Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (5 page)

“I am indeed,” she confessed. “Unfortunately, Dad couldn’t be
here this weekend. He’s in Tokyo on business.”

“He’s done well for himself.” He shook his head admiringly. “I
saw mention of him in the
Wall Street Journal
the
other day. I’ll make a point of giving him a call.”

He was clearly making a mental note. She didn’t tell him Dad
was stingy with donations, but in this case he might surprise her. His politics
were more conservative than hers.

Haywood introduced his wife, a stylish, attractive woman whose
smile was as bright and probably as insincere as her husband’s. Madison chided
herself for being a cynic. She wouldn’t have thought any such thing if she
hadn’t known he was a politician.

She talked briefly with the senator about his two speaking
engagements and told him how much the students were looking forward to hearing
him. She already knew he and his wife were staying at the home of one of the
college trustees, who owned a good deal of downtown Frenchman Lake, rather than
in a hotel.

The college president deftly took the senator off her hands and
she turned to greet the next arrivals. The woman’s face looked familiar.

“Let me think. Marcia Skiles?”

The woman chuckled. “Very good! Marcia Skiles Armstrong now.
I’ve remarried since that last reunion.” She introduced her husband, after which
they told Madison how excited they were about visiting some of the wineries.

“We’ve become connoisseurs,” she said, “in our small way.”

Some of the alumni expressed an intention to play in the
informal golf tournament on Saturday morning, but the greatest enthusiasm was
expressed for the wine tasting tour. Frenchman Lake wines weren’t yet as
acclaimed as Walla Walla Valley wines, but some were beginning to receive high
ratings from
Wine Spectator
and other sources.

Madison murmured agreement when people waxed rhapsodic over the
wine, although she never had picked up on hints of licorice or tannin or wild
huckleberry. As far as she was concerned, expensive wines usually tasted better
than cheap ones. Full stop. It was safe to say no one would call
her
a connoisseur.

She had the comforting thought that Troy probably wasn’t one
either. He hadn’t seemed at all interested in the wine tasting portion of the
weekend.

Of course, that might have been because he was focused on
security, impossible to provide when the alumni were driving themselves to the
many wineries throughout the valley.

“Any relation to Guy Laclaire?” the latest alumnus in front of
her table asked.

Her gaze dropped surreptitiously to the name tag he’d affixed
to the front of his striped polo shirt. It was embarrassing to have forgotten
his name quite so quickly.

Del Trzcinski.

That was even
more
embarrassing, as
she had also just had him pronounce his name for her.

She smiled at him. “His daughter.” This was the fifth time
someone had asked and she’d had to explain that no, Dad wouldn’t be here this
weekend. The day had barely begun. Thank God no one had yet assumed she’d know
way more about her father’s acquaintances than she did.

One man mentioned that he and Guy had been doubles partners on
the college tennis team for two years. She knew her father had played varsity
all four years at Wakefield. He’d been on the debate team, too, which had
reached finals in the national competition his senior year.

So, okay, she did know
something
about his years here. More than something—out of pure nosiness she’d looked up
his academic record, and learned that Guy Laclaire had graduated with a 3.85
GPA. Not perfect. There were several Bs sprinkled throughout his freshman and
sophomore years. All were outside his major, in classes he’d been required to
take to demonstrate breadth.

Still...not perfect. She’d been stunned. As long as she could
remember, he’d been driven, impatient with anyone else’s frailties and demanding
of perfection. She wondered if he’d hated graduating without a perfect 4.0, or
whether he’d actually allowed himself to have fun during his four years at
Wakefield.

Her mind boggled at the idea of her father having “fun.”

She smiled at the woman who stepped up to the table. “And you
are?”

* * *

O
STENSIBLY
THE
EVENING
reception at the college president’s house was casual, but Troy had
known better than to show up in chinos and polo shirt. A few men did, but their
polo shirts had discreet and pricey little logos on the breast. A fair number of
the women wore linen, cool and probably also expensive but wrinkled anyway. He
wasn’t a clotheshorse; in fact, most of the time he didn’t give a damn what he
was wearing. Even so, he couldn’t quite figure out why anyone wanted to wear
something that looked like it had been wadded up under the mattress all night
long.

His heart skipped a beat when he caught a glimpse of Madison
across the room. Her gauzy little dress with spaghetti straps was the color of a
peach picked ripe from the tree. The fabric was airy instead of crisp or
wrinkled. With strappy, high-heeled sandals, her legs were nicely displayed.
When the crowd shifted and he could no longer see her, he shifted, too, using
his shoulders to wedge his way past clusters of attendees sipping cocktails and
chattering. He noticed a few faces that had gotten more sun today than they
should have. One woman was
really
red and he winced
sympathetically.

