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She slid a glance his way and wondered if his own thoughts had tracked hers, if he, too, had replayed their disaster of a love affair and breakup. If so, he’d no doubt come to the same conclusion: They should never have gotten together in the first place and could never rekindle that shortlived flame again.
“Okay, brace yourself,” he said as the Jeep crested a hill, and suddenly, through the falling snow, Jules caught a glimpse of lights glowing boldly in the white night. “It’s showtime.”
CHAPTER 20
If there was chaos inside the compound, it was well suppressed by a blanket of falling snow. The only real sign that things were amiss on this beautiful campus were police vehicles parked at odd angles in front of buildings with lights blazing.
“Where are all the students?” Jules asked as Trent parked the Jeep near a garage.
“The students were herded into the rec hall, at the heart of the campus. The sheriff’s department is probably still interviewing people.” He cut the engine, and they both watched as the vehicle that had been following them, a Range Rover, slid to a stop near a large cottage on the fringe of campus.
With a broad front porch, lights burning in the windows, and dormers peeking from a sharp-sloped, snow-covered roof, the house looked like something out of a Currier and Ives lithograph. A man stepped out of the driver’s side, then hurried to the passenger door to help a bundled-up Cora Sue out of the vehicle.
“Let me guess, that’s where the reverend lives,” Jules said, eyeing the homey house.
Trent nodded. “When he’s here.”
“How often is that?”
“Most of the time. But wifey usually isn’t.”
“I bet. I saw her place on Lake Washington,” Jules said, thinking of the massive estate with its separate wings, grand staircase, marble floors, and manicured grounds. The boathouse in Seattle was fancier than Lynch’s home near Lake Superstition.
As more lights snapped on inside the house, a man came out of the house, and Jules recognized the pilot, Spurrier, half-jogging back to the Range Rover. He opened the rear door, and Jules half expected the black poodles to leap out and pee on the surrounding pines. Instead the pilot pulled two massive Louis Vuitton roller bags from inside the SUV. Without allowing either piece of luggage to touch the snowy ground, he carried them both inside.
“What do you think of Lynch?” she asked.
“Pompous and self-serving come to mind.”
“Then we’re on the same page.”
“That,” he said with a half-grin, “might be a first. Come on, let’s not arouse any suspicion. There’s enough of that to go around as it is.”
He helped Jules haul her things into an office in the administration building, where a sheriff’s deputy and Dean Hammersley searched through Jules’s bags.
Rhonda Hammersley’s strength was apparent as she hoisted a heavy bag to the table. Brown corduroy slacks and a hand-knit sweater did not soften her sinewy runner’s frame. Her short, streaked hair was meticulous, every fingernail perfectly manicured, but there were smudges beneath her eyes, dark circles of worry that no amount of makeup could hide. She didn’t even bother trying to smile as she apologized, “You understand we can’t be too careful. Especially now.”
Jules didn’t buy it. She had the distinct feeling that Rhonda Hammersley enjoyed going through other people’s belongings. Maybe she just liked having that right, being superior in some small way.
Hammersley found Jules’s cell phone and computer, and told her that they should be locked in Jules’s private quarters at all times. Once both she and the deputy were satisfied, the dean directed Trent to show the newest member of Blue Rock Academy’s staff to Stanton House and the studio apartment that would be Jules’s home. Located on the uppermost floor, the unit was spacious yet rustic, with pine walls, warm sconces, and a bank of windows that overlooked the campus.
“Not bad, eh?” Trent said as he left her luggage near a small walk-in closet.
“All the comforts of home,” she said, eyeing the kitchen area, which consisted of a microwave oven, a sink, a few cupboards, and a small refrigerator. “Except for my cat.” She thought of Diablo, wondering how he was doing under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dixon. “Not that he would want a change of venue. Agnes Dixon, my neighbor who’s watching him, will spoil him rotten. And he’ll lap it up.”
Standing near the door as if he wanted to make a hasty retreat, Trent checked his watch again and frowned. But before he could say anything, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Trent glanced over at Jules, his gaze connecting with hers. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Farentino,” he said, loud enough so that whoever was ascending the stairs would be sure to hear him.
“I go by Julia.”
“Everyone here calls me Trent,” he said as Rhonda Hammersley clipped through the open door, wearing a dark jacket with the school’s logo emblazoned on it. “Dean,” he said, tipping his head. Then he clambered noisily down the wooden stairs.
“Settled in?” Hammersley asked as Trent’s footsteps faded.
“Just getting there.” Now what did the dean want? “I have some unpacking in my future.”
Hammersley folded her arms across her chest, defensive. “I have to apologize again,” she said. Twice in half an hour; Jules guessed that might have been a record. “Things here, as you can see, aren’t normal. Until the sheriff’s department has concluded their investigation, I’m not at liberty to discuss the events of last night.” She gave Jules the cleaned-up sound bite for the “tragic situation,” even mentioning that one student, Nona Vickers, had died, but she didn’t elaborate. Just that no one really knew what happened in the stable last night, and the school was doing everything possible to “get to the bottom” of the tragedy while ensuring the safety of all its students and staff. “Some of the students are really upset, as you can guess. We already had an altercation, one of the TAs and a new student,” she admitted.
