1 Per Cent Murders

by T W Morse

  “Good afternoon! It’s a great day at Peach City High!” The Georgian-accented woman squeals into the phone. “Hello!” The woman says again as Hannah fumbles on what to say.

  “Ah yes, this is Hannah — Mangrove,” she stutters, not wanting to use her real name. “Yes, hi, we are looking to hire a former employee of yours for an administrative job down here in Florida. Her name is Mary Clifton. Could you put me through to anyone that could give me any insight into her overall job performance?” Hannah says, trying to deepen her voice and keep a straight face. The other end falls silent for a moment.

  “Did you say Mary Clifton?” The woman repeats her name for clarification.

  “Yes ma'am, her resume lists that she taught P.E. for you guys,” Hannah says as she becomes more comfortable in her acting role.

  Another long silence takes place on the other end of the line.

  “Who is this? Is this some sort of joke?” The woman now sounds suspicious and concerned.

  “Why? Can you not put me through to whomever can assist me in providing a recommendation for Mary Clifton? We want to hire her for a job here at our school,” Hannah prompts while I give her a thumbs up for doing a great job.

  Just then, Hannah’s face looks terrified; her mocha skin turns white as a ghost as she lowers the phone. I can hear the woman on the phone yelling over and over again, “Where did you say you were calling from?”

  “What did she say? What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling a pit in my stomach forming.

  After Hannah clicks the end button she looks at me in horror. “The secretary of Peach City High said Mary Clifton died last year of cancer.”

  Hannah grabs my shirt and pulls me nervously away from the bench we were sitting on and into a corner just under our expansive staircase. She looks stunned and almost afraid to ask but does anyway. “What does this mean? Ulysses, if Mary Clifton died, then who is our assistant principal?”

  CHAPTER 33

  - ULYSSES -

  WHO IS THE REAL MARY CLIFTON?

  W e both are in shock from what we learned from the phone call. Mary Clifton, our new assistant principal, is not who she claims to be.

  “What the hell?! She’s an imposter!”

  “Let’s try her references. It may be just a coincidence. Maybe there is another Peach City High School,” Hannah says, trying to be optimistic. I quickly do an internet search on my phone and find no other Peach City High Schools; I shake my head in disbelief.

  “Ulysses, you call her references. I’ll call her college,” Hannah adds.

  “They won’t give you any information unless you have her Social Security number,” I say.

  “Oh, do you mean — this?” Hannah says, showing me the Social Security number on Ms. Clifton’s application.

  “Nice!” I add.

  I first call a number that Ms. Clifton put down on her resume as her previous principal from Peach City High. I dial the number thinking I will get Peach City High again, but instead I get a Chinese restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia. I try the next two phone numbers. Both are listed as Peach City High teachers; the first one I call is a pizza place in Atlanta and the last number is disconnected. This is getting strange. I turn to Hannah, who is on hold with North Georgia State College.

  “Ah yes. I am trying to request my transcripts. Yes, I do have my Social Security number,” Hannah says with relief. “And what address do you have in your records? Yes, that is my current address here in Somerset.” She smiles at me as she writes down the information she receives from the college.

  “So?” I said energetically.

  “They do have Mary Clifton’s transcripts. I am thinking they are probably for the Mary Clifton who died of cancer. Our Mary Clifton, or whatever her name is, must’ve stolen her identity and ordered her transcripts using this stolen Social Security number. I also found out that she has an address on file — which they were nice enough to give to me.”

  “Awesome! You had more luck than I did. Why would someone list restaurants as references? Wouldn’t Principal Barron check those references?” I ask a confused Hannah.

  Hannah can only shrug and then asks, “So you think our Ms. Clifton took on the identity of this Ms. Clifton who died in Georgia of cancer? Got her transcripts and faked her resume? You’re right, Principal Barron would’ve checked those references, even if everything else was squeaky clean. Doesn’t this seem very devious just to get an assistant principal job?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve proven that she is a liar, though I don’t know why. But Terry and Jack could definitely use this information in their trial. How can someone who lies and commits identity theft be leading their hearing tomorrow?” I ask puzzled.

