by Linda Ladd
I said, “Actually, Miss Foxworthy, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions, too, if you have a few minutes.”
Christie stopped in the doorway and turned her comely gaze on me. I’m not sure she had noticed me before because I’m not Bud. Bud was pretty good looking, hot, actually, charming even, and did that testosterone thing for some women, especially young ones turned on by a slow southern accent and the big gun bulge under his arm. He probably bulged elsewhere, too, at the moment.
“Me? Why do you want to speak to me?”
“Are you acquainted with the victim, Simon Classon?”
“Yes, of course. I know everyone affiliated with the academy.”
I waited for it to dawn on her that she’d now answered her very own question. She continued to look at me inquisitively. Okay, better that I pound it manually into her head. If only I had a wooden mallet.
“Since you know the victim, you might be able to help us in the investigation.”
She still stared without blinking as if my words were incomprehensible, or maybe I was invisible and didn’t know it. I looked at Bud for help and was slightly embarrassed by his goofy, toothy grin. His Crest Whitestrips were doing their job.
After a while, she said okay.
Now we were getting somewhere. We trailed her into the conference room. I glanced down the hall to my right at a group of people who stood murmuring in low tones and watching us surreptitiously. Bud kept his eyes on Christie’s little bottom twisting back and forth in her short tight black skirt as if trying to escape its restrictions.
The conference room was really a teachers’ lounge with several large tables with folding chairs, but we headed for two large black rocking chairs.
“Would you like your coffee while you wait?”
“That would be very nice.”
“Here, let me take your coats.”
We shrugged out of our matching department-issue brown parkas and stuffed our gloves in the pockets. She hung them both on a brass coatrack in the corner and busied herself at the counter pouring our brews into small white Styrofoam cups.
Outside a big plate-glass window I could see tree-spiked, snowy hills and, in a distant clearing, some kids were using big cardboard boxes as sleds. They were having lots of fun; obviously, they hadn’t been in Classon’s angelology course. Maybe somewhere on campus someone was sniffling and taking on about Simon Classon’s untimely death. I just hadn’t seen him or her yet. In fact, nobody seemed the least bit upset by the murder. But wait until they heard the gory arachnid details. Serious upset would soon follow.
Christie was back. She handed me my coffee and then Bud took his and held it cupped in his palms as if it were frankincense and myrrh and she was Balthasar. She dragged a third rocker close, crossed one long leg over the other for Bud to look at, and waited for him to get all excited. She didn’t have long to wait.
I said, “We appreciate your cooperation, Miss Foxworthy.”
“I really can’t be away from my desk very long. The phone’s been ringing off the hook all day.”
I decided to find out what a New Yorker was doing down here in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home.”
She looked mightily surprised. Maybe nobody else had ever noticed that she said kawfee instead of coffee.
I decided to wow her some more. “Brooklyn, right?”
“Why, yes.” She was warming up to me. I guess she thought I was a genius, or maybe a New Yorker, too.
Bud said, “I love New York. I was up there last summer.”
“Really?” Even more interest in Bud now. She recrossed her deadly legs. Man, Bud was on the edge of his rocker now. So was his tongue. She said, “Were you on vacation there, or what?”
“I was on a case, but I took in a Broadway show or two. I guess it seems kinda quiet down here to you after all those taxis honkin’ and jets goin’ over.”
“Yeah. This is the most boring place I’ve ever been in my life. I miss the city like crazy, but I had to get outta town fast.”
Aha. “Why was that, Miss Foxworthy?”
“Oh, I had this boyfriend threatening to kill me if I didn’t marry him, but he was hooked up with some pretty bad guys, if you know what I mean.” She winked at me.
I stared at her, trying to figure out if I knew what she meant.
“You mean like Tony Soprano, badda boom, badda bing, and all that?” Bud laughed, just in case.
Christie said, “Yeah, badda boom, badda bing. But Tony Soprano’s fictional.”
Right. Thanks for clearing that up, Christie. “How long have you worked here at the academy, Miss Foxworthy?”
