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“This won’t take long.” Hawthorne stamped his feet and removed his gloves.

When Hilda showed Hawthorne into the study, Skander hurriedly got up from his desk and came to shake Hawthorne’s hand. “What a pleasant surprise.” One whole wall was a bookcase. Several of the shelves displayed golf and bowling trophies.

Hawthorne was struck by how genuine his smile appeared. He began to think that Pendergast hadn’t been entirely truthful. “I met Lloyd Pendergast today,” said Hawthorne, after Hilda had left them alone.

Skander’s smile widened. “Dear old Pendergast. You must tell me how he is.”

“He told me you forced him to resign after Gail Jensen’s death.”

At first Skander made no response. Then he raised his eyebrows and leaned forward as if he weren’t sure he had heard correctly. “And why would I have done that?”

“Because he believed you were embezzling money, pretending to order things for the school and keeping the money for yourself. Was that what happened to the trombone? Did you pocket the three hundred dollars?” Hawthorne had remained by the door. He kept his voice calm but his fists were clenched in the pockets of his overcoat.

Skander massaged his brow. For a moment he stared down at the rug, and when he at last looked up, he appeared concerned, though not for himself. “Jim, this is really embarrassing. You understand, of course, that I wouldn’t be popular with Pendergast. He was terribly afraid of going to jail. I felt if I went to the authorities it would do great harm to the school. Even then we were barely keeping our heads above water. It seemed that if Pendergast resigned, if he simply went away, we would have a chance of hiring someone truly qualified. Someone like yourself. I promised him that I would keep quiet and I kept my word, even though it’s hurt me to do so.”

“You frightened Mrs. Hayes into quitting and you frightened Clifford Evings. Did you pay somebody to wreck his office or did you do it yourself? You or Roger got Jessica Weaver drunk and sent her over to my apartment so you could blackmail me in the same way you blackmailed Pendergast. And that business with the painting and the phone calls from my dead wife and all the gossip and slander . . .” Hawthorne stopped himself. Out of anger he was saying more than he had intended.

Skander continued to look stricken. He held out a hand toward Hawthorne as if imploring him to stop. “Jim, I don’t know what to say. What painting are you talking about? Roger certainly hasn’t confided in me about what he might or might not have done. And if you feel there’s the slightest irregularity with the accounts, then I really demand that you have an audit immediately.”

Although Hawthorne didn’t trust Skander, he could see nothing in his face, his eyes, his gestures, even his words that convinced him the man was lying. Skander’s earnestness, his apparent embarrassment, his concern for Hawthorne’s well-being—instead of being angry at Skander, Hawthorne found himself growing angry with Pendergast. On the other hand, he couldn’t rely on Skander’s appearance. He needed facts.

“I’ll see about an audit first thing tomorrow,” Hawthorne said.

Skander took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Surely the wisest course. But, Jim, this is truly hurtful. I thought we were closer than this, that we trusted each other. I love Bishop’s Hill. It’s my entire life. Why would I do any of this?” There was no anger or fear in Skander’s expression; rather, he regarded Hawthorne as one might look at a dear friend who has become ill.

Hawthorne pressed on. “Because if I quit and the school closes, then Burke can sell the facility to the Galileo Corporation. And you’ll stay on, perhaps even as bursar or associate director. You’ll make more money, won’t have to teach, and won’t even have to move from your house.”

“Jim, Jim, forgive me for being blunt. You must not turn your back on your true friends. If we don’t work together, then I don’t see how the school can be saved. I’m completely bewildered by all this venom. Please, think hard before you do anything rash.” He reached out to put a hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder, but Hawthorne stepped back.

“One more thing,” asked Hawthorne. “What can you tell me about a student by the name of Peter Roberts? He doesn’t seem to be on the books.”

Skander’s face seemed to pause in its solicitude, then his expression of concern reasserted itself. “Peter Roberts? I don’t believe I know the name. Is he new?”

Eleven

R
oger Bennett’s palms were sweating and he kept rubbing them on his corduroy trousers. He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to appear relaxed, but in truth he was afraid. He felt a prickling on his skin, as if what he wanted to do most was to run: to rush down the stairs and into the falling snow. He had spent much of his adult life feeling confident of his superiority, telling students what to do and making them do it. He had no experience with being terrified of another human being. Fritz Skander, on the other hand—so Bennett thought—looked perfectly calm, but perhaps he too was frightened and had the sense not to show it. Bennett was unsure of this. He never knew what Fritz was feeling unless Fritz told him, and even then Bennett wasn’t entirely convinced.

