Midsummer Murder (2 page)

5

Shelley Freydont

The back of the bus had become quiet as the woods wove their magic. Lindy half expected pixies to begin popping out from behind the trees.

Then without warning, the bus was bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Ahead of them, a wide circular driveway skirted the front of the largest, most formidable building Lindy had seen since her tour of English castles. Awestruck, it took her a minute to realize what the blinking red lights were.

Jeremy bolted across the aisle and the door swooshed open. He bounded down the steps and across the pavement to where a group of people crowded together on the stone stairs that led to the porch.

Lindy jolted out of her seat. “Everyone stay put.” She turned to the driver. “Move the bus off to the side and keep everybody in place.”

She hurried down the steps, Biddy at her heels.

“God, I hope nothing has happened to Ms. Easton. Jeremy will be devastated,” said Biddy. She stopped abruptly. “Look.”

Two uniformed men wheeled a stretcher out of the woods and across the pavement toward an ambulance. Lindy strained to see the face, praying that it was not Marguerite Easton. A long, black bag lay lengthwise on the stretcher. “Oh no,” she said. Her throat tightened without warning. Whoever it was, whatever had happened, there was nothing to do now but mourn.

The men hoisted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, then climbed in behind it. The engine roared up and the vehicle began its sad journey across the mountain.

Jeremy was standing at the top of the steps, his arm around a tall, elegant woman. She stood with an imposing dignity, her symmetrical features composed and unperturbed. Perfectly white hair was pulled back from her face in a low chignon. With startling, pewter eyes, she watched the ambulance disappear into the trees beyond the house.

“There’s been an accident,” said Jeremy as Lindy and Biddy reached the steps. “One of the students. He fell down a ravine.”

Marguerite Easton flinched, and Lindy noticed that behind her serene countenance was a depth of grief that threatened to consume her.

“What can we do?” asked Biddy.

“Oh.” Marguerite Easton shifted her gaze to the tour bus that was parked across the expanse of drive. She looked vaguely around until her eyes rested on a group of people that huddled in silence on the 6

Midsummer Murder

pavement. “Lenny,” she called. Her voice flowed toward the group, rich and melodious. A young man looked up, his face stricken.

“Please show the driver to the Walt Whitman wing.” The man nodded and began to walk toward the bus.

Marguerite’s gaze moved from him to Lindy and Biddy. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

Lindy shook her head. This was not the introduction she had anticipated.

“This is Lindy Graham and Biddy McFee, Marguerite,” said Jeremy.

“Yes, of course.” Marguerite smiled at them, good breeding taking over momentarily. “It’s so very good to meet you at last. Jeremy is—”

“Ms. Easton.” A burly man wearing a sheriff’s uniform stepped from behind Lindy. He hitched up his belt against his stomach and readjusted his holster. Then he lifted the visor of his cap toward the directress.

“Well now,” he began. He stopped and tilted his head from one side to the other; his spine made cracking noses. “They’re taking the body over to County General. The parents will have to be notified.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll get their phone number for you, and—and—”

Marguerite faltered, then continued. “Naturally, I will be phoning them, myself.”

“Naturally,” he replied. There was something in his tone of voice that almost suggested satisfaction. Lindy took a reflexive step backward.

Marguerite’s hand lifted into the air. Jeremy enclosed it in his own.

“Come inside.” He led her gently toward the door. The sheriff cleared his throat, nodded brusquely toward Lindy and Biddy, then followed Jeremy and Marguerite into the house.

“Ugh.” Biddy shivered.

“Ditto,” said Lindy.

* * *

7

Shelley Freydont

“What do we do now?” asked Biddy. She sat down in a wing-backed chair and looked around at the Victorian furnishings. Heavy green drapes hung from brass rails above the windows. Lace panels mottled the late afternoon light, their design casting a pattern of shadows on the plush carpet.

Lindy perched on the edge of a bed, tracing the pattern of the matelassé counterpane that lay across it. There was a slight chill in the room as if winter had been trapped inside. She shrugged. “Turn up the heat.”