“Almost a year now, but it seems like ten years.” She lowered her voice. “I hate this place, I mean, really, really hate it. I get to take night classes, because I work here, and I hate those, too. But I’ve got to finish my certificate in astrophysics.”
Yeah, and I’m Frosty the Snowman with a degree in biochemistry. “That’s very impressive.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Everybody thought I’d end up being a hairstylist, or nail technician, or something, but look what I got going now.” She beamed like a 100-watt lightbulb. Bud beamed back. 200 watt. Jeez. They could make a movie out of this interview. Brooklyn Molls Gone Wild. All Christie had to do was pull up her shirt and flash her implants.
“I didn’t know they taught astrophysics hereabouts. Actually I don’t know a lot about the curriculum here at the academy, other than the course in angelology.”
“Oh, that angel course is an elective. This isn’t a religious institution. But they have lots of electives for the kids, you know, that’s where you can choose what you want to take but it doesn’t count toward any of our certificates.”
Do I look stupid and uneducated? Is that it? Does Bud look like a dunce? Well, that might be pretty much on target at the moment, especially when Christie keeps crossing and recrossing her silky, naked, tanning-salon legs. Not even fishnets for the Brooklynite, not even in December subzero weather.
“So, tell us about Simon Classon. Did you know him well?”
She nodded. We waited. She nodded again, in case we didn’t hear it.
“So you did know him?”
She nodded. Okay, she was great with yes or no answers but let’s see if she could speak out loud in basic sentences. I thought up a question she had to answer with real nouns and verbs.
“Where was Mr. Classon from?”
Eyes on mine, thinking, thinking, almost there, come on, Christie, you can do it, grab that thought, hold on tight.
She said, “Missouri?”
“You’re not sure?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, your answer sounded like a question.”
“Did it really? I didn’t know that.”
I started to ask her if she ever attended UCLA with Jacqee but decided snide would be over her head, anyway.
“What kind of person was Mr. Classon?”
“He was pretty much a bastard. I took that angel class but I hated his guts, actually.”
Okay, now tell us what you really think, Christie.
Bud grinned, impressed by her honesty, I guess. He said, “You didn’t care for him, huh?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Why not?” The girl was straightforward, once you got her focused.
“He was just really hateful and mean to everybody. Nobody likes him, you’ll find that out. Everybody’s afraid of him.”
“Afraid? Why is that?”
Bud and I were leaning forward now, ready to hang on her every word but probably for different reasons.
Christie looked at the door, obviously fearing eavesdropping directors. “He has a lot of power around here, you know, under-the-table sort of stuff.”
“I guess I don’t know exactly what you mean by under the table.”
She gave me a “how-stupid-are-you?” look. “Well, you know,” she dropped into whisper mode, “he’s got pu
ll with members on the advisory board. He gets people he doesn’t like fired, and stuff.”
“Thus making him extremely unpopular with the staff,” said Bud.
“Except for the ones who kiss his ass. They get whatever they want. You know, big raises and good offices, stuff like that.”
“I see.” Sounded to me like any thriving business with more than one employee. Even down at the sheriff’s office, I could name a couple of people with brown noses and sore knees.
“Did Mr. Classon have any special friends that he liked to hang out with?”
“Not really, even his secretary secretly despises him. Talks about him terrible when he’s not around.” Christie glanced at the door again. “This is confidential, isn’t it? You won’t tell Dr. Johnstone what I’m saying, will you?”
I thought it was a little late to be asking that. “We’ll keep your statement quiet. Did you ever have a run-in with Simon Classon yourself, Ms. Foxworthy?”
“Not really, well, okay, maybe once or twice. I really can’t stand him. Truth is, he scared the hell out of me.” Whisper mode was creeping back in. “Remember, you can’t tell my boss all this stuff. He’d throw a fit and probably fire me, but it’s God’s truth, I promise.”
Well, now, if we had Christie’s promise, what more could we ask for? “Tell us about the times you had trouble with Simon Classon. What happened?”
