Page 8

CHAPTER 8

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

—William Shakespeare, Macbeth Act 5, Scene 5

WHITNEY

On Friday morning, Uncle Roger asked Buck and me to assist in clearing out the theater so that his crew could begin their carpentry work backstage. I was more than happy to help. There was no rush in remodeling the Victorian. The house had stood vacant for nearly half a century. It could wait a few more days for my cousin and me to give it some TLC. Besides, until I heard back from Detective Macedo and learned more about the evidence in the case, I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene any further. It was unlikely there’d be any new evidence remaining in the place, but it couldn’t hurt to err on the side of caution.

Uncle Roger, Buck, Owen, and I met on the stage, along with two other carpenters my uncle had hired. Being the ham that he is, Buck stepped to center stage, dropped to a knee, and put a hand over his heart, looking up at an imaginary lover on an equally imaginary balcony. “What light shines through yonder broken window? It’s the sun from the east, and you’re a sunny type of girl, too, Juliet!”

Owen snickered. Uncle Roger snorted and shook his head. “You butchered that script, son.”

I came to my goofy cousin’s defense. “Gotta admire Buck’s commitment to his character, though, what with going down on his knee without his pads on.”

Turning to the matter at hand, Buck rose to his feet and we proceeded backstage. There, we found ourselves surrounded by a mountain of props from the students’ final production, The Music Man . There were a number of dusty old suitcases from the era before they came with retractable handles and wheels. My favorite set piece was an improvised train. It was well-designed, with a brass bell mounted on the outside, velvet-covered cushions on the benches, and wheels that actually turned so that the cars could roll on and off stage. There were painted scenic panels on rollers, depicting trees, towns, and the countryside. My guess was that they were rolled behind the train windows on the far side during the performance to simulate movement.

While the men moved the heavier props out to the parking lot, I was left to deal with the costumes, many of which hung from movable racks with wheels. There were a number of cream-colored men’s suits and straw hats. A train conductor’s uniform. Bright red marching band jackets. Overalls and suspenders. A Native American loincloth and head band. Old-timey ladies’ dresses with sashes and coordinating hats. Simple frocks. Tags were attached to the top of the hangers, each listing two names, presumably the student’s name and the character they played: SCOTT/PROFESSOR HAROLD HILL. MICHAEL/MAYOR GEORGE SHINN. CATHERINE/MARIAN PAROO. TERRY/AMARYLLIS . I vigorously shook the dust off each costume as I removed it from the rack, turning my head so as not to get specks in my nose and eyes.

When I finished, I paused for a moment and eyed the stack of costumes, considering. Rather than take these costumes to a charity thrift shop, wouldn’t it be better to donate them to a theater? Maybe the theater where Carole Brown was leading the summer camp could use them. I’d ask her when I stopped by. If she didn’t want them, I’d call around to see if another community theater could use them. To that end, I carried the costumes out to my SUV. I laid the back seat flat to maximize the cargo area, and arranged the costumes in tall stacks, placing the hats and accessories in the front passenger seat.

For the next hour, we continued to empty the theater. While the men handled the larger items, I packed smaller props into cardboard boxes. Folding fans. Newspapers. An embroidery hoop.

As I gathered things up, I came across a program for the production and looked it over. It included a headshot and biography for each actor, singer, and dancer. Like the photos of the Finsters in the news articles I’d seen online, the images were in black and white.

While each student had a few credits for their roles in previous productions, the bio for a senior student named Terry Thorne was especially long and impressive. Isn’t she the one who allegedly eats babies for breakfast? Though Terry played only a secondary character in this show, her credits included appearances in several television commercials for local businesses, stage shows in the Smoky Mountains tourist town of Gatlinburg, a stint singing at the Grand Ole Opry, and even an appearance as a dancer in a rock music video that appeared on MTV, which must have only recently launched at that point in time.

In addition to the actors, the production included members of the school orchestra, who’d played their instruments in the show. Headshots and bios for the musicians appeared in the program, as well. Two of the bios noted that the students had been accepted at Julliard and would begin their studies at the prestigious institution in the fall. Another planned to attend Berklee College of Music in Boston, another very competitive school. Impressive.

