The Cereal Murders gbcm-3

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Yes,” he was saying now into the phone. “Yes, quite tragic, but we must go on. Still seven P.M. Yes, on stress reduction in test-taking. Ah, no. I will be taking over the college counseling myself.” He took a deep, resigned sniff. “Same caterer, indeed.” But before he could say “ta-ta” again, the person on the other end hung up.

  “Tattered Cover,” he explained to me with a shake of his Andy Warhol hair. He looked around his desk, which was cluttered with papers and an enormous basket of fresh flowers. Someone obviously thought he needed sympathy when it was one of his teachers who had been murdered. Gray pouches of wrinkled skin hung under his eyes. He wore a navy sport coat instead of his usual Brideshead Revisited tweeds, and it suddenly occurred to me he hadn’t used a single simile since I’d walked into the office.

  “Are you all right, Headmaster Perkins?” He looked straight at me with enormously sad eyes. “No, Ms. Bear, I am not all right.”

  He rolled his swivel chair around until he was looking at the painting of Big Ben. “George Albert Turner,” he said thoughtfully. “Great-grandson of Joseph Mallord William Turner. Not exactly ‘Burning of the Houses of Parliament,’ though, is it?” Then he turned toward me again, and weak sunlight from outside illuminated the capillary veins scrawled across his face. His mournful voice intoned, “And so far am I also removed from the real thing.”

  “Ah, I’m not quite following you.” “Purity of pursuit, my God, Ms. Bear! Purity of artistry, purity of academic inquiry… all the same.” Perkins rubbed his forehead with both hands. “Unlike” – he gestured to indicate the elegant room – “unlike all this.”

  “Mr. Perkins, I know you’re upset. I can talk to you about Julian some other time. You’ve obviously had some meeting – “

  “Meeting? What meeting?” A harsh laugh escaped his throat. “The only people I meet with these days are police.”

  “But” – I gestured to the urn and trays of baked goods – “I thought – “

  Again the sad, ironic look, the voice of distress. “Midterm grades, Ms. Bear! The flowers are a gift! The owners of the flower shop want their son to go to Brown after he graduates next year. They want me to write the recommendation after I change the boy’s French three grade from a C to an A. Miss Ferrell wouldn’t do it, you see.” I stared at the headmaster, incredulous. Was he losing it? He prattled on. “The baked goods are also a gift. One of my teachers has a new fur coat. He asked if it was all right for him to keep it, since it cost more than his entire wardrobe. He swears the donors haven’t asked him to change a grade. I told him, ‘Not yet, they haven’t.’ “

  “But these people who wanted Miss Ferrell to …do this for them, could they…”

  He shook his head. “They’re in Martinique. With their son. You see, they go every year at the end of October, and the boy gets rather behind in his work.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “They want me to give him credit for going to Martinique! They say he speaks some French there, so why not?”

  “Purity of pursuit,” I said softly. “Did you change the grade?”

  He stiffened. “That’s not the kind of question I answer. You wouldn’t believe the pressure I’m under.”

  “I would believe it,” I said truthfully. “Just look at what’s happened around here the past two weeks; Speaking of gifts, could you tell me any more about this scholarship Julian received? I’m afraid there may be strings attached. Maybe not at this very moment, but as you yourself would say, not yet. Like your teacher with the coat. Maybe next week, or next month, Julian could get some anonymous message saying if he wants to keep his scholarship, he has to flunk a test, not apply to a certain school, something like that.”

  Perkins shrugged and looked back at the neo-Turner.

  “I know as much as you do, Ms. Bear. We received a call from the bank, period. To the best of my knowledge, nobody at this school knows the donor. Or knew,” he said, to my unanswered question about Miss Ferrell.

  “Why do you think someone killed her?”

  “We all have a constituency, Ms. Bear. You do, I do, Miss Ferrell did.” He held up his hands in his mannered gesture of helplessness. His voice rose. “As a caterer, you must do what you know is bad for your constituency, because it is what they want. If the obese want fudge rather than oat bran, well, why not? When it comes back to haunt them, you’ll be long gone. Displeased parents make my life a misery with phone calls and letters and all kinds of threats.”

