Relative Danger (4 page)

After a while I felt better. Much calmer. Who cared what Gil thought? I knew Katherine and was certainly aware of what she needed. She needed graduation. Cap and gown, the whole bit. I’d do something. And I could do it without Gil Thurman’s assistance.

What was he telling that young woman with long legs at his table? That I was only an old friend visiting in town?

Old.
Me
?

I swiped a dry towel across the stovetop. My anger venting produced more sheen on its flat black surface but did nothing to brighten my mood. I tossed the towel. Trying to think, I circled through rooms that looked pretty to me yesterday but not today. I dropped to a chair in the den and powered up my laptop. I could surf into cyberspace to get my mind off worries. First I’d check e-mail. I slapped that button.

Hey Cealie
, a subject line said.

I clicked that one. Somebody knew me, and I could use a cheerful message.

Are you still in San Francisco? I’ve been trying to find you and hope you still have the same e-mail address I came across. What’s been happening? I miss you, Cuz. Hey, I have a big problem. Please write or call. Luv, Stevie.

Groan. I didn’t need another relative’s problem to solve. My cousin Stevie hadn’t contacted me in years. She used to yank my pigtails when we were small and took great pleasure in watching me cry and then calling me crybaby. Stevie now thought she was psychic, but I knew she only told people all the ridiculous thoughts that popped into her ditzy head.

I hit the delete button and switched off the power. Let Stevie conjure my image to find out where I was.

“I’m sorry,” I said, again in the kitchen with Minnie cactus. “My dilemma isn’t your fault, and I don’t need to take out my frustrations on you.” She seemed to accept my apology. Her head looked a little pinker, her two-inch-high stem straighter. I told her goodnight and turned off the light. I’d recently purchased her when a wave of nostalgia swept through me and held on, making me feel a need for a living companion. Animals wouldn’t be great for all my travels, but plants lived. I knew next to nothing about real plants, and the only thing I knew about cactuses was that
cactuses
and
cacti
were both correct plurals, with dictionaries seeming to prefer
cactuses
.

I
preferred
cacti
.

And I knew these plants didn’t require much upkeep. Perfect. At the nursery Minnie’s pinkish head with matching topknots captured my attention. And she didn’t prick. Now I was trying to make her my friend, but I’d need to be much kinder.

In my bedroom I kicked off my mules, reconsidering Legs. Surely she’d been wearing spiky heels with ankle straps. I shrugged out of my wrinkled pantsuit. It was supposed to be that way. A woman must have designed the fabric, and she had been wise. How many wrinkles she must have fussed with in her own garments. I liked my outfit—until I saw that woman with Gil. Her black skirt probably only wrinkled where its skimpy bottom creased underneath her.

I lay in bed, deliberation not letting me sleep. What did Gil mean, I tried to control? I’d help Kat, even if she hadn’t asked. I’d promised Nancy. The diploma. Then the wedding. Whether Kat liked it or not, she’d have babies.

* * *

In the morning the image of Gil’s sexy new girlfriend stuck in my brain, so I dressed in a more revealing outfit than the matronly one I’d worn yesterday. I phoned for directions and drove through streets, confused. Gil’s comments made me almost depressed, and I loathed depression.

“I want information about substitute teaching,” I told the woman seated behind the front counter at the school board office. She looked older than I was and wore whitish makeup and a tan buttoned blouse. She gaped at my bosom. If I were shy, I’d have covered myself. My sexy clothes felt out of place in this dark-paneled environment, making me recall that most teachers dressed conservatively. Why hadn’t I used my brains instead of my emotions to select an outfit for this mission?

Two men wearing suits strode out from the offices behind her. They walked beside the counter and gave me admiring stares.

“I taught briefly. That was quite some time ago,” I told the receptionist, “but I’ve been a professional woman for years.”

Her eyes lingered on my little clothes, letting me know what profession she thought I was in. After much hesitation, she said, “You’ll have to talk to someone in Personnel to see if you qualify for a certificate. Our schools always need subs.” She peered at the cleavage I’d shoved up above my chamois-colored sweater.

“And I know what school I’d like to go to,” I said.

Her gaze located my face. “Then you might talk to an administrator there, too. But the board will be doing a background check on you.”

