Something to Crow About: Another P.J. Benson Mystery

by Maris Soule

  “How will you get home?” I wasn’t comfortable driving the Jeep, but with my car still in Schipper’s Auto Repair shop, I didn’t have much choice. I needed a way back home after our meeting with the principal.

  “Dario will drive me home. This way, in case I don’t get home by three, you’ll have a way to get to your doctor’s appointment.”

  “You think you’ll be later than three?” I wasn’t eager to bring Jason to the doctor’s office with me.

  “I’ll try, but I never know how things are going to go.”

  I did know Wade couldn’t predict how his day would go, so I didn’t say anything more, simply got my coat, made sure Baraka had food and water, and went out to the Jeep. Wade locked up and followed.

  None of us said anything during the short drive to the school. I sensed Jason’s tension, his body stiff as he walked between us into the building, his gaze straight ahead. April Toft, the office secretary, took us to a larger conference room this time, one with a long wooden table and several chairs on either side. Children’s artwork decorated the otherwise plain pale green walls. She asked if we wanted coffee. Wade said yes, I said no.

  And then we waited.

  Fifteen minutes after the time we were supposed to meet with the principal, she and the Harts entered the conference room. We stood, the table between us and the four of them. I’ve heard the term “a chip on his shoulder” many times, but seeing Mr. Hart—eyes narrowed, mouth scrunched into a straight line, and chin lifted—I actually glanced at his shoulders to see if there was a chip on one or both.

  There wasn’t, but his rigid posture relayed he was ready for a physical fight. Principal Singer indicated the chairs on their side of the table, but none of them made a move to sit down. I felt sorry for the principal. She looked as if she’d been in a battle. Her cheeks were flushed and her voice strained when she made the introductions: “Mr. and Mrs. Hart, these are Jason’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley.”

  “Yeah, I know the infamous Detective Kingsley,” Hart growled.

  “How are you, Daniel,” Wade said, nodding. I noticed neither man moved to shake hands.

  “You are going to pay for this,” Daniel Hart said. “Look at what your kid did to my son.”

  Danny Hart had been between his mother and father and not clearly in sight. His dad grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him forward. I could see Danny’s right hand now. One of those elastic-type bandages had been wrapped around the boy’s entire hand and wrist.

  There was a clumsiness in the way the hand was wrapped that didn’t look professional, but I guessed they might have had to loosen the bandage at some point and then rewrap it. Nevertheless, it didn’t seem reasonable that a broken finger would require that much bandaging. “What exactly did the doctor say?” I asked.

  Daniel Hart looked at me for the first time since he’d entered the room. “He said the finger’s broken, that’s what he said.”

  “Which finger?” I persisted.

  “This finger.” He pointed his middle finger at me in a way that not only identified which of his son’s fingers had been broken, but also relayed another message.

  “Interesting,” I said, refusing to indicate the gesture bothered me. “When I broke my finger, they simply put a splint on it.”

  “This was a bad break,” Danny snarled, sounding a lot like his father. “A really bad break.”

  “So, what are you going to do about this?” Daniel Hart demanded, again looking at Wade. “We got hospital bills, and this has traumatized my boy. I talked to a lawyer. He thinks I should just sue you, but I’m willing to let this go for fifty grand. Forget the courts and what it would do to your reputation.”

  I took in a breath, not quite sure what to think. If this went to court, there would be lawyer fees and court fees. But to pay these people fifty thousand dollars for something their son started?

  I didn’t realize I was shaking my head until Wade spoke up. “As you can see, my wife says no. And, Daniel, I think you might want to reconsider going to court. We have some witnesses who will testify that your son has been harassing my son. Also, look at the size of your son and my son. Do you really think a judge or jury will believe your boy is the victim? And even though that bandage job looks pretty serious, I can get a court order for the actual X-rays and doctor’s report. That evidence, along with the school’s accident report, might be very interesting.”

