by T W Morse
“That sounds like a job for Ulysses,” Hannah says smiling. “I got us in,” she finishes, looking proud.
“Okay, you check her closet,” I compromise, smiling and shaking my head. “This place looks like it’s been barely used,” I add.
I notice a small trash bin near a couple of wooden stools, under a partition in the kitchenette. The trash is filled with energy bar wrappers and scraps of banana peels. The flies like the banana peels. Several of them buzz around the rim of the waste basket.
“She must be a health nut,” I say out loud to Hannah as she is moving through the clothes in the closet.
“Ulysses,” she says with a startled voice. “Her clothes.”
“What?” I say.
“I think they’re all stolen. The security tags are still on some of them,” Hannah says.
“She steals identities and clothes?”
Deep beneath the trash, I find several receipts that are either torn or crumpled. Most of them are from the supermarket. There is one receipt that is not easy to read because it was torn into quarters. I put them on the counter, arranging them in place. It appears to be a receipt from Home Depot. My stomach sinks to my knees again. The same familiar feeling I felt when I was trapped in Mr. O’Leary’s house. The same feeling I felt when I saw a person dressed in black digging holes in the back of O’Leary’s home. The pieced-together receipt shows a $14.95 charge for a metal shovel.
“Why would Ms. Clifton, or the person pretending to be Ms. Clifton, rip up a receipt for a metal shovel?” I ask Hannah, knowing the answer deep in my gut.
Before Hannah can respond, her hands start to shake. She is genuinely trembling as she turns from deep inside the closet. “I think we may have found a connection to the murders.”
Hannah is holding a pair of black military boots in her trembling left hand, covered in dry mud. But that isn’t even the most disturbing part. Hannah’s right hand is also trembling as it holds a ribbed, black — ski mask.
CHAPTER 36
- LOGAN -
PRINCIPALS SHOULDN’T LIE
B ob storms into my classroom and stares at me for a good thirty seconds before speaking. It’s finally the end of the school day, and he is still perseverating over our lunch conversation, looking pale and confused. Then he starts laughing nervously, saying, “Nah, nah.”
I’m not wasting my time on this again.
“I know you’ve been wanting clarification all day, but I need to find Principal Barron,” I say, ignoring Bob’s shock.
“So, the killer took my key? Then returned it?” Bob squeaks. “And now you’re saying there are two killers?” Bob gulps. He then returns to saying, “Nah, nah,” as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“I also think Principal Barron is in danger and he knows it,” I respond, heading toward the door.
“What? Why do you think that?” Bob calls as the door closes behind me.
I pop my head back in and respond, “As they say in the movies, all will be revealed. Just not yet. Meet me back here at 6:00, after your practice. All your questions hopefully will be answered,” I say to Bob before leaving.
I walk over to the office door. It is now 4:30. I know I have grading to do, but I put it off. I have a theory about the events that took place last Friday. The events actually have been building for a while, ever since the disappearance of Mr. Peters.
I approach the office door, but it is locked. “Damn!” I say out loud. I notice Ms. Simmons come out of Principal Barron’s office, and I catch a glimpse of him working at his desk, so I knock vigorously at the door. Ms. Simmons looks at me with disdain as I knew she would.
“Office hours are over!” she shouts from the counter.
I arrogantly knock again. “I need to speak with Mr. Barron!” I shout. I see him get up from his desk and come out of his office.
“It’s alright, Ms. Simmons; you can let Mr. Adair in,” Principal Barron states as he gestures to Ms. Simmons. She creeps to the door, leering at me with continued disdain, and unlocks the door.
As I come into the office, she gives me a smile; I do not smile back. I am all business, and I am going to get to the bottom of this affair.
“Mr. Adair, what can I do for you?” Principal Barron asks in his little voice as he extends his stature, failing in an attempt to reach my height.
“It’s best we speak in private. I know you’re in danger.” As I say this, I turn to Ms. Simmons, who is listening intently. “We’d better go in your office.”
