Shadows on the Ivy (10 page)

“You’re sure she didn’t contact that lawyer.”

“She said she wouldn’t do that with the last breath in her body.” Tiffany paused. “She will be all right, won’t she? I mean, everyone at Whitcomb House has some problem in their past. Or even their present—like Maria, who’s always following that idiot photographer around, hoping he’ll drop his new girlfriend and go back to her. And the guy I’m suing so Tyler can get some money. That guy’s pretty mad, you can believe.” Tiffany smiled confidently. “But I’m not like Sarah. I’m not going to sit still and let life kick me around. There are people who do, and people who don’t, Professor Summer. And I’m one of the doers. Sarah is someone people do things to.”

Enrico’s was a small restaurant with a classically stereotypical Italian decor, including large, gaudily framed color photographs of Mount Vesuvius and the Colosseum, a selection of Italian wines in the window, and red-and-white tablecloths with candles in Chianti bottles on the small tables that would have been appropriate for an outdoor café or piazza. The walls could have been improved by hanging some large eighteenth- or nineteenth-century etchings or engravings instead of the travel posters, but the heady aroma of garlic and oil and cheeses emerging from the kitchen was definitely tempting.

Paul was at the bar when Maggie got there. Had he come directly here after they’d talked? In any case, their table was waiting, in a quiet corner as far as possible from either the kitchen or the bar.

“You must try some of their house wine; it’s really an amazing valpolicella.” Paul smiled at Maggie over their menus.

“Remember, I have to work tonight.”

“What difference can a little wine make? Loading a van is physical work; you’ll be more relaxed after a glass or two, and the work will go much faster.” He gestured at the waiter. “Bring us a bottle of the house red, please! Now I won’t force you to drink it, Maggie, but you do have to taste it.”

Maggie fought the impulse to override his order and ask the waiter for a diet soda. But maybe a little wine would be relaxing. She was exhausted, between not sleeping much last night and a stressful day. She’d called Dr. Stevens before she’d left her office. He’d called her back from his home. Sarah’s condition hadn’t changed, and he hadn’t gotten back the toxicology report yet.

Paul raised his glass to Maggie. “To new friends.”

She touched her glass to his. “New friends.” He’d been right; the wine was better than most house wines. She took a second sip and smiled.

“See? The wine is already working its magic. You’re not frowning anymore.”

“Was I frowning?”

“You were looking troubled. I know you must have Sarah Anderson on your mind. I can’t believe I moved to Somerset County from New York City, where I never personally encountered any violence, and only weeks after I arrive in New Jersey someone is poisoned at a cocktail party I’m attending.” Paul signaled to their waiter again and ordered an appetizer of fried calamari with a spicy tomato sauce for them to share.

“Have you bought a home out here?” she asked. He hadn’t asked if she liked calamari, but it was one of her favorites.

“Just an apartment so far. Since my divorce.”

Maggie recalled hearing Paul had been divorced at least twice.

“I don’t want to commit a lot of money for more room than I need. I’m a typical bachelor. I eat out. I have friends in the city. I don’t entertain much. Why would I need a house?”

Paul poured himself another glass of wine and added some to Maggie’s glass.

Why, indeed, would a bachelor need a house? Although Maggie was now single, and she seemed to have no trouble filling her four-bedroom home. “Have you been divorced long?”

“About a year.” Paul hesitated, as if he wasn’t certain how much he wanted to share. “She left me. It was a complicated situation. It’s over, and we both have our freedom.” He returned the question. “I heard your husband died about a year ago.”

“Last December. Right after Christmas.”

“Then the holidays may be difficult for you. Perhaps we could spend more time together then?”

Was Paul pushing? Or was he just being considerate? “I have lots of friends, and I don’t mind being alone,” she countered, knowing that sounded a bit prim. But how candid about her personal life should she be with a colleague? She ordered fettuccine; he ordered spaghetti. “You wanted some advice about teaching.”

“Your students seem so excited about learning, and I heard there’s already a waiting list for one of your spring courses. In my classes I have students falling asleep. What kind of magic do you work?”

