by Leigh Perry
“I guess. It’s just that all last night while I was watching the cops work, I kept thinking of things I could have done. Things I should have done.” She took a deep breath. “This may not be something you get, because you’ve never been in charge of a business, but I’ve run my own place since I got out of school, and the first thing I learned is that when you’re the boss, everything that goes wrong is your fault.”
“‘The buck stops here,’” I quoted.
“That’s the way I see it, anyway. That girl came to McHades to have a good time. Maybe she was going to get scared and scream a little, but at the end of the evening, she’d be laughing because she knew it wasn’t really dangerous. She trusted me to keep her safe, and I failed her. I can’t bring her back, so I want to be damned sure the killer doesn’t get away with it. I could sit on my hands and let the cops do whatever it is they do, but what if the stuff with Sid puts them off their game? Or I could try to snoop around myself, but I’m no good at that kind of thing. You and Sid are. You’ve solved murders the cops didn’t even know about.”
“They’d have been able to solve them if they’d known about them,” I said.
“Possibly, and if they beat you to the punch this time, that’s okay by me. But I’m not taking a chance on it. I want you and Sid on the job, if you’re willing.”
“Of course we’re willing,” said Sid. “Hang on while I get something to take notes on.” I’m not sure that my grocery shopping notepad from the kitchen, complete with twee pictures of fruits and vegetables, was quite the right thing, but it was handy. “The police didn’t say much where I could hear them last night, so I need you two to fill me in.”
I rapped on his skull. “You are pretty hollow in there.”
“Very droll. Facts, please?”
“Fine.” I told him about how we’d found out about the murder, and what had happened since, with Deborah adding the details I missed.
Sid jotted down notes as we went. “Deborah, did you get anything else from your pal Louis? Did he tell you who he suspects?”
I said, “He suspects you, or whoever it was in the Scooby suit.”
“Then he’s an idiot, right, Deborah?” Sid said.
I expected her to join in on the Trash Louis party, but instead she said, “He’s not that bad. You have to admit that your disappearance looks suspicious.”
Sid and I exchanged glances, mine with raised eyebrows and his with no eyebrows at all. Was Deborah warming up to Louis?
Sid opened his jaw to say something, but I shook my head. Nothing would set Deborah off faster than teasing her about a romance that might or might not exist, and she’d already had a rough weekend.
Instead I said, “You spent a lot of time over at the haunt today, plus you were at Stuart Hall last night longer than I was. You must have heard something we can use.”
“What about those three friends that were with our victim?” Sid asked. “What were their names?”
“I don’t remember.”
I didn’t, either, and Sid looked vexed until I said, “The online news story I read mentioned their names.”
“What about the boyfriend’s name?”
“That’s online, too,” I said.
“Good. One always looks at the boyfriend first,” he said solemnly.
“But the boyfriend wasn’t in the haunt,” Deborah said.
“He could have been,” Sid said. “If he was in costume and managed to get into the same group as the victim, he could have killed her and been long gone by the time the body was found.”
“There were also those people who scooted out when my security guys were trying to lock the building down. It’s not like my guys could tase them,” Deborah said.
“So for suspects,” I said, “we’ve got Kendall’s friends, family, and boyfriend. Plus the crew of the haunt and anybody who went through the haunt with Kendall.”
Deborah said, “Actually, it could have been somebody from two groups before Kendall’s to two after. When we’re running at full capacity, it’s four groups in the haunt at once. Technically their guides are supposed to keep up with them, but people get separated from their groups all the time. They get freaked by a particular room and go past very quickly, or they get freaked and freeze. Or they are freaks and stop and stare at a particular scare area. The guides keep things moving, but it’s dark and it’s confused. Just about anybody in the haunt at that time could have gotten to the zombie room, killed her, and then either gone on ahead or backtracked.”
“So forty-eight more suspects,” I said.
“Forty-seven,” Sid said. “You don’t have to count Kendall.”
“Fine, only forty-seven. I’m so relieved.”
“Forget the numbers,” Sid said. “Let’s try from the other direction. What do we know about the victim?”
I said, “I didn’t get a chance to do a lot of research, but nothing I saw online gives a hint of why somebody might have wanted to kill her.”
Deborah sighed. “This is starting to sound impossible.”
“No, no, no,” Sid said. “We’re just getting started. You leave this to us. I’m going online right now to see what I can dig up.” He was up the stairs in a bony flash.
Deborah looked at me.
“You asked for it,” I pointed out.
“I guess I did.” She hesitated, then said, “Just be careful, all right. I do want this thing solved, but . . . you know.”
Another sister might have gone on to say how important I was to her, or that she hated the idea of even a hair on my head getting a split end, but Deborah wasn’t that sister. Instead she said, “I’m going to Arturo’s to get some ice cream. You want to come with?”
Spurred on by her ice-cream-sensing superpower, Madison texted me to ask for a ride home right after we left Arturo’s, so we swung by to get her before taking the bounty home to share with my parents. They confessed to trying ice cream in many different places on their travels, but swore that nothing they found had compared to Arturo’s dark chocolate. That led to more travel tales, to which I paid closer attention.