It had been Bennett’s idea that they should keep their mouths shut or, if they had to speak, that they should deny everything. But Fritz said they no longer had a choice—Hawthorne’s discovery of the Peter Roberts scheme and his insistence on an audit meant it was just a matter of time until Hawthorne uncovered the extent of their misconduct, including their arrangement with LeBrun. Luckily, Roberts had not returned to school that fall, but many teachers remembered him, and the family lived in Keene. It would take very little investigation to prove what had happened. The two of them would go to jail. And the unfolding of the evidence against them was a process that would begin with the audit on Wednesday. Far better, Fritz had insisted, to call on the services of Frank LeBrun again.

Frank LeBrun sat on his bed watching Fritz, his face expressionless, although now and then he glanced at Bennett and grinned. Each time, Bennett wanted to bolt. Bennett wondered if LeBrun had had sex with Jessica on that narrow bed or if they had done it on the couch. Most likely they had done it all over the room. The shades were drawn, although it was only shortly after breakfast on Saturday, and the ceiling light was on. The one picture on the wall was a calendar with a photograph of a covered bridge. Looking closer, Bennett thought he was wrong about the date, then he asked himself what sort of idiot would hang up a thirteen-year-old calendar.

Fritz was talking and his tone was gentle, as if he were addressing a child he loved. “It’s truly incredible for me to realize what you have done. When I told you on Thanksgiving that the boy had come to me with those wild stories, I thought you’d simply be amused. At most, I thought you might speak to him. Ask him to cease and desist. After all, people gossip and the fact that Larry was nowhere to be found might make people imagine that he had indeed come to harm. So the boy’s story, it had to be no more than an insensitive prank. Youthful monkey-shines. I would have told him myself to put a lid on it, but it was Thanksgiving and one thing led to another and we were having guests. A busy day for all of us, no doubt. Yet when the boy told me that he needed to find Dr. Hawthorne and that Jim might use this information against you, might in fact cause you an injury, I thought it my duty to tell you what the youngster had said. I thought you would just admonish him, scold him, urge him to keep quiet. Dear, dear, did you really have to murder him?”

LeBrun leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking up at Fritz with his head slightly tilted. He wore faded jeans and a white shirt with stains from the kitchen—oil and coffee, a bit of red jam. With his head tilted, LeBrun’s thin face looked decidedly freakish to Bennett, like features stuck on the spine of a book. LeBrun didn’t speak; he watched Fritz and gently rubbed one hand across the black hairs on the back of the other. Fritz leaned against the bureau with his hands in the pockets of his tweed slacks and occasionally jingled a few coins. He was smiling benignly, but with a trace of disappointment.

“Of course,” said Fritz, “I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to anyone, though I must say the police have been an utter nuisance. But you have us over a barrel, Frank, you really do. If I didn’t like you and didn’t feel you deserved far more than life, in its intrinsic unfairness, has given you, then I might be tempted to reveal what happened to that boy. And the cat, we mustn’t forget the cat. But what would be the result? If the police arrested you, then
you
might be tempted to tell them about that unfortunate prank in Clifford’s office. I remain astonished at my folly in encouraging you to do it, even giving you some small sum. I don’t know what I was thinking. But here was this fellow being totally useless yet earning a good salary. That money could have gone to other places where it was desperately needed. Scholarships, for instance. I was frustrated, that’s the most I can say in my defense, and of course I worried about what was best for the school. My hope was that he might go away, just as Mrs. Hayes had gone away. Surely, you were as horrified as I when Clifford chose to end his life—a spiteful act, in any case—though we can’t say for certain that the damage to his office was the actual cause. And I wouldn’t blame you for telling the police—after all, an exchange of information might make them more lenient. And the tequila and the girl, another piece of bad judgment—no, no, it’s quite obvious that we overreached ourselves. The best plan is to keep quiet about you and poor Scott McKinnon. And Roger, too, is the soul of discretion. His lips are sealed. But, really, can we say the same of Dr. Hawthorne? If he is truly planning to dismiss you for what you said to those boorish students—and that is only what I’ve heard, he hasn’t spoken to me about it directly—then what would he do if he knew that you had murdered Scott McKinnon? No, no, my friend, I’m afraid you can’t count on him.”

