Final Exam (19 page)

Twenty-Seven

Sunday passed without incident, and I caught up on some much-needed rest and overdue schoolwork. Crawford stopped by on his way to work on Monday morning to supervise the removal of the boot from my car. Visitation didn’t start until three o’clock, so I dragged him into the janitor’s closet across from my room so that we could have a discussion in private. He got the wrong idea.

I pulled his hand out from under my blouse as I avoided a dirty mop head that I had dislodged from its spot on my way into the closet. “Stop, Crawford. This is important.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing my neck, and I lost my train of thought, going with the flow for a few minutes. But the sound of students passing by on the other side of the closed door brought me back to earth. I pushed his head up by applying the palm of my hand to his forehead.

“You are such a killjoy,” he said. “Did you know that?”

I put a finger on his lips. “Shhh. If I get nabbed with a big hunk of cop in the janitor’s closet, it’s curtains for me. Hear me? Curtains!”

“You need to read other things besides Wonder Woman comic books,” he said. “You’re starting to talk like a superhero.”

I pulled him in close by his collar to get his attention. “Pinto is coming by here in a few minutes to talk to me about what happened, so I’m glad you’re here. He called me at six o’clock this morning and said that he’s saving me a face-to-face with Etheridge so I had better give him all the details.”

“Pinto is a cream puff. What are you worried about?”

“He’s not a cream puff. He’s a kickboxer. And I’m worried I’m going to get my ass kickboxed right out of a job if I don’t tell them everything’s that’s going on.”

“So you want me to be your wingman?”

I didn’t even know what that meant, but I agreed nonetheless. “Make sure I give it to him straight.”

He saluted me, giggling a little bit.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in days,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I think I’m getting punchy.”

“I would have to agree,” I said, and opened the door to the closet; the smell of cleaning supplies was starting to make me punchy, too. I peered out and saw Jay Pinto standing in front of the door to my room. I quickly ducked back into the closet and pinned myself against the wall. I motioned to Crawford to be quiet. “It’s Pinto,” I mouthed.

We stood in the closet, staring at one another, Crawford trying not to laugh. The mop, which was balanced precariously against the wall, slid down and made a racket as it clattered to the floor. In order to avoid getting hit on the head with it, I stepped out of the way and knocked into a semifull bucket of soapy, gray water, which sloshed out over the side and onto my shoes. The bucket scraped a few inches across the floor, adding to the cacophony coming from the presumably empty janitor’s closet. I looked at Crawford, wide-eyed, as I heard Pinto’s footsteps approaching the door of the closet.

He knocked. “Who’s in there?”

I decided that the best defense was a good offense. I opened the door and exposed myself and Crawford. “Just us, Jay.” I smoothed down the front of my skirt and adjusted my blouse, thinking as I did that the best time to have begun to put myself back together would have been
before
I opened the door. I gave him what I thought was a winning smile.

Pinto looked in the closet and nodded at Crawford. “What are you doing in there?”

“Looking for a plunger,” I said, grabbing one from behind the door and proffering it as proof of my business.

“You don’t have a clogged toilet again, do you?” Pinto said, grimacing.

“Sink,” I said, marveling at how smoothly the lies just fell from my tongue.

He looked at me until I reminded him that he had come to see me. “Oh, right,” he said, snapping out of his reverie. “About Amanda Reese. How are we on that?”

“How are we on that?” I repeated. “Not sure what you mean.” I turned to Crawford, who looked as if he didn’t have any plans to participate in the discussion, mesmerized by the water on my shoes.

“Oh, Amanda Reese,” Crawford said, after a gentle poke to the ribs. “We’ve got a suspect in custody, Jay, and we’re questioning him.”

“Good,” Pinto said.

“I’m assuming you’ll give a complete report to Etheridge?” I asked, after I’d listed the rest of the details on the goings-on of the weekend. Crawford, it turned out, was no help at all.

He nodded. That was very good news. A day without Etheridge, for me, was a day with sunshine and flowers and all things good and wonderful.

“Keep me posted?”

Crawford gave him a little salute not unlike the one he had given me. It came off as less sarcastic than I assumed he meant it. “Will do.”

Pinto looked at the two of us for another second, curious, but walked off, his kickboxing ass looking fine in his gabardine slacks. Crawford and I went into the hallway.

“I’m glad you’re here” I said, sliding my feet out of my shoes, once a beautiful black suede and now a soggy mess.

