by Nina Wright
“Oh. Right.”
“You should try it.”
“I keep meaning to. Then I get busy having a life.”
“Mattimoe Realty needs a social media presence,” Chester insisted as the security guard signaled for me to follow a white Lincoln Navigator. “Maybe you should hire Avery to create it for you.”
“Say what?” The mere mention of my ex-stepdaughter’s name was guaranteed to grab my instant attention. And spike my blood pressure. “Why would I hire Avery to do anything? Besides, I thought she worked for your mother.”
“She does,” Chester said, bouncing emphatically in his seat. “Cassina hires her to manage her social networks. Avery posts and tweets all day. She’s a buzz-maker, Whiskey. I’m sure she could help you.”
Poor Chester, ever the naïf. The day I would trust Avery to broadcast details of my life would be the day when porcine creatures took flight.
“So Avery works online for Cassina?”
As much as I had wondered what the pop diva was paying my lazy ex-step to do, I’d been afraid to ask. Afraid because Avery was chronically inclined to blow every opportunity and come crawling back to my place, her twins in tow. Out of self-defense I had adopted a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, wanting to believe that if I didn’t inquire, she couldn’t possibly fail and need my help. Pathetic? Yes, yet oddly optimistic at the same time.
Our weather continued to be unseasonably balmy. Neither Chester nor I had even bothered to wear a winter coat. We followed the stream of jacket-free pedestrians flowing into the main building, which looked up close like a cheerful Disney version of a Victorian house. Painted pale yellow with sky-blue shutters, doors, and ornate trim, it boasted windows that were surely twice as large as the originals must have been. Someone had wisely chosen to infuse the narrow, high-ceilinged converted classrooms inside with as much light as possible for the sake of the children.
“Uh-oh,” Chester said, suddenly slowing his pace. “They’re all here, and they’re organized. That can’t be good.”
I followed his gaze to what could only be called a mob of moms. Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez, once again wearing stiletto heels, energetically distributed bright red handouts to a rapidly swelling group of women. Robin Wardrip, looking plain but purposeful in head-to-toe camouflage gear, assisted her. So did another mother, a short but athletic-looking golden-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. She wore a feminine dress with a floral print, but she moved more like a spry young boy than a grown woman.
On a December morning outside any other elementary school, I would have assumed that the pages promoted a Christmas bazaar or contained the lyrics to a favorite carol. Here, though, I knew they had something to do with a dead headmaster, and the moms weren’t collecting for his funeral flowers. The grim intensity with which they moved reminded me of soldiers preparing for battle.
“They want to get everybody on the same page,” Chester said. “Literally.”
“What page is that?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re going to demand that Mr. Bentwood take over as headmaster. Again.”
“Well, that makes sense. I mean, he’s a member of the founding family.”
Chester peered up at me with an expression that said I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. “He’s not a natural educator, Whiskey.”
“Not a chip off his grandmother’s block.”
The second comment didn’t come from Chester. It came from our chief of police, who joined us on the school lawn. She was flipping through a small well-worn spiral notebook, the kind used by responding officers at crime scenes.
“Bentwood’s strength is politics,” Jenx added.
Chester said, “The art of the possible. The PTO gets what they want when Mr. Bentwood gets what he wants.”
“What more does he want?” I asked. “He’s already got a school with his name on it, plus inherited wealth.”
Jenx shrugged. “More power. More prestige. More …”
She mimed a third word after making sure that Chester wasn’t reading her lips.
“Sex?” I asked out loud. My bad.
“Yes,” Chester confirmed. “Mr. Bentwood has a reputation with the ladies.”
“Really?”
I had met George Bentwood years earlier at a local fundraiser I’d attended with Leo, my late husband.
“Bentwood’s married, isn’t he? And he’s not young.”
“What’s your point?” Jenx said.
“Well, he didn’t strike me as all that attractive.”
“Me, neither,” the chief conceded. “But I’m a dyke. Lots of straight chicks seem to think he’s got something. Maybe it’s the twinkle.”
