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

by Leigh Ellwood

  The slap on his back startled him, and Gooch enjoyed watching his friend choke. “Wake up, bud! You’ll end up in the wrong seat.”

  Jason chuckled. How nice it would be to sit comfortably when this was over.

  “Of course,” Gooch added. “I wouldn’t mind getting the wrong seat, if it was on Donna’s lap.”

  Donna Grafton, who by virtue of alphabetical order would be in line in front of Jason, was within earshot of the remark and looked back at Gooch with a scowl. Gooch, unfazed, winked back.

  “So what’re we doing after this?” Gooch asked his friend. “If this doesn’t take too long, we can all catch an early movie or head down to the beach.”

  What are we doing? Try giving statements to the police, lying on a gurney in the ER watching a doctor pick lead out of my chest, Jason thought, but said nothing. He kept his arms folded and shrugged noncommittally at his friend.

  “Hey,” Gooch’s face darkened, “we aren’t going to any more shivahs, are we? Caitlin told me you whacked out at Miss Stone’s funeral.”

  “I didn’t ‘whack out’,” Jason shot back. “I only made a bold assertion.”

  Gooch nodded warily, but before Jason could explain further one of the double doors squealed open and Father Ben peered inside. “Psst!”

  Jason beckoned the priest closer and took the proffered jacket from him. “Thanks, Father,” he said, slipping it on. “Was it in the altar server’s room, like I thought?”

  “Yes, it was,” Father Ben said, and Jason glanced at the old man’s face for a hint of discomfort, relieved to see only a cool, cunning soul who appeared to be enjoying his role. The denim jacket in actuality was retrieved from Jason’s own closet, bugged by the police for use. Jason reached blindly into the right inside pocket and felt for the tape recorder. It was already running.

  “What?” Gooch was confused. “I don’t remember seeing that with you last Sunday. It was too warm to wear a jacket then!”

  Uh-oh. He had forgotten Gooch served Mass with him last Sunday morning. “Er—”

  “And why are you here, padre?” Gooch turned now to Father Ben. “You’re supposed to be onstage—”

  “It’s called doing a good deed, son,” the priest interrupted coolly with a nod to Jason. “Faith without works is dead, remember that from James?”

  Gooch, caught off guard, now struggled to recall the Bible reference under the pastor’s discriminating glare. Jason resisted an urge to laugh out loud, grateful Father Ben was along to keep them under control.

  “Good luck,” Jason said as he jabbed Gooch in the shoulder. “I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”

  “Take your time.” Father Ben waved him out the door. “I’ll save your spot.”

  So Jason was able to slip away down the hall to the nearest boys’ restroom, taking in the colorful banners set up by various clubs which were plastered on the dull gray walls. Pick up your yearbooks in Room 202, order your graduation videos early from Mr. Beerman in the graphic arts center. Seniors, don’t forget to send your Last Will and Testaments to any newspaper student before Monday.

  Jason felt a chill gazing at that last poster, which was bordered with little tombstones on them. As if he did not already feel like a dead man walking, he thought.

  He coughed as he lurched into the restroom; the ensuing echo was brief yet loud. Long bulbs of ultraviolet light hummed above Jason’s head as he studied the tiny aqua tiles of the floor with every step. The faint stench of cigarettes lingered in each of the three stalls.

  Facing the darkened, frosted windows on the far wall, Jason resisted the temptation to turn back and check to see if he had been followed, but he knew that could spoil everything. Instead he took care to listen carefully for stealth footsteps, feeling a mixture of relief and also disappointment when he heard nothing.

  He cranked the hot and cold spigots of the far sink, frustrated when only a trickle of water dripped from the faucet, followed by a low guttural groan coming from somewhere in the bowels of the building. He shut the taps off and wrung his hands, unable to wash them to pass the time.

