“Why aren’t you supposed to talk to anyone at Bayard?” I asked, wondering if I’d hear the same reason Aretha had given.
“It’s our policy with all our big competitors,” Delaney said.
“Mr. Llewellyn is the proudest man on the planet,” Jason added. “No, Delaney, that’s not an insult. It’s the truth. The Bayard policy dates from-” ` J.T, just stop it right there,” Delaney said. “We don’t need to tell every stranger on the street our business, and you know Mr. Llewellyn would say that louder than Mr. Hendricks. You hear?”
Tompkin rolled his eyes expressively, but a glance at his other coworker’s frowning face shut him up. Delaney pushed him on the shoulder to start him up the street. I followed after long enough to give all three one of my cards. Delaney let hers flutter to the pavement, but Jason and the other woman tucked them away.
I sprinted back to my car-but not in time to avoid the meter reader. An orange envelope, my chance to give the city fifty dollars, was stuck to my windshield. I swore roundly and drove over to La Llorona for a quick bowl of soup.
So who was Marcus Whitby? The warm, loving hope of his familyand Aretha Cummings-who’d come close to a Pulitzer? The competitive, uncommunicative coworker? The star who thought he could make his own rules?
Huddled up against the restaurant window, away from the noise at the
counter, I checked my messages. I had an urgent one from Harriet. When I reached her, I learned that Deputy Protheroe had come through for us: when Mrs. Whitby’s funeral director in Atlanta tried to arrange the shipment of Marc Whitby’s body, the DuPage ME’s office gave them a runaround-they needed a little more time to process the paperwork.
“Mother got so angry I blurted out that you’d done it, to buy more time for the investigation, and then I had to confess that I’d hired you, which made her really furious. I was wishing the floor would open under me when Daddy suddenly said he thought it was a good idea. He never disagrees with Mother about-about, oh, domestic things-so she was completely surprised. And then he kind of put his arm around me and said thank goodness I’d had the gumption to take the bull by the horns, that he doesn’t want a slur over Marc’s reputation on account of how he died. But-he isn’t ready to agree to an-well, to letting someone else look at Marc’s body.”
Getting her parents to agree to an investigation seemed like the most important first step: I could get going on more ideas, and keep pushing on the independent autopsy. Harriet said Amy Blount hadn’t had any luck with locating a key to Marc’s house. We agreed to meet there the next morning around nine, whether Amy had found a key or not.
I gulped down the rest of my chicken soup while I scribbled down my other messages, and then hightailed it to Vina Fields. Not that I often visit the Gold Coast, but I’d never really noticed the school before, so carefully was it tucked into its surroundings. It presented the same bland, inwardturning fa~ade as the apartments and homes on the street, pushing outsiders away as firmly as a guard dog. Only a small plaque near the double doors identified the stone building-that and the waiting nest of mothers and nannies clustered at the bottom of the steps. Actually, two men stood in the group, one with a stroller and a toddler, the other with a copy of the New York Times tucked under his arm.
This late in the school season, those on foot seemed to know each other, at least by sight. They chatted about their children’s triumphs and whether they could sell the tickets for the school play each family had been allotted, occasionally shooting a curious glance my way.
After about ten minutes, the doors opened and children began streaming out. The primary grades left first, in knots of giggling girls, of boys
loudly haranguing each other, punching each other’s arms, both sets ignoring the children alone, who hunched down in their coats as if already resigned at age eight to life as outsiders. A lot of the boys were in shirtsleeves, their coats slung over a shoulder: hey, we’re men, we’re too tough for sissy things like coats in winter.
The cars started to pull up, honking and jockeying for curb space, parents screaming invective at each other. A woman with a blond coiffure that spoke of weekly visits to the salon climbed out of her Lexus to yell abuse that would have made a truck driver squirm; the Jaguar in front of her replied with a finger.
The adults on foot were waiting on the young kids-older students living close enough to the school to walk could make their own way home. When the upper grades began to trickle out a little later, I was the lone grown-up still standing by the stairs.