“The what?”
“Twinkle. That’s what Noonan calls it. She believes there’s a gleam some guys get in their eyes that makes them irresistible. She says Fenton’s got it. Jeb does, too.”
I understood. Some men gave off a vibe that drew women. No question Jeb had it; I’d seen it in Fenton, too. It was one of Noonan’s problems with her “permanent spouse” and my whole issue with my ex.
“There’s Bentwood,” Jenx said, indicating a tall white-haired man with impeccable posture. He motioned for the mothers to follow him inside, presumably so that he could start the meeting.
“They’re trailing him like baby ducklings,” Chester observed.
To me they looked like cats in heat.
10
Jenx sent Chester ahead with the crowd that was flowing in through the pale blue double front doors of the Victorian home that housed The Bentwood School. Our Chief of Police wanted to bring me up to speed on what she’d learned since last night.
“Chester got it wrong,” Jenx said. “The PTO was waiting for Vreelander at the trail head, not the trail end.”
“Maybe Raphael Ramirez got it wrong. He’s the one who texted Chester.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was supposed to give Chester the wrong information. He’s Kimmi’s kid, right?”
“Right. Is she a suspect?”
I wanted her to be. Everything about Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez offended me, from her fake tits to her FM pumps. Or maybe she just rattled my green-eyed monster. Kimmi reminded me of all the hot, sexy chicks I would never resemble. The girls who had always caught Jeb’s eye and got his free autographed CDs. And more.
“All the mothers could be suspects,” Jenx said. “If they have means and motive, plus archery skill. We know they had time. If they’d met him at the trail end, they wouldn’t have been able to get to the archery range before Vreelander rode past, but they met him at the trail head. After that, any of them could have driven to the range and got in position before he turned around at the trail end and started back.”
“I like Kimmi for the crime,” I declared.
“Yeah, well, I got a witness who says she made a real spectacle of herself at the trail head,” Jenx said. “She screamed and cried and threw her kid’s homework assignments in the headmaster’s face.”
“Yup. Kimmi killed him.”
“Robin Wardrip looks good for it, too. My witness says she took a swing at Vreelander. He deflected the blow, but Robin’s got a left hook that could knock out a middleweight. She told him to go fuck himself, and she spat at him.”
“I still like Kimmi for it,” I said.
“And then there’s Loralee Lowe,” Jenx said. “She’s a mom and a teacher here, and also one of Bentwood’s lovers.”
“One of—?”
Jenx shrugged. “He’s got the twinkle. You saw Loralee this morning. Wavy gold-blonde hair? Dress with flowers all over it? Rumor has it Bentwood’s the father of her child.”
“Seriously? How old’s the kid?”
“Three, I think. She’s in Preschool.”
“Is Loralee single?”
“She is now. Her ex is her daughter’s legal father. But my source tells me the kid looks like Bentwood. Loralee’s ex thought so, too. He ordered DNA testing before he walked out. Now Loralee’s pushing Bentwood to
leave his wife.”
“Loralee didn’t like the headmaster?” I asked.
“She hated him,” Jenx said.
“Why?”
“He was planning to fire her.”
“For an ethics violation?”
“Nope. She’s a lousy teacher.”
Jenx checked the heavy masculine watch on her wrist. “Eight o’clock sharp. We’d better make our entrance.”
“We? I’m here to stand by Chester. Now I’ve got to find him in that crowd.”
“Like he could blend in?” Jenx was moving fast toward the school entrance, and I kept pace. “Chester will feel your support, Whiskey. I’m gonna need you up on stage with me.”
“Why? I’m just a witness.”
“You’re the only witness. I want to watch this crowd closely when you tell them what you saw. There’s an excellent chance the killer will be in that room.”
“What about the French archer? She had the murder weapon, and she was in the right place at the right time. I was an eye witness to that.”
