Mystery Bundle (Saints Preserve Us, Pray For Us Sinners, Murder Most Trivial)

by Leigh Ellwood

  Grabbing his briefcase, he nudged Ringo awake with his free hand. “C’mon, boy,” he cajoled. “Let’s get something to eat.” He passed Jason’s room to find his son sitting on the edge of his bed, engrossed in a magazine. “You ready to go?” he asked.

  Jason’s head shot upward, startled. “Yeah, yeah. In a sec.” Deftly he curled the reading material into a tube and inched it just under his pillow. Suspicious, Dan tilted his head for a better look.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “Nothing,” came a quick reply, said with all the innocence of a dieter caught holding a pint of ice cream. “Just a magazine, you know. Gooch lent it to me.”

  “Ah.” Dan did not move from his spot by the doorway. Instead he shifted so that his body blocked more of the hallway as Jason gathered his things. “You need to give it back to him today?”

  Jason shoved a workbook into his bulging backpack. “He doesn’t need it right now,” he said. “I’m not done reading it, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Dan nodded sagely. No sense in pushing the issue. While he and Jason agreed that the boy was permitted some privacy, there were naturally certain things Dan would not tolerate in the house. Pornographic magazines were at the top of the list, and Lord help the boy were he to find a familiar bunny-shaped logo on the cover of any magazine in the room during a fit of housecleaning, Dan thought.

  “I was going to heat up some oatmeal in the microwave. Want me to make you a bowl?”

  “Sure, Dad. I’m right behind you.”

  Jason watched his father trot downstairs to the kitchen, then quickly snatched the rolled-up magazine from under his pillow. He unfurled the glossy cover, his gaze falling upon the handsome young cover boy smiling back with ice-blue eyes. Spending only a few seconds more to contemplate the pages within, he quietly slid the magazine between two textbooks in the pack, berating himself for having lied earlier.

  The magazine did not belong to Gooch, nor any of his other friends. Hopefully, Jason prayed, his father’s curiosity would be displaced by the work day. He did not need for his father to find it, at least not until he felt brave enough to explain why it was in his possession.

  * * * *

  Dan clocked in at the school office and learned immediately that Mrs. Wallis, the school’s other Advanced Placement English teacher, had called in sick. This negated any possibility of a meeting to discuss disbursement of AP funds for the next school year.

  “How could she have a cold? Mrs. Wallis never gets sick,” Dan griped. “Remember a few years back when she scheduled a root canal after school? She was at her desk the next day! We should all be so dedicated to our jobs.”

  Spanish teacher Maura Arnaiz, having overhead this comment, piped in, “Well, maybe she’s not as hardy as she used to be, and considering how much she smokes I’m not surprised. I swear, when she coughs it sounds like her lungs are about to explode.”

  Alise Allan, the school’s secretary, proposed an alternative theory, that Mrs. Wallis was in mourning. “You know that singer finally kicked off last night. That crooner she really liked, you know, what’s-his-face,” she said flippantly. “As much as that woman worshipped him, I don’t blame her taking off.”

  “Alise, who calls in sick when a celebrity dies?” Maura laughed. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Alise shuffled a stack of readmission slips for distribution to students absent the previous day. “Well, don’t tell that to Grady,” she said, referring to the school’s shop teacher. “Three months ago he called in, but I found out later he went to some public memorial for Dale Earnhardt.”

  “She really could be sick, you know,” Dan offered. Office gossip tired him, and he knew if he lingered by Alise’s desk the secretary would only be encouraged to launch into an unflattering summary of her conversation with his colleague, complete with gargling sound effects.

  Maura quickly sifted through the mail in her cubbyhole. “I imagine it is kind of depressing, though, when all the big names of your era start dying. First it’s The Velvet Fog, Ol’ Blue Eyes, and now Ol’ What’s-His-Face.”

  “Oh, Maura,” Alise snapped her fingers and reached into the bottom drawer of her desk, extracting a thick stack of colorful magazines and newspapers. “Your monthly package arrived the other day.”

  Dan looked on disdainfully over Maura’s shoulder as she was handed her own horded periodicals, all of which were expected the week before. The covers were dog-eared from use, and as Maura flipped idly through People en Español, Dan saw that the secretary had attempted the crossword, in ink.

  “Brushing up on your español, señorita?” Maura asked, her voice coated with acid.

  “Sí,” Alise sneered back. “Lay goo-stow Jimmy Smits.”

  “Me gusto,” Maura corrected her as she bundled the magazines under her arm and walked stiffly into the hall, muttering one last word under her breath. “Puta.”

  Dan stifled the urge to laugh and prayed a silent plea for control as he turned back to his own mail. For a brief moment he was relieved People did not publish a Latin language edition for the secretary to ruin. “So,” he asked, “who’s subbing?” He and Mrs. Wallis kept similar lesson plans per their involvement in the Advanced Placement program, and he knew that today she had planned to continue, as he was, a unit on Madame Bovary which would finish the regular curriculum before finals. Dan made a mental note to check in on the sub in between bells. He did not want to have to deal with a skittish substitute being railroaded by a pack of students who preferred to play.

