Murder as a Second Language (4 page)

“Then a bake sale it is!” said Austin. “And the next weekend, a car wash. After that, we can rent out students for housecleaning and yard work.”

“Your suggestions will not be noted in the minutes,” Frances said coldly.

Rick waggled his fingers. “I could use a chauffeur and a houseboy.”

“While Willie,” Austin added, “definitely could use a lady's maid to stitch on buttons. It's a good thing that you cover yourself with a long black robe, Your Honor.”

“You'd better pray you never end up in my courtroom, young man.”

“Enough.” Frances thumped her fist on the table. “This meeting was called to elect Ms. Malloy to the board. Our official meeting is next Monday at five o'clock. Austin, you need to arrange to leave work early. Sonya, please have the minutes typed up. Do your best with a financial report, Willie. Let us hope that we can behave in a more decorous fashion. Meeting adjourned.”

She scooped up her papers and left the room. Sonya and Willie retreated to a corner to speak in hushed tones. Neither of them appeared amicable. Drake wished me a pleasant evening and left. I looked across the table at Austin. “Where do you work?”

“At a local TV station, in the advertising department. I produce some of those memorable messages from used car dealerships and carpet stores.”

Rick laughed. “Last night I caught the one with the flying sheep, and I must say it was brilliant, my friend.”

“I agree,” he said, handing Rick one of the wine bottles. “Where do you work, Ms. Malloy? I envision you as a medical examiner, or perhaps an insurance appraiser.” He squinted at me for a moment. “No, neither of those. Are you a covert agent for the CIA?”

His crack about the CIA startled me, since Peter did have some sort of relationship with the agency. He'd never explained, and I'd long since given up asking him. “I own a bookstore on Thurber Street called the Book Depot. My degree is in English literature, and the sight of blood makes me dizzy. I have also been described as ‘a loose cannon,' rendering me useless as a covert anything.” I picked up my purse. “I'll see you on Monday.”

Now the main room was lit only by a dim light over the receptionist's desk. Although there was daylight outside, the scarcity of windows left the interior gloomy. The cubicles looked like dark stairways into the basement, if there was one. I made my way around them, mindful of the boxes piled on top of file cabinets that lined the wall. I may have been a bit nervous, but I could hear voices from the room behind me. If I'd been alone in the building, I would have been more than a bit nervous—but only because I was unfamiliar with the floor plan. I was pleased to arrive at the exit, and was scolding myself for being a ninny when the door opened abruptly.

I gulped at the towering figure, his face obscured by shadows. “Good evening,” I managed to say.

The figure moved into the light. He was, I realized, a teenager with floppy hair and a sprinkle of freckles who might live on the Jersey Shore. He wore tattered denim shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with an advertisement for a brand of beer. His grin was lopsided and disarming. “Good evening. Who are you?”

“I'm here for the board meeting.”

“Shit, nobody told me or I would have waited.”

“Are you a tutor?”

“I'm the janitor, four nights a week. I clean the toilets and mop the floors and empty the trash—and I don't even get paid. It sucks, lemme tell you. The students toss banana peels and half-eaten oranges in the wastebaskets. I found a moldy tangerine in a cabinet in the women's restroom. I about barfed.”

“It must be a brutal job,” I said, more interested in getting past him to the parking lot. “I guess somebody has to do it.”

“Well, I'm that lucky somebody.”

“Perhaps you should quit.” I sidled to my right, hoping to dart around him. I'd listened to more than my fair share of whiny teenagers. Caron, precocious child that she is, stormed home from first grade to demand that I have her teacher fired for tyranny. By middle school, she was filing complaints in the principal's office.

“Like I can quit? That's a joke.”

“Toby,” Sonya said as she emerged from the maze, “enough of this. You're wasting Claire's time—and yours. Keiko told me that you haven't vacuumed the classrooms this week. Make sure you do the offices, too.” She reached up to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. “And no more pouting, okay?”

