Murder as a Second Language

by Joan Hess

  “Unpleasant,” I replied. “And you are…?”

  “Sonya Emerson. I’m on the board of the FLC—the Farberville Literacy Council. In my spare time, I work for Sell-Mart in the corporate office in the Human Resources Department. What’s more fun than a sixty-hour workweek?”

  I wondered if Mattel had released MBA Barbie in the last few years. “It’s nice to meet you, Sonya. I came by to apply to be a tutor. It appears that I’ll have to wait for the next training session.” I opened my car door, but the subtlety escaped her.

  “Keiko mentioned it. She’d love to make an exception in your case, but our executive director is adamant about sticking to our policy. We have to be certain that our tutors are committed. Some of them sign up, but then lose interest and abandon their students.” She frowned faintly and then brightened. “We’d love to have you volunteer in some other capacity. You’re so well-known and respected in Farberville. Having you involved in the FLC would enhance our reputation in the community, as well as in the state organization. You’re so intelligent and articulate.”

  I enjoy flattery, but she was shoveling it on. “If you have a bake sale, let me know and I’ll whip up a batch of profiteroles au chocolat.” I waved as I got in my car and drove away at a speed appropriate for someone who was well-known, respected, intelligent, and articulate. If I ever needed a letter of recommendation, I’d call Sonya.

  In the meantime, I was all dressed up with nowhere to volunteer. I parked in the Book Depot lot and went inside. The clerk, Jacob, gazed morosely at me from his perch behind the counter. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. A shipment came in Friday, paperbacks for the freshman lit classes. They sent fifty copies of Omoo instead of Typee. I’ve already sent them back. Everything else was as ordered. Shall we have a sale for the remaining stock of beach books? Perhaps twenty percent off or three for the price of two?” His lugubrious voice reminded me of a funeral director displaying pastel coffins to the mourners.

  “Whatever you think, Jacob.” I went into my office, which was disturbingly neat and sanitized. Even the cockroaches had lost interest. I thumbed through a pile of invoices, but nothing required my scrutiny. I toyed with the idea of stopping by the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for profiteroles au chocolat (after I found a recipe online), but I envisioned the mess I’d make and therefore be obliged to clean up. Volunteering at the public library was not an option; everything was computerized except me. I pulled out the telephone directory and found a list of organizations under the heading “Social Services.” Safety Net, the battered women’s shelter, declined my offer and suggested that I send a check. The Red Cross suggested that I take a class in first aid. The thrift stores suggested that I send gently used clothes and a check. Residential facilities for children and at-risk teenagers declined my offers—and, yes, suggested that I send a check.

  It seemed as if my only option was to operate a charitable trust fund. I would have spare time to perfect magret de canard and galette des rois. Admitting failure to Peter would be painful. To distract myself, I called Caron and left a message on her voice mail, telling her what Leslie Barnes had said about making the calls. Which, I have to admit, sounded daunting even to Ms. Marroy.

  Having devised no clever way in which to make a meaningful contribution to the community, I drove home and read a book by the pool.

  * * *

  Peter came home early and invited me for a swim. Since Caron wasn’t around, we indulged in some adult hanky-panky in the shallow end. After we were more modestly attired and armed with wine in the chaise longues, I told Peter about my dismal excursion into volunteerism. He commiserated, although I detected an undertone of amusement. I gave him a cool look and said, “I think I’ll talk to the police chief about setting up a victims advocacy program at the department. Someone needs to listen to them and steer them to the proper agencies. We can have lunch together. Is there a vacant office next to yours?”

  “Not one in the entire building,” he said in a strangled voice.

  I used my napkin to blot wine off his chin. “Maybe we can share yours. All I need is a tiny little desk, a computer, and a separate telephone line. I promise I won’t eavesdrop when you’re interviewing suspects. By the way, we’re having leftover quiche for dinner. Tomorrow I’m going to try to make avocat et oeufs à la mousse de crabe. That’s avocados and eggs with crab mousse. Sounds yummy, doesn’t it?”

