Death in the Park (Firefly Junction Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by London Lovett

  I approached two girls who were standing near a patch of lockers, picking at a muffin.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on your break. Would you mind pointing me toward the custodian’s office.”

  The girl wearing bright blue rimmed glasses frowned at my question. “Oh, are you here to see the memorial?”

  “The memorial?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the one for Mr. Stevens,” her friend added. “It started as just a few flowers that some of the kids brought this morning but it’s grown.”

  “That’s nice. So the Smithville students really liked Mr. Stevens?”

  The girl with blue glasses tipped her head side to side. “Most of us thought he was super nice. He never complained, you know? Even when he had to clean up nasty stuff or scrub permanent marker off the bathroom stall doors. He was just a hardworking guy. Didn’t deserve what happened, that’s for sure.”

  In all fairness, I hadn’t broken Principal Morely’s command not to interview the students about Alder Stevens. These girls were generous enough to provide information without me prying it out of them. If only adults were as open and forthcoming with their narratives, then my job would be that much easier.

  I wondered just how much the girls knew about his untimely death. I was just as glad to leave that part of the conversation open-ended. I certainly didn’t want to get into any gritty, gory details about a murder case with two teens sharing a blueberry muffin.

  “Mr. Stevens’ office is across the quad in the small building that runs along the baseball field. It’s easy to spot his office door because there are a lot of flowers and cards in front of it.”

  “Thank you so much.” I glanced around as I scurried toward the quad. The only adults I noticed were the two proctors. They were both occupied with making sure the kids picked up after themselves and didn’t notice the woman sidling through the crowd.

  The quad area opened up onto two rows of portable classrooms. A sharp left turn before the portables took me out to the athletic fields. The bell rang, signaling the end of the nutrition break. That meant halls and paths would be emptying and a lone, unfamiliar woman would be noticed.

  I headed straight to the small, unremarkable building that bordered the baseball field. I opened the door and was surprised to find at least a dozen students standing in the narrow hallway. A pile of flowers that looked mostly plucked right from backyard gardens filled the space in front of a pale gray door. A plastic plaque on the door said Head Custodian.

  “Come on, Everly,” a girl with honey colored hair and skin that looked as if it had never seen one teenage pimple called to another girl with red hair and bright blue eyes. My high school years were far behind me, but I could still recognize the ‘popular’ kids. They were easy to spot with their pearly white smiles and overly confident postures.

  Everly, the red head, leaned down to read someone’s card and then tossed it back onto the mound of flowers. She rolled her bright blue eyes. “What a bunch of sorry saps crying big tears over creepy, old Mr. Stevens.” Her harsh words drew the attention and silent anger of one of the other girls standing near the flowers.

  The girl was wearing a floppy hat pulled over short hair that had been shaved on one side. Her t-shirt said “Horse Lover” on it. She scowled as she waited for Everly and her friend to leave. “You’re the creeps,” she muttered, not seeming to care that I heard her comment.

  I stared down at the mound of flowers that were quickly wilting in the heat of the hallway, giving off a muted, earthy fragrance. “I guess Mr. Stevens was loved.” I looked back toward the door. “But not by everyone.”

  “Those two? They only like themselves. Mr. Stevens was the best. He did nice things for people, but he never bragged about it. He just kept stuff to himself.”

  “Nice things?”

  She seemed to suddenly realize that she was talking to an unfamiliar adult. Her eyes landed on my press pass and my visitor’s sticker. “I’m Miss Taylor. I’m from the Junction Times. I’m writing an article about the summer work program.”

  She groaned. “I’m Patty and you can quote me on this. That program is ruining my life. I had many plans to work on my art and ride horses and hang out with friends this summer. Now I’m going to be stuck stocking shelves for Grant’s Drugstore.”

  “But I thought the program was set up to match you with a job that might go along with your future dreams.”

  Patty groaned even louder. “Is that what they told you?” She held out her hands. “Does anything about me say ‘this girl dreams of working in the corner drug store’?”

  “I see your point. What were you saying about Mr. Stevens?”

  “Just that the stupid rumors are baloney. Mr. Stevens was a great guy. My friend Charlie’s dad lost his job, and the family was struggling to pay bills. Charlie had outgrown his winter coat, and he was coming to school in a thin sweatshirt. He was always hopping around trying to stay warm. Mr. Stevens bought him a coat. And not just some thrift store cast off. It was an expensive winter coat. He did stuff like that without making a big deal about it.” She pulled out her phone. “Ahh, I’m late, and Mrs. Grimsby is a total grouch if you’re late to her class.”

  “Bye and good luck with the summer job.”

  I waited for her to leave the building. The other doors seemed to lead to utility closets and storage rooms. I knocked on the custodian’s door but no one answered. I reached for the knob and was surprised to find it was unlocked. I looked around once more. Students and staff had returned to their classrooms. The hallway was empty. I slipped inside.

