In the Shadow of Lakecrest(47)
Suddenly, I saw something that made me shout out, “Stop!”
Hank pressed the brakes and pulled over.
“I won’t be a minute,” I said, so eager to get out that I opened the door myself. I rushed back toward a sign I’d spotted on a wide brick building: “Academy of Arts and Classics.” Inside, there was a familiar smell of chalk dust and warm bodies confined together in small spaces. A dour-looking man in an old-fashioned black jacket and waistcoat peered out from a door labeled “Office.” A schoolmaster, from the look of him.
“May I help you?” he asked. I could hear chanting from down the hall, dozens of children’s voices reciting their multiplication tables.
“Can you read ancient Greek, by any chance?” I asked, followed by a flirtatious smile.
The man looked momentarily confused, then self-satisfied. “Yes.”
“I wonder if you might help me.” I pulled out the book and showed him the writing on the note. “What does this say?”
He uttered a few words of what sounded like gibberish, then added in English, “‘Ever shall the wine of wisdom flow.’ Plato, I believe. Or was it Aristophanes?”
“Thank you. Most obliged.”
As I turned and hurried out, I heard him spluttering behind me, “Madam? Madam?”
Hank raised his eyebrows in a silent question when I arrived back at the car.
“No more stops,” I said, suddenly exhausted. I sank into the backseat and tossed Dr. Rieger’s book to the side. Why had I gotten my hopes up, thinking this would be the clue that solved the case? The wine of wisdom. What a lot of hooey. Wasn’t the whole idea behind Prohibition that alcohol led to the very opposite of wisdom?
The dull, ashen lake seemed like the perfect reflection of my mood as we drove northward. Had I really wanted to know the truth about Cecily for Matthew’s sake? Or had I simply wanted to get the upper hand on my mother-in-law by proving she’d been involved? It didn’t matter anymore. Cecily was most likely a disturbed woman who ran away from home and died anonymous and alone. And I’d never be able to fix Matthew’s broken heart.
As we drove beyond the city limits, through Evanston and Wilmette and Winnetka, the clouds miraculously thinned and faded, bathing trees and houses in a glow of late-afternoon sunlight. Tulips and irises and daffodils filled the well-tended flower beds of the North Shore, and my dreary mood began to lift. As we came up the front drive of Lakecrest, my heart didn’t sink with the usual dread. I saw, for the first time, the building’s peculiar charm, its potential for greatness. Take away the gargoyles and columns, make the doors and windows a uniform size, and it might even be beautiful.
Look to the future, Mr. Haveleck had urged. As I got out of the car, I gazed up at the words carved into the front archway. Factum est. Could it be done?
I’d hoped to get back before Hannah realized I was gone, but I wasn’t that lucky. She was standing in the front hall when I stepped inside.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. Livid. “I’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m fine. I had to do a bit of shopping.”
“I gave clear orders to Hank,” she fumed. “He wasn’t to drive you anywhere.”
So that’s why he’d been wary about taking me to Chicago. I felt a childish satisfaction that he’d disobeyed her.
“May I be excused to get ready for supper?” I asked. Sweet as pie.
Hannah nodded brusquely. “Matthew’s taking the five-thirty train from Union Station. We’ll be eating at seven.”
Less than an hour before I’d have to face her again. At Marjorie and Matthew’s insistence, Hannah had reluctantly agreed that formalwear was no longer necessary for family dinners, but I was still expected to change out of my day dress into something more appropriate for evening. Upstairs, I stripped down to my slip, then washed my face and hands in the bathroom. I pulled my makeup pouch out from a shelf in the cabinet, hoping a line of kohl around my eyes might distract from the bags underneath. Red lipstick, too, rather than my usual light pink, to show Hannah I wasn’t cowed by her bullying. I reached toward the back of the shelf, searching for a particularly gaudy shade Marjorie had given me for Christmas.
I pulled out the slender gold tube, and a brown paper–wrapped package slid out alongside it. The package fell to the floor, flapping open on its way down, and a dozen flat white tablets scattered onto the floor.
Irritated, I scooped them up. The only benefit of pregnancy so far was that I no longer had to deal with this particular precaution, one I’d discovered in the Family Limitation pamphlet Blanche kept hidden underneath her mattress. She had blushingly admitted she’d bought a pessary, just in case, and I’d said who wanted to fuss with fitting it in the right spot when you could just stick a pill up there? Blanche thought sticking a pill up there couldn’t possibly stop a baby, and I told her it looked easy—all you had to do was wait for it to dissolve and did whatever it did to the man’s you know—and we’d doubled over giggling and thought ourselves very daring.
So much for my faith in modern methods.
I flushed the suppositories down the toilet, then picked up the wrapping. Something about the way the pills had fallen nagged at me, and I held up the paper, feeling at the edges. It had been new, unopened. Was it my imagination, or was the tape that held it together barely sticky? The usual label was attached from a small clinic in Chicago; Blanche had bought them for me so I’d be spared any gossip. The pills inside had looked the same as usual, but how could I be sure?