I grabbed at my hall pass. Oops.
“I’ll have you know, Superintendent Yates herself gave me this.” I tossed my head. “I was perfectly within my rights to be at the school today.”
“Rights-schmights.” Wilson sat down at the counter and spoke to Snowflake. “Should I even ask how she knows Yikes?”
I explained how and why I knew Gabby, and Wilson groaned in all the appropriate places.
I looked up from spreading the peanut butter. “Come on, Wilson. Surely you knew I would get involved in this. Everyone and his brother thinks I should be involved.”
Ignoring yet another groan, I explained the deal the superintendent and I had made. I waved my knife toward the windows. “That’s why Gabby’s down there right now.”
“She lets you call her Gabby?”
“She does. I predict we’re going to be good friends.”
“You’re a little scary. You know that?” Wilson didn’t wait for an answer. “Who else have you been making these deals with? Who was in the elevator when I got here last night?”
I blinked twice. “Do you, or do you not, want lunch?”
“If you’re sleuthing for those kids, I will wring your neck with that stupid hall pass.”
For safety’s sake, I removed my hall pass and returned it to my junk drawer. Then I assured Wilson I was not sleuthing for Frankie. “He merely asked me to talk to Rita.”
“Rita? As in Sistina?”
“Correct.”
While Wilson banged his head on the countertop, I explained my arrangement with Rita and assembled the sandwiches.
I pushed a plate and a glass of ice water in his direction. “You can thank me anytime,” I said.
He did so and started eating, but I told him I wasn’t talking about lunch. “I’m talking about Rita.” I took a seat with my own plate. “We definitely got the better end of that bargain.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. Rita agreed to stop accusing you of brutality, and she’ll allow Frankie to see Lizzie.” I sipped my water. “And all we have to do is solve this murder. Karen and Candy are helping, too. You should thank them also.”
Wilson again spoke to the cat. “At least she didn’t get Peter Harrison involved.”
My eyes got wide at the mention of my other neighbor, but luckily Wilson didn’t notice.
“Speaking of neighbors.” I got up to fetch Karen’s notes from my purse and handed them to Wilson. “G is for good guys, and B is for bad.” I tapped the paper. “It’s Karen’s system. Mr. MacAdoo the janitor helped her, of course.”
“Of course,” Wilson said. But he lost the sarcasm as he reviewed Karen’s list. “You agree with the G next to Jason Bell?”
I nodded. “How about you?”
“Other than he’s a lousy baseball coach.”
“You do know he overheard part of Miriam’s last phone conversation?” I asked.
“I better know. I’ve talked to the guy three times.” He made sure to catch my eye. “The last being right before you. Bruce Poleski called me as soon as you headed down to the Command Center.”
“Figures,” I said. “So who was fine?”
Bless his heart, not only did Wilson understand my question, he actually had an answer. And will wonders never cease? He actually told me what it was.
Apparently Jason Bell had overheard Miriam talking to her boyfriend. “Name’s Eric Ashton. His daughter Paige was at the dance, and Jilton was telling Ashton his daughter was okay.”
“He was worried?”
“He doesn’t approve of his daughter’s boyfriend—a kid named Cory Hanks.”
I put my sandwich down. “Which explains why she was at that dance.”
“How’s that?”
“Miriam Jilton volunteered for cotillion duty, which I gather, is an unheard-of precedent.”
“She must have volunteered to keep tabs on Ashton’s daughter.” Wilson was also connecting the dots.
I asked how he had learned about Eric Ashton. “Karen and I couldn’t get a name out of anyone.”
“Would you give us lowly cops some credit?” He pushed his plate away. “Believe it or not, Lieutenant Densmore is an even better sleuth than Karen Sembler.”
“How?” I asked again.
“How about phone records? And Densmore even knew how to investigate further than that.” Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Having a badge comes in handy.”
“Sooo?” I said. “Is Mr. Ashton a married man?”
