TINA'S CONFESSION should have washed me clean with relief, but I still felt unsettled and vaguely worried. Aftershock maybe. Exhaustion, for sure. Perhaps if I just finished the notes Rip asked me to write I would feel better. So, running on willpower, I did just that.
Then, despite a combination stress/insomnia headache, I forced myself to shop for and prepare a guilt-induced meal—pork chops, spinach, baked potatoes, salad, rolls, and purchased brownies. During dessert, Newkirk appeared at the door, a battle-weary hound wishing to be patted on his head. He accepted a brownie and coffee. Without removing his coat, he settled with them in a living room chair. Rip and I left Garry and Chelsea at the table and followed his example.
Newkirk worked at some walnuts with his tongue and said, "Lucky turn of events, wouldn't you say?"
No comment from the Barneses.
"Thought it was your guy Webb for sure, but it just goes to show you..."
I rearranged myself to look more relaxed while internally bracing for exposure. Didn’t work, so I decided to deal with the anxiety head on. "Any idea why Longmeier finally came forward?" I inquired mildly.
"Well now, that's the interesting thing," Newkirk replied. "The way Longmeier figured it, a husband can't be forced to testify against his wife, so why bother turning her in? Except last night his father-in-law paid him this visit, the point of which was to accuse Longmeier of doing the murder." The investigator took another bite of brownie and washed it down.
"So...?" I prompted.
"So the husband figures keeping quiet about the skirt is no longer in his best interest. Did you know he had her blood-spattered skirt? Well, not so much blood as..." he eyed the brownie in his right hand and the coffee in his left. "Never mind."
Newkirk shook his head and continued. "Anyway, Eddie wasn't about to take the rap for his wife, not for a second, especially since he found out she'd been fooling around with the victim. He figured it was time to turn her in."
"Why last night? Any idea?" My insides flip-flopped. I kept glancing from my husband to Newkirk, from Newkirk to my husband.
"Something about the Grand Jury thing today. Story is D'Avanzo didn't want to see an innocent man railroaded."
"You buy that?" Rip asked.
"Sure. Some folks are decent, contrary to popular opinion. You got another brownie in there?" He jerked an elbow toward the dining room.
I gave him the rest of the package to go; but before he left, he turned back to deliver his intended message. "Sorry about all the, you know, trouble this caused. You've got a nice little school here. Hope it'll be okay."
"It is a nice little school," Rip agreed. "And it would help a lot if you'd tell all your friends."
"Be my pleasure."
Rip shut the door and smiled. "He seemed happy," he said, sounding surprised. "I almost liked him."
"Yeah, he's not such a bad guy, for a cop," I agreed. "His social skills still need a little work."
"Yours, too." Rip frowned. "I wanted another one of those brownies."
LYING AWAKE AGAIN that night, I debated the wisdom of keeping silent about my part in Tina Longmeier's confession. By morning I still hadn't decided what to do.
On Saturday, I concentrated on finishing neglected chores, such as re-stapling the ruffle of an overstuffed chair Barney once used as a pull toy and scrubbing the edges of the dishwasher door with an old toothbrush. I touched up the stain on Garry's headboard where the movers had chipped it. I even unpacked the last two boxes of Rip's mother's china—stuff we never used, and never expected to use. Then I refilled the boxes with stuff I removed from our hutch.
I went to bed exhausted—only to stare at the ceiling until dawn.
All day Sunday I felt like cow cud, ached, didn't have enough concentration to read a cereal box, and snapped at Garry when he asked for more milk. Other than that, I functioned fairly well.
Since Thursday night's holiday concert was only five days away, I did take time in the afternoon to brave the Community Room closet, again with an eye toward making those old school store items saleable. If I bought votive candles and set them inside those shot glasses with the Bryn Derwyn logo, touted the oversized T-shirts as nightshirts, stuck a couple napkins from home through the scarf rings to give people the idea—maybe some of this junk would sell after all. The baseball hats still looked good, and the eyeglass cases. I even wrote Jacob a note about where to find that big spool of telephone wire I found in there before.
Most, but not all, of the time I spent working at the scene of the crime I blocked any thoughts about Richard Wharton's murder. That ordeal at least, was over. However, my fear from Thursday night refused to leave entirely.
True, I could confess my role in Tina's arrest and get protection for my family, but there were costs to consider on either side of that fence. At no time during my private investigation had I considered myself to be undermining my marriage. That was a risk I would never consciously choose to take. I realized now that I hadn’t thought it through. Rip’s position of authority was new–to both of us. What if, God forbid, he learned what I did and misinterpreted my motives? What if he somehow saw my frustrated need to set things right as a lack of confidence in his ability to preserve the school? If he ever decided to think that, would I ever be able to convince him otherwise?
Michael D'Avanzo was a wealthy and powerful man, capable of expansive warmth and sudden, marrow-curdling menace, and I had manipulated him into causing the arrest of his own daughter. Instinctively, every cell in my body anticipated retribution. I had no tangible evidence to support my fears regarding Tina’s father—not a word, not a gesture, nothing but pure instinct. My head and heart weighed the odds and chose to keep my role in her confession secret.
