Appliqued to Death

by Kathleen Suzette

  My eyes went wide, and I gritted my teeth. The fact that Principal Jefferson didn’t think the home economics classes were as important as other classes wasn’t news to me. It was the fact that he could dismiss the work we did here so easily was what irked me. “Is it only for this one class?”

  He shrugged. “Could be. Depends on how long the police will be here.”

  I could hear the art students assembling in the hallway.

  “What’s going on? Why do the police need to take over the art classroom?” I didn’t expect him to tell me. I was beneath him, after all.

  “Important business,” he said, dismissing the question and me.

  I sighed. “All right. They can work on their art projects. But I expect them to be moved out of my class as soon as possible.”

  “Certainly,” he said, still sounding dismissive. He went out into the hallway and explained what was going to happen. There were snorts of laughter and sounds of disappointment. Being in a sewing class wasn’t acceptable to any self-respecting teenage boy.

  “Girls, we’re going to have to temporarily share our classroom with the art class,” I announced. “Why don’t we let them have those tables in the back so they can work on their art projects without being disturbed?”

  The girls glanced at one another with uncertainty, and the ones at the back tables got to their feet.

  “But Mrs. Taylor,” Margaret began, and she looked at her fabric on the table. Her pattern pieces weren’t pinned down yet. “I can’t move my fabric. I just got the pattern pieces laid out.”

  “Samantha, please help Margaret move her fabric,” I said and went to my classroom door. Ann Farris walked out of the art classroom and grinned at me. I narrowed my eyes at her, but she didn’t care if my class was being interrupted. She fairly flounced back to the office.

  There were looks of disdain from some of the boys as they filed in while others elbowed their friends closest to them. As the last boy entered the classroom, I realized Principal Jefferson had ignored my request for the girls. He had taken them to Peggy’s class. I sighed.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like you all to take a seat at the back two tables and work on your art projects quietly. If you have a question, you can raise your hands to ask it.”

  The girls looked at the boys as if they had invaded their territory, except for two or three of the girls that already had a reputation of being a little on the wild side. They looked happy to see the boys.

  “Let’s all try and be respectful of one another and work quietly, so we don’t get behind in our projects,” I said above the murmurs and grumbles.

  The boys took their seats noisily, scraping chairs against the floor and laughing. I sighed. Whatever Darren Peabody was up to, I hoped it was worth the inconvenience he was causing both of our classes. I would have a word or two for him when he returned to school.

  Chapter Four

  “Girls, let’s put up our projects,” I said, glancing at the clock. The bell was due to ring in three minutes. There was the shuffling of feet and sewing projects as the girls put things together and headed to their cubbies to stow their projects. The boys talked quietly amongst themselves as they gathered their drawing books and art supplies, occasionally casting glances at the younger girls. The first period art class was for seniors and I didn’t appreciate Principal Jefferson foisting them on me. I hoped plans had been made for the next art class. If Peggy and I ended up with all of the art classes today, I was going to have a word with Principal Jefferson.

  When the bell went off, there was a dash for the door, with some of the boys running into girls.

  “Watch yourselves,” I warned as two of the girls cried out in protest. The boys slowed down and let the girls pass in front of them.

  When they had cleared out, I went to my door and looked across the hall at the closed art classroom door. What had Darren gotten himself into? Our conversations were primarily centered on the weather and occasionally on students. I didn’t know much about his private life other than he was a little eccentric. He wore clothes to school that most other teachers wouldn’t get away with—usually dressed in black, consisting of turtleneck sweaters, black slacks and occasionally a black beret. It was beyond me how he got away without wearing the expected tie the other male teachers wore.

  Peggy hurried across the hall when her class had emptied out. “Any news on what’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Not a thing,” I said. “The police are still in his classroom.”

  “That Darren is an oddball. I wonder what kind of trouble he’s gotten himself into now?”

  She was referring to the time he came to work in short pants. The school had been in an uproar over it. The surprising thing was that Principal Jefferson didn’t immediately send him home. After some fussing by more senior members of staff, he finally went to Darren’s classroom and asked him to go home and change. But that wasn’t until third period was nearly over. If it had been anyone else, I was sure they wouldn’t have gotten more than five minutes into first period.

  “I don’t know what he’s done. How did you fare with his kids?”

  “My kids cooked, and they ate.” She shrugged. “It was a winning situation for them. How about you?”

  “The ones I had kept looking at the girls. The girls were intimidated by them,” I said.

  She nodded. “I think Principal Jefferson is afraid of Darren.”

  I looked at her. “Do you think?”

  She nodded. “Look at all he gets away with. He looks like a bum in those outfits he wears. No one else gets away with what he does.”

  She had a point. Principal Jefferson might be blustery, but he could be backed down if things warranted it. At least, most of the male teachers could back him down. It wasn’t as easy for female teachers to accomplish.

  “Probably so,” I said. “Think we’ll get stuck with all of his classes today?”

