Murder at the B-School Page 13

  Finally, there was some activity in the driveway, uphill from the gate. A small white pickup truck turned the last bend, going a little too fast, and came to an abrupt halt next to the piece of the gatehouse that was safely inside the fence. A man in a heavy knee-length coat got out, held up a gloved index finger to Vermeer—one minute!—and ducked into the building. Slowly the big, black gates opened inward.

  The attendant reappeared and hurried over to the Acura. Vermeer lowered the window. “Sorry, Professor Vermeer,” he said breathlessly, taking off his right glove and extending his hand. “Patrique Talley.” Pronouncing his first name, he put the accent on the second syllable and rolled the “r” a little bit. “We expected you earlier. Mr. Ralph figured that you must have changed your plans. When it gets this cold, we usually close the gatehouse in the late afternoon and bring the guard up the hill.”

  “So what does the pizza guy do?”

  Talley, who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties and sported a thin Gallic mustache, missed a beat. Then he chuckled. “Well, eventually he realizes he’s got the wrong house. And then he goes away.

  “No, seriously,” he continued, as if he didn’t want to leave misinformation floating in the air. “Usually we monitor the gate from the house, when we’re not down here in person. But we’re a little understaffed today. That’s why we didn’t spot you. Why don’t you follow my truck? The driveways can be a little confusing, if you haven’t been here before.”

  It was a steady climb through manicured woods. The Acura complained noisily about the slow pace, growling to be let loose. “No chance,” Vermeer said out loud to the car, breaking his no-conversation vow. Dusk was gathering. Here and there an unmarked road dipped off to the left or right. As the minutes went by, Vermeer was increasingly glad that he had a guide. He expected each turn to reveal a building, but the turns kept coming, each presenting more forested hillsides. Now and then the occasional antique stone wall, blotchy with lichen and moss, ran alongside the road, suggesting that there had once been farms and fields here.

  Finally, after what must have been more than a mile, the MacInnes mansion came into view. Looked at a little sideways in the twilight, lights ablaze on three levels, it could have been a small passenger liner afloat on a great gray ocean of lawn. Turrets and towers poked up as silhouettes against the sky. It was impossible from this distance to see exactly where the ends of the building were.

  Talley drove under a stone porte cochere and pulled over, motioning for Vermeer to do the same. Up close, the house turned out to be an immense pile of cut red sandstone, with occasional punctuations of granite. Up close, it looked even bigger than it had from a distance. There was a focused kind of echo under the stone overhang when they closed their car doors.

  “You need help with your bags?”

  “It’s just this one. I can manage, thanks.” Feeling both relief and reluctance, he handed over the keys to the Acura.

  Talley pushed open an ornately carved front door—heavy, judging from the way he leaned into it—and waved Vermeer inside. Vermeer’s first impression of the front hallway was that he had walked into an oak cathedral: oak floors, oak-paneled walls, oversize oak furniture. It was an enormous vaulted space, rising several stories toward what appeared to be a skylight far overhead. A massive staircase yawned open at the right side of the foyer, ascending a few steps to a landing the size of Vermeer’s kitchen, then turning again to begin the climb to the second floor. The same thing appeared to happen at least twice more in the darkish regions far above them.

  Everywhere along the paneled walls—on the main floor, up the staircase, and as far above as Vermeer could see—hung oil portraits, ranging from large to immense. Many had small lamps at the tops of their frames. These lamps, already lit—or constantly lit? Vermeer wondered—provided islands of light in this great, dark, mock-Gothic space. Here and there, Vermeer thought he spotted a portrait that bore more than a passing resemblance to William MacInnes.

  “Ah. Professor Vermeer. We had nearly given up on you.” Mr. Ralph’s flat tones came from the far end of the entrance hall. He crossed the room almost noiselessly, accompanied by a younger man who walked a few steps behind him. When Mr. Ralph slowed down, so did his shadow. Vermeer guessed that this was a Mr. Ralph in training: succession planning at the MacInnes estate.