  Just as well, he realized, when the restroom door creaked open. Light tapping footfalls signaled Lawrence Brantley’s entrance. The two faced each other before the stalls, hands twitching and eyes shooting daggers at each other like cowboys in an Old West showdown.

  “We’re getting ready to start rehearsals,” Lawrence told him, not a hint of malice in his voice. “I came here to get you.”

  Right. “Did you?” Jason folded his arms. “I’m surprised you’d be concerned for my welfare, much less care about whether or not I would miss a line cue for graduation.”

  “Hey,” Lawrence held up his hands, “your dad was worried and asked me to get you, is all. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Jason shuddered at the word shoot. What was that odd-shaped lump in Lawrence’s coat pocket? “My dad was onstage while you were in the back with the rest of us. Why didn’t he just ask somebody closer?”

  “Your father has a very big mouth.” Lawrence’s smile was sinister.

  Like father, like son, he was probably thinking, Jason surmised. “How did Dad know where I was?”

  Lawrence did not miss a beat. He took a step closer and pressed a palm to his thigh. “You said you had to take a leak. This is the closest men’s room.”

  Jason inched closer to the sink, brushing his arm against his jacket to verify the tape recorder’s existence. Like it would do a lot of good if Lawrence pulled a gun.

  Keep him talking, dear God, keep him talking, Jason prayed silently, hoping also the good Lord would see fit to grant him temporary superhuman strength to allow him to rip the sink from the wall as a weapon if needed. “You’re a liar,” he finally challenged the teacher.

  “And you’re a nosy bastard,” Lawrence seethed, “who couldn’t leave well enough alone. You don’t realize what you’ve stepped in, boy.”

  Well enough alone? Was this man high? “Excuse me? How can a self-respecting human being leave alone three murders in the same month? People you killed?”

  “What’s that?” Lawrence asked innocently. “I never said I killed anyone. Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

  Jason said nothing, but refused to let his sudden frustration betray him. Lawrence was right. He had not admitted to the murders, or any wrongdoing actually, because Jason had not let him. What am I thinking, Jason thought. The guy wouldn’t be so stupid to incriminate himself right off the bat.

  Lawrence folded his arms and backed against a stall, expecting either an answer or for Jason to start blubbering. Either way, the amused look on his face told Jason that he did not consider the graduate a threat.

  That was, Jason realized, if Lawrence would let him graduate. That lump in his coat pocket was growing; Jason expected a gun nozzle to peek out from the buttoned flap.

  He inhaled and looked down at his shoes to regain composure. “I sat shivah at Mrs. Scarsdale’s house,” he began quietly. “His family was devastated.”

  Lawrence snorted. “A likely story.”

  “They were.”

  “I was talking about you being there. I’m not that cold-hearted.”

  “That’s where I found the information that proves his involvement with a video company that makes amateur porn, starring Bailey Stone.”

  “Bailey was a twit. She couldn’t act the part of a frightened woman if somebody pushed her off a cliff.” Lawrence let out an ugly chortle. “Though, I suppose people don’t necessarily watch those things for the enthralling dialogue and acting quality.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. She had me and Caitlin fooled on prom night.”

  “What do you know about good drama?”

  Jason eyed Lawrence through narrowed lids. “Enough to know that you thought she could act, too. That’s why you recruited Bailey to do those films.”

  Lawrence’s face fell slightly, and Jason smiled. Just what he wanted to see. “Bascock is your company, Mr. Brantley, and Bart did th
e books. I don’t know if he ever knew what you did; heck, he may have been one of your best customers for all I know. But I do know that Bart must have discovered that Colley High was funding production costs.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lawrence sneered, but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. Encouraged, Jason’s own voice strengthened.

  “All that high-tech equipment you bought with the Drama Department’s AP money, you used that to make the films, didn’t you?” Jason took a step forward as Lawrence Brantley appeared to shrink down as if looking to slip between the cracks in the stall. “When Mrs. Wallis made it known she was going to retire you jumped at the chance for her job to get the extra AP money that came with it, didn’t you? Were you planning to go digital? Start an interactive website or press DVDs? I bet you were going to recommend to Rockwell to rehire Bailey for whatever vacant standard classes you’d have to give up and requisition her salary for extra capital, too.”