Still LeBrun didn’t speak. He glanced over at Bennett and grinned. Bennett had to force himself not to jump, to keep his face still, and not to wipe his palms on his trousers. It was the uncertainty that disturbed him. He hadn’t the least idea what was passing through LeBrun’s head. In fact, he wasn’t sure what Fritz intended, except that he hoped to plant the seeds of suspicion, even fear, so that LeBrun would do something about Hawthorne. Enlisting the cook had been Skander’s idea from the beginning. Bennett had never felt quite right about him, but he hadn’t been insistent enough. Now it was too late to turn back.

“You must realize, of course, that Dr. Hawthorne is a clinical psychologist,” continued Skander, “practically a psychiatrist, though he can’t hand out pills. Perhaps you’ve had contact with such people in your time—always asking how you feel and if you’re happy. And psychologists often suffer from an inferiority complex about not having a medical degree. It makes them more devious. That’s the thing about Hawthorne, isn’t it? You never know if what he says is true. Perhaps he’s saying it because he thinks that’s what you should hear. For instance, if he tells you how good you look, who knows if that’s what he feels? Rather, that’s the strategy he’s devised. In fact, he may have decided you could benefit from the deception. To me he’s been quite open about you, and let me tell you that I’ve found it shocking. Just because you haven’t had the educational advantages of the rest of us doesn’t mean you aren’t intelligent. I’ve been quite straightforward about that. Even blunt. Your French Canadian heritage, the way you speak, your lack of sophistication, even your jokes—no, no, I’ve told Dr. Hawthorne right to his face that he mustn’t judge you. Indeed, I’ve told him that I didn’t want to hear you verbally abused in my presence, that even if you weren’t as fortunate as he, it didn’t mean you could be turned into a figure of fun and ridiculed. He’s not a trustworthy sort, if you see what I mean. And I think he rather liked young Scott.”

LeBrun got to his feet and walked across his small apartment to the refrigerator. He opened the door and took out a bottle of Budweiser. “You want one?” he asked Skander.

“Much too early for me, I’m afraid.”

LeBrun held up a bottle toward Bennett, who shook his head. “What’s wrong, Bennett, you’re not smiling. Aren’t you the guy who’s always smiling? You used to be a regular clown.” Taking an opener from a drawer, LeBrun popped the top, put the bottle to his lips, and tilted back his head. Bennett watched him drink nearly the whole bottle without pausing. Then LeBrun lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. “So what you’re telling me,” said LeBrun, leaning against the refrigerator, “is that I have to kill Hawthorne. You’re saying I got no choice.”

—

The snow blew horizontally into the windshield and then clogged the wipers, forcing Hawthorne to roll down his window, reach around, and flick the wiper, knocking the snow off so he could see, at least for another five minutes, until he had to roll down the window and knock off the snow all over again. The usual thirty-five-minute drive from Bishop’s Hill to Plymouth had taken over an hour and during that time the winter weather advisory had been upgraded to a storm warning. Hawthorne had brought four students to Plymouth so they could catch the bus to Logan Airport in Boston. Luckily, most of the other students had left the previous day. Concord Trailways had assured Hawthorne over the phone that the bus would be running, though it might be late. Hawthorne himself had been a little late, but he’d still been able to get the students to the bus station—a gas station and convenience store with a bench—by noon. That evening Hawthorne was supposed to visit Kate; her son was with his father. Hawthorne told himself that he would be there no matter what—snowstorms, hurricanes, tornadoes notwithstanding.

Jessica Weaver had come along. All week she had been skipping meals and looking depressed and anxious. Helen Selkirk had told Hawthorne, “Not even her kitten cheers her up.” But Helen had taken the bus to Boston two days earlier, leaving Jessica alone in their dorm room. So Hawthorne had decided to bring her to Plymouth and buy her lunch after dropping off the other kids. Jessica’s stepfather planned to pick her up at school either that day or the next, although Hawthorne thought that he might be delayed by the snow.