Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death (23 page)

Once we were seated, Bonnie leaned forward and said, “So what happened to the van?”

I fought the urge to say something like,
It wasn’t that big a deal,
as I normally would. Instead, I needed to play this up, not play it down.

I matched Bonnie’s posture, leaning forward as though conveying confidential information. “You saw how tight a turn it was? Well, you know that Brenda was driving. She collected the ticket from the machine and she was moving forward slowly, and I guess there wasn’t quite enough room to make the turn, so some part of the equipment clipped the rear windows and it, like, exploded into a million pieces!” All of which was true. I just wasn’t used to gushing quite so much.

“Wow! Everyone was all right?” Pat asked.

“Yes, luckily. That safety glass works just the way it’s supposed to—there were lots of tiny shards but no sharp edges. And the window was all the way in the back, not next to anyone, and most of the glass fell into the luggage part. What was really strange was how big a bang it made. It sounded like we’d run into a wall.”

“Oh, my,” Pat breathed. “What did you all do then?”

Well, we didn’t panic—
but I didn’t say that out loud. “First, Brenda said a few words she hadn’t used before. And then she apologized to us for cursing.” Everyone laughed at that. “Then we pulled over and checked out the damage, sprinkling glass along the way. Which we’ve been doing ever since.”

“If I’d been Brenda I would have refused to drive another foot,” Rebecca said emphatically. “Is she okay?”

“She is a trooper, more mad than scared. And it really wasn’t her fault. That driveway simply wasn’t big enough for those vans.” Just like most of the roads in most of the towns we’d driven through. “Back home I bet there would have been warning signs and disclaimers plastered all over the place. Anyway, I think all the drivers should get medals after this. I know I wouldn’t want to try it.”

A chorus of agreement followed. All right, I’d set the stage. “You know, I wonder if this is part of a string of bad luck—one that started with Professor Gilbert’s death.”

“You mean, like we’re cursed or something?” Rebecca asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

I shrugged. “I don’t really believe in that kind of thing, but you have to wonder …” I paused and let them do just that for a bit—and I waited to see if any of them would speak out.

“I’ve heard that his death wasn’t exactly an accident,” Bonnie said carefully. I wanted to cheer.

“Didn’t Jane say something about the police looking into it?” Donna responded.

“Don’t the police look into any death around here? Or is that only back home?” Christine chimed in.

Even better than I had hoped. Now it was time to nudge this conversation back on track. “Did any of you know the professor?”

“I signed up for his class,” Donna said, “but I dropped it. I thought he was a pompous ass, and I was there to learn something, not admire his cheekbones.” I made a mental note to check if she was on Cynthia’s list.

“But they were nice cheekbones,” Christine sighed.

“You took his class?” I prompted.

“Yes. Just the one. It was kind of lightweight, but I didn’t have to work hard, which was good because I was taking a lot of premed courses at the time.”

I made another mental checkmark: Christine had known the professor
and
had some medical expertise. “I was wondering if we should put together some sort of memorial for him, like on Facebook or in the alumnae mag. Since we were his last students, so to speak.”

That statement met with a curious silence. A couple of people exchanged glances. Me, I held my breath. Finally Donna volunteered, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He, uh, wasn’t all that popular.”

“Why not?” I asked innocently, although I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“He was—how should I put this without sounding Dickensian? A cad. He used the girls in his classes. The kind of behavior that wouldn’t be tolerated for a minute today. There would be complaints filed with the administration the same day, I’d bet.”

“I don’t know about that,” Pat said thoughtfully. “A lot of young women are insecure, and they might feel flattered, even these days.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Rebecca said firmly. “It’s exploitation and harassment. It shouldn’t be tolerated under any circumstances, especially not in the environment of a women’s college.”

“You sound like you’ve had some experience with this kind of thing,” I said cautiously. I figured she’d either clam up, change the subject—or spill a lot more information.

