2 Death Makes the Cut (12 page)

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My telephone was ringing as I walked in the door, and my heart leaped. Maybe it was Alan, I thought dashing across the living room. I knew it couldn’t be—it was the middle of the night in Italy—but nevertheless I yanked up the receiver without looking at the caller ID, eager not to miss the call.

“Jocelyn? Finally,” said a voice on the other end. “I’ve been calling for hours.”

Well, there was a voice once heard never forgotten. And just about the last person I expected to hear on the end of a phone line, now or ever. Not only was it not Alan, it was the absolute opposite of Alan. The anti-Alan. My ex-husband, Mike Karawski. The letdown was spectacular.

“
No hablo inglés,
” I said.

“Ha, ha. Nice try.”

“What do you want, Mike?”

“Great, thanks for asking. And how have you been?”

Typical Mike. Funny, yes, but always with a sting.

“I’m sorry, where are my manners? So lovely to hear from you. How are you? And how is your lovely wife? What’s her name again? Bubbles?”

“Tiffany,” he answered shortly.

“Tiffany. That’s right. Silly me.” I kicked off my shoes, and then opened the back door to let Belle outside. She waddled out sleepily.

“Heard you had a murder at your school.”

“Oh, are we done with the chitchat? Yes, we had a murder.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Why are you asking?” I countered.

“I’m interested.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“There’s a murder at a school in my town, and I can’t be interested?”

“Not without an ulterior motive.”

He was silent for a minute, which surprised me. Normally, he had his lies planned out in advance. “I’ve joined the district attorney’s office.”

“You’re a prosecutor now?” I asked. Another surprise. The last I’d heard he was becoming something of a star as a defense attorney.

“That’s right.”

“What the hell? There’s no money in that, Mike.”

“I’d had enough of private practice. I wanted to serve the community.”

I laughed out loud. “Uh-huh. I forgot what a humanitarian you are.”

I could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “Regardless, I’d like to know about this murder.”

“Why? Besides, there’s nothing to know. They haven’t found who did it yet. Nothing there for a lawyer to do.”

“The public needs to be protected. Murders in our schools. It’s outrageous. I need to be current on incoming cases.”

“Oooh … I get it. The public needs protection. Your protection. You’re thinking about running for office, aren’t you?”

“That is certainly something I’m considering,” he answered stiffly. “I believe the citizens of Travis County could use a judge who…”

“Wow, a judge?” I interrupted. “Shooting pretty high, there, Mike.”

“… who isn’t afraid to take a strong stand against crime.”

“Impressive. Were you shaking a cop’s hand while you said that on your infomercial? And I’ve always wanted to know—do you use real cops or do you hire actors for shit like that?”

“Look, can you cut the crap for just once? I need to know a few things before I make a statement. Now, there are rumors going around that the dead guy was selling crack out of some kind of tool shed on school property…”

I hung up.

This was bad. I paced around my tiny living room, ignoring the stack of papers that was calling my name. Mike was an idiot, but a connected idiot, and his facts were wrong, but not wrong enough. This meant that the cops were still pursuing the drug angle, looking for ways that Fred had brought about his own destruction. It meant that instead of focusing on the murder, they were focusing on finding out about Fred’s possible illegal activities, which was bad enough. But if Mike was planning a political campaign around fighting corruption in public places, maybe in our schools, it meant that Fred’s reputation was going to be skewered, and he would be remembered forever as the teacher who was murdered while selling drugs to children.

I could not let that happen.

A scratching at the door reminded me that Belle was still outside, and I opened the door to let her in. She waddled to the couch and bounced beside it a few times before finally getting enough momentum to jump onto the cushions. Curling into a small ball, she settled down to watch me with beady, watery eyes.