Did she also think I used drugs? I met with a snobbish man in Personnel, let him copy the transcript I’d brought to show Kat, filled out his papers, and paid a fee. He gave me a letter and told me a certificate would arrive in the mail.

Reconsidering my purpose for the day, I swung back around to the condo and changed into something more school-like, a high-cut periwinkle dress. The stiletto red heels came off. I grabbed tan pumps from a box on a pantry shelf, slipped them on, and went out, making a quick stop near the airport at Dickers Rent-to-Own.

“You decided to buy this beauty?” Rick Dickers asked, his plastered salesman’s smile growing. “Your rental time’s not up yet, but I can’t blame you for wanting to keep her.” He patted the hood of the PT Cruiser I’d driven.
Done deal, sale made
, his pats said.

“Nope, she’s not quite right, although I do like her sassy rump.” I’d chosen this model because its odd shape seemed a cross between an old Volkswagen and a gangster’s car. Driving it gave me a sense of being naughty. I’d thought Kat would enjoy that image, but she hadn’t been in a laughing mood.

Now that I was going to her school, I wanted my vehicle, like my clothes, to make a professional statement. I always liked to rent cars from large lots like this—with new and used vehicles—whenever I could find them because I’d have so many choices. I wanted a different car now but didn’t want to take long to decide which one. I had a purpose. A mission. I skimmed the massive lot. “I want that one,” I said, pointing.

The owner’s eyes flashed. “The Lexus?”

“Yep.”

In two scoots he’d departed and returned with the keys. I had him rush to change the paperwork, and then I paid the larger fee.

The car’s leather-scented seat caressed my hips and back. The Lexus drove better than the similar ones I’d owned. A temptation struck to buy this lovely piece of machinery, but I remembered I wanted nothing that would chain me down. I’d been anchored by possessions too long. Who wanted to squander time deciding which tires would be better than others—which you had to do when you owned a car? I was free to do my own thing now. Whenever I flew to new destinations, I didn’t want to lug around an automobile.

I pulled into the paved parking lot in front of Sidmore High School. I would check out the school’s atmosphere, see if there was any truth to what Kat was hearing. Was her mentor a suspect?

Pounding in my chest made me pause. What if someone in that chunky building ahead of me really had killed the custodian? Hell, I was chicken. I wanted nothing to do with murder. I stood outside the Lexus, apprehension making me light-headed.

But Kat needed me. She said the custodian’s funeral was today. Why did a custodian die at this school? And if he was murdered, who did it? How did the people in this place like my grandchild? Most important, I needed to discover how to get her back here again.

Trucks, cars, and Jeeps jammed together in a parking maze. Every child in the school must own a vehicle, and some might have brought two. I left the Lexus in the only spot I found, near the road. The lone soul outside, I sauntered toward the building that looked fairly new but not impressive. In cold institutional oyster gray, it stretched in a broad expanse, leaving little grass exposed. They should have left more space outside for growing things. Kids needed to see flowers and trees. The slightly darker section tacked on to the building’s extreme left must house the swimming pool. When it was added last year, Kat had enthused about her diving classes.

I hadn’t been in a school in years but had certain expectations. I expected order. Polite children, like Kat. Fairly pleasant, boring teachers. I expected many people to be out for the funeral.

I trotted up the stairs to the landing.
Home of the Mighty Cougars
was plastered above double doors, along with painted cougar paws, eyes, and whiskers. A sign with a slash across a pistol said
No Weapons Allowed
. I wondered how many people that note frightened.

I reached for the door just as someone inside shoved it out. Three large boys hustled through. The huskiest one slammed against my shoulder. “Oops,” he said, grinning while he glanced back at me. He wore a thick sports jacket that advertised some team, and he scrambled down the stairs with the other boys.

“An apology would be nicer than ‘Oops,’” I said.

“Right, Grandma.”

“If I were your grandma, I’d have taught you manners!”

The big guy stopped. With a slow turn of his head, he peered over his shoulder. The mean-eyed gaze he speared me with made my knees weak. The other boys hooted. They all turned away and headed for the parking lot. I still held my breath. This was what high school was like? What was I doing here?

