Watchdog (26 page)

“No, keep going.” It was hard to get the words out; I think I was holding my breath. “Don't change a thing.”

“Marry me,” said Sam.

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“It won't be easy.”

“Since when have I liked easy?”

Sam groaned softly. I decided not to take it personally.

Davey came racing back into the hall. He'd found his bag and a piece of red ribbon to tie in Faith's topknot. “I'm all ready. Is it time to go yet?”

“Just about,” I said. “Don't forget your Batmobile.”

“We're going to be good together,” Sam said, smiling as Davey dashed away again.

“Good?” I punched his arm playfully. “Don't sell yourself short. We're going to be great.”

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laurien Berenson's sixth Melanie Travis mystery

HUSH PUPPY

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My mother always told me never to open a door unless I knew what lay behind it.

Sound advice, perhaps, but a rule I had trouble adhering to. As an adult, I'd come to realize she'd been speaking metaphorically, attempting to temper my natural enthusiasm with a bit of useful caution. No matter; by then the habit of throwing open doors and rushing gleefully onward was already deeply ingrained.

Being an optimist, I was always certain that whatever lay beyond each new portal would be a happy surprise, and the few bumps and scrapes I'd suffered along the way had done nothing to diminish that belief. Nevertheless, on that soggy March afternoon, as I hurried through the Howard Academy auditorium, climbed the half flight of steps, and went backstage to the prop room, I wasn't expecting any surprises at all. Much less the one I found.

I'd been sent to find an oil painting of Honoria Howard, sister of early-twentieth-century robber baron, Joshua Howard, and cofounder of the school. Commissioned portraits of the pair hung side by side in the front hall of the stone mansion that formed the nucleus of the private academy. This painting, said to be of lesser quality, apparently also suffered the secondary sin of being monstrously unflattering. It had been relegated to storage and eventually found its way to the prop room, where it was hauled out on occasion when a set required period atmosphere.

Having seen the portrait Honoria favored, indeed having passed by it daily since taking the job as special needs tutor at Howard Academy the previous September, I was privately of the opinion that the woman had been lucky to find an artist who'd been able to record her countenance for posterity without flinching. If that painting featured her good side, I could readily understand why no one had wanted to find wall space for this one.

If I hadn't been in such a hurry, the sound of voices, arguing loudly, might have given me pause. As it was, I'd already opened the door before I realized I might be intruding.

Eugene Krebbs, the school's elderly caretaker, stood in the middle of the small, cluttered room. Wearing his customary overalls and hangdog expression, he was holding a broom in one hand and gesturing forcefully with the other.

He wasn't a big man, and his clothes hung on him as if chosen to suit a larger frame. I judged him to be in his late sixties, though older wouldn't have surprised me. His soft, fleshy features and watery brown eyes gave him a look of amiability that was at odds with a perpetually grumpy disposition.

Before coming to Howard Academy, I'd worked in the Connecticut public-school system for half a dozen years. There, the rules had been stringent, the budget adhered to, the paperwork endless. And a man like Krebbs would have long since been retired. Here he was only one of many private-school eccentricities I'd encountered in the last semester and a half.

His custodial skills were totally outdated—the broom he brandished was evidence of that—and a support staff seemed to do much of the actual work. I'd been told Krebbs had been a fixture at the school for decades. Everyone seemed to take his presence for granted, and though he never seemed to accomplish much, he was often to be found hovering glumly in the background.

I'd never had occasion to speak with Krebbs before; in fact, I wasn't sure I'd ever heard him do more than mutter or mumble. Certainly I'd never heard him yell.

“You don't belong here.” Krebbs shook the broom to reinforce his message. “Now take your butt and get out before I decide to turn you in.”

The object of his wrath was a girl. Standing beside an old couch, tangled in a jumble of moth-eaten velvet curtains, she looked barely half his size. The expression on her face was all angry defiance.

“You just try it!” she said with a sneer.

A student? I wondered, trying to place her. She looked about ten, which meant fifth grade. In my position as tutor, I taught a cross section of pupils from throughout the school, but this girl didn't look familiar. She had short dark hair, a skinny build, and, I noted absently, remarkably dirty hands. Rather than wearing the school uniform, she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I was quite sure I'd never seen her before.

“Excuse me,” I said loudly. “Is there a problem here?”

Krebbs turned and glared. The girl moved swiftly. Slithering past him, she bolted for the door.

I blocked her path and held out my arms to catch her. Even though I was braced, she nearly knocked me down. Close up, she was tiny. Her chin barely came to the middle of my chest, and when my hand circled her arm, I felt only the bulky material of her sweatshirt, not the bone and sinew underneath.

“Not so fast,” I said. “Who are you? What's your name?”

“What's it to you?”

“See?” said Krebbs. “Like I said, she don't belong here. She don't even have a name.”

Surprisingly, his words seemed to wound the girl; or maybe it was the derision in his tone. “I do too have a name.”

“What is it?” I asked, looking back and forth between them. I wondered what she was doing in this musty, out-of-the-way room. And what she could possibly have done to make Krebbs so angry.

“Jane,” the girl said softly.

