Murder Had a Little Lamb (4 page)

“Good old Mom.” Nick let out a deep sigh. “What did you tell her?”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell her anything!” I cried. “She never even
asked
me if I was going to do it! She just
told
me I was. She even dictated where I should begin.”

“Where?”

“Apparently Nathaniel was a teacher at a fancy girls’ school on the East End. It’s one of those exclusive enclaves of the rich and snobbish. Dorothy thinks that’s the obvious place to start.”

Nick thought for a few seconds before saying, “Jess, you know I’m never crazy about you getting involved in something as dangerous as a murder investigation. But I also know that it’s something you’re really good at.”

“Thanks,” I replied, surprised by this unexpected show of support. To say that Nick didn’t like me poking my nose into places where it usually didn’t belong—
especially if those places were likely to have a murderer lurking in them—was an understatement. I didn’t blame him for worrying, of course. It was just that I never seemed to have much choice in the matter, and having him on my side was something I’d have always welcomed.

“I also know how hard it is to say no to my mother,” he continued. “Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no going back.”

“Y’think?”

He laughed. “Look, maybe I can even be of some help. I’ll feel a lot better when this long lost relative’s murder is cleared up, too. But for now, I’m going to take the dogs out for a run. I could use some exercise.”

Max and Lou immediately perked up. Sometimes I think they’re fully conversant in English and they just pretend they don’t understand most of what we say. The same goes for my cats, although it’s much more likely that they’re fluent in several languages.

As for me, I didn’t blame Nick one bit for wanting to get out of the house.

After he was gone, I climbed out of my wedding dress and carefully hung it up.

“I’ll put you to use yet,” I told it as I closed the closet door.

I slipped into an outfit that was almost identical to Nick’s. But with my jeans I wore a T-shirt printed with a picture of a Max clone and the words, “My Westie Is Smarter Than Your Honors Student.” Then I braced myself for my next chore: putting the champagne glasses back on the kitchen shelf and pulling down the paper decorations.

Once I’d returned the place to a state that was more or less normal, I sat down at the dining room table and pulled my laptop toward me.

Might as well jump right in, I thought, scooping up Cat and dropping my sweet pussycat into my lap. I’m certainly in no mood to break into that bottle of champagne.

As I pressed the power button, I could feel the rest of the world slipping away. Even though my computer hadn’t yet booted up, I was already plotting a strategy for how to proceed.

Like it or not, I suddenly found myself embroiled in another murder investigation.

T
he Worth School,” I muttered as I typed the words into the Google search box. I used the fingers on one hand so I could fondle Cat’s furry ear with the other hand. “W—O—R …”

I wasn’t surprised that the first website listed was www.theworthschool.com. I clicked on the link, noticing that my heart immediately began to beat faster.

The home page came up, filling the screen with a photograph of elegant wrought-iron gates that opened onto a long winding driveway. Set into the metal was a gold plaque with what looked like the school emblem.

And then a bright blue headline emerged from cyberspace:
WELCOME TO THE WORTH SCHOOL, WHERE EVERY STUDENT LEARNS HER WORTH!

One photograph after another began popping up. Each was a picture of a different girl who I supposed was absorbed in the process of learning her worth.
One gazed at a test tube, one had her nose buried in a book, and one played an instrument that looked like a xylophone. Others appeared to be taking a less academic route to self-discovery: laughing with friends, studying a computer screen, and—my favorite—sitting under a tree, staring off into space and undoubtedly thinking great thoughts.

Even though so far I’d seen nothing but stock photos, I was considerably more impressed by the slideshow that followed.

The photograph of the gate dissolved into one shot after another, each one showing off a different part of the campus. The Worth School’s buildings and grounds made it look like a university rather than a high school. An amazingly well-endowed university, not to mention one that definitely leaned toward the avant-garde.

