Murder at Birchwood Pond Read online

  “Let me hang up your jacket,” Darian said when he brought the coffee over a few minutes later. He placed the cup on a nearby table and helped wrestle Aaron out of his coat and back into an upright position. He removed Aaron’s tie as well, not wanting to risk accidental strangulation, and draped both it and the coat over a chair in the corner. He didn’t dare to leave Aaron alone long enough to go to the hall closet and hang them up.

  “Should I call someone and let them know you’re here? Your fiancée, maybe?”

  “No. Don’wannem see me like this.”

  “That’s understandable, but won’t she be worried about you?”

  Aaron made a snorting sound and almost choked on the coffee. He set the cup down and coughed to clear his throat. “No, she won’t.”

  So they’d had a fight, possibly right after Darian had seen them ignoring one another at the park. Things began to make a crude kind of sense. “Why did you have the Uber driver bring you here?”

  “Cuz I can trust you.” Aaron finished his coffee and wiped his mouth in a sloppy motion. “Needed help. Plus I knew your address.”

  “Okay.” Darian wondered how he managed to remember that detail in his addled state, but he was glad Aaron had retained enough sense to get a ride to a safe place. “I assume you left your car downtown somewhere? We can pick it up tomorrow. You can call in sick at school and then I’ll take you to it on my way in.”

  “No’ callin’ in sick,” Aaron insisted. He attempted to make a cutting motion with his hand but ended up disorienting himself and slumping back against the cushions. “Be fine by ’morrah.”

  “Stay put.” Darian picked up the empty cup and went to get Aaron a refill. Aaron had fidgeted his way back to a seated position by the time Darian returned and handed him the second coffee.

  “Arroo mad I came here? I’m sorriffy wrecked your evening. Dinnow where else to go.”

  “No. I’m not mad. Don’t worry about it. The Uber guy was right—you don’t look like you’re capable of taking care of yourself right now. You sure weren’t in any fit state to drive. Good thing you realized that, or you could easily have killed yourself or someone else.”

  “’Nother death at Birchwood, huh? Juss what we need. More tragedy. Place’ll be empty fore the end of the term.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Aaron tried to nod but merely swayed from the waist up. Darian put out a hand to steady him. To his surprise, Aaron clamped his palm over it.

  “You know wha’ I think? I think that place is evil. That pond. It’s like that black sludge bubbled straight up from hell. You know wha’ I’m talkin’ about, right?”

  Darian recalled Sebastian’s similar, though less imaginative, description of the water where Timothy had met his unfortunate end. “I think so,” he said cautiously.

  “Why don’t they fill it in? He wasn’t the first one to die there. Did you know tha’?”

  “I’d heard something similar. From what I understand, it was a long time ago.”

  “So what if it was? Place like Birchwood doesn’t change. Maybe it’s not just the pond. It’s everything. The campus, the people. Well, not you, o’course. You’re always kind. Understanding.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “I admire that. Really I do.” Aaron paused and looked sheepish. Then his face contorted again. “But the rest of them there. Vipers. Backstabbers. You know.”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Like hell it’s not!” Aaron banged down his cup so some of the hot coffee splashed his wrist. He cursed and brought it up to his mouth. Darian stood.

  “Let me get you a cold cloth for that.” He hurried back to the kitchen, ran some water onto a folded paper towel, and brought it back to press on Aaron’s wrist. By now tears were streaming down Aaron’s cheeks and he was whimpering with pain. Darian began to wish Aaron had given the Uber driver someone else’s address after all.

  “Hurts,” Aaron complained as Darian pushed the makeshift compress to his reddened skin. “Hurts so bad.”

  “Just hold it to the burn like that. You’ll feel better in no time.” Frankly, Darian was surprised that Aaron could feel anything at all in his condition. Nineteenth-century doctors had anesthetized people for surgery using less than Aaron had apparently imbibed.

  “I don’t just mean my arm. I mean all of it. This place. These people. The pressure.”

