Dying to Teach (8 page)

She straightened the manuscripts the kids had left and picked up some wadded candy wrappers. As she passed the closet door, curiosity kicked in. What had Kiana been looking at? Angie opened the door to shelves packed with odds and ends: packages of needles and threads, rolls of duct tape, safety pins, chalk, a plastic box of costume jewelry, a small tool box. On the top shelf, as expected, were four boxes of makeup. Someone had probably ordered several to save money. One was still sealed. One was open but full. Another had three empty compartments. A fourth held one partially used tube. Angie shut the door and went to her office feeling a little sick. She had no doubt Kiana had discovered a clue in one of those cartons. There was also no doubt the discovery would get somebody hurt.

Angie was packing her things to head back to the hotel when her cell phone rang. Tyson’s name glowed on the caller ID screen. “Hey partner,” she said.

“Hey yourself. You missing us yet?”

“Yes and no.” She
didn’t
miss the diva. She refrained from saying so because the hiring mistake could just as easily have been hers. “What’s up there—everything running smoothly?”

“Mostly.” He was silent a moment and Angie waited for him to dump his problem over the airwaves. “Promise the next time I insist on a particular actor you’ll whack me up-side the head with a baseball bat.”

“I promise.” Then she couldn’t help asking playfully, “Are we speaking of any specific actor?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. That’s why I called. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything.”

“No. Your timing was good.”

“I needed to blow off steam. To keep myself from firing her. Or worse.”

“We decided to talk to her first. To give her one last chance.”

“I know. I was hoping you could do it.”

Angie smiled. Tyson was great with the women, so long as things moved forward in a positive manner. He shied away when something bad had to be done. “I can take care of it. Want me to drive back now?”

“No. No. It can wait till you get back.”

She laughed inwardly at the pain in his voice. Then she laughed out loud. “Really Tyson, I can come tonight.”

“No. I appreciate you doing the school gig. I wouldn’t have the patience with the kids.”

“If you have this amount of patience with Ms. I-think-I’m-better-than-everybody-else, you’d be a shoo-in with the kids. They’re great.”

“I have one diva, you have what—twenty?”

“Eighteen.”

Tyson groaned.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you pretend Ms. I’m-better-than-everybody-else is Sally?” Sally was a playwright, and Tyson’s ex girlfriend. He’d found the courage to speak out to her. Granted it was after she tried to kill Angie. But still…

“I might just do that. Have you talked to Jarvis?”

“Not today. Why?”

“He came here. Pretended he was on his rounds. I’m sure he just wanted to know if I’d heard from you. I think he was dying to call but afraid to interrupt a class or something.”

A scuffling sound came from out in the hallway. She held the phone away from her ear to listen. The green room door opened. She didn’t hear it per se, only felt the change in air pressure. Maybe the mousetrap fiend was coming to collect the evidence. Good, she’d lined them up on the front of the desk, like horizontal wooden soldiers. She wondered if she and the kids had found them all, then realized something a bit unnerving: the person who’d placed them had to be backstage when she arrived because one of the traps ended up in the dress just brought from Cilla’s shop. As a matter of fact, that was probably the noise she’d attributed to mice in the first place. The bothersome part was this person had gotten into the locked office. Of course, any one of a dozen people might have a key, but was there a specific meaning to the mousetraps? Which led to a sobering realization: the prank couldn’t have been directed at Gwen Forest.

Tyson’s voice shouting through the phone made her put the cell back to her ear. “Yes, I’m here. I was listening to a noise in the hallway.”

“Angie, when you hear noises it’s usually danger with a capital D. I’ll hang on while you check.”

She almost told him things were fine, that there could be no danger because she was
not
involved in this murder. But a footstep in the green room on the other side of the office door had her hesitating. The knob rattled. Angie’s hand clenched around the tiny cell phone that would only make a weapon if you could redirect the microwaves it sent into your brain.

No knock came on the door. Angie picked up her briefcase—a much better weapon—and waited.

“Angie, is everything all right?” Tyson asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, not adding, “I hope,” though her lips formed the words.