A short blurb in the program noted that the production was a combined effort of the theater, dance, visual arts, choir, and music departments, and had been facilitated by faculty members Carole Tiller, Gina Braccione, Adrian Holban, Rosalyn “Rosie” Finster, and Kito Noy—the latter of whom was “screwing” Rosie Finster, if rumors were to be believed. Had it been true? Joule hadn’t seemed to think so. But I’d come across bodies in my rehab projects before and, if I’d learned anything from my experiences, it was that otherwise good people were capable of doing wrong, sometimes terrible things under a particular set of trying circumstances. Maybe a latent killer lives within us all.

Once everything had been cleared out, we evaluated the backstage area. Many of the drawers in the dressing tables were missing pulls or had gone off track, sitting cockeyed in the units. The tops of the dressing tables were scarred from years of use. The stools likewise showed signs of wear, the rails missing, hanging down, or broken. The same went for the large wardrobes. That said, none were beyond repair. As much as all of us carpenters enjoyed working with wood, we didn’t see any reason to waste resources.

Uncle Roger issued his edict. “Some of the broken pieces will have to be replaced, but if we go after the rest with a sander and give them a fresh coat of stain and new hardware, we can get them up to par.”

The rest of us agreed. While I set to work with a screwdriver, removing the hardware, the men rounded up their goggles, dust masks, and sanders. As I finished stripping each dressing table of its hardware, one of the other crew members would go to work on it, sanding out the imperfections. By late afternoon, I’d completed my part of the project and begged off, wishing everyone a good weekend. I hopped into my SUV and aimed for the community center where the summer camp was being held.

The receptionist at the front desk in the community center pointed down a hallway. “The teen theater camp is in the multipurpose room at the end of the hall.”

I thanked her and walked down the corridor. I stopped at the door and peered in through the glass panel. I spotted Carole Tiller Brown right away. Her blond bob and bright smile were unmistakable. She gave direction to several children and sat down on a chair to watch them act out a scene. I figured this was as good a time as any. I opened the door and slipped inside, backing up against the wall to watch.

Though not in costume, much younger than the characters they portrayed, and more likely to be Southern Baptist or Methodist, the teen actors made believable Jewish folk, hiding their Tennessee twang behind remarkably credible Russian accents. When they finished the scene, I automatically applauded. I was the only one. All heads in the room turned my way.

Carole Brown stood. Though she was smiling, I detected a hint of annoyance in her eyes. Who could blame her? I was a stranger who’d interrupted her rehearsal. “Can I help you with something?”

I raised my palms in front of me in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m working out at the old Ridgetop Prep property. We cleaned out the auditorium today. I’ve got a bunch of costumes from The Music Man in my car. I know you were involved in the performance way back. I was wondering if you’d like them or, if not, whether you can steer me to another theater that might.”

She turned to her students. “Take ten, everyone.”

The students dispersed, chattering among themselves.

She stepped over to me, head tilted in curiosity. “What do you mean you’re working at Ridgetop Prep? Is the school being reopened?”

“No,” I replied. “Not as a school, anyway. The buildings are being repurposed into a retirement community. I’m a carpenter on the project.”

She stood silent for a moment, processing what I’d told her. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Someone is trying to bring new life to that old place? That’s a good thing, I suppose. I expect it’s going to take an immense amount of work. Those buildings were in dire need of some TLC way back when. I’m surprised anyone would want to tackle a big job like that.”

“The developer is a former Ridgetop Prep student.”

“That explains it,” she said, her head straightening. “The students who attended Ridgetop loved it there. The faculty loved working there, too. We were like a big, extended family.” She paused for a moment. “Most of us, anyway.”

Who were those outliers? I was dying to know, but worried that being too direct might put her off. Turning back to my alleged purpose for being there, I said, “I found your Facebook page online. That’s how I knew you’d be here today.” Sheesh. I sound like a stalker, don’t I? “I’ve got the costumes in my car. There’s a bunch of bigger props, like the train and scenery, too, if you want them. The crew moved them out to the parking lot at the school. We’ve got a trailer and would be happy to transport them somewhere for you at no charge if you want them.”