Ah. There was Madison, laughing at something being said by the
suave-looking guy leaning into her. The next second, Troy recognized the
senator. He was pretty damn sure Haywood’s gaze was locked on Madison’s cleavage
and not her face.

Just like a politician.

Troy moved to her side and planted his left hand on the small
of her back, even though one date, one kiss, didn’t give him any right to be
proprietary. At the moment, he didn’t give a damn. “Hey,” he murmured. “Sorry
I’m late.”

Her face brightened with relief or pleasure or both, causing
some more strange bumping sensations under his breastbone. “Troy!” She didn’t
move away from him. “Oh, good. I was afraid something had come up. Troy, have
you met Senator Gordon Haywood yet? Senator, this is Detective John Troyer. You
may have known his father, Joseph.”

The two men shook hands.

“Sure, sure. I was real sorry to hear that he’d passed away.”
Haywood grimaced. “I’ve been paying a little more attention to my cholesterol
since then.”

“Dad ate well and was fit, but he was a smoker,” Troy
explained. “Never could quit.”

“What a shame.” The senator shook his head sorrowfully. “A real
shame. He was a good man.”

Since to the best of Troy’s knowledge, Senator Haywood hadn’t
had any contact with Dad in thirty-five years, it was a little hard to figure
how he knew Joseph Troyer was a good man. But hey, a guy had to say
something.

The senator excused himself a moment later to clap a hand on a
man’s back and exclaim, “Fred! Great to see you.”

“Creep,” Troy muttered.

Madison only laughed at him. “Now, how do you know that?”

“Isn’t the guy married? He won’t make the White House if he’s
stupid enough to ogle women like that very often.”

“I don’t know.” She sounded thoughtful. “Politicians seem to
get away with things like that for years before they get caught. Although I was
starting to get offended. And, as it happens, he’s not only married, his wife is
here.” She tipped her head toward the group the senator had joined.

Troy saw that the guy now rested his hand on the
wrinkled-linen-clad back of a woman thin to the point of looking breakable.

“In fairness,” Troy conceded, “you have a very fine
cleavage.”

Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, no.
Is this dress too...too...”

When she failed to come up with a word, he supplied one. “Sexy?
No, your dress is pretty and perfect for a hot evening.” He bent his head closer
to her ear. “It’s
you
that’s sexy.”

She blinked at him, tiny creases appearing between her
eyebrows. “Thank you. I think.”

Troy smiled. “You look beautiful tonight. Don’t worry. He’s a
dirty old man.”

Madison spared a glance the senator’s way. “He’s only
fifty-seven. Or maybe fifty-eight.”

“And married.”

“Well, yes. He is married. You’re right.” She nodded. “He’s a
creep.”

“Ellen Kenney here?”

“Yes, holding court by the bay window.”

Mostly, Troy could see a whole lot of backs. Heads were
nodding. The author was presumably doing the talking. Hard to resist, when so
many people were hanging on your every word.

“She actually seems to be really nice,” Madison said. “She and
the senator both spoke to students today. I stuck my head into the classrooms.
She had the kids enthralled. He had a little more trouble, because the students
here tend to be liberal and they were throwing some tough questions at him. He
seemed to take it in stride, though.”

Troy accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’d
intended to go hear him tonight.”

Their eyes met and they both laughed.

“From a security standpoint, I probably should go,” he said
reluctantly.

“Absolutely.” She grinned at him. “You can tell me all about
it.”

They were both laughing again when a particularly penetrating
man’s voice cut through the babel.

“Hard to believe they never arrested anyone for killing
Mitch.”

Madison turned and Troy saw her alarmed gaze meet the college
president’s. “Into the fray,” she said softly to Troy, and started briskly
toward the speaker.

Troy followed but hung back, curious how she’d handle this.

The answer was: very smoothly.

She joined the group, commented on how shocking it must have
been back then to have a fellow student killed right here on campus, then within
moments had them rhapsodizing about wine and kidding each other about who was
going to play under par in the morning.

Troy reflected that Madison’s professional instincts and his
were exactly opposite. She wanted to stifle all speculation, pretend the whole
ugly thing had never happened. When it came to murder, he was all cop. He’d
always been especially intrigued by cold cases. There was nothing he’d have
liked better than to encourage talk.

