Murder as a Second Language (2 page)

“All right, girls,” I said as I returned to the living room, “here's my best offer. I will volunteer at the Literacy Council and take one student from each of you. You can decide which ones after you've worked out your schedules.”

Caron pondered this. “That means you only have to be there for four hours a week, while we have to be there for—” She stopped as Inez elbowed her in the ribs. “Ow, why'd you do that?”

“I think that's a fine idea,” Inez said to me. “You have to do the training, though, and I don't know how often it's offered.”

I shrugged. “I have a graduate degree in English, and I was a substitute teacher at the high school. My grammar is impeccable, and my vocabulary is extensive. I'm likely to be better qualified than this teacher you had yesterday. This will not be a problem. Trust me.”

*   *   *

The adolescent Japanese girl purported to be the program director gave me a dimply smile. Her deep brown eyes twinkled as she said, “I am so sorry, Ms. Marroy, but the next training session will not be held until the third week in August. I hope to see you then. Now if you will be so kind to excuse me, I must return some phone calls.”

“If you want me to read a manual and discuss the material, I will do so, although it's a waste of time for both of us.” I kept my voice modulated and free of frustration, although I was damned if I was going to twinkle at her. “I speak English. Your students want to learn to speak English. I fail to see the need for eight hours of training to grasp the concept.”

“It's our policy.”

This was the third round of the same dialogue. Keiko Sakamoto, as her nameplate claimed, had feinted and dodged my well-presented arguments with “our policy.” I felt as if I were at the White House, trying to persuade the secretary of state to abandon the prevailing foreign policy. My chances in either situation fell between wretched and nil.

Keiko picked up the telephone receiver and with yet another twinkle said, “We always need volunteers for our fund-raisers. Please take this brochure with information about our program. Have a nice day, Ms. Marroy.”

I left her office with as much dignity as I could rally. The Farberville Literacy Council occupied a redbrick building in the vicinity of the college campus and had been designed well. The central area had clusters of cubicles equipped with computers, and a lounging area with chairs, tables, and freestanding bookshelves. On one side of the front door was a reception desk, unoccupied. On the other, the interior of Keiko's office was visible behind a large plate-glass window. Rooms with closed doors lined the periphery. The passageways had black metal file cabinets under piles of boxes, books, and unfiled files. Everything was well lit and clean. As I hesitated, a classroom door opened and a dozen students emerged, talking to each other in several different languages. I recognized Spanish, German, and Arabic. Three young Asian women stared at me and giggled.

A tall, lean, fortyish woman shooed them out of the doorway, then hesitated when she spotted me. Her white blouse and khaki trousers would have suited her perfectly on safari, although Farberville had a dearth of exotic animals. I suspected she was trying to determine my native tongue as she walked across the main room. I was interested to find out how she would address me, so it was a letdown when she merely said, “May I help you?”

“My daughter and her friend are new tutors. They're still trying to get in touch with their students. I was hoping that I could help out, but the next training session isn't until the end of the summer.”

“You must be Caron's mother. I'm Leslie Barnes, and I was the trainer on Saturday. It was a very, very long day for all of us.”

I had no trouble interpreting her look, but I wasn't about to apologize. “The girls are excited about meeting their students, but leery of calling them on the phone because of the language barrier.”

“All of their students speak some English, as I told them. However, if they want to come here this afternoon, Keiko can help them make the calls and set up their schedules. I have another class in a few minutes. Nice to meet you, Ms. Malloy.” She went into a corner office and closed the door. I hoped her residual scars from the training session had not driven her to drink in the middle of the morning.

Two people emerged from an office beyond the reception desk. The man wore a dark suit, a red tie, and an annoyed expression. His hairline was beginning to recede, and his features seemed small on his tanned face. The woman had short blond hair, blue eyes, and deft makeup. She was wearing a tailored skirt and jacket and high heels, and she carried a briefcase. “Gregory,” she said as though speaking to a wayward child, “we're still waiting for the receipts from your trip to D.C. two months ago. Are you going to claim your dog ate them? If so, you'd better have that dog at the next meeting.”