“Well, he liked to call me up and bawl me out over the phone. He did that to lots of people so I got to where I’d just hold it out from my ear and let him rant on without listening. Sometimes I’d even put the phone down and go back to my typing. I mean, sometimes he acted, well, almost, you know, almost insane. His face’d get all red and splotchy and he’d stalk around and throw things on the floor. I mean, he just went berserk sometimes.”
“What caused these outbursts?”
Christie gave a shrug and shook her flowing hair around like those girls in Herbal Essence commercials. “He’s a nutcase. What else can I say?”
Bud glanced at me, then said, “And you believe everyone feels this way about him?”
“Everybody I know hates him, even some of his students. I think he acted better in the classroom, though, after all, he was talking about angels. He should have taught the class on devil worship, if you ask me.”
Bud and I exchanged another look. I said, “You have a class on devil worship here?”
“Oh, yes, it’s one of our most popular. It’s an elective, too. But it’s not called that. It’s called Paganism—Its Influence on Modern Religion. But they have discussions about Satan and evil, and how some people like to worship the devil, you know, stuff like that. The kids all love it. I liked it a lot when I took it. Mr. Rowland’s a really good teacher.”
Holy crap. What kind of school was this? I wondered if Black knew what was being taught at this little conclave in the woods. “Would it be possible for us to have a catalog of classes and maybe even a roster of the students taking each class? I’d also like to have information on each instructor’s educational background.”
“I can get all that for you. Uh-oh, I hear my phone ringing. Can I go now?”
Bud said, “Sure. And thanks for everything, Christie.”
“You’re welcome, Detective Davis.”
We gave her time to twist herself out of the room, then Bud said, “Devil worshipping 101, huh?”
“Sounds like a class we might ought to audit, huh?”
“Yeah. Wonder if they teach grave robbing, too?”
“Actually, we do have a class called Basic Forensic Science, which isn’t much different from grave robbing, if you think about it.”
A tall man now stood in the doorway, a certain Dr. G. Richard Johnstone, if my hunch turned out. He was dressed in a pure white, expertly tailored wool suit, starched white shirt, and white tie. Forget about not wearing white after Labor Day; each to his own. I checked for white bucks like Elvis Presley used to wear and found bare feet in leather sandals instead. Jerusalem Cruisers? I momentarily felt sorry for his toes, but hey, if the boss man didn’t mind snow in his sandals, who was I to object?
On the other hand, his tan rivaled that of Ernest Hemingway after a yearlong stint at Key West, and his eyes were a strange color, very pale gray, almost white. He had a real lion’s mane of bushy blond hair that might’ve looked better pulled back with a snow-white scrunchy. There was a faint white scar that ran into his hairline, and just below, his right earlobe glinted with a showy diamond stud. Clean shaven and handsome in an angular, hard sort of way, he had crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and lots of muscles that made me think he partook of lots of sports. Free weights, too, maybe.
I stood up, slightly embarrassed that he’d heard Bud’s sarcastic remark, but not overly much. Name me a reputable school that taught Satanesque subject material. I never took that course at LSU.
“Hello. I’m Detective Claire Morgan from the Canton County Sheriff’s Department and this is my partner, Detective Bud Davis.”
He walked forward with right hand extended. “How do you do. I’m Dr. Johnstone, director here at the academy.”
I shook his big, brown hand, a firm, dry handshake, then Bud took it. “Hope I didn’t offend you, Dr. Johnstone. Just jokin’ around a little.”
“No offense taken, detective. We do have some rather unorthodox classes taught here at the academy, but most are subjects requested by the students. Our students are young but they’re extraordinarily bright. Nearly all of them have IQs close to the genius level. It’s one of our requirements.”
Bud grinned. “And I thought the University of Georgia had a tough admission policy.”
I said, “Where do your recruiters find these geniuses, Dr. Johnstone?”