“We’re looking into her,” Jenx said noncommittally as we stepped into the foyer of The Bentwood School. “By the way, the arrow that killed Vreelander was a mechanical broadhead, as opposed to a fixed broadhead.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked, not at all sure I wanted to know.
“Mechanicals open up inside the victim, deploying blades on contact. They may not penetrate as deep as fixed broadheads, but they’re more streamlined as they fly. So they’re easier to control over distance, and they cause a lot of internal bleeding.”
I shuddered and willed myself to think about Victorian mansions instead. Despite the larger-than-traditional replacement windows and doors, I had expected this one to be dense and shadowy. Not the case at all. Whoever oversaw the renovations had created a sunny, wide open space partitioned into modular rooms with movable dividers and recessed lighting. Every original non-load-bearing wall must have been removed, along with every interior door. The resulting ambience was modern and cheerful with just the right quixotic touches of Victorianism in the arched oversized replacement windows, ornate cornices and molding, and gleaming dark oak floors.
I was so taken by the ambience that I must have stopped in my tracks. Jenx nudged me in the direction of a murmuring crowd we could hear but not see beyond the first-floor classrooms. The meeting place featured a modest-sized stage framed by theatrical lighting fixtures and fronted by moveable stack chairs rather than permanent theater seats. Between the chairs and the stage was a twenty-foot-deep space filled with children sitting Indian style, if one could still use that non-P.C. phrase. The children on the floor ranged in age from about eight years to three years; behind them in chairs sat the rest of the student body. And behind them were the parents who had arrived early enough to get seats. Another thirty adults stood lining the walls.
“No press?” I asked Jenx, noting the absence of TV cameras. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t spotted any news vans outside.
“Bentwood agreed to give them a statement after the assembly. At ten o’clock. I’ll talk to reporters at the same time.”
Jenx gave me a gentle shove down the center aisle. Heads snapped in our direction and the room’s collective voices became a low buzz. School President George Bentwood stood center stage watching our approach. Without a podium he seemed totally at ease in the spotlight. Technically, since all the lights in the room were on, there was no spotlight; still, I felt the heat of everyone’s curiosity as I followed Jenx up the three steps to the stage. The whole room fell silent. Bentwood greeted us, an agile man three inches taller than I was, and I stood just shy of six foot-one. He wore a tailored charcoal-gray blazer with European-cut pants and black Italian loafers. His thick white hair and neatly trimmed mustache suggested meticulous grooming as well as enormous vanity. He acknowledged first Jenx, then me, with a warm handshake and a cordial nod. Clearly the occasion disallowed smiles.
“Ms. Mattimoe,” he said in a deep fuzzy voice designed to draw others close. “We are grateful that you’re here. So sorry for the circumstances.”
As his astonishingly bright blue eyes met mine, I spotted it—the twinkle. He gave my hand an extra squeeze and leaned closer.
“We’ve met before. You are a stunning woman.”
The twinkle, for sure. He added a winning grin that his larger audience couldn’t see. This was a man whom women would remember even if he didn’t inspire them to leap directly into his bed. Yet he hadn’t lingered in my mind after that long-ago charity fundraiser. How had I missed his appeal? I could chock that up to only one possible excuse. I’d been completely smitten with my then-new hubby Leo.
Now I faced my audience, row after row of bright-eyed children eager to hear what I’d come to say. I glanced at Jenx, willing her to, if at all possible, read my thoughts. This was a horrible idea. How could I recount my grisly experience to these innocents?
Although psychic powers, or what passed for them, seemed to abound in Magnet Springs, telepathy was not among Jenx’s arsenal of strange talents. Hers involved rattling our local geomagnetic fields when she herself felt rattled. Nonetheless, she turned to me now and said, “No worries, Whiskey. Your story is for the adults in this audience only. Mr. Bentwood just wants to say a few words first to the student body.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,” he began. “As you may know, The Bentwood School has suffered a tragic loss. This morning we gather as a family gripped by shock and grief at the news that our headmaster, Mark Vreelander, passed away suddenly last night.”
