4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

  Elena's story was essentially the same as Susie's, except more colorful and with Spanish thrown in. Her key word was loco—Meckel was loco, his killer was loco, this whole loco thing was loco. Sometimes I wondered how a free spirit like Elena managed to survive in a buttoned-down institution like High Rock Elementary School.

  My third call was to Barry at the Saratoga Trust Bank, where he was some sort of factotum. "You going into your Miss Marple mode again?" he kidded me.

  I prefer to think of myself as the Sam Spade type, but I let it go. "I'm wondering if you might have seen anything this morning."

  "I'm afraid not. Sorry."

  "You hear anything?"

  "No . . ." Barry said, but I noticed a tiny split second of hesitation, so I tried again.

  "You sure?"

  "Well . . ."

  "Just tell me. I promise I won't repeat it to anyone if it’s something irrelevant."

  He sighed, then finally took the plunge. "Okay, you know how the loo is just down the hall from the principal's office?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I was in there this morning doing my business, and I thought I heard somebody yelling."

  Uh-oh. "Was it Laura?"

  "I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure it was a woman, though."

  Oh, Lord have mercy.

  Theoretically the woman could have been Elena. Instead of going into her own classroom like she claimed, maybe she went to Meckel's office. But it seemed unlikely. There wasn't much time for her to do the dastardly deed and then slip back to the library.

  I thought back to how Elena, Susie, and Barry had acted this morning, when I first came into the library and saw them. They had all been a little manic, raising their fists and talking revolution . . . but they had all acted basically normal. Not like they had just committed murder.

  No, the only person who had acted suspicious was Laura. And now there was an eyewitness—or rather, an earwitness.

  "It didn't sound, like, physical," Barry continued, apologetic, "or I would've gone in there. I thought it was just two people having an argument."

  "Did you hear anything they were saying?"

  "Not really. I mean, I was making noise too, you know, peeing and washing my hands and all that." He sighed. "I didn't want to tell the cops, because… you know."

  "Yeah."

  "Poor Laura."

  "Poor Laura," I agreed. I thanked him dispiritedly and hung up.

  Then I just sat there. I didn't even have the energy to call Andrea, though by now her last class was over. What could I do? Laura's goose was clearly cooked—

  The phone rang. It was Malcolm. I heard choppiness on the line; he must be calling from his car. "I just talked to your pal Laura on the phone. I'm meeting her at the jail in five minutes. She wants you there, too. Can you make it?"

  "I'd love to, but I'm taking care of the kids."

  Malcolm snorted. "Kids? What kind of hard-boiled private dick are you?"

  "Call me soft-boiled," I said, then: "I have to go, the doorbell just rang."

  I answered it. Judy Demarest, the third member of Andrea and Laura's Thursday-night bowling trio, stood on the front steps. Forty years old, with an angular face and alert eyes, Judy was a lean, no-nonsense newspaperman—or at least that's what she wanted you to think.

  "Is it true?" Judy asked, her forehead scrunched up with worry. "Did Laura really kill the principal?"

  "Are you asking as her friend or as editor of the Daily Saratogian?"

  "What do you think?" she said, offended.

  "I think you're hereby baby-sitting three children for the next hour." I started past her toward my car.

  "Hey, wait a minute," she began—

  But then Adam came out the door behind us and yelled frantically, "Mr. Burns, I can't find my Game Boy. I think I left it in the library!"

  "It’s okay, we'll get it tomorrow."

  "But I want it now." His eyes were watering from the injustice of it all. How could God take away both his mom and his Game Boy in one day?

  "I promise I'll get it tomorrow. Judy, give them some lunch," I said, and took off before either of them could protest further.

  The Saratoga Springs City Jail, where drunks, pickpockets, murderers and other malcontents are held until their arraignments, is located in the basement of city hall, at the windowless end of the police station. Having once spent an endless night there myself, I can attest to its barbarism. The stench of every bodily fluid known to man permeates the place, and the din of busted toilets, hallucinating inmates, and vindictive cops is constant. The cells are four feet by six feet, and less than six feet high. Maybe that wasn't quite so bad a century ago, when the jail was built and people were shorter; but for a modern six-footer like myself, the claustrophobia was overwhelming. Especially with some nutcase in the next cell over chanting "Hare Krishna" all night long. I didn't even like that chant when George Harrison did it.

