Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (2 page)

Of course, he reflected, the basement was probably the coolest
level of the building on a day like this. In the third week of September in
Eastern Washington, temperatures were still climbing into the nineties. The
lower floors had felt as if they might be air-conditioned, but when he emerged
from the stairwell, he found the third floor to be hot and stuffy.

Alumni Relations was stenciled in gold on the glass inset of
the second door. It stood open, and he saw that the tall casement window was
open, too, in an apparently futile effort to create a cross-draft. The outer
office contained rows of tall oak filing cabinets, bookcases and an old desk
with a very modern computer on it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, come on in,” a woman called through another door, from an
internal office.

Troy circled the large desk and entered this second office. His
first impression was of elegance—warm woods that might have been cherry or
mahogany, a desk with Queen Anne style legs and a Persian rug that looked like
the real, gently-aged thing and not a recent knock-off. Then he focused on the
woman and, stunned, lost interest in their surroundings.

A brunette with warm brown eyes, she stood maybe five foot five
and was curvaceous enough to be considered a little plump by today’s standards.
That body, poured into a red suit, was perfect by his. Her hair was cut bluntly
at her shoulders, thick and glossy, currently tucked behind her ears. As she
looked back at him, he caught a glimpse of surprise and maybe a touch of nerves
on her face before she offered a bright, professional smile.

Not altogether professional, he decided, or if it was, it was
damn good. Her entire expression was now welcoming. He felt like the lucky guy
basking in the only available beam of sunlight.

He gave his head a brief shake to clear it. “Ah...I’m looking
for Ms. Laclaire. I’ve been assigned as liaison from the Frenchman Lake
P.D.”

“Oh, good.” Sounding delighted, she held out a hand. “I’m
Madison Laclaire. And you are?”

“John Troyer. Troy, to anyone who knows me.” He gently squeezed
her hand—delicate but strong—then reluctantly released it.

“Please, call me Madison. You’re not in uniform,” she observed,
gesturing him toward a seating area furnished with a sofa, a low table and a
couple of comfortable looking chairs.

“Plainclothes.” He lowered himself into one of the chairs and
watched as she settled at one end of the sofa. “I’m a detective in Major
Crimes.”

“Dare I ask how you got assigned to this gig?” Madison
asked.

Her snug skirt meant she had to sit primly, knees together, but
the hem rode up her thighs anyway. She wriggled, as if to persuade it to
cooperate, but instead managed to bare another inch of her legs. He found them a
hell of a lot more intriguing than the legs of the eighteen- or twenty-year-old
coeds he’d spotted out on the lawn.

Tearing his gaze from her knees and the shadow above them, he
reminded himself that she’d asked him a question.

“My father is a Wakefield grad.” He smiled. “In fact, Dad was
an English major who contributed to the time capsule. I would have been at the
opening in any case.”

“Troyer.” Tiny lines in her smooth, curving forehead cleared.
“Oh! I should have recognized your name right away. Joseph Troyer. You’ll be
attending in his place, I gather.”

That was a nice way, he thought, of saying she knew his father
was dead.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “Dad’s been gone less than a year,
and Mom...still isn’t getting out much.”

“I’m sorry,” Madison said softly. “He wasn’t very old.”

“No. Sudden heart attack.” Troy grimaced. “Lifelong smoker,
which might have had something to do with it.”

“You must miss him.”

“I do.” In the past couple of years since Troy had returned to
his hometown, he’d come to think of his dad as his best friend. Saying he missed
the man was hopelessly inadequate to describe his sense of loss. He hid his
shock and grief better than Mom did, but Troy knew he hadn’t even begun to
adjust.

Apparently sensitive enough to guess he’d just as soon not chat
any more about his father, Madison nodded. “As it happens, you and I have
something in common. My father was also an English major here at Wakefield, and
put something in the time capsule. He’s in Tokyo on business and was happy to
have me take his place.” She smiled. “He claims not to remember what his
contribution was.”

“Dad never said either.”

“Maybe we’ll both get some fantastic insight into our parents’
characters.”

“We can hope.” Damn, she had a pretty smile. Merry and open,
making a man want to agree to anything she asked. Troy bet she was really good
at extracting big bucks from wealthy alumni.

“I’m grateful the P.D. offered you to help with any security
issues,” she said more briskly, getting down to business. “It’s unlikely there
will be any problems, of course, but I want to be particularly careful given
that two of the returning alums are well-known enough in their respective fields
to be minor celebrities.”

