Page 7

CHAPTER 7

And a youth said, Speak to us of Friendship.

And he answered, saying:

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?

Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need but not your emptiness.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

—Kahlil Gibran, “On Friendship”

WHITNEY

When the workday finished, Owen and Buck bade me goodbye in the classroom where we’d been working, and headed home to their wives and daughters. Uncle Roger headed home to my aunt Nancy, who no doubt had a nice dinner waiting for him. After shaking out my hair, I used the girl’s bathroom on the first floor to clean myself up as best as I could, and changed into fresh coveralls. I didn’t want to show up at Joule’s place covered in dust and smelling of a hard day’s work.

As I applied mascara and lipstick at the sink, I glanced into the mirror. Unlike the boys’ bathroom stalls, which had been covered with raunchy graffiti, the girls had refrained from doodling pictures of their private parts. They had engaged in rumor and gossip, though it was about their fellow students rather than the faculty. A + J = ? . BUFFY BOWERS STUFFS HER brA. TERRY THORNE EATS BABIES FOR brEAKFAST. Yikes. I had no idea who Terry Thorne was, but she might want to rethink her diet.

Once I was cleaned up, I headed out to my SUV. I typed Joule’s address into my maps app and aimed my vehicle south toward Nashville. I hit a little traffic on the interstate before exiting and driving the final stretch to the complex, but arrived more or less at the time I’d intended. After checking in at the front desk—showing my ID and receiving a visitor sticker that I stuck to the breast pocket of my clean coveralls—I rode the elevator up to the second floor and started down the hall. Like the dormitory at Ridgetop Preparatory Academy, the doors here were decorated with items personal to the inhabitants. Some bore flowered wreaths. One had a sign that featured a pair of dice and read IF I DON’T ANSWER, I’M AT THE CASINO. Another had a sign that simply read WELCOME .

Apartment 208, Joule’s place, had an amusing sign on the door. TO BE OLD AND WISE, YOU MUST FIRST BE YOUNG AND STUPID. The guy definitely had a sense of humor. He hadn’t just tickled my funny bone, however. He’d also engaged my sense of smell. Coming from his apartment was a strong, spicy scent. Chai tea, maybe? Incense?

The mystery of the smell was solved when he answered my knock with a smoldering pipe between his teeth. He was an average-sized man, five feet nine or so, though his shoulders were slightly slumped with age. He wore round wire-rimmed eyeglasses, a short-sleeved knit pullover shirt, a marginally rumpled pair of cotton shorts, and a pair of house slippers. His large, round ears stuck out on either side of his head like satellites searching for signals from space. He leaned to the left, a silver-tipped wooden cane with a polished handle in his hand. Judging from the color, the cane was made of maple, one of my favorite woods.

The cane wasn’t the only wood that caught my eye, however. Atop a small bookcase to the side of the entryway was a cherrywood apple, just like the ones I’d seen in the study at the headmaster’s house. This one read RIDGETOP PREPARATORY ACADEMY TEACHER OF THE MONTH MARCH 1982 . Given that the April and May apples remained on Irving Finster’s desk, Joule must have been the last teacher to receive the honor. Above the bookcase were two framed certificates. The first was an undergraduate degree in physics awarded in 1962 by Vanderbilt University in Nashville. The second was a doctorate degree in the same field issued five years later by Duke University. Impressive.

He removed his pipe from between his teeth. “It’s about time you got here! I submitted my service request five days ago. Five days! For the exorbitant rent I pay here, I expect better service. My showerhead has been dripping nonstop and getting worse by the hour. I can only imagine how high my water bill is going to be!”

He’d obviously mistaken me for someone else, and while I didn’t appreciate his condescending tone, it wasn’t new to me. Some people looked down on laborers, ironically considering themselves superior while at the same time relying on our expertise to remedy a problem they were helpless to handle themselves. I’d been talked down to many times over my years as a carpenter and in my previous job as a property manager. But I decided to cut the guy some slack. I’d be irritated, too, if I’d had to wait so long for a repairman to show up. Luckily, I could handle most household issues myself.

“Sorry to hear you’re having a problem, Mr. Joule.”

“It’s Doctor Joule.”

“My apologies, Dr. Joule. I’m not here to fix your shower, but I’d be happy to round up my toolbox and take a look at it for you.”

