Die Job (25 page)

Feeling better that I wasn’t leaving her alone, I waved to the couple looking at me through the SUV’s windows and climbed into my Fiesta as they pulled into the garage. I needed to step on it, or I was going to be late for the head shaving at the high school.

THE HIGH SCHOOL HALLS DIDN’T SEEM AS CROWDED as usual when I walked in, and I realized a fair number of kids must have evacuated with their parents. It was just as well the school board had called off classes for Thursday and Friday—the place was going to be a ghost town. Still, the kids who remained chattered with excitement as they filed into the auditorium, eager to see some of their friends get shaved bald in order to help finance the Winter Ball. I poked my head into the office where Merle was talking with the secretary. He shot me a thumbs-up when he caught sight of me. “Ready?”

“Sure.” I’d stopped at the salon to pick up some tools on the way. I raised them now so Merle could see.

“Super. Let’s get going.” He gestured me out of the office and walked me to a side hall that gave access to the auditorium’s backstage area.

I waited in the wings, inhaling the scent of sawdust and fabric freshener from the heavy red curtain on my right while Merle bounded onto the stage with a microphone. It was bare except for a wooden stool set in the middle. “Are we ready for some fun, Sabertooths?” he called out.

The auditorium erupted with cheers and catcalls. “As you know . . .” He talked about the Winter Ball and how the votes had been tallied, and announced with a mimed drum roll that they’d raised six hundred fifty-two dollars. That sounded like a lot to me. Who pays that kind of money to watch their buddies have their heads shaved? A lot of kids, apparently.

“Since we only had three days of voting, we only have three ‘winners.’ And they are Josh Washington, Mark Crenshaw, and yours truly.” He bowed and pulled the elastic off his ponytail, shaking his hair free so it settled on the shoulders of his orange and chartreuse shirt. The kids hollered and pounded their feet rhythmically on the floor of the auditorium. I couldn’t help smiling as I tried to imagine Principal Iselin from my day getting that kind of response. He’d been as charismatic as dishwater. Merle might be a bit off the beaten path, but the teens responded to him.

I’d missed part of what he was saying, but tuned back in in time to hear my name.

“. . . Grace Terhune of Violetta’s salon.”

I crossed the stage toward him, embarrassed by the attention. I’d never been much of one for the limelight, and the kids’ stares unnerved me. “Who’s my first victim—I mean customer?” I asked when I got to where Merle stood. I held up the razor and let it buzz. A chuckle ran through the audience and I immediately felt more comfortable. I scanned the faces in the audience and spotted Rachel, looking less animated than usual, and Glen Spaatz, leaning against
a wall toward the back with a couple of other teachers, arms crossed over his chest. Was it my imagination, or was he glaring at me? His handsome face was set, his lips thinned, his brows drawn together.

I didn’t have time to worry about it as Josh Washington, a short black teen with a six-inch Afro, bounced onto the stage, mugging for his buddies. He finally settled on the stool. “Be gentle,” he said loud enough for the microphone to pick up. “It’s my first time.”

The audience howled when I picked up my shears and cut a big chunk out of the middle of Josh’s Afro. By the time I revved the razor, the crowd was chanting, “Take it off! Take it all off!” They applauded when Josh rose after I finished, ran a hand over his smooth pate, and showed a shocked face. He gave me a big hug, surprising me, before rejoining his friends in the audience.

Mark Crenshaw came up next and settled onto the stool vacated by Josh. Merle handed the mike off to a student stagehand before ceremoniously helping Mark off with his letter jacket and draping a towel around his neck.

“If you ever get tired of the principal thing, we could use you at the salon,” I told him.

“I may come see you about a summer job,” he returned with a laugh.

Merle was growing on me. I smiled at him and turned my attention to Mark, who looked at me under his brows with a shade of apprehension, clearly recalling the end of our last meeting. What—was he worried I’d take revenge by shaving off his ear or something? He must hang out with the wrong people.

“It’ll grow back,” I whispered, in case his apprehension was really a reluctance to go bald. His hair was already so short that shaving it took only a few minutes. “Now, you can
skip the haircut when you report to the Naval Academy,” I said to him, smiling when I finished.

“Something else to look forward to,” he muttered, his tone an odd mix of anger and resignation. “Rules about hair, rules about uniforms, rules about walking and talking and eating and crapping. Frickin’ rules.”

I flicked a glance at Merle to see if he’d heard, but apparently not. I didn’t know how to respond and merely whisked the towel off Mark’s shoulders as the crowd hooted. The Sabertooth mascot, a student in a moth-eaten costume with one fang hanging crooked, gamboled around the stage and escorted Mark off.

The pep band played something brassy and the cheerleaders bounced forward for a quick routine as Merle folded down his collar and took his place on the stool, making a show of dusting it off before he sat. The high schoolers went wild, launching into their “Take it all off” chant when I picked up my scissors. I felt him wince as the blades bit into a section of hair I held taught between my fingers.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Just my image. There it goes,” he said, watching the long, gingery strands flutter to the stage.

“I think the kids know there’s more to you than just hair,” I said.

He gave me a grateful smile. “Take it all off.”

MERLE’s KNOBBY, BALD HEAD WAS A HUGE HIT WITH the crowd. He dismissed the pep rally and school with admonitions to be safe during the hurricane and with a couple of words about keeping Braden’s family in their thoughts. The fund established with the money they had raised would be called the Braden McCullers Memorial Fund, he
announced to a now sober audience. Before I could escape, hoping to catch Rachel and take her for an ice cream and a chat, he touched my shoulder and asked if I’d stay for a yearbook photograph. I agreed, catching sight of Rachel’s back as she exited the auditorium with the stream of students. A serious-looking young woman with trendy blue glasses and braces took several photos of me with Merle, Mark, and Josh. A disembodied voice paged Merle over the PA system and he left with a warm handshake and a “Thank you.”

