Murder as a Second Language (5 page)

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Gregory said as he stood up. “I shouldn't have bothered you with my petty problems. Our students are adults, but they bring their children from time to time. I'll take your advice and lock my door. If that offends anyone, he or she will have to get over it. Thanks for hearing me out, Claire. I don't seem to have any friends these days. Rosie was the one who drew friends like a magnet. They tolerated me.” He tried to chuckle. “Not that I'm a total bore. I just don't seem to have the energy to make an effort to get back out there and start dating.”

If he was hitting on me, he was miles away from making contact. I smiled and went back into the café. As I squirmed through the crowd, I saw Rick seated alone at a table in a corner. He looked away, but not before we'd made fleeting eye contact. I continued out to my car and fished in my purse for my keys, feeling a sudden urge to leave before any other members of the board popped up behind a bush—or slid into my backseat. While I drove home, I composed a letter of resignation to the board, replete with gratitude for the honor of being elected and expressing dismay that I'd suddenly remembered I had to wash my hair on Monday night. I had no desire to embroil myself in their skullduggery and angst and pettiness. I wondered if Meals on Wheels would allow me to deliver
bouillabaisse
to the elderly and disabled. I would be an adorable candy striper. It might not be too late to enroll in summer school and take a class in nineteenth-century poetry. I'd always wanted to take up pottery. Pottery and poetry could be my salvation.

Or there was always culinary school.

 

3

The following morning I was sipping my first cup of coffee while I flipped through the pages of a cookbook extolling the delights of
la nouvelle cuisine de Haute Bordeaux
when the phone rang. I eyed it with suspicion, since Peter had told me the previous night that he would be in a meeting long before any
patisserie
pulled its first croissant out of the oven. Caron was asleep upstairs. My best friend, Luanne, was stalking bimboys on the beaches of southern Spain.

I reluctantly picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Oh, Ms. Marroy, I hope I am not disturbing you, but I know how much you want to volunteer and how bad I felt that you could not tutor and now I can think of—”

“Good morning, Keiko. How are you?” I said soothingly, given that she sounded like a canary frantically beating its wings against the bars of its cage.

“I would not bother you with such an early call, but—”

“Breathe in, breathe out. Think of cherry blossoms and tiny waves lapping on the beach. Take a deep breath and let it out in a gentle breeze. You can do it.”

There was a moment of such silence that I wondered if she'd stopped breathing altogether. Finally she said, “I am sorry, Ms. Marroy. I am not so comfortable talking on the telephone with someone important like you. I get excited. I am breathing with calmness now. May I speak?”

“Is there an emergency, Keiko? Is someone hurt? Should you be calling nine-one-one for an ambulance?”

“Oh, no, Ms. Marroy,” she said earnestly, “no one is breeding. Our receptionist, who is a volunteer, called to say that she cannot come here this morning. It would not be a problem except for that it is a problem. Not a terrible problem, but a very big problem. This nice old woman who gives us money wants to come here to show her friends that we are worthwhile. We will not be so worthwhile if I have to run away and answer the telephone every time it rings. Gregory never comes in before eleven o'clock.”

“What about the other board members?”

“They are busy people who cannot leave their jobs. You did say that you wished to volunteer, didn't you?”

“I did,” I admitted, sadly aware that I was not among the “busy people.” Added to my abrupt addition to the board of directors, I'd have more volunteer hours by the end of the summer than Caron and Inez. “I'll be there in half an hour. Shall I bring doughnuts?”

“No, there is no time. Mrs. Slater will be here at ten. Thank you so much, Ms. Marroy.”

I opted for casual Friday attire and arrived at the FLC with minutes to spare. There was no indication of high anxiety among the students in the lounge area, who were pretty much lounging. I could hear the teacher in one of the classrooms, conjugating verbs in a monotonous voice. Keiko bounced out of her office before I could take refuge behind the receptionist's desk.

“You are saving my rife, Ms. Marroy,” she said.

“I doubt that very much, Keiko.” I looked down at the phone with many buttons. “What am I supposed to do if someone calls?”

