by Ada Madison
The Coffee Filter was barely a five-minute walk from Kira’s dorm, the Clara Barton, on the northeastern edge of campus. I didn’t want her to be alone any longer than necessary. I tried to think of someone who’d be on campus on a Sunday, especially this Sunday, with a “no more teachers, no more books” air about it. No administrators would be there, and no smart-thinking faculty would step foot on the pathways that wound around the buildings on the day after graduation.
I worked my way down my mental list to the staff and perked up. Woody, our all-purpose maintenance man. His main beat was Franklin Hall, but I knew he’d do anything for his employer family.
I called his cell phone, supplied to him by the college for janitorial emergencies. I felt my need at the moment more than qualified.
“Awful thing, Dr. Knowles,” he said to me. I knew what he meant and I knew his old gray head was shaking in disbelief at the murder of Henley’s mayor.
I hated to rush past Woody’s feelings of sympathy, but I needed him to move fast.
“You know Kira Gilmore, Woody?”
“Course.”
“She’s been hit pretty hard by the mayor’s death, maybe even more than the rest of us. Do you think you can stop at Clara Barton dorm and…” I was at a loss for what Woody could do. What excuse could he have for dropping in?
“I’m in front of Nathaniel Hawthorne, right next door. I’ll look in on Clara Barton and see if anybody needs any boxes for movin’ or somethin’,” Woody said. “That do, Dr. Knowles?”
I wondered if Woody were a closet therapist.
“Perfect. I’m scheduled to meet her at the Coffee Filter on Main in about fifteen minutes.”
“I understand. She’ll be there, Dr. Knowles.”
“Thank you so much, Woody.”
“No, Doctor, thank you.”
Some people just made everything seem easy. I needed that right now.
I tapped my steering wheel with more than my usual impatience in heavy traffic. If I’d gone online before leaving, I’d have known enough not to take my regular route to campus. Checking road conditions on my phone now would be too little, too late. I’d have to wait it out and hope for the best.
Our creatively named Main Street ran parallel to Henley Boulevard. Both were long east-west streets, both bordered the campus, to the north and the south, respectively. I’d driven east toward town, taking Main. I skirted the highway, expecting to pass the city hall and post office buildings, and end up directly across the street from the back of the campus, where the Coffee Filter was located.
That would have been the quickest route, except it was blocked. The beautiful city hall, with its gold dome, rivaling that of the State House in Boston, was the site of one of the largest gatherings I’d ever seen in our town. Moments before I was forced into a detour, I saw that the steps of the building were lined with mourners carrying items toward the top landing, where a kind of shrine was taking shape. I identified flowers, wreaths, posters, candles, and large photographs, probably from the mayor’s campaign. I’d thought vigils were held only at night, but apparently when a city official was involved, they were all day, also.
Had I missed a memo? How did such events come about? I supposed if I’d checked my email this morning, I’d have found an invitation or notice in some form. News spread a lot faster these days. Barely twelve hours ago, the mayor was alive and calling my name in front of the fountain; now his murder had been broadcast far and wide.
As pleased as I was about the tribute to the mayor and the great turnout to comfort his family, if they were even here, I was upset at being caught in it. I was afraid Kira would use any excuse to bolt and I feared for her safety. It was always a touchy time when a vulnerable young woman’s dreams were dashed, for whatever reason.
The detour forced me to drive away from the Coffee Filter, and I found myself becoming increasingly anxious. I didn’t want to be late. I worried that Kira was sitting there alone, with all this hubbub only four short blocks away. Maybe in her current state, she hadn’t even looked to her left as she’d crossed Main, and so she hadn’t seen the crowds. In a way, I hoped she was oblivious to them. Who knew how she might react? I could picture her running down and joining them happily. I could also picture her running toward them, hysterical, calling them disrespectful or irreverent or making an even more pointed accusation. Henley’s finest were out in full force and seemed ready to haul away anyone who disrupted the proceedings. I didn’t want to visit Kira in jail any more than I wanted to find her in the hospital.
I called Kira’s cell and left a message saying I was getting close and would see her shortly. I hoped that was true, on many levels.
It took three turns around the block to find a spot for Bruce’s car, partly because of the crowd, but mostly because I didn’t drive it that often and I needed the equivalent of a space and a half to park comfortably.
I slammed on my brakes when I saw a car backing out of a place two doors down from the rear entrance to the Coffee Filter. I was determined to wait, mindful of the times I’d seethed when a guy in front of me pulled the same selfish trick. Exigent circumstances, I told myself, as I listened to the honking behind me.
I parked the car, silently thanking the city council for voting for free parking on Sunday, and dashed toward the coffee shop.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. The cavernous space was fairly empty, from a combination of a depleted student population and a major attraction four blocks away.
My jaw finally relaxed when I saw Kira, alive, at a corner table. I put on my most casual demeanor and walked toward her. I became even more relieved when I noticed that she was texting. From my perspective across the room, it might have been any other day, time to make a date with a friend or tweet about the great chocolate croissants at the Coffee Filter.
Kira looked up from her thumbs and greeted me. “Hey, Dr. Knowles,” she said, then looked down again. “I just have to finish this.”
