Saturday morning, Grace stood at her kitchen window staring across the street, but she still didn’t see TJ’s truck. She had just finished unloading the dishwasher when the phone rang in the kitchen. Maybe it was TJ. Picking up the receiver, she heard Dawn Johnson’s voice.
“Grace, I wouldn’t bother you with this, but I simply didn’t know who else to call. After our conversation the other day, I thought you might be able to help me out of a jam.”
“Oh? I guess I can try. I have a lot of deadlines at the newspaper right now, but maybe I can help. What do you need?”
“I need someone to sit in on Evan Harrington’s classes on Tuesday.” She paused, letting her request sink in. “We’ve called off school Monday, but by Tuesday I think we need to be back in session again. It’s short notice to try to find another chemistry teacher, and TJ Sweeney told me you were aware of the situation with Evan. What do you think? Could you help us? Me?”
Grace took a deep breath. This wasn’t what she was expecting Johnson to ask. She suddenly realized the silence between them and thought about what she should say.
“Grace?”
“Uh, yes, I’m thinking about it. I didn’t realize you would need me. The thing is, I have quite a few stories I need to get done for the newspaper. Spread a little thin these days. I don’t know anything about chemistry.” She walked around in a circle while she talked. “I mean, I can’t imagine I could teach it.” She thought about her cooking ability, figuring she would probably blow the third floor through the roof if she had to use some kind of Bunsen burner. Did they even use Bunsen burners anymore?
Her voice changed, confused. “Oh, you wouldn’t have to teach. I’m sorry, Grace. I should have been clearer. I’m only looking for a warm body that can conduct a study hall, keeping it quiet and sane. I’ll be on the phone all morning trying to find someone who is certified to teach chemistry. I imagine Endurance College might be able to give me leads. It’s just past the semester mark, so maybe they could suggest a graduate who finished at mid-year.”
“Would you be all right with me typing on my laptop if the kids are studying?”
“Absolutely. Like I said, I need an experienced person that I know can handle the situation. No chemistry knowledge needed. You’re a known quantity. What do you think? Can you help me?”
She smiled for the first time. “It’s the least I can do for Evan. Sure. Tuesday morning at 7:30. I can do it.”
“Oh, Grace, thanks so much.” She paused, and then added, “Grace, I don’t mean to sound institutional, you know, so cold about this. I liked Evan and I know you taught with him for a few years.” Grace heard her clear her throat and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry this has happened, but the law says I must have someone in that room Tuesday.” Then Grace heard a sigh. “Well, I guess Sweeney will get it figured out. I hope she does so soon before anything else goes wrong. I’m already fielding calls from anxious and upset parents. Thank you, Grace. I’ll see you on the fourteenth. You’re a lifesaver.”
When she hung up the phone, Grace had a grim thought. Watch your back, Johnson. The last person who said that to me is over at Woodbury on a slab, waiting for the medical examiner.
As Grace was putting some leftovers in the microwave to reheat that evening, TJ came dragging in the kitchen door. She glanced at Grace for encouragement, but Grace did not comply; her day had been long also.
She gave the detective a half-hearted shrug. “Hope you’re not expecting any of Lettie’s amazing creations. Just a few leftovers tonight, TJ.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I have to go back in anyway. I’m taking an hour off to get my head on straight. Can’t even drink any wine. Got coffee?”
“Sure.”
TJ took off her coat, hanging it over a chair. Then she sat down at the table and silently watched Grace make coffee.
“So, what’s the story? Know any more about Evan?” said Grace.
“Yes. The video from the camera on the stairwell shows some arms in dark sleeves and gloves pushing him down the stairs. Just as Evan was turning the corner from the third floor to the second, the killer must have come through the door at the landing. Would have been a total surprise.”
“Can you tell who it is?” She put a cup of coffee in front of TJ, who looked like she could use about ten hours of sleep. Her glossy black hair was hanging in tendrils, having escaped the rubber band in the back, and her eyes were rimmed with dark circles.