“They're in my office somewhere,” he said. “Why don't you ask Rick where they are? He's been coming by after work to paw through the files. It's a friggin' miracle I can find my desk, much less the manila envelope with the receipts. You've got the credit card statement. I don't see why you want a bunch of bits of paper.”

“Willie wants them, not me,” she said.

The man now identified as Gregory took her elbow and tried to steer her toward the front door. “You can't have a meeting until you have enough board members present to make a quorum. That won't be until August, will it? I'll find the receipts before then—okay?” There was a hint of mockery in his voice.

The woman stopped and pulled herself free. “I suppose so. I need to have a word with Keiko before I leave.” She swept past me and into the office, muttering under her breath.

Gregory glanced at me before he returned to what I presumed was his office. I stood there for a moment, feeling as inconsequential as I did at the Book Depot. It might be the time for the third stab at a
soufflé,
I finally decided and headed for the door. Purportedly, it was the charm.

Before I could get into my car, the blond woman came outside and said, “Claire Malloy?” When I nodded, she held out her hand and said, “I'm delighted to meet you. I've read all about your involvement with the local police. Tell me, what's it like to confront a murderer?”

“Unpleasant,” I replied. “And you are…?”

“Sonya Emerson. I'm on the board of the FLC—the Farberville Literacy Council. In my spare time, I work for Sell-Mart in the corporate office in the Human Resources Department. What's more fun than a sixty-hour workweek?”

I wondered if Mattel had released MBA Barbie in the last few years. “It's nice to meet you, Sonya. I came by to apply to be a tutor. It appears that I'll have to wait for the next training session.” I opened my car door, but the subtlety escaped her.

“Keiko mentioned it. She'd love to make an exception in your case, but our executive director is adamant about sticking to our policy. We have to be certain that our tutors are committed. Some of them sign up, but then lose interest and abandon their students.” She frowned faintly and then brightened. “We'd love to have you volunteer in some other capacity. You're so well-known and respected in Farberville. Having you involved in the FLC would enhance our reputation in the community, as well as in the state organization. You're so intelligent and articulate.”

I enjoy flattery, but she was shoveling it on. “If you have a bake sale, let me know and I'll whip up a batch of
profiteroles au chocolat.
” I waved as I got in my car and drove away at a speed appropriate for someone who was well-known, respected, intelligent, and articulate. If I ever needed a letter of recommendation, I'd call Sonya.

In the meantime, I was all dressed up with nowhere to volunteer. I parked in the Book Depot lot and went inside. The clerk, Jacob, gazed morosely at me from his perch behind the counter. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. A shipment came in Friday, paperbacks for the freshman lit classes. They sent fifty copies of
Omoo
instead of
Typee.
I've already sent them back. Everything else was as ordered. Shall we have a sale for the remaining stock of beach books? Perhaps twenty percent off or three for the price of two?” His lugubrious voice reminded me of a funeral director displaying pastel coffins to the mourners.

“Whatever you think, Jacob.” I went into my office, which was disturbingly neat and sanitized. Even the cockroaches had lost interest. I thumbed through a pile of invoices, but nothing required my scrutiny. I toyed with the idea of stopping by the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for
profiteroles au chocolat
(after I found a recipe online), but I envisioned the mess I'd make and therefore be obliged to clean up. Volunteering at the public library was not an option; everything was computerized except me. I pulled out the telephone directory and found a list of organizations under the heading “Social Services.” Safety Net, the battered women's shelter, declined my offer and suggested that I send a check. The Red Cross suggested that I take a class in first aid. The thrift stores suggested that I send gently used clothes and a check. Residential facilities for children and at-risk teenagers declined my offers—and, yes, suggested that I send a check.