What? At forty-four, was I already too old to deal with the mood swings of college students? Should I be happy that Kira was back to normal, whatever that was for her, or annoyed that I’d spent a lot of nervous energy on unnecessary worry about her well-being? As long as she wasn’t texting her last will and testament, I should be satisfied.
Since there seemed to be no more urgency, I gestured that I’d step to the counter and order a coffee.
The Coffee Filter was a student’s delight—a huge, dark room with old wooden tables that you could feel free to put your feet up on, or even carve your initials in, yet the latest in Wi-Fi service and trendy drinks were available. Most of the baristas, male and female, were students themselves, equipped with piercings, streaked hair, many layers of tank tops, and tattoos, fitting the clientele. It occurred to me that Ariana would also fit right in and be hired on the spot. Not so much Bruce. Definitely not Virgil.
I dug out my coffee card and walked to the counter, mentally scratching my head over what to do and say next. If Kira was out of the woods emotionally, where was she exactly? At the river, with a load of rocks in her pockets? Or focusing on a promising future as a mathematician, which should be enough to cheer up anyone?
I took my iced mocha to the table and sat down across from my star pupil. I thought of quoting phrases from her own speech yesterday, phrases about courage and facing challenges and gumption, though I didn’t remember that she’d used that last word specifically.
“I’ll put this on vibrate,” Kira said, working her smartphone, then setting it beside her iced drink. She looked directly at me. Close up, I noticed her eyes looking a little glassy. I wished I knew more physiology, a subject so much more complicated than linear algebra or topological invariants.
“Same here,” I said, fiddling with my own smartphone.
“Thanks for siccing Woody on me,” Kira said, with a grin.
Woody? Was he the reason Kira was sitting here? If our old janitor had done that good a job at therapy, he should ge
t a raise, and maybe a more lofty title. If we could give an honorary degree to a baseball player, as we did last year, we could give one to our own dedicated maintenance man. I knew Woody’s birthday was coming up in a few days, on May twentieth, the same day as Cher’s—I kept track of such things even for people who didn’t get a Franklin Hall Friday party—and resolved to at least get him a better present than last year’s pound of chocolates.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Kira’s face collapsed. “As long as I don’t think about it, I’m okay. Woody said to fill my mind with other things.”
“That was good advice.”
Kira smiled. “He even said I should buy myself a graduation present, maybe new shoes.”
“A wise man,” I said, thinking about Woody’s physical presence—partly bald and gray, tall and gangly. Though closer in age to a man who might be Kira’s grandfather, the general resemblance to her father was clear. Mr. Gilmore, like Woody, was also a shy, retiring man who, you knew, would be able to fix your bicycle as well as have good sound advice for you. I thought of calling Woody and telling him to drop his broom and get over here now in case Kira relapsed.
We took sips of our drinks and I let Kira take the lead as we commented on the selection of coffees and teas and the whiny, unidentifiable music coming over the too-loud PA system.
“They’re getting ready to put away the student music and bring on the tourist music,” Kira said. I agreed. Henley was just close enough to the Cape for easy access for summer visitors, and just far enough away to have less expensive motels.
I remembered that I’d brought something for Kira. As I’d run out the door of my house, I’d grabbed a puzzle, Kira’s favorite kind, a wooden sliding block puzzle that, when solved correctly, would reveal an M. C. Escher drawing. I pulled it out of my purse and gave it to her now.
“Oh cool. Thanks, Dr. Knowles.”
“That will keep you busy for three minutes.”
She laughed, looking at the misoriented black-and-white segments. “I don’t know. This looks challenging.”
“Maybe six minutes, then.”
Still on small talk, I expressed the hope that the crowd down the street didn’t all suddenly need a shot of caffeine. I immediately regretted the comment. I rushed to move off the topic of the crowd, lest we get to its raison d’être.
“How about that graphing app?” I asked.
“First I need to tell you something,” Kira said, causing a little blip of energy to run through me. “I don’t know if I should go to the police with this or not.”
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
“I think I know who killed Edward.”
I drew in my breath, realizing how unlikely it was that her next words would be reliable. But I gave her a look that said “I’m all ears.”
“Nicole,” she said, sounding sure of herself.
“Nicole Johnson? What makes you say that? I know her parents are angry over Nicholas’s school situation, but—”
“What was happening at Zeeman, the money running out and all, wasn’t Edward’s fault. He was trying to work with the principal to make it a better school. He cared about all the schools. But they blamed him for everything that went wrong.”
“That doesn’t mean Nicole, or any of her family, killed him.” I refrained from calling the idea absurd, in deference to Kira’s precarious state.
“I found something,” Kira said.
Another questioning look from me brought more nonsense from Kira. “Nicole and I have lockers next to each other in the gym. And I saw a knife in there last week.”
“What kind of knife?”
Kira frowned and swallowed a couple of times. “A large one.”
If I’d been texting this story, I’d have written LOL next. “Kira, do you know what weapon the killer used?”
“They said he was”—her voice faltered; I needed Woody—“Edward was stabbed. So I figured it was Nicole who did it. With her knife.”