  Daniel Hart’s next words were more explicit than a hand gesture. Principal Singer tried to intervene. “Gentlemen, I’m sure this can be discussed in a civilized manner. Mr. Hart, as I told you earlier, accidents happen. The boys should not have been fighting, and—”

  She didn’t have a chance to finish. Hart swore again, pushed her aside, and, with a hand against his wife’s back, shoved her toward the doorway. Danny followed his parents out of the room, but at the doorway turned, looked at Jason, and with his good hand gave the finger.

  Mouth open, Sandy Singer watched the three leave, and then she sank into the nearest chair. “I tried to talk some sense into him,” she said. “He came into my office with all sorts of demands. I . . . He . . .” She shook her head and sighed.

  “He does have some anger management issues,” Wade said and sat back down. Both Jason and I did, too. “He’s been picked up for a couple bar fights and for threatening a store clerk. I think one judge ordered him to attend anger management classes. Either he didn’t or they didn’t do much good.”

  “His son,” Principal Singer said, “seems to be following his father’s example.” She looked at Jason. “I wish you’d come and told me he was bothering you. Told me or your teacher.”

  Jason hung his head but didn’t say anything.

  She looked at me. “As I said last week, a couple teachers have observed a problem between the two, but nothing overt. Sometimes, with boys, it’s difficult to tell if they’re playing or if it’s bullying, but the teachers should have said something to me. It’s something we’re going to work on.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself, then looked at Wade. “Do you think he’ll sue you?”

  “Maybe. His type seems to go that route. I certainly wasn’t going to pay him fifty thousand dollars.”

  “He threatened to sue the school, too. I’ll talk to the district lawyer.”

  “Have those teachers who told you they noticed some kind of interaction between the two boys write down their observations. And talk to a—” He looked at Jason. “Who did you say saw Danny push you around and trip you?”

  His head still lowered, Jason mumbled two names, both girls. I reached over and rubbed his shoulders. He shrugged my hand away.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Principal Singer said and stood. “And I’ll keep you informed as to what I learn.”

  I sensed she considered the meeting over. I had one more question. “What do we do about Jason and school?”

  She looked at him. He still had his head lowered. “Jason, what do you think we should do?”

  For a moment I didn’t think he would answer, but finally he looked up at her. “I didn’t do nuttun’ wrong.”

  “You started a fight.”

  “He started it. He told me I was too chicken to fight.”

  She shook her head. “So, you let him goad you into hitting him.”

  “I tried, but his arms are longer, and he kept pushing me back into that corner.”

  “You broke his finger.”

  “ ‘Cause he was pushing me.”

  “So anytime someone pushes you, you’re going to break their finger?”

  “No.” He looked down again. “I didn’t really mean to break his finger. I just wanted him to stop.”

  “What should you have done when he started pushing you?” Principal Singer asked.

  Jason looked at his dad. Wade said nothing, but I could tell he was hoping Jason would remember the training session they’d had that one morning. “I should have—” Jason started, then looked back at the principal. “I should have ye
lled for help. Shouldn’t have let myself get alone with Danny and his buddies. Should have yelled ‘Help, get the teacher.’ ”

  “Right,” she said. “Any time someone starts bullying you, you need to report it.”

  “But then they’ll call me a tattle-tale.”

  Wade spoke up then. “Sometimes you need to speak up, Jason, even if the kids call you a tattle-tale. You’ve seen the pictures of the shootings at schools, how kids get hurt because no one said anything. You need to let others know when there’s a problem.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Jason gave a small nod.

  Sandy Singer took over then. “I think Jason should stay home for the rest of the day. I don’t know if Danny is here now or if his parents took him home. I’ll check and call them. I think both boys need one more day to think this over. Then, tomorrow—” She directed her instructions to Jason. “I want you to come to my office when you arrive at school. I’ll take you to class. I’ll take both you and Danny, if he shows up. I want all of your classmates to understand there is to be no fighting and no bullying.”

