Murder Had a Little Lamb (19 page)

“Why is that?” I asked, struggling to keep my tone of voice light.

“Have you seen the dirty pictures he showed the girls in his class?” Mr. Atwater demanded.

I was too shocked to speak. At least until I reminded myself that Leighton Atwater’s views on art might not be the same as mine.

“What pictures are you talking about?” I asked cautiously.

“Why—why—pictures of naked women!” he exclaimed. “So what if they were done by artists who were supposedly great? If you ask me, they were nothing but a bunch of dirty old men who used the fact that they knew how to paint as an excuse to get attractive young ladies to take off their clothes!”

I was completely taken aback by what I was hearing—so much so that I wanted to be sure I understood him correctly. Thinking back to the art book Beanie had showed me, I said, “You mean dirty old men like Botticelli and Goya?”

“Exactly!” he replied. “And Renoir and Picasso and Matisse and Rembrandt …”

And just about every other famous artist you could think of, I thought wryly.

But I wasn’t about to argue about the traditions of the art world. At least, not with a man who had clearly made up his mind about where he stood.

“If you have such serious reservations about the Worth School,” I asked hesitantly, “may I ask why you decided to send Campbell here?”

“Two reasons,” Mr. Atwater replied with a scowl. “One is that she either flunked out of or got thrown out of the last three schools she attended. I was beginning to think she’d never graduate. Then she heard about Worth and insisted that at last she’d found one that was in sync with her personality. At least, I believe that’s how she put it.”

“I see. And the second reason?”

“Her stepmother sided with her.” With a shrug, he said, “I can fight Campbell, but I can’t fight the two of them when they’ve ganged up on me.”

“From what I’ve seen Campbell is doing pretty well here,” I ventured. “She’s certainly made a lot of friends.”

“Making friends has never been difficult for my daughter,” he said with a sardonic smile. “In fact, making friends is one of her main problems. It’s all she wants to do. Getting her to put even the slightest bit of effort into learning something—now,
that’s
a challenge.”

Nodding sympathetically, I commented, “I suppose that’s a widespread problem with the children of successful parents. They know they’ll always have someone there to back them up.”

“Unless those parents happen to have standards,” he countered. Glancing around the room, he added in a scornful tone, “And I don’t believe for a minute that most of the people in this room fall into that category. Especially where their children are concerned!”

I was actually relieved when a reed-thin woman with shiny dark hair worn in an asymmetrical style chose that moment to tap Mr. Atwater on the shoulder.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she gushed, “but I’ve been wanting to meet you for ages. I’m Cordelia Van Hooten. Beanie’s mom?”

I wasn’t surprised, since both mother and daughter shared the same almost supernatural ebullience.

“Our daughters are the best of friends!” she went on. “Beanie talks about Campbell endlessly. I can’t believe that for months they’ve been—what’s that expression, BFF? Best friends forever?—and yet our paths have never crossed!”

Leighton Atwater cast me a pained look. And then, with an air of resignation, he turned back to Beanie’s mom.

Personally, I would have loved the chance to speak to her. After all, her daughter was another big fan of Nathaniel’s.

Yet I already had the feeling that honing in on this conversation would be no easy matter. Beanie’s mother had linked her arm through Campbell’s dad’s and was dragging him away, meanwhile chattering incessantly.

For a moment, I actually felt sorry for him. But then I thought about the fact that he seemed to be one of the few parents I’d encountered who seemed unhappy with the school.

And he seemed even
more
unhappy with the school’s art teacher. As I stood alone in the center of the crowd, I wondered just how strong that dislike was.

Glancing around, I saw that many of the parents had begun wandering back to their seats. And Dr. Goodfellow was making her way toward the front of the room, stopping every few seconds to exchange pleasantries with some of the parents.

Before I dutifully returned to my seat, however, I wanted to check out the student art exhibit. I’d been curious before, but now that I’d heard Leighton Atwater’s denunciation of the Worth School’s art teacher, I was anxious to see exactly what kind of “creative expression” Nathaniel Stibbins had sparked.

