Lost Distinction (Jordan James, PI Series) Page 9

  We walked between Ridgeley Hall and another imposing structure to the left of it, which Rick informed us was the language arts building. Behind them was a large, open courtyard with rows of peonies and hydrangeas that circled a bronze statue in the center. The statue was a man in Revolutionary War attire. In his hands was a musket with a bayonet. On his face was a steely look of determination. The moonlight danced upon his enduring expression in an eerie way.

  “That’s Phineas Crowell,” Rick explained. “He was a major for the Continental army and was responsible for protecting the Connecticut River in this area from the Redcoats. Middletown’s sailing port wasn’t where it is today, but there was a small one the colonials used and he was responsible for keeping the British away from it.”

  “Sounds like you admire him,” Michelle commented, staring up at the figure.

  Rick took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. He glanced at the statue. “What he did was brave, but there were many men and women who aided in the protection of this region. Okay, let’s head to the dorms. I think if there’s anything here, it would be in Arthur’s place.”

  We followed Rick as he led us across the courtyard and past another triad of red-brick class buildings. As we continued, behind the second group was a steep incline. Rick took it in stride but Michelle and I held on to each other for balance as we confronted the hill in heels. At the bottom of the hill, there was yet another group.

  Michelle whistled. “How do you know which building is which? I mean they’re all identical!”

  Rick smiled. “Freshmen orientation. Plus, when you’re running late for biology with Professor Niven, you learn fast.”

  As we approached the door to the dorm in the center, a light shone in my face. “Who the devil are you?”

  I turned toward the gruff voice, but I was temporarily blinded. I blinked, trying to readjust my eyes. Before I had a chance, Rick spoke. “Mr. Brack? It’s Richard Michaels, Professor Cross’s cousin.”

  By this time, my eyes were adjusted and I stared at the stocky, middle-aged man with leathery skin and thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He pointed the flashlight in Rick’s face. After a few moments, he exclaimed, “By God! Richard Michaels. I remember you. You and Professor Cross were always causing trouble when you were students here. I never found out who had the bright idea to cover our founder’s statue in shaving cream and silly putty, but I always suspected you two. Would you like to confess to it now?”

  “No, sir. I’m gonna plead the fifth on that one.”

  Mr. Brack crossed his massive arms and laughed as well. “You kids were a lot more fun to chase after, I’ll give you that. You boys always snuck out, did things. These kids now. Everything is online. Nobody breaks the rules anymore, except sending text messages during class.” He sighed. “Makes my job almost obsolete. What are you doing here, Richard? I don’t think I have to remind you girls are not allowed on campus after seven, even during the summer sessions.”

  Rick nodded sheepishly. “Yes, sir, I remember. But they’re here for a reason. This is my cousin Edward’s wife, Michelle—”

  “The judge?” He shifted his weight and dropped the flashlight. It landed in the lush, green grass. He immediately snatched it and glanced at me. “And who is this?”

  Rick put his arm around my waist. “This is my girlfriend, Jordan James.”

  Mr. Brack studied my face in the moonlight. “Isn’t she the P.I. from Boston who solved your father’s murder?”

  Rick’s arm dropped and he stared at Mr. Brack, dumbstruck. “Well, yes, but how did you know?”

  “We do get the news here. Middletown isn’t in Siberia, you know.” Although I couldn’t tell in the darkness, I sensed Rick was flushing. Mr. Brack exhaled. “All right, Richard, what say you tell me why you are here at this time of night with these ladies?”

  Rick cleared his throat awkwardly and shoved his hands in his pants pocket. This man managed to turn back time. I felt like I was staring at a nervous teenager instead of my confident boyfriend. “Well, we came here because Arthur—”

  “Wait, Professor Cross? He’s not even here. He isn’t teaching this summer. He had to go home to take care of a family matter. That’s what he told us. That is where he is, isn’t it?”

  Before Rick responded, I stepped forward. “Yes, he’s taking care of some personal matters and he asked us to come here and pick up his, uh, lesson plans. He forgot them and wanted to fix some things before the fall.”

  Both Rick and Michelle stared at me but remained silent. I waited as Mr. Brack processed the information. “If Professor Cross needed his lesson plans, why didn’t he come get ‘em himself?”

  “Because he’s not at his Massachusetts home,” Rick offered. “He’s in London for the Ambassador.”

  Mr. Brack’s eyes widened as he considered all the possibilities associated with this statement. Despite his surprise, he led us into the building and we followed him up the stairs to the third floor. The inside offered beige walls that smelled freshly painted and light, wood floors, recently polished. Small bulletin boards affixed to every door displayed an array of academic information as well as personal memos to and from students.

  Mr. Brack paused in front of Room 307. The name “Professor A. Cross” was displayed at the top of the bulletin board and there were several hand-written messages to Arthur and most of them were humorous.

  Mr. Brack pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket and scanned through several small, silver ones slowly. Finally, he took one key and unlocked the door. After he pushed it open, Rick led us into the room. He turned on the light before addressing Mr. Brack again.