I sat beside her, running a hand over her curly head and thought back almost seven years ago to my first day of student teaching. I’d been so nervous that day, wanting to do well but afraid I would have a hard time reaching the kids. After all, I wasn’t that much older than the students. My hands had been like ice when I reported to the office, but Fred Argus was already there, waiting for me with a cup of terrible coffee from the teachers’ lounge. He told me to watch what he did that day, especially during third period, which was his trouble class. He was a master at maintaining order. At the beginning of each period, he stood at the doorway, saying good-bye to exiting students, usually with some funny word or silly warning to behave. Then, as the next class arrived, he greeted each student by name, telling one kid to remove his hat because “gentlemen do not wear hats inside a building,” then telling another that she had impressed him with her last paper. Talking in his class was forbidden, participating in class was mandatory. His students were relaxed and engaged. He had a gift for recognizing each kid as an individual, for making the lessons interesting and relevant. I learned more in those few months with him than I had done in all my years of education classes. Not only about how to be a good teacher but about how to be a good human being. I know that when I applied for a position at Bonham, Fred had been the main reason I was hired over all the other applicants. I owed him more than I could say.

And now, I could not let his name and reputation be ruined by rumor when he was not able to defend himself. Not after all he’d done for me. I rose and began to pace, wanting to stomp out my frustration on the wood floor. Belle raised her head briefly, then turned her back to me before going back to sleep. What could I do? How could I stop a rumor mill once it started grinding?

Maybe, just maybe someone had seen something. I thought back to the day we’d found Fred. Roland and Nancy had been at the school late the evening before. Maybe I could start with them, try to find out if they’d noticed a strange car in the parking lot—maybe something like Richards’s black SUV. Or possibly they had seen Fred speaking with someone and just hadn’t thought anything about it. Also, I could talk with the tennis kids about the shed, about Fred’s cigarettes, and about anyone who might smoke marijuana. I had a pretty good relationship now with several of the kids. They might be able to tell me where the joints originated, especially if I was able to convince them that I didn’t care whose they were, as long as we could prove they weren’t Fred’s. And then I would talk to anyone else I could think of. Something that Detective Colin Gallagher ought to be doing, I thought bitterly, but apparently wasn’t since he seemed to be too busy spreading rumors to wannabe judges about Fred instead of working. I wished he were here so I could kick his shins.

I flopped down beside Belle and stared at the stack of papers unenthusiastically. It was already almost ten o’clock, and I was tired, but putting it off would just make the next day’s stack that much higher. I pulled a sheet from the top, and started reading.

Chapter 7

DRAMA AND DEFENSE

In the morning, careful to park at a safe distance from the film crew, I went looking for the drama practice room, sometimes known in the teachers’ lounge as Nancy’s Lair. Despite cutting through Building A every day on my way to class, I hadn’t been down there in several years, not in fact since my first days at the school when I’d been given the grand tour, and I had only a vague idea of where it was. Around me the school was starting to wake up. In the wide hall that ran between the theater and orchestra rooms, the flag team was gathering for practice, two boys using their flags to reenact the light saber battle from
Star Wars
while the girls took turns calling words of encouragement or derision, depending on their preferences. In a corner, a couple of moms were opening the Tiger’s Den, a miniature storefront at which the PTA sold school supplies and spirit items like Bonham bumper stickers. I’d guess they sold roughly thirty-five cents worth of stuff each morning, making it totally worth their time.

Passing the doors to the theater, I turned left along a narrow corridor that ran from the main hallway toward the front of the building and ended with doors that opened to the outside. These doors were supposed to be locked at all times, although most days someone propped them ajar with a brick. Peeking through the first window, I saw the risers used by the choir. The second window was dark and appeared to be a storage closet. But yellow light streamed through the window of the third, and I pushed it open. I’d found the Lair.

The large room was divided into different zones. Nearest to the entrance was a walled-off office with a door and two desks, each piled high with papers, and one holding a single ancient computer. There was no sign of Nancy or Roland. I stepped farther in, easing the door shut behind me so it wouldn’t slam. To my left, a large wooden platform about fifteen feet by twenty took up much of the floor. A practice stage, I thought. Directly across from the stage, a blank whiteboard hung on the wall above a circle of chairs. And at the back of the room, a partition concealed another area. Hearing voices, I went in that direction.