“So I understand. Why don’t you give me the specifics?”

She handed him the schedule that would be given to each
attending alumnus. She had to excuse herself to grab a pair of black-framed
reading glasses from her desk. Seeing his expression, she made a face.

“You’re supposed to be at least forty before you need these,
aren’t you? There’s no justice.”

Personally, he liked the way the frames set off her brown eyes.
He hid a smile at her disgruntled expression. He would have replied, but she had
already returned to business.

Responses to the invitation and news that the capsule was to be
opened fifteen years earlier than planned had been greater than anticipated, she
told him with satisfaction. Out of the 118 students who had put an item into the
capsule, 83 had so far expressed the intention to be here or send a
representative.

“Some of those are sons or daughters of the students, as in our
cases. But most are alumni. Naturally they’re bringing wives, husbands,
partners, other family. The wonderful thing is that the lectures Gordon Haywood
and Ellen Kenney have agreed to give are drawing a number of additional visitors
to the campus, as well. And the current students are excited, too,
naturally.”

Haywood, Troy knew, was a third-term senator from the state of
Utah. There was talk of a run for the White House in his future. Given the guy’s
politics, Troy wouldn’t vote for him, but he was often described as charismatic.
Meeting him and hearing him speak would be interesting. Ellen Kenney had sold
her first novel before she turned twenty-five and had earned accolades and what
had to be pretty impressive royalties ever since. She walked that tricky line
between admired literary fiction and books regular people actually want to read.
Troy had read her most recent, which on its surface was a murder mystery
involving a windsurfer on the Columbia River. The characters had real depth, the
background was well researched and he’d found even the police work believable.
He hadn’t loved it so much he’d delved into her backlist, but he’d been
impressed. He wasn’t surprised that alumni were popping out of the woodwork for
a chance to hear both Kenney and Haywood talk.

The two were shimmering stars in Wakefield College’s firmament.
It was pure luck that both had been English majors, students on campus here when
Cheadle Hall was being built and the time capsule inserted behind a block in the
foundation.

Besides the lectures, as he scanned the program, he saw the
weekend included a reception at the president’s house, a tasting tour at half a
dozen local wineries, a golf tournament, a casual lunch with grilled burgers and
hot dogs to be held on Allquist Field and finally a formal dinner Saturday
night.

Madison told him that security concerns on campus had grown in
recent years, but not to the extent they had on urban campuses. Female students,
she explained, were encouraged not to walk across campus in the dark; if a girl
was alone and needed an escort, say to return to her dorm late at night, she
could call a number and one of the male volunteers on shift would turn up to
walk with her. She’d rarely have to wait more than five minutes before her
escort arrived. So far theft, vandalism and the like hadn’t been huge
problems.

Madison gave him the name and phone number of the head of the
small campus security department. She admitted that so far more attention had
been paid to parking issues than anything else. The security plan, such as it
was, consisted of having one or two members of the force mingling with the crowd
at each event.

Troy couldn’t argue too much. Police snipers on rooftops and
cavalcades of escort vehicles seemed over the top.

Stretching his legs out, he had a thought. “Do you suppose the
senator travels with any bodyguards? He’s a lot more likely to be a target of a
threat than Ms. Kenney.”

“She wrote a book a couple of years ago that was rather
controversial, though. It was her one foray into true crime. I never read the
book, but I know it generated a lot of anger. I think there were some ugly
incidents at book signings. Someone threw a bucket of cow blood on her at
one.”

He frowned. “Yeah, I’d forgotten that. I didn’t read the book,
either.”

“You don’t read true crime?”

“I get my fair share of the real thing. I like fictional crime
better. It’s more fun.”

She laughed, a low sound that—damn it!—turned him on. He
shifted to hide his response.

“Do we have enough major crimes in Frenchman Lake to keep you
busy?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, interested to see how surprised she looked at
his answer. “Me and three other detectives. Homicide still isn’t common—we only
had three last year, but we’re up to four already so far this year. Mostly we
deal with crimes like assault, sexual abuse and breaking and entering. The
vineyards have brought a good-sized population of migrant workers to Frenchman
Lake, which has increased crime overall, but people who live in gracious old
houses right around the campus sexually abuse their daughters, beat their wives
and get robbed, too.” He shrugged. “Then there are the tourists.”

