Murder Had a Little Lamb (11 page)

“The Mildred Judsen Gallery was about to put his latest works on exhibit. Surely you’ve heard of the Mildred Judsen.” Claude peered at me over his beak, acting as if I were such an imbecile that I barely deserved the breath it took for him to speak to me.

“Uh, I’m not really as
au courant
on the art scene as I should be,” I told him, purposely using a French phrase to show him I was at least semiliterate.

“He worked like a fiend these last few months, getting ready,” Claude said. “Of course, Nathaniel always worked like a fiend. He spent every moment he wasn’t teaching standing at an easel, either at his studio at home or the one the school provided him with here on campus.”

I made a mental note about Nathaniel having had an art studio on campus, wondering if it could possibly provide any clues.

“And this upcoming exhibition was a real
coup,”
he added, interjecting a French word of his own. “The gallery is one of New York’s top venues, at least for
artists who have yet to make a real splash. It specializes in having the artists right on-site while it’s open, so they can personally discuss their work with whoever comes in to view it. They’re extremely strict about their policy of only representing the work of living artists. And apparently they couldn’t wait to launch Nathaniel’s career, something he’d wanted for ages. The day he shipped his paintings off to the gallery, I thought he was going to burst with joy.”

“I guess they had to take him off the schedule, then,” I said, thinking out loud.

“Sadly, they had no choice but to do exactly that. In fact, the last I heard, they were about to ship every last piece of his work back to his studio.”

“That’s awful!” I cried. “To think that he was on the verge of—of greatness, perhaps. And now …”

“It’s quite tragic,” Claude agreed in the same matter-of-fact tone. He hesitated for only a moment before adding, “Is there anything else?”

His crisp tone of voice jolted me back into the moment. “Excuse me?”

“I’d like to get back to my music,” he said. “That is, if you have no further reason to keep me from doing so.”

“Oh. No, that’s all I wanted to ask you.”

“Fine. You’ll let me know when the memorial is?”

He turned his back on me, placed his violin under his chin, and lifted his bow. Before I had a chance to say thank you or goodbye, he was completely absorbed by Tchaikovsky.

As I closed the door of the practice room gently
behind me, I contemplated Claude Molter’s cool reaction to Nathaniel’s death.

Maybe it’s because he’s a count, I thought.

What I found even more interesting was Claude’s claim that Nathaniel Stibbins’s career as an artist was on the verge of taking off. According to him, the artist’s murder had occurred right before the opening of an exhibit at a New York City art gallery that was likely to get him the acclaim he’d undoubtedly striven for during most of his life.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the timing was merely a coincidence—or if the fact that he may have been on the verge of unprecedented success was the reason why some nasty soul had decided it was a good time for him to be dead.

•   •   •

As I ambled out of the arts building—somehow, I still couldn’t bring myself to call it the Center for Creative Self-Expression—I continued to ponder the conversation I’d just had with the school’s music teacher. I was so lost in thought that I nearly collided with someone who reached the door at the main entrance the same time I did. My heartbeat quickened when I recognized her as one of my students. Of course, it was hard not to, since as usual she was dressed completely in white. The same row of bracelets, made of green and black beads, ran up her arm.

“Vondra?” I exclaimed.

She stepped back, looking surprised. “Dr. Popper!” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you. Sorry about that.”

“No, it was my fault. I was daydreaming, as usual.” As the two of us started out along the path together, I asked, “How’s that cat of yours?”

She hesitated before replying, “He’s fine.”

“I didn’t get to find out much about Babalu,” I said, doing my best to keep the conversation going. “That is, aside from his unusual name.”

With a little shrug, she said, “I’m not as outgoing as those other girls. I guess I’m kind of a private person.”

“You don’t have to talk about your pets in order to benefit from the class,” I assured her as we headed toward the center of campus. “All I care about is teaching my students enough that they can be good caretakers for their pets for the rest of their lives. And I hope you all continue to make animals a part of your family. I don’t know about you, but I can’t imagine living without a whole bunch of furry or feathered friends around me. I even have a pet chameleon.”

