Summer Session (13 page)

Harper offered a soda; Detective Rivers declined.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Jennings?’

‘Harper. Please, call me Harper. Yes, I’m fine.’ She thought she should record that sentence. ‘Come sit down.’

Leaving the dinner on the counter, Harper led the detective to the living room. The place was a mess, the carpet rolled up and the furniture covered with drop cloths.

She yanked the cloth off a corner of the sofa and gestured for the detective to sit; didn’t bother to uncover the matching easy chair, just sat on it.

For a moment, they were silent, watching each other.

‘Kind of late for a visit, isn’t it, Detective? What’s on your mind?’

Detective Rivers studied her. ‘I saw your lights on, took a chance you were up. I have some more questions for you.’

Harper wondered why the questions couldn’t wait until morning.

‘You said you had no idea what led to Graham Reynolds’ suicide?’

‘Not a clue.’ She saw Ron holding the pill.

‘What did you do after the suicide?’

‘You mean, all day?’

‘Yes. All day.’

Lord. Was this necessary? Why now? Slowly, Harper retraced her steps. When she finished, there was silence.

Detective Rivers didn’t move. She watched Harper until Harper began to feel uneasy and shifted positions, crossing her aching left leg.

‘Where did you say you had coffee with the doctor?’

Harper was losing patience. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But I don’t see how a cup of coffee relates to Graham’s suicide.’

Detective Rivers crossed her arms. ‘Actually, Mrs Jennings – I mean, Harper – I’m not here about the suicide.’

Harper felt another chill and hunkered down into Hank’s parka. ‘Then, why are you here?’

‘Because there’s another body.’

Another body?

‘A young woman. Murdered. She was found tonight, out near Taughannock Falls.’

Harper stopped breathing. A young woman? Oh God. Was another of her students dead? She pictured Anna or Shaundra or Gwen lying on the ground.

‘Her throat was cut; in fact, she was sliced up pretty good. And raped.’

How awful. Harper’s jaw clenched. ‘Who was she?’ She braced herself to hear.

‘Her name was Chelsea Burns. She was a waitress.’

Harper released a breath, actually relieved that her students were apparently still alive and unhurt. But, if the victim wasn’t one of her students, why was Detective Rivers here?

‘But why are you telling me about this?’

‘Good question.’ Detective Rivers leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t normally. But, I’m curious, Mrs Jen— sorry, I’m not good with first names. Mrs Jennings, how well did you know the victim?’

‘Know her?’ Harper started to answer that she didn’t know her at all.

But the detective cut her off. ‘See, the thing is, you might want to think about it before you answer. Because Chelsea Burns obviously knew you; she had your grade book in her purse.’

‘My grade book?’ That made no sense. Harper’s grade book was with her students’ papers, in her big leather sack.

But then she remembered. That morning in the coffee shop. Her sack had fallen, spilling its contents into the aisle. The waitress – had her name been Chelsea? Oh God – she was dead? The young woman who had helped her pick everything up? Harper recalled the long nails and ringed fingers gathering up her belongings – her keys, wallet, baby wipes, papers, markers, loose change. But her grade book? It must have landed out of sight, and Chelsea must have found it later, Must have put it in her purse, intending to return it. But Harper should have noticed it missing. Why hadn’t she? She remembered the spill; Ron sitting across from her, wearing Spandex.

‘OK. When I was in the coffee shop, I dropped my bag. My grade book must have fallen out; the waitress must have found it.’

‘That would explain it.’ But the detective didn’t seem satisfied. ‘Mrs Jennings, I won’t play games with you. I know a little bit about you.’

She did?

‘You told me you were army, served in Iraq. I know you were wounded there.’ She glanced at Harper’s bad leg.

‘That’s right.’ So? Why was her leg relevant?

‘I also know about your husband and what happened to him.’

‘Really.’

‘I guess you don’t remember. It’s understandable; you were pretty distraught. But I took the call. In fact, I was here for quite a while after your husband’s accident.’

Harper didn’t remember, couldn’t recall any faces other than Hank’s. And there he was again, in the hedges, banged up and bloodied.

‘How’s he doing, by the way?’

‘Hank?’ Stupid question. What other husband did she have? ‘He’s coming along.’

