DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (18 page)

“Did Miss Amber quit?” I asked, using the first segue that came to mind.

“Amber’s not here today,” she answered by way of non-answer. “Can I help you? I’m
very busy.”

“Some teachers feel they are being cyberstalked. Tinsley is one of them. That’s a
crime. Have you made them aware that they can report it to the police?”

“The police learned about the messages during their investigation into Miss Pringle’s
death,” she said. “But I’d rather not have any more negative publicity for Peerless.
Especially if it’s just a prank. If we ignore the texts, they’ll eventually stop.
The parents get agitated with too much controversy.”

“Are you getting texts, too?”

“That is not your concern
.
” Cooke’s brow furrowed. “I heard you found the students in the garden last night.
You shouldn’t be roaming the grounds.”

“I wasn’t roaming. We saw a kid running from that direction,” I said. “Were your texts
like the ones Miss Pringle received?”

“No.” Ms. Cooke firmed her lips. “Miss Pringle’s loss is devastating, and this week
is a terrible burden for Peerless. We’ll get through it by staying on our respective
tasks. I suggest you respect our loss and do the same by focusing on set design and
not on harmful gossip.”

She walked forward, forcing me to back out of her office, and shut the door. I stared
at the closed door, wondering what kind of text Cooke had received. Must have been
a humdinger.

Pringle. Tinsley. Vail. Fisher. Cooke. If only these adults would set aside their
pride and admit they were being bullied.

And where the hell was Principal Cleveland?

Tw
enty-One

T
roubled by the news that Ellis’s father was back in town and Cleveland missing, I
slipped into the school foyer, snuck out my cell phone, and called Detective Herrera.

He didn’t sound pleased to meet my request, but promised to check on Cleveland. His
interest piqued when I mentioned Dan Madsen’s return to the area.

“I’ll be at the funeral on Monday,” said Herrera. “If Madsen shows, I’ll talk to him.
Unfortunately, I got to know him because of Ellis’s death.”

“Do you think Dan Madsen’s the kind of guy who’d badger the teachers with these texts?”

Herrera didn’t speak for a long ten seconds. “People do all kinds of stupid, crazy
stuff you’d never think possible of them. But if Madsen wanted to point fingers, I
wouldn’t think he’d blame the teachers. He should be pointing them at Ellis’s friends
and the kids who did it. Madsen and his wife should have been checking Ellis’s texts
and social media messages. They could have seen what was happening and gotten her
help.”

“What if I could convince one of these teachers to report the cyberstalking?”

“Until it’s reported, there’s not much we can do on this end.”

“Thanks, Detective Herrera.”

He paused again. “Hey, we got the tox screen back on Maranda Pringle. A cocktail of
alcohol, atomoxetine, and benzodiazepine. One benzo was Xanax. We found an empty Xanax
bottle. No label. Probably bought it off someone. The other benzo was lorazepam. Probably
Ativan, used for insomnia. Easy enough to get.”

“Wait, I thought she was taking Zyban. Why wouldn’t she try to OD on that?”

“She only had a few pills left of Zyban in the bottle. Maybe she thought it wasn’t
enough. There was a trace of it in her system, though. That and birth control pills.”

“What’s the other drug you mentioned?”

“Strattera.”

“The ADHD medicine? Did she have ADHD?”

Another long pause. Long enough for me to circle the Peerless foyer two times. “She
did not have a prescription for Strattera.”

Cops. “So where did she get it?”

“We’re looking into it.”

“And you still believe Pringle committed suicide? You don’t find that suspicious?”

“Suicide is a suspicious death, but yes, I think it’s suicide. The Strattera combined
with alcohol would make her sleepy. Add in the Xanax and Ativan and she would have
fallen asleep and not woken up.”

“And the coroner?”

“Now wonders where she got the Strattera.”

I smiled. “Thanks for the info. I know it pained you to give it to me.”

“If you can convince a teacher to report the cyberstalking, I’d be happy to investigate
it.”

“I’m on it,” I said and hung up. A teacher passing through the lobby frowned at me.
I shoved my phone into my satchel. The kids needed to teach me their skills on sneaking
devices.

A bell rang and the halls flooded with students. Caught in the tidal wave of bodies,
I swam toward the arts hall, then paddled toward the fine arts wing.

In the small entryway between classrooms, I found myself crushed between exiting and
entering students and allowed them to pull me into the nearest classroom. A young
woman looked up from Dr. Vail’s corner desk, while the new class of students took
their place at the easels.

I squeezed past the easels to the desk and smiled at the young teacher. “Hey, I’m
Cherry Tucker. Is Dr. Vail around?”

“Sorry, she’s out today. I’m another art teacher, just filling in. Can I help you?”