Passed away suddenly? That was one way to put it, although not the accurate way. I glanced at Jenx who was busy scanning the crowd.
Bentwood continued, “Whenever a healthy, relatively young person dies unexpectedly, there are, of course, questions. I’ve invited two people to help us answer those questions—Magnet Springs Police Chief Judith Jenkins and Whitney Mattimoe, broker and owner of Mattimoe Realty. Chief Jenkins will offer professional insights, while Ms. Mattimoe will speak as an ordinary citizen who happened to witness a tragic event.”
Tragic? More like violent and probably criminal. As in murder.
I cleared my throat loudly to cue Jenx that this was not going in a direction I liked. Hell, I was already in therapy for my inability to relate well to children. The last experience I needed as a wary expectant mother was the traumatic memory of making hundreds of them simultaneously cry. With all those cherubic faces blinking up at me, I couldn’t imagine a single reassuring remark. Mine was not a family-friendly story. There was no G-rated version of death by broadhead arrow on a public bicycle trail, and Bentwood must have known that.
As if reading my mind—and maybe, in fact, she could—Jenx signaled for the School President to lean down to her level. Jenx is only five-foot-five, so Bentwood had to bend. Listening intently, he frowned before straightening and returning his attention to his audience.
“I’d like you to please give your full attention to Chief Jenkins,” he said, and gave her the floor.
The younger children applauded until the older children hushed them. Jenx took a small step closer to the edge of the stage.
“Good morning,” she said loudly.
“Good morning!” all the kids replied.
“I’m here because sometimes part of my job is passing along important information.”
A boy who looked younger than Chester shot his hand into the air. Jenx paused for a nanosecond, apparently weighing her options.
“I’ll take one question now, and we’ll save the rest later,” she said, pointing to the kid.
“That’s what TV is for,” the boy blurted.
Jenx looked confused.
“Passing along important information,” he reminded her.
“True,” Jenx said, “but sometimes the police are the first to know, and so they’re the first to tell you, like I’m going to do now.”
I could feel everybody in the room lean toward Jenx.
>
“But even before I do that, I want to remind you about another part of my job, the most important part,” she said.
“Getting the bad guys!” the same little boy called out.
A woman hurried down the aisle, presumably to manage or remove the audience participant. I recognized her as Loralee Lowe, the teacher and PTO mother in the flowery dress who had been passing out red papers before the meeting.
Smiling like a good cop, Jenx said, “I do my best to stop the bad guys before they can do anything bad. My main job is keeping people safe. That means I try to prevent bad stuff from happening, including accidents.”
Accidents? Was Jenx going to tell the students and parents of The Bentwood School that their headmaster had died as the result of an accident?
The chief of police drew herself to her full height and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Vreelander was riding his bike last night, and something went wrong. We don’t know exactly what happened yet, but we do know for sure he didn’t suffer. Ms. Mattimoe was out riding her bike, too, and she is absolutely sure that Mr. Vreelander had no pain at all. Right, Ms. Mattimoe?”
All eyes shifted to me. All horrified eyes.
“Uh—right. Definitely no pain,” I lied, straining to blot out the memory of Vreelander’s stricken expression.
Dozens of little hands now waved frantically for attention. Jenx selected a worried-looking girl about four, who pointed straight at me.
“Did she push him off his bike?”
“Of course not,” I cried. “I was riding in the opposite direction.”
“Were you playing chicken with him?” a boy demanded.
“Whiskey—I mean Ms. Mattimoe—was not playing chicken,” Jenx said. “She was just out riding, minding her own business.”
Children are not fools. I could see that most of them no longer trusted me.
“Was she drunk?” a boy asked Jenx.
“No,” Jenx said. “Ms. Mattimoe doesn’t drink. She’s going to have a baby.”
“The cop said ‘whiskey.’ That lady was drunk!’” an older boy informed the crowd.