  Peter poured himself another glass of wine.

  * * *

  Caron and Inez arrived as we were finishing dinner. “We already ate,” Caron said as she went into the kitchen and returned with two cans of soda and a bag of corn chips. Inez nodded and sat down at the table.

  “Did you talk to your students?” I asked them.

  “Sort of,” Caron said through a mouthful of chips. “We went to the Literacy Council and let Keiko help. It was weird. She understood everybody—or pretended she did, anyway. Ludmila, who’s this ninety-year-old obese woman from Poland, about five feet tall, with squinty little eyes and a voice like a leaf blower, came in the office. Guess what? She happens to be my student. Lucky me.”

  “She was kind of hard to understand,” added Inez. “Maybe because she was so upset about something. Keiko took her to the break room for tea. I met my two students from Mexico, Graciela and Aladino. They both speak some English.”

  “As opposed to my students,” Caron cut in deftly. “Besides Ludmila, I got to meet Jiang, who’s from China and in his twenties. He talks really fast. I smiled and nodded, but I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was saying. For all I know, he was telling me where he buried the bodies or what he did with the extraterrestrials in his attic. The Russian woman’s English is pretty good. Anyway, we both have our teaching schedules. C’mon, Inez, let’s go to the pizza place in the mall.”

  “I thought you’d already eaten,” I said.

  Inez lowered her eyes, but my daughter had no reservations about mendacity. “We did, Mother. Joel and some of his chess club friends are celebrating their victory at a tournament in Oklahoma. Inez has a crush on this guy who turns red when you look at him.”

  “Rory’s shy,” Inez protested. “Why do you always stare at him, anyway? He thinks that you’re going to scream at him.”

  “That’s absurd. I am merely waiting for him to say something coherent, which may take years.”

  Peter produced a twenty-dollar bill. “Have a good time.”

  After they scurried away, he insisted on cleaning up the kitchen. I sat on a stool at the island, admiring his dexterous way with plates and silverware. We were idly speculating about Inez’s potential boyfriend when the phone rang. Since Peter’s hands were soapy, I answered it.

  “Is this Claire Malloy?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I have encountered Deputy Chief Rosen several times,” the woman continued. “My name is Wilhelmina Constantine. I’m a member of the Farberville Literacy Council board of directors, and I was told that you might be interested in volunteering for our organization. We’re delighted.”

  “I was told that I have to wait for the next training session before I can be a tutor.”

  “To be a tutor, yes. However, I’d like you to consider becoming a member of the board. You’re well-known in the community and have a background in retail. Although the FLC is a nonprofit, we’re forced to run a business as well. Raising funds, making payroll, dealing with vendors, all those petty nuisances. Your experience will be invaluable.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “Today was the first time I’ve set foot in the building. After I’ve been trained and have tutored for a few months, I’ll think about the board. You may not want me. Thank you for asking, Ms. Constantine.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider, Ms. Malloy. If this wasn’t an emergency, I wouldn’t be asking. I’m afraid it is, and we’re desperate.”

  I made a face at Peter, who was watching me. “An emergency?”

  She remained sil
ent for a moment, then said, “I really can’t discuss it on the telephone. We have an informal board meeting tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Would you please at least attend?” Her voice began to quaver. “Otherwise, the FLC may not survive the summer. Our students will have no place to go.”

  “I’ll attend the meeting,” I said, aware that I was capitulating to emotional blackmail, “but only as an observer.”

  “Wonderful.” She hung up abruptly.

  “Ms. Constantine?” Peter murmured. “As in Wilhelmina Constantine, better known as Willie?” I nodded. “She’s a federal judge. Tough lady.”

  “Her name is familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

  “She made a controversial ruling a few years ago, but at the time you were distracted by Azalea Twilight’s unseemly death.”

  “I was distracted because I’d been accused of murder and was being stalked by a certain member of the police department.”

  “You were never accused of murder,” Peter said.