  “Yes, but are you saying Miss Ferrell wouldn’t play along? Sort of like Miss Samuelson?”

  Anger blazed in his eyes. I felt myself recoil at the unexpected intensity of his obvious distress, his loathing at my bringing up this topic. Perkins had tried to disguise his dislike for me by trying for sympathy in – unprofessionally, I thought – sharing details of his emotional load. But it hadn’t worked. Now he pressed his lips together and did not respond.

  I said, “Did you tell the police that Miss Ferrell wouldn’t play along, perhaps?”

  His haggard face turned scarlet. “Of course I did,” he snarled. “But they think somebody might have been searching her room that morning. They can’t find her grade book; they don’t know what was going on or who might have been having problems. And I doubt that any parent or student would dare put the pressure on me now.” He leered. “But perhaps I don’t know all she did.”

  “What about Egon Schlichtmaier? Have you talked to the police about him?”

  He ran his hands impatiently over the cottony mass of hair. “Why are you so interested? Why not just leave it to the authorities?”

  “Look, the only person I’m worried about is Julian. I want to know who would give him this scholarship and why.”

  He tugged the lapels of his sport coat. “Julian Teller is a fine student.” His lips closed firmly.

  I mumbled something noncommittal, and Perkins said he’d see me that night for the last of the college meetings. The bell signaling class change rang, and I made noises about it being time for me to leave. But instead of the usual metaphorical sendoff, Headmaster Perkins merely swiveled back to the painting by Turner’s great-grandson. As I left his office, my mind groped wildly.

  Someone searching her room … they can’t find her grade book…

  In the hallway I saw several seniors I recognized. All avoided me by looking away or starting to talk animatedly to the person nearest to them. Discovering two dead bodies can get you ostracized, I guessed. Except by Macguire Perkins, who came lumbering down the hall and nodded when I said hello. I pulled his sleeve.

  “Macguire,” I said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh well, okay.” He led me out the school’s front door.

  I looked up. For that was where he was, this lanky, painfully acne-faced basketball star – way up. A blue plaid lumberjack shirt hung out over jeans that ended in weathered hiking boots. No preppie outfit for the headmaster’s son.

  “I want to talk to you about Miss Ferrell.”

  “I, uh, I’m real sorry about Miss Ferrell.”

  “So am I.”

  “You know, I know she was mad about my college visit, and… other stuff, but I think she liked me.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “Just,” he said, “stuff.”

  “Like having your driver’s license suspended for drinking and driving? Or stuff like your use of steroids to muscle yourself up?”

  His scarred face turned acutely red. “Yeah. Anyway, I stopped the steroids. Last week, I swear. Ferrell was talking to me about it, said I could be strong without them, like that.”

  “She was right.” I hesitated. “There’s something I need, Macguire. Something she might have feared would get stolen.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Ferrell’s classroom might have been searched last Saturday. It was a mess when the police got to it. I’ve just had a talk with your father and it made me think… . Listen, I need her grade book. You of all people know your way around this school. Is there any chance she could have
hidden it somewhere?”

  Macguire looked around the snowy parking lot before replying. Was paranoia a side effect of his brand of drug abuse?

  “As a matter of fact,” he said reluctantly, “I may know where it is. You know, being tall, I see things other folks don’t see.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Remember when I read my essay about I.U. at the front of the class?” I nodded. “She has those big posters up there by the blackboard. Behind that framed one of that arch in Paris, I saw something. Like a brown notebook. I could go look…”

  “Please do.” He trundled off, and within two minutes he was back, grinning triumphantly. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. Another quick visual scan of the parking lot. “Luck,” he said simply. He pulled out a brown fake-leather spiral grade book and handed it to me. I hadn’t brought a purse, so I just held on to it.

  “Give that to the cops,” he said. “Maybe it’ll tell them something.”

  My heart ached for this sad, loose-limbed boy. “Thank you, Macguire. I was so worried about you Saturday morning. You seemed so nervous about the test.”

  “What, me?” He backed away and held up his hands in protest. “Your cookies were great. I thought later, why should I have been so worried about the SATs? I’m not going to be somebody by going to Harvard. What the hell, I’m never going to be anybody.”