Maggie took another sip of wine and another piece of calamari. The wine was definitely bold. So, she decided, was Paul. She just hadn’t decided whether she liked his style. “No magic. Talk loud; balance lectures with discussions. And call on students whether they’re prepared or not. They learn to be prepared.”

“I’ve heard you show pictures in your classes.”

“When it makes sense, I use prints to illustrate eighteenth- and nineteenth-century ideas or events. I sometimes play music, too. Adult audiovisuals. Some students seem to understand more, and retain more, when they see something, others when they hear it. So if we’re talking about the jazz age, I play jazz. If we’re talking about myths of the American frontier, I show prints of the frontier. And I have my students give short oral reports on different topics. They’d rather listen to each other than to me. And that’s one way to bring the classroom information into their world. For example, when discussing the Civil War I might assign one student to be a Charleston cotton broker; one a plantation owner; one a Boston slave trader; one a London cotton-mill owner; one a slave on a plantation; one a member of Congress from Pennsylvania. Then I have them debate slavery, presenting only the perspectives of whoever they are.”

“And they do it?” Paul poured himself another glass. Maggie’s was still almost full.

“Some are shy; and some do more research than others. But, especially in the smaller classes, it often works better than my presenting a lecture on economic issues of the 1850s. The debate is more memorable for the students; they internalize the information as they hear it discussed.”

“Fascinating. I’ve been staying up nights preparing long lectures and was disappointed that my students looked bored,” Paul said sincerely. “Maybe what I need to do is relax and turn more class time over to the students.”

Maggie took a bite of her fettuccine Alfredo. Sinfully rich, but delicious. She nodded to the hovering waiter to add some freshly ground pepper. “Try consciously varying your voice level, too. And don’t read your lectures. Break them up. Read a quotation in the voice of the writer or speaker. Ask questions. Walk around. Do anything but just talk at the students. Especially the students in evening classes. Most of them have full-time jobs; they’ve already worked a full day, and they’re tired. They’re here because they want to learn, they want to get a degree, and they want to apply what they learn at college in their workplaces. So if you can connect nineteenth-century White House political maneuvering to today’s office politics, or make your students think about what decisions they themselves would have made at a particular point in history, then your topic will mean more to them.”

“You make it sound so simple, Maggie. I was separating my life in business from my life teaching. Based on what you’ve said, maybe I could use some of my corporate experiences to illustrate points I’m trying to make.” Paul smiled and raised his glass to her. “Oliver was right when he said I should talk with you.”

“Oliver suggested you talk with me?”

“I hope you don’t mind. He and I have known each other for years.”

“I’d heard rumors that he helped you get your job here.” Was she going too far? But Maggie was curious, and the wine was having an effect. With Paul refilling her glass occasionally she must have had two glasses by now. At least. Certainly enough to feel warm and relaxed.

Paul nodded and took another bite of his spaghetti puttanesca. “He introduced me to Max Hagfield, and the rest, as they say, is history. I was bored with corporate life—long hours, stress, and the feeling I wasn’t contributing anything to society but a decimal point in a bottom line. I had a master’s in history and a few courses toward my doctorate as well as an MBA. Oliver knew there was an opening here. And—voilà! But knowing a little about a subject is very different from teaching it.”

“If you understand that, then you’ve taken a major step toward being an excellent teacher.” Paul might be full of lines and stories, but he was trying to fit into the college community, and she wanted to help him. “How do you like your new life so far?”

“Very much. I miss New York, and my friends there, although I do visit on weekends. And I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this teaching thing yet. But with time, your help, and a little patience from my students, I’m sure I’ll be able to do it. The students are remarkable. Most of them are here because they want to learn.”

“That’s one of the wonderful things about a community college. Few students attend because their parents packed them off and told them to achieve. They’re here because they decided on their own that they want a degree. And that they were willing to work for it.”

“If they can learn to be good students, then I can learn to be a better teacher. I’ve always been a fast learner.” Paul picked up the now empty bottle of wine. “Another bottle?”