He flashed us a quick grin, then continued on his way. I gazed at Sonya until she finally said, “Drake's son. He had, uh, a spot of trouble with the police and was sentenced to a hundred hours of community service. Drake arranged for him to work it off here instead of picking up trash along the highway. Toby's a good kid, just clunky and rebellious like all teenagers these days.”

“I'm sure he is,” I said, then smiled and went out the front door. To my annoyance, she stayed on my heels like a nascent blister, asking me what I thought of the board of directors and “interpersonal dynamics.”

I opened my car door. “To be honest, I didn't pay that much attention. I was too busy being manipulated. At the first hint that I'm somehow personally liable for this financial mess, I'll nail my resignation to the door.”

“Don't worry about it. I'm so glad you came, Claire.”

She may have said more, but she would have been talking to my taillights. When I was safely out of sight, I decided to stop for coffee before I went home. Peter was at yet another meeting in Little Rock, and Caron and Inez were off with their friends. I wondered if they knew that their idol was working off his community service at the Literacy Council. Quarterback, in the restroom, with the mop. I'd barely seen the girls in the last few days. They'd managed to schedule their students between eleven and two, which meant they could sleep late, grab breakfast on the way out the door, and drag home from the lake just in time for a shower before heading for the mall or a pizza place. I'd not heard complaints about their tutoring sessions—or much of anything else.

I parked at Mucha Mocha and went to the counter. The menu board was so complicated that I ordered unadulterated coffee, to the barista's disdain, and then sat down on the back patio. I'd hedged the truth with Sonya; I'd been quite interested in the so-called interpersonal dynamics. Only out of curiosity, I assured myself. I'd already encountered more than enough murders for the summer, and embezzlement was entirely too mundane.

The patrons did not provide much entertainment. Most of the students were entranced with their laptops, their hands flickering over the keyboards like dragonflies over a pond. A few were engrossed by electronic readers and cell phones. They might glance up if a bomb exploded nearby, but I doubted I could gain their attention by standing on a table and ripping off my clothes. The coffee shops of my college days were loud and raucous places where philosophical arguments competed with poetry slams and subversion. This place resounded with clicks.

I glanced up when a voice said, “Do you mind if I join you?”

It took me a few seconds to recognize Gregory Whistler, the executive director of the Literacy Council. Flustered, I said, “Please do.”

He introduced himself, requiring me to do likewise, and then said, “I saw you the other day, and then at seven o'clock, going into the building. Keiko told me that you wanted to become one of our tutors. We'll look forward to having you once you've gone through the training. I know it's silly, but the state Literacy Council insists. Were you dropping off the application form?”

“No one has mentioned an application form,” I said. I knew precisely what information he was after, but I wasn't in the mood to enlighten him. “My daughter is a tutor. Although it's hardly urgent, I'll ask her to pick up one for me. The next training session is at the end of the summer.”

“Yes, good point. I was leaving when you arrived. Did you want to speak to me about volunteering in another capacity? Next month we're having a potluck picnic for the students, their families, and the tutors. We need all the help we can get. A lot of the students have large families, and they allow their kids to run wild. Last year we had an unfortunate incident involving alcohol, sushi, mustard, and couscous. No one was arrested, but I'm afraid that we might have a repeat this year.”

“I'll have to check my calendar.” I was aware that I was being uncooperative, but I'm always in the mood to outwit the witless. I finished my coffee. “It's been lovely chatting with you, Gregory. Perhaps I'll see you at the FLC sometime in the future.”

“Please let me offer you another cup of coffee,” he said. Before I could decline, he added, “I'm aware of your reputation, Claire, and I'd be deeply appreciative if you'll hear me out. Something's going on at the Literacy Council, and I'm afraid.” He reached for my mug. “Ten minutes, okay?”

I nodded and sat down. Gregory took our cups inside for refills. If what I'd heard at the meeting implicated him in an embezzlement scheme, he had every right to be anxious. I could think of no reason why he might want to share this with me. He had come to the obvious conclusion that I'd attended the board meeting in some capacity, and surely he'd realized by now that I wasn't going to pass along what had been said. If he was hoping to buy my allegiance with overpriced coffee, he was out of luck.