“Take messages. If new students come, give them this form and tell them to come back after lunch or next week. You are so kind to do this, Ms. Marroy. I didn't know who else to—”

“Your lipstick is smudged,” I said mendaciously. “You don't want this donor to think badly of you, do you?” As I'd anticipated, she squealed and hurried into the ladies' room. I sat down and regarded my domain. I had a pad of paper and a pen. The buttons on the phone were unlit. I checked the folder with the forms for new students. All that my desk lacked was a potted plant and a photo of Peter and Caron. All I lacked was something to do while Keiko gave a tour to Mrs. Slater and her friends. I shot a warning glare at the phone, then emerged from behind the desk in search of a newspaper and, if I was lucky, a cup of coffee.

The coffeepot was in the room where the board had met. I took a cup out of the cabinet and filled it, noting that someone had added a mustache to one of the cave drawings on the chalkboard. The trio of Asian girls giggled as I picked up a crinkled newspaper from one of the tables, but they declined to share the source of their mirth. I resumed my post with dignity and engrossed myself in the antics of local politicians.

A shaggy man in a khaki jacket came inside, nodded at me, and beckoned to a Latino man. The two of them disappeared into a cubicle. Minutes later, a grim young woman appeared and took her student, a stout woman with a headscarf, into another cubicle. My trio of fans relocated to a table where they had a better view of me. An elderly man wearing a baseball cap waved to his student, who was Latino and as old as his tutor. I turned to the editorial page. The phone rang. I punched the blinking button and informed a siding salesman that the FLC was not interested. The next call was for Gregory. I dutifully wrote down a name and telephone number and secured the note under a stapler. A man with a thick guttural accent called and asked for Leslie; it took several minutes for me to ascertain his callback number (if I did with any accuracy). Keiko came out of her office several times to hover briefly by the front door before retreating. Dealing with important donors should be Gregory's job, I thought as I aligned stray paper clips, but his forty-hour week might include late afternoon and evening networking. It seemed the Farberville Literacy Council was in desperate need of funds. Checkbooks might open more readily after a few cocktails.

There was a second caller for Leslie, this one a snap since the speaker had graduated to ESL 102. I was feeling confident that I was keeping a steady hand on the helm when the front door opened and a familiar figure tottled into view and beamed at me. My steady hand slipped. “Miss Parchester,” I said weakly. “How have you been?”

“Goodness, Claire, I wasn't aware that you were one of our volunteers. What a charming surprise.”

As she came around the corner of the desk, I was relieved to see that she was wearing sensible shoes rather than fuzzy pink slippers. We'd met when she had been accused of embezzling money from the high school journalism department. I'd cleared her name and, due to certain behavior on her part that is best left unspecified, persuaded her to retire. We'd had a few encounters since then, but I was too befuddled to recall any of them.

“I'm just helping out this morning,” I said, resisting the urge to fan myself with a folder. “And you?”

“I've been a tutor for several years. I do so enjoy it. After my session with Miao, you and I must catch up over tea. I clipped all the articles about your latest case, but I'd adore to hear the details about those nasty people. You're always so clever, Claire.”

“Meow?”

Miss Parchester was still beaming at me. “Isn't that a lovely name? I think of her as my little Chinese kitten. Such a dear girl, very bright but too shy for her own good. She's working on a graduate degree in mathematics. Her English isn't very good, I must say, but she's making wonderful progress.” She beckoned to a slim and exquisitely beautiful young woman, who was waiting near the windows. “
Ni shang hao,
Miao.
Ni hao ma?
”

“Good morning,” the woman whispered, her eyes downcast.

“This is my friend, Claire Malloy,” Miss Parchester continued.

I smiled at Miao, who managed to glance up for a few seconds. “Miss Parchester told me that you're a student at the college. It must be quite a challenge because of the language barrier.”

“Yes, but numbers … they are…” She looked at her tutor for help. When Miss Parchester merely nodded, she gulped and added, “The same. Only the words.”