  And that was the end of the meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  While I waited in the office for Jason to turn in the homework he’d completed and pick up a new assignment from his teacher, Wade went out of the building to make a phone call. He had the Jeep pulled up to the curb by the time Jason and I came out. “Everything set?” he asked Jason. “You have homework to do? I don’t want you considering this a vacation. No Xbox and no TV until three o’clock when you’d normally be home.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I saw his pout but said nothing. Chances were Jason would sneak in some TV watching while I napped. Although it was barely mid-morning, I was exhausted. Between worrying about what was going to transpire during the meeting this morning and not being able to find a comfortable spot to lie, I hadn’t slept well. I struggled to haul myself into the Jeep and groaned when the baby moved. My due date was still a week away, but both Paige Joy and I were ready to part company.

  I struggled to fasten my seatbelt, and Wade finally had to help. With a sigh, I leaned back. “You still going over to Ken’s trailer?”

  “Dario’s already there. You okay?”

  “Just tired of being pregnant.” I motioned for him to get the Jeep moving. “I’m okay.”

  Jason’s school was less than a mile away from Zenith’s mobile home park. A couple of my clients lived in the park, and Jason said one of his classmates lived there. The grounds were well-kept and it had paved streets, sidewalks, and a clubhouse. I’d heard there were over seventy sites and as we drove down one of the streets, I saw only one vacant lot. Wade pulled up in front of an older looking trailer. A rusted maroon Buick was parked in the carport attached to the trailer. Jerry’s car, I assumed. A marked sheriff’s patrol car was parked behind it. Dario Gespardo got out of that vehicle as soon as Wade stopped.

  I first met Dario last summer when Abby Warfield’s house exploded, killing her. I’d taken her dog, which was not injured but looked sick, to my vet. Gespardo considered that a no-no, and since I’d been the last known person to see Abby alive, he also considered me a suspect in her murder. Dario had been with the sheriff’s department for over thirty years, and Wade considered him a mentor and friend. Since our marriage, Wade and I had spent a couple evenings with Dario and his wife, but I still felt the man suspected me of being up to something illegal. I’m sure my having a mother with a criminal record—albeit based on her mental problems—didn’t help Dario’s perception of me.

  “Hi, Gesp,” Jason called from the back seat.

  Dario waved to him, and then to me. Wade got out and pushed the seat back to make room for my expanded middle. He had it in position by the time I waddled around to the driver’s side. “Missus said to say hi,” Dario said as Wade helped me into the vehicle. “She remembers how miserable those last few weeks were. I imagine you’re ready to pop.”

  “Pop” wasn’t a term I liked when thinking of giving birth, but I smiled and nodded.

  “You going to be all right?” Wade asked. “Maybe I should just take the afternoon off and drive you to the doctor’s myself.”

  The idea was appealing, but I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “If you think you might be going into labor, call me. And if you can’t get a hold of me, call the station. They’ll find me.”

  “I will.” I turned my attention to the trailer they were about to investigate. “No signs of Ken?”

  “Neighbor came out when he saw me pull in. Said he hasn’t seen Mr. Paget since Friday.” Gespardo turned his attention to Wade. “I decided to wait until you arrived before going inside.”

  I wished I could look inside the trailer. Wade must have guessed what I was thinking. “You might as well take off now,” he said. “Have some lunch and get some rest.”

  I read the message in his eyes. Leave the investigation to law enforcement.

  “Yes, sir,” I said and gave a mock salute before looking at Dario. “Say ‘Hi’ to your wife.”

  “Can we have mac and cheese for lunch?” Jason asked as I steered the Jeep away from Ken’s trailer. “The real kind?”

  I understood what he meant. Soon after Wade and Jason moved in with me, I thought I would impress them by making macaroni and cheese the way Grandma Carter made it—from scratch. I added lots of shredded cheddar cheese to a white sauce, cooked the macaroni until it was tender, drained the macaroni, added butter, and mixed everything together. Jason took one taste and told me it wasn’t “Real” macaroni and cheese. That was when Wade mentioned his ex-wife always made it out of a box.