“No such luck, of course. Whoever it was must have known where the camera was. That’s one more reason to think it’s someone quite familiar with the building.”
“Meaning, it wasn’t an accident.”
“No.” She leaned over the table, looking down at her coffee cup. “You were right, Grace.”
“What about cameras at the other building entrances? Would they show who was in the building before Evan’s death?”
“Checked them. Nothing. But two doors at the west end have no cameras.”
“The district probably ran out of money. Poor Evan,” Grace said, sitting down across from TJ.
The detective looked up, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “Tell me once again what he said when you talked to him on the phone last night.”
Grace repeated their conversation, trying to fit in every detail.
“And you had no indication of what he wanted to tell you?”
“No,” said Grace, thinking about it. “But I felt like it was something he remembered. You know, we talked at the funeral, and I told him to let me know if he remembered anything that might help get him off the hook. And now—now he’s dead because of the advice I gave him.”
“Nah, Grace. Not your fault. You gave him good advice. We just couldn’t keep him safe until he could relay what he knew.” She shook her head slowly. “Damn. I wish he’d called me.” The detective blew out a noisy breath. “I had to be hard on him. All the evidence was pointing in his direction.” She stretched her arms and put her elbows on the table, rubbing her eyes with her fingers.
“Perhaps someone wanted you to think that, TJ.”
She sighed. Then she drank her coffee to the bottom of the cup. “Could be right. Unfortunately, Evan’s death shows how little I can do to keep people safe. On a different note, I talked with your old colleague, Marilyn Atkins.”
“She appears to be terribly broken up over Hardy’s death.”
“She has reason to be. Her fingerprints were in Hardy’s office.”
“Oh, surely you don’t suspect Marilyn, TJ.”
“Let’s just say she is mixed up in this mess more than we realize, and she’s not telling me all she knows.”
“What did she tell you?” asked Grace, a quizzical look on her face.
“Well, we know she was in the building during the time of the murder. Claims she was in the basement and had no idea. Left early because of the storm.”
“Isn’t that what Del Novak said?”
“More or less. The lampshade placed precariously on Hardy’s head came from Marilyn Atkins’ closet in her classroom.”
“What?”
“Says she doesn’t keep the closet locked since there’s no key for it. She uses the lampshade in her classroom somehow. She also told me she lost her school keys Saturday morning. Searched high and low, dumped her purse, and nothing.”
“Did they show up eventually?”
“Not before she was feeling desperate since she couldn’t get into the school without them.”
“Where were they?” asked Grace.
“Later that afternoon, they were in her purse.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t have a rational explanation, nor does she, and things like that always make me suspicious. The lady definitely knows more than she’s telling, but eventually the truth will out, right?”
“I suppose you’re right, TJ. It usually does come out. The school will be closed Monday. After the past week, I think the superintendent figures she needs to give you some time to work on all of
this,” Grace said.
“And you know about the superintendent’s mind because? Don’t tell me. Lettie again.”
“No. I talked with Dawn Johnson this morning. She asked me to sit in on Evan’s classes Tuesday while she tries to find a full-time chemistry teacher.”
“What?” TJ said, standing up so suddenly she nearly knocked her coffee cup over. She leaned across the table, flustered, her face near Grace. “Why would she do that? You didn’t say yes, did you?”
“But TJ—”
She pushed her chair back, stood up, and paced around the kitchen. “Grace, we don’t know if the killer knew who Evan was talking to before he left the building Sunday night. Evan’s cell phone is gone. If the killer has it, and he probably does, he would have the number of the last person Evan called. Guess who that is? This is a cold-blooded, evil person, Grace. Whoever it is doesn’t care if you are beloved by your former students if he thinks you know something. This killer doesn’t know for sure what you know from your conversation with Harrington. For once in your life, listen to me. You could be in real danger here.”
“Oh.” Grace thought for a moment before her face brightened. “Well, don’t you see? It’s even more reason I should go in Tuesday and act like I know nothing. It’s just one day. The building will be full of people. I’m surely safer there than alone in my house. Anything you want me to check on while I’m in the building, or anyone I should watch?”