“Nooo.” Wilson mocked my tone. “He’s a widower. There was nothing sordid about him and Jilton, other than he’s a parent of one of her students.”
“Just as the janitor suspected.” I stood up to clear the plates. “Is dating a parent allowed?”
“As long as neither party is married, the faculty handbook has no rule against it.”
“But I can still see why she’d be so secretive,” I said.
“And why everyone assumed she was having an illicit affair.”
“And why she was left on my car.”
“And why we can rule out Ashton as a suspect. He wouldn’t purposely call attention to her love life.” Wilson frowned. “Even if he didn’t come forward on his own accord.”
I glanced up from loading the dishwasher. “Oh?”
“Densmore had to track him down.”
I was indignant, but my beau the cop—make that my fiancé the cop—insisted that innocent people don’t always realize they’re sitting on useful information. “Aston didn’t even know he was the last person to speak to her until we told him.”
Wilson took another look at Karen’s list and asked if anyone in particular had caught my attention.
“Doris Carver,” I said without a second thought.
Wilson agreed Miriam Jilton’s department head didn’t like her. “But Carver has a rock solid alibi.”
“And being passed over to judge Focus on Fiction doesn’t sound like much of a motive.” “That’s the trouble.” Wilson continued studying Karen’s list. “No one had a motive. Jilton was stellar.”
“So I hear.” I stood up and shut the dishwasher, and Wilson absently petted Snowflake, who had found a spot on his lap.
He tapped Karen’s notes. “May I?” he asked. I nodded, and he put the notes in his lapel pocket. “This might have been a random act of violence,” he said. “I’m beginning to think teachers get as much random hostility as cops.”
Speaking of hostility, I asked about Dr. Dempsey.
“Hostile and uncooperative,” Wilson said. “But what’s his motive? All the principal wants is to finish his last month and retire with no mishaps.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“Claims he was home with his wife but can’t remember what was on TV.” Wilson shooed Snowflake from his lap and stood up to leave. “Dempsey’s fishy. Every time I talk to him, the number of years he’s worked for the schools changes.”
Chapter 16
“Don’t try to stop me,” I told Snowflake as soon as we heard the door downstairs close.
The cat gave me a disapproving look.
“It was actually Wilson’s idea,” I said.
More feline disapproval.
“And besides,” I tried again. “I’m only going downstairs. One can hardly call that sleuthing.”
The phone rang.
“Don’t try to stop me,” I said again and headed out.
“Jessie!” Candy Poppe popped out of her apartment as I rounded the second floor stairwell. “I just called, but you didn’t answer. I’ve been listening for Wilson to leave to tell you.”
“Tell me what, Sweetie? Can it wait?”
“It’s about Jimmy Beak.”
“Jimmy can wait.” I pointed down the stairs. “I need to catch Peter before his after-school piano students start arriving.”
“But, Jessie.”
“Later.” I started moving again. “I’ll stop by on my way back up.”
“But, Jessie,” she repeated, but I had alr
eady made it to the first floor landing.
***
And to Peter Harrison’s door. Wasn’t it clever of Wilson to put such an excellent idea into my head?
My elderly neighbor taught music at the high school for decades. Which meant he had spent countless hours in the Command Center of Bitch, Moan, and Gossip.
I stared at Peter’s door. But he retired years ago, which meant he likely had never met the young Ms. Jilton.
But, I reminded myself as I knocked, Peter was still Lizzie’s piano teacher.
I frowned. But I wasn’t allowed to mention Lizzie.
“Don’t fret, Jessie. We’ll figure it out.”
I glanced up at Peter’s benevolent face. “Excuse me?”
“This murder you’re trying to solve.”
I scowled. “You know I’m sleuthing?”
“You always do. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?”
He giggled and waved me inside.
“I confess I’ve been quite jealous of Miss Sembler and Miss Poppe,” he said as we found seats on his couch. “They always get to help you. But this time.” He wiggled his hoary eyebrows and pointed to himself. “This time I’m an excellent source of information.”