  “Sorry to be late. It was a little tough getting out of Boston, and I decided that I should drive within the speed limits.” And, there was that little off-the-itinerary stop at the Rope Toe.

  “The car didn’t give you any trouble, I hope?”

  As if on cue, the Acura came roaring to life outside, although its throbbing din was now much reduced by the great stone barrier of the mansion’s walls.

  “No. Although it did tempt me.”

  “As it tempted Master Eric, I’m sure.” Mr. Ralph paused, then gestured at his shadow. “This is Benton. He’ll show you to your room. We’ve put you on the lake side, although I’m afraid there’s not much to see so late in the afternoon.” He glanced at a nearby grandfather clock. “It’s now five fifteen. Dinner is served at seven in the dining room. Mrs. MacInnes hopes that you’ll dine with the family.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Excellent. It’s that door, over there.” He gestured. “Mr. MacInnes will be wearing a jacket but not a tie. And now I will leave you in Benton’s most capable hands.”

  Benton deposited him in the second-floor suite almost silently. He insisted on putting Vermeer’s overnight bag on a folding furniture rack, like an ambitious bellboy, but he did not pause to be tipped. On his way out the door, he pointed at a call button. “Please do ring if you need anything,” he said in a passable mono-tonic imitation of Mr. Ralph.

  Even in the now dim twilight, Vermeer could see the benefits of a room “on the lake side.” The mansion was startlingly close to the lake; in fact, one wing off to the left, supported by a system of trusses, appeared to be straddling a small inlet. Judging from the nearly dark sky outside his window, Vermeer guessed that he was facing more or less east. So the sun would rise over those MacInnes hills on the far side of the lake, then illuminate the peaks and parapets of the MacInnes mansion, and then make its way down to the MacInnes lake. Where, depending on the season, it would either make the MacInnes ice glisten or warm the blood of the MacInnes trout.

  Vermeer snooped long enough to get a feel for the amenities extended to MacInnes guests. Satellite TV. High-speed Internet access. The furniture was high end but definitely not heirloom quality. The bathroom boasted an impressive array of soaps, shampoos, slippers, hair dryers, shower caps, and shoeshine and sewing kits. It felt less like a home and more like the Four Seasons—and to some extent it probably was a place of business. He checked for a monogram on the plush white terry cloth bathrobe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. There it was, on the left breast pocket: a miniature reproduction of the black “M” from the front gates.

  He showered, puttered, and channel-surfed until it was time for dinner. At 6:55, he made his way back down the grand staircase, wondering how this cavernous space with all its hard surfaces managed to absorb noise. Where there should have been ricocheting echoes, there was only silence.

  The dining room door was ajar. Light was spilling out into the dim hallway. He wondered if he should knock, then decided that he had already been invited. He pushed the door open.

  “Professor Vermeer,” said Elizabeth MacInnes, from what sounded like a great distance. “How good of you to join us for dinner.”

  The family—father, mother, and daughter—was clustered at the far end of an endless mahogany table with at least a dozen chairs lining each of its sides. William MacInnes sat at the head, with Elizabeth to his left and Libby to his right. Two matching chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceiling, casting down dim pools of light. The room carried forward the decor of the front hallway and stairwell: oak everything, and oil paintings of MacInnes forebears—almost all men, looking mor
e or less dour.

  William MacInnes nodded heavily and waved his hand at the empty seat next to Libby. Libby, wearing a skirt and sweater but otherwise looking frumpy and ill at ease, extended her hand as Vermeer sat down. “Nice to see you again,” she said. She didn’t sound as if she meant it.

  “Thank you for having me,” he said, addressing himself to Elizabeth. Again he was struck by her immaculate silver-haired facade and her regal bearing. He wondered, irrelevantly, where someone like William MacInnes went looking for a wife when the appointed time came.

  “Well, we do appreciate your help in this difficult period.” She appeared far more alert than she had in Boston. She picked up a small silver bell and rang it gently. A door swung open, and a sixtyish woman in a black uniform and white apron came in carrying a silver tray with four soup bowls.