I stepped into the adjoining hallway—and was instantly struck by the fact that “multiple media” was no exaggeration. The students’ artwork incorporated every type of artistic medium I could think of.

There were more than two dozen paintings, ranging from miniatures the size of an index card to huge canvases as big as those bulletin boards that lined the corridors in most schools. They had been done in oil, watercolor, and acrylic, with some paintings incorporating more than one type of paint. There were also drawings made with crayon or colored pencil.

But there were plenty of three-dimensional works,
too. Sculptures, I supposed, even though I wasn’t certain a colorful ceramic bowl shaped like a dragon or a macramé wall hanging made from yarn, string, and computer cables would fit into that category. I saw works made from papier-mâché, blown glass, Fimo clay, blocks of wood, buttons, clothespins, Tinker Toys, marbles, and Styrofoam packing peanuts.

The only medium I didn’t see represented here, I realized with amusement, was found objects. But I wasn’t surprised. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the Worth School’s students rescuing tires or egg crates from other people’s trash bins.

But what struck me even more than the wide range of media the girls had used was the subject matter. Many of the works were abstract, amorphous blobs of color or quirky materials piled on top of one another to create a pleasing but meaningless design. As for the images that were recognizable, they all seemed to be either flowers, fruit, animals, landscapes, or human faces.

In other words, there were no nudes, no random body parts, nothing that even hinted at subject matter that any parent could find offensive. Even Leighton Atwater.

The exhibit strengthened my conviction that Nathaniel Stibbins had been totally professional in his dealings with the students who took both his art history and his studio art classes.

At least, in the classroom.

Yet there had clearly been other sides to the man. That pale blue tank top, size Women’s Small, was proof of that.

As I headed back to the PTA meeting that was once again getting under way, I couldn’t help feeling that it was
that
side—the side
other
than the passionate and dedicated individual who ate, slept, and breathed art—that had gotten him killed.

B
y the time I turned into my driveway that night, I was completely wiped out. The day had seemed impossibly long. In fact, it was hard to believe it was only that morning that I’d visited Nathaniel’s chicken-coop-turned-castle.

The thought of slipping between cool sheets and succumbing to some serious z’s had never sounded more alluring.

I tiptoed into the house, assuming that Nick was already in bed—and that he’d left a light on for me out of politeness. Actually, I was kind of
hoping
that was the case. Things between us were still so frosty that there were practically snowballs in our bed.

But as I unlocked the front door and slid into the cottage as quietly as I could, given the fact that two crazed canines were acting as if I were Odysseus
returning from his travels, I saw Nick sitting at the table. In front of him was a tome so thick it could only be one of his law books.

“Hi,” I said tentatively, not sure of what kind of reaction I’d get. I kept my eyes away from his by leaning over to greet Max and Lou, pretending they absorbed so much of my attention that I had none left over for him. They, as usual, seemed completely oblivious to the tension around them. As far as they were concerned, life was one big tennis ball.

“Hi,” Nick replied. His voice was gentle, with none of the iciness that had characterized the minimal interactions we’d had since our argument two nights before. “I waited up for you.”

“That was thoughtful,” I said, finally daring to make eye contact.

He hesitated before admitting, “I was going to pretend I was studying, but I figured you’d see right through that ruse.”

“It is summer,” I agreed, “and you’re not taking any classes.”

“Right.” Pushing the book away, he said, “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Talking is good.” I crossed the room, trailed by my dogs. By that point, Tinkerbell had padded over, too. I scooped her up and sat down next to Nick with my kitty-cat in my lap.

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I flew off the handle the other night.”

“You had good reason to,” I replied, my voice thick. “I know what a pain I’ve been about settling on a new date.”

“Still, I was wrong to take it personally,” he insisted. “Having someone get murdered at your wedding would put anyone off.”

We both knew he was being generous—that there was much more behind my reluctance to jump right in and start putting together a makeup wedding. That old fear of commitment of mine was rearing its ugly head once again, using the tragedy as an excuse to postpone getting married.