Dr. Johnstone turned those pale-as-crystal eyes upon me. I didn’t blink under his stare because I knew he was trying to cow me. I don’t cow easily, ask Black.
“The truth is that most of our students have been in trouble with the law but are so gifted intellectually or artistically that the juvenile authorities think they should be given a second chance. Thus, they end up here with us.”
Bud said, “So in essence you’re running a school for evil geniuses.”
I thought that was pretty damn clever, so I smiled. Dr. Johnstone did not see the mirth. In fact, he bristled, and said, “That’s not the least bit funny. These poor children are at risk and we are helping them become productive citizens.”
Obviously irked, Bud said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. They can learn all that, plus how to devil worship in ten easy steps?”
I felt a certain degree of miff myself. Who did this guy think he was? “You suppose any of your troubled geniuses are capable of murdering your angelology professor?”
Again, those pale eyes found me and tacitly said: “You’re quite the bitch, aren’t you?” My scornful gaze replied in the affirmative.
“Perhaps you’d like to come in to my office and finish your interview there. I’m sure we’d all be much more comfortable.”
Right. And if I had to hazard a guess, we’d all be recorded there, too.
Dr. Johnstone led us across the hall, through Christie’s office and into his own large domain. Christie pretended to type as we went by, as if she hadn’t already spilled her guts about the detestable and dead Mr. Classon.
Johnstone had a large desk, a really large desk, all white, including the blotter, and about the size of Kansas City. He took the long way around. He also had a sitting area at the other end of the room with a long white couch facing two white wing chairs. The walls were stylishly all white, too, except the wall behind his desk, which was adorned with strange red masks that looked suspiciously like Beelzebub. Maybe he was the one who taught everybody about hell. I looked around at the white carpet and drapes, and white tables and chairs and white lilies in a white vase, and for a moment I was blinded and thought I was outside in a snowstorm.
“Please sit down,” he said, gesturing at the two white leather wingback chairs faci
ng his meticulous desk. We obeyed, but a glance at Bud’s deep scowl told me he was not as enamored with Jesus Johnstone as he was with the little Foxworthy pretending to type in yonder antechamber.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was speaking to someone on our advisory board. He was in Paris so I really couldn’t cut it short.”
Damn. That meant Black was butting in. “Had he heard about the murder?”
“It is deemed a murder, then?”
Bud said, “Oh, yeah, deemed a murder’s putting it mildly.”
“I was told that he hanged himself.”
Bud said, “Not unless he zipped himself up in a sleeping bag with a bunch of brown recluse spiders first.”
I watched Johnstone closely, and he did look initially shocked, then revolted. But who wouldn’t?
“Are you joking again, Detective, or is that true?”
That annoyed Bud, and he’s as easygoing a guy as I ever worked with. “I don’t joke about murder victims, sir. This man was tortured to death and that’s not funny.”
“Did I understand you to say he was in a sleeping bag full of spiders? My God, that’s. . .”
Words escaped him, so I provided some.
“. . . something a devil worshipper might do, maybe even a disciple of Satan. Maybe even somebody who liked to wear those red masks you’ve got up there on your wall. I guess none of your brilliant students requested a class on how to murder a teacher, did they?”
Johnstone studied me as if I were a nasty little roach that he wished to smash under his chilly bohemian sandals. “You know what, detectives? I believe we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here.”
Yeah. About a size-eighteen wrong foot. “Could be.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. Truthfully I was a little insulted to hear the two of you making fun of my students.”
“We weren’t making fun of your students. But it does interest me as to why you’d offer a class that discusses evil with troubled teenagers. Looks like that’s just asking for more trouble, don’t you think?”
“You misunderstand the purpose of the class, I think, Detective Morgan. It’s not a class about the devil or evil. In fact, that subject is rarely discussed. It teaches about pagan religions and the evil influences within them, as well as the Inquisition and other periods where the church committed heinous acts in the name of God. It acts to balance our other classes in that area, angelology and comparative religions. We have independent studies on all the major religions of the world, as well, including Wicca.”