4 The Killing Bee (16 page)

It's not the end of the world—

SUSIE

You bastard!

She grabs a trophy off Meckel's desk and swings it at his head. It connects. He grunts, gives a surprised look, and falls. . . .

A little melodramatic. But possible.

An angry mother is capable of anything.

Speaking of mothers. . . . "Where was your wife that morning, anyway? If you don't mind my asking."

Barry gave a wry grin. "Don't worry, it wasn't my wife.
Her
screaming I would recognize. Anyway, Ronnie was working the seven-a.m.-to-three-p.m. shift at the hospital. She's got a solid alibi."

Then he picked up a broken pencil piece and pointed the sharpened end at me. "
But you'll probably check it anyway just to make sure, won't you?"

"I probably will," I said, standing up.

"You're a real hard-ass sonufabitch," Barry said, trying to make it sound like he was joking. But he wasn't. Not really.

Weird. In the old days, back when I was a full
-time
artiste
, nobody ever would have referred to me as a hard-ass sonufabitch.

To tell the truth, it felt kind of good.

12

My illusions about being a hard-ass sonufabitch were quickly shattered, however, when I got to Mt. McGregor Correctional Facility. Walking alongside the swaggering guards past the surly inmates reminded me who the
real
hard-asses were.

We were doing a dress
rehearsal for our one-act festival that day, and it was quite a ruckus. The actors forgot their lines, the techies forgot their cues, and the playwrights ran around yelling at everybody.

Dress rehearsals of new plays are always like that, of course. But in prison, as I was about to learn, the usual nuttiness can get unusually dangerous.

During the intermission, I pulled aside a promising twenty-year-old playwright and multiple murderer named Chino. I recommended to him that he cut half a page of dialogue because it was deadly dull and repetitious.

I guess I should have put it more diplomatically, because Chino took umbrage, to say the least. He got up in my face. We were off in a dark corner of the auditorium, behind some stage flats, and there were no guards around to protect me. Maybe some of the other inmates would have stood up for me
—maybe not—but they weren't nearby either.

"My play is only boring to you 'cause you a stupid cracker and you don'
t know shit," Chino said, snarling. "You ain't making me change my motherfucking play."

I stared at him, which was difficult to avoid since his face was only a few inches away. My heart was pounding so badly, I was sure he could hear it. How should I respond? He looked like he was thinking about punching me, or worse. I thought back to all the horror stories I'd heard about homemade shanks.

But as I stood there, fearful though I was, I somehow was able to remember how
I
used to feel when one of my plays was in rehearsal and the director would suggest a major revision. My first impulse was always a fierce urge to strangle the director, then drop him in a vat of boiling oil for good measure.

Those painful memories gave me enough empathy that I could say to Chino, pretty evenly, "Nobody is going to make you change your play. I'm the director and you're the writer. That makes you the boss."

Chino stood there, stunned that I was giving in so easily. I stood there too, not backing down, to make clear I wasn't giving in out of fear.

Then I said, "But I still gotta tell you, Chino, you'd have a better motherfucking play if you cut half of a motherfucking page."

With that I walked away.

Come to think of it, maybe I did have a little hard
-ass in me.

I stayed at the prison for an extra hour and a half. God knows the show needed every last bit of rehearsal time we could muster. Andrea was picking up the kids today, so there was no need to rush back to the bus stop.

On my way home, I decided to stop at the Y and work off my prison tension. I figured I'd spend a
cheerfully mindless half hour running on one of the Y's two treadmills.

But when I hit the gym, my plan to be mindless didn't pan out
. Elena Aguilera was on the other treadmill. She had it cranked up high and she was running fast and sweating freely, like she had some serious tension of her own she was getting rid of. Over against the wall, her daughter Luce was drawing brightly colored pictures of what looked like female matadors. In addition to being academically gifted, Luce was one heck of an artist.

I eased onto the second treadmill. "Howdy, fellow revolutionary," I said.

