Murder at Birchwood Pond Read online

  “Exactly. Those could all contribute to depression, and as we know, depression can lead to suicide. This wouldn’t be the first time no one saw it coming. You probably see it all the time in your line of work.”

  “I do, yeah,” Argo said.

  “It wouldn’t even be the first time it happened at Birchwood. Everett told me about the teacher who drowned in that same spot twenty years ago. Everyone still calls it an accident, but he says everyone knows perfectly well it was suicide.”

  To Darian’s surprise, this revelation got Argo’s attention. He unclasped his hands, leaned forward in his swivel chair, and pinned Darian with those sharp, cold eyes.

  “Is that so? Tell me more.”

  “Well, I don’t know much.” Darian fidgeted, wiping his own hands on his thighs. “Everett said the guy was one of those aloof, by-the-book academics. ‘Tormented by demons’ was the way he put it. He didn’t want to say any more, I got the sense, so I didn’t press him. But it did make me think that Timothy’s case might be similar in some ways.”

  Argo thought it over in silence for a while. Finally he nodded. “Yeah. I think you’re probably right about that.”

  “So you also think Timothy’s death might have been suicide?”

  “Like I said before, I have to keep an open mind at this stage. Where is this Sebastian kid now?”

  “Your people have sealed off his room, so he’s staying in the infirmary. I wanted him to come with me to see you, but he refused. I watched him walk up the path to the campus, so I assume he’s there somewhere. Are you going to interview him?”

  “As it happens, I’d already made plans to talk to him tomorrow,” Argo said. “I’d prefer to move it up to this afternoon, but according to your headmistress, I have to wait for the family lawyer to arrive. Doesn’t work on Sunday, apparently, unlike me. The kid’s eighteen, but his father, not to mention the people who pay my salary, will have my head on a platter if I approach him without legal representation.”

  Darian’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “He might clam up with a lawyer present.”

  “They usually do. That’s okay. It’s their right, but we know how to work around witness silence.”

  “I guess you’d have to. Okay, then. That was really all I had to say. I’m sorry it wasn’t more helpful.” He hesitated, waiting for Argo to respond—perhaps with something relating not to the case but to the two of them getting together informally sometime. When he didn’t, Darian reluctantly made a move to stand up. This time, Argo stopped him by holding up a hand, palm outward in traffic-director style.

  “Would you be willing to write out a statement recounting what you just told me? You don’t have to write out any names. Just that an anonymous source gave you a tip and that you passed it on to me. For my records.”

  “Okay, sure…if you think it would help.”

  “It would.” Argo opened the folder, removed a piece of lined paper, and handed it, along with a ballpoint pen, across the desk. He waited, motionless, while Darian wrote down everything he could think of, excluding Sebastian’s name and identifying details. He slid it back across the desk and watched Argo read it over with a satisfied expression. Then Argo pushed it back.

  “Can you put the date at the top? Oh, and your birthdate at the bottom, right under your signature. Just for authentication purposes. Makes things easier to file.”

  This time Darian raised a brow, but did as Argo requested. When he finished, Argo seemed to examine what he had written for an unusually long time. Did he suspect Darian had lied about his birthdate?

  “Everything okay, Sheriff?”

  “Yeah. This is fine. Thanks. While you’re here, there’s just one last thing.” Argo flipped through the materials in the folder and pulled out a small, mud-stained slip of paper sealed in a plastic sandwich bag. He handed it across the table. “My deputies found this by the pond. I thought maybe you could take a look at it. Does it mean anything to you?”

  Darian picked up the bag and angled it so he could read what was on the paper. He saw a series of numbers, written in blue ink and lightly smudged as though the paper had been lying on the damp ground for a while. The handwriting was plain and blocky, with a strike through the initial zero to distinguish it from the letter O.

  “041895.”

  He read the numbers aloud, as though reading the chart in the optometrist’s office. Again Argo said nothing. Darian placed the baggie back on the desk.

  “Sorry. No. Never saw that before.”

  “Can you think of anything those numbers might refer to?”

  “I guess it could be a date. April 18, 1995? Or April, 1895?”

  “Do either of those mean anything to you?”

  Darian thought about it for a while and finally shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a credit card sequence. A student ID number or locker combination, maybe? A computer password?”

  “I looked into all that already. It’s not connected to any official Birchwood accounts, either digital or otherwise. Any more ideas?”

  “None, I’m afraid. Where did you find—”

  His words trailed off as, thanks to the mud on the paper and Everett’s report of cops searching the pond on Saturday morning, understanding dawned.

  “That statement you had me write out. You already knew my birthdate from my personnel file, I’m sure. You just wanted a handwriting sample. With numbers.”

  “Yes,” Argo admitted without a trace of shame. “As far as I’m concerned, they didn’t match. You’re clear for now.”

  “You think someone who was meeting Timothy at the pond dropped it—and you suspected that was me?”

