4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

  I eyed her closely, but didn't see any jaw twitching, eye darting, or other time-honored signs of lying. BOCES—pronounced "bow sees"—was one of many state agencies that had some control over how local schools operate. "Doesn't the school itself, like Mr. Meckel or somebody, do preliminary scoring of the tests?" I asked innocently.

  "Not that I know of. But I guess if he was in a hurry for the scores and didn't want to wait. . . Why?"

  "I was thinking maybe Meckel planned on using the tests as a criteria. For the gifted program."

  "I guess we'll never know what he planned," Elena said. Still no twitching or darting. "Let me know if there's any other way I can help."

  I watched Elena take off down the hall. On the plus side, I'd made it through the interrogation without getting into a big angry scene.

  On the negative side, I'd learned absolutely zilch. Maybe I'd have been more successful if I'd riled her up.

  And maybe I was too darned sensitive for this whole P.I. business.

  Once again I thought back to Tuesday morning, replaying every word and gesture. Had Elena's laughter been forced? Had Susie acted more hyped up than usual? Had Barry acted more British? I tried to think about everybody's time line again, but it just made me nutty.

  I checked my watch. Nine-oh-two. I hurried out of the school, cajoled my Toyota into starting up, and made it to Madeline's by nine-fifteen. Malcolm was still there. "Thanks for waiting," I said.

  "Perfectly alright. After all, you're paying me by the hour. So whose case do you want to talk about first—yours or Laura's."

  "Let's be selfish. Talk about me."

  "You want it diluted or full strength?"

  "Diluted."

  "Everything's groovy. You're sitting pretty. The mayor's gonna throw you a ticker-tape parade."

  I sipped some java to prepare myself. "How about full strength?"

  "You're in deep excrement. Scuttlebutt is, you've ticked off some heavy hitters around town in the last couple of years. Such as the mayor, the police chief, and the judge. I think you're gonna end up doing time."

  My throat tightened so much the coffee barely made it through. "But—but the school door was open. So was Meckel's office. I didn't break in."

  "But you did break out. You ran from the cops. Bad move."

  "Okay, I was foolish. I panicked. But I wasn't a criminal."

  "Prove it."

  "I was stopping a burglary in progress. I was being a good Samaritan."

  "That'll be our defense. Unfortunately it sounds like a fantasy."

  "So what do you suggest?"

  "I wish I knew. You want half of my cookie?"

  "How much time are we talking about?"

  "Maybe six months. Maybe a year."

  "God." By the time I got out, Charizard would probably have forgotten all about Pokémon. I'd miss Latree's fall basketball season.

  I felt like a total jerk. I'd allowed my macho lawbreaking routine to seriously screw up my family.

  "You find the killer yet?" Malcolm asked.

  "No. I think maybe I met my match this time."

  "Too bad. I'm afraid that’s your get-out-of-jail-free card."

  "You're saying if I find the killer..."

  "Then it would be lousy PR to put you in jail."

  "What are the cops up to with their investigation?"

  "What investigation? Far as they're concerned, the case is pretty much closed. The D.A. wants to move up the trial date."

  I closed my eyes. Here I was worried about missing six months. Laura might miss twenty years. Adam could be out of college by the time she got out of jail.

  "You sure you don't want some cookies?"

  I ate a piece. But I could barely taste it.

  I had better get hold of that trophy-wielding assassin—fast.

  9

  After Malcolm took oft, I picked up a copy of the Daily Saratogian. On the front page it said that Samuel Meckel's funeral service would be held on Saturday, two days from now. There would be a viewing at Burke Funeral Home.

  Personally, I much prefer the Jewish way of burying people, where you lower them into the ground as soon as possible—often the very day after they've died. I mean, good grief, just get it over with. What do you do with yourself during all those days while you're waiting around for your loved one to get buried?

  I decided to go visit Meckel's family and see what they were doing while they waited around. Maybe they'd be interested in helping me with my quest.

