4 The Killing Bee (13 page)

"Was anybody else aware of this arrangement?"

Susie flushed. "Just me and Meckel, as far as I know."

Well, well, well. So now both Susie and Ms. Helquist had told me stories that couldn't be confirmed or denied, since Meckel was dead. If Susie's story were true, that would have decreased her desire to kill the man. But should I believe her? The woman had depths inside her that I had never suspected. "I don't understand. Why didn't you tell me or Elena or Barry or
somebody
what was going on with Megan?"

"Because we're always talking about our gifted kids. I didn't really feel like sharing about my low
-achieving kid."

"That
’s a little weird, Susie. I mean, we're friends."

"I can't help it. It would've felt disloyal to Megan." Susie's voice was
pained. "I keep hoping her problems are just temporary, and she'll have an intellectual growth spurt or something. Just get into reading all of a sudden, like some kids do."

"How long have you been concerned about her?" My question arose partly out of friendship, but mostly out of fishing around to see how distraught she'd been. Distraught enough to bop somebody with a spelling bee trophy?

"I've known something was wrong since last September. I kept telling her teacher, Ms. Merritt. But she kept saying no, everything's fine, Megan'll catch up."

A school year's worth of pent-up frustrations were boiling over now. "But I saw what all the other kids in class were doing. They were reading actual books and all Megan could really do was recognize letters. So I told Meckel I wanted to get an assessment. They're required by state law to do it, you know. So he promised he'd have her assessed.

"But then the reading teacher went on maternity leave. And it took them more than a month to find a new one, and she was only here two days a week, and she was swamped. And things kept getting put off and put off. . . . Until finally I get that goddamn letter from Meckel. Saying the same thing I'd been saying all year, that Megan needed special help. Except I couldn't get anyone to
listen
to me."

"That sounds like a horrible experience," I said. "But at least now she's getting help. I'm sure she'll be alright."

"Yeah. No thanks to Meckel or Merritt or any of the rest of them."

I looked at Susie, with her freckled nose, clean white T-shirt, and trendy running shorts.

She didn't look like a killer.

That and sixty cents will get you a chocolate bar.

I drove the old Camry back down Broadway. I really w
anted to return to Ms. Helquist’s office. That way I could confront her with Scott Lawrence's denial that he knew anything about the computers.

I also wanted to
ask Ms. Helquist about this supposed agreement between Susie and Meckel. Susie thought no one but Meckel knew about it, but I was hoping that Ms. Helquist knew. Secretaries know everything.

Unfortunately, I w
ouldn't be able to mine Ms. Helquist for knowledge just yet. Much as my Camry groaned in protest, I had to go back to prison for another rehearsal. Opening night for the inmate-written one-acts was next week, so we had an extra rehearsal today.

As soon as I walked into class, I knew something was wrong. Brooklyn was cussing and gesticulating and acting generally frenzied. I walked over and p
ut a hand on his shoulder. "What’s up, Brooklyn?"

"I'll tell you what
’s up. Omar can't act in my play anymore. The motherfuckers in administration transferred him to Greene."

"You're kidding." Greene was another medium
-security prison, down below Albany.

"No, I ain't. Sonufabitch left this morning. And he was just getting good, too."

I shared Brooklyn's frustration. This business of students getting transferred out in midsemester had been happening way too frequently in the past year or two. I'd start a semester with twenty students, and wind up with eight or nine by the end.

All the statistics sh
ow that giving prisoners an education is the single best way to keep them from going back to a life of crime after they get out. But the powers that be didn't seem to care about that. They treated these guys' education like it didn't matter.

"I guess we better go to Plan B, Brooklyn. You got the part."

"Yeah, I know," he grumbled. "I was hoping to sit in the audience and just
watch
my play."

Once we made it through that crisis, and a couple of more minor ones, we had a decent rehearsal. Brooklyn was terrific, like I knew he'd be. We had a semi-retarded guy in one part who kept forgetting his cues, but the other guys covered for him so well
that his screwups were unnoticeable. The semi-retarded guy's mom was coming up from the Bronx next week to see the show, and his fellow inmates were already focused on making sure he looked good in front of her. It was sweet to see.

After rehearsal, I did my usual routine of hurrying out of there so I'd be in time to pick up my kids at the bus stop. Worki
ng in jail always makes me treasure my kids even more.

The kids and I went out to the driveway to play a little b-ball. I did better this time, only losing thirty
-two to eight.

Andrea came home during the game, and I was plann
ing to head over to Ms. Helquist’s house as soon as the game was over. But when I went inside to wash up, there turned out to be a message on my machine from the woman herself. "Mr. Bums," her voice said, "this is Hilda Helquist. I need to talk to you about something. I'll be at my bridge club until nine. Could you come over after that? Thanks."
Beep
.

Was Ms. Helquist going to confess to the murder? Dubious at best. Maybe she had come up with some kind of evidence against somebody else. I called her at home, but there was nobody there.

I checked my watch. Nine o'clock was three and a half hours away. How would I while away the time? Maybe I should cook supper. God knows Andrea wouldn't mind if I took care of that for once—

But my cooking plans were interrupted by the next phone message. "Jacob, this is Gretchen," the voice said. "Just calling to remind you we're announcing the poetry prizes tomorrow. So you need to call me first thing in the morning with
the winners. Okay? I really appreciate it."

Oh phooey, I'd
forgotten all about that dam poetry. I erased all my phone messages, but that didn't erase my responsibilities. Maybe I should just pick the winners at random, like I'd threatened to. I could be a Dadaist judge.