TJ turned away, but not before Grace saw how angry she was. Then she faced Grace and slowly said, “Leave the investigation to us, Grace. I don’t want to find you run off the road or shot or poisoned.” She stopped, taking a breath. “Why? Why, for the love of Pete, would you agree to this when you saw what happened to Evan Harrington? It looks like the killer is someone familiar with the building. I don’t want to give you paranoia, but it’s likely that someone you know is doing this. I may not be able to keep you safe if you insist on going back in that building.”
“But I don’t know anything, TJ. It’s only for one day.”
The detective shook her head and picked up her coat from the kitchen chair.
Grace walked over and grabbed TJ’s arm. “TJ, it’s the least I can do for Evan.”
Then the detective put her hand on the kitchen doorknob, turned, and smiled briefly. “Somehow, I knew those would be the next words out of your mouth, Grace Kimball.” She shook her head. “We’ll have police in the building, but I can’t be everywhere, so watch your back.”
Chapter Twelve
Grace was working on the story about the feed store at the Register on Monday, but she couldn’t stay focused. She kept thinking about Evan Harrington, wondering about his phone call. When she worked at the high school, she enjoyed conversations with him because he was well-read, his interests extending to books and writers. They’d discussed Tolkien since he loved fantasy and science fiction, but they also talked about Mark Twain, an author Grace loved. She remembered one time Evan told her how much he admired Twain because the author was ahead of his time. In Pudd’nhead Wilson, Twain used fingerprints to find a murderer. That novel was published sometime in the early 1880s, Grace thought, but fingerprinting by police departments didn’t come to America until the 1900s.
She needed to get back to her story, but just as she examined her notes again, someone knocked on her door. Rick Enslow, the sales manager, stuck his head in her office doorway. “Grace, you have a visitor. She wants to talk to you, rather than me, about advertising.” Then he rolled his eyes, whispering, “I can’t explain. Strange-looking person. You’d better come out here.” Grace stared at him a moment, waiting for him to continue, but he’d already retreated down the hallway.
“Well, great,” she said out loud, slamming her pencil on the desk. “Writer, semi-editor, copy checker, and now advertising salesperson. If Jeff doesn’t get back soon, I’ll be delivering papers too.” She strode out to the main lobby area and saw the back of someone standing by the counter. How strange. Grace couldn’t tell if this person was male or female. Whoever it was wore a man’s hat over long, brown hair, laced with hot pink strands. The person was large-ish, covered in an ankle-length coat of black wool and a winter scarf made with various shades of orange hanging over the wool shoulder. The hem of the coat was dragging below the black wool in several spots, while below the hem were dark shoes which appeared to be a man’s work boots. Then the person turned around. Grace was intrigued—it was a woman.
“Oh, you must be Grace Kimball,” she said, extending her hand to Grace. “You’re a legend at the high school.”
Grace shook her hand, feeling her fingers go numb at the strength in the woman’s grip. She stared at the person who now stood full-front: bushy eyebrows, a ring in the right side of her aquiline nose, full lips with no lipstick, dangling gold earrings that reached out from under her hat, along with the other end of the multicolored orange scarf. She remembered seeing Ellen Terry at the faculty meeting, but hadn’t paid much attention to her. At the time, the drama teacher was sitting down, and she was more conservatively dressed. Her hair wasn’t yet pink.
Then Ellen Terry, seeing Grace’s expression, said, “Oh, I am so sorry. I fear I have the advantage of you. My name is Ellen Terry, the director of dramatis personae at the high school now.” She spread both arms out as if to say, “This is me.”
Grace recovered from her surprise just as Terry added, “I am looking for help with an advertisement for the play I am directing at the high school in a couple of weeks. This young man”—she turned toward Rick Enslow—“has kindly offered to help me, but I explained to him your reputation—of mythical proportions—precedes you, so I believe I must finally meet you personally. You know, as the great Southern dramatist once said, ‘I must depend on the kindness of strangers,’ or something to that effect.” Grace glanced beyond Ellen Terry and saw Rick make a pushing hand gesture as if to say, “Take her to your office! Get her out of here—please!” She tried not to laugh at Rick, instead turning her attention to the drama teacher.