I exhaled, drew in deep breaths, and stood straighter. Opening the heavy door, I expected to find mourning. The door hissed and slammed shut behind me.

I witnessed bedlam.

No wonder those rough boys rushed out the school. I’d entered during a riot. Screams bounced off the walls, and huge kids shoved each other. A bulky mesh bag flew across a mass of thugs. I shrank back, ready to dash out the door.

“Can I help you?” a quiet voice said. The young woman stood almost a head taller than I did, and her kind expression gave me hope. She didn’t look anxious about the riot. My gaze flitted to the students. Didn’t she realize what was happening?

She glanced toward where I looked. “It’s lunchtime,” she said wearily, readjusting the stack of papers in her arms. “Did you need the office? It’s right this way.”

I followed where she led, not letting my gaze stray from students. If this was how they acted for lunch break, what did they do during their actual riots?

And I wanted to make Kat come back here?

Grateful to find the office located away from sweaty teens and musty book odors, I entered a large room with two sides covered by plate-glass windows. Surely the glass was bulletproof, and this was the viewing area where guards stood to watch the inmates. Signs blocked a portion of these windows. One sign mentioned graduation, another, senior rings. I appreciated the long stick wrapped in lagoon blue and yellow that leaned inside one window. Probably used to beat down any rioter who attempted to come in.

Near the door I walked through, a newspaper obituary had been posted on the wall. My glance at the article showed me the youthful face of the custodian, Grant Labruzzo.

The woman I followed rushed off behind a counter that blocked most of the room. Three teen girls looking downcast sat near me. Pictures of past presidents hung on walls, along with school pennants. The counter held trophies and wire trays with tossed-in papers. The protected side of this room sported a few open doors. People in that area worked behind computers near a copy machine.

One man and a woman whom I supposed were teachers bustled past me. The man with shaggy hair, a bulldog expression, and wearing P.E. shorts yanked up a desk phone and barked at whoever was on the line. The woman, tiny with enormous black hair, complained to a calm man with skin so tan it looked roasted. No one paid attention to me.

“Excuse me. Um, excuse me,” I said louder.

A woman leaned out from behind her monitor. “Yes?”

I threw back my shoulders. “I need some information.”

She glanced to her side at others involved with their tasks. Appearing harried, she shoved up from her chair and came near.

I put out my hand. “I’m Cealie Gunther.”

Gingerly, she accepted my handshake. “I’m Cynthia Petre, a secretary.” She wore slicked-back hair, her only makeup coral lipstick that surrounded teeth bound in shiny braces. Her crimson blouse clashed with her orange skirt and reminded me of Thanksgiving dinners. “May I help you?”

“Hi, Miss Petre. I’m interested in doing some substitute teaching,” I said, aware that my voice gave away my lack of conviction. I wanted to teach the kids I’d seen in the hall about as much as I wanted to smash my fingers with a hammer.

Her face brightened. “You are?”

I forced a nod. “Uh-huh.”

An ill-sounding horn blasted, and I jumped. From the hall, voices lifted even higher than before. A large well-dressed woman walked out of a room near the secretary, who told her, “Oh, Mrs. Little, come here. I want you to meet this lady.”

“I’m in a rush.” Through slender frameless eyeglasses, Mrs. Little gave me a once-over that said my face didn’t register. She wore a peach-colored tailored suit. Gold hoop earrings that I could have swung on shook beneath her highlighted hair.

“This lady wants to sub,” Cynthia Petre said.

Mrs. Little’s arm extended over the counter, her hand pumping mine. “You do?” A massive smile replaced her pinched expression.

I cringed inwardly. “I went to the school board, and they’re running a check on me to make sure I’m not an escaped criminal.” I gave her my best grandmotherly smile. “I have a degree in education from Northwestern and did some postgraduate work while I taught near Evanston. It was a small private school with top-notch students. Of course that was long ago, and I don’t even know if it still exists. I only taught a little while because I got married and moved, and my husband and I decided to go into business.” I noticed her eyes had glossed over. Behind her, everyone looked so busy.

“Anyway,” I said, “I wanted to come over and introduce myself and show this letter from the school board that says I’m otherwise qualified. So if you ever have a need, I’m available.”