  The Meckels, as I learned from the phone book, lived on Robin Hood Lane. This was part of a subdivision west of town called Sherwood Forest that has none of the historic charm its name would suggest. It was carved randomly out of the woods a few years ago. Sherwood Forest is sort of the antithesis of Saratoga Springs itself, with its strong sense of place and old-fashioned picturesqueness. The new downtown Kinko's and Eddie Bauer haven't destroyed that yet.

  In its favor, Sherwood Forest does have modern homes with air-conditioning, central heating, not too many termites, and lots of little kids running around. It's like a baby factory. If we lived there, our boys would never run out of neighbors to play with. Sometimes Andrea and I have fantasized about moving to a place like Sherwood Forest just for that reason.

  As I drove down Robin Hood Lane, with its two rows of houses that all came out of the same cookie cutter, it occurred to me that the street resembled Sam Meckel himself—bland, conformist, and avoiding controversy at all costs. Feeling bad about having uncharitable thoughts about somebody who was newly dead, I walked up the Meckels' front walk and rang the doorbell. It chimed cheerfully. A few moments later, Ms. Meckel appeared.

  Ms. Meckel—Amy to her friends—was in her mid to late forties with thin, sandy-colored hair, a slightly receding chin, and watery eyes. Wearing a shapeless black skirt and an oversized brown blouse, she looked just as dull as her husband had been.

  I immediately felt another pang of guilt for my thoughts. Ms. Meckel was having a real killer of a week. No doubt at other times she shone more brightly.

  Behind her in the living room, I caught a glimpse of her two teenage sons. They were watching Jerry Springer. I knew their names and ages from the Saratogian article—James and Paul, nineteen and sixteen. They eyed me curiously. The kid who looked older had short brown hair and was wearing black slacks and a button-down shirt. The younger boy had purple hair, and I wondered how many fights he'd had with his school principal father about that. I identified with the kid instantly. If I had to grow up in Sherwood Forest, I'd dye my hair purple too. Heck, I'd tattoo my eyebrows, paint my toenails, anything to break out of the mold.

  I'd feel a tad uncomfortable with purple hair at my dad's funeral, though. Maybe I'd dye it black for the day.

  Ms. Meckel was standing in front of me. "Yes?" she asked.

  I arranged my features into a sympathetic expression. "Ms. Meckel, I'm awfully sorry about your loss. My name's Jacob Burns. My sons go to High Rock."

  Ms. Meckel narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"

  Not the reception I'd been hoping for. I plunged right in. "As you may know, I've solved a couple of murders here in Saratoga. I'm not convinced Laura Braithwaite killed your husband. I'm hoping you can answer a few questions. It might help me with my investigation."

  Her face screwed up with distaste. "Chief Walsh warned me you'd be coming. I know all about that stunt you pulled in my husband's office, trying to destroy the evidence against your friend Laura."

  "That’s not what I was doing—"

  But Ms. Meckel was just warming up. Apparently she was spending her time before the funeral stewing with rage. "Sam used to tell me about you. You and Laura and all these other people, always giving him a hard time."

  "We didn't mean to—"

  "I hope you're happy, now that he's dead."

  "Please, Ms. Meckel—"

  "Don't you please me." It was good to see this bland-seeming woman had so much passion in her. I just wished it wasn't aimed at me. "
Sam is dead now. I don't have to play the principal's wife anymore, always watching what I say. You people made his life hell with your constant whining and complaining. What did you expect him to do?"

  "Look, we were concerned about our kids—"

  "And you think he wasn't? That’s all he ever cared about—how to make things better for the kids. He'd keep me awake nights talking about it. And you all treated him like he was some kind of horrible evil creature."

  Had I totally misjudged the dead man? Amy Meckel was close to tears. "I'm deeply sorry if I caused your husband pain—"

  "If you caused him pain? He couldn't sleep at all last week, he was so upset. And now it turns out that was the last week of his life."

  "What was he so upset about—the gifted program?"

  "Typical. You think your kids are the only kids in the world with problems," she said disgustedly. "Last week he had to send letters to all the parents whose kids need to be held back next year. He hated doing that. These were the kids with real problems."