“Will Dr. Vail be back tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure. Today was unplanned, but she had some concerns over the arts budget
and wanted some time to go over the numbers before getting out of town this weekend.
She’s showing student work in a festival in Berea, Kentucky.”

A good excuse for Vail to check out Tinsley’s accounting like she had threatened.
“While I’ve got you here, have you been getting odd texts?”

“Like books? They made pop-ups in three-D design a few weeks ago.”

“Never mind
.
” I leaned closer. “Did Dr. Vail mention feeling cyberstalked? Some other teachers
are having that problem.”

She leaned away, then flicked a glance at my visitor badge. “Who are you again?”

“Cherry Tucker. Fellow artist and new set designer. I need to speak to one of your
senior students anyway.” I glanced at Preston’s schedule. “He has sculpture right
now.”

Sticking her hands on her hips, the sub leveled me with a dark gaze. “You can’t talk
to our students. I’m going to call the office if you don’t leave.”

Crap. I didn’t want Cooke involved. “Can you tell Preston I’m looking for him?”

“No. Out.” She pointed at the door.

I turned around.

Fifteen students watched us from their easels. Trudging toward the door, I stopped
by a student who had made a sketch of my encounter with the teacher.

I grabbed his pencil and adjusted his skewed perspective. “I’m bigger than the teacher
because I’m closer to you,” I explained. “You made her look like Godzilla.” I added
scales and sharp teeth to the sub’s image to make my point.

“F-off,” said the kid, snatching back his pencil. “You’re not my teacher.”

“Good luck in college with that attitude.” I wormed my way toward the door and into
the art vestibule. I peeked in the other doors until I spied students gathered around
a working lathe. Sculpture class.

These Peerless teachers were brave. A lathe seemed like an expensive lawsuit waiting
to happen.

I hauled open the door and stepped inside the classroom. Three students glanced up,
peering at me through thick goggles. The fourth slipped a chisel off the block of
wood rotating on the lathe. He shut off the machine, pulled off his goggles, and glanced
up.

Not a student. A young, male teacher in a flannel shirt and Carhartt utility pants.
He had clipped his teacher badge to his shoulder, near his round cheeks and bright,
green eyes.

“Did we forget to put the attendance folder out again?” asked Mr. Cute.

I glanced at the door and didn’t see a folder. “Yes.”

Tossing his goggles at one of the kids, Mr. Cute strode to his desk. He searched through
the mess, then looked back at me. “I don’t see it. Are you sure? Anyway, Preston King
is the only one out today.”

Dangit. I was two for three already. Scott Fisher was last on my list. “Thanks. Do
you know why he’s absent?”

Mr. Cute shook his head. “Nope. Sorry.”

I left them to their sharp instruments, headed back to the main hall, and turned west
toward the theater doors. With class in session, I would need to hunt down Fisher
after hours. Which gave me time to speak to Tinsley.

In the drama department, Tinsley conducted class on stage again. He organized the
students into small groups. “Experience an ice cream cone,” he ordered them and waved
me over.

I walked past the groups of melting ice cream cones and pretended it seemed normal.

“Let’s examine your sketches, shall we?” said Tinsley in his over loud, I’m-the-theater
voice.

I pulled my sketchbook from my satchel and flipped to the pages I had worked up in
colored pencil. I had chosen a palette of blues and greens from viridian to ultramarine.
Instead of fish populating the underwater alien world, I had drawn sea monkeys.

“Fantastic,” said Tinsley. “I wonder if we could get readymade costumes like these
creatures? Brilliant adaptation of my ideas, Miss Tucker.”

My theatrical contribution to
Romeo and Juliet
was sea monkeys.

I walked to the lowered backdrop. “I’ve never painted anything this big. I’m looking
forward to it.”

Tinsley scooted closer to me. “And how goes the other front?” he whispered. “Any news
on our phantom?”

“I’m working on it, but I keep uncovering other oddities. You heard about us catching
your drama students in the memorial garden last night?”

“An unfortunate incident. I spoke to them this morning. Thankfully, my students are
not versed in drug culture and were taken for saps by a nefarious miscreant who trades
in the vile stuff.”

“Preston King? He’s not in school today.”

Tinsley darted a look toward his students and scooted closer. “Camille lets him get
away with murder.”

“Murder?”

“I am prone to exaggeration. She covers for him.”

“Dr
.
Vail’s out today, too.”

“Really? How odd.” Tinsley rubbed his beard. “Something I said? No matter.”

“Do you know Preston King well? Does he sell other drugs besides fake shrooms?”

“There are all manner of rumors, but he’s never been caught. Unfortunately, these
children have money and much freedom. Where there’s money and freedom, they find all
sorts of negative ways to recreate.”

