Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,42

she hesitate.

“I went to the McGowan School,” Ms. Baxter said. “When I graduated, I went on to Mount Holyoke. When I graduated from Mount Holyoke, I came back here to teach French. After a time I became dean of students. After another while I became headmistress. I have spent nearly all my life here. I care deeply about the school.”

“I can see why you would,” I said.

She was going someplace, and I wanted to let her go there.

“But a school isn’t buildings, or even headmistresses,” she said, and smiled slightly at herself. “A school is the girls who come here, and flourish, and move on to college and careers and marriage, and when they have daughters they send them here and the school continues, organically, almost like a living thing.”

I nodded. I’d had no such experience with schools, but it was touching to see someone who had. Even if it was illusory.

“So,” she said, “to shortchange the children in order to preserve the school is oxymoronic.”

I made no comment. She wasn’t really talking to me anyway.

“Adelaide did not flourish here,” Ms. Baxter said. “In her second year she took too many sleeping pills and nearly succeeded in killing herself.”

“How old?” I said.

“Sixteen.”

“What the hell was a sixteen-year-old girl doing with that many sleeping pills?” I said.

“She was a very troubled girl. We got her to the hospital and the school doctor arranged for her to see a local pediatrician. With the help of members of our board, we managed to allow the world to think it was an accident.”

“But it wasn’t,” I said.

“No,” Ms. Baxter said. “She tried to kill herself.”

“Do you know why?” I said.

“I do not. Her mother came out to get her and brought her home, despite, I’m told, Dr. Weiss’s objections. She never returned to school. Perhaps if you talked with Dr. Weiss.”

“School doctor?” I said.

“No. Pediatrician. The school doctor, Dr. Feldman, never treated her, really. Just had her admitted to the hospital and arranged for Dr. Weiss to see her.”

“Is he here in town?” I said.

“He is.”

Ms. Baxter took a small piece of lavender-colored notepaper and wrote an address and handed me the paper.

“I’ll be happy to call him for you,” she said, “if you wish.”

“Might be helpful,” I said.

She nodded and stood, and went to her office door.

“Doris,” she said to a secretary, “get Dr. Weiss for me, please.”

Then she came back to her desk.

“After successfully covering up the attempted suicide,” I said, “why did you decide to tell me now.”

“The poor girl,” Ms. Baxter said. “Now she’s been kidnapped, you are trying to find her. I had no right to withhold anything.”

Her phone rang.

“Yes,” she said, “thank you, Doris, put him on.”

She spoke briefly on the phone to Dr. Weiss, made a note on her lavender notepaper.

“Three o’clock this afternoon,” she said. “He will see you. Do you need directions to his office?”

“How many streets in this town?” I said.

“I believe five,” Ms. Baxter said.

“I’ll find him,” I said. “I am, after all, a detective.”

She smiled. I stood.

“I pray that you’ll find her,” Ms. Baxter said, and rose to walk me out. “And I hope you won’t have to use your gat.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Have you ever used it?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I have.”

“Oh, dear,” she said.

“Think how I feel,” I said.

46

Hawk pulled his Jag up in front of the big white house where Dr. Weiss did business.

“You going to join me?” I said.

Hawk shook his head. I nodded and got out of the car.

“Y’all take yo’ time, Miss Daisy,” Hawk said. “I be waiting right here.”

“Cute,” I said, and walked up the flagstone path to the side of the house, where a self-effacing little sign said Office.

Weiss was a tall, thin guy with a gray crew cut and a jittery manner.

“At the behest of Dr. Feldman,” Weiss said, “I spoke with Miss Van Meer several times during her stay in the hospital.”

“What can you tell me?” I said.

“Well, of course, this was some years ago.”

“Five,” I said.

Weiss nodded.

“She denied attempting suicide,” he said. “Claimed it was an accidental overdose.”

“You think?” I said.

“She accidentally took twenty sleeping pills?” Weiss said.

“Okay, so she tried to kill herself. Was she serious?”

“I don’t know. She took all the pills she had,” Weiss said.

“So maybe she was serious.”

“Maybe,” Weiss said.

“She was attempting to kill herself, or attempting to call attention to her circumstances,” I said. “Either way, something’s wrong.”

“Yes,” Weiss said.

“Do you know what?” I said.

Weiss leaned back a little in his chair.

“Shrinks hate questions