Most of the buildings scattered over an impressively large stretch of land were modern, incorporating architecture that ranged from fairly unusual to totally out there. The library, for example, which from the front resembled a gigantic row of books. On either side was a pair of friendly-looking lions that were clearly meant to look like bookends. The imagery of the arts building wasn’t as specific. The white, free-form building looked like a linen napkin that had been dropped on the ground by some careless giant.

Not all the buildings seemed suitable for the cover of
Architectural Digest
, however. Administration, for example, was a standard multistory redbrick building that appeared sturdy enough that no amount of huffing and puffing could blow it down. And the school’s
small white chapel looked as if someone had snatched it off the village green of some quaint New England town. It even had a steeple towering high above the gray shingled roof.

The grounds were just as spectacular. Every square inch appeared to be carefully landscaped, some areas with startlingly large beds of colorful flowers, others with outdoor sculpture that ranged from your run-of-the-mill classic Greek gods and goddesses to a bouquet of twisted metal rods that reached up high into the sky. The facilities included two Olympic-size pools, one indoor and one outdoor; an ice-skating rink; and separate courts or fields for tennis, soccer, handball, the Italian game of
bocce
, and a half-dozen other sports I didn’t have any idea how to play.

“This is not your ordinary school,” I mumbled, clicking one more time to enter the website.

“Welcome to the Worth School,” the text began, “a private school for young women in which every one of our 350 students is considered the center of her own private universe.”

Oh
, boy, I thought.

“The Worth School’s educational philosophy is that no subject can be taught in a vacuum. We are strong proponents of a fully integrated curriculum. For example, the study of literature must mesh with the study of music in order for students to comprehend how words and melody interface with each other. To fully understand art, students must also learn history so they understand the context in which each work was created.

“And from the time students enter in the sixth
grade, rather than imposing letter or number grades on students, the Worth School awards three levels of evaluation: Above and Beyond, Good Job, and Persist in the Challenge.

“In short, we strive to think beyond the usual constraints of most schools. Books, CDs, and DVDs are housed in the Hall of Ideas, rather than in a simple library, and students study art, music, film, dance and creative movement, and yoga in the Center for Creative Self-Expression.

“The Worth School is located on 125 acres in East Brompton, on Long Island’s East End. In addition to the traditional college preparatory classes that are offered during the Spring and Fall semesters, we offer a more experimental curriculum during our eight-week Summer School, which enables our students to explore additional disciplines they might not be able to fit into their schedule during the academic year.”

Summer school! I thought. I wished cats were capable of doing the high five.

“The school was founded by Eleanor Phipps Worth,” I read, “a strong, independent woman who was born and raised in East Brompton, then spent her life fighting for women’s rights, including the right to vote. Upon her death in 1958, her wish to turn her estate into a progressive school for young women was realized.

“Today, the Worth School prides itself on the diversity of its student body, which we maintain by extending generous scholarships to deserving students from all over the New York metropolitan area. While we provide housing for the majority of our students in
our on-campus dormitories, approximately twenty percent of the student body consists of young women who live close enough to attend the school as day students.”

A yellow oval at the bottom of the page invited me to click my way to a list of courses the school offered. I wasn’t that surprised to find Basic Japanese, Understanding Global Warming, or History and Politics of the Middle East. But I couldn’t say the same for Zen Buddhism, Beginning Neon Sculpture, the Poetry of e.e. cummings, and the Art and Science of the Leaf. My favorite was the History of China, which included a three-week field trip. African Drumming, in which students actually studied in Africa, was a close second.

My next click brought me to a letter from the headmistress, Dr. Elspeth Goodfellow. I skimmed it and found the same public relations gobbledygook about an integrated curriculum and the importance of freeing each student’s inner spirit. As for Dr. Goodfellow, she had an impressive background that included degrees from Harvard, the Sorbonne, and someplace called the School for Spiritual Intellectualism. Unfortunately, there was no photo, so I had no indication of which of those three institutions had influenced her most.