  “I hope you like pea soup, Professor Vermeer,” rumbled William MacInnes.

  “I do, sir,” Vermeer replied. He hated the stuff.

  “Good winter fare. Sticks with you.”

  “Absolutely.” He was served third, after the two women. Just looking at the filled-to-the-brim bowl of thick green goo made his stomach flop. Gamely he picked up his soupspoon. The spoon was very heavy.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Talley,” Elizabeth said. “Give us a few minutes; then feel free to bring the main course whenever you’re ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” The servant disappeared through the swinging door.

  “Mrs. Talley,” Vermeer repeated out loud, delaying the inevitable plunge of the spoon. “Any relation to Patrique?”

  “She’s his mother,” said Libby, who didn’t appear to like pea soup, either.

  “Interesting.”

  “It’s actually not that unusual,” Libby continued. “There aren’t all that many jobs in Middleford and the other towns around here. We don’t pay much, and the benefits are lousy, but it’s steady work.”

  William cleared his throat and glared at his daughter. “If you please, Libby,” he said. “You’re really not in a position to assess the pros and cons of serving on our staff.”

  “Well, respectfully, Father, I think I am.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree, then. But the truth is, my girl, that even the MacInnes family can’t suspend the laws of economics. If people choose to work here, they obviously think that’s in their best interest.”

  Libby had defiance all over her face, but seemed to choose her words carefully. “If you own the only gas station in town, Father, you can charge pretty much what you want for a gallon of gas. And if you have the only payroll in town, you can pay as little as you want.”

  “Oh, please, Libby. This isn’t the only payroll, and payrolls aren’t the only option. And even if one insists on joining a payroll, there are lots of other places in the world to find one.”

  Elizabeth broke into the conversation like a linebacker. “Mr. Ralph tells me, Professor Vermeer, that your drive was uneventful.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it was. And I’ve never seen this part of New York before, so it was quite an interesting ride. I was quite glad that it wasn’t snowing, coming over those mountains.”

  The rest of the dinner proceeded along these lines. Father and daughter disagreed urgently on issues that neither seemed to be passionate about, and Mother monitored the low-grade combat, occasionally swooping in. Daughter drained her wineglass several times. Vermeer made small talk with Mother, struggling first with his soup and then with a beef stroganoff that seemed to be made mostly of mushrooms, another least-favorite food. Mrs. Talley came and went, speaking only when spoken to. She looked surprised when Vermeer asked if she had made the lemon meringue pie that she sliced and served from a massive carved sideboard.

  “Oh, no, sir,” she replied. “The pastry chef made it. This afternoon.”

  Finally, William MacInnes signaled the end of dinner by taking his napkin off his lap and depositing it on the table. His wife and daughter re-created his gestures almost exactly, pushing back their chairs only an instant after he did.

  “Professor Vermeer,” William said in an overloud voice, “please join me in the library for brandy and a cigar.”

  “That would be a pleasure, sir.”

  Libby waited until her father had turned his back and begun his long walk out of the room. Then she touched Vermeer’s elbow lightly. “Don’t leave tomorrow without saying good-bye,” she said quietly. “I’d like a minute to talk to you.”

  “Why not later, after brandies and cigars?”

  She shook her head. “No, Professor Vermeer. That’s not the way it works. The gentlemen are having their cigars, and the ladies are retiring for the evening.” With that, she caught up with her mother and hooked her right arm into her mother’s left, and the two left the room together.

  By the time Vermeer found the study, William MacInnes had placed two black cigars on a sturdy-looking coffee table and was pouring a generous dollop of a thin, honey-colored liquid into two large brandy snifters. Vermeer had seen this brandy ritual in late-night movies. He took the snifter proffered by MacInnes between his ring and middle fingers, swirled it gently, and sniffed. He wasn’t much of a drinker. It smelled far better than he expected.

