Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“Do you remember Jay Duran?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He taught language arts,” Peabody put in. “You had him in your junior and senior years.”

“Oh, Mr. Duran—I don’t think I ever knew his first name. Yes, I remember him, mostly because his were the only classes I actually liked.” She added a quick, self-deprecating smile. “Of course, I couldn’t let on I enjoyed them, got anything out of them, or I’d lose face. What happened?”

“His wife was murdered.”

Her eyes, direct on Eve’s, radiated distress, and bafflement. “I don’t understand

. I just don’t understand. It’s awful, it’s terrible, but I don’t understand.”

“We’re pursuing a line of inquiry. Who do you know from the transition period—Grange to Rufty—who would have carried a grudge for those consequences you spoke of?”

“God, probably half the school. No, not that much,” she corrected. “But plenty. Not just students, but some of the teachers, too, and plenty of the parents, I think. He changed the status quo—do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“We were used to having our way, and that stopped. A lot of the upperclassmen planned to go on to Ivy Leagues, and Rufty’s Rules—that’s what we called them—could have screwed with that. They probably did for some, I don’t know. Most of my group shattered—parents took their kids out, or did like mine and put the chains on.”

“Do you, or did you, keep in touch with that group?”

“From school?” Kendel let out a short laugh. “No. At first because I couldn’t. My parents took my ’link—can you imagine the horror of being a teenage girl without access to a ’link? It was hell. And they blocked communication from all my devices. Schoolwork only—which they checked. Constantly. I hated it, hated them. But I toed the line because they weren’t bluffing about that boarding school. I’ve never seen my father so angry, or my mother so horrified. Not before, not since.”

“After you got communication access again?”

“By then, I was done with it. I didn’t like school—I was never a great student—but I liked the peace. I liked not having to constantly think of something outrageous to do. I liked getting a decent grade on a project I’d actually done myself.”

Pausing, she studied her lemonade. “I owe my parents for that, and Dr. Rufty, and teachers like Mr. Duran. Second chances,” she said, looking back at Eve before she looked around her pretty yard.

“I’m here because of them. Do you know what I mean when a situation or a time can feel like the end of your world, then somehow becomes the making of it, and you?”

“Yeah.” Eve nodded. “I do. What did you do after you graduated?”

“I went off to college. I can’t say I shined there, but it was a clean slate. I promised my parents I’d give it two years, and I did. Then I came home, started doing what I realized I really wanted to do. Work with my mom on the business. I’m good at parties, at planning them, at figuring out what the client wants and needs. It meant that I didn’t look back on those years.”

Eve turned another angle. “Your fiancé has political ambitions, and his mother may run for president—that’s the rumor.”

“It is.” And now she showed Eve a damn good poker face.

“You were a teenager, true, but previous bad acts often get unearthed and used, politically.”

“Tell me about it. I told Merritt the works when we got serious. And we sat down with his parents. Patience is a great woman, and she’ll be an amazing president if she chooses to run. She knows it all, or all I could remember. She said she saw me as a case study in early redemption. That’s who she is. I turned my life around. I’ll hate if what I did at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen hurts Merritt or Patience in any way. But I turned it around. I can’t change what I did, only what I do.”

“Do you remember Marshall Cosner?”

“Marsh?” On an exhale, Kendel shook her head. “Now, that’s a ghost from the past. He was one of our gang—because a gang’s what we were for a while. He got pulled out—or kicked out, I can’t remember. I might not have known which. If I was a shaky student, Marsh was worse.”

She smiled when she said it. “He was fun—the kind of fun I was looking for back then. Always good for a laugh. And a score. He could always come up with illegals, booze, an empty house to play in. What did we call him?” She closed her eyes a minute. “The Facilitator. God, we thought we were so clever.”

“When’s the last time you saw him, spoke to him?”

“Years. Ah, I remember a party at his place—his parents were out of town—right after Dr. Rufty came on as headmaster. We were all celebrating, all planning how we were going to slay him and his idiot rules. All drunk or stoned,” she added. “I’m not sure I saw him after that. I must have, but I know it wasn’t more than a couple days after the party, he was gone. That was right before my parents came in to talk to Rufty after I got suspended.”

“Stephen Whitt.”

“Steve? God, God, sexy Steve, another ghost. He was my guy back then. I was madly in love with him, the way you are in high school. He got pulled, too—maybe the same day as Marsh. I think it might’ve been. Before the hammer came down on me, we talked about taking off together. He would come into some of his trust fund when he turned eighteen, and he was nearly there. We’d just blow.”