Detective Rivers watched her, but not unkindly. ‘You know, Mrs Jennings – Harper – Ithaca’s a pretty small city. And, in the summer when most students are gone, it’s generally quiet. But today, in twenty-four hours, we’ve had a suicide, a mugging, a murder.’

Harper huddled into the parka.

‘We have two healthy young people dead. True, one’s a suicide and one’s a homicide. But both were violent. And both of the deceased are connected to you.’

Harper stiffened. ‘What are you saying, Detect—’

‘Relax.’ Her tone softened. ‘I’m not saying you’re responsible.’ She put her hands up as if to ward Harper off. ‘I’m just saying that this is Ithaca. Oh, it’s not Eden. We get our share of crimes: date rapes, kids driving under the influence, fights at bars, stolen IDs, drug overdoses. A few suicides every year. Once in a while, we get homicides. Matter of fact, you might remember Jimmy Moran killing his wife and her boyfriend back in December. And I mentioned earlier the recent rapes, arsons and deaths associated with those pills you gave me.’

‘That waitress – did she have pills on her, too?’

‘No. At least, we didn’t find any.’ Detective Rivers tilted her head. ‘But my point is, two violent deaths within a day? Not in Ithaca. That’s not normal. And even less normal are two violent deaths and a mugging on the same day that both of the dead victims have spent time in the company of the mugging victim—’

‘Now wait – I had nothing to do with that murder. I didn’t even know that waitress—’

‘Still.’ Detective Rivers pursed her lips, nodding. ‘It’s odd, don’t you think?’

Harper didn’t answer. But yes, it was odd.

‘Assuming that you had nothing to do with either death, here’s my point. Given the unlikelihood that the victims’ connections to you are coincidental, and given that you’ve already been attacked once, you might opt to exercise extreme caution.’

‘Sorry?’ Harper blinked.

‘OK. Try this. These incidents are too close to you for comfort. I wish our department had spare officers to keep an eye on you, but we don’t. The best I can do is have a car drive by now and then. But, until we figure this out, I don’t think you should be alone. Do you have a friend you could stay with for a while?’

Harper sat speechless. Hours ago, Leslie had given her the same advice.

‘Do you? A girlfriend maybe?’

Harper thought of Vicki. But she didn’t want to go there. ‘I don’t know.’

Detective Rivers let out a sigh. ‘Well, think about it, OK? I understand that, being a combat veteran, you probably assume you can take care of yourself. But that didn’t work too well for you earlier today. If I were you, I’d avoid being alone. I’d keep my eyes open and my backside covered.’

‘But I don’t understand. Why would someone want to hurt me?’ She pictured a hooded figure on a bicycle and felt the open-mouthed pull of the gorge.

‘I don’t know. But somebody already has. And we have to assume he’ll try again.’ Detective Rivers stood, put a card on the coffee table. ‘Harper, you think of anything, need anything, call me. I’ll look in on you as frequently as I can. But, even with police drive-bys, you need to be careful. Lock your doors and windows when I leave.’ The detective’s eyes insisted on compliance.

Harper walked her to the door and double-locked it behind her. Then she went back to the kitchen and locked the door, threw the uneaten noodly peanut thing into the trash and downed another shot of Scotch.

In the morning, leather bag secured behind her, Harper was a bit hungover as she piloted the Ninja to visit Hank. She rode around campus along Thurston to East, over to Hoy, damp morning air clinging to her skin. The clouds had thickened; maybe it would finally rain, breaking the heatwave.

Harper left the cycle in the lot, following her usual routine as if it were just another hot summer day. As if she weren’t looking around, eyeing strangers. Pedestrians. Drivers. Detective Rivers’ warning had intensified Harper’s state of alert. Why was that guy in jogging gear lingering at the corner? Was he really reading that magazine? And that woman in the Bimmer – was she staring?

Harper walked across the parking lot, braced for a fight, assuring herself that Detective Rivers was wrong. It was merely a coincidence that she’d seen both Graham and Chelsea shortly before their deaths. Nobody could reasonably think that the suicide and the murder were connected to each other, much less to her. Still, she was watchful. And bothered by something else.

Trent’s insinuation plagued her. The idea of Hank and Vicki was absurd; Hank wouldn’t cheat. And, if he would, it wouldn’t be with Vicki, his best friend’s wife and his wife’s best friend. So why was she bothered?