  Offering his hand, he said, “Thanks for your help tonight, sir. I really appreciate it, as does Arthur. I promise we’ll lock up before we leave.”

  Mr. Brack stood in the doorway, hesitantly. While he deliberated the repercussions of leaving Rick and two women alone in a professor’s living quarters, Michelle peered through the white blinds and into the darkness below. “There are three boys outside dressed all in black. Looks like they have toilet paper.”

  Mr. Brack’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Toilet paper, huh? Not on my watch!”

  He marched out of the room and we listened as his footsteps grew lighter. Michelle closed the blinds and shrugged. “I guess we’re not as interesting as toilet paper.”

  “All right, Jordan. We’re here. What are we looking for?”

  I studied the room. It was fairly small, resembling a hotel suite more than an apartment. I could tell immediately that Arthur was just as organized as Rick. Everything was orderly and almost perfectly placed. There was nothing hanging on the beige walls. I marveled at the white crown molding which accented the ceiling of the room.

  Arthur’s full-sized bed was adorned with a simple yet elegant duvet cover. An old footlocker stood at the base of the bed and a pair of brown leather dress shoes was placed atop it, so polished they shined. To the right of the bed, against the back wall, was a modest maple-wood desk.

  An old-fashioned, gold-plated lamp with a green shade was carefully placed on the left corner of the desk. Several hardcover books and spiral notebooks were stacked near the right corner. The center of the desk was bare. Small marks in the veneer suggested a laptop was often moved to and from this location.

  I picked up the first notebook and flipped through it. In neat, black print, it offered a summary of The Canterbury Tales. Other notebooks focused on classics such as Romeo & Juliet, A Tale of Two Cities and The Count of Monte Cristo. Beneath each summary were discussion questions and possible essay topics. As I skimmed through the notebooks, I felt someone move close to me. I turned and saw Rick leaning over my shoulder, peering into the final notebook.

  “Arthur teaches honors English to seniors,” Rick explained. “Some terms, when the school is in a pinch, he’ll take on lo
wer level classes, but he prefers teaching the older students.”

  “Why?” Michelle migrated from standing near the window between the bed and the desk to sitting on the brown, micro-fiber couch against the wall next to the door. “He must have a reason.”

  “He said it’s easier to work with older students. They’re a little more disciplined. They recognize the need to study more.”

  Michelle crossed her thin legs and straightened her dress. “Well, I didn’t go to some fancy, private school, but when I was in high school, it didn’t matter how old kids were. I mean, some kids were good students and some were bad.”

  I turned my attention back to Rick. He stared at her in surprise. “Well, I’m sure that can be true, but in general, he said he felt more comfortable working with older students.”

  While they discussed the relevance of age, I checked Arthur’s bookcase beside the desk. Glancing down, I spotted a small, dark stain. Startled by the sight, I turned quickly, knocking a stack of hardcover books to the ground. The one on top flipped open during its fall. I knelt on the tan carpet to inspect the stain and retrieve the books.

  The stain, it turned out, was red wine. I was disappointed until I looked at the open book. Two items rested beneath the volume. I pulled them out and unfolded them. It became apparent to me that one was an empty, letter-sized envelope addressed to Arthur Cross care of Crowell Academy and postmarked from Whitechapel, Greater London, UK and the other was an article from a Boston newspaper. I pulled out Arthur’s black-leather swivel chair and scanned the story from three weeks earlier.

  NOTED JOURNALIST COMMITS SUICIDE

  NEW YORK — “It is with great sorrow that we announce New York Moment has lost one of its finest journalists,” Editor-in-Chief, Don Martin, announced this morning. “Francine Harris was a fantastic writer and a wonderful person and she will be dearly missed.”

  I read the story about Francine Harris, 26, a paraplegic noted for her determination and grit in seeking journalistic truths. She was found dead in an apparent suicide. Undeterred by her physical limitations, Harris graduated Summa Cum Laude from Harvard and began her career with New York Moment upon graduation. Her talent was immediately noticed and she began to cover some of the paper’s most controversial topics, including immigration issues and teenage pregnancies. Harris’s passion was always for improving the quality of life for those less fortunate. She was survived by her parents, Justin and Amanda Harris of Falmouth, MA and an older brother, Oliver. A funeral was set for June 10 at 10:30 a.m. at the Thomas Funeral Home in Falmouth, MA.

  Beneath the article, in red pen, the words, This is your fault and you WILL pay! were boldly scrolled in a long, left-slanted script on the newspaper margin. I turned the article over but there were no other messages. The way the paper was folded indicated it came in the white envelope from England. I looked over at Rick and handed him the article. He skimmed it quickly.

  “Do you know a Francine Harris?”

  Rick shook his head before handing the article to Michelle, who by this time had walked over to us.

  She read it as well and frowned. “I’ve never heard of this woman before. Why would anyone send this to Arthur?”

  “I don’t know. If it came in this envelope, someone sent it from England. Could there be a connection to Mr. Cross?”

