Sugar and Spice - Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

October 17 Friday Night

Elise Hanson’s House

Cambridge, Massachusetts

  

THE SHOWER WATER beat down on Elise Hanson. She stayed until it turned cold, but Lord knows, she needed to relax. Showers, she thought, were better than therapy.

The house where she lived was on the Henry James Private School grounds. It was a colonial going back to Longfellow’s time. “Longfellow lived near here and visited this house many times when he was a Harvard professor. That was long before this school was formed.” Or at least that was what the board of directors said.

Elise had done her Master’s on Longfellow’s loss of his two wives, one in childbirth and one in a fire, and how grief affected his writing. She was thrilled to think he might have sat in her living room at least once.

Had he ever gone into the kitchen? Maybe not as a guest. The kitchen had been modernized many times, the last five years ago. What hadn’t been modernized were the windows which needed double glazing and putty around cracked casings.

Wrapping herself in an extra-soft, extra-large bath towel she dried herself then slipped on flowered flannel pajamas pre-warmed on the electric heater. She knew when she opened the door the hallway would be chilly. The house was drafty but part of the benefits of being the HJPS headmistress was living rent free in the ridiculously overpriced Cambridge real estate market.

She was tired. She was frustrated. The two detectives who answered her call on Margaux’s warning about a murder plot had warned her not to contact any of the parents of the children involved, causing her gobs of worry.

Today, not a word from the police on what was happening, only a Lieutenant Reardon asking her if there was some sort of play writing contest. She’d found the answer: maybe yes, maybe no. She’d called back. Reardon didn’t take her call. She left a message.

The four girls involved were not in school today. None of the courses for her Ph.D. in education had any warnings about child murderers or potential murderers.

The doorbell chimed. She threw on her blue bathrobe decorated with penguins, a gift from her sister last Christmas and went to the door. Damn it, the detectives.

“We’re sorry to disturb you,” the woman said. What was her name? Chinese sounding, but she didn’t look that Chinese. Maybe a quarter or more? “I see you’re ready for bed.”

Because she was dressed for bed and it wasn’t 6:30 yet, she found herself explaining even if she didn’t have to. “I wanted to curl up and read. It’s been a hell of a week.” Now why did she tell them that?

“We won’t take long.” His name was Bunker, she was sure. Robert Bunker. “May we come in?” She thought Bond, James Bond, Bunker, Robert Bunker.

Elise stood aside and indicated that they should follow her into the living room.

“We can’t reveal what found in the investigation, but today we did talk to all four girls,” Bunker said. “We wanted you to know, you can talk to their parents now. And we aren’t pressing charges at this point, but we still may.”

“How long?” What should the school do about the girls? No handbook covers this situation of planned murders, but bullying was covered but who was bullied? Clay? Margaux? Not things the detectives could answer and Lee proved it with her next statement.

“We still don’t know.”

“Clay Franklin was in school today, acting as if nothing had happened.” All she could think of was she should have notified his parents immediately. Even if honesty was the best policy, according to her own ethics could she fudge what she knew and when? Good God, she was thinking like some slimy politician.

“We’re going over there now.” Lee looked at her watch. They could be in the Franklin Boston home by 7:30, traffic permitting, not too late.

Take control, Elise thought. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning. What is happening with the girls?”

“They have been sent home with their parents for now.”

“Why won’t they be charged?”

“We can’t talk about it. However, would you like to go with us to the Franklins?”

Elise thought it was strange protocol. Maybe if the kids were from poor families, it might be. She’d heard that Clay’s uncle was City Manager or maybe Assistant City Manager. What was his name? Paul Lander?

Clay’s father, even if he lived in Boston, gave a lot of money to community events and charities in Boston and Cambridge. She’d seen the Landers on local news, which she watched regularly to learn more about the area where she’d just moved. Someone at the school said he was a banker. Someone else said hedge fund manager. Either way, he was a parent, and she needed to do everything to keep the family happy in a situation where they might want to sue. Taking Clay out of the school was possibly the best she could hope for.

“Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed,” she said. “I want to go with you.” Bunker and Lee exchanged looks before agreeing.