“I definitely would, if they’re still in good condition. May I come out this weekend and take a look?”

“Sure.”

We arranged to meet at the school the following morning at ten o’clock so she could take a look at the set pieces. We also exchanged cell phone numbers, just in case we needed to get in touch. For now, I motioned for her to follow me. The sun beat down on us as we walked out to my car to deal with the costumes. I opened the cargo bay, and she pulled a costume off the top of the stack, tugging at the seams to check its condition before looking at the tag on the hanger.

“Oh!” she cried in delight on seeing the name written on the tag. “Susanna Clemson played a perfect pick-a-little lady.”

She pulled out a second costume and eyed the tag, her eyes misting. “Michael Hanover was an amazing Olin Britt. That boy was skinny as a rail, but he sang bass like nobody’s business.” She blinked to clear the moisture from her eyes. “These costumes sure do bring back memories.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

“Mostly,” she said, again not elaborating.

“I’m sorry if this is painful for you,” I gently pried. “I’ve done a little work at the headmaster’s house, and I know about the Finsters. The tragedy has me bothered. I did some digging online to better understand what happened. I came across an article that you were quoted in. I understand you and Rosie Finster were close?”

“We were.” Her hand went to her heart, as if Rosie, though long since deceased, still lived there. “Rosie was like a big sister to me. I could tell her anything. I’d complain about the guys I dated, and she always listened and gave me good advice. She was a fabulous mentor, too. Ridgetop was my first teaching job, and that year was my first school year. I had no idea what I was doing. Rosie had been teaching for a long time, and she taught me all sorts of creative techniques for managing a classroom that I’d never heard of before. I always told her she should write an instructional book for teachers, but she insisted that writing was her husband’s domain.”

“Why couldn’t they both write?”

“I got the impression she didn’t want to step on his toes. Rosie was an incredibly talented singer. She told me that, before she met Irving, she’d had ambitions to appear on Broadway. She gave up her dream so he could pursue a career teaching English and writing fiction. Of course, you’d think a writer would have learned how to type, but he could only hunt and peck on a keyboard. He’d write his stories out longhand and she’d stay up late at night typing it up to send to his publisher.”

The information meshed with what I’d seen on the small side table in the study—handwritten pages transcribed into type. Only before I’d assumed that writing his draft out longhand was simply part of Irving Finster’s creative process. I didn’t realize he couldn’t type. But I had to put things in context. He’d grown up in an era when typing was considered women’s work, and men had secretaries trained to take dictation in shorthand. I didn’t like it, but I got it. I’d watched Mad Men, seen that world in action. The show had grated on every feminist bone in my body, but I had to admit that Jon Hamm was nice to look at. I’m such a hypocrite.

Carole told me that after Irving had been hired at the boarding school in Michigan, Rosie had taken a teaching job at the same school. “She initially took the job only because it would be convenient, but she discovered that she loved teaching. She was a nurturer, like many teachers, and she adored the kids. Of course, they adored her right back. Who wouldn’t? She was such a patient and kindhearted person. Rosie wouldn’t have traded her time in the classroom for anything. She might have died too young, but she died with no regrets about giving up her singing career.”

I wasn’t sure I’d have no regrets if I’d had to give up my own dreams so my husband could pursue his ambitions. Again, though, I had to realize that things were different back then. Women had generally been expected to put their husband’s work first, and such self-sacrifice was seen as a virtue rather than an inequity. Though marriage still required compromise, things had fortunately gotten a bit better since the Finsters’ time. Also fortunately, Collin and I could both pursue our respective careers without having to make such sacrifices. Besides, if Rosie had wanted children of her own but been unable to have them, teaching might have helped fulfill that yearning.

Carole pulled out the next costume, the one with the tag that read TERRY/AMARYLLIS . Her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed tight.

Sensing a story there, I said, “I read over a program I found backstage. The students had impressive bios, Terry Thorne most of all. Sounds like she was a real triple threat.”