Was this a board game? Poor Kira. Virgil and his homicide division pals should have it this easy, catching lies. When she heard about a stabbing, she’d naturally assumed the weapon was a knife. My heart went out to a young woman desperate enough to accuse one of her best friends.
“And you didn’t tell the police last night that you saw a knife in Nicole’s locker?” I knew the police had canvassed all the dorms already but I couldn’t count on Virgil’s letting me in on a detail like this.
I let out a long breath when she shook her head no. I could just imagine the dip in her credibility if she’d told the officer this wild story. It would have called into question any real information she might have and possibly caused nasty repercussions for Nicole and her family.
“The cops just took all our phone numbers and where we’d be in the next few days and asked some questions, like where we were and did we see anything unusual. We’re supposed to call them if we think of anything else.” Kira hung her head, already remorseful, I guessed. She seemed to be breaking down again, the way I’d heard her on the phone. “I wouldn’t have let Nicole go to jail, honest, Dr. Knowles.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know why I said that now about the knife. There wasn’t a knife in the locker except for the plastics ones from the lounge.” She looked at me, her eyes pleading. “I’m not a liar.”
“I know,” I repeated, with a feeling of helplessness.
“I’m just so mad at Nicole and her dad for saying those things about him yesterday.” More sniffles. “I loved him.”
Another decision to make—whether to quiz Kira on what she meant; what, if anything, she and the mayor had together. Did she have a crush, a full-blown fantasy, or had there been a real, mutual relationship between them? Or some fourth variation that was part of the youth culture? A simple Loved him in what way? would have sufficed, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
I had the crazy thought that going coed might have one more advantage than we’d considered at the grueling faculty meetings to decide the issue for Henley College. Maybe having dating material sitting right next to the girls in the classroom would prevent this kind of older-man infatuation in the future. Probably not.
I’d been pleased when Kira had become involved in city politics, but it hadn’t seemed to help much with her emotional growth and, in fact, may have twisted it. I feared now for her survival without the built-in camaraderie and safety net of college classes and dorm life. I knew she’d be able to cope with the toughest graduate school curriculum intellectually, but I worried that the environment of a large institution would force her further and further into herself.
I put my hand on hers. “Give yourself some time, Kira.” I knew I was perilously close to platitudes, but I was running out of creative advice.
“I feel like I have to do something for Edward.”
I forced myself to adjust to calling Mayor Graves “Edward,” at least while talking to Kira. “If you really want to help find Edward’s killer, you’ll tell the truth. When the police come around again, just tell them all you know about the problems at Zeeman Academy. Did he talk about it with you in any detail?”
“You think that’s the reason he was killed?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know.”
Kira rambled on about the conflicts among the mayor, Superintendent of Schools Patrick Collins, and Principal Douglas Richardson of the Zeeman charter school.
“Edward was convinced that Principal Richardson was inflating the grades and the test scores, making it look like the kids were doing better on the state tests than they actually were. The school has to put out a report every year—they call it their Report Card—and it covers teacher qualifications, student achievement, and accountability to the district. Edward thought Principal Richardson was fudging the marks.”
I got it. Charter schools depended on funding from outside the school system, so unless they could show good performance, they’d lose money.
Kira went o
n. “No one wants to give donations to a school with poor grades, not even the parents of the kids who go there, right?”
I nodded my agreement, as if I’d given this issue a lot of thought and had a well-informed opinion. “But the state funds the school no matter what.” I’d gotten that much from my brush witheducation sites online.
“Yeah, but only partly. And that’s what everyone wanted Edward to do, to get more funding from the state no matter how the kids did on the state tests.”
Whether this was pillow talk or not, I felt I could trust Kira’s information this time, unlike her fiction of a few minutes ago. I knew that many aspects of charter schools were not as transparent as the typical public school. There was a less rigid chain of command, as air force vet Bruce had pointed out, and possibly, therefore, more opportunity for off-the-books dealings.
I thought of the mayor’s message to me, that I might be able to help with whatever was troubling him about Zeeman. But if Kira was right and there was a grade inflation problem, how would I have been able to help? I didn’t even assign grades to the students in my little corner of the school curriculum, let alone involve myself in overall grade reporting. I simply dropped in for a couple of hours twice a week and showed fidgety youngsters how much fun math could be. Since the regular teacher always stayed in the classroom with me, there was never a serious discipline problem, and since I wasn’t being paid, I had few interactions with anyone in administration.
That was how I liked it. Dealing with one administration at a time was enough for any teacher, including me. I was sure administrators felt the same way about working with faculty bodies.
I decided it was safe to quiz Kira a bit more. She seemed to have settled into her own version of stable. I knew she’d have a better grasp of the politics than I did. It would be nice to go into Zeeman tomorrow with a little more of a handle on the situation than I’d had up to now.
“Do you know what made the mayor suspicious of the grades? Did someone tell him?” I asked.
“The grades from all the district schools eventually go through Superintendent Collins. He was the one who suspected something first, because Zeeman has more than its share of problem kids and he couldn’t believe how high the grades were, so he told Edward. But then Principal Richardson told Edward something about Superintendent Collins that Superintendent Collins didn’t want found out, and poor Edward was caught in the middle.”