  “Okay, what time do we meet your dad and Mr. Nelson?” Hannah asks.

  “Well, Dad said after Mr. Nelson’s basketball practice, so probably 6:00. Dad said he’s going to work late in his classroom, grading. Do you work today?”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to cancel. My parents will be okay with it. Wednesdays are pretty slow,” Hannah adds.

  “Okay. I don’t think we should tell my dad. He will think we’re putting ourselves in harm's way again,” I add adamantly. “We also need to check out this address Ms. Clifton gave to the college.”

  “It’s a few miles from Mangrove High,” Hannah states.

  “We could bike there after school. She shouldn’t be home until later. Administrators usually stay a couple hours late. So hopefully we can be in and out by then,” I say.

  “What do you expect to find?” Hannah asks.

  “I don’t know, but hopefully the connection to all this. If Mary Clifton isn’t who she says she is, then who is she?” I add.

  CHAPTER 34

  - LOGAN -

  P.E. TEACHERS WORRY TOO MUCH

  I sit in Bob’s office during my lunch break feeling uncertain. Am I doing the right thing not telling Deputy Diaz everything? We are friends, and most importantly, we could be in danger. Hell, a mafia hitman may be around every corner! I shudder to myself, then look around and contemplate my surroundings — Bob’s office. It is a bit much. Old athletic posters are plastered everywhere. Penny Hardaway, Dwyane Wade, even Shaq.

  We often eat in my classroom and only occasionally come here. I don’t want to be next door to the office with everything going on, so we opt for this place. Bob is blaring Ludacris on his Bose speaker while I eat my traditional PB and J sandwich. He sits behind his desk in a burnt orange tracksuit, chewing on a piece of beef jerky, and reading Sports Illustrated.

  “Bob, can you turn that down?” I ask as I flip through my phone, looking for clues.

  My thoughts return to the investigation; I just can’t give up on it. A murder happened at my school. A student’s father is dead; other students are possibly being framed for drug possession. I can’t just hand this back to the police. I can keep Ulysses and Hannah out of it, especially if someone is following us.

  The mafia! Just a few days ago we were content in Somerset, now our world is topsy turvy. A picture of what happened is forming in my mind, but I need one last puzzle piece before I can fit everything together.

  I open my phone to Google, searching for more information about the names we found. I type in Taban, Mecoli, and Leoni, checking to see if any more information could be found. Since all these men are smugglers, it's not a big leap to think the jewels, mentioned in the blue blackmail letter to Wright, could be connected to these mob bosses. Dead end.

  I try a search for missing jewels in New York City, using the names of the mafia bosses. I don’t find any information about stolen jewels, just paintings. That is until I click on an article titled “Royal Venetian Jeweled Knife Stolen.” Bingo! The article was about thirty years old; I start to skim.

  “A priceless artifact was stolen from McMasters Auction House on Saturday evening. A knife once owned by a Venetian prince was going up for auction. It was known as the Royal Cinquedea — a cinquedea is a long Italian dagger, adorned with jewels...The guard, or ha
ndle, of the knife was solid gold and adorned with Middle Eastern rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. It is valued at $35 million ... Several people linked with the Taban, Mecoli and Leoni mafia families were brought in for questioning but were released.. At this time, the police have no further leads.”

  “That’s enough to kill for.” I whistle out loud, gaining Bob’s attention. I show him the article and explain that the timing of the robbery corresponds with the Gallant murders. I also remind him of the blue blackmail letter displaying the word jewel.

  Bob looks at me from his cluttered desk along with a bobblehead of Michael Jordan, which bobs away as we continue our discussion. “What did Deputy Diaz say? Was he pissed at you?” Bob asks this smiling with a long piece of beef jerky hanging from his mouth. “You told him everything? Right? You’re not investigating anymore, right, Logan? Why look up this stuff if you’re not investigating? Right, Logan?

  “I told him enough,” I respond, ignoring the other questions.