  Cigar rituals, though, were foreign territory. As a rule, smoking cigars made him feel a little green. Which made him think again of the pea soup. He watched MacInnes carefully and more or less did what his host did. MacInnes extended a lighted match. As the cigar reached full ignition, Vermeer remembered that he had been in a very similar room in the Brooklyn mansion: the master’s lair, also thoroughly permeated by the smell of tobacco burned over the course of many years.

  The master now sat heavily in a well-worn leather chair on one side of the coffee table. Vermeer sat opposite him. They puffed, swirled, and sipped. MacInnes’s eyes moved slowly from the cigar to the brandy to his guest. Finally, he broke the silence.

  “I know a lot about you, Professor Vermeer.”

  “Really?” Vermeer, surprised, wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to respond. “How? And why?”

  “I make a point of knowing a lot about my adversaries.”

  Not for the first time on this long day, Vermeer felt as if a fist had connected with the side of his head. “Well. Am I your adversary?”

  “As it turns out, no. But that was my understanding when I began my inquiries.”

  Vermeer focused on the brandy. He could do without the cigar, and he certainly wouldn’t miss William MacInnes’s mind games. The brandy, however, he could get very used to. “I’m curious, Mr. MacInnes. Is this a particularly good brandy?”

  MacInnes laughed—a fundamental sort of snort. “Of course.”

  “You didn’t say how you learned about me.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know how. All the usual ways that are available to someone like me.”

  “Nor did you say why you thought I might be your adversary. An idea that totally astonishes me, by the way.”

  MacInnes simply shrugged.

  “What was your focus?” Vermeer pressed on, feeling as if he were playing a corrupt game of twenty questions. “Personal? Professional?”

  “A focus would have been premature. Would have risked excluding things. Therefore, no focus.”

  “Okay. So what did you find? Tell me about myself.”

  MacInnes scratched his chin contemplatively, weighing the notion. “Most important, I found that you weren’t involved in any sort of improper relationship with my late son. That was important to me. For a whole host of reasons, only some of them having to do with morality and the abuse of authority.

  “I found,” he continued, “that you are a first-rate teacher but only a second-rate scholar, which is why it’s unlikely that you’ll be considered for tenure this spring. Or, if you do put yourself forward, you’ll be unlikely to get promoted.

  “And I found that you lead a surprisingly boring life.” The old man was now warming to his task. “That you are attracted toward the opposite sex,
but you are consistently unsuccessful in love. That you don’t manage your money particularly well. In fact, surprisingly badly in light of your finance background. That you have only a few close friends, none in the Boston area, and not much contact with your family. And that you may have an enemy or enemies. That part is still a little bit murky.”

  This room, Vermeer noted as his eyes strayed from wall to wall, didn’t have a single portrait on its walls. Maybe this phlegmy, rheumy old man didn’t want his distinguished ancestors looking over his shoulders as he conceived his plots. Although those forebears surely had their own little plots to conceal. “I don’t think you got your money’s worth, Mr. MacInnes.”

  “No?”

  “All that effort, and you didn’t even discover that I can’t stand pea soup. Or mushrooms.”

  “Ha.” MacInnes snorted again. “Or maybe I did, Professor Vermeer. Maybe I did. Maybe I drew up this evening’s menu very carefully.” He appeared to be smiling.

  “Mr. MacInnes, you’ll excuse me if I don’t find any of this amusing. Unsettling, but not funny. This is the second time today that I’ve been accused of being in a homosexual relationship with a young man I barely knew, and whose death is now the subject of a police investigation.

  “So I’m the first to admit that I’m out of my depth here,” Vermeer continued, trying to remain cool on the surface. “But if I’m not your adversary, as you seem to have concluded, then maybe I’m your ally.”

  “Exactly. The old, often misquoted Arab proverb: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or at the very least, an ally of mutual convenience. That’s why I arranged to have this conversation with you. And by the way, I did not know about the pea soup or the mushrooms. Just plain bad luck.”

  Vermeer pondered the metronomic pendulum of yet another grandfather clock, this one working away in a fairly well lighted corner of the room. The face read a few minutes after nine. He realized that the clock hadn’t struck the hour. In fact, none of the many clocks in the house seemed to have rung.