Carole went rigid and her voice took on an edge. “She was a threat, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Terry bullied the other students, gave the teachers all kinds of guff. People called her Terror behind her back because she terrorized everyone at the school. Her bad behavior is why we gave her only a secondary role in the production of The Music Man . She was an incredible actor, the most talented student I’ve ever seen, truth be told. She would’ve made an excellent Marian Paroo, but we weren’t about to cast her as a lead. Not after what she’d done to Rosie.”

Now it’s getting juicy. “What had Terry done to Rosie?”

“One day in class, Terry kept singing over the other students, drowning out their voices. She was always trying to overshadow the other kids. She was extremely talented, but she was jealous, too. She couldn’t stand for anyone else to share in the spotlight, but the other kids had talent, too, and they each needed their chance to shine. When Terry refused to lower her volume, Rosie made her sit quietly in a chair facing the corner for the rest of the class. The next morning, Rosie came downstairs to fix her morning coffee and found Terry at her kitchen table.”

Goose bumps sprang up on my arms. “In the headmaster’s house?”

Carole nodded. “It scared the living daylights out of Rosie to see her sitting there. Terry had already made a pot of coffee and poured Rosie a cup. Rosie told me she didn’t dare drink it. She thought Terry might have poisoned it.”

Creepy. Finding an intruder in one’s kitchen had to be disturbing, even if the intruder was familiar. “How did Terry explain herself?”

“She said she’d come to apologize to Rosie for disrupting class the day before, but it was obvious her real goal was to frighten Rosie, to make her feel unsafe in her own home.” Carole shook her head. “That girl just wasn’t right.”

“How did Terry get into the house? Had the Finsters left a door unlocked?”

“No,” Carole said. “Rosie and Irving never could figure out how Terry got inside. None of the windows had been broken and all of them were latched. When Rosie walked Terry to the front door, the deadbolt was still locked. You needed a key to open it from the inside.”

I’d learned this fact on my first foray into the Victorian, when I’d had to remove the deadbolt with my screwdriver.

Carole worried her lip, as if the memory had given rise to fresh fear. “Rosie’s key was still in her purse upstairs and Irving’s was on their dresser.”

In other words, Terry hadn’t used one of the Finsters’ keys to unlock the door. “Who else had a key to the headmaster’s house?”

“Only Dwight Nabors, as far as I know. Dwight oversaw maintenance and groundskeeping at the school. He had keys for the entire campus. I know because I once forgot the key to my classroom and he showed up with a big ring of keys to let me in. Rosie told me that she checked with Dwight that morning, after she’d escorted Terry out of the house. Dwight said there was no way Terry could have gotten access to his keys because he kept them locked in a combination safe when he wasn’t using them.”

“Where was the safe?”

“I don’t know for sure. I assume it was in Dwight’s office on the first floor of the academic building.”

As a former property manager, I knew that both physical keys and digital keypads had their advantages and disadvantages. Neither was entirely secure. A physical key could simply be pressed against a piece of clay or wax, where it would leave an impression that could be duplicated. All it would have taken is for one of the students, maintenance workers, or groundskeepers to have had access to the headmaster’s housekey one time for it to no longer be secure. “Did the Finsters suspect Dwight had helped Terry get access to the house?”

“Rosie never said so, but Dwight resigned suddenly a few weeks later without giving the usual two-weeks’ notice. It seemed odd because two of his seven children attended the school. The rest weren’t old enough yet. His kids didn’t board in the dorms, but children of staff were allowed to attend the academy as day students at no charge. It was a fringe benefit.”

Knowing boarding school didn’t come cheap, I said, “That’s quite a perk.”

“It was,” she agreed. “Several thousand dollars’ worth of free tuition each. When Dwight resigned, he withdrew his kids from Ridgetop. I never taught either of them, so I didn’t know them well, but I can’t imagine any teenager who’d be happy about changing schools with only a few weeks left in the school year.”

The situation had my senses tingling. Could this Dwight Nabors have been involved in the Finsters’ deaths? Could someone have gotten hold of his keys? I eyed Carole intently. “Do you think there’s any chance the Finsters’ deaths weren’t actually a murder-suicide? That maybe Dwight Nabors could have been involved somehow? Or Terry Thorne?” I hated to believe someone so young could have committed such a heinous crime, but it wasn’t unheard of for teenagers to kill. Adolescent gang members murdered each other all the time. Children had even committed parricide, killing the very people who had given them life.