“Did I succumb to his obvious charms? No way, but I knew women who did. I bet we all did. And I’ve worked in a number of counseling centers, both academic and public, since I graduated. Women of that age, even the smart ones, are vulnerable. He took advantage of that. And then he dropped them and moved on, usually pretty fast, which did its own damage. I mean, we probably have all heard stories about the professor who ends up marrying one of his students. It happens. But to hold a hope like that, even as a fantasy, and then to be dropped for the next sweet young thing—that hurts too. You feel stupid, and none of us likes that, right?”

She might have said she didn’t have personal experience with this kind of thing, but I wasn’t sure I believed her. Still, it would do no good to press. I decided to change tack.

“You know, I must have been totally clueless when I was there. I never heard any of this.” It was the truth. If I’d heard hints, I ignored them, refusing to be diverted from my own college path. I was never the one for late-night heart-to-heart sessions in the dorm, over tea or something stronger, which made it ironic that I was trying to re-create that here and now.

“I think a lot of people knew,” Bonnie said softly. “We just didn’t know what to do about it, so we did nothing. And there was no one to report it to at the college. Not that I blame them—this kind of problem wasn’t on anybody’s radar back then, not like it is now.”

I nudged the conversation back to the big question. “Do you think whatever went on back then might have had something to do with his death last week?” I watched expressions carefully.

The range of responses—micro-expressions?—was interesting. A couple of people showed surprise, and I thought that looked genuine. Rebecca looked triumphant, if only for a brief moment; then she shut down, scrubbing all expression from her face. Christine just looked sad and said, “I wish he hadn’t been invited at all. He seems to have stirred up a lot of memories, and they weren’t all happy ones.”

“I thought I heard that it was Gerry who invited him,” I said. “He must not have known. I don’t suppose guys talk about things like this.” While I knew that Gerry’s wife Barbara had attended Wellesley, she was a few years older than we were, so she might have missed the era of Anthony Gilbert’s predations among the students.

Rebecca snorted. “More likely they brag about it. Can’t you see it? Late nights at a conference gathered around a bar … One respected academic turns to another and says, ‘Heh heh, what’re the pickings like at that girls’ school of yours?’”

Bonnie wrapped her arms around herself. “That’s disgusting. I’m not going to believe it. Can’t we please talk about something more pleasant?”

She was right: I’d pushed far enough, and I’d learned a few things. And then the food appeared and we gave it the attention it merited. The mysterious
farinata
was a big hit, something like a crunchy chickpea cross between a pancake and a pizza. Of course, the pizza on the plate went over well too, as did everything else. No one was going to say we were picky eaters, and I’m sure we would all agree that we were being served great food.

We ate, and we ate. We talked of our families, and trips we’d made in the past, and absent classmates. After a couple of hours, Jane stood up and rapped on her glass again. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed your meal?”

Enthusiastic clapping and whooping ensued.

“We’ve got about an hour before we have to get back on the road. Why don’t you stroll around and see the town, and we can all meet at the cathedral at three?”

“Can we get a picture of all of us with the staff from the restaurant?” someone at another table called out.

“Of course—what a great idea. Let’s do that now,” Jane said. So we all trooped over to the front of the restaurant and arranged ourselves under the sign, and a series of people, including Xianling, took pictures, and then we dispersed. Our vineyard gang peeled off together.

“Any luck?” Cynthia asked when we’d separated ourselves from the rest.

“I managed to steer the conversation to our dead professor,” I said, not without pride. “I sat with Bonnie, Pat, Christine, Rebecca and Donna. Nobody liked him much. All but one person admitted they’d heard something about his, uh, activities. Christine both took a class from him and did premed, so she could have the expertise. Donna said she enrolled in his class but dropped it because she thought he was pompous. I wasn’t sure if you had her on the list.”

“But Christine didn’t have access to a kitchen,” Pam retorted.

“And you know this how?” I asked.

“Jean was at my table. We talked about what other groups rent the estate, and whether an individual could rent a unit with cooking facilities. I got the whole list—Jean would be happy to throw some more business to Barb and Gerry.”

So much for that suspect. “I don’t suppose she travels with a camping stove?”