  “Hey, now,” Lawrence said angrily, “Bailey may have had a nice bod for those movies, but she still was a lousy teacher. I did her a real favor by helping her realize her true potential.”

  Jason only looked at him, openmouthed and shocked to think the man before him would consider pornography as ‘potential.’ Lawrence, however, realized his slip and sputtered a profanity.

  “Did you think Caitlin had ‘potential,’ too?” Jason asked coldly. “Is that why you were all over at the prom like that cheap suit you’re always wearing? Why else would she have been afraid that you’d see her at Bailey Stone’s funeral?”

  “Listen here, punk—”

  “There.” Jason pointed to the right cuff of Lawrence’s coat, which slid back slightly as the teacher pointed a long finger at Jason. “Look at that red spot. Fake blood, like what Bailey had on her at the prom. You gave it to her, didn’t you?”

  “I’m a drama teacher!” Lawrence exploded. His bold declaration bounced off the porcelain and tile. “I handle props all the time, and anyone can buy stage blood at the mall.” He lifted his arm. “And this,” he pointed to the stain, “is dried ketchup, thank you very much.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “So what if I am. I’m going to be rich pig.” Lawrence was smug. “You got any idea how much I can be raking in every month with my little side business once it gets going?”

  Not only did Jason not know, but he certainly did not care. Looking at the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue without blushing was a chore for him, and just watching those few seconds of Bailey’s movie at a sideways glance nearly sent him catatonic. How was he going to tie this in so he could get Lawrence to admit to killing Bart, Bailey, and Gordon?

  “Let’s just say I could make a helluva lot more pedaling the same thirty minute loop of Bailey on her back in three months than I make at my current salary,” Lawrence said, “and I have a master’s degree.”

  “So why stay in teaching? Make your damn movies and move to California. Surely you have enough saved up to buy your own equipment without having to siphon away funds from the school.”

  “Why quit? It’s a good cover. Besides, I’m five years from retiring anyway, and I don’t see any reason to turn my back on a nice pension.”

  Or new recruits, Jason thought, thinking of Caitlin and how petrified she appeared at Bailey’s memorial upon seeing Lawrence. She managed to evade his grasp then, but would another girl be so lucky were the teacher...this pornographer, get away with everything? Who else had the teacher propositioned?

  If Detective Simons and his reinforcements were to barge in now, Jason guessed, the best they could probably nail him with would be embezzlement and lewd conduct. Pled down, a sentence might only be a fine and time served, but Lawrence’s teaching certificate would be revoked, he hoped. That meant nothing, though, Jason knew, especially if Lawrence could make big money from his films.

  Keep him talking, keep him talking. He’ll slip up again, he has to. “So why kill Bailey, then?” Jason asked. “Why kill your star?”

  “Jason, Jason,” Lawrence tut-tutted. “Why are you so insistent to pin Bailey’s unfortunate and accidental death on me? Why accuse me of the other murders, for that matter? Yes, Bart was my accountant, but I didn’t even know the other guy. Why would I kill a complete stranger?” He sounded quite confident again, but there was a stiffness about him, like he had something to hide. He glanced nervously at the mirror on the wall as if trying to see clear behind him. They both had been there for a while, was Lawrence afraid somebody at the assembly would need to use the toilet, Jason wondered. Open the door just as he was pulling the gun, or worse yet, the trigger?

  “You have to admit, though, two people in your employ dying within days of each other is pretty suspicious,” Jason said.

  “People die every day. Didn’t two of your precious popes kick off in the same month about twenty years back? Are you going to blame me for that, too?”