  “Well, I was most definitively stalked. No matter where I went, you were lurking in the bushes, spying on me.”

  The certain member of the police department raised his eyebrows. “I was not lurking. You went to extremes to make yourself unavailable for interviews, and the few times I cornered you, you flounced away like Scarlett O’Hara.”

  “Fiddle-dee-dee,” I said. “I have never flounced in my life.”

  “And I’ve never lurked.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Deal.”

  2

  Thursday evening I arrived at the Farberville Literacy Council building a few minutes before seven. Students were chattering as they came out to the parking lot. Keiko waved at me as she climbed into a turquoise VW. Two women wearing hijab headscarves drove out of the parking lot in a silver Jaguar, followed by a carload of boisterous Latino men. A dozen students walked toward the bus stop on the corner. Sonya swooped in on me as soon as I stepped inside and, babbling with delight about my limitless virtues, escorted me into a classroom with tables arranged in a U formation. In one corner was a counter with a coffeepot, a minirefrigerator, and a sink. A chalkboard in the front of the room was covered with words, phrases, and primitive drawings that might have been found in caves in northern Spain. Maybe some of the students were neo-Neanderthals (although I hadn’t seen any woolly mammoths tethered outside).

  “You must be Claire Malloy,” said a sixtyish woman carrying a coffee mug in one hand and several papers in the other. “I’m Wilhelmina Constantine, and I do want to thank you for coming. Please call me Willie.” I’d expected someone tall and regal, as befitting her lofty position in the judiciary, but she was short, pear-shaped, and, well, a tad frumpy. She was wearing a pink blouse that was missing a button, and her skirt reminded me of a washboard. Her frizzy gray hair had not withstood outbursts from prosecutors and defense attorneys. Her eyes were close-set, and her nose was as sharp as a beak. Despite her smile, she had the look of an offended songbird.

  “I don’t know how I can be of help,” I said, resisting the impulse to chirp.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. Sonya, introduce Ms. Malloy to the others so we can get started. I’ve been on the bench all day and haven’t had a martini, much less dinner.”

  Sonya assessed the situation and gestured to a thirty-something-year-old man, who promptly stood up. He was attractive and expensively packaged, with broad shoulders, a clean jaw, and a friendly expression. His light brown hair was carefully tousled. I wondered if he might be MBA Ken. “Ms. Malloy, this is Rick Lester. He’s a recent addition to the board.” The lack of warmth in her voice caused me to scratch my theory.

  Rick’s blue eyes met mine as if he were auditioning for the role of earnest young man of impeccable integrity. “I’m Claire,” I said.

  “The fabled sleuth of Farberville,” he said with a bow. “I’m delighted to meet you, Claire.”

  “Ah, thank you.”

  “I’ve only lived in Farberville for a couple of months, but I’ve heard of your exploits.” He smiled at Sonya, but she turned her back to speak to Wilhelmina. “Are you working on a case now?”

  “Not that I know of,” I replied. “Are you enjoying Farberville?”

  Rick chuckled. “It’s quieter than Hong Kong. It’s hard to fall asleep without the incessant cacophony of horns blaring and neon lights flashing. Before that, I was in Manila, also a busy place. I worked for an international financial outfit. Now I’m only a small-town banker.”

  “Why Farberville?”

  “I know some people who used to live here, and they loved it. I’m still adjusting to the pace. My previous jobs came with a chauffeur and full-time help, so I haven’t owned a car since I was in college—or scrubbed a toilet. Now I’m learning how to drive myself around town. It seems to be a nice place to settle down.”

  Sonya swooped in once again and said, “Let me continue the introductions.” We approached a middle-aged man wearing dark-framed glasses, slacks, and a beige cotton sweater. “This is Drake Whitbream, our vice president. He’s the dean of the business school at Farber College. Perhaps you’ve already met him.”

  He held out his hand. “Ms. Malloy and I have met at a few functions. It’s so kind of you to join us.” He was a big man who’d probably been an athlete in decades past. Years in academia had softened him and added a sprinkling of gray hair.