  Argo clearly picked up on the anger in his voice. His expression, as well as his tone, turned apologetic. “I had to check it out, Darian. You understand why.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me off the hook...for now.” Darian flushed scarlet. His first impression had been correct all along. The phone call, the casual chatter, maybe even Argo’s presence at the theater, had all been a ruse. Argo still thought he had some connection to Timothy’s death. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Nothing you can pin on the lonely, neurotic gay guy with two mothers today. Keep trying, though. Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”

  Humiliated, he lurched up from his chair. Argo followed him to his feet.

  “Wait. You’ve got it wrong.”

  “Do I? Which part, exactly? Not the handwriting analysis, I don’t think.”

  “Okay, so you’re right about that. But it’s not the way you think. I had to eliminate you. Now that’s done. I’m convinced you had nothing to do with what happened to Timothy.”

  The only response Darian could manage was a furious glare. He trained it on Argo for as long as he could bear to. Then he whirled around and stormed out.

  By the time he made it through the station lobby and down the front steps, he was sweating worse than he had after his run and shaking a little besides. Knowing he was in no condition to drive, he crossed the street, passing a sporting goods store and the town’s only upscale cappuccino bar. In the old days, Everett had told him, the entire town closed up and practically rolled away the sidewalks on Sunday. Now, with Blue Laws repealed and a growing population of commuting professionals, Main Street and its line of small, old-fashioned shops were lively with lunchtime customers.

  When he came to the used bookstore, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Argo wasn’t having him followed. Seeing no one, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The bookstore was, thankfully, less crowded than the sidewalk, or at least the floor-to-ceiling shelves hid the shoppers from one another and made it seem that way. Soft strains of classical music drifted from a satellite radio speaker hung above the entrance, which was framed by racks of yellowed pulp paperbacks and golden age detective fiction. Instantly feeling more peaceful, Darian browsed the British Literature and Literary criticism sections, searching for things he could use for class as well as personal enrichment. H
e even smiled when he came across a battered copy of a prominent feminist scholar’s biography of Virginia Woolf, which occupied a prominent spot on his mom Riki’s shelf of all-time favorites.

  He needed to call his moms again soon, he decided as he fought back a burst of homesickness. He sure wouldn’t tell them he’d just been fingered as a murder suspect, though. Admitting to finding a drowned body would be nothing compared to the tailspin that would send them into. He feared they might fly up from Florida and physically drag him back with them.

  Just then someone came around the left side of the shelf, carrying a stack of books. Darian jumped back, startled to recognize Jake, who also came to a stop.

  “Oh, hey, Darian,” Jake greeted him. “I see you had the same idea I did. Find anything good?”

  “Not yet. I see you had better luck.”

  Jake raised his arms to display his finds. “Vintage cookbooks,” he explained. “I use them in the restaurant.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can find in these old things. Dishes people from younger generations have never heard of. Home-cooked has an entirely different meaning to them. Even their grandmas buy frozen or ready-made these days. I’m telling you, we’ve lost an entire way of life because of fast food and microwaves. Whoever invented that crap has a lot to answer for.”

  “True enough.” Darian decided not to mention how often he made use of just such modern conveniences himself.

  “I’m thinking about starting theme nights—you know, a fifties style meal one week, sixties on the next, and so on. Maybe I can track down some vintage dishes and get the waitstaff to dress up in period costumes, too.”

  “That sounds like fun. Your customers should really enjoy that.”

  “Well, in some ways it’s smoke and mirrors. It’s not like I came from a family where anybody bothered to sit down for an elaborate meal together. My mother was too depressed to do more than boil a few hot dogs now and then, and my old man was usually too drunk to care what was on his plate. Maybe that’s why I gravitated toward cooking myself. Trying to capture something I never had before.”

  “Could be,” Darian agreed, embarrassed by the confession. Jake seemed startled by his own outburst and made a visible effort to calm himself.

  “Hope you can come to one,” he said. “I’ll get Patricia to invite the usual gang. Maybe the theater department could help with the dress-up part. I’ll try to remember to ask when I’m over there next.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” After everything that had happened that morning, Darian decided he wasn’t in the mood to socialize. He started to excuse himself and slip away, but Jake went on talking.

  “Patricia says they’re planning a memorial service for that kid who drowned. Jeanette called all the department chairs this morning for a meeting.”

  “I heard about that,” Darian said, recalling Quin’s report of the same summons to campus.

  “Wednesday, she said. I’m coming to it, too.”

  “Oh?” Darian blinked, surprised. “You didn’t know Timothy Pryor, did you?”

  “Nah, I’m just accompanying Patricia. I didn’t really want to, but she said it wouldn’t look right if I didn’t. She had the kid in a few classes, apparently. And he and his parents have eaten at my restaurant a few times.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Now that’s a bunch who probably never ate a fast food meal in their lives. Real hoity-toity, with plenty of money to spend.” He winked. “In short, exactly the kind of customer I could use more of.”

  “Sure. That makes sense.” Darian nodded, more interested now. “When was the last time you saw them there?”

  “It was right around move-in day for the kids. End of August, right? I didn’t talk to them—they’re not the kind to associate with the hired help. I did wait on them, though. Wanted to make sure they got the right kind of service. The Birchwood parents talk to each other, and people like that expect only the best.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Better to do it myself, I thought. All I need is for one of those half-assed klutzes who work for me to spill soup on our future governor’s lap. I’d probably go out of business after that.”

