Mackenzie said. “After you find that guest list, back off. Laura can make you sad, break your heart even, but the fact is, if she becomes police work, she doesn’t concern you.”
“Of course she concerns me! I’m very concerned!”
“I’m not playin’ word games. I’m givin’ you sound advice. She is not your job.”
“I know what the C in your name stands for, Mackenzie. For callous. Or is it cruel? Or maybe creep!” I pulled on the other boot and stormed to the closet.
“Where you goin’?”
“To my job!”
Let him take that any way he liked.
Four
THE DAY BEFORE VACATION IS ALWAYS A BLACK HOLE EDUCATIONALLY, SO I couldn’t blame its draggy disjointedness on the Clausen fire. In fact, the tragedy had been accepted with a level of indifference usually reserved for academic work. Sorrow and concern were expressed, but only for a moment. And then vacation plans took over and the classroom was all tropical isles or ski resorts.
Except for the eleven erstwhile waitpersons. They were like people who miss the plane that crashes. They told and retold the story of how little time had elapsed between their leave-taking and the conflagration and how they had almost decided to stay longer, might have been burned themselves.
Laura, of course, wasn’t there to add her point of view. Nor was she at her house, which was no longer inhabitable. I was so informed by a semifriendly, semisuspicious policeman who was on duty when I called during lunch. The fire had not touched the phone lines, so I could also be informed that the police were doing their job and, frankly, that the world would be better served if I did mine. Mackenzie’s message in a new mouth.
Peter Shaw was also absent, so I couldn’t find out what had happened after I left. Which was probably lucky, because I wasn’t sure on what grounds I could legitimately ask.
Maurice Havermeyer, Ph.D., was present, however, and since he had told the press that I would produce the guest list, he spent a great deal of his day trying to convince me of the same, humphing and throat clearing and suggesting where I might have placed it. I reminded him that I had had nothing whatsoever to do with finding the attendees. I had never even been told precisely how they were selected or from where. Besides, what on earth would a list say? John Smith, grate outside First Pennsylvania Bank? Molly Curtis, Baimbridge Street, various doorways? I tried to express that concept in patient, nonthreatening terms. I suggested that he tell the press the truth—he had erred. Sandy Clausen, not I, made up and kept the list, if there was one. But admitting fallibility was not Maurice Havermeyer’s strong point.
He looked discouraged. There was a reporter in his office, asking about Laura’s history of arson. This was not the kind of media attention Havermeyer had intended.
“I got there late,” I said. “Did someone check names at the door?”
Maurice Havermeyer pantomimed deep thought. Obviously, he hadn’t paid attention and didn’t know, but he grappled with how best not to say so. “I walked right in,” he finally managed.
“I’m sure there were some controls. The group looked too handpicked, too fresh and clean and basically sane to be a random street selection. I’m sure there’s a list.”
“I certainly hope it’s found quickly.” He scowled and fiddled with the imitation Phi Beta Kappa key. “There are reporters all over, rumors and speculation about one of our own students, about our motives for the party, all in all, the worst publicity this school has ever endured. This project, this party of yours was supposed to be a pleasant expression of the holiday spirit. How did you allow this to happen?”
The bell rang for the next class, thereby preventing me from garnering additional unpleasant headlines by murdering my principal.
* * *
Midafternoon, during my free period, I tracked down Mackenzie at the station and managed to have a phone dispute. The
“Of course she concerns me! I’m very concerned!”
“I’m not playin’ word games. I’m givin’ you sound advice. She is not your job.”
“I know what the C in your name stands for, Mackenzie. For callous. Or is it cruel? Or maybe creep!” I pulled on the other boot and stormed to the closet.
“Where you goin’?”
“To my job!”
Let him take that any way he liked.
Four
THE DAY BEFORE VACATION IS ALWAYS A BLACK HOLE EDUCATIONALLY, SO I couldn’t blame its draggy disjointedness on the Clausen fire. In fact, the tragedy had been accepted with a level of indifference usually reserved for academic work. Sorrow and concern were expressed, but only for a moment. And then vacation plans took over and the classroom was all tropical isles or ski resorts.
Except for the eleven erstwhile waitpersons. They were like people who miss the plane that crashes. They told and retold the story of how little time had elapsed between their leave-taking and the conflagration and how they had almost decided to stay longer, might have been burned themselves.
Laura, of course, wasn’t there to add her point of view. Nor was she at her house, which was no longer inhabitable. I was so informed by a semifriendly, semisuspicious policeman who was on duty when I called during lunch. The fire had not touched the phone lines, so I could also be informed that the police were doing their job and, frankly, that the world would be better served if I did mine. Mackenzie’s message in a new mouth.
Peter Shaw was also absent, so I couldn’t find out what had happened after I left. Which was probably lucky, because I wasn’t sure on what grounds I could legitimately ask.
Maurice Havermeyer, Ph.D., was present, however, and since he had told the press that I would produce the guest list, he spent a great deal of his day trying to convince me of the same, humphing and throat clearing and suggesting where I might have placed it. I reminded him that I had had nothing whatsoever to do with finding the attendees. I had never even been told precisely how they were selected or from where. Besides, what on earth would a list say? John Smith, grate outside First Pennsylvania Bank? Molly Curtis, Baimbridge Street, various doorways? I tried to express that concept in patient, nonthreatening terms. I suggested that he tell the press the truth—he had erred. Sandy Clausen, not I, made up and kept the list, if there was one. But admitting fallibility was not Maurice Havermeyer’s strong point.
He looked discouraged. There was a reporter in his office, asking about Laura’s history of arson. This was not the kind of media attention Havermeyer had intended.
“I got there late,” I said. “Did someone check names at the door?”
Maurice Havermeyer pantomimed deep thought. Obviously, he hadn’t paid attention and didn’t know, but he grappled with how best not to say so. “I walked right in,” he finally managed.
“I’m sure there were some controls. The group looked too handpicked, too fresh and clean and basically sane to be a random street selection. I’m sure there’s a list.”
“I certainly hope it’s found quickly.” He scowled and fiddled with the imitation Phi Beta Kappa key. “There are reporters all over, rumors and speculation about one of our own students, about our motives for the party, all in all, the worst publicity this school has ever endured. This project, this party of yours was supposed to be a pleasant expression of the holiday spirit. How did you allow this to happen?”
The bell rang for the next class, thereby preventing me from garnering additional unpleasant headlines by murdering my principal.
* * *
Midafternoon, during my free period, I tracked down Mackenzie at the station and managed to have a phone dispute. The
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