“I had no idea.” She sounded shocked. “I was just thinking
smugly how lucky we are that crime isn’t a significant problem here. I suppose I
pictured police officers mostly giving speeding tickets or scaring the daylights
out of teenage shoplifters.”

“Hate to disillusion you,” he said, “but people here are pretty
much like people anywhere. You know there was an ugly murder right here on the
Wakefield campus back when our fathers were students. Same year Cheadle Hall was
built and the time capsule was filled, as a matter of fact.”

She frowned, and he guessed she would rather not think about
her beloved college connected to a brutal killing.

“Yes, we had some discussion when we scheduled this event. I
hope you don’t intend to bring up the subject over the weekend.”

“Me?” His gaze never left her face. “Why would I? But I think
it’s safe to say there’ll be talk about it, anyway. They’re all going to be
thinking about it, you know. Murder isn’t the kind of thing anyone forgets.”

CHAPTER TWO

“N
O
,” M
ADISON
ADMITTED
. “People like to talk about murder. I’m just trying not to
think about it. You won’t be surprised to know the college discourages
reminders, especially since no arrest was ever made. I gather the assumption was
that a transient committed the crime. Anyone could have wandered in.”

“Sure, but why would they? To take a sauna?” Troy shook his
head. “I skimmed the original reports when I first came on the job here. There
wasn’t any obvious thread to pull, so I didn’t suggest reopening the case. But
my impression was that the original investigators thought the victim was killed
by another student.”

“But...that’s...”

When she didn’t finish, he did it for her. “Impossible? Because
Wakefield students are the cream of the crop?”

She must have heard the irony in his voice because she flushed.
“I suppose that is what I was thinking. And yes, I know that rich people
sexually abuse their daughters and beat their wives, too. You don’t have to tell
me again. Still...”

“What could possibly have triggered an assault that brutal? No
idea. Nobody so much as came up with a theory back then.” He frowned. “Dad said
he knew the victim, Mitchell King, but not well. I seem to remember he was some
kind of science major. Bio or chem, maybe?”

Madison nodded. “My father said he hadn’t had much to do with
Mitchell, even though they were both seniors.”

“My father’s classmate.”

“Yes.”

“Funny that we’re both here, involved in this thing.”

“Yes. Well, I dreamed up this
thing,
as you put it.” She smiled at him. “In fact, it makes sense
that I’m here. Quite a few employees of the college are alumni.”

Smiling at her was no problem. He was pleased that she was
apparently as curious about him as he was about her. “You asking what my excuse
is for ending up back in Frenchman Lake?”

“I would have put it more tactfully.”

“I worked for Seattle P.D. Got frustrated with some of the
policies in the department, the attitudes that were too prevalent. I almost quit
without job hunting first, but had an attack of common sense. When I started
looking around, I guess the small-town boy in me emerged. I wanted a town where
I could get to know people.” He shrugged. “I grew up here, you know.”

“I saw that this was your father’s last address.”

“Turned out that having connections in Frenchman Lake didn’t
hurt when it came to getting a job. As far as I was concerned, it was time to
come home. I was glad to have a chance to be closer to my parents.” He grimaced.
“Lucky, as it turned out.”

“For your mother,” Madison said gently.

“Yeah.” Rather than let himself descend into bleak thoughts of
how little good he’d actually done his mother, he decided it was time to get
back to business. “Have we come to any conclusions here?”

She studied him carefully and with a perceptiveness that was a
little unnerving, but she clearly chose to go along with his effort to close the
subject. “You haven’t said whether you think our preparations have been
adequate.”

“How long have you held this job?” he asked.

“Um.” Her pursed lips suggested she was momentarily
disconcerted. “This is the beginning of my second academic year.”

Troy nodded. “I imagine you’ve handled a dozen events involving
alumni, then.”

“Oh, more than that if you include our ‘On the Road’ events. We
hold a dozen or more every year across the country to keep our graduates
involved. Here on campus, the biggest was the summer alumni college and, of
course, the spring reunions.”

“I don’t suppose you had any security problems at either of
those, did you?”

She smiled. “No.”

“I doubt we will this weekend, either. I think my role is going
to be an exciting one. I’ll hang around. Maybe even play golf.”

Her laugh this time was as contagious and unintentionally
erotic as the first. “Do you play golf?”