“Danger! I’m not in any danger,” he says with zero confidence, given away by his shaky, rattled voice.
He proceeds to guide me into his office, closing the door behind me. Barron gestures for me to take a seat. I sit comfortably in a leather chair. Principal Barron sits behind his large intimidating oak desk.
Principal Barron looks like a man on borrowed time. He still retains some of his authoritative demeanor as he addresses me sternly, “What do you mean I’m in danger?” He laughs nervously. “Oh, Mr. Adair. I think you have a vivid imagination.”
I sit in silence studying him, waiting to see what he has to say while my phone lays on my lap, recording every word he says. Principal Barron wipes some sweat from his forehead. “You still think I’m connected to the murder of Donald Wright?”
I continue to sit in silence.
My silence must be nerve-racking for him. He starts to move around in his seat. His sweat is now dripping from his tanned head. Barron’s salt-and-pepper hair glistens in the recessed lighting of his office. He takes a sip of the water in front of him. My silence is infuriating him.
“Adair, you said you wanted to talk and tell me why I’m in danger! So, talk!” he shouts, hitting the desk with his fist in a fit of rage.
“I know about the Royal Cinquedea,” I say, staring him down with a stern poker face.
Principal Barron relaxes a little and looks at me with disbelief. It seems like time stands still. He arranges some pens on his desk, now giving me the silent treatment. “How much do you know?”
“Probably everything. Just a few facts elude me. I was hoping you could fill them in for me,” I respond.
“Ha!” Principal Barron laughs. “What do I know? I got out of that stuff a long time ago!” he snarls back at me. Hopefully I’m not backing him into a corner like a wild animal.
“I know you used to smuggle drugs from Florida to New York for the mafia.” This comment makes him choke. He takes another sip of his water.
“How did you...?” he nervously starts, unable to even finish the sentence.
“Before you made the leap into teaching, you would fly small airplanes. You were probably approached by one of the lawyers from GG&W. Gibbins, Gallant, or Wright.” He flinches with every name.
I throw the GG&W card at him. He picks it up with his tan fingers. He starts to mumble something. “Where did you get this?”
“That’s not important. The important thing is you were once a drug smuggler. And you should be in jail, not an administrator at this fine school,” I lecture.
“They pressured me into it. They said they would kill me if I didn’t cooperate. The mob families teamed up to completely take over the Florida drug market, distributions into New York and New Jersey. I was twenty years old for Christ’s sake!” he says as he stands, facing the window with his back to me. “It had never happened before. I mean the Taban, Mecoli, and Leoni families all teaming up. They sent their lawyers to do their bidding. Each lawyer looked out for their individual mafia family. They settled in Florida; their families bought homes and became part of the community,” Barron says with a little giggle.
“It wasn’t just drugs, it was also stolen art, that they fenced for drugs. I was approached by Donald Wright. He recruited me to use my puddle jumper to make trips back and forth from the Everglades. One of the lawyers even bought a plot of land next to the landing strip I used. They had so much power, they even paid politicians to make my landing strip a conservation area for miles aro
und. This way nobody would catch on to our flying timetables. I would load the plane with the drugs after unloading either money or fenced materials.”
This must have been the land behind the Gallant home. Thirty years ago, that was the only house that was near the landing strip.
“Toby Gallant’s house,” I blurt out.
Principal Barron turns to me with a surprised face. “You really do have it all figured out,” he says as he sits down at his desk and takes a long sip of water.
“And the Royal Cinquedea?” I prompt.
Barron turns a little white and hangs his head. “I know. I know it was awful. Toby Gallant and Anthony Gibbins were a family. I mean, a real family not mafia family. Since Anthony Gibbins’ sister married Toby Gallant, both of Anthony’s sisters were close to him. Both pressured the men to quit this life and move to another country. They got wind of me moving a stolen royal dagger, what you said, the Royal Cinquedea. It was going to sell for millions on the black market. They saw that as an opportunity to steal it and escape; start over somewhere else, somewhere the three families couldn’t find them.” Barron looks off into the distance as if he is recalling these memories. He starts to cough.