He eventually returned, bearing two cups, and resumed his seat. “Thank you, Claire. This has nothing to do with whatever took place at the board meeting.” He paused for a long moment. “This may sound paranoid. I've been the executive director for four years, and until recently, there have been no problems. I've pulled in a lot of grant money and donations, and done my best to see that the funds are allocated to the proper programs. Our immediate financial situation is grim, but I'm confident we can continue to operate on a reduced level until the economy improves. We've cut back on evening classes and close at one on Fridays.”

“That seems reasonable,” I said.

“I think so, but apparently I've stirred up resentment from an unknown person or persons. A couple of months ago I went into my office and found red splatters on my desk and the files I'd set out the previous evening.” He held up his palm. “No, not blood. It was paint, but meant to convey the message that it might be my blood the next time.”

“Are you sure? Were there painters in the building? One of them might have wandered into your office and made the mess. Or what about Toby's cleaning supplies?” Not that I could truly believe either scenario, since cleaning solutions are rarely bright red.

Gregory shook his head. “It was a message, the first one. The second was a dead bird in my wastebasket. It didn't open a window and fly inside.” He crossed his arms and stared at the tabletop, his forehead creased. When he finally picked up his cup, his hands were trembling. “Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'll be damned if I can come up with a reasonable explanation. Last week my name plaque disappeared. Yesterday someone got into one of my desk drawers and made off with my flask and a box of antacids. That may be nothing more than petty theft by one of the students. I don't know.”

Toby sprang to mind as the culprit. He might have taken the flask, but I couldn't envision him pocketing the antacids. If he had a grudge against Gregory, he was capable of mischief. However, it seemed more likely that he was angry at his father for forcing him into menial labor.

“Have you told the board?” I asked.

“I asked Keiko about the paint, but she was mystified. I didn't see any point in mentioning these nasty pranks to any of the board members. I'm in enough trouble with them without being perceived as a whiner.”

“Trouble over receipts? When I dropped by yesterday morning, I overheard the conversation between you and Sonya.”

He rolled his eyes. “That's the reason, for the most part. I admit I can be disorganized when I'm up to my chin in paperwork, but I have saved all of my receipts in manila envelopes labeled accordingly. Either I misplaced them or they've vanished. It shouldn't be Sonya's problem, anyway. Willie is the treasurer.” He stirred his coffee with a wooden stick as he sighed. “Someone is out to get me.”

“Why?”

“I wish I knew, Claire. My position is hardly prestigious or lucrative. I suppose I could find a management position elsewhere, but I want to make a contribution to the community. With our assistance, our students are able to get better jobs, communicate with their children's schools and doctors, and integrate into the culture.”

I noted that his eyes were moist. He was either very sincere or very talented. “That's admirable, Gregory.” My reply was lame, so I tried to rally. “Your background is in management?”

“After I graduated, I worked for my father's company, a medium-sized pharmaceutical manufacturer headquartered in Europe. Ten years ago Father retired to a tropical island to continue his campaign to hold the record for most marriages and divorces in one lifetime. His current wife is twelve years younger than I, and never met a mirror that didn't love her. I can't recall her name offhand.”

“How did you end up in Farberville?”

“My wife went to college here, and she loved it. She—well, she died two years ago. I'm still trying to deal with it. Rosie was such a wonderful person, generous, caring, and very sensitive. She taught math at a middle school, but she was looking forward to having a houseful of children. We agreed to wait for a few years so we could settle into the community. When I went through her things, I found a folder filled with magazine articles about decorating nurseries and making baby clothes.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.

“Thank you.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I finished my coffee and gathered up the torn sugar packets and stirrers. Gregory looked up, almost startled, when I said, “I need to go home now. I suggest you keep your office door locked when you're not there. These pranks seem juvenile at best.”