  She snorted. “Today? Probably until he shows up.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  As students arrived for their classes, we headed back inside our respective classrooms. My second period class was senior girls that had been with me for four years. At this point, they were simply showing up to finish out the year. They knew everything I knew, from how to line a blazer, to how to sew delicate fabrics like silk and chiffon. They were all good seamstresses, some good enough to do it professionally.

  “All right girls, let’s get to work on our projects,” I said. We still had two minutes until the bell rang and I hoped against hope that I wouldn’t have to entertain half of the second period art class.

  I looked out my door again and the art class began lining up at the closed door. This class was all boys. One of them opened the classroom door and was met by an officer who told him to wait outside. I hoped Robert would come outside so I could ask him what was going on. If the police were involved, Darren was in trouble. Big trouble. That was when it occurred to me that Darren might be in jail. If that was the case, Peggy and I were in trouble. Handling fifteen extra kids in each class was more than I was willing to put up with. Jefferson was going to get an earful.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” Christine Tidwell said. She cast a furtive look over her shoulder and turned back to me.

  “Good morning, Christine,” I said.

  Christine was a pretty blond with peaches and cream skin and clear blue eyes. She was what we called a fifth-year student. She had failed most of her classes last year and was back again for another try. It wasn’t that she wasn’t smart, it was that she didn’t particularly like school. In the teacher’s lounge, the talk was that she was nothing but trouble, flirtatious with the boys, and disrespectful to her teachers. It was rumored that she was flirtatious with male teachers as well as the boys, but those teachers weren’t volunteering anything.

  I had never had a problem with Christine. I found her cooperative and pleasant. Most of the time. Occasionally she had days where she struggled to get her work done, but I suspecte
d that was due to her home life rather than from any desire to be difficult. Her father had spent three years in the county lockup for drunk and disorderly conduct several years ago. But just because he hadn’t been in jail recently didn’t mean he had changed his ways. At nineteen, Christine was the oldest in my class.

  I watched as she headed to her cubby and got out her project, a dress to wear to graduation. I hoped she was going to get a chance to wear it. I hadn’t asked around to see if her grades were up to snuff this year or not, but I hoped so. I didn’t think she’d come back for a sixth year. I also didn’t know if the school board would allow it.

  Principal Jefferson reappeared in the hallway. He looked in my direction through the open door. “Class, half of you will be in the sewing class and the other half in the cooking class,” he said. His eyes dared me to protest. “Mrs. Taylor welcomes you.”

  I clenched my teeth together. At least the senior girls wouldn’t be as intimidated by the boys as the freshman had been.

  “Boys, use the back two tables. Sit and work quietly on your art projects until Mr. Peabody arrives.” My lack of enthusiasm was overlooked by the sophomore boys as they excitedly filed into my classroom. They were immature enough to think the senior girls might take an interest in them.

  “Thank you,” Principal Jefferson said with a grin that said he could care less if I was happy about the situation or not.

  “When will Mr. Peabody get here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  He was lying, of course. He knew exactly when it would be, and I thought he must be keeping it to himself because Darren must really be in jail. The rumor about him dabbling in drugs just might be true. And wouldn’t that reflect badly on the school’s reputation when it got around town? Jefferson would be in a tizzy.

  I turned back to my class as the rest of the art class was shuffled off to Peggy’s classroom. “I expect everyone to be on their best behavior,” I warned, looking pointedly at the boys. “This may not be your usual class routine, but we still have work to get done today.”

  I went to my desk and pulled out the roll sheet. Then I realized I hadn’t taken roll of the previous art class students. I sighed and tried to remember all the boys’ names, jotting them down on the sheet in case I needed it later. That finished, I began writing down names for the current class.

  There was the low hum of voices in the classroom and I looked up from the sheet. Christine, along with several other girls, had their heads together, whispering. I frowned. They were too old to allow these boys to distract them from their work.

  “What’s going on, ladies?” I called.

  Christine looked at me, worry etched across her face. She got up and walked toward me, approaching my desk. “Mrs. Taylor?”

  “Yes, Christine?”

  She stepped closer. “What happened to Mr. Peabody?” she whispered.

  I frowned. “I have no idea. As far as I know, he simply didn’t show up for class this morning.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Is it true then?” she asked tentatively.

  “Is what true?”

  “I know you’re a teacher and you aren’t supposed to tell us things, but,” she said and looked over her shoulder. The girls she had been talking to were all looking at us, the same worry on Christine’s face was on theirs. She turned back to me. “Is Mr. Peabody dead?” she whispered.

  I gasped. “What? Why do you ask that?”

  She looked at me uncertainly. “We heard he was dead. That someone killed him. Shot him through the heart.” She hissed the last part; her face had gone pale.

  I stared at her, trying to make sense of what she had said. Was he dead? Was that why Principal Jefferson wouldn’t say where he was? If that was so, why didn’t he seem more concerned about it? As soon as I thought it, I realized how ridiculous that was. Principal Jefferson wasn’t concerned about anyone or anything other than the reputation of the high school. I shook my head to clear it.

