A small smile curled the corners of Brian's mouth.
"I remembered that just before Liza died your mother had asked me how to sign out a boat from the college. During the movie tonight I met my friend who runs the boathouse. We checked the records as well as every boat in the yard and on the docks. The boat your mother signed out had been signed in by someone, but it was missing, probably has been since that night, which leads me to ask-where did you sink it?"
Brian shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The local police officer who had escorted Brian and had been listening attentively to our conversation cocked his head.
"What about Liza's bracelet?" I asked. "You urged me to search Paul's room. Did you plant it there? You had time when you returned our lunch trays."
He smiled but said nothing.
"And the fire alarm," I added.
"I'll take credit for that," Brian said agreeably.
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a state trooper.
"Here's your ride," the local officer said to Brian. "I don't know what kind of games you're playing, Mr. Jones, but I suggest you don't play too hard till you meet with a lawyer. You told police that your mother came to you after the murder, and you helped her transport the body by boat. As for the fire alarm, we know who set it off, a local juvenile, not you."
"Just having a little fun with my friends," Brian replied, smiling. Then he turned to me, his eyes alight with amusement. "You look so amazed, Jenny. I told you at the beginning, I'm a better actor than Walker thinks." He flicked a glance at Walker. "Much better. Come visit me in L.A."
A campus security guard brought me back from Easton Hospital at two a.m. with my wrist in a cast and sling. The door to Drama House was open and I let myself in. Walker emerged from the common room, greeted me, then eyed the cast.
"Broken?"
"Yup."
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked exhausted, and his eyes, which had cleared before I left campus, had become red and puffy again.
"I'm sorry, Jenny."
"I'm sorry, too. Maggie was a very good friend toyou."
He nodded, pressing his lips together several times before he could speak. "Your parents are on their way home from London. They caught the early flight out and will be here around one p.m. our time. I've contacted everyone else's parents and told them I'm closing camp." He gestured toward the doorway of the common room. "Everyone is upset. I told those who didn't want to sleep in their own rooms to bring a pillow and blanket here. The kids saved a sofa for you, but sleep wherever you can get comfortable. Did the doctor give you some painkillers?"
Yes.
He followed me into the common room and sat in a chair with three cups of coffee next to it, where I guessed he was spending the night. Mike, Tomas, and Shawna were asleep on the floor in front of an empty sofa. Paul was sleeping in the corner of the room, curled on his side, his knees drawn up. Keri lay a few feet away from him.
I carefully stepped around the various sleepers till I reached Mike, then knelt and touched his cheek. "Thank you," I said softly, though I knew he didn't hear me.
Turning toward Tomas, I smiled when I saw he was sleeping with his backpack, one of his sketchbooks on top. I took it and returned to Walker.
"I'm going to my room."
"Good girl," he replied, as if I were a child. "You'll rest better there."
"Would you let Tomas know I have one of his books?"
Walker nodded. We said good night and I went straight to my room.
Without turning on the lights, I closed the door behind me and carried the sketchpad over to the window seat. Making myself comfortable there, I opened the book and studied Tomas's newest drawings, dark silky pencil lines on moon-bright pages, sketches of the bridge, the gazebo, and the pavilion. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. The scenes Tomas had drawn slowly evolved into real scenes, a stretch of tall grass, the concrete bridge, dark wood pilings, the wide creek. A blue gleam surrounded the images, but I felt no fear. The breeze was gentle and the creek lapped peacefully. "I know you are here," I whispered to my sister. "You'll always be with me in my heart.
But sleep now, Liza. Sweet dreams now. Sweet dreams only for you and me."
Shawna awakened me at noon the next day, telling me my parents had phoned from the airport near Baltimore and would soon be in Wisteria. Most of the other kids had already been picked up by nervous family members, but she had put off her departure so we could say goodbye.
Tomas stopped in after her.
"I've got your sketchpad," I told him.
"I came for a hug," he replied. "You scared me, Jenny."
Before I got a chance to see Mike, my parents arrived and asked me to go down to the creek with them. We spent an hour at the pavilion, standing on the deck, gazing out at the water. We talked about Liza, remembering, laughing, and crying some.
"Well, dearest," my father said, resting his hand on mine, "we should get back to campus. Your mother and I spoke to Walker when we arrived and asked him to join us for an early tea."
"You did?" I replied, surprised. "You met with him and it went okay?"
"Of course," my father said, "we're grown men."
My mother rolled her eyes. "It was as awkward as two old bachelors meeting at their former girlfriend's wedding. I'm the one who proposed tea, and neither your father nor Walker had the nerve to say no."
I laughed and strolled down the ramp with them. When we reached the bottom, I saw Mike standing by the tall grasses that surrounded the pavilion, a dark-haired man next to him. They turned toward us at the same time, the man closing a small black book.
"Hi, Mike. I want you to meet my parents."
My mother quickly patted her blowing curls into place, her hands making little butterfly motions.
The man introduced himself as the Reverend James Wilcox. He had Mike's blue eyes, broad shoulders, and deep voice.
"We were just praying for Liza," Reverend Wilcox said.
I was amused by the way he and my father studied each other. Both knew how to assume a commanding, theatrical presence-and they were giving it their best effort. Mike examined my cast, but we said little, letting our parents do the talking. Then my father, playing one of his favorite roles-famous actor acknowledging an apprentice-asked Mike about his interest in theater.
"I like it okay," Mike replied, "but the real reason I came to camp was to live away from home."
"What?" I exclaimed softly.
The reverend's jaw dropped. "I don't think I heard you right, Michael."
"Well, drama is fun. I'm just not as interested in it as I used to be."
"I can't believe it." The reverend blinked a couple times and his voice resonated with incredulity. "I truly cannot believe it!"
I stifled a smile. Mike's father was as pompous and melodramatic as mine.
Reverend Wilcox turned to my parents. "I have been praying for the last two years that I would accept my son's calling. There is, after all, something blessed in every gift."
"Indeed," said my father.
"I have spent the last two weeks reading Michael's college catalog and the drama books he left behind. And now, just as I near acceptance, he tells me he's not interested."
"Tragic," my father replied.
"Excuse me," I said, "I'd like to talk to Mike alone. Mom and Dad, why don't you take Reverend Wilcox to tea with you and Walker?"
Ministers ought to be good at reconciliation, I thought.
My father looked at me, puzzled. "Aren't you coming, dearest? I had so hoped-" My mother, having better instincts than he, shook her head at him, then steered him and Mike's father toward Goose Lane.