Underdog (17 page)
Seventeen
The problem with dog shows is that everything takes place in such close quarters there's no way to talk privately. Especially not about the kind of information I was beginning to pile up.
I'd started asking questions in the beginning because Jenny's death had shaken up my well-ordered notion of the world. At thirty, I'm old enough to know I won't live forever, but still young enough to believe there must be plenty of time left. Somebody had taken that away from Jenny.
Unfortunately the more I learned, the more confusing things became. Instead of slipping into sharper focus, I had a feeling that the picture of her life I was developing was growing hazier by the moment. I definitely needed a second opinion.
Monday, I went through my duties as teacher by rote. Sometimes it happens. When it does, I try not to think about the fact that the future of America's youth rests in my hands.
New facts fresh in my mind, I gave Sam a call that evening. Unfortunately the effort produced nothing save the opportunity to leave a choice message on his machine. And Aunt Peg thought our relationship wasn't progressing.
From the rumble of running feet I heard on the ceiling, I guessed that Davey and Faith were playing hide and seek upstairs. Davey was fed and bathed and wearing his pajamas. With any luck the puppy would wear him out enough so that in a half hour's time he'd drop straight into bed. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down in the kitchen and dialed Aunt Peg. Thankfully, she was home.
Now that I finally had someone to talk to, I went for maximum shock value. “I spoke to the Ridgefield police on Saturday. Jenny was murdered.”
“For sure?”
“Ummhmm.” I sipped at my coffee and filled her in on what Detective Petronelli had told me. I went from there to Crystal Mars, Harry Flynn, and Crawford Langley.
“You've been busy,” she said at the end.
“That's not all. Angie and Florence Byrd are apparently arguing over how long Charlie will remain on the circuit.”
“That will be a short argument. It's Florence's dog and Florence's money. That makes it her call.”
“Maybe, but Angie's hoping to change her mind. I wonder how Jenny felt about the length of Charlie's career.”
“Is this your way of saying you think that Florence might be implicated in Jenny's death?” Aunt Peg's tone clearly conveyed her skepticism.
“How about Dirk then? Angie calls him a spook. She says he used to spend a lot of time watching Jenny.”
“Oh, that girl. I think she'd say anything that would draw attention to herself. I'm more interested in what the detective told you. So Jenny was poisoned slowly over a period of time. Rather an odd choice of methods, wouldn't you think?”
“Of course it's odd,” I grumbled. “Every single solitary piece of information I have is odd.”
“Remember what I told you about the handlers who used to feed arsenic to their dogs to make them grow coat?”
“Right.” I sat up suddenly. “A little bit at a time. Who else would have known about something like that?”
“Lots of people, unfortunately. It's an old handlers trick.”
“Harry Flynn's an old handler.”
“So he is.”
“And Florence Byrd has been around forever.”
Aunt Peg harrumphed at that. “Since you're running around talking to people, what about that kennel girl Jenny fired? The one she chased with a broom? She would have had access. Maybe there was more to that argument than meets the eye.”
There was a loud crash from the living room, followed by a wail from Davey. The phone was a cordless, but as soon as I reached the doorway, I knew I was going to need both hands.
“Any blood?” Aunt Peg asked. She could hear Davey screaming through the line.
“No. A broken vase, a turned over table, and a puppy tangled in an electrical cord.”
“Off you go then,” Aunt Peg said cheerily. “Keep digging. And let me know what else you find out.”
On Tuesday, Betty Winslow and I had set up an appointment to meet with Timmy Doane's parents. Despite Timmy's insecurities, I'd found him to be a bright and engaging child. Since he was new to the school system, Betty and I had wondered if there was anything in his history we should have been aware of. We knew about the move obviously; but if there'd been any other recent turmoil in the family, the parents were the ones to fill us in.
The conference was set up for after school Wednesday. It was a warm afternoon and Davey was outside waiting for me on the playground. I could see him from the third grade classroom where the meeting was to take place.
When I got there, however, Betty was the one who was missing. I found some adult-sized chairs, arranged them in a semi-circle and waited. She came flying in only moments later.
“I've got to go.” Betty went straight to her desk and dug out her purse.
“What's wrong? Is it your kids?” Betty had three, two in high school, one in college. Their pictures decorated the window sill behind her desk.
“Sean's in trouble over at the high school.”
Sean was her youngest, fifteen but trying desperately to be older; smart, sassy, and a heartbreaker in the making. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Care to hold him?” asked Betty. “I'm planning to whip his butt.”
I grinned at her look of exasperation. “What'd he do?”
“Got busted for carrying a beeper in school. As if he doesn't know better. As if I haven't told him a thousand times that when you're black, if you want to be taken seriously, everything you do has to be above reproach. But no, he thinks he's too important for that. Mr. Track Star. Like he can't get in trouble like everybody else.”
Beepers had been banned in most of the local schools. They were disruptive in class, and served as a handy tool for the area drug dealers who beeped their clients when they came on campus. Teachers had good reason to be suspicious of any student they found carrying one.
“Sean isn't. . .”
