Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (8 page)

Tim Briggs, broad shoulders with red hair and freckles,
picked up the list and read the names. “Kim Nally, Perry
Jacobs, George Holderman, Harper Weems, Jim Hawkins,
Dorothy Saussy, Henry Bishop, Linda May, Iona Flores, and
Lionel Portis.” The boys looked at each other. Marvin nodded
to Tim.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Boudreaux,” Tim replied, handing me the list.
“As close as I can remember, this was all who went into that
wing. Mr. Birnam had us sit in front of the first stairway in that
wing. No one could have gone in or out without passing in front
of us”

I took the list. I couldn’t help noticing the expensive gold
watch on his wrist and the matching gold ring on his other
hand. “Hey, nice looking ring.”

Both boys held out their hands, showing the massive gold
rings on their ring fingers. Marvin grinned at me. “Yes, sir. Our
senior rings. Twelve years we worked for them.”

The setting was blue, one of the school colors. I chided the
boys. “I’m surprised your girlfriends don’t have them.”

Both boys laughed. Tim nodded. “My girl’s hinted at it. I
might give it to her.”

Marvin snorted. “Not me, man. At least, not now. Maybe
after we switch them.”

“Switch them?” I frowned. “What’s that?”

Tim explained. “A Safford High School tradition, Mr.
Boudreaux. When we graduate, we shift the ring from the left
ring finger to the right one as a symbol of graduation.”

“Yeah,” Marvin echoed. “Just like switching the tassels on
our mortar boards.”

I grinned. “Well, boys. Good luck.” I held up the list. “Tell
me, Do you know Fred Seebell or Frances Holderman?”

Marvin Handwell wore a mushroom haircut. “I know Mrs.
Holderman, but, ah, you know, not that guy.”

“Did you see her that night?”

“No, sir.” Marvin shook his head. He leaned back and
crossed his heavily muscled arms across his broad chest.

“I did,” replied Tim. “She was in the lobby.”

“But, in the hall, Tim. Did she come down the hall?”

“No.” He indicated the list of names in my hand. “Only the
ones on that list went down the hall.”

The boys looked at each other. Marvin nodded.

“You boys still monitor the halls?”

Tim nodded. “Yes, sir. Whenever Mr. Birnam asks. You see,
some of the PTA parents bring their children. Mr. Birnam, he
just wants to keep the kids out of the halls.”

“So, he gets you football players, huh?”

The boys blushed. Marvin shrugged. “Well, not exactly
because of football. We play football, but, we’re both in the
National Honor Society. That’s the group Mr. Birnam uses to
monitor the halls.”

“One more question. Iona Flores and Linda May. How long
were they in the wing?” If the two had just entered the wing to
pick up Dorothy Saussy, they should have returned shortly.

Tim frowned. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Boudreaux.”

“I know. But, think. Give it a try.”

Marvin chewed on his bottom lip. “It wasn’t long before they
came back out with Mrs. Saussy. She teaches algebra too.”

Tim agreed. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Flores was my Algebra Two
teacher. She’s a real good teacher too. Marvin never had her,
and while they were gone, I told him about her. They were back
before I could finish.”

I studied them. Maybe if the kids in my English classes back
at Madison High School had been like these two, I’d still be
teaching. “Thanks, boys. You can go on back to class now.”

Turning down Howard Birnam’s offer for lunch in the cafeteria, I left the building and headed for my pickup, not once
regretting my refusal of his offer. I reminded myself that with
public school, college, and then six years teaching behind me,
I’d had enough school lunches to last me a lifetime. But the
truth was, I was anxious to get back to the apartment to check
on Stewart.

I hesitated when I reached my pickup. A folded slip of paper
was under the windshield wiper. Glancing around, I retrieved it
and popped it open. The note inside was succinct: BACK OFF.

I whistled softly and glanced around. I already had someone’s attention. Slipping the note into my shirt pocket, I
climbed in and slammed the door. I was anxious to check on
Stewart.