“You sounded down when we talked so I wanted to make sure you were doing okay,” he said.

“You’re a nice guy, Crawford,” I said, still a little amazed that he was my nice guy. “I’m fine.” I opened the door to my room and Trixie bounded out to kiss Crawford. “What are you doing later?”

“Sleeping?” he said, as if the answer were obvious.

“I think you need to be Chad for another night.”

He shook his head and began muttering. “No, no, no, no . . .”

“Well, how weird would it look for Coco to be visiting the Brookwells without Chad? Where should I say you are?”

“Working late on the Anderson account?” he said. “The Anderson account needs a lot of graphic design.”

“No, you’re coming with me. I want to see if the Prius is parked in the driveway.”

“You can do that by yourself.”

I whimpered. “But it’s not as much fun without you, Chad.” I looked around and, seeing no students, slid my hand into the top of his waistband. “I’ll make it worth your while,” I whispered in his ear.

He pulled away as if I had burned him. “Okay, that’s enough. I’ll come with you. Stop it,” he said, taking my hand and putting it on the doorknob. “I’m going. I’ll see you later.”

“How about seven?” I called after him.

He didn’t turn around but raised his hand in acknowledgment. The man was putty in my hands.

Or he was just so exhausted that he didn’t have the energy to put up a fight.

I headed off to school after paying homage to Trixie who was obviously getting tired of hanging around the dank dorm room. She looked at me longingly as I closed the door, avoiding her snout. When I got to my office, I was surprised to find Sister Mary waiting for me. She was standing outside of my door, her back straight and her hands folded in front of her. I passed several colleagues on my way to my office who gave me sympathetic looks; if Sister Mary stopped by to “chat,” it usually wasn’t good.

But what they didn’t know was that our relationship had changed. I no longer was intimidated by her; she had secrets just like the rest of us and now I knew what they were.

“Morning, Mary.” I unlocked the office door and extended a hand. “After you?” I contemplated using the whole “age before beauty” adage, but thought better of it.

She sat on the edge of one of my guest chairs and waited until I arranged myself behind my desk before starting. “What is it that you want from me?” she asked, her face pinched.

“I want the truth,” I whispered because I had left my door open.

Mary leaned over and slammed it shut. I was sure that that attracted some attention. “You know the truth,” she hissed.

I raised an eyebrow, asking, in effect, “I do?”

“Those were not Wayne’s drugs.”

“So Wayne says.”

“They weren’t his. Wayne is a very clean-living young man.”

I leaned across her desk. “Yes, one who throws bottles at the heads of women who walk their dogs in cemeteries and runs at the first sign of trouble. One,” I said, getting revved up, “who leaves campus despite the fact that his girlfriend was beaten and stuffed in my closet. That’s the kind of young man your nephew is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“Yes, you do,” I said, pointing at her. “Where did he go, Mary?”

She stuttered for a few minutes and surprised me by starting to cry for the second time in our relationship. Oh, Jesus. Please help me. I make nuns cry. “I don’t know. He left. He cleaned out the room on the fifth floor and took the car.”

I resisted the urge to chuckle. “The Prius?” Crawford was right; nobody would ever know what time he left with his quiet car. “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

“Lunch on Friday.”

So, three days ago around noontime. He had been gone long enough to qualify as a missing person but I didn’t think Mary wanted to go that route.

She continued. “I went to bring him his dinner and his room was cleaned out, so I knew that he was gone.”

“Did he leave a note?”

She looked away. “No.”

She was a lying mclyingpants, I knew it, and she knew that I knew it. “You’re lying.”

“Well, I never!” she protested.

Yes, I know, I thought. Most nuns haven’t. But you’re still lying.

I kept staring at her but she didn’t crack. But she did offer up a little nugget. “Before he left, he said something about Spencer Williamson. About him being . . . a stoner?” She acted like she had never heard the word before. Oh, please. She’s worked on a college campus since the early seventies; I was sure she had heard the word “stoner” once or twice.

“Not a crime,” I said.

“Actually, it is,” she reminded me, “but it may explain where those drugs came from.”

“The hardest drugs Spencer Williamson does are of the organic variety. I don’t get the sense that he’s a full-blown junkie or that he has access to a brick of heroin.” I leaned back in my chair. “Frankly, we don’t even know if he is a stoner. He acts like half of the guys on this campus. Are they all stoned?”