“Into drugs?” Betty answered my unspoken question with a vehement shake of her head. “Not on his life. I went through that with Kevin, my oldest, so believe me, I know the signs. Besides, Sean's too into his bodyâwhich we're both hoping will win him a scholarship to collegeâto even think of defiling it like that.”
“What was he doing with a beeper?”
“Acting like a fifteen-year-old jerk.” Betty sighed. “He thinks it's hip, and at that age, hip is everything. Now I've got to go bail him out and see the principal.”
“The Doanes are due any minute.”
“I know and I'm sorry. We've discussed everything so I know you can handle the conference on your own. Do you mind too much?”
“No, go on. Ten years from now when I'm bailing out Davey, you can cover for me.”
“You got it,” said Betty and she was gone.
She must have passed Rob and Wendy Doane on her way out because they entered the classroom just after she left. Rob Doane was tall and spare. He was wearing a double-breasted suit and highly polished loafers; clearly he'd come from work. Fathers are rare at mid-day conferences and I was pleased that he'd made the effort.
Striding a half step behind him, Wendy Doane was chic and slender. She wore chunky gold jewelry and had manicured hands that looked as though they'd never seen a sink full of dirty dishes. Neither she nor her husband was smiling.
I introduced myself and led them to the seats. Mr. Doane looked pointedly at the empty chair. “I believe we were to be joined by Timmy's classroom teacher?”
“Yes, that was the plan, but Betty was called away by a family emergency. Both she and I have spent considerable time with Timmy and I feel comfortable speaking for her in her absence.”
“I see.” He folded his hands tightly in his lap. “Then we may as well get on with it.”
It was supposed to have been my meeting, but Rob Doane was not one to cede authority lightly. He started by quizzing me on my credentials, which were in very good order, thank you; and ended by saying, “You've been with the school system how long?”
“Seven years.”
“All in the same position?” His tone suggested that if I was any good I would have been promoted by now.
“I am a special education teacher, Mr. Doane. That's what I do. My children are very important to me.”
“None of Timmy's other teachers have ever been dissatisfied with his performance,” said Wendy Doane, leaning forward in her chair. Her pink-tipped fingers drummed in her lap.
“I'm not dissatisfied either. It's just that I think he can do better. He's new to Hunting Ridge Elementary and we'd like to make his adjustment as smooth as possibleâ”
“Timmy's a very intelligent child,” Mr. Doane broke in. “We've had him tested. His I.Q. falls just below genius range, which is why we were very surprised to hear that he had been singled out for special help. I assure you he has no learning disabilities, nor any other problems of any sort.”
“I realize that Timmy is very bright, but he has had some trouble expressing himself in the classroom environment. Perhaps the move has unsettled himâ”
Wendy was angled so far forward that her chair scooted up with her. “We explained to him that the move was necessary. His father took a different jobâa better jobâin New York. Certain adjustments would have to be made by everyone. His contribution would be to work a little harder.”
“I don't think the problem is how hard he works.”
“It must be, or why else would you have called us here?” Rob Doane demanded. “We know Timmy's a smart child. There's no question of that. Yet obviously you feel he's not living up to his potentialâ”
Now it was my turn to interrupt. I was growing more than a little tired of the Doanes' hard line approach to their son and his problems. Too bad Betty wasn't here to stomp some sense into them.
“The way I see it, at the moment Timmy's potential is not the most important consideration. His happiness and well-being are. Ever since he came to Hunting Ridge, he has been quiet almost to the point of being withdrawn.”
“Quiet?” Wendy asked. “You brought us in here because Timmy's quiet? That's absurd.”
“I brought you in here because I feel he's unhappy.”
“Your duty as a teacher is not to feel,” said Mr. Doane. “It is to instruct. If Timmy's unhappy it is because he has not yet learned how to successfully apply himself in this new environment.”
What a lot of jargon. What a lot of bullshit. I wondered if he talked that way when he wasn't wearing a suit. Come to think of it, I wondered if he talked that way in bed.
Now Wendy, dear, you must apply yourself. . . .
Now Wendy, dear, you must apply yourself. . . .
I fought back a highly inappropriate giggle and said, “I see that Timmy's success is very important to you. Perhaps he feels your desires for him as undue pressure.”
“I should hope he does,” snapped Rob Doane.
“Excuse me?”
“Life is pressure, and productivity, and accomplishment. A child is never too young to learn the value of discipline and achievement. Maybe we do push him a bit, I don't see that as a negative. The work habits he builds today will take him on into the Ivy League and the work force after that. Right now, Timmy is laying the foundation for his own future.”
Give me a break, I thought. Timmy was eight. Right now, he was struggling in the third grade. And with Mr. and Mrs. Upwardly-Mobile behind him pushing as hard as they could, no wonder. I'd seen kids just slightly older with ulcers from just this kind of pressure.
The meeting concluded on a thoroughly unsatisfactory note. Rob and Wendy Doane stopped short of questioning my competence as a teacher, but they certainly disputed my concerns. From their point of view, there was nothing wrong with Timmy's classroom performance that couldn't be solved by pressing their son to apply himself more strenuously. By the time they left, I was afraid I might have done Timmy more harm than good.
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