Half the people in this room had known Mitchell King and maybe
some of his secrets, assuming he had any. Those same people might conceivably
have known the killer, too, assuming you didn’t buy the
stranger-who-happened-to-be-passing-through-town theory—which Troy didn’t. It
was even possible, he reflected, that the killer was one of these people,
although on second thought he decided that was unlikely. If some twenty or
twenty-two-year-old kid had been in a rage great enough to drive him to bludgeon
Mitchell King to death, you wouldn’t expect that same student to become the kind
of alumnus so fond of his college experience he enjoyed regular visits to the
campus, now would you? Since he presumably wasn’t a psychopath who enjoyed
killing—or at least he was hiding it real well if he was—the guy would be more
likely to have clutched his diploma in sweaty hands and sworn never to set foot
on this campus again. He probably did his damnedest not even to
think
about Wakefield College and what he’d discovered
about himself while he was here.

Yeah, that made sense. Troy had been scanning the room as he
pondered, his gaze going from face to face. Now his mouth tipped up in a faint
smile. Madison wouldn’t be thrilled if she knew what he’d been thinking. Or
maybe she’d be okay with it as long as he kept his mouth shut, which he fully
intended to do.

It was damn tempting, though, to reopen that cold case when
there were actually some potential witnesses gathered right here rather than
spread across the country. Even better, though, when there was a full reunion of
King’s classmates.

Of course, college/town relations were always a little
delicate, and that might sour them here in Frenchman Lake for the next quarter
century or so. No, Troy wouldn’t get anywhere suggesting any such thing unless
he found an interesting end of a string to pull.

Forget it, he told himself.

He automatically sought Madison. She stood with her back to
him, but he found plenty to admire, anyway. With her hair piled on top of her
head, he had a fine view of her slim neck and the delicate string of vertebrae
that disappeared beneath the plunging back of the dress. Her shoulder blades
were beautifully constructed, too, he decided. And, while the dress didn’t cling
quite as well as the red suit she’d worn that first day, it still suggested an
ass as lush as the breasts Senator Haywood had leered at.

She was a lot more interesting than a murder that had happened
thirty-five years ago.

She glanced over her shoulder right then, those warm brown eyes
rolling with just a hint of desperation, and he obeyed the summons. He was
getting to spend more time with her this evening than he’d expected.

It had been a while since he’d been able to think smugly,
life is good
.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE
CROWD
WATCHED
, breathless, as two workmen used crowbars to pry out the
foundation stone that hid the time capsule.

Troy bent his head to place his mouth close to Madison’s ear.
“You know, this could be a big oops. What if somebody stole the capsule
twenty-five years ago?”

She allowed herself a small grin. “You think I’m that
dumb?”

Amusement glinted in his eyes. “You checked.”

“You bet.”

She hadn’t been about to set all this up only to find, at the
penultimate moment, that the capsule had disappeared at
any
time in the past thirty-five years.

With a grinding sound, the block of granite was inched backward
until it hung out of the foundation so far that Madison held her breath. Finally
the two workmen leaped backward and the stone fell, landing with a perceptible
thud. Even she jumped a little.

Troy’s chuckle made her want to stick out her tongue at him. Of
course,
his
poise never wavered. The two of them had
positioned themselves near the front, but to one side in the shade cast by a
huge, ancient maple tree. Madison felt a little like the wizard of Oz right now,
pulling strings from behind the curtain. The designated front man was the
president of the college, well accustomed to being on stage.

Lars Berglund
looked
like a college
president should, with his snowy hair cut stylishly, his blue eyes perceptive,
his tall body trim from daily workouts. He had the gift of seemingly focusing
all his attention on the one person who was speaking. What could be more
flattering? He exuded charm, charisma and brains. It went without saying that he
had the requisite background: while a professor of political science and
international relations at a couple of different, prestigious private colleges,
he had published well-reviewed articles and books, including one that was a
standby college text in the area of comparative African politics. He still wrote
and published. His personality made him a natural for administration, however.
Wakefield felt lucky to have lured him from a larger Midwestern university.

Now he stooped to peer into the dark opening. He murmured to
one of the workmen, who handed him a glove. After donning it, Berglund groped
within. He allowed a dramatically elongated moment before triumphantly dragging
out the rather odd capsule. Made of shiny metal, at first sight it had looked to
Madison as if it ought to hold nuclear material or something else space-age and
possibly dangerous.

A few cries of delight, some catcalls and piercing whistles
preceded a round of applause as the president set the capsule carefully on the
table placed for that purpose. Pleased at the response, Madison turned her head
to look around.