Less than three blocks from the school, the rear of my pickup swayed, and then I heard the chilling flop, flop, flop of a flat
tire. I pulled up in front of a convenience store and climbed out.
Both rear tires were flat. “What the …”

Disgusted, I aimed a kick at a deflated tire, wondering just
what I had run over. I had one spare. One spare and two flats
don’t calculate out right. Cursing, I called my auto club. While
waiting for road service, I tried my home number again, and
again, no answer. “Stewart, where the dickens are you?”

Fifteen minutes later, a wrecker from Riverside Salvage
pulled up, hoisted the rear of my truck off the ground, and
quickly repaired the flats. Both had been punctured by two-inch
roofing nails. And to make the incident even more curious, each
puncture was between the two middle treads of the tire.

The driver of the wrecker looked up at me, then glanced in
the direction of the high school. A grin split his round face.
“You a teacher?”

I shook my head.

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know, friend, but it looks like to
me someone was playing a trick on you.”

I glanced back down the road toward the high school. A
trick? Or a warning?

I groaned when I drew near my apartment. Stewart’s Pontiac
was gone. “Jeez, Tony. Now what? Some family you are. Your
ward hasn’t been here twenty-four hours and already you’ve
lost him. I sure hope Leroi doesn’t call,” I muttered, pulling
into the drive. “Just take it easy,” I mumbled, trying to reassure
myself. “The boy’ll be in later.” But, I was worried sick.

Inside, my fears vanished. Stewart had taped a note to my
computer. He was being interviewed for a job and would be
home by five or six. I sighed with relief and wandered into the
kitchen where I almost stepped on an empty milk saucer.
Stewart must have fed the kitten. I looked through the apartment, but the tiny gray kitten was nowhere to be seen.

Giving up my search, I plopped down in front of the computer and began transcribing my notes, placing a copy in the
new file I created on my hard drive, a copy on a disk, and then
printing up two hard copies, one for me, and one for Marty.

The remainder of the afternoon flew past. When I finished
around five-thirty or so, I rose, stretched, and peered out the
window. Outside, dusk crept over the neighborhood like a sly
cat, soundless on its padded feet.

Returning to my computer, I studied my notes. While I hadn’t
found too much that wasn’t in the police report, what I did learn
from the interviews engendered some fascinating theories.

Kim Nally had an abortion about which she had said nothing. Could it be the result of a scandal threatened by Frances
Holderman?

Then came Perry Jacobs’ assertion that Holderman decided
to issue a reprimand instead of denying a contract. First, I wanted to verify the claim that Holderman appraised teachers,
which while there was nothing wrong with it, was unusual. On
the other hand, I found it difficult to believe anyone would take
away another’s livelihood just because of dislike. But then, we
were talking about administrative educators, many of whom are
not members of the intelligentsia.

I looked up abruptly when a car door slammed. Moments
later, Stewart burst in with a big grin on his face. He waved as
he headed for the bathroom. “Gotta hurry, Tony. I got the job,
and my boss is taking me out to dinner tonight. Hope you
weren’t planning anything,” he blurted out before I had a
chance to say a word.

I had figured on the two of us going out for dinner, but I just
shook my head. “No. Nothing. What kind of job is it?”

“I start off doing delivery work. Austin Expediters is the
name of the company,” he replied, and through the open bathroom door, he gave a running description of his day while he
showered and dressed. He was a nice looking young man.
About six feet, well-built, and when he flashed that bright
smile, his brilliant white teeth contrasted sharply with his cafe
an lait-colored skin.

As quickly as he breezed in, he stormed out. “Back around
ten or so!” he shouted, slamming the door.

“Hey, wait,” I jumped up and yanked open the door. “How
can I get in touch with you if I have to?”

He opened the door of his car and paused. “My cell,” and
called out the number. He grinned and slid into the Pontiac.
“See you later,” he called out the window as he sped away.

I watched until the blue Pontiac turned the corner. At least,
he was all right, and I had a cell number. I picked up the phone
and called Leroi, bringing him up to date on his son.