  “Why don’t you ask me yourself?”

  Dan spun around as Bailey Stone, her slender fingers intertwined and resting against her breastbone sauntered into the office. The young woman brushed a long strand of honey-colored hair away from her heart-shaped face. Her bright blue eyes, a perfect match to her long denim skirt and white blouse, drank in the sight of her handsome former boyfriend. “Hello, Danny Boy,” her voice trilled with an awkward, fake Irish accent, “how’s tricks?”

  “Hey, Bailey,” Alise called, holding up a clipboard. “Just sign in here.”

  Bailey signed the substitute roll sheet with a flourish and looked at Dan expectantly. “I said hello, Danny,” she said, a pout pushing forward her lower lip.

  Dan, seeing Bailey for the first time in several months, tried to return the greeting but found his voice box suddenly drained, and the best salutation he could offer at that moment was a timid grunt. He gathered up his briefcase and quiz papers, thinking of the politest way to push past Bailey and barrel into the hall toward class. Seeing as how other teachers were streaming toward them and thickening into a wall, however, he stayed put. Those who took their time checking in to work made much to each other of the foolish stare on Dan’s face.

  Alise told Bailey to check the copy room for handouts to give to Mrs. Wallis’s classes. Dan glanced at his watch, grateful that Willie always arrived at work early and headed straight for class to banter with her English II class before settling them down into the day’s lesson plan. Willie, as a traveling teacher, held no classes near his room, so he did not feel worried about the two meeting today.

  “Bailey, good morning,” he said finally. Or, he thought, as his son once called her, Number Five on Dr. Laura’s list of things men do to mess up their lives.

  “Have fun today, Bailey,” Alise added, casting a sly glance at Dan, who now wished he too had had the foresight to call in sick and mourn a dead has-been singer. He could have gone to morning Mass and lit a votive candle, praying for the repose of the soul of Ol’ What’s-His-Face. Calling in would not have been a complete deception on his part, as his head still ached from last night’s excursion to Jillian’s.

  “Your son’s a celebrity, I understand,” Bailey told Dan. “I saw this smiling at me over my Rice Krispies, just as Alise called.” She slapped a folded newspaper against Dan’s chest. “I’m surprised he didn’t win the big prize. Jason’s such a smart young man, but that must run in the family.”

  �
�He is,” Dan said, sensing deja vu. How was it that women were always trapping him against his will?

  Alise, pretending to search for a critical document necessary to the school’s survival, looked up from her desk. “What’s that paper say?”

  Dan laid the lifestyle section of The Virginian-Pilot lengthwise atop Alise’s desk and pointed at the large photo collage above the fold. Snapshots of the Waterside’s May Sweeps celebration were arranged in a zig-zag pattern—one of Jason mugging for the camera with some of the other trivia contest finalists overlapped candids of people for Bar Norfolk’s party, as well as some patrons from Hooters enjoying a few beers and the lovely view.

  “Well, look at that,” Dan marveled at the photo. His paper was still rolled in its plastic bag on the kitchen table. “I’ll have to save this section. I don’t recall seeing photographers there, but I guess it makes sense.”

  “Is there anything about last night’s murder in there?” Maura asked.

  “What?” Dan shuffled through pages of movie ads and classifieds, resisting Alise as she tried to still his hands so she could read the Waterside article. “What murder? What happened?”

  “You didn’t hear? Somebody was killed last night at the Waterside. You weren’t down there when it happened?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard a thing.” Dan felt his heart numb. A murder at the Waterside, just after they left? To hear such a thing was unnerving. Who was the victim? Courtney? The accountant? Pseudo-Elaine? “Jason went up to his room to watch television when we got home. Me, my head hit the pillow and next thing I know my alarm was going off.” Any intentions he had of approaching Jason about his reluctance to discuss the prom faded into distant memory the second he sat down on his bed to undress.

  “Oh, I didn’t bring the whole paper, so I don’t know,” Bailey told Maura. “I didn’t see anything about a murder on the front page, though.”

  “Must have happened after the paper went to press,” Maura surmised. “It did make the late news, though, that’s how I know.”

  “Say, Bay,” Alise said, “you should have gone to that trivia thing. I bet you could have won instead of this guy.” She grimaced at the close-up of a sweating, wide-grinned Bart Scarsdale clutching his prize as one would a winning lottery ticket.

  Bailey raked a hand through her hair, her college class ring snagged in a tangle just behind her ear. “I did go,” she said icily, staring at Dan. “I don’t usually go out to bars by myself, but it’s been so long since I had a night on the town, and I figure why wait for the phone to ring...”

  Dan could feel the prickly heat of her gaze flush his cheeks. Bailey, at Jillian’s? He did not recall seeing her there, then again the place was crowded, and he had been focused for the most part on Willie...

  Willie. Had Bailey seen him with Willie? That would certainly explain the sudden frost in her voice.

  “Bailey,” he sighed. He did not need to get into an argument right now, with Bailey especially, who seldom knew when to stop.

  “You still keep the same lunch, Danny?” Bailey had the same expression on her face as Ringo normally did every day, that look of unconditional devotion declaring to the world that Dan Greevey could do no wrong, he observed. Absence really must make the heart grow fonder, he decided, for any beliefs that Bailey was over their breakup were fading fast.

