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Authors: Stephen Anable
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stores. She actually told me she’d like to live in the past. That’s pretty unusual for a young person.”
“So you think she was a fool whose opinions have no consequence.” He was growing soberer by the minute.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Genevieve Courson was very much a realist. My God, I should know.”
“You weren’t at her funeral.”
The potent insult didn’t faze him in the least. “I was cowardly. Afraid. If I’d met her father, I was afraid…of what I might do.” He’d realized I’d noticed the crude heart, his tattoo, and, caressing his right arm, covered it with his left hand. “
I could have strangled him
.”
That certainly was an interesting response. I would let him volunteer the details, to see if they matched Fletcher’s. Of course the father was in some sort of trouble, but was he a sex offender?
“He’s a pedophile, the old man. Genevieve always denied it, defended him, but he enjoyed photographing little girls in salacious positions. Some high school girl was having her photograph taken. For her yearbook. Old man Courson put his hand up her skirt. He claimed he was ‘posing’ her. Odious.”
This was new, but it backed up Fletcher’s version.
“Genevieve’s mother was going to leave him. She’d had it with his…predilections. Then she got sick, she got breast cancer. She was too busy dying to get divorced.”
To cooperate a bit, I responded truthfully about the royal silver rumor. “No one at Mingo House takes the monstrance story seriously. It’s…a legend.”
“Really?”
That comforted him somehow. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Winslow. I’ve been under a great strain.” He rose.
I had to ask him the obvious question: “Do you have any idea who killed Genevieve?”
“None. None whatsoever.”
“Does the name Fletcher Coombs mean anything to you?”
“It does not.” When he had escorted me to the door and closed it, I counted one, two, three deadbolt locks that he drew. I’d neglected to pay for my dinner. That could be my excuse if I wished to contact him in the future.
Chapter Ten
There was no way I could determine whether Genevieve Courson was pregnant. The details of her murder in the media and the brief descriptions of her autopsy made no mention of a fetus or its possible father. But all of the friends in Genevieve’s circle portrayed her as a young woman with a good deal more drama than the average “coed.”
Was there a possibility the father of Genevieve’s child could have been someone other than Bryce Rossi, perhaps even his dead “rival,” Zack Meecham? The college community was in the process of disbanding for the summer. If I was going to investigate Zack’s life, I had to do it soon. It was already June. So I headed “across the river” to Cambridge.
It was commencement week at Harvard, and Tercentenary Theatre was filled with hundreds of gray folding chairs and its trees hung with loudspeakers, cables, and crimson banners bearing the insignia of the university’s individual schools—bewildering the squirrels doing their trapeze act amid all this new paraphernalia. Throngs of graduates carried red-sheathed diplomas as they tried to act blasé while showing their families the Yard and posing for photographs with the John Harvard statue. Some visitors were rubbing John’s bullion-gold left foot for good luck.
My goal was Boylston House, with its white bell tower crowned by a cobalt-blue dome and courtyards cooled by venerable trees. This dormitory pretended to date from colonial times but was actually constructed during the Depression. Zack Meecham had lived here as a tutor, in close proximity with the students. Surely someone, feeling the wistfulness and nostalgia of the ending of his undergraduate career, would be willing to reminisce about this young scholar, killed in such an untimely manner.
Getting into Boylston House on this day of chaos and good-byes was easy. I just trailed along with the tide of families, all
“So you think she was a fool whose opinions have no consequence.” He was growing soberer by the minute.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Genevieve Courson was very much a realist. My God, I should know.”
“You weren’t at her funeral.”
The potent insult didn’t faze him in the least. “I was cowardly. Afraid. If I’d met her father, I was afraid…of what I might do.” He’d realized I’d noticed the crude heart, his tattoo, and, caressing his right arm, covered it with his left hand. “
I could have strangled him
.”
That certainly was an interesting response. I would let him volunteer the details, to see if they matched Fletcher’s. Of course the father was in some sort of trouble, but was he a sex offender?
“He’s a pedophile, the old man. Genevieve always denied it, defended him, but he enjoyed photographing little girls in salacious positions. Some high school girl was having her photograph taken. For her yearbook. Old man Courson put his hand up her skirt. He claimed he was ‘posing’ her. Odious.”
This was new, but it backed up Fletcher’s version.
“Genevieve’s mother was going to leave him. She’d had it with his…predilections. Then she got sick, she got breast cancer. She was too busy dying to get divorced.”
To cooperate a bit, I responded truthfully about the royal silver rumor. “No one at Mingo House takes the monstrance story seriously. It’s…a legend.”
“Really?”
That comforted him somehow. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Winslow. I’ve been under a great strain.” He rose.
I had to ask him the obvious question: “Do you have any idea who killed Genevieve?”
“None. None whatsoever.”
“Does the name Fletcher Coombs mean anything to you?”
“It does not.” When he had escorted me to the door and closed it, I counted one, two, three deadbolt locks that he drew. I’d neglected to pay for my dinner. That could be my excuse if I wished to contact him in the future.
Chapter Ten
There was no way I could determine whether Genevieve Courson was pregnant. The details of her murder in the media and the brief descriptions of her autopsy made no mention of a fetus or its possible father. But all of the friends in Genevieve’s circle portrayed her as a young woman with a good deal more drama than the average “coed.”
Was there a possibility the father of Genevieve’s child could have been someone other than Bryce Rossi, perhaps even his dead “rival,” Zack Meecham? The college community was in the process of disbanding for the summer. If I was going to investigate Zack’s life, I had to do it soon. It was already June. So I headed “across the river” to Cambridge.
It was commencement week at Harvard, and Tercentenary Theatre was filled with hundreds of gray folding chairs and its trees hung with loudspeakers, cables, and crimson banners bearing the insignia of the university’s individual schools—bewildering the squirrels doing their trapeze act amid all this new paraphernalia. Throngs of graduates carried red-sheathed diplomas as they tried to act blasé while showing their families the Yard and posing for photographs with the John Harvard statue. Some visitors were rubbing John’s bullion-gold left foot for good luck.
My goal was Boylston House, with its white bell tower crowned by a cobalt-blue dome and courtyards cooled by venerable trees. This dormitory pretended to date from colonial times but was actually constructed during the Depression. Zack Meecham had lived here as a tutor, in close proximity with the students. Surely someone, feeling the wistfulness and nostalgia of the ending of his undergraduate career, would be willing to reminisce about this young scholar, killed in such an untimely manner.
Getting into Boylston House on this day of chaos and good-byes was easy. I just trailed along with the tide of families, all
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