  “Where did you hear that from?”

  “It’s all over school. Melissa Stromberg said she saw the police and an ambulance in front of Mr. Peabody’s house when her mother drove her to school. There was someone on the stretcher and they were covered with a sheet.” She stopped speaking for a moment, looking at me wide-eyed. “She said there was something red on the sheet.”

  I gasped. Normally I tried to keep my composure in front of students, but this was the last thing I had expected to hear. Was it possible? Had Darren gotten into more trouble than even he could manage?

  I swallowed. “Christine, why don’t we keep this to ourselves,” I said, my teacher instincts kicking in. “We shouldn’t be spreading rumors when we don’t know what the facts are. The best thing to do is to concentrate on your classwork until we know what really happened to him.”

  She nodded slowly. “Okay, but I think everyone in school already knows. It’s all anyone is talking about.”

  I breathed out slowly. How had I not heard the rumors before this?

  “We don’t know if it’s true. This is a small town and rumors spread quickly, but how many times have we later found out that the rumors we heard were untrue?” I was trying to think fast. I didn’t want the kids to become more stirred up than they already were. “Let’s be careful what we talk about. We really don’t know what the truth is.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I hope it isn’t true.” Her voice cracked and there were unshed tears in her eyes.

  I nodded. “I hope not. You’ve got a project you’re working on. Why don’t you get to work on it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said and turned and headed back to her sewing machine.

  I stood up and cleared my throat. “We’ve all got work to do. We are not going to stand around and discuss things we don’t have firsthand knowledge of. Is that understood?”

  There were some nods and a few yes ma’ams. I watched to make sure everyone got busy, then I turned to look at the closed art class door across the hall. Salyers was a small town. Murder, if that’s what happened, was a rare occurrence. I hoped it wasn’t true.

  Chapter Five

  The rest of the morning went much the same as the first two periods had. Peggy and I got stuck with the art students that consisted mostly of boys that had more on their minds than art once they were stuck in the middle of a classroom full of girls. I kept my door open in the hopes my brother Robert would come out of the classroom and I could ask him what was going on. Twice one of the other officers left the room, allowing the door to close behind himself. He returned each time without so much as a glance in my direction. I sighed and waited.

  When my fourth period class ended, and the students had left for the cafeteria, I closed my classroom door and headed over to Peggy’s. As the cooking teacher, she frequently had lunch made for us and Daniel. It was one of the few perks of being a home economics teacher. No one looked askance at Peggy’s students making a little extra food during fourth period.

  When I walked through her classroom door, she turned to look at me. “What’s going on? Have you heard anything yet?”

  Principal Jefferson had hovered nearby all morning, and we hadn’t had a chance to talk.

  I moved closer to her. “I don’t know. There’s a rumor that Darren Peabody was shot to death outside his house,” I whispered.

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Shot to death? In Salyers? My students have been whispering all morning, but when I ask them what it’s about, they all clam up.”

  “Christine Tidwell told me Melissa Stromberg’s mother drove by his house on the way to school and saw police, ambulance, and apparently a body covered by a sheet outside his house. Possibly a blood-stained sheet.”

  She stared at me in shock, then sighed. “I hope not. Maybe it’s just a rumor. Any word from Robert?”

  “He hasn’t come out of the classroom.”

  She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a silver tin mold. She ran a knife along the inside of the mold and turned it upside down onto
a plate. “That Peabody was up to no good. I knew it.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, looking at the tin mold. She worked at dislodging its contents by jiggling it vigorously on the plate.

  “Perfection salad. I found the recipe in McCall’s magazine. My girls are working on making practical meals their husbands will be ecstatic to come home to.”

  I snorted. I had caught a glimpse of what looked like shredded carrots and cabbage encased in the gelatin before she turned the mold over. “Do you really think they’ll be ecstatic about that salad?”

  She began pounding on the back of the tin mold with the heel of her hand. “I’d have been ecstatic if my husband had just come home, instead of hanging around that floozy, Sharon Montgomery.”

  I chuckled. “You should have made him a gelatin salad.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said as the gelatin made a slurping sound and came free of the mold.

  “What’s for lunch?”

  We turned to see my husband Daniel walk through the door.

  “Gelatin,” I said.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Really?”

  “You sound disappointed, Daniel. But don’t worry. We also have shrimp cocktail and spaghetti with frankfurters,” Peggy said.

  His brows furrowed, and he came over to where I was standing near the sink. We kissed quickly and then we both reflexively looked toward the door. Jefferson would have our hides if he caught us setting such a bad example for the students.

  “Have you heard anything about the ruckus Darrel Peabody has made by not coming to class?” I asked him.

  “Rumor has it he killed himself over a lost love.”

  “Really? I heard he was shot,” I said.

  He shrugged. “He’s probably on a drunk somewhere. He’ll show up tomorrow morning and Jefferson will be delighted. Let’s eat.”

  I helped Peggy warm up the spaghetti and frankfurters while Daniel went to the refrigerator and removed the shrimp cocktail.