She crossed over to the far wall, richly covered in a gold brocade wallpaper. “Turn down the air conditioning,” she amended. She adjusted the modern thermostat, then moved to the window and sat on the sill, letting the sun warm her shoulders.

“I wonder if they’ll go on with the anniversary celebration. It’s probably too late to cancel.”

Biddy brought her hands to her hair. “What a hideous thing to happen. And what timing.” She ran her fingers through her curls.

“Please, please let this be an accident.”

“What?”

“I know, that was a selfish thing to say. Imagine that poor family.

You send your kid to camp and he—he never comes back.”

“Don’t,” said Lindy. “It’s a parent’s worst nightmare. If you thought about what could happen, you’d never let your children out of your sight.” She thought about Cliff and Annie, just starting out in their adult lives; life was so tenuous. She pushed the thought from her mind. “I suppose we should find Jeremy and see what he wants us to do. The reception for the company is only two hours away.”

There was a knock on the door and both women jumped. Biddy propelled herself out of the chair and reached for the door knob.

A girl, wearing a calico dress and white apron, carried a tray into the room. “The kitchen sent this up. Ms. Easton thought you might be hungry.” She placed the tray on the dresser and arranged plates of fruit and cheese on a Queen Anne table near the window. “Ms.

Marguerite . . . Ms. Easton . . .” The girl bit her lower lip and shifted her weight. “She says, dinner will be delayed tonight ’cause of what happened.” She shifted to her other foot. “The others have been sent to the student dining hall. It’s over there.” She pointed toward a fox hunting print on the wall. Lindy guessed she meant outside in that 8

Midsummer Murder

direction. The girl shifted back to the other foot as if it were a mnemonic way of remembering all the points of the message. Shift right, first point, shift left, second point.

“But Ms. Easton wants you—wishes that you—anyway, you’re supposed to go to the drawing room at seven-thirty. That’s where they’re having drinks.” She shifted again. Lindy waited for the next point. The girl grabbed the empty tray, walked toward the door, turned and shifted. “If there’s anything else you would like, please dial four. That’s the kitchen.” She opened the door and closed it behind her.

The door opened again and she stuck her head in. “Oh, almost forgot—reception’s still on.” She shut the door.

* * *

“It does look like that hotel from
The Shining,
” whispered Biddy slowing down as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Lindy’s hand ran along the chestnut banister and she looked at the foyer below her. Carved wooden panels framed squares of fabric wall coverings. Brass sconces cast fans of light upward against the walls.

Above them, a chandelier created a distant glow.

“This way, please.” A tall, attenuated butler approached them and made a slight bow. His face was thin and long, like the rest of him.

Sparse gray hair was slicked back from his forehead. Exchanging looks, Lindy and Biddy followed him across the hall and entered a room through a heavy wooden door that opened easily at his touch.

Jeremy and Marguerite Easton stood at the window, drinks in hand, facing each other. Jeremy was dressed in a dinner jacket and looked every bit the man of the manor.

Marguerite came toward them, a sea-green gown of chiffon floating out behind her as she crossed to where they stood just inside the door.

Earrings of light green stones dangled from her earlobes. It was the only jewelry she wore. She held out an unadorned hand to Lindy and then to Biddy.

She led them into the room, and the butler appeared with a tray of drinks. Lindy took a glass of white wine and smiled at him. Were you 9

Shelley Freydont

supposed to thank servants or ignore them? She couldn’t remember.

She hoped the smile would suffice.

“I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you,” said Marguerite.

“With this tragic accident, I wasn’t able to give you the welcome I had hoped.” Marguerite shook her head. Her eyes misted over. Jeremy came up beside her, and she smiled up at him. She was a tall woman, straight-backed, and looking much younger than her seventy-two years, in spite of the lines of fatigue around those remarkable eyes.

Her complexion was creamy and pink; even the inevitable wrinkles looked buoyant and alive.

They were a beautiful couple, thought Lindy as she sipped the excellent wine. Not like mother and son. No. She imagined Jeremy older; a little softer around the middle, but still strong; a maturing of the face; perhaps, a thinning of the hair. Marguerite, younger, looking at him with eyes that danced with pleasure, not the supreme sadness that filled them now. The picture of unconditional love.