By the time they ran out of stories, it was time for Deborah to go home and for the rest of us to go to bed. Except Sid, of course. He’d kept us company for the ice cream party, but not having the demands of the flesh, as Phil put it, he didn’t need to sleep. So instead he spent the night in his attic doing homework for the online class in art history he was taking and seeing what he could find out about Kendall Fitzroy.
When I got up Sunday morning, I found a neatly formatted dossier about the dead girl slipped under my bedroom door. Kendall Fitzroy had grown up in Pennycross and graduated from Pennycross High School, the same school Madison attended. Kendall was in her sophomore year at Brandeis University, studying business administration, and came home for the weekend every month or so. She’d been dating another student for several months, and there was no indication that they were having problems. Nor were there any broody ex-boyfriends around. Kendall wasn’t known to have had any problems with her younger sister Bianca or her happily married parents. She had a ginger cat named Fluffy.
In short, she was as unlikely a candidate for murder as I’d ever heard of. Even Sid, whose theories were sometimes as ludicrous as his own existence, hadn’t been able to come up with any reason anybody would have wanted to kill her. His best guesses were mistaken identity or a serial killer.
Despite my promise to Deborah, I couldn’t think of anything else investigative to do that day, so while Sid continued to surf the Web for the latest and greatest news, I took my father out to retrieve his and Mom’s Subaru from Deborah’s garage. She’d been storing it for them, and being Deborah, had also kept it meticulously maintained, even starting it up every week or two to make sure it was ready to go at a moment’s notice. I only wished I had somebody to lavish that much attention on my minivan, especially since
I was worried it was on its last legs.
Then I finished up the laundry, graded papers, and made lesson plans for the coming work week. Right before bed, I went to Sid’s attic to check on his progress, and though he said he’d typed his fingers to the bone—a joke he’d used so many times before that I couldn’t even fake a laugh—he’d found nothing for us to go on.
I was ready to root for the cops.
9
Mondays are usually the bane of my existence because they insist on starting so early in the morning, but in a miracle unmatched in my adjunct career, I didn’t have an eight o’clock class that semester. In fact, my first class was at ten, and though I then had to face three sections of English composition in a row, at least I could sleep in a little.
My parents also had plans to go to McQuaid that morning—Mom to meet with Dr. Eberhardt about her panicking grad student and Phil to visit with fellow faculty members—but I’d thought they were going to ride in with me. It was only when I got down to the kitchen that I realized they were already gone, and I remembered something I should have done as soon as I found out they were back in Pennycross.
Madison was at the table eating eggs and bacon cooked by my father, while Sid read the newspaper. “When did Mom and Phil leave?” I asked them.
“Maybe five minutes ago,” Madison said, but Sid countered, “More like ten.”
I grabbed my cell phone and punched in my friend Charles’s number. “Pick up, pick up,” I muttered.
“Dr. Charles Peyton at your service,” the voice at the other end of the line said. Even at that hour of the morning, with caller ID so he knew it was me, Charles minded his manners.
“Charles, we’ve got an emergency. My parents have come home.”
“Splendid! I’m sure you’re gratified to have them back safe and sound.”
“The problem is that they’re on the way to McQuaid. Right now.”
“Then presumably your father will want his office back?”
“Exactly.” Charles was another adjunct, and like me, didn’t own a home. Unlike me, however, he did not have a parental haven to live in. Instead he squatted in odd corners of the college or university at which he was working: unused classrooms, labs that needed rehab, and most often, the offices of faculty who weren’t in residence for an extended period. Since my parents had given me permission to use their offices while they were on sabbatical, I’d shared the wealth with Charles by letting him live in my father’s office while I worked out of my mother’s adjoining space.
“They left five or ten minutes ago, which means they may already be at McQuaid. I don’t know where on campus they’re heading first, but—”
“I shall decamp immediately. Many thanks for the warning.” He hung up, leaving me to wonder just how fast he could get his belongings packed and moved.
Madison, who’d watched me panic as she finished eating, said, “What was that about?”
“Sorry, but it’s a secret, and not mine to tell.” Not only was Charles embarrassed by his living situation, but if the powers that be at McQuaid ever found out, he would probably be fired unceremoniously. Of course, any adjunct could be fired unceremoniously at any time, but this version would include spreading the word to other colleges, making it nearly impossible for Charles to get another job. I’d only found out about his habits by accident and had been sworn to secrecy. I’d blown it by telling Sid, but since Charles had actually asked me not to tell another living soul, I was technically in the clear.
After making sure Madison got off to school, and checking to see that the doors were locked and both Sid and Byron were set for the day, I went to McQuaid so I could take care of some paperwork before class. I was also hoping to run into Charles to make sure that he’d gotten out in time, and was relieved to see him outside the adjunct office, chatting cheerfully with a man I didn’t recognize. My friend, dapper as always in a tweedy suit with contrasting vest, looked more like a college professor than any other professor I’d ever met. He’d confided that his love for fine clothing was part of what kept him from being able to afford an actual home.