He ran his gaze over my coveralls and cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “If you’re not here to fix my shower, what are you here for?”

After giving my name, I said, “My cousin and I are doing remodeling work at the Ridgetop Preparatory Academy property.”

“You are?” He straightened in surprise, his brows rising over the top rim of his glasses. “Goodness gracious! I assumed they tore that place down years ago. The buildings were barely holding up when the school closed.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “The school, why it closed.”

He hesitated a moment, a dark cloud seeming to pass over his face, before motioning for me to follow him. He ambled into his living room, his gait rocking as he made his way. After leaning his cane against a recliner and plopping himself down into the chair, he reached down the side and pulled the lever to lift his legs. He raised an outstretched arm, inviting me to take a seat on the couch, and took another drag on his pipe.

Once I’d sat down, I got to the heart of the matter. “I hope this won’t be upsetting for you, but I have some questions about Dr. Finster and his wife. I understand you all were working at the school together when they died.”

Joule released a long, loud breath scented with pipe tobacco. “It was terrible what happened. Absolutely terrible. But it’s been, what? Fortysomething years? I came to terms with it long ago. Didn’t have a choice, really. A person has to move on or a tragedy like that will eat them alive.”

I was grateful he hadn’t shut me down. “I appreciate you being willing to discuss this with me.”

“Sure,” he said, “though I’m not clear how their deaths have anything to do with your remodeling work.”

I didn’t tell him about the collapsed porch post or the bullet I’d found in it. I was here to get more information, and I’d share what I already knew only if it would serve that purpose. Instead, I said, “I’ve found the history of the house a little… unsettling. I’m trying to work past it.”

“The house ?” His brows formed a V. “Are you referring to the headmaster’s house?”

“Yes. My cousin and I are going to turn it into a boutique hotel. We figured an inn would be a good complement to the retirement community that’s going in on the school grounds.”

“A retirement community?” He sucked rhythmically on his pipe as he pondered for a moment. “I can see how a school property would be perfect for that purpose. All the essential elements are already there. Bedrooms. A dining hall. Places for folks to gather. I had a nice apartment in the faculty wing myself, back in the day. About the size of this place.” He gestured around him. “Nothing fancy, but it was comfortable, and living on campus meant I didn’t have to commute from Nashville. There wasn’t much in the way of housing out in Ridgetop back then, unless you were willing to live on a farm.” His lips curved in a soft smile. “I didn’t particularly want to wake with the roosters every morning.”

“Can’t say that I blame you.” Shifting gears, I said, “I’m here because I saw your name in a news article online. I take it you and Dr. Finster were close?”

He dipped his head in a nod. “Irving and I went back a long way.” He lifted his cane and used it to point to an entertainment center that housed a small television. Basic metal bookends held a long row of books in place atop the unit. The collection included hardcovers and paperbacks of various sizes, some fiction and some nonfiction. “Grab my yearbook, would you? The one from 1958. That was our senior year.”

I ran my eyes over the row until I spotted a set of four thick books bound in blue imitation leather. The spines read RIDGETOP PREPARATORY ACADEMY, each followed by a successive year: 1955, 1956, 1957, 1958. I fished out the 1958 edition and handed it to him. He flipped through the pages before stopping on one and holding the open book out to me.

I took the book and looked down at the page. It featured a photo of a dozen students. All but the two boys standing at the back were female. Both boys wore glasses, but only one of them—Joule—wore a smile. I could tell it was Joule by the size of his ears. Below the photo was a caption identifying the group as the Poetry Club. The names of the students were listed, among them Adam Joule and Irving Finster.

“What a couple of knuckleheads.” Joule threw his head back and barked a laugh. “Irving and I thought joining the poetry club would help us meet girls.”

“Did it?”

“Sure! Unfortunately, not one of the girls we met had any interest in dating desperate brainiacs like Irv and me. They had their eyes on the cool boys, the actors and musicians. Can’t blame us for trying though. Irving at least had some interest in poetry. Liked reading it. Liked writing it even more. Myself? I was never much into reading and writing. I was only there for the girls.”

I stared down at the photo. Irving Finster still had all his hair, but he appeared just as serious as a teenager as he had in the photo I’d seen online, when he’d been in his forties. I returned my focus to Joule. “What was Irving like?”