Elena began running even faster. "Don't talk to me about revolution. I have no heart for it today."

"Hey, we can't let a couple of murders stop us. The school board meeting about special programs is tomorrow. We should go."

"I can't believe they'll be doing business as usual."

"According to the paper, there'll be a tribute to Meckel and Helquist, then they'll do their regular agenda, or at least some of it."

"I don't care what they're doing. All I want is a nice quiet weekend. No
muertos,
nobody getting arrested, no school politics. . . ."

"So who decides
on your tenure, now that Meckel's gone?" I asked, as casually as I could.

"You got me. Maybe the superintendent, or maybe they'll hire an interim principal."

I nodded, and ran for a few moments without saying anything. Then I tried, "Too bad Meckel was killed. I'm sure he would've given you tenure."

I glanced sideways to gauge her reaction. But she didn't give me much. All she said was, "We'll never know."

But what if Elena
did
know? Maybe Meckel had decided to reject her, and Elena found out, and she hit him with the trophy in a fit of rage.

And maybe Ms. Helquist knew what Meckel had decided, and somehow she
connected that with the murder... so Elena ended up killing her, too.

"So do you h
ave any idea who killed Ms. Helquist?" Elena asked.

"I was thinking maybe you," I said in a joking tone, again gazing sidelong at her.

She rolled her eyes. "You're
loco."

I changed tacks. "I want to ask you about one of the kids in your class."

"Mark Robinson again?"

"No, this year's class. Scott Lawrence's kid."

Finally, I got all the reaction I could have wanted—and more. Elena looked over at me for a split second too long, and didn't notice her running had slowed. She banged her feet against the back of the treadmill, then tripped and fell off.
"Aieel"
she yelled.

I managed to ge
t off my treadmill without tripping and Luce jumped up from her drawing. We helped Elena back up.

"Are you okay, Mommy?" Luce asked scared.

"Sure, honey, I'm fine. Just broke a couple of bones, that's all."

"You want to walk it off?" I suggested.

"I'm fine." She went back to her treadmill. "I gotta do five more minutes of running, so I can eat chorizo tonight with a good conscience." She began running again, and I did too. Meanwhile Luce drew a big purple sword for her matador.

"Why do you wa
nna know about Mike Lawrence?" Elena asked.

"I'm curious. I met his father."

"Kid is nothing like him, thank God. Sweet little boy like Mike, I always wonder if he'll grow up to be a
mal huevo
like his dad, or will he get lucky and avoid that tragic fate."

"What do you have against his father?"

That brought her up short. For a second I thought she'd fall off the treadmill again.

"Nothing. Guy's an asshole," she said.

Then she turned off the machine. Quickest five minutes I ever saw.
"Vamonos,
Luce," she said. "Time for a shower, a nice dinner, and two days of doing nothing."

With that, Elena and Luce hurried off.

Why did Elena get so riled up about Scott Lawrence?

I was so busy puzzling over this question that within ten seconds I found myself sprawled on the floor, bemoaning a twisted ankle.

Like most red-bloo
ded, patriotic Americans, I generally look forward to Friday afternoons. Although I'm not a nine-to-five guy myself, that time of the week still feels uniquely peaceful.

But this particular Friday afternoon was different. When I got home, Latree and Charizard had only gotten there a minute earlier, because their bus was late. Much more worrisome than the late bus was the state of Latree's right eye. It was turning black and purple, and he was crying hysterically.

"God, what happened, Latree?" I said in alarm. I'm no good in medical crises, I just freak out. Luckily Andrea was on the case. We were all in the kitchen, and she was getting ice.

"I got punched," Latree squalled through his tears.

"Who punched you?"

"Mark Robinson."

I was so intrigued by this news I almost forgot to be upset. Andrea brought over some ice cubes wrapped in a kitchen towel. "Here, honey, put this on your face."

"Ow, that
’s cold!" Latree yelped.

"It'll make you feel better," Andrea said.