  “I’m not sure I have any ‘real’ mac and cheese,” I told him.

  “You can buy some. The store’s right there.”

  Although I couldn’t see him, I’m sure Jason was pointing at the grocery store next to the mobile trailer park. He was right, I could stop and pick up some boxed macaroni and cheese, as well as a few other items I knew we needed. But did I have the energy?

  “Please,” he said sweetly.

  I gave in. “Okay. But you need to stay in the car while I shop.” Although Jason wasn’t bad to shop with, he did pester for sweetened cereals and ice cream.

  The locally owned grocery store didn’t have as wide a selection of items as the big box stores in Battle Creek and Kalamazoo and the prices were slightly higher, but it was nice to be greeted by name when I came through the door and whenever I couldn’t find something I wanted, one of the clerks would find it for me or the owner would order it. Pushing a cart, I started by heading for the bread aisle. One thing I’d discovered over the last few months was two men—even though one was only seven—went through a lot more bread than two or even three women. Peanut butter and jelly was a staple for the Kingsley males, and I liked it, too.

  Coffee followed bread. Although I still wasn’t drinking as much coffee as I had before getting pregnant, we went through those canisters fast. And, as long as I was in that aisle, I picked up another box of chamomile tea. I was heading for the produce section when I sensed someone had come up right beside me. Almost shoulder to shoulder right beside me. The moment she said, “Well, if it isn’t the manipulator,” I knew who it was.

  Marge Bailey.

  I’d only met her once and that had been months ago, but I remembered her clearly. She might be a forensic photographer, but she looked like a model: tall, slender, her long brown hair flowing past her shoulders. Her facial features weren’t perfect, but she knew how to accentuate the positive with makeup, a talent I’d never learned nor had the desire to learn.

  Even as I looked at her, she sized me up. Her smile was wicked. “He feels sorry for you, you know. Feels guilty for the condition you’re in.” Her gaze slid to the bulge at my middle. “But we know it’s not his fault, don’t we?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I said nothing.

  “Wade and I had a nice talk about you yesterday,” she s
aid. “He said you’re seeing things now. Can’t keep your car on the road.” She chuckled. “Pigs? Really?”

  Her goading attitude irked me. As much as I wanted to ignore her, I couldn’t. “Speaking of delusional,” I said, “Wade and I had a nice talk about you, too.”

  Her smile disappeared, her eyes narrowing. Just slightly, and only for a moment. Then the smug look returned. “You know I’m joining him in a few minutes. In the trailer park.”

  She casually ran a fingernail over the back of my hand. A shiver ran down my spine and I jerked my hand away from the grocery cart. Away from her touch.

  Marge grinned. “We decided to keep things as they are until after you have this baby. But don’t worry. He’ll make sure you and the baby are all right before he starts the divorce.”

  I knew she was bluffing. At least, I hoped she was, but I still found it incredible that Wade found me beautiful, and that he would pick me to marry over Marge. Me with my chance of mental illness. Me with a crazy mother and a curiosity that seemed to constantly get me in trouble. I looked Marge directly in the eyes. “He’s free to go whenever he likes.”

  “Oh, how noble you sound.” She sneered at me. “And how noble of you, when you heard his ex-wife was going to move his son across the country to California, to stopping taking birth control so you could give him another son.”

  “I did not stop taking birth control.”

  That came out louder than I’d expected, and a woman standing beside a bin of potatoes looked my way. I cringed. I was letting Marge get to me. I knew I shouldn’t. I should walk away, but she had me crowded next to the display of cauliflower. I grabbed one and lifted it toward her in a threatening way. “Excuse me,” I said. “I want to weigh this.”

  She did step back, and I pushed my cart toward the scale hanging at the end of the row. Marge followed. “You put him in a position where he had to marry you.”

  I glared at her. “He’s free to go any time he wants.”

  “If that’s so, tell him. Don’t make him go through life miserable.”