“Back then?” He looked up in thought before lowering his gaze back to me. “Broody would be the most accurate way to describe him, I suppose. The other boys thought he was a stick in the mud and, to a large extent, they were right. He always followed the rules. But Irving had his moments. If we cajoled him enough, he’d sometimes cut loose a little. He could be witty when he wanted to be. He had a way with words, even back then. In fact, he’s the one who gave me my nickname—Atom, spelled A-T-O-M. I excelled at science and my first name is Adam, as you know, so it was fitting.”

“Clever,” I said. “Was he still that way when he grew up? Broody? Reserved?”

“For the most part,” Joule said. “He gained more confidence as he got older, though.”

I took another look at the boy in the photo. He appeared as nerdy and harmless as he had in the newspaper photo. Had he truly become a killer? “It’s my understanding that the case was never officially closed. Do you believe he did it?”

“Killed his wife and himself, you mean?”

I nodded.

Joule sighed. “I do. Irving was down on himself something awful by that point. He’d had high hopes when he returned to Ridgetop Prep as the headmaster a few years earlier but, once he took the job, he faced one problem after another in both his personal and professional life. His wife wanted children, and he hadn’t been able to give her any. Viagra had yet to be put on the market. His participle dangled, if you understand what I’m saying.”

Though he’d used a humorous and apt metaphor, he must have done so because the topic was sensitive rather than as an insult to his friend. There was no ridicule in his tone or eyes.

“Irving came out big with his first book,” Joule continued. “Hit the bestseller lists right out of the gate. That’s how he got the headmaster’s job, you know. Ridgetop was in a bit of a pickle. A new boarding school had opened in Jackson, and the campus was state of the art. Several teachers had left to go work at the new school. Student applications to Ridgetop were way down, too. We normally had a long waiting list, but the new school gave Ridgetop some serious competition and we were no longer at full capacity. At the time Irving released his debut novel, he’d been teaching English at an arts boarding school in Michigan. Interlochen Arts Academy, it’s called. The board of trustees thought it would be good PR to hire a celebrity, especially one who’d attended the school. They managed to lure him away with the promotion to headmaster.”

“Returning to Ridgetop must have felt like coming home for him.”

“It certainly did for me.” Joule puffed his pipe.

“Were the trustees right?” I asked. “Did hiring Irving Finster help the school?”

“A little bit, at first. The book got him and the school a lot of attention. Applications went up, mostly kids who wanted to be writers one day. But it was temporary, and not enough to make a real difference. It didn’t help that Irving had no schmoozing skills. He was terrible at small talk with donors, downright awkward at times. He could entertain people on the page, but in real life? Most people found him to be dry and dull, I hate to say. But we’ve all got our shortcomings, right? If not for Rosie, Irving wouldn’t have raised a cent. Boy, could that woman work a room. She’d walk in, and within seconds people would be smiling and laughing, having a grand ole time and taking out their checkbooks. Shame it wasn’t enough.”

“Sounds like Rosie was a wonderful person.”

“An absolute peach,” he said. “She was always baking cookies for the staff and students, or doing some other sweet, thoughtful thing. I was partial to her snickerdoodles, but others liked her chocolate chip cookies. She put walnuts in them. I can taste them now.” He put his fingertips to his lips in a chef’s kiss, then lowered his hand. “Anyway, Irving’s second novel came out while he was headmaster. The book was an abject failure, unfortunately. He feared that he’d lost his edge, that his literary career was over. The school was having budgetary problems, disciplinary problems, trouble filling faculty positions, you name it.” He released a soft sigh. “I felt awful for the guy. He was floundering in every aspect of his life. Then he heard rumors about his wife having an affair…” He shook his head. “He just couldn’t cope. I didn’t believe it, of course. Rosie was crazy about Irving. She never would’ve stepped out on him. I told him as much, but he still doubted her faithfulness. The thought of losing her must’ve pushed him over the edge.”

Once again, my mind went back to the words etched on the bathroom stall. Mr. Noy and Mrs. Finster are screwing. Had it been true?

He took a long pull on his pipe and slowly released the smoke. “I wish he would’ve reached out, given me a call or maybe sought help from a therapist. He was never much of a talker, though. He kept things bottled up. People didn’t talk about depression back then, especially men. It was a taboo subject, treated like something to be ashamed of. People were just expected to get over it. That was probably part of the problem.”