  20

  I phoned Tom Schulz when I got home in the hope that he might have returned from Lakewood. No luck. I told his machine I had Suzanne Ferrell’s roll book with the class grades, and where was he? The evening’s event loomed and I knew I had food to prepare. Still, I was getting close to the answers to a lot of questions; I could feel it. Cooking could wait. I sat down at my kitchen table and opened Suzanne Ferrell’s grade book.

  It was larger than most grade books I had seen, about eight by eleven instead of four by six, and with many more pages. The notebook was divided into three parts: French III, French IV; and CC. When I flipped to it, CC proved to be college counseling. There I saw an inked list of the top-ranked seniors: I. Keith Andrews, 2. Julian Teller, 3. Heather Coopersmith, 4. Greer Dawson, 5. Brad Marensky… . A quick check showed that Brad Marensky and Greer Dawson were in French III; Julian and Heather Coopersmith were in French IV. Keith Andrews had also been in French IV. They were all, including Macguire Perkins, in college counseling.

  In French III, Brad Marensky had a solid stream of C’s and B’s; his midterm grade was due to be a B minus. Greer Dawson’s showed wide swings: two F’s early on, the rest B’s. Her grade: C. Julian had made A’s at the beginning of the quarter, then a B and an F on a quiz last week. He had also received a B minus for the midterm. Heather Coopersmith had B’s punctuated by two A’s, and was due to receive a B plus. Keith Andrews had received all A’s and one B. There was a line through his name.

  Well, that didn’t tell me much. Or if it did, I hadn’t a clue how to interpret it. Would this finally all come down to mathematical calculations of grades? Is that what people would kill for?

  With some trepidation I turned to the college counseling section. In addition to the class rank, the students were listed alphabetically. Reactions and conferences with the students, headmaster, and parents had been duly noted in careful handwriting.

  KEITH ANDREWS-Disillusioned by recent trips to universities. Parents in Europe. Wishes he could join them, visit Oxford, etc. Says someone should start a college made up of all the winners of Distinguished Teachers awards who didn’t get tenure. H. says K. can’t be trusted; writing something for paper. I said probably harmless. RECOMMENDED: STANFORD, PRINCETON, COLUMBIA.

  HEATHER COOPERSMITH-Mother worried. Sat next to her at dinner. H. says mother obsessing on college thing because father dumped. Wants control of life. Jealous of K. Claims others have $$ they can spend to help their kids get into college. H. dreamy and distant. Wants less structure, less pressure in academic life. H. says mother a pain. RECOMMENDED: BENNINGTON, ANTIOCH.

  BRAD MARENSKY-Parents brought in media rankings. Wanted to know Dawson list! They think B. “deserves” top-ranked school. Says stories about them offering fur coat to admissions director at Wiliams untrue. But do I think it would be a good idea? (Said no.) Unpleasantness from last year apparently resolved. B. indifferent to schools, but seemed to be watching me. Told me he wanted to be ‘far away from parents.” Asked, “Did I know?” I said, about what? No response. H. doesn’t have a clue. RECCOMMENDED: WASHINGTON AND LEE, COLBY.

  GREER DAWSON-Very difficult. Wants Ivy League or Stanford, but SATs not high enough; grades erratic. Parents offered me a year’s free meals if I’d recommend her. Not amused. H. warned, “trouble if the school doesn’t get Greer into Princeton. RECOMMENDED: OCCIDENTAL, UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

  MACGUIRE PERKINS-Asked about drinking record, drugs. Said he has talent for drama, but he thinks not; says he’s depressed. Recommended psychotherapy. H. opposed, looks bad. RECOMMENDED SCHOOLS FOR BASKETBALL: INDIANA, N.C. STATE, UNLV.

  Uneasily, I turned to the dead woman’s comments about Julian.

  JULIAN TELLER-Vulnerable. Wants to study food science. Not covered in Rugg’s. Will phone around for help. J. knows Cornell has a program (Jane Brody alum); would fit with his academic bent. Meet with foster mother (caterer) morning of 11/1. RECOMMENDED: CORNELL, MINNESOTA (?).