I smiled broadly. “That is exactly why Wilson suggested I talk to you.”
Peter blinked twice. “What can I tell you?” he asked. “Lizzie’s one of my students, you know?”
I glanced at the baby grand piano that presided over the room and bit my lip.
“Oh dear,” he said. “You’re wondering how I know Lizzie’s involved in this.”
“Her name’s been kept out of the media, Peter.”
He had two explanations for his knowledge. One, he overheard Rita Sistina arguing with her daughter as they left the building the night of the murder. And two, Lizzie had called to tell him what had happened.
He offered a mischievous grin. “We’re, like, friends. Lizzie’s been taking lessons with me since she was, like, five.”
“She’s, like, not a suspect,” I said.
Peter got serious. “Of course she isn’t. But she mentioned your bargain with her mother. I understand you know her young man?”
“His entire life. Frankie’s a good kid.”
“Lizzie is also. She’s far more mature than her speech-patterns imply, and she’s a brilliant musician. Her mother wants her to be a concert pianist.”
“Excuse me? She keeps insisting Lizzie will go into law.”
“If Rita has her say, Lizzie will do both.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Try telling Rita that.”
I rolled my eyes and changed the subject to Miriam Jilton. As predicted, my neighbor had never met her.
“She was probably still in school herself when I retired,” he said. “But I do know some of the older faculty.”
I summarized the visit Karen and I had made to the school, and the list Karen had created. Peter agreed that Jason Bell and Jack MacAdoo were good guys, and that Doris Carver was not. But to my surprise, he refused to label Richard Dempsey a bad guy.
“Richard and I go way back,” he said. “He taught chemistry for years before getting promoted. He was a good principal.”
“He was very rude to me. He seemed like a bad guy.”
Peter insisted some things aren’t as straightforward as Adelé Nightingale’s stories would suggest. “For most of his career, Richard was highly dedicated. I’d bet he was to chemistry what Miss Jilton was to English.”
“Stellar,” I said, and he nodded.
“But unfortunately some teachers lose their enthusiasm over the years. I’m afraid Richard grew weary.” Peter shrugged. “Some would say wearisome.”
I agreed Dr. Dempsey certainly was wearisome. “I think he was hiding something about the murder.”
“Well then, let’s try again.” The old guy almost bounced out of his seat.
I tapped my watch. “Don’t you have piano lessons to give?”
“Not on Mondays. Sleuthing, here I come!” he said, and I cringed at the baby grand.
***
“That’s right, Richard.” Peter winked at me but spoke into the phone. “I’ve been meaning to see those roses you used to tell me about. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I have no piano students scheduled.”
He allowed his voice to drop off and listened to the other end.
“Yes, it has been a long time,” he said. And then he politely, yet firmly, asked Richard Dempsey for his address.
He hung up the phone and smiled. “I’ll just get my keys.”
“Peter!” I finally stood up. “Are we really going there right now?” I watched my neighbor wander around the room searching for his keys. “I’m not sure I have the stamina to face Dr. Dempsey twice in one day.”
“Richard’s more bark than bite. Here they are!” He lifted his keys from an untidy stack of sheet music. “Hiding under Chopin!”
I gazed at the keys and tried not to frown. The only elderly person I had driven with recently was my mother. Don’t ask.
Peter must have read my mind. “Everyone knows the police have your car, Jessie. Come on now. Time’s a-wastin!’”
“But Jimmy Beak’s out there. And his cameraman. And Alistair.”
“Well then, we’ll leave through the basement.” He headed for his door. “We can pretend it’s a secret passageway. Like Nancy Drew!”
“Secret passageway?” I mouthed to the baby grand.
***
“I’ve never been in the basement,” I said as Peter led me down the proverbial dimly-lit stairway. “Are there spiders down here?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He hit the bottom tread and gave me a hand.