Left alone, I descended the stairs to the right of the stage and headed up the aisle toward the hall. Pushing through the swinging doors, I caught a faint whiff of bubble gum before it was overpowered by the scent of pine cleaner coming from the mop a janitor wielded energetically outside the restrooms. A hand clamped around my upper arm and startled me.

“I’ve got something to say to you,” Glen Spaatz said, his voice hard.

“What is your problem?” I asked, twisting my arm free. “I don’t know what—”

Shooting a glance at the janitor, now propping himself up with the mop and watching us avidly, he said, “In my classroom.” He started down the hall.

After a moment’s hesitation, I followed. I didn’t like his attitude, but I was curious. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to piss him off, so I was at a loss to explain his current mood. He turned down a side hall and then into a classroom. Entering it, I was swept back to my science classes, to the stink of chemicals and burned stuff and the “ew” factor of dissecting rubbery fetal pigs and frogs. I’d tried to get Mom to write a note excusing me from amphibian mutilation, but she’d refused. Two sinks with high arched
faucets gleamed at the back of the room, and stacks of glassware occupied a long table. Largely forgotten chemical symbols decorated the blackboard. From the rotten-egg odor in the room, I’d guess today’s lesson had had something to do with sulfur.

Glen ignored his surroundings and turned to face me as I hovered near the closed door. “I think it’s pretty low of you to get your ex-husband to check me out,” he said.

My lower jaw literally dropped and I stared at him, open-mouthed. Before I could respond, he added, “The Gestapo tactics didn’t work in California and they’re not going to work here.” Thinning his mouth until his lips disappeared, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You are out of your frickin’ mind,” I said, taking a step forward in my anger. My fists clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. “I didn’t put Hank up to anything. If you must know, you pissed him off so badly with that kissing stunt that he took it upon himself to look into your background. I had nothing to do with it. But from your reaction, I’d say his instincts were dead-on.”

“You didn’t—” The merest hint of uncertainty sounded in his voice, but his whole body stayed rigid.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t and I wouldn’t. I hardly know you!” And I’d sure as heck lost any desire to get to know him better after his accusations. “There’s a murder investigation going on, in case you hadn’t noticed, and the police are checking into everyone who was at Rothmere Saturday night.”

“When Agent Dillon came to interview me, he said—”

“I don’t believe he said anything about me!”

“No. He mentioned that he was following up on information that had come to the attention of the SEPD. I put two and two together and—”

“And came up with a big, fat goose egg.” I made a zero with my thumb and forefinger. “Good thing you teach science and not math.”

He snorted what might have been a laugh and gave me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry?”

“Not enough.” I spun on my heel, the green denim skirt belling slightly around my calves, and was reaching for the doorknob when his voice stopped me.

“Please. Let me tell you what I told Agent Dillon.”

“Not interested.” I tried to make myself go through the door but curiosity stopped me. Okay, I
was
interested, not in Glen, but in what had happened in California.

Scraping forward a chair, he sat with his arms draped over its back, facing me, and gestured for me to take another chair. I did, scooting it away from him first.

“Your ex might have mentioned that the ATF and the police busted down my door one day, searching for a shipment of automatic weapons an informant had told them was in my condo.”

His eyes scanned my face, but I kept my expression noncommittal.

“They had a search warrant and everything. Only thing was, they had the wrong address. Some moron had transposed two numbers—the gun runner they were looking for lived in the next building over.” He ran a hand through his hair and drew it across his cheek, smudging his mouth.

“Good heavens! They must have scared you to death.” The thought of armed strangers busting into my house made me grip the chair seat.

“You can say that again.”

“But I don’t understand why it’s such a big secret.” Cocking my head, I said, “What’s the big deal? It was a mistake, right
? They apologize and fix your door, you go back to learning lines or fixing dinner, and—”

“I wasn’t alone.”

I couldn’t see why that mattered, but I motioned for him to continue.

“When the ATF broke in, I was—engaged, shall we say?—with a woman. A woman whose name is synonymous with ‘blockbuster’ and ‘Oscar nomination.’ ” He paused. “A married woman.”

“Oh.” Ignoring an irrational ping of jealousy, I asked, “They recognized her?”

“Of course they recognized her. Any male between the ages of four and a hundred-and-four would recognize her. She was deathly afraid it would get into the media, that her husband would find out, that it would trash her career. So I made a deal with the ATF and the LAPD. I wouldn’t sue the pants off of them for invading my home and pointing guns at me, damn near giving me cardiac arrest, and they’d make sure no one talked to the media. We signed all sorts of legal documents, nondisclosure agreements, so that’s why I don’t go around explaining why I really left California.” He hunched forward, resting his chin on the chair back and looking up at me from beneath his brows. “It’s not such a horrible secret after all, is it?”

Not horrible enough to kill for, I wouldn’t think. For the actress, maybe, but not for Glen. And I didn’t see how Braden could possibly have known about it. “Not really, no.”

“So, we’re okay?” There was something quizzical in the look he gave me, as if he could read my withdrawal but couldn’t figure out the reason for it. “I
am
sorry for jumping all over you like that.”

“Apology accepted.” I left it at that. If his unjustified attack
on me hadn’t squashed any interest I had in him, the revelation that he slept with married women was the final nail in the coffin. I stood.

He walked me to the door and pulled it open. “Avaline and her crew are filming this evening. Are you going to watch?”

“I don’t think so. You?”

He nodded. “I suppose so. I’m going to wallow in melancholy and mourn my lost acting career.” He said it with enough self-deprecating humor that I laughed, but I wondered, walking through the empty halls, if there weren’t more than a kernel of truth in it.