Vondra smiled. “So you have animals around you both at work and at home.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Well, it’s really nice of you to come to the school to teach,” Vondra said, suddenly shy. “Especially since you’re doing it for free.”

My eyebrows shot up. “How did you know that?”

With a little shrug, she replied, “Around this place, nothing stays a secret for long.”

If only, I thought. True, I’d only been here for two days. But my suspicion was that this place was crawling with secrets. The trick was to become part of the pipeline. Either that, or find a way to ferret them out myself.

“It certainly seems as if the students know a lot about one another,” I commented.

“Oh
, yeah.” Her voice edged with bitterness, she added, “And what they don’t know, they make up.”

Even though I would have loved to find out more about what she meant, something about her closed-off demeanor kept me from pursuing it.

“High school isn’t easy for anyone,” I told her. “I’m sure that it’s just like at every other school—plenty of cliques and rivalries and all kinds of social intricacies.” I hesitated before adding, “In fact, I bet that at a place like this, it’s even worse than at most schools.”

“Especially for the scholarship kids,” Vondra said, still sounding bitter. I’m a day student, meaning I don’t live in the fancy dorms like Campbell and Beanie and all those other rich girls.”

“You mean you commute every day from home?”

“That’s right.”

“How far is it?”

“I live in Wyandogue. To get here, I take the Long Island Railroad, then a bus.”

“Wow! That’s quite a commute.”

She cast me a wary glance. “It takes me more than an hour and a half each way. Which means I get up at five thirty every morning.”

“That must be incredibly tough,” I said. “But look at the bright side. At least you get to live at home, with your family. These girls who live in the dorms might be able to sleep later, but they don’t have their parents or siblings around.”

“Or their pets,” Vondra volunteered.

I laughed. “That’s a biggie. Think how lucky you are that the first face you see every morning is a furry one. Am I right about that?”

“You bet,” she said, smiling. “Especially since I swear Babalu can tell time. He’s the one who gets me out of bed every morning.”

“I can’t think of a better alarm clock,” I said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Vondra shook her head. “It’s just my mom and me.”

“She must be thrilled that you’re going to a great school like this,” I commented.

“She is,” Vondra agreed. Thoughtfully, she added, “My mom has actually had a pretty tough life. And being a single mother is only part of it. It’s not like we have a lot of money or anything. She runs a small shop, so even though we manage to pay our bills, there’s never much money left over for any extras.

“Even so, when it comes to her little girl, she wants only the best. That’s why she was so determined that I come to school here at Worth. She never even came close to having an opportunity like this.”

She was silent for a few moments, and the only sound was the chirping of birds and the soft thud of our shoes against the walkway. “I can’t talk to her about the stuff that goes on here. It would hurt her to know everything isn’t as perfect for me as she wants it to be.”

“What kind of stuff?” I asked, surprised. It wasn’t until after I’d asked that I wondered if she’d think it wasn’t any of my business.

“Just the usual,” she replied with a little shrug. “The stuff you mentioned before. The cliques and all.” Her voice became thick as she explained, “Some of the rich girls like Campbell and her ladies-in-waiting, as I think of them, have no greater pleasure in life than making things difficult for the less advantaged kids.”

“You mean the scholarship kids,” I observed.

“Yeah,” she agreed sullenly.

“Campbell does seem kind of …” I tried to think of a way to characterize her that wouldn’t sound too condemning. “She strikes me as someone with a strong sense of entitlement.”

“If by that you mean she thinks she has a right to own the entire universe and everyone in it, I agree with you completely,” Vondra said with a wry smile. “The fact that she’s famous doesn’t help, either.”

“Famous?” I repeated, surprised.

“Maybe not famous, exactly,” she corrected herself. “More like on the verge of becoming famous. Just a few weeks ago, she went to some party in the city and the next day had her name in Page Six. You know, that gossip column in the
New York Post
that’s always writing about celebrities and politicians and people like that?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said. “But why would a gossip columnist be interested in Campbell Atwater?”