  Fortunately my meeting with Laura and Malcolm wasn't held in the jail itself. When I got there, they had just been escorted to a small room down the hall. Bowles, the young crewcut cop, was posted outside.

  Laura still looked shaky. Malcolm looked his usual dapper self. Don't ask me how a three-hundred-pounder manages to do dapper, but Malcolm pulls it off. My only fear was that the tiny plastic chair he was sitting on wouldn't make it through the meeting.

  He stuck out his hand. "Hello, Jacob. I was just telling Laura to beware of bugs in this room—and I don't mean cockroaches."

  "How's Adam?" Laura asked anxiously.

  "He's fine," I lied. "He's playing croquet with the boys. Judy's watching them."

  She dabbed at her eyes.

  "Laura," Malcolm began, "if you can talk without incriminating yourself . . ."

  Her lips turned downward into a bitter frown. "You think I'm guilty, don't you?"

  "I'm a lawyer, I don't think anything," Malcolm joked.

  Laura didn't laugh. She turned to me. "And so do you."

  "No, I don't."

  "You're lying. And you lied about Adam being fine."

  "Look, we only have thirty minutes," said Malcolm. "This is no way to spend it."

  Laura stood and began pacing up and down the airless room. It was more exercise than she'd get for the rest of the day back in her cell.

  "I don't know what I can say that would help." She wrung her hands. "I knocked on Meckel's door and went in. He wasn't there. So I put down Adam's spelling bee trophy and went outside for a cigarette. Two cigarettes," she corrected herself. "I was tense about the meeting. Then, when I came back to Meckel's office . . . there he was. Dead."

  "Why'd you leave the trophy in there?" Malcolm asked.

  "It was heavy. I figured I'd be coming right back. And I didn't want to be holding it while I tried to light a cigarette."

  "Why'd you bring it to Meckel's office in the first place?" I said.

  "For a visual aid. Adam is brilliant in English. I wanted Meckel to see that."

  "Why?" said Malcolm.

  She kept opening and shutting her fists. They don't let you smoke in the Saratoga jail, so on top of everything else she was going through nicotine withdrawal. "I called Meckel the night before, to remind him about the meeting. And he told me that to get into the gifted program, kids would have to score above ninety-five on the Terra Novas in both English and math."

  "Terra Novas?" Malcolm asked, puzzled. Clearly he didn't have kids. Every parent in New York State, and a lot of other states too, knows about the week of multiple-choice tests—formerly the "CATs," now the "Terra Novas"—that their elementary-school children are forced to undergo each spring.

  "They're standardized tests," Laura explained briefly, skipping over the intense aggravation these tests cause for teachers, parents, children and administrators alike. "The students took them two weeks ago. I haven't seen the scores yet, but no way Adam got a ninety-five in math. He's only above average in math, and besides, he had a bad fever during the testing."

  "So you
were concerned that Adam might not qualify for the gifted program?" Malcolm queried.

  "I wasn't just concerned, I was outraged. Look, Adam is highly gifted. He reads at a ninth-grade level. He spells better than most grown-ups. Meckel is an idiot—I mean was."

  Laura's pacing had put her with her back to us. Malcolm and I looked at each other. Neither of us was thinking happy thoughts.

  "You told all this to the cops?" I asked.

  She caught my disapproving tone. "I didn't tell them about the tests. But I did say I was worried about Adam getting into the gifted program. Look, I had to explain why I brought that trophy into Meckel's office," she said defensively. "For God's sake, I wasn't planning to kill him with it."

  "But you have to admit, your outrage does kind of give you a motive."

  Laura sat down, looking suddenly exhausted. "I realize that. And how can I expect you to be my lawyer"—that was to Malcolm—"or my investigator"—that was to me—"when you both think I'm a murderer?"