  Interesting. "Do you happen to know the names of these kids?"

  "Why don't you just break into my husband's office again? Look, you sonufabitch, Laura Braithwaite killed Sam and you know it. You just don't care."

  With that she slammed the door in my face.

  I walked back to my trusty Camry. I wanted those names. One of them might be Mark Robinson.

  That would certainly add fuel to the Robinsons' fire.

  Unfortunately, I had to call a temporary halt to my investigation. It was time for me to go to prison.

  No, not as an inmate this time, as a teacher. One afternoon a week I taught dramatic writing at the Mt. McGregor Correctional Facility in Wilton. I didn't get much money from it, but it helped satisfy the old do-gooder yearnings from my hippie days. This semester we were putting together an evening of one-act plays written and performed by the inmates.

  With my mind so preoccupied, I wasn't looking forward to rehearsal that day. But as it happened, we had a major breakthrough.

  One of our actors, a dark-skinned black guy in his early twenties named Omar, was playing a role where he was supposed to be cowering in terror from two Latino thugs. But for the past three weeks of rehearsals, he'd been doing a crummy job. Either he wouldn't act scared at all, or else he'd overdo it on purpose, camping it up and rolling his eyes and acting silly.

  The problem was, it's extremely bad form to ever show fear in prison—especially to someone of another gang or race. You don't want to mark yourself as a punk. So Omar wasn't about to let his guard down onstage, with all his peers watching him.

  But today, a couple of the other actors really got on his case. "What's the matter, you too scared to act scared?" one guy needled him.

  Brooklyn, the tall, muscular inmate who had written the play, rode him especially hard. "You don't cut this cornball shit, I'm taking the role away from you. I'll play it myself, fool," he threatened.

  Finally, on about the tenth run-through of the scene, Omar suddenly shocked us all. Somehow he found the courage to cut himself loose from his macho pose. When the two thugs came at him with baseball bats—actually we used Styrofoam, in keeping with security regulations—Omar let out a scream so primal it chilled me right down to the end of my pinkie toes.

  I was worried that the guys would give Omar some serious shit for acting vulnerable. But instead they slapped him five and began calling him "Rock, Junior"—after Charles "Rock" Dutton, the famous ex-con actor.

  When class was over, I hung out with Brooklyn for a few minutes. He and I had a history together. This was his third semester as my student, and I'd developed a healthy regard for his drive and creativity. Out of all the guys I'd taught, Brooklyn was my personal candidate for Most Likely to Succeed.

  Unfortunately the parole board felt otherwise, despite the passionate letter I'd sent them before their last hearing. Brooklyn's next shot at parole wouldn't come for another fifteen months. It seemed insane to me—especially considering some of the inmates I knew who did get out on parole, and who were clear-cut candidates for Most Likely to Fuck Up Big Time.

  Last semester, Brooklyn had given me advice that turned out to be very useful in solving a murder I was working on. Hoping lightning might strike twice, I laid out the Meckel murder for him.

  He heard me out carefully. But when I was finished, he just shook his head. "Can't help you, Mr. Burns. Don't know nothing about what you're talking about. It's another planet, man. My moms, in a million years, she never would've had the guts to tell my principal what to do. And he'd never give her the time of day anyway. I mean, she's just some rich woman's maid, what does she know?"

  "Maybe a lot." Brooklyn's grammar might not be the best, but he was a bright guy with a lot of writing talent. He must have gotten it from somewhere.

  Brooklyn wiped a spot of dirt off his prison-issued pants. "What can I say, Mr. Burns? We didn't have no gifted and talented program. My neighborhood, the 'gifted and talented' motherfuckers were the guys who became the big drug dealers. That's hard work, you know, dealing. People underestimate that shit. You got your management skills, your mathematics, your ceaseless vigilance . . ."

  "So what about you? Were you a big dealer?"

  Brooklyn grinned. "The biggest."

  Then the warning bell rang, and the guys filed back to their cells for afternoon count. It hit me that unless I got lucky, I might be doing that myself one of these days. Feeling suddenly chilled, I left the prison.