  None of this made a whole lot of sense to me, except to confirm my suspicions about these people. Miss Ferrell was one smart cookie, except that she had not fathomed Brad Marensky’s question: Did Miss Ferrell know about his stealing? Apparently she had not.

  I also remembered vaguely about Rugg’s – a reference book that rated colleges and universities by departments. If food science wasn’t in there, perhaps I could check the cookbook section when I went to the Tattered Cover that evening to see where the most recent culinary writers had gone to school. It was something I could do to help, anyway. Even though Julian now had the funds to go anywhere he wanted, he might as well get the most his money could buy.

  I tried to let go of academic worries while I put together more biscotti, some fruit and cheese trays, and started in on a recipe I was testing for Valentine’s Day: Sweetheart Sandwiches. A Sweetheart Sandwich consisted of a pair of fudgelike cookies separated by a slide of buttercream filling. Serving these rich little cookies was inspired by the subject for the evening’s lecture: “Stress Reduction in Test-taking.” My prescription for stress was simple: Take chocolate and call me when it’s over.

  Audrey called, contrite over her early-morning explosion, and assured me she wanted to help tonight. Could she have a ride to the bookstore? Heather was doing some calculations for her classmates on their new class rank, and she had to deliver the results to her friends on their way down to Denver. Heather didn’t want Audrey to embarrass her, Audrey told me sadly. Were we wearing white uniforms, aprons, what? I told her black skirt, white blouse, and her apron that said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING. She promised she’d come over at five-thirty. Julian called. He said he would be eating over at Neil’s; he would catch a ride with Neil and meet me at the bookstore. Unless I needed help? I assured him I had everything under control. Arch came home and announced he had to pack for an overnight with a friend. But first he would have some of the new cookies.

  “If you’ll pour me a glass of milk,” he negotiated as he pushed his glasses up his nose and methodically placed three freshly baked cookies on his plate. With eyes closed, he tasted the first one.

  “Well?” He let me suffer a moment. Then he said very seriously, “Excellent, Mom. Any teacher would give you an A plus.”

  I grinned. “Are you feeling better in school?”

  He swallowed, took a sip of milk, and wiped off the liquid white mustache. “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Seventh grade is like…” Headmaster Perkins’ mannerisms were contagious. Arch popped another cookie in his mouth and chewed pensively. “Seventh grade is like half happiness, half totalitarian
ism.”

  “Totalitananism?”

  “Oh, Mom.” He adjusted his glasses. “Julian taught me that word for social studies.” He paused. “Are they still working on finding out who killed Keith Andrews and Miss Ferrell?”

  When I nodded, he said, “You know, I just want to be in a safe place. It is scary in school, I have to admit.”

  “But nothing else has happened, right?”

  “Mom, the police are there. How safe do you think it’s going to be when they pull off their investigators and the surveillance?”

  I didn’t answer that question. “Don’t worry,” I said tensely, “we, or they, or somebody, is going to figure out what happened.”

  He didn’t seem to want to talk anymore, so I went back to my cooking. By the time the friend’s mother arrived at five o’clock, Arch had run through half a dozen cookies and declared he didn’t want any dinner.

  Neither did I, I decided after he left, but not because I was full of anything but dread. My stomach was churning in anticipation of yet another college advisory event. I wondered how many guidance counselors had ulcers. Perhaps when this final ordeal was over, Audrey could get a ride home with her daughter and Schulz and I could go out for a late supper.

  Audrey arrived. We packed the trays into the van, hightailed it to Denver, and arrived at the Tattered Cover promptly at six. Driving up to the third-floor entrance, where I had parked before, I remembered my resolve to check the cookbooks for names of schools for Julian. I also suddenly remembered Miss Ferrell’s grade book, which I had packed in one of my boxes in the hope that I could give it to Schulz after the program. With all the stealing going on among Elk Park preppies, I was going to make certain I personally handed this valuable volume to him for analysis. But I had learned my lesson with Keith’s computer disks: I wasn’t about to leave the grade book unprotected in the kitchen during the confusion of the catering. When Audrey was preoccupied with folding up box lids, I grabbed the grade book, wrapped it in a spare business apron, and headed briskly through the third-floor door and down two flights on the interior staircase. I wanted to put it in the secret closet Audrey had shown me