Hanging up, I decided to splurge on a thick T-bone and a hot tle of fine red wine out at the Old San Francisco Steak House
on 1-35.

Sorry AA. I’ll try again tomorrow.

And splurge I did with baked potato smothered with butter,
heaped with sour cream and sprinkled with crisp bacon.
Homemade hot rolls soaked with butter. And a succulent steak
two inches thick. All washed down with fruity red wine.

I didn’t consider myself a gourmet even in the loosest definition of the word, but that night, I caught a fleeting glimmer
of the poetry of good food and wine of which the very rich
always speak. In the next instant, my newfound hedonistic
appetite for Epicurean delights vanished when Janice
Coffman-Morrison and a broad-shouldered blond right out of
Gentlemans’ Quarterly walked in. As much as I hate to admit
it, he carried himself with the casual aplomb of the very rich
and spoiled.

Wearing a black dinner dress with a necklace of diamonds
the size of ping-pong balls, Janice paused in the entrance and
purposely surveyed the room. Her gaze settled on me, and with
a faint smile, she glided in my direction. Gentleman Quarterly
followed. Like a puppy, I told myself, not the least bit jealous.
Not much. I felt my ears tingle.

Obviously, she’d spotted my Silverado pickup outside. Not
surprising for among Lexuses, Jaguars, Mercedes, and
Luminas, my truck stuck out.

She paused at my table. “Hello, Tony,” she said imperiously.

I rose, affecting a casual aplomb of my own. “Why, Janice.
How are you?”

“Wonderful.” She half turned and held out her hand to her
new beau. “This is Nelson Vanderweg. Of the Montreal
Vanderwegs. He just drove in from Dallas.”

“Nelson.” I extended my hand, noting the sharp pleat in his
dark slacks and the easy drape of his jacket over his narrow
hips.

“I’ve heard much of you, Mr. Boudreaux.” His tone was flat and without emotion. On his face was an expression of pained
haughtiness.

I replied with a nod, then turned to Janice. “How have you
been?”

She beamed and linked both her arms through Nelson’s.
“Wonderful,” she exclaimed, hugging his arm to her.

“Good.”

Nelson coughed.

A couple of awkward moments passed as the three of us
stared at each other, no one knowing exactly what to say. I
decided to make an effort to be gracious. “Would you and
Janice care to join me, Nelson?”

He tilted his chin slightly. “No, thank you. We have reservations.” His words were polite, but his tone was brazen with
contempt.

Despite the urge to stick out my tongue at them, I smiled.
“You two have a good time,” I said, stepping aside so they
could pass.

Janice giggled. “We will.”

I glared at Nelson’s retreating back. “And I hope you choke,”
I muttered under my breath, shedding my newly found casual
aplomb for redneck hostility.

Naturally, my relaxing evening of gastronomic delights was
ruined. I shrugged off my thin veneer of the very rich and
reverted to my redneck ways by demanding a doggie bag so I
could take the remainder of my meal with me. The half-full
bottle of red wine, I stuck in my jacket pocket.

The maitre d’, his upper lip stiff, eyed the bottle in my jacket pocket with disdain and contempt. I was half a breath away
from grabbing the neck of the bottle and smashing that sneering
little cretin across the bridge of his hooked nose. But I refrained,
displaying what I thought was magnificent self-control.

The sky was clear, the stars bright, and the temperature had
plunged. A puff of frost edged my breath. I paused before climbing in my Chevy Silverado and stared at the gaudy facade
of the steakhouse, my frustration with Janice still simmering. I
drew a deep breath and reminded myself that the very rich view
life far differently than the average working stiff.

For some reason, I thought of Frances Holderman. Perry
Jacobs had raised a couple of salient points. She could have
ducked out the front door and, hidden by the darkness, slipped
across the quadrangle, and then upstairs. And she had two
dandy motives. Not only had she been the betrayed wife, but
also the beneficiary of eight million bucks.