Joule had a good point. Though the stigma associated with mental illness had lessened over the years, it could be difficult even now for sufferers to discuss their disease.

In light of what Dr. Joule had told me, I was more convinced than ever that I was going down a pointless rabbit trail. I decided I might as well be direct. “Do you think there’s any chance the Finsters’ deaths weren’t a murder-suicide?”

He removed his pipe from his mouth and cocked his head in question. “What else would they be?”

“Accidents,” I suggested with a shrug. “Or maybe a double murder.”

“No chance whatsoever,” he said without hesitation, “though to this day it’s hard for me to think of Irving as a killer.” He pointed the mouthpiece of his pipe at me as if to punctuate his words. “He wasn’t a bad or violent man, not normally anyway. He simply wasn’t in his right mind.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “Why do you ask? Do you have a reason to think otherwise?”

I had one reason to think otherwise, the stray bullet I’d found in the porch post, but I didn’t want to share this information, at least not yet. “No,” I fibbed. “No reason. Just wishful thinking, I suppose. I love the house. I just wish it didn’t have a violent history. I’m trying to find a way to work past it.”

He puffed his pipe thoughtfully for a moment before brightening. “What about planting some daffodils in Rosie’s memory? Given her name, you’d think she’d have been partial to rosebushes, but daffodils were her favorite flower. Every spring she put fresh-cut daffodils on her desk. In the teacher’s lounge, too. Really cheered up the old place.”

“That’s a great idea.” Rosie’s fondness for the flower explained why I’d seen spent daffodils in the yard around the house. She must have planted their predecessors when she lived there.

Our conversation concluded, I stood. Joule did, too, using his cane to leverage himself up out of his recliner. As promised, I took a look at his showerhead. Between the buildup of mineral deposits and the worn-out gasket, it was no wonder the thing was dripping. I rounded up my toolbox from my car. While the showerhead soaked in a bowl of vinegar, I replaced the gasket and installed sealant tape around the threads where the head screwed onto the pipe. After rinsing the vinegar from the showerhead and scrubbing it thoroughly with a stiff brush, it was as mineral-free and good as new. I reattached it to the pipe and turned on the water. It flowed smoothly, and when I turned it off, there was no drip.

“Hot dog!” Joule slapped his thigh. “Now we’re in business.”

He’d given me some helpful information. I was glad I was able to do something for him in return.

Joule walked me to the door, where I thanked him for speaking with me. “You’ve made me feel better about working on the headmaster’s house. I appreciate it.”

“Glad I could help.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Can I give you a little something for fixing my shower?”

I raised a palm. “We’ll call it even.”

As I turned to go, he reached out and touched my arm to stop me. “Say, do you know if the observatory is still standing? I taught astronomy as a science elective. Irving had the observatory installed as a favor to me. I wanted the kids to have a place to see the heavens.”

“It is,” I said. “The developer plans to fix it up for the residents of the retirement home.”

Joule’s face lit up like the stars he’d taught his students about. “Wonderful! I’m glad it’ll be put to use again. What about the pond? Did it dry up? With the rise in temperature in recent years, it’s probably nothing more than a mud wallow now.”

“It’s full,” I said, happy to relieve his concerns. “Cloudy though.” Besides the visual appeal of aquatic plants, the murkiness was one of the reasons I’d suggested that Loflin plant water lilies in it. They’d help filter the water.

The familiar sound of tools jostling around in a toolbox caught my attention, and I turned to see a man in coveralls coming up the hall. He looked me over and noted that I, too, had a toolbox in my hand, though he didn’t address me directly. Rather, he stepped up beside me, his focus shifting from me to Dr. Joule. “I hear you’re having trouble with your shower, Dr. Joule?”

“Not anymore.” Joule pointed to me. “This young lady got me all fixed up. She’s a house flipper, knows how to do all sorts of things.”

“Is that right?” The man turned his attention back to me, arching a hopeful brow. “Any chance you need a job? We could use some help with maintenance around here. I can’t keep up.”

“I’m fully employed,” I said, “but if things change, I’ll let you know.” With that, I bade the men goodbye.