Carole stared back at me and worried her lip again, as if debating how much more to tell this virtual stranger who’d suddenly shown up at her theater camp. She must have decided I looked aboveboard. “I don’t know what to believe, honestly. Irving wasn’t exactly the life of the party like Rosie was. He was always so restrained and solemn. It was difficult to know what he was thinking or how he felt about things. He wasn’t very expressive. Only Rosie seemed to understand him.”

“They had an ‘opposites attract’ kind of relationship?”

“Exactly.” Now that she’d begun talking about the subject, she seemed inclined to continue, as if sharing was helping her unburden herself. “I was the one who found them—or saw them through the window, I should say. Rosie came to the auditorium to get things ready for the evening’s performance, but she realized she had forgotten the oatmeal cookies she’d baked for the cast party. We always celebrated after the shows. Her oatmeal cookies were Kito’s favorite. Mine, too. She went back to the headmaster’s house to get them. It should only have taken her a few minutes, at most. When she hadn’t come back half an hour later and the show was about to start, I went looking for her. I knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I tried the knob, but the door was locked. After Terry had showed up in their kitchen, Rosie and Dr. Finster were very careful to always keep the house locked up.”

I’d do the same if someone had somehow materialized in my home without explanation. Heck, I’d probably get a Doberman or two. I might even block my windows with furniture to ensure they didn’t get in again…

Carole continued to fill me in on the events that fateful night. “The lights were on in the house, so it seemed weird that nobody was responding. I walked around the porch and peeked in the windows. It was hard to see inside because there were bookshelves and other furniture in the way. When I got around to the side of the porch, I could see a sliver of the room around a shelf in Dr. Finster’s study. I saw…” She closed her eyes and put a hand to them, as if trying to block out the mental image that had formed. After a beat or two, she opened her eyes again, removed her hand, and swallowed hard. “I saw their feet on the floor, sticking out from behind the desk. They were tangled up and they weren’t moving. It was clear something terrible had happened. We didn’t have cell phones back then, so I had to run back down to the school to call for help from there. I’ve never run so fast in my life.” She put a hand to her chest again, as if she could feel her heart pumping as hard as it had that night.

“That must have been terrible for you.” Duh. Of course, it had been terrible! I just felt like I should say something and couldn’t come up with anything better.

“I told the staff who’d been working on the show with us what I’d seen. The dance instructor stayed behind to try to keep things calm while Kito and I rushed back to the headmaster’s house.”

Kito must be the Kito Noy I’d seen listed in the show’s program, the Mr. Noy who, according to gossip gleaned from a bathroom stall, was allegedly engaged in a sexual relationship with Rosie Finster.

Carole wrapped her arms around herself, as if the memory made her feel chilled and vulnerable. “We waited on the porch for a few minutes, banging on the window and calling Irving’s and Rosie’s names, but they didn’t move. The sheriff’s department arrived and took over. We could hardly believe it when they told us Rosie and Dr. Finster were dead. Kito just sort of froze in shock, but I fell to pieces.” She closed her eyes again and seemed to go limp, backing against my SUV for support.

She’d painted a vivid and horrifying picture, all the more upsetting given that she’d been so young at the time, just venturing out into the world as an independent adult. I felt guilty for dredging up unhappy memories. “I’m so sorry, Carole.”

She took a deep breath then slowly released it. “When I first heard that Dr. Finster and Rosie had been shot, my mind went immediately to Terry Thorne. She’d been one of the first students to show up at the auditorium and change into her costume that evening. Last I’d seen her, she’d been sitting at one of the dressing tables, putting on her stage makeup. I can’t say whether she remained backstage the entire time. I had a lot of details to tend to and The Music Man had a large cast. There were lots of students milling about. I suppose it’s possible Terry followed Rosie to the house when she went back for the cookies, then snuck back into the chaos backstage afterward. I told the investigator as much. I have no idea where Terry might have gotten a gun, though.”