“Of course. You’re the new play director at the high school. My neighbor, Ginger Grant, is one of your actors. She is so excited about being in your play.”
“Yes, little Ginger,” said Terry, in an ingratiating tone. “Such a clever girl, and so well-cast in the part of Abby Brewster.”
“Come on back to my office,” said Grace, smiling politely. “I’ll see what I can do to help you.”
The woman flung out her arms and pulled the layers of her scarf from her neck. “Lead on, Oh Teacher Extraordinaire!” Fortunately, with Grace in the lead, Ellen Terry couldn’t see her rolling her eyes.
Once she arranged herself in Grace’s office chair, Ellen Terry unbuttoned her coat while Grace took a moment to study her out the corner of her eye. She could see the edges of dark blue tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs of her wool sweater. The woman had on a stark gray jumper over the sweater, and when she was seated, it hung down to the tops of her scuffed boots. The boot laces had been knotted in several places, as if Terry didn’t have time to pick up some new laces. Grace looked at her face, judging her to be in her early thirties. Head to foot, she was like no other teacher Grace had ever seen at the high school. What an amusing character, thought Grace.
“So, what brought you to our little town?” asked Grace, as she searched for an ad paper and a pencil.
“Well,” Terry began, “even though I have such celebrated ancestral connections to those who trod the boards—meaning the stage, you know—I must also earn my living, alas, often the bitter plight of those of us who follow the muse. The superintendent, out of the kindness of her heart—and here she placed both hands in the vicinity of her right shoulder—signed me up at the very last moment, on the edge of utter defeat. School, you see, had already begun, so she was desperately in need of my talents. I’m now teaching a class of speech, one of drama, and directing the dear little ones in their class play. I have, you see, utterly saved the day.” She sat back in her chai
r, rearranging the ends of her orange scarf on her lap.
Grace wasn’t quite sure what to say after this long speech. She decided it might be best to stick with the obvious. “Where did you teach before, Ms. Terry?”
“Oh, my dear, you may call me Ellen. Everyone does. I am a direct descendent, you see, of that great actress who once was the most famous Portia in the history of the theatre. Theatre is ‘theatre,’ of course, with an ‘re,’ not an ‘er.’ Dame Ellen Terry—she who toured the British provinces and once had a sonnet to her beauty written by Oscar Wilde—is my great-grandmother. I am also a distant cousin of the late John Gielgud, whose Shakespearian talents were prodigious. My acclaimed great-grandmother toured the colonial provinces, including far-flung America, and made her debut in the colonies in 1883 at the tender age of thirty-six. The New York Times wrote she was ‘all that was pure and lovable in womanhood.’ ” This last sentence was accompanied by dramatic hand gestures.
Grace was at a loss for words. When she did find her voice, she attempted to be positive. “My,” said Grace, “you must come highly recommended with that kind of pedigree.”
Terry stared at her a moment, trying to decide if Grace was making fun of her. “I assure you, my dear, her blood flows in my veins, and, as with an acorn, I did not fall far from the proverbial tree.”
What funny, affected speech, thought Grace, trying not to laugh. Filled with clichés of every kind. She took a deep breath and considered how she might go about changing the conversation. “How do you feel about coming here with two murders on the faculty in a short space of time?” She began filling out the dates and information, glancing discreetly at this strange creature.
Terry pulled a tattered handkerchief from her purse, fastidiously dabbing both of her eyes. “I could feel the vibrations, you know, from the first day I stepped into the pedagogical fray, so to speak. A darkness, a terrible perverse atmosphere enveloped the building, and my soul knew a dreadful tragedy would occur here. It was horrifying, like those wraiths who chased the little hobbits in the—uh—hobbit story.”
Death Takes No Bribes: An Endurance Mystery (Endurance Mysteries Book 3) Page 10