Final Exam by Maggie Barbieri Page A

bucks a pop.”
    “That’s fascinating,” he said. “What did you talk about?”
    “Chad and Coco’s house hunt, mainly,” I said. “Wayne’s a loser compared to the rest of the brood, but we could have guessed that.”
    “He’s not a loser,” Crawford protested. “He is gainfully employed.”
    I snorted. “Did you get a look at Mrs. Brookwell? Geraldine?”
    Crawford shrugged. “Not really.”
    “She’s the spitting image of Sister Mary.”
    Crawford shuddered involuntarily. Mary scares him, too.
    “I think Wayne Brookwell is Mary’s nephew.” I thought about that for a second while acknowledging the rumbling in my stomach. If it wasn’t one bodily complaint, it was another. The Chinese food from two hours before was a distant memory and nature was calling again.
    Crawford motioned that I should continue. “And . . .”
    “And I don’t know what that means. Could indicate why he got the job on campus. Could give me a clue as to why Mary didn’t say a word during my interrogation and subsequent imprisonment by Etheridge and Merrimack. Could mean a lot of things.” I looked out the window and spied a Thai restaurant; I knew where we’d be having dinner. I thought back to my encounter with Sister Mary outside the bathroom at Hop Sing. “Could be why she asked me about Wayne at the restaurant.”
    “Or it could mean nothing.”
    “Right,” I agreed. “But you got to admit it’s weird, right?”
    “It’s weird,” he agreed, adjusting himself in his seat so that he could restart the car. “I called Fred while you were inside and he said they need another hour before you can come back. What do you want to do?”
    I pointed to the Thai restaurant.
    “But we just ate,” he complained.
    “That was two hours ago. And I didn’t get to finish my . . .” I looked at him. “What was that anyway? It really wasn’t lunch and it really wasn’t dinner.” I put my hands together, pleading. “Please, Crawford. Please?”
    Five minutes later, we were seated in the Thai restaurant in the main village of Scarsdale, picking at some spring rolls.
    “Did you see anything in the house to indicate that Wayne might be living there?” he asked, looking around the restaurant. I don’t know what he hoped to see, but he was taking it all in, from the paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, to the waitresses dressed in traditional Thai garb, to the guy cutting up sushi behind a long bar. Although it called itself “Thai,” it seemed that the restaurant was going more with pan-Asian.
    “I saw a St. Thomas sweatshirt hanging on the banister,” I said with gravity.
    “So what?” he asked. “If their kid worked there, I’m sure they have a ton of St. Thomas clothing.”
    “They don’t strike me as St. Thomas clothing kind of people. He was wearing the old khaki-oxford-shirt-loafer combo and she was dressed to the nines, too. And it’s a Saturday afternoon and they were hanging out at the house. I don’t imagine Geraldine would be caught dead in a St. Thomas sweatshirt at the local Stop & Shop if she’s not wearing it at home on a weekend.”
    Crawford stared at me for longer than I thought necessary. I snapped my fingers in front of his face. Finally, he spoke. “Wow. That was amazing.” He put the rest of his spring roll in his mouth. “You’ve got this all figured out. I don’t know whether to be amazed or frightened.”
    “Amazed. Go with amazed.” I took the last spring roll from the plate and dunked it in a ramekin filled with sauce. “So, chances are, Wayne has been somewhere in the vicinity recently.”
    “You really think so.” It was more of a statement than a question.
    “I do.” I handed the empty plate to our server, a gorgeous Asian woman with an elaborate bun and eye makeup. “So, Chad, I think we need to start looking for a house. The Brookwells have invited us for cocktails, too.”
    Crawford held up his hands in protest. “I’m out.”
    “You are not ‘out,’ ”