I’d learned from Collin that there was a thriving underground gun trade in Tennessee. Heck, there was a thriving legal gun trade, too. Unfortunately, some of the people who legally purchased a gun turned around and sold them to those who were prohibited by law from owning a firearm, which included anyone who had been convicted of a felony involving use or attempted use of force, violence, or a deadly weapon. Anyone convicted of a felony drug offense was also prohibited from owning a firearm. Other gun owners left their weapons in their cars, where they could be easily stolen, or failed to lock them in gun cabinets at home. Collin had told me that thieves would target cars with bumper stickers supporting gun rights, because they were more likely to have a gun in the glove box or console. Guns were also a popular item for burglars. Firearms fetched a pretty penny on the black market.

With all the discussion of the play, an image popped into my mind then, the promotional poster for The Music Man I’d seen on the wall in the school hallway. Hadn’t it given a show date in May, near the end of the school year? “I want to make sure I understand correctly, Carole. You’re saying the Finsters died the night of The Music Man performance, right? How could that be? I thought the play took place in May and they died in March.”

“The show was originally scheduled for Friday, March twelfth,” she said, “but there’s no way we could have held the show that night. The kids could hear the sirens backstage, and some of the kids on the stage crew went outside to see what was going on. They saw the flashing lights from the ambulance and the deputy sheriffs’ patrol cars at the headmaster’s house, and knew something very bad had happened. The families in the audience realized something was terribly wrong, too. Kito and I couldn’t fake it. The kids knew we were extremely upset. We gathered the students, and Kito told them that Dr. and Mrs. Finster had passed away. They asked us a bunch of questions but, at that point, we didn’t have any answers to give them. We were all a mess. Kito went out on stage and announced that the show was canceled, and told the audience why. Everyone was heartbroken and upset.”

“Death is a tough thing for children to have to face.” Of course, Carole had been little more than a child then, too, only in her early twenties.

“One of the students suggested we form a prayer circle around the pond, so we did. Some of the families joined in. We all held hands. I stood next to Susanna Clemson’s older brother. He seemed especially upset. He squeezed my hand so tight I thought he’d break my fingers. We all took turns either saying a prayer or sharing a happy memory of the Finsters. At that time, the students assumed there’d been some accident at the house that had killed both Dr. Finster and Rosie. Almost all of the students shared memories about Rosie, but a few of them said kind words about Dr. Finster. They said he’d encouraged them to draw on their personal experiences and helped them become better writers. One boy said that Dr. Finster advised him to take chances on the page, even if he had a hard time taking chances in real life. That stuck with me.”

Finster must have learned that lesson himself, the hard way.

“A few days later, I met with Kito and Gina Braccione. Gina taught ballet and tap, and had choreographed the dance numbers. We decided to postpone the show until near the end of the school year. By then, the pain wasn’t so raw, and we managed to get through it. We had considered canceling it altogether, but it didn’t seem fair to the kids. They’d worked so hard on it. Rosie, Kito, Gina, and I had, too. We knew Rosie would want the show to go on, with or without her. I had to order new posters and recast the roles that had originally gone to students who transferred out, but it gave kids who’d otherwise be in the chorus a chance to take a turn in the spotlight. Several of them surprised me. They were capable of more than any of us had realized.”

“What about Dwight Nabors?” I prodded. After all, he could easily have copied the key to the headmaster’s house before resigning from his job at the school. “Did you see him on campus that evening?”

“To my knowledge, nobody reported seeing him there. Of course, the front gates were open to let parents and family in to see the show. I suppose he could have driven in unnoticed.” Carole shifted the conversation to the official investigation. “I have to give credit to the detective from the sheriff’s department, though. He didn’t simply take things at face value and come to a quick conclusion. He performed a thorough investigation. He interviewed every one of the staff at the school. When I told him about Terry sneaking into the Finsters’ house, he interrogated her, too, as well as some other kids who’d been disciplinary problems. He left no stone unturned. He was so thorough, in fact, that it upset the trustees. The school was already in financial trouble, and without the sheriff’s department confirming there was no killer at large, parents were scared. Many pulled their kids out of the school. We lost about a quarter of our students, even though the trustees initiated new safety measures.”