“Good morning, Charles,” I said.
“What excellent timing, Georgia,” he said. “I want to introduce you to one of my compatriots in the history department. Dr. Brownlow Mannix, American Studies. He’ll be taking over for Dr. Donovan, who has to take leave a little sooner than expected.”
“Is she okay?”
“The baby came early, but they’re both fine,” he assured me. “Dr. Mannix, this is Dr. Georgia Thackery, English.”
“Dr. Mannix,” I said out loud, though internally I was saying Brownlow? “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Actually, we’ve met before,” he said, taking my offered hand.
I took a closer look, which was nice because he was easy on the eyes. Also familiar. “Wait, weren’t you one of the people the police detained after the murder Friday night?”
“Yes, I was. Were you there, too?”
“I was, though in costume—Velma from Scooby-Doo.”
“Now I remember. But I was talking about an earlier acquaintance.”
I went through a mental list of history adjuncts I’d met and/or worked with. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall where we taught together.”
“We didn’t. You came to my family business about this time last year.”
I’m sure I looked as blank as I felt.
He said, “Fenton’s Family Festival? You were tracing a specimen.”
Charles looked curious, but was far too well-bred to ask what his colleague was talking about. As for me, now I remembered. Fenton’s Family Festival was the carnival where Sid had first come to life, and I’d visited the place when trying to trace his origins. The attractive Dr. Mannix was the carny who’d helped me while making it plain that he didn’t believe a single word of my cover story.
I said, “Now I know why they call you College Boy.”
He grinned. “Good memory.” To Charles he said, “My father has a fondness for nicknames. It’s a carny thing. I’m just lucky he came up with something relatively polite for me.”
“How very interesting,” Charles said. “Would you prefer that we refer to you as College Boy?”
“Brownie would be fine. So how’s your skeleton, Georgia?”
“Still dead,” I said and immediately changed the subject. “So you’ve run away from the carnival to join academia? Isn’t that the opposite of the usual path?”
“Not so much running away as taking a break from. And not a very good one at that. The carnival is here in Pennycross for the Howl.”
“Oh, your carnival is providing the rides. I hadn’t realized because I never made it to the midway, given the circumstances.”
“I heard about the murder,” Charles said. “Terrible business. And you were both there?”
“My sister, Deborah, is in charge of McHades Hall this year,” I explained, “and my daughter is working there. I just happened to be around when the body was found.”
“I suppose you have even more reason to be afraid of haunted houses now,” Brownie said.
“I was not afraid of your haunted house.” When we’d first met, I’d been standing outside the carnival’s zombie ride, trying to decide if it was where Sid had first come to life, and he’d concluded that I was nervous about going inside. I hadn’t been—I’d never had any intention of going in. “What were you doing there? Checking out the competition?”
“No, our dark ride is no competition for an attraction like that. All we’ve got is mechanical jump-scares, no actors or chainsaws. With your place operational, our ride’s business has been dead, if you’ll pardon the expression. I’ve been trying to talk my parents into doing something more immersive, but they don’t think it would be worth the extra staff we’d have to hire, let alone insurance liability. And having seen how things ended up Friday ni
ght, I’ve pretty much abandoned the idea.”
“You can’t blame the haunt’s staff for that,” I said indignantly.
“I don’t, which is exactly why I wouldn’t want to run something like that. We can vet our people all day long, but there’s no accounting for towners.”
“Towners?” Charles said.
“Sorry, I mean people who aren’t with it, ‘it’ being the show.”
“Such fascinating usage,” Charles said. “It’s quite evocative, isn’t it?”
“You should hear his father,” I said. “I didn’t understand half of what he was saying.”
“Dad does enjoy being colorful,” Brownie said.
“I look forward to meeting him. Shall we go inside and get you settled into your new home away from home? I seem to recall that there’s an empty desk close to yours, Georgia.”
“There is. It’s not on a wall, which inhibits privacy, but it’s close to the front door for ventilation and there’s a floor power socket handy so you don’t have to deal with extension cords. The chair squeaks, but I’ve got some 3-in-One oil that would take care of that.”
“Sounds like prime real estate,” Brownie said, showing familiarity with the adjunct lifestyle. “I’m surprised it’s vacant.”
“There is the issue of the biologist who sits in front of Georgia,” Charles said. “Dr. Weiss can be a little difficult to deal with. She’s a longtime McQuaid adjunct, and likes to keep her finger on the pulse of the community.”
I said, “By ‘finger on the pulse,’ he means nose in your business.”
“Sara does have an inquisitive nature,” Charles admitted.
“I grew up traveling with carnies who had nothing better to do than tell my parents what trouble I was getting into. I can handle Dr. Weiss.”
“It’s your funeral,” I said as Charles opened the door for me to precede him into the casual cacophony that was the adjunct office.
I’d taught at schools that provided better accommodations for their adjuncts than a crowded, shared room, furnished with hand-me-down desks and chairs. Then again, I’d taught at schools that supplied no office space at all. Sadly, McQuaid was about mid-range.