  He was somewhat familiar, I thought, trying to find his face in a memory. “Yes, at a reception at the Performing Arts Center. You and your wife…?”

  “Becky,” he supplied promptly. “Aren’t you married to a police detective?”

  “Something like that. Your son plays football at the high school. My daughter and her friend are big fans.”

  His face tightened briefly. “Toby will be the starting quarterback this season. He’s determined to get a football scholarship at one of the big universities and then go pro. With his grades, an athletic scholarship is the only way he’ll get accepted.”

  I shrugged for lack of a better response.

  “Can we get started?” asked a woman who’d entered the room and was now seated at the head table. She spoke with such authority that everyone hastily found a chair. “Where’s Austin? Has anyone heard from him today? Sonya, call his cell.” She looked at me as if I were responsible for Austin’s absence. Her firmly curled hair and predominant chin made her face look round, but far from jolly. Saggy jowls gave her an air of perpetual dissatisfaction. None of her buttons would dare go missing. “Welcome, Ms. Malloy. I am Frances North, the president of the board. It is very kind of you to join us on such short notice.”

  “Austin will be here in five,” Sonya reported as she put down her cell phone.

  “I’ll bet he stopped at a liquor store,” Rick said, lacing his fingers behind his neck. He smiled at me. “Austin is our bad boy. Frances would love to kick him off the board, but she needs his vote.”

  Frances was not amused. “Don’t be ridiculous. Austin has done an excellent job publicizing the Literacy Council’s programs and events. I certainly do not dictate his vote. Now let’s get started.” She shifted the papers and files in front of her for a moment. “Here is the situation, Ms. Malloy. Currently there are twelve members on the board. Due to illness and vacations, only six of us are active this summer. According to the bylaws, this does not constitute a quorum, which means we can take no action in regard to certain sensitive issues. However, we do not require a quorum to increase the size of the board. If you agree, we will vote to add your name to the board. With thirteen members, seven will make a quorum. All you’ll have to do is attend any meeting that requires your vote. You needn’t concern yourself with these issues.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I said, “and I certainly won’t unless I know what I’m getting myself into. Why can’t this be resolved when the other board members are back?” I began to wish I’d sat closer to the door.

  Frances shook her head. “It’s time-sensitive, and we canno
t risk any leaks if the FLC is going to survive. That’s why we’re here—and why we need you. Where is Austin?”

  “At your service,” a young man said as he entered the room, a bottle of wine in each hand. “Rick, will you get the cups out of the cabinet? Good evening, everyone. Willie, you’re looking especially fine. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve been frolicking with your clerk.” He wore pale blue slacks with pink suspenders, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a pink bow tie. His teeth were very white against his dark skin. A metrosexual nerd, I concluded, although I was aware that snap judgments were unreliable. Other people’s, anyway.

  Willie sputtered while Austin opened both bottles of wine, but she eventually accepted a cup of white wine, as did Sonya and I. Drake declined. Frances North sat in silence, emanating disapproval until Rick and Austin sat down. I was relieved that I was not a member of their oenological conspiracy.

  “Claire, this is Austin Rodgers.” Sonya said, tersely. He and I nodded at each other—tersely.

  “Austin, I informed you at the last meeting that we would no longer have wine,” Frances said. “Keiko told me that some of the Muslim students were upset when they found empty bottles in the trash. Our primary concern is our students.”

  He took a sip of wine. “So I’ll take the empty bottles home with me. If there’s to be no wine, then there’s to be no Austin. I didn’t get away from my office until six thirty, and I need a fix. Why do you have your pantyhose in a knot, Frances? Did the third graders march on your office, protesting cafeteria food?”

  Frances stood up. “Shall we proceed? Do I hear a motion to nominate Ms. Malloy for membership in the Farberville Literacy Council board of directors, pursuant to article six, paragraph four of the bylaws?”

  “Wait just a minute—” I began.

  “I so move,” Sonya said quickly.