  “Ah,” Darian said. He surmised that the root of Aaron’s discomfort was a condition he’d heard about but had never seen up close before: pre-wedding jitters. That fit with his earlier theory that Aaron and the future Mrs. Macklin had gotten into a disagreement downtown—over the details of the ceremony, perhaps, or the destination for the honeymoon. Were same-sex weddings less fraught with drama? His mothers had told him once that they had been so grateful that they could finally wed legally that every other problem had faded into unimportance. Darian hoped that if his chance ever came, he wouldn’t start an argument with his groom over the shape of the cake or the freshness of the flowers or whatever it was people got upset about.

  “Can’t take it much longer.” Aaron’s words came out in a half-sob.

  “Look Aaron, you can’t fix the world’s problems tonight. I guarantee things will look a lot better in the morning. You and Caryn can sit down and hash it all out tomorrow, when you’re both feeling calmer. I’m sure you two will be able to find a compromise that works for both of you.”

  For a moment, Aaron’s expression tightened, and his voice sounded almost lucid. “I doubt that.”

  “Why don’t you kick off your shoes and get comfortable? Let me get you a pillow and blanket so you can sleep it off.” Gesturing, Darian backed away in the direction of the linen closet. “The bathroom’s right down the hall when you need it.”

  “Thanks.” Aaron toed off his polished leather loafers, which thudded to the floor. Darian brought him a sheet, two spare blankets, and a spare bed pillow. He tried to wedge it under Aaron’s head without waking him.

  It didn’t work. Aaron’s eyes flew open and he lurched back into a sitting position with a shriek. One flailing hand batted the pillow to the floor. Darian replaced it while Aaron stared at him with a glassy-eyed, bewildered expression.

  “I know why he died,” he blurted. “Timothy Pryor. I know what killed him.”

  “What?” This time it was Darian’s turn to gape. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, Aaron finally took the pillow from Darian’s numb fingers, scrunched it up under himself, and curled into a fetal position.

  “Aaron, talk to me,” Darian urged, but it was already too late. Only Aaron’s chest moved as he began breathing loudly and slowly.

  Whatever he had been about to say would have to wait for morning.

  Chapter 7

  Gray shadows swaddled him, his mind drifting softly through dreamland, when a sharp tap on his bedroom door roused him. Argo, he muttered as he fought his way back to earth. Had the sheriff with the stubbly chin and barrel chest come to his bed to apologize? Darian hoped so with every fiber of his sleep-soaked body.

  Wait, wait. I’ll be right there.

  He wasn’t sure if he spoke the words or merely thought them. Darian staggered to the door as quickly as he could in a half-comatose state and flung it open.

  The sight of Aaron Macklin standing there brought the events of the previous night crashing back into his head.

  To his surprise, Aaron looked almost presentable this morning. His face glowed pink from a recent scrubbing, and his eyes were clear. He had smoothed out his clothes, replaced his tie, and flattened his hair back down with water.

  “I know it’s early, but I was hoping you could drop me off at my car. That way I’ll have time to get back to my place and get changed for school.”

  “School? You aren’t going to call in sick?”

  “Why should I? I feel fine. Okay, that’s probably an exaggeration, but I
feel well enough to manage a classroom. I’ve shouldered on through worse days, I can tell you that.”

  “Uh…okay,” Darian agreed, mostly because he didn’t have enough energy or interest to argue about it. “Just let me throw on some clothes and we’ll go find your car.” He glanced at his bedside clock. It was just before five, which left plenty of time for him to drop Aaron off, come back home, and shower and change for his own classes. He could get by with a sweatshirt and jeans for this short mission.

  “I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready,” Aaron said. “I took the liberty of starting a fresh pot of coffee. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Thanks. Good idea.”

  Aaron had already stepped away from his door and headed back down the hall when Darian remembered how they had left things the night before. He hurried into his clothes.

