Shadow of Doubt

NORAH McCLINTOCK

TO COMPLEX KIDS
EVERYWHERE

T

he man sitting across the table from me was named Charlie Hart. He used to work with my father. They were still friends. Sometimes Charlie Hart and my dad had dinner together. Sometimes Charlie Hart showed up at one of my dad's parties. Sometimes my dad and Charlie Hart played poker. But this day Charlie Hart was working.

My parents were somewhere outside waiting for me. At first my mother wanted to come in with me. But I told her it was okay—I could answer the questions without her. After all, I was the one who had been there. She had finally agreed, but I could tell she was upset because she didn't automatically get up and move one place over when my father sat down next to her. They're divorced.

The table between Charlie Hart and me was bare except for a can of ginger ale and a cup of coffee. He took a sip of his coffee and asked me how my father was. When I told him that my dad had just come back from a couple of weeks in Europe, Charlie Hart said, “Some guys have all the luck.” He asked me how school was going. I said it was okay. He asked me about the “young guy” who had been with me the last time he had seen me. “Is he your boyfriend?” he said. I shrugged but didn't answer. Some things are personal. Charlie Hart didn't push me on it. He said, “I'm going to videotape this, Robyn. Okay?”

Then he said the date and the time and who was in the room—just the two of us.

“I want you to tell me everything you can about what happened today and everything you can remember about the events leading up to today.”

“
Everything?
” I said.

“Everything,” Charlie Hart said. He sat forward in his chair and watched me with sharp eyes that reminded me of my dad's. My dad used to be a cop. Charlie Hart still was one.

M

s. Denholm was young, attractive, creative, enthusiastic, and funny—in other words, she was the kind of person who made you immediately ask yourself,
What is she doing here?
“Here” being a high-school classroom. She was substituting for Ms. March, my regular English teacher, who had gone on maternity leave before Christmas. She stood in front of the chalkboard, announcing that she would be directing the annual school play.

“Sign up for auditions if you're interested,” she said. “And by the way, there's as much drama backstage as there is onstage. If you don't see yourself as the next Scarlett Johansson or Brad Pitt, why not find out how much they rely on the behind-the-scenes types who are responsible for sets, costumes, lighting, props . . . well, you get it.” Ms. Denholm flashed a megawatt smile, complete with charming dimples, that made my best friend Billy Royal turn to mush and my other best friend Morgan Turner, Billy's girlfriend, turn to stone.

“Who does she think she's kidding?” Morgan said between classes, after Billy had printed his name neatly under the heading
Sets
. “Anyone can slap paint on plywood. Not anyone can be a movie star.” She looked daggers at Billy, who grinned back because, really, it would never occur to Billy to even want to be a movie star. Billy's not much of a people person. He's more of an animal person. Someone who admires William Lishman, the man who taught some orphaned geese to migrate, more than he admires Brad Pitt.

“So you're not going to sign up?” I said to Morgan. I had taken the pen and put my name down under
Props and Set Dressing
.

Morgan snatched the pen from my hand and inscribed her name in big, bold block letters right under Billy's. She would never in a million years have admitted it, but she was so crazy about Billy that she was actually jealous of—our new English sub.

. . .

During my open fourth period that afternoon, I happened to be walking past the school office when Ms. Nettleworth, one of the school's administrative assistants, rapped on the floor-to-ceiling glass that separates the office from the hall. She motioned me inside.

“Do me a favor, Robyn?” she said, peering at me through reading glasses that hung from a thin chain when they weren't perched on the tip of her sharp nose. “Take this box up to Ms. Denholm.”

The box was long and narrow and white, fastened with a red ribbon tied in a huge bow.

“Flowers,” I said.

“So it appears,” Ms. Nettleworth said, tapping the label on one corner of the box. The words
Garden of Eden
were printed on it, next to a little drawing of a bouquet. “They were on the counter when I came back from lunch. But Ruth's out with the flu, and I'm swamped.” Ruth Grier was the school's other administrative assistant. “Ms. Denholm has a spare period now. If she isn't in her classroom, she'll be in the teachers' lounge.”

Ms. Denholm was sitting at her desk when I came by. She waved me in when I knocked. Her eyes went straight to the box in my hands. In the past I had seen my mother eye boxes just like it. Women, my mom says, love to receive flowers (unless, she invariably adds, they're from an ex-husband who is having trouble accepting that he's an ex).

But Ms. Denholm did not smile. If anything, she looked suspicious.

“What's that?” she said.

“Flowers, I think,” I said. “Ms. Nettleworth asked me to bring them up.” She jumped up out of her chair when I set the box in front of her, as if it was full of snakes.

“Who would send me flowers?” she said.

She was asking
me
?

“Is it your birthday?” I said.

She shook her head. “And I haven't lived here long. I hardly know anyone.” She peered at the box but didn't touch it.

“There's a card.” I pointed to a small envelope tucked under the ribbon. Ms. Denholm's name was printed on the front.

She plucked out the envelope. Her hands shook as she opened it. Then she frowned. The envelope was empty.

“Open the box,” she said.

“But they're for you.”

“Please,” she said.

I slipped off the ribbon, lifted the lid, and began to part the tissue paper inside. It was—an odd choice of color—black.

“Oh!” I said, stunned by what I saw. I looked at Ms. Denholm. Her face had turned milk-white.

“Is there a note in there?” she said.

I looked into the box again. It contained a dozen red roses. Nestled among them was a baby doll. It was splattered with what looked like blood but was probably red paint. Its head was missing. I lifted it out of the box and gingerly poked among the thorns.

“No note,” I said.

Ms. Denholm snatched the lid off the desk where I had set it, jammed it back on, and threw the box into the trash beside her desk.