She smiled slightly. “Good point.” But any conviviality disappeared quickly. “Anyway, Wayne mentioned him before he left. I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for sharing,” I said.

We stared at each other for a few minutes and she finally got the hint, taking her leave, the smell of Jean Naté staying in the air far longer than she had stayed in my office.

Twenty-Eight

I offered Crawford a cup of coffee from my stash in the bag on the floor of the car.

“Just the way you like it,” I said.

He was in a foul mood, not really wanting to be Chad Varick for the evening. He was still in his work clothes, though his tie was off and his shirt was unbuttoned to the third button. I could see his clean white undershirt peeking out and I felt a swoon coming on.

“Could you button your shirt?” I asked.

He took a sip of the coffee and looked at me. “No. Chad likes to be comfortable. Come to think of it, could you unbutton
your
shirt?”

“Nice try. We’re in Scarsdale. Respectable people live here.”

He peered over me, attempting to see what else I had in the bag.

“Italian sub with the works or turkey on a roll?” I asked.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t care,” I lied.

“Yes you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Italian sub.”

I tried to hide my disappointment.

“Ha! I knew it,” he said, reaching into the bag and extracting the turkey on a roll. “I didn’t want it anyway. I just wanted to prove that you were lying.” He opened the sandwich. “Anything on here?”

“Lettuce and tomato.”

“Mayo?”

“I hate mayo,” I reminded him.

He let the sandwich and its wrapper fall onto his lap. “But you were having the Italian sub.”

“I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Mayo packets?” he asked. “Who eats dry turkey?” he muttered, taking the sandwich apart to see if I was telling the truth. I was.

I reached into the bag and pulled out two foil packets of mayonnaise. I was nothing if not prepared for food emergencies. He leaned over and gave me a kiss. “I love you,” he said.

“And I you, Crawford.”

“ ‘And I you’?” he asked. “What’s with your speaking pattern lately? You either sound like a writer for
Superman
episodes or someone from Shakespearean times.” He pulled open the foil packet and spread some mayo on his sandwich. “And I you!” he said gravely. “I, too, love you! And I do! Unhand her!” he added, harkening back to my encounter with Amanda and her boyfriend. The one from Princeton. They were getting hard to keep straight.

I looked out the window beyond Crawford, ignoring his performance. I saw Eben Brookwell carting a garbage can out to the curb. “Shut up!” I said. “And duck!”

Eben surveyed the street, spending an inordinate amount of time staring at our car. After a few minutes, he started across the street.

“Oh, shit. We got made,” I said.

“Now you’re an extra from
Boyz n the Hood
.” Crawford, realizing that we weren’t getting out of this without a good story, sat up straight, folded the deli paper around his sandwich, and plastered a huge smile on his face. He got out of the car and extended his hand to a very puzzled Eben.

“Well, hello, there!” Crawford said, as if running into Eben Brookwell were the most natural thing in the world.

“Chad? Coco?” Eben said.

I got out of the car and came around to where they were standing. I leaned in and gave Eben a peck on the cheek; I figured we had made it this far, why not give the old guy a thrill? After all, I was a flight attendant; friendliness was our stock in trade. “Hi, Eben. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said warily. “What are you doing here?”

Crawford looked like a deer caught in the headlights, so I improvised. “You’ll never guess! We bought a house!”

“Really? That’s wonderful.” His smile went from wary to jubilant at the news.

“And we came by to tell you!” I said with as much cheer as I could muster. I was going to deserve an Academy Award when this was over.

“Which house?” he asked. His kind face and his obvious elation over our move to Scarsdale made me feel really, really bad.

“Which house?” I said. “Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’ll be neighbors.” I linked arms with Eben and Crawford, putting myself between them.

“No. Really. Which house?” Eben said, the smile not leaving his face.

I hadn’t wanted to use this information, but it seemed like I had to. Before Crawford had picked me up for our night of subterfuge, I had gone on
Realtor.com
and looked at houses in our price range, finding one that might suit Coco and Chad Varick. “Twenty-seven Fairway Drive!” I exclaimed. I knew that Fairway was a few blocks away from the Brookwells and figured that that would send Eben over the moon.

Crawford looked at me like I was insane.

“Twenty-seven?” Eben asked.

“Twenty-seven? Or twenty-three?” I looked at Crawford for help. “Do you remember, honey?”

“Twenty-seven,” he said in a zombielike tone, staring straight ahead.