  It felt a little disrespectful to be standing in Alder’s office, but I decided it wouldn’t be wrong just to take a quick poke around. I wondered if the police investigation would bring them to the school. It seemed logical that they would scour his office for possible evidence. Although, as I glanced around at what seemed like a perfectly ordinary custodial office, it was hard to imagine that they’d get much evidence from things like purchase orders or maintenance requests. I grabbed a tissue from the box on Alder’s desk and thumbed through some of the requests. There was a loose cabinet handle in the chemistry lab and a broken pencil sharpener in the library. Everything looked like typical maintenance requests. According to the dates, they were stacked in chronological order from oldest down to newest. I thumbed through the requests and saw that the last one was dated May 1st, just a day before Alder was asked to retire. I could only surmise that the district was still working on finding his replacement since the retirement was sudden. And it wouldn’t be easy to get a new head custodian at the end of a school year.

  I leaned down to look at the picture on Alder’s desk. Alder and a woman, who I could only assume was his wife, were standing arm in arm in front of a Christmas tree. I realized until now I’d only seen him as a murder victim. Alder had kind eyes. He was short but stout in his bright blue and white winter sweater. He looked like a man who could fix anything.

  My eyes swept over the notices and flyers push pinned to the corkboard behind his desk. They were notices about special events, the end of year awards ceremony, final spring dance and even the graduation ceremony. My gaze floated over his desk once more and landed on a clipboard that was labeled as Emergency Maintenance Orders. The pages on the clipboard were printed like a simple spreadsheet with columns and rows. The top page had only three entries and the dates were in ascending order. The door on the wheelchair lift was jammed on April 23rd. The next column titled ‘reported by’ had the name Mrs. Rodkey under it. The last column titled ‘job complete’ had a check mark, and Alder had scribbled his initials. The next emergency was a day later in the cafeteria. The drain in the pan washing sink was clogged and it was reported by Ms. Finch. Again a check and Alder’s initials. The last entry dated April 29 read a burst pipe in the girls’ locker room. The next column just had the word student written in it. No name. And it seemed the burst pipe had never been fixed or at least not by Alder because there was no check or initials. It was p
ossible that a burst pipe was beyond Alder’s skill level, and a professional plumber needed to be called.

  I stuck the tissue I’d been using into my pocket and headed to the door. I poked my head out, all the while trying to decide what I’d say if someone actually caught me leaving the office. I got lucky and was able to walk out unnoticed.

  Chapter 15

  On my way to find the custodian’s office, I’d walked past a number of fluttering orange flyers that were taped to some of the outside walls. A breeze had knocked one of the flyers from its masking tape, and it drifted gracefully across the asphalt and landed on my shoe. I leaned over and picked it up. The flyer’s creator had used a massive bold font. The flyer let students know that the yearbook dispersal set for Friday had been delayed. That was all it said. I tucked the flyer back onto its curl of tape and headed back toward the quad.

  As I passed the athletic fields, I noticed a group of kids hanging out on the bleachers watching some other students practice the high jump on the track field. The coach, a tiny woman who liked to blow her whistle, was standing at the opposite end of the field with her track athletes. I decided my bright yellow visitor’s pass gave me a good cover for being out on the campus.

  As I rounded the bleachers, I noticed that two of the girls were the ones who had been scoffing at the makeshift memorial. They had been joined by another girl and two boys.

  “Hey look, Belinda, I think that lady is lost,” the girl called Everly said to her friend with the flawless complexion. Belinda turned around. The two boys leaned forward to see the ‘lost lady’.

  “Actually, I am lost,” I said quickly. “I must have made a wrong turn after I visited Mr. Stevens’ office memorial.”

  One of the boys, who was wearing an expensive watch and who carried himself with a great deal of confidence, walked casually down a few steps on the bleachers to talk to me. “Why were you visiting the memorial?” There was just enough suspicion in his tone to knock me off guard. I couldn’t come up with a quick response. He glanced at my press pass. “Are you a friend or are you here to write an article for the paper?” My first assessment of his confidence had been spot on.

  “Yes, actually, I’m writing a story about Alder Stevens and his long career as a custodian.” It was the best I could do. I hadn’t expected an interrogation from a teenager.

  Everly laughed dryly. “Why would anyone want to read about that pervert? He deserved to be fired.”

  “Fired?” I asked. “It was my understanding that Mr. Stevens retired.”

  The kids exchanged winks and glances.

  “Sure,” the boy said as he straightened the collar on his Polo shirt. “Guess that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

  The rest of his friends laughed at his sarcasm, some had to force their mirth more than others, but they all joined in to make sure the boy understood that he was adored. Some things, like high school social politics, never changed. Belinda even gave him extra kudos by blowing him a kiss. From the dynamics of the group, it seemed likely they were an item.

  A whistle took all of our attention from the current conversation. The track coach was looking our direction. “Everly, Belinda, get back to class. And Greer, class president or not, get back to class,” she yelled loudly as if she had a megaphone. Which she didn’t. Apparently extra loud, whistle-obsessed gym teachers were another thing that had stood the test of time.

  The coach noticed me standing below the bleachers. I took her sharp dismissal as my cue to leave. I walked briskly away from the bleachers and toward the quad. Halfway, I stopped and something clicked in my mind. The coach had called out the girls by name, and she’d added the name Greer to the list. Greer could have been a first name, but it was more likely that it was a last name, which meant it probably belonged to the boy. It seemed that coaches and gym teachers always called the boys by their last names. Of course, I could have been wrong. The reason it had popped into my mind was that it sounded familiar. One thing I’d gotten good at during my years as a journalist was remembering names. Greer was the name of the man whose visit had made Principal Morely a little jumpy.