Next I clicked on the Faculty webpage, then located the listing for Nathaniel Stibbins. I clicked again, and his now-familiar face came up. I had to admit that he looked considerably better than the last time I’d seen him.

I began to read. “Our distinguished art teacher,
Nathaniel Stibbins, has been on the faculty since 1995. An accomplished artist, he works in a wide variety of media, including oils, acrylics, watercolor, vegetable dyes, and found objects.”

“Found objects?” I mumbled to Cat. She looked as confused as I was. Then I realized what that term meant: other people’s trash.

I read on. “Mr. Stibbins is a graduate of the Delormé School of Art in Baltimore. His work has appeared in prestigious galleries all over the world …”

I was still absorbed by the details of the murder victim’s life when my cellphone rang. I was so distracted that when I grabbed it I didn’t bother to check the caller ID.

“Hello?” I said, my eyes still glued to my computer screen.

“Popper, it just never ends with you, does it?”

Instantly I froze. I knew that voice, all right. It belonged to Forrester Sloan—a
Newsday
reporter and a friend. Of sorts.

About half a second after I realized
who
was calling, I realized
why
.

Forrester covered the crime beat.

“Forrester,” I told him crossly, “I can assure you that this time it’s simply some kind of weird coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” he repeated with a hearty laugh. “I don’t think so. I think you’re just someone who attracts trouble.”

“Which would explain why
you’re
calling,” I shot back.

“Actually, I’m calling in a professional capacity,”
he replied. From his voice, I could tell he was grinning. “Otherwise, I’d never bother you at a time when I’m sure you have much better things to do.”

“Don’t tell me,” I countered. “You’re covering the Stibbins murder.”

“With great enthusiasm. And I need a quote for the article I’m writing—a quote from the bride who was in the middle of her wedding when the horrible event occurred.”

The wheels in my head were turning. And it wasn’t because I was trying to come up with a good sound bite.

“Forrester, I’m really glad it’s you who’s covering the story,” I said sweetly.

“Really?” He sounded pleased. “Because you know I’ll do such a great job?”

“Uh, that, too. But mainly because I have a huge favor to ask you.”

“A favor, huh?”

I knew that by now the wheels in
his
head were turning—mainly because the word “favor” had prompted him to try to find a way to extract something from me in return. Except while my interest in him was purely professional, Forrester had let it be known on more than one occasion that his interest in me went far beyond the printed word.

Which in this case I hoped would increase the likelihood that he’d help me out.

I took a deep breath. “Forrester, is there any way I could get you to keep my name out of this?”

I took advantage of his silence to argue my case.
“Not only would it violate my privacy on a personal level,” I explained, “it would also be bad for my practice. I mean, I could lose clients over this, people so put off by the idea of their veterinarian being associated with such a terrible event that they’d go looking for a new doctor for their pets.”

Even though I’d been thinking about my promise to Dorothy to investigate the murder of her first cousin once removed, I realized as I said the words that it was actually a possibility—especially since from the looks of things, Nathaniel’s murder was going to be splashed all over the headlines, until something more unsavory took its place.

“Popper, it’s pretty likely that sooner or later, your name is going to come out,” Forrester warned.

“In that case, I’d prefer later to sooner.” I bit my lip. “Please, Forrester? It would really mean a lot to me.”

I was about ready to resort to the “pretty-please-with-sugar-on-it” plea when he sighed and said, “You know I can never say no to you, Popper.”

“Thank you!” I cried, with a touch of guilt. Without thinking, I added, “I owe you.”

“I know you do,” he said. I could tell he was grinning again. “And I promise that sooner or later, I’ll think of a way to collect.”

I decided that I’d worry about that whenever it came up.

At the moment, I was too gleeful that my cover wasn’t going to be blown—at least not yet. Hopefully, that would give me plenty of time to snoop around the
Worth School, exactly as my demanding future-mother-in-law had insisted.