But I wasn’t about to point that out.

“Maybe we should just agree to wait a little longer before making any definite plans,” he added.

“Agreeing is good,” I said, nodding. “We should at least wait until Nathaniel’s killer has been found.”

“So are we still friends?” Nick asked, his voice light but his eyes questioning.

“Definitely.”

“More than friends?” Tentatively he reached across the table.

“Oh, yeah,” I replied, grasping his hand in my mine.

“In that case, what about kissing?”

I leaned toward him. “Kissing is good,” I murmured, relieved that those nasty snowballs were about to melt. “In fact, kissing is
really
good.”

•   •   •

During Friday morning’s class, as I talked about the best ways of treating wounds, my eyes kept drifting over to Campbell. Frankly, I was having a hard time reconciling the party girl with her straitlaced father.

Today, for example, she was wearing a clingy, low-cut halter made from an in-your-face zebra print. Her white shorts were equally tight, revealing the outline of a pair of thong underwear.

How Leighton Atwater ever let his daughter walk around in public dressed like that was beyond me.

When class ended, I stood at my desk, saying goodbye to the girls as they streamed by. When the lithe faux zebra skin-bedecked beauty passed, I said, “Campbell? Could I talk to you for a minute?”

A look of surprise crossed her face. But she quickly regained her composure, plastering on a sweet smile.

“Sure,” she said, sidling over to my desk. “What’s up, Dr. Popper?”

“I just wanted to mention that I had the pleasure of meeting your father at the PTA meeting last night,” I told her.

“Pleasure?” she repeated with a wry smile. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

My confusion was sincere as I asked, “What do you mean?”

She gave one of those “whatever” shrugs she seemed to have mastered. “He’s kind of stuffy, don’t you think?”

My thoughts exactly. But I was more interested in her thoughts than in mine.

“I imagine most teenage girls feel that way about their parents,” I observed.

“Believe me, my dad is in a class by himself,” Campbell insisted, rolling her eyes. “He’s got so many rules.”

“I’m sure your father only wants what’s best for
you,” I said. “For one thing, he let you come to this school, even though it sounds as if he wasn’t crazy about the idea.”

Campbell’s pretty, carefully-made-up face brightened. “And I love it here.”

“That’s the impression he gave me.”

“I guess he told you I flunked out of a couple of other schools,” she said, not looking the least bit upset, much less ashamed.

“He did say something about that.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “I like school. It’s fun.”

“There are certainly plenty of great classes here,” I observed. “In fact, just yesterday I ran into Beanie at the library and she was looking through a book that the art history teacher recommended. That was Mr. Stibbins, right?”

“That’s right.” With a little pout, she added, “He was just murdered, you know. It’s, like, the most awful thing imaginable.”

“I heard about that,” I said lightly. “You and the other girls must have been devastated.”

“Of course we were!” she cried. “Imagine something like that happening at a place like Worth! If you’re not safe here, where are you safe? It made me look at the world in an entirely different way!”

Perhaps as a world in which Daddy wouldn’t always be able to helicopter in assistance? I wondered.

“It’s funny you should say that,” I commented, “since Beanie said almost the same thing. Only she mentioned that Mr. Stibbins’s class had changed the
way she looks at art. I suppose he had that effect on all his students.”

Campbell shrugged. Curling a silky blond strand of hair around one finger, she said, “I guess.”

I tried again. “Beanie said Mr. Stibbins was a really strong influence in her life.” I hesitated before adding, “She gave me the impression that you felt the same way.”

Once again, Campbell rolled her eyes. “Beanie exaggerates
so
much. You have to be careful about believing anything she says.”

“Campbell!” a voice suddenly snapped, making me jump. “Are you gonna be in there all day?”

I turned to see Beanie scowling at us from the doorway. In her hand was a can of soda.

“Hello, Beanie,” I said as coolly as I could. I hadn’t realized she was still out in the hall. I’d just assumed that she’d hurried off with all the others, heading to another class or wherever she was going next.