The size of the crowd was augmented by the many family members
as well as curious students, administrators and professors. Most had been able
to find a place in the shade. Chairs had been set out but were only
half-occupied. Most people chose to stand or, in some cases, sit on the grass.
She recognized the majority of the alumni in attendance by now. She ought
to—she’d tried to talk to all of them. If she hadn’t found them at the
reception, she’d sought them out today during the lunch served not far away on
Allquist Field.

Ellen Kenney seemed to have acquired a permanent entourage made
up of classmates and students. Senator Haywood and his wife had found a
prominent position at the front. Others clustered in relaxed groups, obviously
enjoying the production. A few seemed to make a point of standing alone or with
only one companion.

President Berglund put on his dark-framed reading glasses so
that he could see the slip of paper Madison had earlier given him. The capsule
had not only been mortared into the foundation of Cheadle Hall. It was also
closed with a combination lock.

The president, while joking with the crowd, now dialed the
combination. In her determination to dodge any possible embarrassment, Madison
had secretly done this in advance, too, although she hadn’t let herself study
the contents.

As near as she was to the front, she heard the click as the
lock surrendered. President Berglund rotated the lid to one side and the crowd
roared with delight.

“As you know,” he said, “the plan is for me to remove items one
by one. I’ll call out the name, and the individual in question—or his or her
representative—will then come up and accept whatever item was deposited in this
capsule on that long-ago day.” His hand delved into the long metal container.
Eagerness silenced the buzz.

“Rob Dayton.”

A tall, lanky man, almost entirely bald, stepped forward and
accepted the 8 ½ by 10 inch envelope. It had appeared to Madison, when she
peeked, that most inclusions had been sealed into similar envelopes.

To the sound of good-natured jibes, Dayton retreated to his
wife’s side.

No one was there to claim the next couple items, which Berglund
set aside. Several more alums came forward and accepted theirs.

Madison noted that one of the envelopes was rather lumpy and
obviously held something more than the writing samples most of these English
majors had probably chosen to save for posterity. This one was accepted by an
attractive woman around her own age. Madison had barely had a chance to chat
with Amy Nilsson, who had explained that her mother was in Australia for two
years.

“I thought it would be fun to pick up whatever she put in the
capsule,” Amy had said that morning. Now, carrying that fat manila envelope, she
retreated back to the side of the man who had accompanied her. Madison would
have presumed he was her husband, except that Amy hadn’t introduced him as such
and they didn’t seem to touch casually the way people comfortable with each
other physically did. Friends, maybe.

“Jeanne Wellborn.”

“Mary Jo Warren.”

“Ellen Kenney.”

Curious stares followed the noted author as she accepted a
rather thick envelope.

“An entire book manuscript?” Troy said softly. “Do you suppose
it’s a masterpiece that the world would have been deprived of for another
fifteen years if you hadn’t decided to do this early?”

Madison laughed. “More likely, the painful drivel of a
too-earnest adolescent.”

“Tut, tut. Doesn’t Wakefield promise to ignite genius?”

“Nobody said ignited genius doesn’t also require a maturing
process.”

“Aging, you mean? In oak casks?” he asked politely.

She laughed. “That sounds easy and more peaceful than what we
all go through, doesn’t it?”

He gave her a sharp look, as if she’d betrayed something she
hadn’t meant to. Madison didn’t even know why the comment brought a pang of
sadness along with it.

“Guy Laclaire.”

Troy nudged her. “That’s you.”

Startled, she stepped forward. She’d almost forgotten she was
to collect something of her father’s.

President Berglund grinned at her. “Hope he didn’t leave
something that will shock you.”

She smiled at him. “I almost hope he did.”

A couple of nearby people overheard and laughed. She went back
to Troy’s side.

Berglund next drew out something that
wasn’t
contained in an envelope. “Well, well,” he said. “Now tell
me, who plans to claim these?” He held up a handful of packets that Madison
realized, after a puzzled moment, held condoms. The president grinned
contagiously. “If you do claim them, I recommend caution. I suspect they’re past
their use-by date.”

Ribald comments and slightly crude accusations flung among the
gathering and laughter loosened the atmosphere. It was almost a surprise to hear
the next name.

“Joseph Troyer.”

With their upper arms brushing, Madison felt Troy’s new
tension. His expression, she saw, had closed down entirely. The occasion and the
simple act of accepting something his father had most likely written and perhaps
never intended any other eyes to see was far more complicated for Troy than it
had been for her. He must feel his father’s absence with painful clarity as,
after only the briefest hesitation, he walked forward.

His envelope looked like all the others, but was one of the
thinnest, as if it held only a few pages. Maybe Joseph Troyer had written
poetry, Madison speculated. She’d have to ask Troy later.