"It’s too cold. Do I have to?"

Latree seems to have inherited my extreme distaste for physical pain.

While Andrea and Latree got the ice situation straightened out, Charizard said, "I hate Mark Robinson. I'm gonna go right up to him and kick him where it hurts."

"You better not," Latree warned. "He's big."

"I'll kick him and then run away real fast."

"Where did this happen?" Andrea asked.

"On the bus. He was on it today because he was going to a friend's house."

"Did you tell the bus driver he hit you?" I said.

"No, the bus driver was busy."

Andrea put her hands on Latree's shoulders. "If something like this ever happens again, I want you to tell him anyway. I don't care how busy he is."

"Why did he hit you?" Charizard asked, beating me to the punch.

"Because he's a jerk."

"Why else?" I pressed.

Latree's banged-up eye was covered with the towel. The other eye looked at me anxiously. "You promise you won't get mad at me?"

"Of course."

"Because I know you don't like it when I do too much murder investigating."

"Is that what you were doing on the bus?"

"You promised you wouldn't get mad," Latree said.

"I'm not mad, just tell me already!"

"Okay, okay.
I was asking him questions, that’s all. Like, how'd he get his skateboard back from Mr. Meckel, did he steal it? And when did he get to school on Tuesday, stuff like that."

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing. He basically just punched me."

"We should call the bus garage and tell them," Andrea said.

Charizard stuck with his Plan A. "We should kick him in the you-know-where."

"We could tell the principal about it, except he's dead," Latree said.

I had my own plan. "I'm going over to the Robinsons' house."

"Why?" Andrea asked, frowning.

"I think Lou should know what his son did. Don't you?"

"Don't get in any fights with him. For all we know, he's the killer."

"Yeah, Daddy, don't let him murder you," Charizard said.

"Dad, just forget it. If s not that big a deal," Latree said. "My eye doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Guys, you don't have to worry about me," I said as I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. "Nothing's gonna happen."

"We'll come with you, Daddy," Charizard said. "I'll kick him in the you-know-where."

The kid was obsessed.

I had to admit, tho
ugh, Charizard's version of justice did have its appeal. If only all of life's problems could be solved by kicking the bad guys in the balls.

I eventually shook off my wife and kids and headed for the Robinsons' house. In retrospect, it
might have been a good idea to accept Charizard's offer of help. Lou Robinson wasn't just big, he was fast. Too fast.

I rang his doorbell, and he answered it. "Lou," I began
—

Before I even saw what was coming, he shoved me in the chest
—hard. I fell off the steps onto the ground, retwisting the same ankle I had twisted in the gym.

Lou came down the steps and stood over me, all two hundred pounds
of him. "You bastard, stop trying to frame my son!"

"Ease up, Lou," I said from the ground. "I'm not trying to frame anybody."

"Now you got your kid doing it too. Giving my son the third degree. You have no right to do that!"

I rolled away and stood up carefully. Lou better not come after me again, because with my ankle like this I was in no shape to run. "Lou, your kid punched my son. Gave him a black eye."

"Serves him right."

"Jesus, Lou, what are you so scared of? Do you think your kid killed Meckel? Is that why you didn't want anybody reading his poem?"

"I'm gonna kill you," Lou said, and came after me.

Busted ankle or no, I hauled ass. Luckily he didn't follow me into my Camry. And luckily she started with a minimum of fuss.

I guess she knew I was desperate.

But once the car and I got rolling we didn't go very far. We drove into the school parking lot right across the street.

It wasn't five o'clock yet. The school psychologist was at High Rock two days a week; if today was one of those days, maybe she'd still be here. And maybe I could get her to talk about Mark Robinson.

I knocked on her door. When I heard a "Come in," I entered.

I had encountered Irene Topor twice before, when my kids were being evaluated to see if they were ready to enter kindergarten. She was a crisp woman in a power suit, with a sharp pointy nose that looked like it was better suited to some obscure species of deepwater fish.