But my conscience wouldn't allow me to do that. So while Andrea
gave the kids a snack I went upstairs, found the stack of poems in the drawer of my night table where I'd stashed them a few days ago, and began reading. The first poem was entitled "Corn."

Corn, I love you, you're so great.

For a week, you were all I ate!

Oh corn, sweet corn, I love you, I do.

You'll be my favorite food until I'm through.

Well, nobody could ever argue this poem didn't have a clear, well-thought-out point of view. And it rhymed. I turned to the next poem, "Spring."

Spring,

Birds flying everywhere!

Flowers and beans are growing too.

The most beautiful season of all,

Especially for kids named Paul.

You can probably guess the first name of the kid that wrote this
poem. I smiled and picked up another one.

Bad men walk the earth.

They're mean from their very birth.

They yell at kids and they steal their stuff.

It
’s time to say we've had enough,

And if we have to, we'll get tough.

Hmm, kind of a change of pace. Not the most rhythmic piece of writing, but it had a nice shit-kicking quality to it. This kid could grow up to be the next Abbie Hoffman, or Che Guevara. I checked the signature at the bottom. Then I did a double take.

This ode was penned by none other than Mark Robinson.

"They yell at kids and they steal their stuff. . . ." That must mean Mark's skateboard.

"It’s time to say we've had enough, / And if we have to, we'll get tough. . . ." Interesting.

Maybe Ms. Helquist would have some insight into the whole skateboar
d incident, in addition to whatever else she was planning to tell me. At nine twenty-five, as soon as we put the kids to bed, I took off for her house. I was afraid the cops—or whoever—might be doing surveillance on me again, so I slipped out the back door and cut across some backyards. Then I doubled backward and around to see if anybody was following me. Nobody was. Feeling pretty slick, I went up to Ms. Helquist’s house and knocked on her door.

No answer. I knocked again, but still no go. Was Ms. Helquist staying late at her bridge club? But it looked like there were a couple of lights on at the back of the house. Maybe she'd had second thoughts about inviting me over, and was hiding from me again. I turned the doorknob, thinking that if it was unlocked I'd step into the h
allway and call out Ms. Helquist’s name.

The knob turned, al
right, and I went into the hallway. But before I could call out her name, I tripped over something. Something large and solid. I fell headlong to the floor.

Right next to
Ms. Helquist’s prone body.

It was a little hard to make out in the dim hal
lway, but I was pretty sure that’s what it was. I let out a strangled scream. Then I jumped up... and slipped on something wet, and tripped over Ms. Helquist’s left foot. I went down again.

I crawled f
ar enough away from Ms. Helquist’s body that I felt safe, then got up again. This time I was able to stay up.

I looked down at the body. I wasn't certain it was Ms. Helquist, or that she was really dead. Carefully avoiding bumping into the body, I eased my way along the wall back to the front door. I closed the door, felt around for a light switch, and finally found one. I turned it on.

It was Ms. Helquist. And she was dead, no question about that. There was a big red hole in her chest, and a gun nearby on the floor.

And that wetness
I'd stepped in was Ms. Helquist’s fresh blood.

I was about to give in to the horror of it all and begin puking or fainting or something when I heard a police siren blaring. It was coming closer. Had some neighbor called about the gunshot? Oh, God. Just what I needed
—a murder rap. Terror took over from horror, and I ran for the back door. Then I remembered something—the blood I'd slipped on. I went back to the front hall. Sure enough, my shoe prints were in the fresh blood.

No doubt I was one of the usual suspects that Chief Walsh would look at first for this murder. When he matched those prints to my shoes, he'd be in hog heaven.

I ripped off my old orange polo shirt. I swirled it around in the blood, just enough to obscure my shoe print. As I did this, I silently asked Ms. Helquist for forgiveness. Then I dashed once again to the rear door.

When I got there, another thought struck me. I looked down at the floor. It was just as I had feared: my bloody shoes were still making prints.

That cop car must be parked by now. The cops were probably hurrying up the front walk.

I kicked off my shoes, then raced back toward the body, swabbing shoe prints as I went. Then I swabbed quickly at the light switch, where I'd maybe left fingerprints. It was possible I was swabbing the murderer's fingerprints too, but I couldn't help that.

There was a knock on the front door. I ran to the back door, reaching down to grab my shoes. Another knock. The door was still unlocked—they'd be coming in any second. I wrapped the bloody shirt around my right hand so I wouldn't leave fingerprints, and opened the back door. Then I slipped out and closed the door behind me.

Wearing my socks and pants, I ran through Ms. Helquist's backyard. My feet were attacked by thorns from her rosebushes. I vaulted over her back fence.

Then I made my circuitous way home, once again availing myself of the West Side backyards. I didn't want anybody seeing me running down the street carrying my bloody shirt and shoes. That's the kind of thing that can get misunderstood.

When I came in the side door to our house, Andrea was at the sink doing dinner dishes. She dropped her sponge when she saw me.

"Jacob,"
she said. She was so alarmed she looked comical, but I didn't laugh.

I spoke rapidly. "Andrea, here's the deal. A, I didn't kill anyone. B, I want you to take this shirt and these shoes, put them in a bag, and get rid of them."

"Now?"

"That would be good."

"What about the cops? If I try to drive out of here, don't they have us under surveillance?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure t
hey're all over at Ms. Helquist’s house."