  At this, Rick cringed. Michelle ran her fingers through her silky hair and stared down at the article. “It’s possible, but God, I hope not.”

  We stood there in silence, considering the significance of this discovery. Although there was still no proof, this threat suggested there could have been more to Arthur’s disappearance than we realized. If Arthur was kidnapped, we might not be looking for a missing person. We might be looking for a murderer or his victim.

  I suddenly felt a new anxiety about this case. The more I considered all the unknowns, the more I realized there was only one person who could provide some much-needed answers, Ambassador Gatlin Cross.

  Chapter 9

  We did not stay in Arthur’s apartment much longer. I found evidence that he had planned to be gone for an unknown period of time. His closet was nearly empty. His bathroom was devoid of standard toiletries, such as his toothbrush and shampoo. When I located a small, black-leather photo album with pictures of Arthur, friends and family during his high school years, Rick eyed it warily.

  “Come on, Jordan. We should get going. We won’t get back to the house until two, so—”

  Unfortunately for Rick, he was traveling with two nosy females. I sat on the edge of Arthur’s footlocker and flipped through the pictures. I stopped on one particular photo, which appeared to have been taken at a park. A crowd had gathered before a makeshift bandstand. On the bandstand was a group of teenage boys. A young Arthur was easily recognizable as he passionately tackled an electronic keyboard. A ginger-haired boy appeared to be destroying a drum set in the background and a short boy with brown hair and sunglasses was strumming the bass. My attention left these three individuals as soon as I focused on the lead singer and guitarist.

  A tall, thin boy with short, brown hair was strumming a black-and-white Fender Strat and singing into a microphone. My heart skipped a beat when I recognized it was Rick. He glanced at the photo with a pained expression before walking over to the desk and sitting on Arthur’s swivel chair. Michelle sat beside me and pointed at young Rick.

  “Huh. You guys really did have a band. I thought Eddie was kidding. Where was this picture taken?”

  Without making eye contact, Rick muttered, “Battle of the bands contest in high school.”

  Michelle flipped through the pages. Someone had taken different shots of the band from different angles. The one constant in all the photos was that Rick was the only one not smiling. The other three had goofy grins on their faces throughout. I looked over at Rick. His eye was more swollen than it had been when we first arrived in Middletown.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just think we should head back.”

  Michelle had continued flipping through the album and reached several photos from one Christmas morning. She pointed to a shot of Arthur and his brothers grinning in front of a 12-foot-tall, blue spruce, richly adorned in red-and-gold ornaments and a mountain of perfectly-wrapped presents.

  It appeared to have been taken fifteen years earlier. Stuart and Eddie were easily recognizable. I could also make out George. His current, stocky form appeared to have developed from his formerly pudgy youth. Arthur and William seemed to be in their pre-teens and both sported big smiles with braces. An unknown boy stood between George and Arthur. He offered a preoccupied expression.

  “That’s Henry,” Michelle said, pointing to the dazed youth. He resembled his brothers, sporting short, blond hair and green eyes, but even at that age, he had something different about him. I found myself wondering what it was about Henry the family found so shameful that he was sent to London.

  Before I had a chance to inquire, Michelle closed the album and yawned. “We probably should go. It’s been a long day and I don’t want Eddie to worry.”

  Michelle headed for the door with the photo album beneath her arm. I motioned for it. At first, she pretended not to notice. When I insisted, she heaved an exaggerated sigh but handed it over.

  “You’re no fun,” she pouted. “Kathryn has all the family photos and won’t part with a single one. I just wanted to make some copies.”

  I placed the album back on the bookcase where I found it. “I’m sure if you ask Arthur, he won’t mind your borrowing them.”

  Michelle continued to grumble as we walked out of the room. We waited in the hallway while Rick turned off the lights and locked the door. I glanced at the notes pinned to Arthur’s bulletin board. It appeared his students wrote all of them.

  I was disappointed when I realized
none of them struck me as being significant or out of the ordinary. I carefully folded the envelope and article about Francine Harris then handed them to Rick as we walked down the hallway. He stuck them in his coat pocket.

  When we exited the building, Michelle and I started walking toward the courtyard, which led to Ridgeley Hall where our cars were parked. I stopped when I sensed that Rick was not with us. He stood near the entrance to Arthur’s apartment building and stared past it, in the direction of a grove of oak trees. I glanced back at Michelle and she nodded at Rick. I approached him in silence. When I was a few yards away, he finally noticed me.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded, his gaze returning to the darkness. “Haven’t been back here since I graduated. Swore I never would.”

  He took a few steps toward the grove and paused. I took his right hand in my left. He smiled absently.

  “Is there anywhere you’d like to go since you’re here now?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply. Still holding my hand, we headed across the magnificently manicured lawn and to the grove. We walked through the trees in complete darkness. After several moments, moonbeams broke through the branches and I realized that we were nearing a large, crystal-blue lake. The moonlight danced across the calm water, offering the illusion of sparkling diamonds. We finally stopped in front of an old, wooden dock.