“Jane Doe, I'll bet,” spat Krebbs.

I ignored him and said, “I'm Ms. Travis. Are you a student here?”

Jane tossed her head, the gesture looking oddly out of place on the small, elfin girl. “Not exactly.”

“She means no,” said Krebbs. “Look at her. Her clothes are dirty.
She's
dirty—”

“Do you mind?” I snapped. There was no way Jane was going to talk to me in the face of the caretaker's open hostility. He dosed his mouth and stared at me sullenly.

It was too late. With a quick wrench, Jane pulled her arm free and raced out the door. Already several steps behind, I followed her across the stage and watched helplessly as she bounded down the steps, pushed open a side door, and was gone.

Frowning, I turned back. Krebbs had ambled out onto the stage and was sweeping listlessly, his broom seeming to disperse as much dust as it gathered.

“What was that all about?”

I had to ask the question twice. The first time, either Krebbs didn't hear me or else he chose to ignore it. The second, I walked around in front of him and planted myself in his path.

“Eh?” he said.

“Who was that girl and why were you yelling at her?”

“I weren't yelling. I thought about hitting her with the broom, though.” Krebbs smiled slightly, as though he found the notion satisfying.

“Why?”

“Trying to get rid of her. I been trying for a week, maybe more.”

“Where does she come from?”

“Heck if I know. She just showed up one day. Found her in the dining hall, snatching cookies out of the cupboard. She's a thief, pure and simple. I ran her off, and I thought that was the end of it. But she came back, all right. Probably casing the place, with some kind of robbery in mind.”

The thought of that tiny slip of a girl masterminding a robbery was ludicrous. Krebbs seemed perfectly serious, though.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Hanover about her?”

Russell Hanover II was Howard Academy's headmaster. Popular with parents and alumni alike, he was conservative, dedicated to the education of young minds, and starched stiffer than a nun's habit. I couldn't imagine he'd condone the caretaker's heavy-handed tactics.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” asked Krebbs. “It's my job to take care of the school, and that's what I was doing. I would have gotten rid of her for good this time if you hadn't of come along.

“You're new around here.” His rheumy glare made the words sound like an accusation. “Maybe you don't know how things work yet.”

“I know that you don't go around chasing young girls with a broom. Nor trying to scare them half to death either.” I could see why Jane had felt the need to yell at this man. I was half-tempted myself.

“Things are different here than they are in public school,” Krebbs said with a snort. “People are different. You'd be a far sight better off if you took the time to figure that out before poking your nose into where it don't belong.”

I pulled myself up, and said with dignity, “I am a teacher here, Mr. Krebbs. And as such, I am entitled to seek answers when I see a situation that strikes me as unusual. Why were you in the prop room?”

He shrugged and ducked his head. I was reminded of a dog indicating submission to a dominant male. In Krebbs's case, however, I suspected the obeisance was all for show.

“Just doing my job. I came up onstage to sweep up and noticed that the door was open. Shouldn't have been anyone in there this time of day, so I went and had a look.”

“What was Jane doing in there?”

Krebbs mumbled something under his breath.

“Pardon me?”

“Looked like maybe she was sleeping. She had some of them velvet curtains down and was using them for a blanket.”

Sleeping? Curiouser and curiouser. “And there was something about her demeanor that made you suspect she was dreaming of robbing the school?”

Maybe I shouldn't have been so sarcastic. Certainly, Krebbs's baleful look indicated as much. He picked up his broom and shuffled away across the stage.

I headed in the other direction and returned to the prop room. I hadn't taken the time to look around before; now I did. The place was a mess. Old furniture, knickknacks, bits of costume and scenery were all piled haphazardly in the cramped space.

Howard Academy had hired a new drama coach at the end of January. Until then, the position had been handled in a perfunctory manner by the music teacher, who also ran the glee club. It was easy to see that her abilities had been overtaxed by both jobs. The prop room looked like it hadn't been cleaned or organized in years. It was probably possible to trace the history of shows performed by moving each successive layer of junk to see what lay beneath.

A thick coating of dust covered fabric and upholstery alike, and the heavy burgundy curtains Jane had been using as a blanket were beginning to mildew as well. I lifted the drapes off the couch and shook them out. There was a small thump as something square and solid landed on my foot. A book had been nestled between the folds of material.

Setting the curtains aside, I reached down to see what Jane had been reading. The paperback had a bright, cheery cover: Shakespeare's
Much Ado About Nothing.
A stamp on the flyleaf proclaimed the book to be “Property of Howard Academy Library.” Judging by the crease in the spine, Jane had been about halfway through the play.

I wondered if she'd been enjoying it. Shakespeare was one of my favorites, but I'd been considerably older than ten when I'd started reading him. Even now, I was tutoring eighth graders who wouldn't have dreamed of approaching the bard's work without the comfort of a Cliffs Notes edition close at hand.

I folded the curtains and set them aside. The book I left on the couch where I'd found it. What little I knew about the elusive Jane had intrigued me. I hoped Krebbs hadn't succeeded in scaring her off; I was looking forward to the opportunity of getting to know her better.