Principal Barron’s skin is looking very white and waxy rather than its usual tan and waxy.
Barron takes another drink of water, this time finishing off his glass. Barron continues to cough, though now it’s stronger and louder. He loosens his tie and the top button of his shirt. The coughing continues to worsen, causing him fall out of his chair and onto the floor, flipping his chair.
I jump out of my seat, dashing behind the desk. I kneel down next to him, but it is too late. His tongue is protruding from his mouth, turning a weird shade of purple, and sizzling white liquid drips out of his mouth and onto his chin. I feel for a pulse — nothing. I sniff his water glass. It smells of burnt almonds.
“Cyanide?” I consider aloud, looking down at Principal Barron — dead.
I grab my phone, which is still recording our conversation, and start to dial 911, but I’m so focused on what is happening in front of me that I don’t hear the door creak open behind me. As I dial the first 1, I feel a hard object strike the back of my head. I drop my phone down to the floor, and everything goes dark.
CHAPTER 37
- ULYSSES -
X MARKS THE HIT
H annah and I stand in the fake Ms. Clifton’s dodgy apartment. Hannah has just found evidence of muddy boots and a black mask, proving that Ms. Clifton is our mysterious hole digger at the Gallant house. I take a picture of the receipt, boots, and mask, texting it to Dad.
“Ms. Clifton has to have duped a lot of people. How were her references not checked by Principal Barron?” Hannah nervously asks.
“If she was able to adopt the real Mary Clifton’s identity, then it wouldn’t be hard to fake the rest. Schools just ask for a copy of a driver's license, which she could have forged. Teacher certifications, and even college diplomas, can be easily made and printed. If anyone ever traced her, it would be the Mary Clifton in Georgia,” I say.
“Unless someone called her old school,” Hannah reasons. “It took us fifteen minutes to call and figure this out.”
“So why is this woman, pretending to be Ms. Mary Clifton, digging holes in the back of Mr. O’Leary’s house?” I wonder.
Hannah shrugs as she continues to look around the apartment, holding her arms around her chest, shivering. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“It has to have something to do with the murder of Mr. Wright. It cannot be a coincidence that she was digging at the Gallant house, a house where the entire family was murdered nearly thirty years ago,” I say.
“We gotta get this evidence to the police. Get a CSI crew or something. I think we are in over our heads,” Hannah pleads.
“Yeah. I agree. She could be home any moment,” I say, but quickly turn my attention to her bed, suddenly remembering one of the best hiding places someone could keep: under the mattress. “Hey, help me with the mattress?”
Hannah reluctantly helps me pick up one side of a very nasty mattress: empty. Then the other side, “Bingo!” A large manila file is stuffed under her mattress.
Hannah and I sit on the edge of the mattress, opening the thick file to examine the clues.
The file is loaded with pictures and police files of the mafia bosses that were listed on the business card, all recently murdered.
“Look! The mugshots of the mafia bosses!” Hannah exclaims. Each mugshot of Taban, Mecoli, and Leoni has a large red X drawn on it.
“Was Ms. Clifton the mafia hitman killing all three bosses?” I contemplate.
“Remember these pictures were taken long ago, maybe twenty to thirty years. All three of these men were now old and past their prime; she could have easily killed them,” Hannah reminds me before continuing on. “Ms. Clifton could have also conned her way into their lives, just like she has at Mangrove. Then she would have had the opportunity to bump them off one, by one, by one,” Hannah says, getting a cocked eye from me, surprised that she could think so deviously.
“Look here.” I point out a part of the file dedicated to Mr. Wright. It too had a red X on his picture. It lists his acquaintances, his address and his business dealings. There are also surveillance photos taken of him in front of his house and even at Mangrove High.
“How? How did she murder Mr. Wright? She was in full view the whole night of the murder,” Hannah says in disbelief.