I watched the two of them retreat to a cubicle. I was pleased that Miss Parchester had found a hobby that was harmless and benevolent. I had no doubt that she was an excellent tutor, unlike my daughter, who could be impatient. The telephone interrupted my musing. I dealt briskly with a lawn service, suggesting they send their brochure via the mail. Another call for Gregory, followed by yet another for Leslie. A middle-aged couple came in and gazed expectantly at me. I quickly ascertained that they were potential students, in that I could understand neither of them, and handed them the appropriate forms. They gave me bewildered looks as they left.

Eastern European languages are not my forte.

Keiko's visitors arrived just as the class ended. Collisions were avoided as students found seats in the lounge area, jostled each other in front of the soda and snack machines, went into the restrooms, or departed. Keiko shepherded four well-endowed (in both senses) women into her office. Leslie gave me the same harried smile as she took the slips of paper from me and headed for her office. It occurred to me that she might have taken Gregory's flask after a particularly frustrating class in which malapropisms and mangled English had competed with the recitation of the past and present tenses. It was not anything I planned to pursue.

I wanted to fetch another cup of coffee, but I could not abandon my post while the donors were present. My expression must have been plaintive, because a dark-haired woman came to the desk and said, “Hello. Can I help you?”

“No, but thank you. My name is Claire.”

“Is a good name. I do not know how to say in Russian, but I will learn. My name is Yelena. I was famous actress in Moscow before I come to America. You are new tutor, yes?”

“I hope to become one. How long have you been coming here?”

“One year and four months. My English is not so good, but is getting better. My old tutor, a lady named Sara, has gone home to have baby, so now I have new tutor. My tutor is not so good, but she tries.” She laughed so loudly that heads popped up from the cubicles. “I tell her I am of Cossack blood, so she must be careful or I will bounce on her with scimitar!”

With orange highlights in her hair, she would make a fine Siberian tiger. I had no desire to be her next meal, although it would be fun to be her tutor. Caron might think differently. The girls should arrive shortly, I realized as I glanced at the clock on the desk. I looked up at Yelena. “I have to take the tutor training session at the end of the summer. Perhaps we can work together. My Russian is limited to
da, nyet,
and vodka. Maybe you can teach me as well.”

“Then I will teach you new word:
spaseebo
. It means thank you.”

We grinned at each other. Leslie emerged from her office and went back into the classroom. Yelena and most of the other students followed dutifully, including the pesky trio. I shirked my responsibilities and dashed into the classroom to refill my coffee cup. When I returned, Keiko was showing her entourage the computer in one of the cubicles. As she glanced in my direction, her eyes widened and she frowned. I would have been annoyed had I not realized that her displeasure was aimed at an obese elderly woman who'd arrived during my brief absence. Despite the mild weather, the woman wore a stained jacket over an equally stained shirt, a long skirt, and boots. Had someone been filming a movie set during World War II, she would have been cast as the peasant woman who was the mastermind behind the resistance cell.

“May I help you?” I asked her as I resumed the helm with renewed resolve.

The woman's mouth puckered and her eyebrows lowered as though I'd said something offensive. “Who be you?”

“A volunteer,” I said. “And you?”

“Ludmila Grabowski.” Her voice resonated like a gong. “I from Bialystok, Poland. Grandson professor at Farber College.” She paused, daring me to contradict her or cast aspersions on Bialystok, Poland, or her grandson. “I know not why you here, but what matters? It bad day for
swistak
I came here.
Dupek!
Nowhere safe to hide from sins of father.” Despite my aversion to sweat, I may have been a bit damp as she continued to blister me with an unrelenting glare. When I remained mute, she said, “You know nothing. Where is tutor?”

“I don't know.” It seemed like the appropriate reply.

Ludmila snorted, then stomped over to a table and plopped down with a loud sigh. My hand may have wobbled as I took a gulp of coffee, but I reminded myself that I was not a sniveling child deserving of a lecture. I would have said as much to Ludmila had my Polish been up to par. I waggled my fingers at Keiko, who looked very much as though she might snivel at any moment, and turned my attention to the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.