  “What?! Logan, we may be in danger!” Bob squeals.

  “You don’t think I know that, Bob? We need to finish this!”

  Bob throws up his hands. “What the hell, you goin’ get me killed! Mmm, Mmm,” he grunts, tearing off another bite of beef jerky.

  “We need to do this for Conrad, and Mangrove,” I say, almost giving a pep talk to Bob. “Don’t forget, you are the one who got me in this. We need to do it for Terry’s and Jack’s futures, too,” I conclude.

  “I got you involved to help me keep my job and to prove Terry’s and Jack’s innocence. Not to solve a murder!” Bob says, frustrated.

  I bury my head back in my phone, saving the article about the jewel heist. I start to type in the other names of the people involved. O’Leary, Barron, Gallant, Wright, and, finishing with the biggest puzzle, Gibbins. We had an old picture of Sally Gibbins but nothing else. Google had nothing either.

  I open the picture that Ulysses took at O’Leary’s house, studying the picture that hung on his staircase of the twin blonde children and their mother. The other woman in the picture was Sally Gibbins. We knew Gibbins was on the business card. Was that Sally? Or a husband? Maybe a brother? We also know she was Samantha Gallant’s sister, but nothing more, other than she was the godmother to the twins. I zoom in on the photo from my phone. Maybe by going extremely close I’ll find some kind of connection that will bring everything into focus.

  I scroll from one side of the picture to the other and then stop suddenly. Something caught my eye in the picture of Sally Gibbins. I think for a few minutes, pulling all the facts in my head together.

  “Ah ha!” I exclaim. By now, Bob is looking down at me from his desk. “I think I’ve solved this case!” I say giddily.

  Bob sarcastically comments, “Oh! Okay, Columbo. Sure, you have.”

  “Oh yeah, check your keychain for the mechanical room key again,” I smirk.

  “What? You know it’s missing. Why check if the key is still missing?” Bob says condescendingly.

  “Just check your keychain,” I smoothly respond, looking away while he reluctantly reacts.

  Bob pulls out his huge chain of Mangrove High keys, looking at each one carefully. Bob finally freezes on an old jagged looking key. At the top of the jagged key is a white sticker. On the white sticker, in small permanent marker, is written “MECHANICAL ROOM.” Under the words is a little smiley face.

  Bob is shaking. His lips are quivering. “Logan, this key was not here before. I would swear to it. And now it even has a weird smiley face. I didn't put that there.” Bob is holding up the key, examining its features. “How did it get back on my keychain? And how did you know it would be there?”

  I lean across Bob’s desk, examining the key for myself. “I knew it was there because I knew the killer would put it back,” I respond in a whisper. “Well, at least one of the killers.”

  CHAPTER 35

  - ULYSSES -

  ASSISTANT PRINCIPALS SHOULD NEVER STEAL

  “W

  e are going to just break into Ms. Clifton’s house?” Hannah shouts to me as we race our bikes to the address North Georgia State College gave her over the phone.

  The last address of the fake Mary Clifton. Why would someone perform identity theft to become an assistant principal? This question occupies my mind while we race on the sidewalks. The mansions give way to run-down condo developments. We enter an area known as South Somerset. This area is home to many migrant families who move into cheap condos so they can work for area farmers, traveling and doing work most Americans won’t do.

  “We are going to have to break into Ms. Clifton’s house,” I say as Hannah bikes parallel with me. Her face contorts under her pink bike helmet.

  “Even if she’s lying, that is still breaking and entering!” she gasps back.

  “You were fine with me breaking into Mr. O’Leary’s!” I retort.

  “Well, you were also almost caught. If it wasn’t for me, you would have been.”

  “That's why my guardian angel is going in with me,” I say with my half-dimpled grin.

  “Argh!” she grunts while rolling her eyes.

  We ride into a large run-down condo community named Bear Falls. The place looks as old as the city of Somerset. The cement building resembles an old motel you would see on the side of the highway that takes cash without any questions. Bear Falls was a two-story L-shaped complex, wrapping itself around a large broken paved parking lot. Our bikes have difficulty riding on the pavement with the sections of dirt and holes.