Cynthia laughed. “Nope. And I don’t think a couple of candles would generate enough heat to do the trick. But everybody was sharing space with at least one other person—it would be easy enough to check with the roommates.”

We wandered the bright and still empty streets. A few shop owners had appeared and were unlocking their storefronts, but it still wasn’t exactly bustling. “So what have we learned?” I said, a bit dejected that my big clue was a bust.

“That nobody wants to put together any sort of memorial for the guy,” Valerie said. “Funny how many people didn’t like him.”

“But that doesn’t help us,” I said. “What now?”

“We keep talking to people,” Cynthia said firmly. “We’ve just started. How many do we have left on our list that we haven’t talked to?” Cynthia pulled out her cell phone and we all huddled over the small screen looking at the list.

“Her, and her,” Pam said, pointing.

“And her,” I added one more name.

By the time we were done, we had whittled the list down to six.

“What’s the next stop on our itinerary?” I asked.

“Tea with a relative of Jane’s. Didn’t she say she was an artist? Somewhere near the sea.”

“You mean we’re eating again?” Connie said.

“Yes, and save room for dinner,” I replied.

We all groaned.

“Let’s see if we can corner our shortlist of women and get some kind of conversation going,” I said. “Isn’t there a beach walk or something where we’re going next? There should be opportunities for getting people alone, one on one.”

“Just don’t be too heavy-handed about it, Laura,” Cynthia cautioned.

“What, you think I’m totally tactless? I’m going to get in someone’s face and ask, ‘Did you kill Professor Gilbert?’ Give me a little credit, please.” How did she think I could do my job if I was clueless about social niceties?

“Sorry.” Cynthia was immediately contrite. “I didn’t mean to criticize. I think we’re all a little on edge. And I hope we can find a way to enjoy what we’re seeing without this clouding everything. Take time to savor the moment, please.”

I smiled at her, signaling my forgiveness. “Well, we’re all definitely enjoying the food.”

“And the company?” she said, and I thought I detected a wistful note.

We drifted toward the cathedral, where we could see a number of our colleagues emerging from different side streets. We all went inside to escape the sun, and we dutifully admired the large painted medieval Crucifixion hanging in a chapel in one of the side aisles, and otherwise we milled around aimlessly until it was time to return to the vans.

The window of our poor van didn’t look any better now than it had earlier, even though a lot more glass had fallen out on various Italian roads—I hoped that wouldn’t create problems for any of the unfortunate drivers who had followed us. I took Brenda aside briefly. “Are you okay to drive? Because no one will hold it against you if you’re kind of spooked.”

She smiled, sort of. “Don’t worry about it. It happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. And who’s going to take over? There are only a few other people here who drive stick, and they’re not about to step up. I’ll be fine. And thanks for asking, Laura.”

Our little caravan took off again, heading for another dot on the map called Montemarcello, the ancestral home of Jane’s Italian forebears. Luckily it was a level ride on large roads, which allowed Brenda to steady her nerves. We found the place easily, and there was even a parking lot at the bottom of the (small!) hill with a church at the top. Apparently this artist cousin of Jane lived halfway up the hill.

But before we could begin that trek, I was drawn to the view across whatever harbor or inlet lay before us. On the other side, mountains rose up to the blue, blue sky. One of the mountains was blanketed in white.

“Is that snow?” I asked whoever was behind me.

It turned out to be Jane, collecting the stragglers. “No, that’s Carrara you’re looking at. Where the marble comes from. All that white is marble rubble.”

Oh, my. Marble snow. Tomorrow’s excursion to Carrara suddenly seemed a lot more interesting.

We walked up the hill together behind the main group. “You know, Jane, this whole trip is incredible. I never gave much thought to how much work the planning must have taken, but it is so worth it.”

Jane smiled without looking at me. “Even with all the catastrophes? We certainly never included a murder in the schedule.”

“Not your fault!” I said firmly. “Anyway, it will give us something to talk about for years to come.” I wondered briefly how much I should share about our sleuthing efforts—assuming we weren’t all painfully obvious anyway. “What are the police doing about it?”