“The supposition is suicide, but the autopsy report does not give a cause of death. But the fellow is a chemistry master, after all, and the feeling is that he mixed up some sort of untraceable potion and offed himself.”

“This is awful,” Ripley said, downing the remainder of his scotch.

“Just one more thing: there was a suspicion in the air that one or more of his students, out to avenge their classmate, may have concocted the potion and somehow introduced it into his system. The police questioned everybody, but they could find no evidence pointing to anyone in particular. By that time, the master’s remains had been cremated, and his ashes scattered on the James River, so the whole business eventually petered out.”

“James,” Ripley said, “is there any way you can get your hands on that script, or the DVD?”

“Nope. The boy asked for both to be returned to him, and they were. He didn’t want anyone to see it. Actually, that may not be a bad thing for you. And, if the headmaster gets wind of the flick, you might want to stick with only the facts you knew before this conversation, which I will keep to myself. After all, being dumb is better than being complicit.”

“You have a point,” Ripley said. “Tell me how this film came to be in your dean’s office.”

“The boy, this Peter Barrington, has applied for admission to the school, and the word is, he had a favorable interview. The dean did tell his secretary that the committee all thought his film was brilliant, the sort of thing that might do well at the indie festivals.”

“You said Barrington?”

“Peter Barrington.”

What the hell? Ripley thought. “His name wasn’t Barrington when he was here. It was Calder.”

“Like the sculptor?”

“Like the actor. So, if he’s accepted, he would matriculate in the fall?”

“It seems so.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up, James.”

“Not at all, Alan.”

“At least I’ll know what I’m up against if I have to face the headmaster monster.”

“If you get up this way, let me know, and I’ll buy you a bad lunch in our cafeteria.”

“Certainly will, James. Take care.” Ripley hung up and stared into the fire. So now Peter Calder is Peter Barrington? Let’s see, it’s January, he thought. If I start looking now, I might just be able to find a new job before the fall.

He poured himself a second scotch, a larger one.

Chapter 38

38

Arrington drove from her rental house to her new property and turned down the long, oak-lined drive. Even from that distance she could see Tim Rutledge waiting for her on the front porch, a roll of blueprints under his arm. He stood stone-still, staring at her as she approached.