Murder Had a Little Lamb (27 page)

According to what Serena had just told me, the disagreement that Vondra had had with Nathaniel had occurred just days before he had been murdered.

A
s I drove away from the Garcias’ house, I agonized over the possibility that Vondra could have had something to do with Nathaniel’s murder. While the notion was chilling, I realized I had to at least consider the idea that their recent argument about the upcoming art exhibition had made her angry enough to kill him.

I also couldn’t completely discount the possibility that her mother might be the killer. According to Serena, there had been bad blood between Vondra and Nathaniel. When it came to protecting their children, mothers often reverted to their animal instincts, turning into lionesses the moment one of their cubs was threatened. Even though I still wasn’t buying Beanie’s outrageous claims about what had happened in Miami, I felt I had no choice but to add Serena Garcia to my list of suspects.

At this point I was more curious than ever to know why Vondra and the Worth School had parted ways. Had she left because her mother had insisted on pulling her out, as Serena insisted? Or was the reason more ominous? Had Vondra been thrown out—and if so, had the reason been that she’d been legitimately linked to vandalizing the art exhibition?

While I still hadn’t found out why she was no longer enrolled at Worth, there was one person who was guaranteed to know. And so first thing after Tuesday morning’s class, I made a beeline for the administration building.

“Can I help you?” Ms. Greer asked, peering at me over the eyeglasses roosting on the edge of her nose.

“I have to talk to Dr. Goodfellow,” I said brusquely, not bothering to hide the fact that I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

Ms. Greer frowned. “I believe she’s busy right now, but perhaps you could—”

“I need to speak with her about one of the students,” I insisted. “It’s an emergency.”

“Oh!” A look of alarm flashed across Ms. Greer’s face. “In that case, go ahead and knock on her door.”

So much for being busy, I thought with irritation.

As I approached her office, I saw that the heavy wooden door was slightly ajar. But since it was only open a couple of inches, I couldn’t see inside.

“Dr. Goodfellow?” I called, rapping on the door sharply. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” she replied from somewhere within.

Actually, it was more like she said, “Of coursh.” At least, that was how it sounded to me.

I told myself I must have heard her wrong because she was inside the room and I was outside. But as soon as I stepped into her office, I realized my ears weren’t deceiving me after all.

In addition to the usual pencil mug and stacks of papers, sitting on her desk was the same small crystal glass I’d seen the last time I was in the headmistress’s office. And just like last time, it was half-filled with a liquid the same golden color as whatever was in the decanter right next to it.

I automatically checked my watch. It was 10:08. In the morning. The last time I’d checked, ten
A.M.
hadn’t been recognized as the official beginning of cocktail hour.

“Dr. Goodfellow, I need to talk to you about Vondra Garcia,” I said, seeing no reason to waste any time. I lowered myself into my usual seat, the red velvet chair directly opposite her desk. “I’m extremely concerned about her leaving the school.”

She stared at me blankly. From the glazed look in her eyes, I realized that this morning, cocktail hour had begun way
before
ten o’clock.

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Vondra was a student in my class,” I continued. “Even though I didn’t have a chance to get to know her very well, I still can’t help feeling involved in her education.”

“I appreciate your dedication, Dr. Popper,” Dr. Goodfellow said. This time, there was no mistaking the fact that she was slurring her words. She stumbled through “dedication” with as much difficulty as I suspected she’d experience if she actually tried getting up
and walking. “But I can assure you that Vondra’s departure had nothing to do with you.”

I was trying to come up with the best way of getting her to tell me what her departure did have to do with when she picked up her glass.

Staring into it, she mumbled, “The girl had to go, and that’s all there was to it.”

So Vondra
was
thrown out, I thought. But even more surprising than how forthcoming Dr. Goodfellow had been in announcing this piece of news was the tone of voice in which she’d done it.

Whatever is in that tiny glass must be mighty powerful, I thought.

Dr. Goodfellow seemed to have come to that same realization the moment I did. Plastering on her professional demeanor, she said, “We cannot permit young women who have no respect for our school to remain part of the student body.”

“You must be talking about the destruction of the art exhibition,” I said somberly. “I understand that something of Vondra’s was found at the scene.”

She jerked her head up. “How did you know that?”

“I saw the police officer carrying Vondra’s bracelet around in a plastic bag,” I replied. “Or at least a bracelet that appeared to have been hers.”

“What do you mean, ‘appeared’?” she asked archly.

“Only that it might not actually have been Vondra’s bracelet,” I said evenly. “It could have looked like one of hers, but it might not have been identical. And even if it did belong to Vondra, someone could have planted it there. That person could have found one of her bracelets—or stolen it, for that matter. They could
even have gone out and bought one, and then planted it at the scene to make Vondra look like the guilty party.

“Besides,” I added, still struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice, “it seems to me that Vondra was tried and convicted with amazing speed. Yesterday I saw the cops standing outside the Community Center at nine o’clock, and by ten there were already notices in the faculty mailboxes, stating that Vondra was gone.”

Dr. Goodfellow’s eyes narrowed. “You have a very active imagination, Dr. Popper. But believe it or not, so do the people who run the Worth School. Don’t you think we also thought of all those possibilities?”

From the way her words wavered, it sounded as if she and whoever else had been involved in passing judgment on Vondra hadn’t thought of them at all—at least, not until now.

True, it could have simply been the sherry that was making her sound so uncertain. But something about the way she couldn’t quite bring herself to look me in the eye, combined with the fact that the art exhibition had been dedicated to a man who had been murdered only days before it was vandalized, made me suspect that something else might be going on.