The door opened. Principal Randy Reynolds stepped in.

“Tyson, I have to go. Randy’s here.”

“You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes. Let me know how things work out with our diva. Or if you decide you want me to come back and talk to her sooner than later.”

“Will do. Enjoy your evening.”

“You too. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Angie closed the phone and replaced it in her purse. And she faced the school principal.

“Everything okay back home?” Randy asked.

“Pretty much. We’ve been having trouble with one of the actors. Tyson needed to blow off steam.”

“Sorry again to take you away.”

“Did you need something?”

“Two things. I wanted to let you know the police have finished their search of the school.”

Angie set the briefcase/weapon on the desk and buttoned her jacket. Perhaps an action aimed toward departure would shorten his guilt-filled speech—one undoubtedly intended to make her ask what the detectives had found. So she said, “I’m glad they’re finished. They were a distraction to the kids.”

“Yes. I wish they would’ve done it after school hours. Or, better yet, before school. That way I could’ve called off school for the day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Nothing to do with me. It was the school superintendent’s decision. He thought it would be best for the kids to get out, talk, seek out the counselors we provided.” He was quiet a moment. She felt a tiny nudge of gladness knowing her lack of predicted response ruined his prepared speech. “I also wanted to tell you that Ted’s been put on administrative leave, effective immediately.”

She lifted one eyebrow. And would not give him an opening to launch another guilt-poke.

“The school board again. They insisted, saying he’s, quote ‘drawn undue and adverse attention to the school.’”

“You realize because of this the public will assume he’s guilty. This will ruin his career.”

“You don’t think he’s guilty?”

“Randy, stop trying to drag me into the investigation. I was making a simple statement for you to consider. Your hasty move may be ending a man’s career.”

“I know. I argued in his favor, really I did, but the board was adamant. Parents will not want the kids near a man so closely related to a murder.”

“You said you were here for two things.”

“I just wanted to see if you’ve come up with anything yet.”

She shot him a barbed scowl.

“Did you hear anything? Learn anything?”

Angie deepened the scowl.

His eyebrows did a quick up and down thing. Doubt probably, and maybe a bit of anger. Then he said exactly what she’d told the kids, “Well, keep your eyes and ears open.” And then, thankfully, he was gone. For a moment, she wished she were back in Alton with Tyson and Diva Marie.

EIGHT

Tuesday afternoon Kiana slid onto the tall stool in the front window of the coffee shop. She took out the yellow notebook she’d carried all day long and spread it on the round table. The top six pages, in four colors of ink and an assortment of scribbles, represented her entire day. Not a lick of schoolwork had been done. None of that mattered. There were times when other things took precedence over schoolwork. In spite of Mr. Reynolds denial of her request to form a detective group, and Evan’s less than excited response to the same idea, the day had gone well. Only a few hours into the case and, without anyone else’s help, she’d uncovered two clues. Maybe she should rethink the idea of a group and go this on her own.

No. Bad idea. She needed Evan.

Two clues so far. The first had come from Mr. Reynolds that morning: the fact that a makeup tube was used as the murder weapon. No doubt it came from the drama department closet, though it didn’t seem as though the authorities had figured that out yet. Kiana had to admit, as she’d stood in the closet staring down at the empty spaces in the makeup box, she’d been unable to stop the shiver of apprehension. The image of a stranger lurking in the back rooms of the auditorium, their private sanctuary, so to speak, was definitely unnerving.

What if the killer wasn’t a stranger? What if it was one of the students—certainly not a drama student, but someone else, someone she rubbed elbows with at the locker, or passed a towel to in the locker room, or shared a smile with in the too-slow cafeteria line? Try as she might, Kiana couldn’t imagine a student, any student, wanting Gwen out of the way. Supposedly, never had a bad word been spoken against her.