“How about prescription drugs? ADHD meds? Does Preston sell drugs like that?”

Tinsley shrugged. “It would not surprise me in the least. That particular student
has placed a pall over our fair school. Do you believe Preston King is the Phantom?”

“Not sure about that
.
” I turned to gaze at Tinsley’s supposed angelic students, wondering if Maranda Pringle
would have bought Strattera from Preston.

If proven, it could jerk a knot in the drug peddling tail at Peerless. But I was not
hired to bust drug dealers. Tinsley wanted the Phantom.

“Listen, I’ve been talking to the cops. You and the other teachers need to report
your texts as cyberstalking. Prosecute this guy for real.”

“This is why I am paying you, so I don’t have to involve the police. Peerless doesn’t
need the negative publicity. We shouldn’t have to suffer the arrows and daggers of
gossip when we’re at competition. Not only could it skew the judges’ opinion, it distracts
the students from their work.”

He turned toward his students. Their ice cream-selves having melted, they now played
with their phones on the floor. “Rehearsal begins next period. The advanced choir
is joining us to begin work on the musical.”

“Sounds good. I want to speak with other teachers about the anonymous messaging. But
if you have the materials, I may as well start painting now.”

“I’ll have your assigned assistant ready the paint for you. Whatever we don’t have,
I’ll order.” He approached the students and began to direct them into another activity.

I still didn’t understand his reluctance to report to the police. Weren’t the students
already distracted from their work?

Why would drama judges care that some prankster had stalked Peerless? I hoped Max’s
investigation into Tinsley turned up the reason for his recalcitrance. Tinsley looked
to beat both me and Tater the goat in stubbornness.

And that was saying something.

I wandered to a bathroom to change into painting gear. My usual wife beater and cut-offs
felt inappropriate for public, particularly in a high school, so I had brought a pair
of overalls and an old Tybee Island t-shirt featuring a Tybee turtle holding a Solo
cup. My overalls’ bib hid the Solo cup.

When I returned to the stage, the bell had run
g
, signaling the next class, and Laurence waited for me with a cart filled with buckets
of the acrylic theater paint. Laurence also wore old jeans and a t-shirt. I had a
feeling he volunteered for set painting just to get out of wearing his uniform.

“Ready to get your art on?” I grinned.

“I am ready to do the necessary steps to get my theater credits,” said Laurence. “Your
Tom Sawyer whitewashing attempts will not sway me to do more than that.”

This was going to be a long two weeks of painting.

I explained the concept of crosshatching fat Xs on the hanging muslim to apply a base
coat of cobalt blue turquoise. While he slapped Xs, I examined the rotating pillars
and began to cover their three sides in a neutral base coat. Shoved together, one
side of the pillars would show the Capulet’s high-tech underwater alien home. Another
side would portray a street scene. Instead of a medieval castle town, I would paint
futuristic bubble homes for the singing sea monkeys. The last scene would be the Friar’s
monastery. As a spacey techno dance club.

I kept my opinions to myself since I knew diddly about theater.

While Laurence and I did the drudgery of base coats upstage, rehearsals began downstage.
The chorus teacher, Leah’s cousin Faith Bairburn, had brought in a group to huddle
around a piano. They stumbled through a medley of pop songs Tinsley had pieced together
for the musical numbers. The chosen Romeo, mop-topped Layton, crooned
“
You’re the First, the Last, My Everything
”
to Hayden, his giggly, red-headed Juliet.

I concentrated splitting my focus between Laurence’s painting and the balcony, seeking
any spying phantoms.
When the next bell rang, I snagged Faith Bairburn before she could leave, introducing
myself as Leah’s friend. She had an upper girth to accommodate a powerful voice, but
moved with the grace and rhythm of a dancer. All hidden beneath a floral tent of a
dress. Seemed all the Bairburn’s shopped in the same stores and with the same intent.

“Hey, Cherry
.
” Faith offered me a cheery smile that also reminded me of Leah’s, then hugged me.
“I heard you’re fixing to help Tinsley figure out who’s sending all these horrible
messages. Let me know what I can do to help.”

“Have you received any?”

She hesitated. “Well, yes, but they were so ridiculous, I didn’t even respond.”

“Did you keep them? The police need to see one.”

“No, honey. I delete trash. The message was so far-fetched. Something about seeing
me dance in a stripper bar.” She laughed. “Obviously, they don’t know the Bairburns
well.”

The Bairburns could straighten rulers with their morals. Leah, the church choir director,
was considered the black sheep. Only because she hung out with me and sang in Todd’s
band.

“Now that’s just silly. I’m glad you weren’t offended.”