“Like what?”

“Security guards were hired, and a buddy system was initiated for both students and teachers. No one was permitted to walk the campus alone. A curfew was put into effect, too. Even so, most of the faculty believed Dr. Finster had killed Rosie, then himself. Everyone complied with the rules, but we didn’t believe there was any real risk to our safety. The board later voted to close Ridgetop. I suppose they thought there was no way to come back from something like that, and that the other problems with the school would only get worse. We finished out the school year, but it was hard, especially for the seniors. It should’ve been a happy time for them, and it wasn’t.”

Again, I had to wonder whether I was stirring a pot that was better left alone. Even so, I was curious what became of Terry Thorne after the Finsters perished. “Did Terry’s parents pull her out, or did she remain at the school until the end of the year?”

“She continued at the school. She graduated with the other seniors who’d stuck it out to the bitter end. The commencement ceremony was very subdued that year.”

“Where did she go after she graduated?”

I’d expected Carole to name a college, but instead she said, “Hollywood.”

I felt my brows rise reflexively in interest. “Is she still there?”

“Who knows,” Carole said. “It was difficult to keep up with people back then, before Facebook and e-mail and cell phones. The grapevine among former Ridgetop teachers fell apart pretty fast when we all moved on to new schools. Most of us just wanted to put things behind us and move forward rather than dwell on the past.”

“That’s certainly understandable.” I debated about asking Carole whether Rosie had admitted to her that she and Kito Noy were having an affair, but decided against it. Even if they had been, it seemed doubtful Rosie would admit it to a friend who was so much younger and who looked up to her. Instead, I beat around the bush. “When I was in the academic building, I saw some graffiti on a bathroom stall. It implied that Mr. Noy and Rosie Finster were involved.”

“No way.” Carole shook her head vehemently. “Rosie and Kito were good friends, but that’s all. They both loved musical theater and had a lot of fun working on the shows. Things weren’t perfect between Rosie and Irving, just like they aren’t perfect between any married couple, but she was committed to her husband. She would never have had an affair.”

“Things weren’t perfect,” I repeated. “In what way?”

Carole winced, as if wishing she hadn’t opened this can of worms. But rather than shut me down, she said, “She never said this outright, but I got the impression that she wished Irving were more romantic. I remember her telling me about a time she packed a picnic lunch for them so they could enjoy some time together outdoors. When Irving was home, he was always holed up in his study, either dealing with school matters or scribbling away on his manuscripts. She worried he wasn’t getting enough sunlight and downtime. She’d barely spread out the blanket by the pond when he fell asleep on it. She figured he needed the rest and let him sleep, but she was disappointed. She joked that he snored so loud it scared off a pair of ducks.”

Hmm. Even though both Dr. Joule and Carole said they didn’t think Rosie and Noy were having an affair, it seemed clear that Irving Finster had been consumed by his work, whether voluntarily or not. Surely, Rosie’d felt ignored, taken for granted. But had she sought attention in the arms of another man? Both Joule and Carole seemed to think very highly of Rosie. Did that blind them to her faults?

“Why do you think Irving chose that moment to end things?” He couldn’t have known she’d come back to the house for the cookies. His actions must have been impulsive, spontaneous. Had he known the oatmeal cookies Rosie had returned to retrieve were Kito’s favorite? Might that have set him off? Could he have been jealous of how closely his wife had been working with Kito on the musical production? Was he trying to ruin something the two had created together?

“Some of the trustees had called for Irving’s ouster. They held a meeting the night before the scheduled performance of The Music Man to discuss replacing him. He was nearly fired on a vote of no confidence, but he squeaked by on a five-to-four vote.”

The implications of the vote were clear. Even though he’d been retained, he must have been humiliated to know that a large portion of the board considered him a failure. With his professional life on the skids, he might have been feeling extra sensitive, and if he thought his personal life was about to implode, too, it might have pushed him over the edge.

I thanked Carole for speaking with me, and we transferred the costumes to the trunk of her car.

As she headed back to the community center, she motioned for a group of students who’d gathered outside the doors to follow her back to the room. “Come on, y’all. Let’s run through that last scene one more time.”