Nancy Wales was standing with her hands on hips, speaking in low cutting tones to a girl who looked like she was about to cry. Nancy was dressed in a black pants suit with a brightly colored silk shawl draped around her shoulders, a dramatic outfit that accentuated her height and bulk. She towered over the girl.

The girl saw me, and her eyes widened, but Nancy didn’t notice.

She was saying, “It’s your choice. Either come to practice or leave the production.”

“But Ms. Wales, I do come to practice. I’ve been to every practice. But my mother wants me home before ten…”

“Your mother is not in theater. You are. All actors must stay for the entire rehearsal, no exceptions.”

Ten o’clock at night? Was this a joke?

“Good morning, Nancy,” I said, and was pleased to see her give a start.

She turned and gave me a sharp look. Probably wondering how much I’d heard. “That’s all, Megan. You can go.”

“But…” Megan started.

“Now,” said Nancy.

The girl slid past us, head bowed, shoulders hunched, trying not to sob aloud. I watched her go, then turned back to Nancy.

“Trouble?”

“It’s always something with these kids,” she said evasively. “Lazy and unmotivated. Back in my day, we couldn’t get enough rehearsal. But never mind that. What can I do for you?”

I decided to get what I came for first. “Last Monday night, the evening Fred was killed, you were having practice up here until fairly late, right?”

She stiffened visibly, then made a great show of thinking about it. “Hmmm, last Monday. Last Monday. Why, yes, we did have practice that night. Why?”

“I’m not sure the police are making much progress. I was thinking if we all pooled our information, we might come up with something that could help them.”

She gave me the same look she would give a dead rat. “I hardly think so. I’ve already told the police everything I know. And so has Roland. I didn’t see the poor man at all that night. In fact, I don’t recall seeing him at all this year.”

“He was holding tennis practice every day for the previous two weeks,” I pointed out.

She waved a hand. “I’m sure he was, but you can hardly think I pay any attention to sports. I believe the football teams were out there too, and you could hardly walk ten paces without tripping over someone carrying a tuba, but I simply do not have time to notice every person on campus. We are in the middle of rehearsals for the most important production we’ve ever had here at Bonham. My time is best spent here.”

“Still, Roland said you were here until dark. There couldn’t have been too many people about at that time. Maybe you saw someone when you were walking to the parking lot?”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance, carefully suppressed. “No, no one at all. I simply went to my car and drove home. I wasn’t even parked on the tennis side of the building.”

“But maybe there were a few other cars still in the parking lot?”

“I saw no one. I don’t know how to be more plain on that point. I already told the police as much, and I don’t really want to go over it again with you. Now, I have work to do,” she said pointedly.

I decided I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. I’d have to make sure to tackle Roland later when she wasn’t around, or she’d stop him from speaking to me. Especially after what I was about to say.

“So, Nancy, I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation with your student. Practice until ten o’clock? Really?”

Her face hardened, jaw jutting like a bulldog’s, only a good deal less friendly. “You must have misunderstood, Miss Shore.” She stressed the “Miss” part, I guess to make sure I knew we were no longer best friends forever. Heartbreaking of course, but I would have to live with that.

“No, I heard her quite clearly. In fact, it sounded like her mother was pretty unhappy about it. Can’t say I blame her. I mean, when are the kids supposed to do their homework? Or eat?”

Her face reddened and a muscle worked in her jaw. “I don’t think you need to be concerned about it,” she said. “You can be sure I take care of my students. There’re always one or two who are whiners, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you do. I was just mentioning it because I would hate to see your department get into trouble with the University Interscholastic League. They have pretty strict rules about after-school practice. I know, because I’ve had to be careful with the tennis team.”

This was nothing more than the truth. The UIL had disqualified teams before, sometimes on the very eve of a contest or match. Which didn’t always prevent ruthless coaches from overworking their kids, but it did at least slow them down.