  “So Timothy’s father is difficult to deal with?”

  Jake barked out a laugh. “Timothy sure thought so. They got into it at dinner that night. If they hadn’t been in public, I think the old man would have reached across and grabbed the kid by the throat. And I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if the kid had hauled off and given it right back to him. Thankfully they held it together until the bill came. But I’ll bet there was quite a scene later.”

  “Wow.” Darian didn’t have to feign his amazement. “What were they fighting about?”

  “Couldn’t tell, but I doubt it was the first time. All through it, the mother just sat there with her mouth scrunched up like she was sucking a lemon. Not the least bit shocked or even all that embarrassed. People like them live in their own world, I guess. As far as I’m concerned, they can have it.” Jake paused and jiggled his armload of cookbooks. “Anyway, I should get these up to the register. They’re getting heavy. See you Wednesday…or before then, if you’re ever in the mood for a good meal.”

  “Yes. See you then.”

  “Wish I could say I was looking forward to it. Whatever. Maybe they’ll have some good eats at the reception. Never hurts to check out the competition.”

  Darian pretended to browse the shelves again while he watched Jake pay for his books and leave. A few minutes later, he also wandered out empty-handed. Imagining Timothy and his father literally at each other’s throats, while Mrs. Pryor looked on, too unmoved—or perhaps too frightened—to intervene, had killed his appetite for shopping. He had a suspicion they had been arguing about Timothy’s sexuality, which his politically minded father would probably view as a threat to his ambitions.

  His next thought was even less comforting and possibly unfair to Mr. Pryor—without the burden of Timothy and his escapades hanging off his shoulders, he might now have an easier path to election. Public sympathy toward the father of a suicidal young man couldn’t hurt his chances, either. Mr. Pryor might even be able to make improved mental health treatment part of his political platform.

  As he steered his car back through town on his way home, he passed the small park where he and Argo had walked after the meal at Jake’s restaurant. When he glanced at the entrance, he spotted Aaron Macklin standing near the gate. Hands in his pockets, he gazed at a group of attractive young women who were talking in a circle. Was one of them his fiancée and the others the members of her wedding party? Fleetingly Darian wondered if he or any of his colleagues would be invited to attend the ceremony. If he were honest with himself, he hoped not.

  Aaron didn’t notice his car. The chatting women didn’t either. Darian punched the gas and drove on.

  Sunday afternoon dragged on, and Darian whiled away the hours grading essays and doing prep work for the next week’s classes. Nervous that his moms would hear his agitation in his voice, he avoided calling them and wrote them a relaxed, chatty email instead. All the same, he worried that Ange, a college English professor, would ferret out the anxiety hidden beneath those cheery sentences. He read it over several times before he had the nerve to send it.

  For supper, he heated up what was left of the meatless lasagna and ran the dishwasher. When it got dark outside, he began browsing the internet for a free gay-themed movie he could watch until he fell asleep. He was still scrolling through the admittedly limited choices when car headlights flared against his living room window.

  His heartrate quickened as he went to the curtains and peered out. An unfamiliar car sat in the driveway, and a middle-aged man in a hoodie and jeans was stepping out of the driver’s side door. Spotting Darian in the window, he waved.

  “Uber!” he shouted.

  Ah, that explained it. A simple misunderstanding. He went to the door.

  “I didn’t call for an U
ber,” Darian said, stepping outside. “You must have the wrong house.”

  The driver pointed to the back seat of his car. “Guy gave me this address. I refused to leave him anywhere on his own. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

  Baffled, Darian bent down and looked through the window. His Birchwood colleague Aaron Macklin was slumped over in the back seat, his tie askew, his down jacket unzipped and rumpled, and his hair sticking up in spikes.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes, I do. But what the—er, what happened to him?”

  The Uber driver laughed as he opened the door and hauled a whimpering Aaron out. “What do you think? The usual. Had a few too many and couldn’t drive his own car home. He said you’d take responsibility for him until he sobers up.”

  Darian almost fell over as Aaron wilted against him with all his weight. He grappled for a hold on Darian’s shirt as his legs wobbled underneath him. The sharp scent of alcohol rose from his breath and clothes.

  “Please,” Aaron whined.

  Darian sighed. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. All paid up on the app. I wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. All yours now. Good luck.”

  With a mock salute, the guy jumped back into his car, backed out, and took off in a hurry, presumably before Darian could change his mind. Darian hid his shock as Aaron clung to him, seeming barely conscious.

  “Cold out,” he slurred.

  “You’re right. Come on, let’s go inside. We’ll figure out what to do after you’ve had some coffee.”

  “Okay. Soun’s goo’.”

  As he dragged the limp form inside and dumped him on the sofa, Darian realized that it would take far more than a few cups, or even a few pots, of coffee to restore Aaron to even minimal coherence. Still, he made the effort, largely because it gave him something to do while he kept an eye on Aaron, who made a few clumsy efforts to sit up. Finally he stretched out with one hand dangling to the floor.