  “Fourth period, second lunch,” he told her. “Same as the last two years. Edna Wallis has third lunch, and so do you today.”

  “Ah.” Bailey pursed her lips. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” With a wistful smile, she hugged her teaching materials to her chest and glided out into the congested hallway. Dan waited until she disappeared around a corner before releasing a murderous glance in Alise’s direction.

  “What?” Alise unconvincingly played innocent. A tiny clump of mascara smudged under her left eye.

  “You could have called a hundred other substitute teachers, all of whom are infinitely more competent!” he roared. “Why her? Why for AP English? Doesn’t Mrs. Wallis keep a list of recommended subs with you?”

  The secretary shrugged and let a line on her phone blink unanswered. “Well, yeah, but it’s only three names long, and they were all taken today. So I went to the regular list and started calling by alphabetical order.”

  “Bailey Stone? What alphabet are you using?”

  “Hey, she comes up first when you go by first names.” Alise flashed him a light yellow smile. “Plus she used to work here, so she knows her way around. Now,” she settled back into her chair and unfolded the paper to the comics section, “enjoy your planning period, Danny Boy.”

  * * * *

  As Dan had feared, Bailey Stone’s tenure with Edna Wallis’s Advanced Placement English and Humanities classes was nothing short of riotous, with even some of the school’s best behaved students cutting up as if unsupervised. Jason’s friend and classmate Caitlin Stevens made much of the chaos as she and another student breezed into fourth period Latin III and took their seats, but quieted when she caught a surreptitious look from their teacher.

  “Oh, Jason won’t be giving her any trouble, Mr. Greevey,” she hastily rejoined. “Mrs. Wallis is gonna be ticked though, because we didn’t get anything done in that class today. It took forever just to get roll called.”

  Dan finished adjusting the transparency projector for the day’s lesson and slumped against the light panel. Great, he sighed to himself. Now Edna Wallis would lose a second day trying to right the wrongs caused by Bailey’s incompetence. A dead crooner was certainly not worth all this hassle. “We’ll let Mrs. Wallis worry about her classes, Caitlin,” he said wearily. “You worry about Latin right now. The bell’s about to ring.”

  Caitlin complied and watched the activity through the open classroom door for a glimpse of the teacher’s son passing by on his way to next door’s English class. Jason had Mrs. Wallis for the fourth period, and sometimes he would stick his head inside for a quick hello to his father and anyone else he recognized before reaching his destination.

  Instead, the nine students of Latin III and their teacher were treated to another visitor. “Hey there,” grinned a giddy Bailey Stone, tapping her navy blue flats against the floor tile in an awkward two-step as if waiting to use the ladies’ room.

  “Hey yourself.” Dan was already behind his desk and opening his textbook to the day’s lesson. In thirty seconds the late bell would sound and here Bailey would probably still be standing while he called his class to order, he thought. Meanwhile, everybody in fourth period English—his son included—would mutiny.

  “Don’t worry about Jason today, I’m sure he’ll be a perfect gentlemen in class.” Bailey showed no visible signs of being mentally mauled by the morning classes. “Just like his father.”

  One can only hope, Dan wanted to add, but the late bell blasted through his thoughts. Doors up and down the corridor slammed shut in unison, and Dan ushered Bailey outside with a pointed look and a gentle push, one hand grasping the door jamb.

  “Right, I’m still on the clock,” she joked. “Have fun with the Latin. Amo, amas, amat,” she called to the students as Dan closed the door on her dreamy smile.

  “Quicquid,” Dan spat back flippantly, and Caitlin snickered loudly behind him. Pure testimony to the girl deserving the valedictory position; she studied enough on her own to get the joke.

  Quicquid. Whatever, Bailey!

  Chapter Three

  Relief was the general consensus as students filtered into Edna Wallis’s classroom for fourth period Advanced Placement English with the news that a substitute was working the desk. Only one student felt ill at ease.

  Jason wove through the crowded hallway to class, averting his face from Bailey’s supervision, well aware it was all for naught. He caught her dainty finger-waggling wave from the corner of his eye while as her entered the classroom. No doubt she wanted to socialize, perhaps grill him on his father’s current dating situation, Jason thought.

  He sank into his desk
and hovered over an opened textbook, his chin cupped in his hands. Maybe she would be too busy with the rest of the class to bother him. Idle chatter was growing in volume and showed no signs of tapering away into obedient silence.

  Jason’s best friend Mitch Rice vaulted into the desk beside him and set his books on the floor with a loud thump. “You closing tonight?”

  Jason looked up with an irritated nod. The two worked part-time at Book Bonanza, one of several tiny shops situated along Colley Avenue, not far from the school. When Mitch closed, Jason closed. When Jason arrived at seven on weekend mornings to open, Mitch was usually angling his ’92 Thunderbird alongside the curb in an awkward display of parallel parking.

  Still, Mitch continued to ask. “Yep,” he said. Why bother arguing, Jason decided. Mitch would only forget if he pitched a fit, and ask again.