Entering the building, her mind bounced from one troubling topic to another. Preoccupied, she signed in at reception, greeted Laurie and hurried to the elevator. When the doors opened on the third floor, she almost barreled into Ron Kendall’s partner, Dr Steven Wyatt.

Dr Wyatt was the senior of the two, more heavily established in the medical community and a principal force in the establishment of Cayuga Neurological Center. Obviously, though, his stature as a physician hadn’t heightened his self-esteem. A tall, stout, socially inept man, Dr Wyatt struggled to conceal his baldness with an ill-fitting toupee, darker and straighter than the sideburns protruding from it.

‘Mrs Jennings.’ The line of Dr Wyatt’s mouth barely moved when he spoke.

‘Hello.’ Harper tried to pass.

Dr Wyatt, though, didn’t move aside or step into the elevator. He stood stiffly, eyeing her closely. ‘Are you doing very fine today?’ He cleared his throat, as if to erase his bungled phrasing.

Harper didn’t want to discuss how she was doing. Stepping around him, she forced a smile and a ‘yes, thanks, and you?’ and kept moving, head down so she’d make eye contact with no one else. She didn’t slow down until she got to Hank’s room, but, even as she entered 307, she felt Dr Wyatt’s probing gaze following her, piercing her back.

As soon as he saw her, Hank’s eyes sparkled their usual affectionate light. His kiss felt the same as usual. And he wore his usual hearty grin, unmarred by guilt or deceit. Harper snuggled against him, fitting herself into the crevice between his torso and his undamaged arm, breathing in synchrony. She was with Hank – her Hank. And the troubles of the outside world faded – wars, suicides, murders. Cheating.

But there had been no cheating. Trent’s ramblings had been merely boozy banter. Harper nuzzled, secure and hopeful. Soon Hank would be well enough to come home. The recent crimes would be solved. Life would resume where it had left off.

‘News?’

News. Oh dear. He wanted to know what was going on. But it wasn’t right to burden Hank with accounts of murder and suicide. There was one incident that she could tell him about, though.

‘Trent came by.’

Hank frowned.

‘He asked how you’re doing.’

‘Now. Why.’

‘He’s writing an article. He needs notes from your files.’ She waited, slowing down, giving him time to respond.

‘Trent.’ That was it, Hank’s entire comment. It had taken all that time for him to say one syllable.

‘So, your notes – are they on a jump drive? Or did you print them out?’

Hank twisted his mouth, frowning, agitated. ‘Not.’

Not. Not printed? Not in the computer? Or maybe he did not remember?

Hank moved away, pointing at her chest with his stronger hand. ‘Notes. Trent. Not. No.’ His voice was firm, his eyes steely. But why wouldn’t he want Trent to have his notes? They’d worked together for years, shared credit on articles.

‘Friend. Trent. Not.’ Hank’s eyes gleamed. Understandably, Hank would feel that way; Trent hadn’t come to see him in weeks.

‘He is your friend, Hank. He just can’t face you.’ Harper waited, choosing her words. ‘Trent’s been drinking a lot. He blames himself for your accident.’

Hank’s expression didn’t soften, and she wondered what he understood. The doctors couldn’t be sure, and Harper worried that his comprehension wasn’t much better than his speech. Hank glowered, his face dark with anger or frustration. Or something else. Fear? But fear of what?

‘Vicki. Trent. Cheat.’

Cheat? Vicki? Trent? What? Cheat? Clearly, he’d used the word by chance. He wasn’t – couldn’t be – telling her that he’d had an affair with Vicki.

Hank nodded, emphatically. Somberly.

‘You mean Trent cheated on Vicki?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Me. Screw.’

Harper stopped breathing. She blinked, chest searing, not willing to decode any more of Hank’s phrases. Had he just confessed to an affair? So casually, without a trace of shame? With no apology? Quite the contrary; he seemed earnest, eager to talk. He uttered a syllable, stopped mid-word, started again, sputtered with frustration.

Harper almost asked him – almost said, ‘Hank, did you and Vicki have an affair?’ She started to ask, but stopped at ‘Hank’, not ready to hear his answer. Instead of finishing the question, she looked at the door and stood. It was almost time to go anyway. But Hank grasped her arm.

‘Hoppa. Wait. Hear.’ Or here.

She sat again, eyes on the door.