It seemed as if my only option was to operate a charitable trust fund. I would have spare time to perfect
magret de canard
and
galette des rois
. Admitting failure to Peter would be painful. To distract myself, I called Caron and left a message on her voice mail, telling her what Leslie Barnes had said about making the calls. Which, I have to admit, sounded daunting even to Ms. Marroy.

Having devised no clever way in which to make a meaningful contribution to the community, I drove home and read a book by the pool.

*   *   *

Peter came home early and invited me for a swim. Since Caron wasn't around, we indulged in some adult hanky-panky in the shallow end. After we were more modestly attired and armed with wine in the chaise longues, I told Peter about my dismal excursion into volunteerism. He commiserated, although I detected an undertone of amusement. I gave him a cool look and said, “I think I'll talk to the police chief about setting up a victims advocacy program at the department. Someone needs to listen to them and steer them to the proper agencies. We can have lunch together. Is there a vacant office next to yours?”

“Not one in the entire building,” he said in a strangled voice.

I used my napkin to blot wine off his chin. “Maybe we can share yours. All I need is a tiny little desk, a computer, and a separate telephone line. I promise I won't eavesdrop when you're interviewing suspects. By the way, we're having leftover quiche for dinner. Tomorrow I'm going to try to make
avocat et oeufs à la mousse de crabe
. That's avocados and eggs with crab mousse. Sounds yummy, doesn't it?”

Peter poured himself another glass of wine.

*   *   *

Caron and Inez arrived as we were finishing dinner. “We already ate,” Caron said as she went into the kitchen and returned with two cans of soda and a bag of corn chips. Inez nodded and sat down at the table.

“Did you talk to your students?” I asked them.

“Sort of,” Caron said through a mouthful of chips. “We went to the Literacy Council and let Keiko help. It was weird. She understood everybody—or pretended she did, anyway. Ludmila, who's this ninety-year-old obese woman from Poland, about five feet tall, with squinty little eyes and a voice like a leaf blower, came in the office. Guess what? She happens to be my student. Lucky me.”

“She was kind of hard to understand,” added Inez. “Maybe because she was so upset about something. Keiko took her to the break room for tea. I met my two students from Mexico, Graciela and Aladino. They both speak some English.”

“As opposed to my students,” Caron cut in deftly. “Besides Ludmila, I got to meet Jiang, who's from China and in his twenties. He talks really fast. I smiled and nodded, but I didn't have the faintest idea what he was saying. For all I know, he was telling me where he buried the bodies or what he did with the extraterrestrials in his attic. The Russian woman's English is pretty good. Anyway, we both have our teaching schedules. C'mon, Inez, let's go to the pizza place in the mall.”

“I thought you'd already eaten,” I said.

Inez lowered her eyes, but my daughter had no reservations about mendacity. “We did, Mother. Joel and some of his chess club friends are celebrating their victory at a tournament in Oklahoma. Inez has a crush on this guy who turns red when you look at him.”

“Rory's shy,” Inez protested. “Why do you always stare at him, anyway? He thinks that you're going to scream at him.”

“That's absurd. I am merely waiting for him to say something coherent, which may take years.”

Peter produced a twenty-dollar bill. “Have a good time.”

After they scurried away, he insisted on cleaning up the kitchen. I sat on a stool at the island, admiring his dexterous way with plates and silverware. We were idly speculating about Inez's potential boyfriend when the phone rang. Since Peter's hands were soapy, I answered it.

“Is this Claire Malloy?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I don't believe we've met, but I have encountered Deputy Chief Rosen several times,” the woman continued. “My name is Wilhelmina Constantine. I'm a member of the Farberville Literacy Council board of directors, and I was told that you might be interested in volunteering for our organization. We're delighted.”

“I was told that I have to wait for the next training session before I can be a tutor.”

“To be a tutor, yes. However, I'd like you to consider becoming a member of the board. You're well-known in the community and have a background in retail. Although the FLC is a nonprofit, we're forced to run a business as well. Raising funds, making payroll, dealing with vendors, all those petty nuisances. Your experience will be invaluable.”