“Of course Vondra was responsible!” Dr. Goodfellow continued. She was speaking much more loudly than usual, which only emphasized how badly she was slurring her words. “I can assure you that all of us who were involved in seeing that the culprit was caught did everything that was necessary, including involving the
police. We certainly shouldn’t be blamed for our efficiency! We did what needed to be done. Those of us at the Worth School who are responsible for its good name must be very careful to restrict its students to those of the highest caliber, both academically and morally.”

Fury rose in my chest as I listened to her tirade. How about the idea that your decision to throw Vondra out of the school had nothing to do with her character—or the vandalism? I thought angrily. What about the possibility that she knew too much?

Serena Garcia’s claim that her daughter had had some kind of disagreement with Nathaniel shortly before he was murdered certainly opened up that line of reasoning. But I knew perfectly well that the more likely it was that there was something else going on between Vondra and Nathaniel—or even Vondra and the school—the less likely it was that the headmistress would give me any indication of what it might have been about.

In other words, I knew a brick wall when I saw one. I also knew that in Dr. Goodfellow’s increasingly bloodshot eyes, as far as Vondra Garcia was concerned the case was closed.

Which led me to wonder if one of those aforementioned people who were involved in running the school had passed such severe judgment on Nathaniel Stibbins.

I decided it was time to take a different tack.

I took a few deep breaths, doing my best to calm myself down. And then, in an effort to appease Dr. Goodfellow, I said, “If you’re convinced that Vondra
was responsible, I suppose it’s a good thing that she’s gone. Especially since the artwork she destroyed was on display as a way of honoring poor Mr. Stibbins.”

“Mr. Stibbins,” Dr. Goodfellow repeated, the words coming out like a hiss.

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. True, I’d heard from Claude that the relationship with Elspeth and Nathaniel hadn’t quite been the way she’d described it the first time she had spoken about him. But that didn’t mean I’d expect her to admit that to me.

“The man never appreciated me,” she went on, spitting out her words. “Even when I went against the entire board of directors by choosing him over Claude.”

I froze.

Nathaniel had been chosen for something over Claude Molter? This new piece of information set my heart pounding like a jackhammer.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Goodfellow,” I said as calmly as I could, given all the construction work going on in my chest, “but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

She stared at me in amazement, as if she just assumed everyone in the universe was as involved in Worth School politics as she was. I might have been irritated by her attitude if I wasn’t hanging on her every word.

Just because I wasn’t in the loop didn’t mean I wasn’t anxious to be corralled in.

“Why, the job, of course,” she said, still acting surprised by my ignorance. “Director of Creativity.”

I guess my blank expression made it clear that I still had no idea what she was talking about because she
added, “What some schools might call the chair of the arts department.”

“I see.”

And why was that so desirable? I wondered.

But I’d barely had a chance to think up the question before she added, “It’s one of the most highly coveted positions at the Worth School. We truly value the arts here, and so we have a tremendous budget for music and painting and all the other manifestations of the creative process. That means our Director of Creativity holds a lot of power. He makes decisions about what speakers we bring to the school, who we invite to be artists-in-residence, and even which courses we offer. The job also entails deciding which programs our students can get credit for, as well as which girls will be allowed to take advantage of them. Our semester in Florence, for example, studying the art of the Renaissance—or our summer in Vienna, in which students who are interested in music learn about the great classical composers.

“But there’s more,” Dr. Goodfellow continued. “The Director of Creativity is such a high-profile position here in the Bromptons that it puts whoever plays that role in touch with some of the most powerful people in the New York arts scene. The curators at museums like the Metropolitan and the Guggenheim and the Whitney. Conductors and musicians and even board members at the Metropolitan Opera and the New York City Ballet. Even people from Broadway, not only producers but also directors and actors and set designers and all those other creative minds.”

I was beginning to understand. The job of Director
of Creativity not only provided the lucky individual who landed that position with an incredible amount of power within the Worth School. It was also a passport to hobnobbing with the movers and shakers in New York City’s culture scene.

Which meant a person who had ambitions of his own could use the position to do some valuable networking.

“So both Nathaniel and Claude were under consideration for Director of Creativity?” I prompted.

“That’s right,” Dr. Goodfellow replied with a nod. “They had both been here at Worth for about the same length of time, they were both similarly accomplished … In the end, it was a judgment call. And even though the board felt strongly that Claude was the more qualified candidate, I dug my heels in.” She was back to sounding angry as she hissed, “A lot of good that did me!”

“I’m curious,” I said, still trying to sound as if my interest in the Worth School’s internal workings was only casual. “How did you manage to sell Nathaniel Stibbins as the better candidate if the board members were so convinced that Claude Molter would have been the better choice?”

Once again, she looked surprised that I’d asked a question with such an obvious answer. “Why, that big New York art exhibition, naturally.”

“The one that was scheduled to open in a few weeks?” I struggled to remember the name of the gallery. Fortunately, it was a factoid I’d managed to retain. “The one at the Mildred Judsen Gallery?”

“Of course.” Dr. Goodfellow continued to act astonished
by my ignorance. “I worked hard to make them understand that the exhibition was guaranteed to launch Nathaniel’s career. In the end, they finally saw that I was right.”

I was about to ask another probing question when she narrowed her eyes and added, “Not that I ever actually saw any of the paintings he planned to include in the show. No matter how much I pleaded, he simply wouldn’t let me. There was a side of Nathaniel that was ridiculously secretive. Frankly, it was something I found hard to take. And it wasn’t even because he and I were so … close. Even more, it was because I couldn’t help wondering what kind of artist doesn’t want to show his work to everyone who’s willing to take the time to look at it.

“The gallery just returned them, since they won’t be putting on that exhibition after all. I suppose I should take a look at them at some point, but frankly, none of that seems to matter much anymore.”

My heart was back to pounding wildly. I was getting an aerobic workout and I wasn’t even standing up.

“Why do you think Nathaniel was so secretive?”