  “This is a pleasant place,” Hannah sarcastically comments. “Really think administrators should get more pay if this is all that she can afford.”

  We dismount and park our bikes behind one of the many dilapidated cars that look like they will never start again. This collection of cars acts as our cover as Hannah and I bob and weave slowly, trying to stay out of sight. Ms. Clifton’s place is number 26 on the second floor.

  We don’t have a ton of time. It is already 4:00, and this was an hour bike ride back from Mangrove High. We finally make a dash for the stairway. The clouds are darkening as we approach the stairway. The stairs are white, at least they once were. They now stand peeling, exposing the rusted metal beneath. As we cautiously climb the stairs, we notice how empty the complex is. Elementary and middle schoolers are just getting dismissed, so that could explain why there are no kids. I also think all the adults must still be at work. We don’t have much time before this place starts to fill up and someone is bound to notice two kids breaking into number 26.

  When we reach the top of the stairs, there are only three doors in front of us before we reach number 26. We are startled by a siren blaring in the background. This is the only part of Somerset, besides my section, that doesn’t exude wealth. They must hear a lot of sirens in this part of town.

  “Are we sure we want to be doing this?” Hannah asks, swallowing hard, probably spooked by the siren. “Just because she’s lying doesn’t mean we won’t get charged with breaking and entering,” she reasons in a soft whisper.

  “I know, but my gut tells me we need to see this thing through. She lied to Mangrove, and she is a criminal. I want to know why and if she is connected at all to Mr. Wright’s murder. We’ve got to do this for Terry and Jack too,” I whisper back to Hannah, half convincing her and myself that we need to follow through with what we are about to do.

  We approach the door labeled 26. Beads of sweat are rolling down my forehead. I look over to Hannah, who weirdly has beads of sweat only on her nose, covering her freckles. I smile.

  “What?” she asks.

  I lean in and kiss her quickly. “For luck,” I say before trying the handle. The handle is metal and cold in our humid air and proves to be locked. I knock hard, no answer. I knock again, still no answer. “Good, nobody's home.”

  “You got any hair pins?” I ask, thinking I could pick it like Dad had shown me.

  “No. Only an elastic. Wait a minute — Step back,” Hannah says with
a big smile.

  I do what she says. Hannah backs herself against the railing and takes a deep breath. Her whole body becomes rigid and serious. She brings her fisted right hand to her flat left hand. She breathes in again, but only through her nose, closing her eyes in a meditative state. In next instant, she swings her right leg forward, hard against the door while she is expelling, “HI-YA!” The door jamb splinters in every direction and swings open with ease.

  “My guardian angel!” I proclaim to a beaming, red faced Hannah. “We better hurry; someone may have heard that.”

  We both timidly walk into a very dark room. The open door gives off a little light, but the sun is lost within some serious looking rain clouds.

  Hannah closes the broken door the best she can after I turn on a small, dated lamp.

  “No wonder she doesn’t have Mr. Nelson drop her off at this dump. She must’ve had him drop her off at a different place and taxied back here so her base of operations could be kept secret,” I say while I examine the surroundings.

  “We better hurry; those clouds don’t look good,” Hannah says. “What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll know it when I see it,” I answer.

  “Okay?” Hannah worries.

  The room is dodgy, as my mom used to say in her London accent. In Britain, dodgy is another word for nasty, and this place is really dodgy.

  It is set up like a motel room. The apartment only has a small kitchenette and bathroom, with a separate sink outside. I always thought that was weird that hotels wouldn’t put a sink in with the toilet and shower. The rest of the apartment consists of a small closet and a full-sized bed. Even the bedding looks dusty with faded flowers trying to stay colorful but losing the battle to age and lack of care.

  “The best place to look is in her trash. If any of the detective novels or movies I have watched have taught me anything, it is to always check the trash,” I say to Hannah as her face contorts again.