch come to life.
“They’re pissed. I don’t mind telling you.” Josh hands me a ceramic mug, tea-bag tag hanging over the side.
He looks at me, perplexed. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” I fib. I can’t take off this parka. “Anyway, why’d the Head decide to spill it? And when?”
“Tonight. Before the EMTs got here. The Head was frantic. Panicked over the school’s reputation. As well as his own reputation, naturally. Harrison Ebling was there, as well. He was all bent out of shape about his fundraising plans. Thinks the publicity will ‘kill the take.’ What an idiot.”
“He must get a cut.” I dunk my tea bag, calculating.
Josh shrugs. “The bursar is worried parents will yank their kids. And then, goodbye tuition money. You see the pattern.”
“And so?”
“But finally I told them, forget about the money, it’ll be worse if we cover it up. What if it came out we’d all known about this? That we didn’t say anything? What if the students are in danger? Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”
I take a tentative sip of not-quite-hot-enough tea, proud of myself for successfully resisting the urge to say I told you so. Anyway, there’s something more important I need to tell him.
“Speaking of which,” I begin. “I got a call this morning.”
A sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, it’s pushed open by a uniformed Brookline police officer. He consults a spiral notebook. “Professor Gelston? I’m Officer Jeff Petrucelly. Will you come with me?”