The calling of names continued. The pile of unclaimed envelopes
grew. Some people had opened their contributions and were sharing what appeared
mostly to be writings with their companions. There was a lot of laughter.
Madison told herself she was saving her dad’s for later because she was in
charge of the event and couldn’t afford to get distracted. Troy, she couldn’t
help noticing, made no move to slide his finger under the flap of the envelope
he held either. In fact, although he’d returned to her side he now stood a
couple of feet away. His posture was nowhere near as relaxed. His face remained
impassive. No more humorous murmurs in her ear.

Madison became edgy when she realized that expressionless gaze
was repeatedly sweeping the crowd. Had he seen something to awaken the cop in
him? she wondered in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in an urgent undertone.

Dark gray eyes met hers. “Wrong?”

“You look...” She hesitated.

“No,” he said flatly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Gordon Haywood,” President Berglund said, and the senator
wasted no time in claiming his contribution.

The list of names went on. At last Berglund upended the capsule
and smiled when one small object fell onto the table. “A petrified Tootsie
Roll,” he informed the crowd, who laughed.

“If you’d like to linger, visit with old friends, maybe hold
public readings—” more chuckles “—catering staff have brought out beverages and
cookies to hold you until dinner.” One last brilliant smile. “I look forward to
seeing you all this evening.”

“Well,” Madison said, feeling awkward with Troy for the first
time. “I’m afraid I have to stay.”

Troy nodded. “I’d better, too, although it looks like most
people aren’t going to hang around.”

Senator Haywood and his wife were already making tracks,
Madison couldn’t help but notice. His wife was all but scuttling to keep up with
him and seemed to be protesting, although they kept their voices low. He was
among the relatively few who
hadn’t
opened his
envelope. Madison had a sudden, intriguing thought: What if the young Gordon
Haywood had written something that would now be scandalous, or at least
embarrassing? He wouldn’t have dared not come to claim it, in case somebody
peeked. Maybe, she thought in amusement, he’d brought a portable shredder in his
suitcase.

And maybe I just don’t like
him.

Almost everyone else visited the refreshment table, by common
consensus bypassing the coffee urn for the generous cups of lemonade that staff
served from big punch bowls. It was so blasted hot out, though, that people were
departing immediately thereafter with lemonade and cookies in hand. She didn’t
blame them. Her small house with its trusty window air conditioner sounded
really good. And a cool shower, she thought longingly. But no—she was obliged to
stay until the bitter end.

She consoled herself with the thought that she’d have a chance
to shower when she went home to change for the formal dinner.

“I’m going to go lock this in the trunk of my car,” Troy said,
not really looking at her. “I’ll be right back.”

She watched as he walked toward Mem with no apparent haste but
a ground-eating stride that took him past departing alumni. He spoke to no
one.

He hadn’t actually done much mixing this weekend, she realized.
She had introduced him to a few people at the reception and the luncheon, he’d
gone to hear Ellen Kenney speak, and at his request he’d been assigned to a
foursome for the golf tournament, but he seemed mostly to maintain that
watchful, aloof stance.

Because he’s working, Madison reminded herself. Her job was to
be friendly, his to be observant. She had moments of forgetting that he wasn’t
here as her date. She thought he would have lingered at some of the events
because he liked her—he’d certainly kissed her last night after walking her to
her car as if he liked her a whole lot—but she doubted he would be returning now
if he wasn’t working. From the moment his hand closed on that envelope, he had
retreated into himself.

While he was at the car, would he read what his father had
written?

No, Madison decided. He’d be wary of any emotional punch.

Apparently we have something in common,
she thought wryly. She’d already decided not to look at her father’s
contribution until tonight, after the formal dinner. It wasn’t as if she
expected any big revelations—her father had sounded too indifferent about the
whole thing to give her any reason to believe otherwise. Even so, she had
complicated enough feelings about him—she didn’t want to be left confused or
troubled or even just distracted when she still had to be “on” until the end of
the evening.

Then she had another thought. Maybe Troy had no intention of
opening the envelope at all. He might consider that right to be his mother’s,
not his. Madison hadn’t been able to tell how he felt about her refusal to be
here today, but very likely they’d open the envelope together and shed more
tears about their mutual loss.

The idea of Troy holding his mother, gently drying her tears,
gave Madison a peculiar pang of... No, not envy, of course not.

Loneliness.

And she didn’t even know why.

* * *

T
ROY
SAT
DOWN
in his recliner at
home with the damn skinny envelope in his hand.
Joseph
Troyer
was scrawled on the front. Dad’s handwriting had changed, but
Troy still recognized it.