Assuming Michael D'Avanzo permitted me to.
The possibility existed that he still thought I believed my own story. Maybe he recognized that it wasn't my fault his daughter responded violently to Richard's rejection. Maybe he blamed himself for spoiling her. Maybe he blamed Richard Wharton.
But maybe he blamed me for how it all turned out.
As the days blended into the nights, I developed dark, haunted circles beneath my aching eyes. Despite plodding through the simplest of household tasks, I refused to see a doctor. A doctor would prescribe pills. Pills would cause me to sleep. If I was unconscious, no one would be looking out for my family.
On Monday morning, I kept my eye on Chelsea and Garry through the kitchen window until their bus picked them up. I even stepped into the front yard, ostensibly to supervise Barney's AM outing, but really to see Rip safely into the school.
On an intellectual level I knew that what I was doing was about as worthwhile as looking under the bed for the bogeyman. Occasionally, your nervous system just plain insists on seeing for itself.
After rehearsal that evening, Didi, Rip, and our kids arrived home about five-thirty in a jolly mood. Rehearsal had been hilarious, and Garry and Chelsea seemed pleased to be making friends with some of the Bryn Derwyn students.
Didi took one look at me and said, “You look like shit."
"Guess I've got a flu bug after all."
"Nauseous?"
"Now and then," I admitted. "Not too bad."
"You hungry?" She pressed her wrist against my forehead. I knew it to be cool and dry. We both knew wrists were unreliable thermometers.
"Oddly, I am a little hungry."
Didi shrugged and told the kids to set the table, a task I had not yet managed to do.
I turned my attention to Rip. "So what's got you pumped up?" I asked.
"Am I? Maybe I am. Some key students came back, and it looks as if others will follow."
"That's great."
"Yes, it really is. Now I just have to dazzle them with my footwork, get them excited about next year."
“Should I start calling you Merlin?"
"You better not!" He circled my shoulders from behind and kissed my hair. "I'm worried about you."
"I'll be fine. What else happened?" I switched around to drink in the sight of his face.
He shrugged and said, "Nicky D'Avanzo was absent, but I doubt if that means anything."
ON TUESDAY RIP found out that Michael D'Avanzo had transferred Nicky to public school. The letter of withdrawal cited social difficulties stemming from his aunt's arrest as the impetus behind the mid-year switch.
"Would other kids really be unkind about that?" I asked.
"Sure, given the chance. Except they didn’t have much chance. Tina turned herself in Friday, and Nicky hasn't been to school since."
I was awake anyway, so I brooded about that one all Tuesday night.
On Wednesday D'Avanzo phoned Rip to personally deliver the bad news about the gym.
"I'm sorry, but the project no longer interests me. I'm sure you understand. My regards to your lovely wife."
I spent Wednesday night and the early hours of Thursday morning on a mental treadmill, imagining that I was chasing after my own sanity.
Thursday afternoon Eddie Longmeier stopped by Rip's office to inquire about the school's intentions regarding the contract with his company.
"I've got to make plans, you know." Life goes on.
Rip used the excuse that Bryn Derwyn's development director "departed suddenly," adding that without D'Avanzo's pledge “the Board has shelved any work on the gym project until summer. Sorry.”
"Yeah, sorry,” the contractor replied. “There's a lot of that going around."
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, was the day of the holiday concert, and the school was electric with excitement.
"I just hope all these high spirits don't cause any damage," Rip remarked at breakfast, “although the destructive pranks seem to have stopped." For luck, he knocked on our wooden table.
"Maybe because police were around so much," I suggested. "You're not letting down your guard, are you?"
"Don’t worry,” Rip assured me. “Those extra security measures are here to stay–the parents won’t have it any other way, and neither would I."
I breathed a little easier, but not much.
To get a jump on the store display, I went over to school almost as early as Rip. Didi was already there, looking like a froufrou wedding confection in a lavender mohair dress and shiny brown boots. I felt like coffee grounds in comparison.
She was there to tempt non-participating teachers and students to attend that night's performance with a preview: the fourth grade singing "Joy to the World." However, Didi's version began, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog," and went on from there. The whole assembly clapped along. Some sang, and across the room from me Rip jitterbugged with the French teacher. Personally, I couldn't imagine where he got the energy.
Even with Didi's help it was all I could do to move the loaded mitten tree aside and set up the school store on a table in the center of the lobby. But by ten we were done. I sank onto the nearest chair to admire our eye-catching conglomeration of red, white, and Bryn Derwyn green. Sweatshirts, notebooks, and other school staples filled out my collection of novelties. Ruth and Joanne would watch over the merchandise for the rest of the day.
"Go home to bed," Didi ordered. "I'm worried about you, girl,"
"Yeah, thanks," I said. Then, thinking out loud, I added, "This probably won't last much longer."