  I heard the kids laughing and talking behind me. I glanced back at them. The boy dropped his arm around Belinda’s shoulder, confirming my earlier guess that they were a couple. There was something about the kid that reminded me of the man I saw outside the principal’s office. They might very well be related. Not that any of these trite details helped me with my clandestine murder investigation.

  For now, I was sure I’d overstayed my welcome at Smithville High. I headed through the quad and back toward the office.

  Chapter 16

  I was sorting out a few things about Alder Stevens in my head as I made my way back to the office. The flower display and Patty’s story certainly showed that students were fond of him, but Belinda and her friends seemed to have a much different opinion of the man. And the boy named Greer seemed to know the circumstances of Alder’s abrupt resignation.

  I crossed the asphalt to the hallway that led to the office. As I passed the front window, I glanced inside, hoping Principal Morely wasn’t lingering in the front office. I didn’t see any sign of the principal, but I caught a glimpse of a tall, thick head of hair that made me do a double take. I squinted through the tinted window and stepped quickly out of view. It seemed the investigation had reached the doors of Smithville High.

  Even though I had every right to be at the school doing my assignment on the work program, I was certain my tree escapade the day before would set off warning bells. I couldn’t let Detective Jackson see me.

  I would have to make up an excuse for not signing out on the visitor’s log. I headed back across the asphalt and through the quad. A chain link fence bordered all the athletic fields. The fencing ended at the gymnasium and locker rooms. A fragrant stream of smoke signaled that the large stucco building just past the gym was the cafeteria and kitchen.

  I hurried past the physical education area. The kids had finished their period of P.E.. I could hear their loud voices and laughter echo through the locker rooms as they changed for class. Some of the students started to stream out of the locker rooms, so I hurried my pace toward the cafeteria. The stack of smoke was swirling through a vent at the back of the building.

  A box truck with signage on the side that said Smithville Unified School District was parked behind the building. A delivery man was just pushing his empty dolly into the back of the truck. A long cement road led away from the loading dock and back out to the road that ran behind the school. It seemed my only way out was through that gate. I’d have to then walk around the entire school to get back to my jeep.

  I stayed close to the building and waited for the delivery truck to pull away before heading out. As I walked past the large gray garbage bin, I noticed a stack of flattened boxes sitting next to it, waiting to be hauled off to recycling. The top box, in particular, caught my eye. It had the same logo for Bounty Foods that I’d seen on the flattened box jammed in the trash can at the park.

  I swatted flies away from my face as I moved closer to the bin. The stench in the warm late morning sun made my stomach do a flip flop as I neared the garbage. I picked up the box on top of the pile. It was stained with grease. According to the label, it had contained canned corn.

  I replaced the flattened box on the stack and hopped up to my toes to see inside the bin.

  A shrill voice startled me from behind. “Hey, you, what are you doing in the trash can?”

  I dropped back to my feet. “Oh, sorry. I’m moving and I was hoping to find a few clean, empty boxes.”

  The woman looked to be about sixty, had short dyed brown hair and leathery skin. She had a hairnet pulled over her head. The employee badge on her shirt said Ms. Mills, kitchen manager.

  She looked me up and down with what I supposed was the proper amount of suspicion, considering she’d just caught me digging in the trash in a remote part of the campus. “The flattened boxes are going back to recycling.
The school collects money from those, so I can’t let you take any.” The angry edge of her voice hadn’t smoothed yet, and she still regarded me with a healthy dose of mistrust.

  “Of course. That makes complete sense.”

  Her eyes landed on my press badge. “Are you here from the paper? Is this about the murder?”

  “Huh?” I glanced down at the badge pretending that I’d forgotten it was there. I fingered it. “Yes, I’m with the Junction Times. I’m here to do a write-up on the wonderful summer work program the school started. Did you mention a murder?”

  Ms. Mills pulled her lips in, apparently wishing she could take the word back. “No, never mind about that. Yes, that work program is great. We’re going to have a few students working with the nutrition department to distribute lunches to the younger kids in summer school.” Her words grew more airy as she worked hard to erase the mention of a murder by falling solely on the topic of the work program.

  “Yes, I’m sure the kids will appreciate having jobs. Summer was always such a bore when I was a kid. I noticed that a lot of the boxes have Bounty Foods labels. Is that a local food distributor?”

  My odd, out of the blue question threw her. Something told me she was going to have a good laugh with her staff about the weird reporter who digs in trash and asks about box labels.

  Her suspicious expression returned. “They are local, yes. I need to get back inside. The visitor exit is through the front office. You’re a long way off from there.” She fanned her fingers, as if to shoo me away. “You need to head back along the gym.”

  “Yes,” I smiled widely. “I’m just on my way out.” I had no choice but to head back the way I came. It seemed the distrustful kitchen manager was going to stand guard and watch that I headed in the right direction.