The murderer wasn’t likely to be somebody off the street because no killer-to-be would come all the way to the school for the murder weapon. They would use the closest thing at hand. Because of the choice of murder weapon, this couldn’t be a totally random crime by a random person. So that meant the killer had to be someone Gwen knew well. Someone who worked at the school. In classes during the day she had imagined each teacher in the position of killer. As Mrs. McFee spouted equations, as Mrs. Ball recited music theory, and Mr. Philmore parsed sentences, she couldn’t stop thinking that one of them might be a cold-blooded killer. Not a comforting thought. She was beginning to understand why Ms. Deacon refused to get involved.

There were a lot of teachers in Carlson High School, but the ones who came in contact with Ms. Forest, ones who might have a grudge against her, had to be few. When Evan arrived, they would discuss the possibilities.

Of course, there was the off chance the killer hadn’t taken the tube from the drama department and that Gwen had some at home—to help with a Halloween costume or something. And the murderer
had in fact
used the first thing at hand. That could explain why the cops hadn’t marked any importance to the ones at school. Still. A tube of makeup was an unusual thing to just pick up and use as a murder weapon.

The premise that Gwen might have the makeup at home opened up a whole new group of potential killers. What if this was a totally random homicide? Not really likely, was it? But Kiana guessed you had to look at every possibility. Sure, maybe that person was in Gwen’s apartment, maybe selling magazines, and saw the tube sitting on a counter. No, that didn’t ring right at all. Gwen was a fastidious housekeeper. She wouldn’t leave it sitting out like that.

Which brought her to the second clue: Evan’s contact lens case—if it even was a clue. She’d spent quite some time mulling over possible complications in telling him she’d found it. Not that she thought he was the murderer, no way. Chances were better that somebody was trying to frame him. And if she told Evan where she found it, he might be forward enough to confront people. Which would put him in danger. In spite of the urgency to find Gwen’s killer, Kiana would never knowingly do that.

In spite of Principal Reynolds’ admonition, and in spite of the possible danger, she would form this group. She—they—would bring Ms. Forest’s killer to justice. Kiana spent a few minutes rereading her notes and eating a muffin. A throat clearing sound had her looking up to see that Evan had arrived. He removed his glasses, plucked a napkin from the holder on the table and cleaned them.

“Is that the list you gave me earlier?” At her nod he added, “It’s grown a lot.”

“I can’t stop thinking about all this.”

“Great, where do we start?”

She tapped the notebook with the tip of her pencil. “We have to go through Ms. Forest’s things. First, her office because that’s easier to get into. Afterward, her car, and then her apartment. I think the most important thing is to figure out
why
somebody wanted her dead.”

“You mean if it wasn’t totally arbitrary.”

Exactly what she’d been thinking. Funny how that happened so often between them.

“Want anything else to eat?”

“No thanks.”

He went to the counter and placed an order. He returned with a tall Styrofoam cup, sat and sipped through the small hole in the top.

“How come you got a to-go cup?” Kiana asked.

“Because, Kee, you said you wanted to search Ms. Forest’s office. I was being prepared.”

“The perfect Eagle scout.”

“I’m not a— Oh, you’re joking.” He didn’t grin. “Before we go, I have a couple of questions. First, if you planned to search Ms. Forest’s office, why didn’t we do it while we were in school?”

“I went there twice. First time, Mrs. Deacon was in the office. I heard the rustle of paper so I figured she was reading scripts and would be there a while. The second time, she was in the green room, rummaging in the storage closet.” Evan put down his cup and reached a finger to lift a lock of Kiana’s hair that had fallen toward her cup. She’d leaned back in the seat with a nervous laugh. “This has me really wired.”

“Ya think?” They both laughed. “The second question,” he went on, “is, how do you plan on getting into Ms. Forest’s car and apartment? And, are we doing all this tonight or spreading it out?”

“Right now, we’re going back to the school. The janitors are still in the building. There’s got to be a door open somewhere.”

“With alarms going off all over the place.”

She wouldn’t think about that right now. “C’mon, let’s go.” Kiana slid off the stool. And slipped right back on, almost in one motion.

“What’s—” Evan started to say then realized the cause of her hesitation: Ms. Deacon had come in. “Did she see us?”

“I don’t think so. But so what if she does? We’re not doing anything wrong.”