“Unless — unless she was not working alone!” I declare with a shocked realization that there may be two murderers.
“What? This crazy woman may have another person working with her? Oh Dios mio!” Hannah reverts to Spanish and crosses herself.
We then turn to another page containing several cut-out pieces of magazine lettering that fall to the floor. With them is a blue piece of paper. “This must have been how she made the blackmail letter to Mr. Wright. But why is a hitman — I mean hitwoman — wanting to blackmail her target?”
We turn to the last page of the file. It is surveillance pictures of Principal Barron. “What the hell!” I blurt out.
The last page of the file is a picture of Principal Barron, and just like the other pictures, a large red X is drawn through it. “Principal Barron is next!”
As soon as I say these words, we hear a click. The click sounds familiar, like something I’d heard on a TV show or a movie. Startled, we whip our heads around in horror to find Ms. Clifton in the doorway, leveling a cocked black gun at the two of us.
CHAPTER 38
- ULYSSES -
HELL HAS NO FURY!
“Y
ou little brats!” she hisses. Her giddy cheerleader voice, which I heard less than a week ago in her office, is now gone. I only hear rage and hatred.
“Ms. Clifton?!” I say, shocked.
Hannah and I cling to each other as we wonder about her true identity. Ms. Clifton looks around the room, seeing her black boots and mask next to the ripped receipt on the kitchen counter. We also have the manila folder sitting on our laps. It doesn’t look good. She actually could shoot us now and not be charged because of the “Stand Your Ground” law in Florida.
“What the hell! You two just couldn’t mind your own business? Now you’ll pay. You’ll pay the ultimate sacrifice!”
My mind races for a way out. Maybe if we distract her long enough, we can make a run for it or Hannah can do another karate chop and disarm her.
Here I go. “Who are you really?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she says, half smiling at us, not knowing what we really know.
“He means we know you’re not Mary Clifton. We called your previous school and your references. We know you’re a fake,” Hannah says sternly, showing strength. I know she has the same idea I had.
“Why kill those mobsters? We know you did that, too,” I add.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says, smiling. “So, it’s a farewell to both of you. Killi
ng the two of you will be easy. I just have to tell the police that two of my students have broken into my apartment. I felt my life was threatened. You know home invasions are happening everywhere.” She says this with a sinister grin.
“Well, you said we don’t know the half of it. Tell us, what don’t we know?” Hannah says in disgust while Ms. Clifton just cocks her head back and forth, as if trying to decide whether to kill us, when her phone rings. She answers.
“You’re not going to believe who broke into my apartment.” It must be her accomplice, I reason. “I was just about to kill the both of them. Is he dead? What? You do? Good.” She says “good” like a villain from the comic books. Was she talking about Principal Barron? “So, I should bring them to you?” It sounds like she isn’t calling the shots. Maybe her accomplice was the brains behind this operation. “We’ll have a family reunion. Okay, I’ll be there soon,” she says, laughing. What did she mean by a family reunion? “Alright! We’re going to the school. Outside both of you!” Ms. Clifton orders. She covers the gun with a jacket, to hide it from any prying eyes.
We walk down the same rusty steps we went up. Hannah is looking nervous and starting to cry a little. I take her hand to reassure her everything is going to be okay. Ms. Clifton walks a few steps behind us, far enough so we can’t hit the gun away, but close enough that we also can’t make a run for it.
We walk up to an old red Chevy Lumina. Ms. Clifton pops the trunk. Inside is a shovel, gasoline, and a bag of clothes. She tells us to put our phones on the ground and then stomp on them with our feet. We comply with her demand. So much for calling for help. She then instructs us to take the gas can out and put the shovel and bag in the backseat. We comply with this as well, making the trunk empty of anything that could help us to escape. It doesn’t even have a jack.
“Get in!” she orders.
We hesitate, and she hits the back of my head with the gun. I feel my legs go a little limp. My head throbs with pain as I fall into the trunk.