“Umm,” I said as I looked around. “I’m rather prone to the heebie-jeebies.”
“Come now, Jessie. Sleuths don’t let a few little spiders deter them.” He wandered off, and for fear of facing heebie-jeebies all alone, I followed.
My imagination kicked into overdrive as I tiptoed along avoiding the cobwebs. This place, far below my bright sunny condo, would make an excellent dungeon in one of Adelé Nightingale’s books. Here we had the requisite dirt floor, damp walls, and sound of water dripping in a distant corner. And when we walked below what must have been Karen’s living room, the sounds of power tools buzzing above could have just as easily been coming from a torture chamber.
Leave it to Mr. Harrison to know our building inside and out. Once upon a time the Merrikans, Peter’s maternal ancestors, had run a textile mill in our building. Peter inherited the building long after the textile industry collapsed and had divided it into condos.
“There are definitely spiders down here,” I said, quietly so as not to wake them.
But my companion had no such qualms. The man was gaily reminiscing about his childhood memories of the place. Apparently he and his brothers had spent hours in this hell-hole. “Playing pirates, telling ghost stories. At Halloween Uncle Curtis would come down here with us. He had the best ghost stories. Scared the dickens out of us!”
Proof that there is a God in heaven, we finally made it to the other side of the expansive space. But then Peter pointed to some steps even more dubious than those we had descended and started to climb. He kept pointing, this time upward, to what for all practical purposes was a trapdoor over our heads. “It may be stuck,” he said. “It hasn’t been used in years.”
I sighed dramatically and followed.
We made it to the top, and it’s a good thing we’re fond of each other, because we had to squeeze together and push as one to loosen the door.
“Whew!” I exclaimed when I finally glimpsed daylight above. But Peter told me we weren’t out of the woods yet.
“Oh?” I gave one last mighty heave, pushed the door all the way open, climbed to the last step, and took a look.
Lord help me, we were in the alley at the far end of our building—a place so unpleasant we don’t even keep the garbage dumpster out there. It�
�s no wonder I had never noticed the trapdoor I was now popping out of, puppet-style. No one in their right mind ventured willingly into that alley.
Until then.
“The city sends someone out once a year to clear it of poison ivy,” Peter informed me as we crawled out and got to our feet.
***
I stared at the ancient Cadillac and scolded myself for having such an unjust prejudice against elderly drivers. I mean, Peter had to be better at it than my mother? Didn’t he?
“I’m a very good driver.” He must have noticed my frown. “I drive to the grocery store every week, and I drive to all my doctor appointments.” He opened the passenger door for me. “I am not your mother.”
“You know about my mother’s driving?”
“Jessie, honey, everyone knows about your mother’s driving.”
And every normal person would have taken the passenger seat. But let’s face it—I am not normal. And the situation at Sullivan and Vine was anything but.
I scrunched down in the area where my feet should have been. From that vantage point I could admire how roomy Peter’s car was. I could not, however, witness whatever mayhem he was driving past on Sullivan Street.
It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to get past that mayhem. But at the risk of slowing him down even further, I poked my head around the glove compartment and asked about the Sistina divorce.
“Very unpleasant business, that.” Peter glanced in the rear view mirror and told me the coast was clear. And while I situated myself into the passenger seat, he explained the custody battle for Lizzie.
“She was fourteen,” he said. “I understand the courts usually let a child that age have a say in matters. But the dear girl didn’t want to hurt either parent. In the end, both father and daughter gave in to Rita.”
“They got sick of the arguing with her?”
Peter stopped for a yellow light. “What do you think?”
I wondered if the divorce might have a bearing on the murder, but he couldn’t see how. I also asked about Ray Sistina, and Peter told me what I already knew—Mr. Sistina was a hot-shot lawyer in Atlanta.
“Something you might not know.” The light finally changed, and he slowly eased forward. “Ray’s engaged. Lizzie’s very excited about it. She’s been asked to be maid of honor.”
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