Eben looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “Twenty-seven Fairway Drive burned down three nights ago. Boiler exploded. It
was
for sale, but obviously, it’s not anymore.”

I could almost hear my intestines fill with fluid at the news.

The jig was up. Eben studied my face as if the answer to his question were printed there. “Who are you, really, Ms. Varick? And why are you here?” Eben asked.

I focused on the garbage can that Eben had just brought out to the curb, hoping for some divine inspiration. When none was forthcoming, I focused on the black car driving slowly down the street, not making a sound. When I realized who it was, I threw an elbow into Crawford’s side, screamed, “Gotta go!” and jumped back into the car.

But before I did, I locked eyes with Wayne, who also knew that the jig was up. Eben turned around and called to Wayne, who put pedal to the metal, and took off down the street. Crawford threw the car in drive and peeled out of the spot, sandwich fixings flying around the car.

“When this is over, I’m going to kill you,” Crawford said, not unkindly. He took a corner on two wheels, following Wayne at a safe distance, the two of them slowing down to the requisite twenty-five miles an hour as a school appeared out of nowhere.

“This is like the O.J. chase,” I said, my adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“If we get pulled over, you keep your mouth shut. Do you hear me?” he asked.

“I hear you,” I said, bracing a hand on the dashboard and keeping one eye on Wayne while admiring the beautiful houses of Scarsdale with the other. “Look at that one,” I remarked, turning my head to look at a spacious Dutch colonial with a
FOR SALE
sign on the front lawn.

“We’re not looking at houses,” Crawford reminded me. “Keep an eye on Wayne.” He took his eyes off the road for a minute. “Oh, great. I have mayonnaise on my pants.”

“Serves you right,” I said, as I watched Wayne hang a left. “He’s making a left.”

“I see him.”

“I thought you were looking at your pants.”

He sighed. “Why don’t we just be quiet for a little while?”

I agreed that that was a good idea. Since we were going so slowly, only having reached a cruising altitude of thirty-five miles an hour, I pulled my sub out of the bag and unwrapped it, taking a big bite. “Want some?” I asked Crawford, holding it in front of his mouth.

He leaned over and sank his teeth into the side I hadn’t touched. Wayne made another left turn and it appeared that we were heading toward the Hutchinson River Parkway. “Where the hell is he taking us?” I asked as we merged onto the highway, finally reaching fifty-five miles an hour. Wayne puttered along in the right lane, while Crawford sped up and pulled up alongside him in the middle lane. “Tell him to pull over,” Crawford said.

My hands were kind of taken up with the sub, so I rolled down the window and waved the sandwich at Wayne through my window. “Pull over!” I called.

Wayne stayed in the right lane, staring straight ahead.

“What did he say?” Crawford asked, keeping his speed at the same pace as Wayne’s.

“I think he said no.”

“Goddamn it,” Crawford said, and took serious action. He started nosing the Passat toward Wayne in the right lane, avoiding hitting the Prius by inches. I started to get nervous.

“Have you done this before?” I asked, taking another bite of sub. I was nervous, but not that nervous. I bit into a hot pepper that made my eyes water.

“Yes,” he said, and nosed toward Wayne again. Wayne drifted over to the shoulder but remained mostly in the right lane, driving the speed limit, looking straight ahead.

Crawford straddled the line on the road and finally succeeded in pushing Wayne completely onto the shoulder. Fortunately, there weren’t too many people on the road at that hour, so we were able to muscle Wayne over without attracting too much attention.

Wayne got out of the car and began running along the shoulder. Crawford pulled over and put the car in park. “Stay here,” he said, as he bolted from the car and began running along the shoulder, no match for Wayne and his superspeed.

“He’s really fast, Crawford!” I called after him, but it was no good. The two of them were way down the shoulder, Crawford, in his tie-up dress shoes, trying to catch Wayne in his hundred-and-fifty-dollar sneakers.

The last thing I heard before I saw the state trooper’s head in the sideview mirror, making his way toward Crawford’s car, was Crawford screaming, “Stop! Wayne! You’re under arrest!”

I put my sandwich on the dashboard, carefully wrapping it so that the oil and vinegar dressing didn’t drip onto Crawford’s floor mats.

The trooper arrived and tapped on the side of the car with his radio.

I smiled, hoping that there was no lettuce stuck in my teeth. “Good evening, Officer.”

“License and registration, ma’am.”

I then realized that I had bigger problems than lettuce stuck in my teeth.