“Poorly,” he admitted. “I’ve got a hell of a slice. On the
other hand, from a security standpoint, having me lurking off in the rough
probably isn’t a bad plan.”

She giggled. “I’ll look for you there.”

“You’ll be playing, too?”

“No. Actually, I’ll be frantically finishing arrangements for
the luncheon and dinner while you’re sweating on the golf course.”

Troy grunted with amusement. “Smart. I hear it’s going to be
sizzling by Saturday.”

“So they say. Fortunately, the formal dinner is the only
dress-up occasion.”

“You mean, I can wear shorts and a muscle shirt the rest of the
weekend?”

Her nose crinkled. “
You
can wear
anything you want.”

“No such luck for you.” He grinned at her. “What’s that saying
about how ladies don’t sweat? That they can only glow?”

“I suspect I’ll be sweating like a pig Saturday.” She frowned.
“Do pigs sweat?”

“I have no idea. Never considered farming a career option.”

“Me neither.” She rose gracefully to her feet. “Thank you for
coming, Detective Troyer.”

“Troy.” He stood, too.

A smart man would probably bide his time, not make any move
until after the alumni weekend. He didn’t want her to be uncomfortable with him
when they had to work together. Troy had always thought of himself as a pretty
smart guy. He’d had the grades and SAT scores to get into Wakefield. Turned out
he wasn’t as smart as he’d thought he was, he discovered. Either that, or his
store of patience was severely lacking.

Seeing that she had started to turn away, probably with the
intention of politely escorting him out of her office, he cleared his throat.
Madison paused, lifting her eyebrows in inquiry.

“So. I was wondering.” Slick. Really slick.
Get on with it,
he ordered himself. “Any chance I
could talk you into having dinner with me?”

Madison blinked. “Do you mean...tonight?”

Tonight, tomorrow night, every
night.
Startled by the instant thought, he cleared his throat again.
“Tonight would be good. Or tomorrow night.” He hesitated. “Unless you’re too
busy getting ready for this weekend.”

She scrutinized him for a slightly unnerving moment. Then her
expression melted into another sunbeam of a smile. “I would love to have dinner
with you tonight, Troy. As long as we make it casual. I can hardly wait to
change out of this suit.”

“Yeah, I can see why.”

He had noticed that she was glowing. In fact, tendrils of her
dark hair looked damp enough around her face to be sticking to her skin.

He smiled. “You could have said something. I wouldn’t have
minded if you’d ditched the jacket.”

“I’m more anxious to rip off the stockings.” She rolled her
eyes. “I had meetings this morning. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Troy definitely liked the idea of her ripping off the
stockings. Better yet, he’d be glad to do it for her.

Down, boy.

“Casual works for me.”

She suggested they meet at the restaurant; he threw out the
idea of Bannister’s, housed in an old brick building downtown and known for
everything from pizza and burgers to quiche and the best damn fettuccini Alfredo
he’d ever had. Madison agreed, and he left before he did something stupid. Like
kiss her.

He was grinning as he took the stairs two at a time, as if he
was twenty years old again. She’d said yes. He
felt
young. Half-aroused, too, a common state for twenty-year-old guys.

He would definitely be kissing her tonight.

* * *

M
ADISON
STOOD
JUST
inside
the outer office and listened to the thud of Detective Troyer’s feet as he took
the stairs with the same enthusiasm most of the students did. She made a face.
He might be in a hurry because it was so blasted hot up here.

She glanced at her watch and squeaked. She’d spent a lot longer
talking to Troy than she’d expected to devote to the police department liaison,
and the president of the college expected her in his office five minutes from
now.

She grabbed her handbag and hurried to the ladies’ restroom on
her floor. There she carefully splashed her face with cold water, then patted it
dry with a paper towel. Whatever makeup she’d started the day wearing was
history, but she didn’t want to be beet-red when she sat down with her boss. In
the depths of her purse she found an elastic band and, after brushing her hair,
devised a simple knot on the back of her head that got the hair off her neck
while looking reasonably classy.

Despite the need to hurry, she paused and looked at herself in
the mirror. Her eyes, she couldn’t help noticing, sparkled with excitement.
Truthfully, she was almost vibrating with it. She didn’t think she’d ever
reacted to a man quite the way she had to John Troyer.

She would have been crushed if he’d nodded politely and left
without expressing any personal interest in her.