“Because of her father,” Vondra replied matter-of-factly. “He’s an incredibly rich businessman. Powerful, too. He’s one of those self-made men that the newspapers love to write about. Rags to riches
and all that.” She laughed coldly. “I’ve also heard he’s one of the meanest, most ruthless people in the world, which I suppose is how he managed to be so successful.”

“Vondra, if Campbell or anyone else is doing anything that’s really hurtful, there must be some recourse,” I told her. “Does Dr. Goodfellow know about the tensions between the kids from wealthy families and the students on scholarship?”

“It’s nothing illegal or anything like that,” Vondra insisted. “It’s just that they do everything they can to keep me from forgetting that they’re who they are and I’m who I am.”

“A bunch of snobby rich girls,” I muttered without thinking. Dorothy’s take on the students at the Worth School, I realized.

I also realized I shouldn’t have voiced that characterization out loud.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Vondra was grinning. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Still, I shouldn’t go around—”

“Don’t worry,” Vondra assured me, still smiling. “I won’t breathe a word to anybody. And you know, it kind of makes me feel better to know I’m not the only one who thinks of them that way.”

By that point, we’d reached the administration building.

“I have to stop in here to check my mail,” I told her. “But it’ll only take me a minute. If you don’t have any
other classes today, I could give you a ride somewhere. I’m scheduled to meet with someone later this morning, but I certainly have time to drop you at the train station beforehand.”

“That’s okay,” Vondra replied quickly. “I am on my way home, but the bus should come in about five minutes. I actually look forward to the twenty-minute ride. It gives me a chance to get started on my assignments. By the time I get off the train, I’ve usually made a pretty good dent in my homework.

“But thanks for the offer, Dr. Popper,” she said, turning off in another direction. Glancing back, she added, “And thanks for listening.”

I watched her hurry off to her bus stop, berating myself for being so careless.

Yet maybe my carelessness wasn’t such a bad thing, I thought.

After all, while my slip of the tongue had been in no way intentional, I realized it had helped me make a friend.

•   •   •

As I stepped into the administration building, I was struck once again by how elegantly appointed it was. Everything about the dignified edifice screamed wealth and privilege, from the lustrous dark wood paneling to the Oriental rugs to the artwork hanging on the walls.

And to think it’s one of the few buildings on campus that’s actually named for what it really is, I thought with amusement.

I smiled at Ms. Greer, who was sitting in her usual spot near the front door. As I did, a lightbulb suddenly went off in my head.

“Ms. Greer,” I said, edging over to her desk, “there’s something I’ve been curious about.” I tried to sound friendly enough to break through her icy exterior. “And you seem like the best person to ask, since Dr. Goodfellow told me herself that you’re the one who really runs things around here.”

She cast me a wary glance. “I’m afraid Dr. Goodfellow has been known to exaggerate on occasion.” I could already see those defenses of hers snapping into place, which gave me the feeling this was one of those instances in which flattery wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

I forged ahead anyway. “I understand Mr. Stibbins had an art studio on campus. I’ve heard so much about how talented he was that I’d love to see some of his artwork. Would it be possible for me to—?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied tartly. “That room has always been off-limits to everyone except Mr. Stibbins himself. Here at the Worth School we have the greatest respect for the creative process, and that includes preserving an artist’s privacy. And now, after what happened, I’ve been given strict instructions to keep it under lock and key until further notice.”

As she said those last words, I noticed that her eyes involuntarily traveled to the desk drawer on her right.

And I bet I know exactly where that key is kept, I thought.

But I simply replied, “I see. Well, thanks anyway.
Maybe I’ll have some other opportunity to see Mr. Stibbins’s artwork.”

With that, I turned and wandered over to the grid of wooden mailboxes. I was surprised to find several pieces of paper stuck into mine. Most were notices, including one instructing the faculty to park only in designated spots and one reminding everyone that descriptions of classes for the fall term were due in another week.