  "Laura, I don't want to talk about this now, in this room," Malcolm said, "but if there was a scuffle… if you didn't mean to kill him... we have options."

  Laura shut her eyes. "Why don't you both just go? Just get out."

  But I didn't know when I'd get to talk to Laura again, so I ignored her request—or demand. "Did you see anyone while you were smoking?" I asked.

  "No, I was out back."

  "How about in the hallway?"

  "It was empty."

  Now what should I ask? I felt completely stuck. Was I revealing my hopeless shortcomings as a private dick, or would even Sam Spade himself be stumped by this case? I had come up with absolutely no clues whatsoever—

  Wait. This absence of clues was itself a clue. How could the hallway have been totally empty?

  "What about Meckel's secretary?" I asked with rising excitement. "Did you see her?"

  "No," Laura replied, without returning my enthusiasm. "But it was only seven-thirty. Ms. Helquist doesn't come in till eight."

  "Usually. But every other time we had an early-morning meeting, Ms. Helquist was already there."

  I stood up. Laura and Malcolm both gazed up at me, wondering what I was getting at. I wasn't so sure myself.

  But that had never stopped me before.

  4

  What did stop me was Bowles. He collared me as soon as I stepped out of the room. "Come with me, please," he said. His voice may have said please, but his arm resting on my shoulder said something else.

  "Where are we going?" I asked as he led me down the hall.

  "Chief wants you."

  Ugh. Police Chief John Walsh and I were not what you would call bosom buddies. When somebody tries to lock you in jail forever for a murder you didn't commit, it kind of decreases your affection for him.

  On the positive side, he did save my life once. I guess he gets points for that.

  "Afternoon, Burns," Chief Walsh greeted me affably enough when I entered. "Have a seat." The chief was a good-looking man in his late fifties with distinguished gray hair and blue eyes. For some reason I always found something insidiously evil about those eyes. I thought he would have made a perfect Nazi colonel, sipping Rhine wine with his pinkie extended as he sent folks off to their doom.

  "Thank you," I replied, sinking into the upholstered leather easy chair opposite his desk. The seat was extremely comfortable, probably to lure visitors into a false sense of security.

  "Terrible tragedy this morning," the chief intoned, shaking his head solemnly.

  "Yes, it was."

  "Care for coffee? You like it black, as I recall."

  "Chief, let’s face it. We dislike each other too much to make small talk. Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I can give it."

  He looked hurt. "You're not acting very grateful, considering I'm the guy that saved your life."

  "I am grateful. You were courageous, and I wish I liked you, I really do. Now what do you want?"

  "Nothing onerous. I just thought you might appreciate an update on the case." He chuckled at my surprised look. "Hey, what the heck. I know you have an interest in this sort of thing, and I realize the suspect's a personal friend of yours. So, do you want to hear it?"

  What was the catch? The chief had never treated me like this before. Almost like a colleague. "Sure," I said uncertainly.

  "No problem. Well, first of all, the county M.E. puts the time of death some time between seven and seven thirty-five, when the body was found. Now you already know about the trophy, I assume?" I nodded. "The M.E. checked it out. He says the trophy matches the contusions on Sam Meckel's temple."

  "In other words . . ."

  "Right. The trophy was the murder weapon."

  "I figured as much."

  "But did you figure this?" He leaned toward me. "We got Laura's prints here at the station, and we got her son's prints off a Game Boy he left at the library. We checked them against the prints from the murder weapon."

  I tensed. "And?"

  "Every single print on that weapon—and there were five of them, including partials—belonged to either Laura or her son," the chief said triumphantly.

  "Why are you really telling me this?" I said. "To stop me from investigating?"

  The chief leaned back in his chair. "Jacob, you and I are both fathers. I don't have to tell you what this murder will do to the children in our community. Sam Meckel was a beloved figure." That was stretching it, but I didn't quibble. "His murder will be a traumatic experience for these kids. A lot of them will be having some pretty horrible nightmares." Here I thought the chief was probably accurate. "So let’s not screw around. Let's get this investigation over with as soon as we can, and let the healing process begin."