  The door burst open, startling them both. Instinctively Jason ducked behind the sink in the event Lawrence decided to repel the cavalry with a spray of stray bullets. He hugged his knees, awaiting the obligatory Freeze, police! He noticed Lawrence had simultaneously barged into the first stall, probably expecting the same thing.

  Neither could have been more shocked to hear Maura Arnaiz wonder aloud what the hell was taking so long and why the hell was that Greevey punk still breathing.

  Jason rose slowly, hypnotized by the echoing clop-clop of Maura’s thick-heeled boots. She rounded the stalls and came into view, practically glowing in a skin-tight lime green minidress and matching bolero jacket, attire far removed from the conservative long skirts she wore to school. Hoop earrings the size of bracelets hung from her lobes. Evidently she had not come dressed for graduation rehearsal, Jason thought. Rockwell would have had a heart attack had she entered the auditorium in that getup. Either that or suffered severe eyestrain.

  She stared at Jason as one would at a circus freak. “What the hell?” she gasped, pointing with a lime-green tipped finger. “Lawrence!” She banged into the stall where Lawrence was hiding and dragged him back outside. “Would you hurry up, for fuck’s sake! The longer you put this off, people are going to notice you two are missing and put it together.”

  Put it together. Right now Jason was having difficulty putting together Maura’s apparent involvement in this entire mess. At the moment, however, her attention was more focused upon Lawrence, and as the drama teacher dipped into his swollen pocket he knew that was his cue to scream, “No, don’t shoot,” thereby alerting Detective Simons.

  Instead the first word that came to mind was “Elaine!”

  Maura turned her head sharply and a wicked grin curled her lips, then shrank into a sexy pout. “Almost fooled you, didn’t I? Got your papa, though, and Willie. Amazing what a wig and a few layers of makeup can do. I always knew I had it in me to be a good actress. Damn bar owners couldn’t pick a good Elaine if Julia Louis-Dreyfus herself entered that contest.” She patted Lawrence’s chest as he produced a pair of black gloves.

  Gloves? Jason felt his heart plunge down to his stomach. That must have been one of the leather fingers he spied. Lawrence was not stupid. No powder residue on his hands, no fingerprints on a gun.

  “So you knew Bart, too,” Jason noted. What was he saying? Of course she had to have known Bart if she was involved in the films. Maybe Maura would ignore the obviously stupid remark, he hoped. He would probably make many more, anything to keep his heart beating.

  Maura’s eyes were heavy-lidded. Had she been drinking? Drugs? Was that another side business, perhaps? Despite the veiled death threat hanging low, she was very compliant in the altered state.

  “Yeah, I knew Bart,” she spat. “I suppose you know now about what happened to him. How he found out where ol’ Larry and I,” she slapped the grimacing teacher’s back, “were getting our start-up dough to make our movies, and how he was going to report us to the School Board and the papers. Like I needed updated tex
tbooks, anyway. It’s not like there are any new Spanish words anybody needs to learn.”

  She laughed suddenly, stumbling on her heels and crashing against a stall door. Even Lawrence looked as if he would feel more comfortable standing next to Jason.

  “Maura,” Lawrence seethed, “shut up!” He grabbed for her arm but she was too quick.

  “Yeah, Lawrence spilled the beans already,” Jason lied. “Said he killed Bart to keep him quiet.”

  “Yeah, right!” Maura snarled, the blood vessels in her eyes visible as she whipped her head up at Jason with a passionate stare. “Leave it to the director to hog all the credit for what I did! Bandejo! It was my idea to make the movies, and to kill Bart. Better to kill the fat bastard than to have to cut him in on the action, and he’d have wanted a lot for his silence.”

  She paused, gulping in air through her heaving chest. “I asked ol’ Larry here to do it for me, for us,” she cackled, casting a surreptitious glance at Lawrence, whose disdain for the nickname showed plainly in his frown. “He was too chicken, though. Got as far as macing him when he grew a conscience. I was the one who strangled that fat bastard, and damn near ruined my best pair of hose doing it!”