Lindy always found herself contemplating Jeremy in the role of lover. She couldn’t help herself; he was such an intriguing subject. No one was absolutely sure of his sexual orientation, not even Jeremy, himself. As far as she knew, he had not had any lover, male or female, since she had known him.

Marguerite’s voice broke into her thoughts and she mentally kicked herself for her moment of unbridled imagination.

“Such promise. You don’t find that kind of natural talent and vivacity in one person. Not very often,” she said. “He reminded me a little of you at that age, Jeremy. Seventeen, blond and blue-eyed, and beautiful in a rugged way.” Marguerite smiled, a whimsical smile, and then her countenance seemed to fragment. “Oh, the poor dear boy.”

The butler returned that moment with a tray of fresh drinks, which everyone took, fumbling around in embarrassed silence as Marguerite fought for composure.

“That will be all, Sandiman,” she said finally.

“Madame.” The butler bowed. Lindy almost missed his barely perceptible glance of concern. She watched him turn and leave the room, feeling an immediate liking for the man and his discreet loyalty.

“You know,” said Marguerite, rousing herself, “Jeremy was a favorite here; he still is.”

10

Midsummer Murder

“Marguerite.” Jeremy looked immensely pleased, then dropped his gaze. His affection for the woman was complete. Marguerite, mused Lindy, was the only friend of Jeremy’s that she had ever heard him address by their full name. Normally it would be Margie or Maggie.

The use of her full name was a mark of his admiration.

“You were so serious, remember?” She returned her attention to Lindy and Biddy. “The first year Jeremy was here, he was a skinny fourteen-year-old. But he walked away with the scholarship. Three hundred boys auditioned, as I recall. Most of them older and better trained than Jeremy. But he shot across the floor like a young colt with such power and sheer exuberance that it knocked the judges on their
derrieres
. They hardly looked at another dancer after that.”

Marguerite laughed, her grief momentarily held in abeyance by her memories. “And the scholarship girl that year. What was her name?

Something unusual. I remember there were funny little jokes about the two of you.”

“Quasimodo and Esmerelda.”

“Oh yes, Esmerelda, as dark as you were fair. And just the same height, but more muscular.” Marguerite’s gaze seemed far away. Her eyes danced. “You hauled her around the floor, lifted her over your head, with those skinny legs quaking beneath. How we laughed. But you wouldn’t let Robert make the lifts easier. You were so determined to please.”

“I looked ridiculous, I’m sure,” Jeremy said, obviously embarrassed.

Lindy struggled not to laugh at the imagine of Jeremy hoisting the gargantuan Esmerelda around the stage. Biddy was grinning unashamedly.

“Not ridiculous, no. And when you came back the following summer, you had filled out quite nicely.”

Jeremy blushed. “I’ll never be able to face my coworkers again.” He shot a brief look toward Biddy.

Biddy bit back her grin, then burst out laughing.

Marguerite touched her palm to Jeremy’s cheek. “A blush makes a man so handsome, don’t you think? You’ve made us so proud.” Her expression sobered. “Poor, poor Larry.”

Lindy started. Larry? Then she realized that Marguerite was speaking of the boy who had just died.

11

Shelley Freydont

“He was talented. Almost as talented as you. But he was lazy. And arrogant. He spent as much energy getting into trouble as he did dancing. But I thought we could tame that energy, focus it, and redirect it. Now, we’ll never know.” Marguerite sighed. “I guess he wasn’t really like you at all.”

The door to the drawing room opened and two men, dressed in slacks and polo shirts, came into the room, one leading, the other following slightly behind, leaning on a cane. They both appeared to be in their sixties. Lindy’s attention was caught by the second man. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“Sorry we’re late,” said the first man, hurrying forward.

“Ellis, my dear,” said Marguerite. “Look who’s arrived. Jeremy, you remember my brother Ellis, don’t you?”

Jeremy’s drink spilled out of his glass as he turned toward the new arrivals. Drops of the dark liquid splashed on the sleeve of his jacket.

His “handsome” blush fled from his face, leaving two dark patches on his suddenly pallid complexion.