  "I agree. But one question: what if Laura didn't do it?"

  "Come on, that’s just your emotions talking. You want to see the fingerprint report?"

  "What if the killer never left fingerprints? Maybe Laura covered them up when she picked up the trophy. Or maybe the killer's hands weren't sweaty enough. Or the killer was wearing gloves."

  "In May?" the chief said, annoyed.

  Ever since I got hooked into this whole P.I. biz, I'd been doing side reading on my own. Now I laid some of it on the chief. "From what I've read, there's all kinds of reasons why fingerprints don't happen. Usually all you get is smudges. Especially a situation like this, where the trophy was handled afterward—"

  The chiefs polished veneer started to chip a little. "Listen, Burns, I don't need you trying to turn this murder into a bad Hollywood movie script."

  "I'd think you'd want my help, considering how I helped you before."

  He snorted. "Right. You and I both know you just got lucky."

  I have to confess, there was a certain amount of truth to that charge. I seemed to have an embarrassing habit of picking the wrong person as the murderer, and then getting the right one more or less by accident. But darned if I would admit that to Chief Walsh.

  "Why don't you check the cigarette butts out back? See if you find a couple that Laura smoked. That would confirm her story."

  "What, you think I'm gonna run DNA tests on fifty butts when it won't even confirm anything, because she could've smoked out there anytime? Dream on."

  I stood up. "If that’s all you have to say, I guess I'll be going."

  "Just one more thing," the chief said, standing up too. Then an amazing thing happened. In the space of a nanosecond his face suddenly went ice-cold, like someone had flipped a secret switch and told the chief’s inner Nazi to come out of hiding. "You should know, I have a nice cozy jail cell all picked out for you. So go ahead, interfere with my investigation. See what happens. I have half a mind to arrest you for obstructing justice right now."

  "Obstructing justice? What have I done?"

  "I'll think of something. Now get the hell out of my office."

  Ah, this was more like it. This was the Chief Walsh I knew and loved.

  I didn't know where Ms. Helquist lived, or even
her full name. So I borrowed a phone directory at a gas station on Lake Avenue, and found only one person with her last name: Hilda Helquist. That had to be her. "Hilda" fit her to a tee.

  Ms. Helquist was an efficient, serious woman with conservatively coiffed white hair and thick black glasses. She was the kind of secretary who could really run the school on her own, without the principal's help. Come to think of it, until we got an acting principal that’s exactly what she'd be doing.

  I drove up to 87 Ash, Hilda Helquist’s address, and recognized the house immediately. It was only two blocks from where we lived, and I'd often stopped to admire her garden. From April to October she always had wild splashes of colors out there. The garden wasn't laid out in some careful, staid pattern, it was more like barely controlled exhilaration. In fact, it seemed totally at odds with Ms. Helquist's uptight demeanor. I began to wonder if she really lived here. Maybe I had the wrong Helquist.

  But as I walked up to the front door, I spotted the right Helquist at the side of the house, near the driveway. Like a lot of homeowners in our working-class section of town, she didn't have a garage, just off-street parking. Myself, I kind of liked that setup. I mean sure, it could be a drag wiping a foot of snow off our cars on freezing February mornings, but I always think houses look much more aesthetic without a giant yawning garage door staring you in the face. Right now Ms. Helquist, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt—clothes I'd never seen on her before—was pruning back some aggressive grapevines that had attached themselves to her yew bushes.

  I went up to her. "Ms. Helquist."

  Engrossed in her pruning, or perhaps hard of hearing, she didn't answer. I moved closer. "Ms. Helquist."

  "Aaaaahl" she yelled, and whipped her body around to face me. She was only a few feet away, and when she raised her pruning shears toward me, I was afraid she'd clip my nose off. Of course, given the size of my proboscis, some people might say that would improve my looks.

  "Hey, sorry," I said, putting my hands up and backing away.

  "Mr. Bums," she said, flustered, and lowered her shears. "You startled me."