She hoped he wasn’t planning to drive far. His voice was beginning to have that blur that said “too much.” “I don’t think so. I have to get home. And load my van, remember?”

“Waiter! Two Sambucas, please.”

Maggie frowned.

“You don’t have to drink it. Just sip.”

How much had Paul had to drink before she had arrived? He
had
been sitting at the bar when she’d arrived. Maggie left her glass on the table as Paul raised his Sambuca in her direction.

His voice was slightly slurred. “Sometime I must go to one of your antique shows. The walls in my apartment are embarrassingly empty. My ex-wife took most of our artwork.”

Ex-wives were not a topic Maggie wanted to pursue. “It must be strange, having known Oliver at work in New York, to see him at home here.”

“I didn’t see him in his office too often. I saw him in the gym and then, sometimes, in social milieus.” His slight smirk suggested he wasn’t talking about trips to the opera.

Maggie choked a bit. “Social milieus?”

“You know. Places outside the usual spots he and Dorothy are seen here in Jersey.” Paul lowered his voice. “Many men have, shall we say,
interests
outside their families? And sometimes maintaining those—
interests
—requires that there be someone else, known to the family, who they can go places with. Or—not.”

“In other words, you gave Oliver an alibi.” Maggie was more amused by Paul’s not-so-subtle description than she was shocked. Oliver had worked long hours in New York City, and Dorothy had mentioned how glad she was when he retired and could be at home more. Those long hours in New York had sometimes required he use a company suite in a hotel instead of coming home to New Jersey. It had been clear to Maggie then, if not to Dorothy, that a company suite could be used for a multitude of purposes.

“And he’s a fair man. Turn and turn alike!” Paul actually winked at her.

Was this his idea of a suave gentleman having a discussion with a colleague? Maggie had the distinct feeling that she was on Paul’s ex-wife’s side of whatever disagreements had led up to his divorce. “New Jersey must seem very tame to you after all that excitement.”

“Oh, New Jersey isn’t all that boring, really.” Paul glanced around all too obviously and lowered his voice. No one at nearby tables was paying any attention. “Oliver has his interests here, too.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Maggie suddenly felt uncomfortable. Oliver Whitcomb was a Somerset College trustee; his wife was someone who trusted Maggie enough to confide in her. She did not want to know things about their life together that would make it awkward for her to work with either of them in the future. “Oliver Whitcomb’s personal life is his personal business.”

“I’ve never told anyone, Maggie. I’m discreet.” Paul raised his glass and downed the rest of his Sambuca. “But you care about your students. And maybe someone should know about Oliver’s…interests.”

“I do care about my students. But I really don’t care about Oliver’s interests. They’re his business. And his wife’s.” Maggie hesitated. Was this just gossip? Or could Paul be saying something she needed to understand? “Unless his interests have to do with my students?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why Oliver is so supportive of those single mothers at Whitcomb House?”

“Whitcomb House is Dorothy’s project.” And just today she’d heard a great deal about why Dorothy Whitcomb had chosen that particular charitable endeavor.

“Oliver’s pretty interested in it, too, Maggie. After all, it’s his money Dorothy is spending on those students.”

“He’s always been very enthusiastic about the project.” Maggie tried to keep her voice steady.

“Think about why a mature, educated, wealthy man like Oliver Whitcomb might be so interested in that group of young women, Maggie. Think about motives. Not all motives are altruistic, you know. Not even in the suburbs.” The waitress dropped their bill on the table and Paul fumbled with his wallet before pulling out a gold card. Maggie decided she wouldn’t fight for the bill. “I won’t tell anyone anything. I’ve promised not to. Oliver helped me to get my job. But someone needs to ask some questions. Before anyone else gets hurt.” For a moment Paul looked at her directly. In that second he appeared completely sober.

Before anyone else gets hurt! Oliver was interested in “that group” of young women? Was another student in danger? Maggie swallowed deeply. Could Oliver Whitcomb have been involved with Sarah? His wife’s daughter? “Who should be doing the questioning, Paul? Dorothy?” Maggie hesitated. “The police?”