The Drowning Tree by Carol Goodman Page A

from the inspection of strangers.
    “From the college president, Gavin Penrose, and a few of the trustees I saw at St. Al’s this morning—”
Ah, so he didn’t get up early solely out of filial duty
, I think, “—and from Penrose’s secretary, Fay Morgan. Although shocked at the news of Christine Webb’s death they seemed equally shocked at the content of her lecture last week.”
    “It doesn’t take much to shock the trustees. They’re very protective of the college’s reputation; that’s what being a trustee is all about—they’re entrusted with the college’s welfare.”
    “Oh, is that what it means; I always wondered. Of course the one who seemed most put out with the lecture’s content was Penrose.”
    “Really? I thought Gavin looked pleased with the lecture.”
    “According to his secretary he and Miss Webb argued about the lecture’s content before she gave it.”
    “Fay’s not always the most reliable of witnesses.” I think about the strange conversation I had with Fay in the gym sauna and I’m about totell the detective about it when he interrupts me. “She wasn’t the only one who heard the argument. It was at a brunch at the president’s house. Several of the trustees overheard President Penrose accusing Miss Webb of not having the college’s best interest at heart. I spoke to Penrose this morning and he said he
was regretful
about having argued with Miss Webb but that he’d been worried that some of the content of the lecture might distress the trustees. Apparently Miss Webb finally agreed to edit out some of the more objectionable parts.”
    I think of the moment Christine paused while flipping through her note cards. It was just when she’d mentioned the Victorians’ belief that madness was hereditary. I’d thought that she was cutting out something in consideration of my feelings—knowing how often I’ve dwelled over the years on the chances of Bea inheriting her father’s mental condition—but now I see that it’s more likely she was trying to appease Gavin Penrose. After all, Clare Barovier was his great-aunt. While I’ve been distracted with this thought Falco has wandered over to the spiral staircase.
    “Where do these stairs lead to?”
    “To my living area—” I’m about to make an excuse about unmade beds and messes caused by fifteen-year-olds packing for eight-week camping trips but he’s already halfway up the spiral stairs. He’s greeted at the top by two sleepy-looking greyhounds. The dogs spent half the night trailing Bea around, eyeing her suitcases with deep suspicion, and have only now roused themselves.
    “Che Bella,”
the detective croons, scratching Francesca behind her ear. Francesca rubs her long muzzle against his leg while Paolo whimpers for attention.
    “They’re usually shyer around strangers,” I say, edging past the greyhound lovefest and opening the rooftop door. I’d like to get him outside before he can notice the chaos left behind in Bea’s wake. Not that I’m so proud about my housekeeping—it’s just that I have a sudden aversion to having my private life scrutinized by those coolly assessing gray eyes.
    It’s not my laundry and unwashed dishes, though, that he’s interested in. When we get out on the roof he immediately moves to the edge and points toward the boathouse.
    “You mentioned yesterday that you and Miss Webb stopped at the kayak rental before proceeding to the train station, right? And you spoke to a—” he takes a small spiral-bound notebook out of his pocket and looks at it, “—a Mr. Swanson.”
    “Kyle Swanson. Yes, he runs the kayaking center. My daughter and I have both taken lessons from him.”
    “Your daughter had been out kayaking with Mr. Swanson … How old is your daughter, again?”
    “Beatrice is fifteen. Kyle Swanson also coaches the girls’ crew team at Rosedale High. We’ve known him for over a year … is there something wrong with that? Something I should know about