The Groaning Board

Jacuzzi. A bidet.
Well, of course. She opened the medicine cabinet. Well stocked. Opened a
closet. Well, well, well. Moisturizers and everything one would need for body
and face, oils and scented soaps. Plush towels. A hedonist’s closet.
    She wrapped herself in one of the
plush towels and dried her hair. What had he done with her hairpins? Then
again, why bother putting it up? She wandered around the apartment. It was done
in browns and beiges and very spare. Like Bill Veeder. Except for the piano. A
baby grand. Who played?
    She felt sluggish.
    No wonder. No coffee. How could she
start her morning without it? The coffeepot on the counter looked as if it had
never been used. She found Oren’s coffee beans in the otherwise empty freezer
of his fridge, a coffee grinder on a shelf along with paper filters. Coffee was
soon dripping into the carafe. He’d said he’d bring back breakfast and the Times.
    There was no food in the apartment.
Maybe he didn’t like to eat. That would be enough to abort the relationship.
For a relationship it was, unless she had misjudged everything.
    Misjudged. Micklynn. She looked up
the number and dialed her. The phone rang a long time before someone picked up.
    “Hello? Micklynn?”
    Mumbling, but no answer.
    “Micklynn?”
    “Who is this? What time is it?”
    “It’s after ten, Micklynn. This is
Leslie. Are you awake?”
    “Barely.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me that you planned
to go into business with Sheila?”
    “It didn’t have anything to do with
her murder.”
    “But she was shut out because of your
agreement with A.T. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
    “Leslie, you seem to have it in your
head that I might have poisoned Sheila. I would have more of a motive to kill
A.T., not Sheila. Think about it.”
    Micklynn was angry and she was right.
“I agree,” Wetzon said, “but you’ve got to tell me everything; otherwise, I’m
doing this blind and I might as well give you your money back.”
    “No, please, stay with it. Now you
know everything. Leslie... something really odd happened last night.”
    “At Hem’s party?”
    “Yeah, some guy came on to me while I
was cook- , ing.... I can’t tell you when the last time that happened.
    I’m not exactly a sexual object these
days. I don’t know... it was really strange.”
    “Who was he?”
    “I don’t know, but he was hanging
around asking a lot of questions.”
    “Didn’t you ask what he was doing
there?”
    “Oh, I knew what he was doing there.
He was the bartender.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

     
     
     
    The Colton School made its home in three interconnected town houses on Ninety-second Street. It was a
four-year private high school favored and generously endowed for their progeny
by performers and others in the arts. It offered a diverse program in music,
art, and communications. A diploma from Colton’s practically guaranteed
acceptance in top colleges and universities, particularly the Ivy League.
    It was here that Sheila Gelber had
taught English for fifteen years.
    Wetzon had made an appointment to see
Colton’s headmaster, Dr. Orson R. Furgason, and was even now being delivered
to his office by a slender girl in jeans and a Princeton tee shirt, who had
introduced herself as Stacy Morgen-stern.
    “I thought the academic year was
finished,” Wetzon said.
    “It is. I’m just helping out till the
end of the month.” Stacy had tiny gold studs in each of four piercings up the
side of one ear and one streaming dangle in the other. For the moment there was
no jewel or hoop in her nose.
    “Then camp?” The place was
spotless—gleaming floors, highly polished woodwork—yet it had that indefinable,
rather unpleasant smell that all schools seemed to possess.
    “No. Then I’m going to Johns Hopkins.
They have a summer program for high school students that starts in July.” Stacy
led Wetzon through the empty hallways; they passed vacant classrooms, and
others with teachers in casual clothing working at their desks.
    “Johns Hopkins. That sounds
wonderful. You chose to go to summer school?”
    “They chose me,” Stacy said with some
pride.
    “Very nice.”
    “Well, it was between me and another
girl.”
    “And you won.”
    Stacy nodded.
    “That’s great, Stacy.”
    “Are you a teacher, Miss Wetzon?”
    “No. I’m here,” Wetzon said, “to talk
to Dr. Furgason about Miss Gelber.”
    “Oh.” The breathy response from Stacy
carried with it a wisp of sorrow. Her eyes filled with tears.