  Thursday was Andrea's late day at work, so I hurried back from prison to meet my kids at the bus stop. As they came down the steps from the bus, Charizard wasn't his usual bouncy self. Latree looked pretty down, too.

  "Hi, guys, how was school?" I asked them with fake good cheer as I walked them back home.

  "Bad," Latree said.

  "Double bad," Charizard agreed.

  "What was bad about it?" I asked, expecting Latree to launch into his usual diatribe about school being a waste of time.

  But I was wrong. "The other kids are such jerks," Latree complained.

  "Why, what did they do?"

  "They're dumbos," said Charizard.

  "They all think Adam's mom killed Mr. Meckel," said Latree.

  Charizard punched the air. "I'm gonna beat them all up. Use a thundershock on them, or maybe a vine whip," he said, naming two of his favorite Pokémon attacks.

  "Dad?" Latree asked.

  "Yes, honey?"

  "Do you know who the killer was yet?"

  "I'm working on it."

  "What did you find out so far?"

  "Yeah, Daddy, what did you find out?" Charizard said.

  Should I tell them my suspicions? I had a feeling the parenting magazines would not approve. And no doubt they'd spread my suspicions all over the school if I said anything. "Kids, I really don't think I should tell you. A good private investigator always keeps certain things private."

  "But we can help you!" Charizard exclaimed.

  "Like we helped you with the skateboard," Latree said loudly, spoiling for a fight.

  He did have a point. You never know when a couple of peewee Encyclopedia Browns will come in handy. "Tomorrow," I said, not sure if I meant it or if I was just putting them off. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

  "Why not now?" Charizard demanded.

  Question number thirty-three thousand and one.

  I eventually distracted them with a game of basketball out in the driveway. It was a hard-fought struggle, but they ended up beating me, thirty-six to two.

  I have a secret, sneaky strategy for when the three of us play basketball. I never let either of them get by me on his own; but when they pass the ball to each other, I act like I can't get back in time to keep them from scoring. I figure that’s a painless way to promote sibling harmony.

  After the game we went inside and had some Pokémon battles. Then Andrea came home and we did the family dinner thing.

  And then finally, with Andrea's okay, I went out to do some more s
leuthing. Andrea, Laura, and Judy Demarest were forgoing their weekly bowling because Laura wanted to spend peaceful time alone with Adam. That left Andrea free to take care of our kids and me free to play private dick.

  I decided to start with the Robinson angle. Ms. Helquist was bound to know whether or not Mark Robinson was being held back next year. So I walked the two blocks to her house and headed up the front path. Her car was in the driveway and a light was on in one of the rooms, so presumably she was at home.

  Then again, I'd thought she was home the last time I came, but she either avoided me or wasn't here after all. So I took a detour off her front path, stepping carefully around some drooping purple flowers, and peeped in the window at the lit room.

  The room was Ms. Helquist's study. She was sitting at her desk, with a pretty big-sized computer monitor to her left. It looked like she was cleaning her office. She had all kinds of papers piled up on her desk. As I watched, she ripped up a couple of papers into small pieces and dropped them in her trash can.

  I was afraid she'd turn sideways and see me, so I withdrew from my reconnaissance position and rang the front doorbell.

  She didn't answer.

  I rang again, then knocked hard, then went over to look in the study again, thinking I'd knock on her window. But she wasn't in the study anymore. She must be hiding from me, somewhere in the house.

  I eyed that big stack of papers on her desk. And all those papers flowing out of the garbage can. What was Ms. Helquist so eager to rip up and throw away?

  Something told me breaking into her house and confronting her wouldn't be such a brilliant stratagem, given my current precarious legal status and Little Napoleon's pronounced lack of affection for me.

  But then I got an idea.

  I went over to Ms. Helquist’s driveway and checked out her recycling bin. It said "Hudson Garbage and Recycling" on the label. Andrea and I used Hudson, too, so I knew they picked up early in the morning on Fridays . . . meaning Ms. Helquist, like myself, would be putting out her trash cans and recycling bins tonight.