  “I want to apologize for that little scene last night.” Aaron was at the tiny kitchen table with a cup of coffee when Darian emerged, not elegantly but respectably clothed, a few minutes later. A second cup sat waiting for him. “I guess I had to get some stuff out of my system. Nonetheless, I’m totally embarrassed and I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Darian dropped into the seat opposite Aaron’s and took a fortifying swallow of coffee. Aaron had added just the right amount of cream and sweetener. Then again, he would have gulped it down black at this unwholesome hour. “Aaron, last night you started to tell me something right before you feel asleep. Do you remember?”

  “I did?” Aaron’s cheeks turned darker pink, causing a few light freckles to stand out in relief. “I’m afraid I don’t recall much of anything I did last night. Was it totally obnoxious? If so, I’m sorry again.”

  “No, that’s not the issue. Right before you passed out, you got this weird look on your face, like you were going to freak out. Then you told me you knew what had happened to Timothy Pryor.”

  “Timothy?” Instantly a cold, stark white replaced the blush on Aaron’s face. “I talked about Timothy? Really?”

  “You said you knew what killed him. Aaron, if you know something, you have to come forward.” He choked a bit on his next few words, but at some level he knew they were true. “Sheriff Sullivan is a fair, conscientious man. He’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I’ll take you to him, if you want.”

  Aaron gazed down at the table while he raised his coffee cup to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes met Darian’s when he set it down again.

  “I think I know what you’re talking about now. I probably did say that I knew what had killed Timothy. But it’s not what you think. I mean, you know the answer just as well as I do. Birchwood killed him. That place is toxic, Darian. It’s a seething hive of gossip, backbiting, and vindictiveness. Everyone there is trying to ferret out everyone else’s weaknesses so they can get the upper hand. I don’t just mean the students, either. Some of the faculty and staff are just as bad. The only wonder is that more kids don’t choose the same escape hatch Timothy did.”

  “That’s all you were trying to say? You’re sure?”

  “Of course that’s all.” Aaron set down his cup. Darian marveled at the contrast between his graceful movements and courteous tone this morning and his alcohol-fueled ungainliness the night before. “What else could I possibly have meant? Timothy Pryor killed himself. Don’t you think so?”

  “That seems to be the general consensus.”

  “Ultimately, then, he’s the only one responsible. I just think the atmosphere at that snake pit of a school helped push him over the edge.”

  “His problems at school probably contributed to his state of mind,” Darian said carefully. “But he had other issues, too.”

  “You mean his family. And his sexuality. Yes. I know about all that. He was in my class,” Aaron hastened to explain when he noticed Darian’s startled expression. “He wrote about his difficulties in some of his essays. I get uncomfortable when they go into detail, but what can we do? They’re narcissistic at that age.”

  “Sometimes they are, yeah.” Darian nodded, glad Timothy had never been in his own class—for a variety of reasons.

  “All I’m saying is that Birchwood can be an unhealthy place for people with a sensitive disposition. Nothing the sheriff can do about that, any more than we can as faculty members. Jeanette Wexler would never want to hear it, for one thing. She, like a good many others, insists on seeing that pile of bricks as some kind of intellectual paradise. What a bunch of rot. And I mean that in every sense of the word.”

  “You don’t think much of Birchwood. Why do you stay?”

  “I’m not planning to—not for too long, anyway. I’m planning to go on and get a Ph.D. at some point. Teach college. Use my research skills to contribute meaningful scholarship to the world. I just have to get a few things out of the way first.”

  “You mean your wedding?”

  “Among other things.” Aaron smirked. “Darian, you need to come to my wedding this summer. Really. I want you to be there.”

  Apparently Caryn hadn’t jilted him the night before after all. As he suspected—a mixture of cold feet and petty disagreements had sent Aaron over the edge. “That’s nice of you,” Darian managed, trying to look appreciative. He was careful not to commit to anything. Luckily Aaron moved on to another subject.

  “About Timothy. Do you think he was born that way? Gay, I mean, not suicidal.”

  Aaron made the two things sound like they were virtually the same thing. Darian wasn’t sure if he should be offended.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think it’s a totally natural, innate trait. Like left-handedness.”