She permitted herself one small squeal and a bounce before
resuming her dignity. She returned to her office to stow her bag then started
down the stairs to the first floor. It wasn’t the meeting she was thinking about
on her way. It was Troy.

He was so much more physical than any man she’d been involved
with. Not that he was huge and beefy; he wasn’t, though he was a good deal
taller than her. Maybe six feet, she guessed. Broad-shouldered, with muscles she
couldn’t help but notice. A man’s muscles. Troy wasn’t as lean as a runner. He
was more solid than that. She suspected he could still move plenty fast, and
would have no trouble restraining most suspects once he caught them.

His hair was a medium shade of brown that the summer sun had
lightened and streaked. By midwinter, it would probably darken. His hint of
stubble had definitely been darker. His eyes, a charcoal-gray, had captivated
her from the moment they met hers. Gray eyes should be clear, like blue ones,
right? His didn’t have any hint of other colors that would make them hazel, but
they were somehow smoky, as if they hid secrets.

She shivered a little, possibly because the temperature had
plummeted as she descended two floors in Mem, but more likely it was another
symptom of her excitement. Only a few more hours and she’d see him again. Find
out if they had anything at all in common beyond the fact that both their
fathers had been English majors at Wakefield College. Madison frowned, trying to
remember what his father’s profession had been. Hers was a very successful
businessman with an MBA from Harvard. He was snob enough she had no doubt he’d
look at John Troyer with disdain. Dad wouldn’t be able to imagine why she might
want to date a cop. Her father admired success, defined by wealth or acclaim.
She had never been able to envision him as an English major, of all things. She
didn’t even think he read novels anymore.

To heck with whether Dad would approve,
she thought in a moment of defiance. She was sometimes uncomfortably
aware of how much her father’s approval meant to her. She would be very glad to
quit caring. She never earned his unqualified approval anyway. Madison often
asked herself why she bothered trying.

With some exhilaration, she discovered that she didn’t give a
flying you-know-what whether Dad would like Troy or not.
She
liked him, and that was what mattered.

More than liked him.

Delight rose inside her in a tide that made her want to skip.
Only long practice and the fact that one of the assistant directors of Financial
Aid was coming down the hall toward her kept her steps sedate. She smiled at
Kyle Matthews and opened the door to the president’s outer office.

* * *

M
ADISON
CROSSED
HER
arms on the tabletop. She and Troy had been seated upstairs in the loft
at Bannister’s, which was busy tonight. A group of students sat nearby, but half
the tables were taken by townies. She hardly noticed—all she saw was Troy,
lounging comfortably across the table from her. His gaze hadn’t left her since
they sat down.

“You didn’t go to Wakefield,” she said.

Troy’s smile held satisfaction. “You tried to look me up.”

She hoped the warmth she felt in her cheeks didn’t show. “I
hope
you
didn’t look me up.”

“In law enforcement databases?” He grinned and relaxed back in
his chair, his big hand wrapped around a glass of beer. “Checking out women that
way is discouraged.” He paused. “Would I have found you?”

She made a face. “I’m afraid so. I’ve been known to drive a
little too fast.”

“Ah.” There was amusement rather than disapproval in his eyes.
“Not good for your insurance rates.”

“No.” She sighed. “My premium shot way up after the second
ticket.”

“How many tickets have you had?”

“Only two—well, two recent ones, but both were in the past
year.” Her face was heating. “You know how empty the highway is past the
Tri-Cities.”

His mouth twitched. “Not empty enough, apparently.”

Remembered annoyance made her frown. “The state patrol officers
are really good at hiding.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things taught in police
academies.”

“Seriously?”

He laughed. “No. You learn your first year when you’re
partnered with an experienced officer who passes on the collective wisdom of
whatever police force you’ve joined.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous,” Madison said indignantly. “I don’t
speed when it’s not safe. I never do in town, for example. But, honestly, when
the highway is straight for miles on miles and there’s hardly any traffic,
seventy or, well, seventy-five is perfectly safe.”
Or maybe
eighty.

Although there was still a trace of humor in his eyes, he’d
quit smiling. “See, anyone in law enforcement has worked traffic accidents.
They’re really ugly. Once you’ve scraped a kid off the pavement or used the Jaws
of Life to pry a body out of a flattened car, your idea of ‘safe’ driving
changes. Seventy-five miles an hour on a two-lane highway that is pretty damn
narrow
isn’t
safe.”