  “Is it that way for everyone? Present from birth, I mean? Was it that way for you?”

  So Aaron had no illusions about Darian’s identity, after all. Most likely everyone who frequented the faculty lounge knew as well. No doubt they’d energetically discussed it without him. Darian found that wryly amusing and also a relief. It would spare him any sort of uncomfortable coming-out scene.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “It was that way for me and for all the gay people I know. I can’t speak for everyone, though. I suppose there could be exceptions. I’ve just never met them.”

  Aaron looked at his watch. “We’d better go. Less than three hours until school starts. Thanks again for your help last night. Um…would you be offended if I asked you not to tell anyone that I spent the night here, and why? It’s…you know…something I’d prefer we kept between us.”

  “Sure. I understand. Come on, then.” Darian stood up and took their empty cups to the sink. “You can direct me to your car. And thanks for making the coffee.”

  Aaron grinned. “My pleasure. Maybe we can do it again sometime.” He blushed. “I mean—under different conditions.”

  Caught off guard by Aaron’s sudden desire to be friends, when they had barely spoken in all the weeks they had worked together, Darian led him outside. Their conversation while he drove was limited to Aaron giving instructions on where to find his car.

  At one point, as Darian turned onto Main Street, a marked patrol car glided past them. Darian wondered if Deputy Cutler might have been behind the wheel. When he turned his head to get a better look, he noticed that Aaron had shrunk back in the passenger seat, his shoulders rigid and his upper lip gleaming with sweat.

  When he got to Birchwood later that morning, a pall seemed to hang over the campus. Extra counselors remained on duty in the health center, and teachers quietly purged their lesson plans of references to anything redolent of death or depression. Everett grudgingly postponed a discussion of Othello’s final act, with its scenes of rage, murder, and the threat of physical torture.

  Darian’s own students had many questions, few of which he could answer. From the classroom window, he saw Quin and a few other people in dark suits head into the administrative building. The trustees, he assumed, on their way to meet with the headmistress again. Wednesday’s memorial service for Timothy was now
common knowledge, the information left in each teacher’s message cubby with instructions to read it out loud in class. While Darian did so, he wondered if Aaron had made it to school on time and in one piece. So far, he’d seen no sign of him, but hopefully he had gone directly to his classroom and made the best of things. He could only imagine the headache Aaron must be nursing.

  From the snippets of conversation he picked up around campus, roughly half the population of Birchwood now thought Timothy’s death had been a tragic accident, while the other half favored suicide brought on by academic pressure and conflict with his unforgiving parents. Everyone figured—and openly hoped—the cops would soon reach one of those two conclusions and close the case with the usual platitudes about water safety or mental health awareness. Darian knew there was a third, far less comfortable option. For now, he put that out of his mind and forged ahead with a day of nineteenth century nature poetry, tips on writing English compositions, and an in-class reading of an Aristophanes comedy.

  After his morning classes mercifully ended, Darian made his way back to Gregorius Hall. He looked forward to a few quiet hours in his office, reading student work and reviewing a new sample textbook he’d picked up at the mailroom. When he passed the first-floor faculty lounge, he saw Everett emerge.

  “What’s up with Aaron today?” Everett asked him, his manner uncharacteristically stern.

  “Aaron?” Darian feigned nonchalance. “Why?”

  “He was in here just now, guzzling coffee like a man who just found water in desert. If I didn’t know him better I’d swear he was hung over.”

  “Really? Well, maybe he had a rough weekend. Happens to the best of us, as you well know.”

  Everett made a harrumphing sound and fixed Darian with a stare that pierced him like a needle. “I wouldn’t expect such behavior of Aaron. He’s not the sort—at least not that I know of. I wonder if something happened to upset him.”

  “A fight with his fiancée, maybe?” Darian blurted. He instantly regretted it, but Everett’s unblinking stare had begun to unnerve him. Why was he so concerned about Aaron, anyway? Had the two quarreled, possibly about the coffee? Missing out on the last cup seemed like something that would set Everett off. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he finished lamely.