Dark Places

by Linda Ladd

  “Sure. Same back to you, Black.”

  He laughed, and then he hesitated again, longer this time. I listened to the snappy music until he finally came out with it. “Listen, Claire, if you have one of those bad dreams, remember how we do it, just take deep breaths and keep the light on.”

  I hadn’t had the nightmare in a while but maybe that was because Black was usually in bed with me, and we both had loaded guns under our pillows. He had moved into therapist mode, however, so I played along. “Quit worrying about me. I slept alone most of my life. It’s not going to kill me.”

  “That’s right, but it’s killing me.”

  I had to smile. He had definitely said the right thing. “You’ll live until we meet again. Watch those naked dancers and think of me.”

  “I don’t have to watch anybody to think of you, and they’re not completely naked. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow and see what you find out about the devil worshippers. Maybe there’s a chapter in my new book about this. Remember, duck and weave and check your bed for spiders.”

  We said our good-byes, but his last remark lingered. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to slipping between those soft satin sheets by my lonesome, but I’d definitely heed his advice about unwanted eight-legged bed partners. Okay, so I was definitely spooked. But who could blame me?

  ELEVEN

  By eight thirty the next morning Bud and I were back at the academy ready to wrap up our interviews. The snow had dwindled down to mere spitting during the night, an evening I spent enjoying the new toys Black had given me, but alone, and thankfully without a single brown recluse in sight. They were all probably frozen for the winter, if spiders freeze, which made me wonder where the hell the perp had gotten so many lively, venomous spiders to kill with. I do hope Harve comes up with some good background stuff on the life and times of arachnids.

  We avoided White Building and its resident Jesus impersonator and made our way down to Red Building, which I suppose would be the appropriate place to study Lucifer and other hellish subjects. The sun was out, the sky a brilliant blue that tempered the windchill some but still brought out the blush in my cheeks. In Bud’s, too. Lots of kids were out building snowmen and pelting snowballs at each other, like regular teens with regular intelligence instead of mad geniuses.

  Inside Red Building a skinny black-haired girl wearing faded jeans and a red Santa Claus sweatshirt was sitting in the stairwell sketching the distant forested hills. She looked about thirteen. Bud asked her where we could find Stuart Rowland, Devil Instructor. She laughed and pointed down the hall. “He’s at the far end. The office with the crossed pitchforks and flames coming out the door.”

  So now the kids were comedic geniuses. We walked down the tomato-red hall, looking for fire. Instead, we found Rowland sitting behind a black desk in an office that looked a lot like Classon’s except it was a cheerful shade of scarlet. He was a small man, probably late thirties, dressed in a gray cardigan sweater with an open-necked green shirt and blue jeans. He had on snow boots and wore round tortoiseshell glasses that made him look scholarly. He had shaggy dark hair and looked like the kind of teacher female students would flirt with.

  “Stuart Rowland?”

  He glanced up from the Dell laptop computer he was typing on. He immediately looked wary, slapped down the lid of his laptop, and jumped to his feet. “You’re from the sheriff’s office, aren’t you?”

  He probably guessed that by the big yellow letters spelling out SHERIFF on the back of our parkas and the badges hanging around our necks. “That’s right. I’m Detective Morgan and this is Detective Davis.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard all about you. Both of you.”

  I guess he didn’t want Bud to feel left out. “Is that right?”

  “Oh, yes. You wouldn’t believe the rumors flying around campus. I guess you’ve deduced I killed Simon because of this class I teach, right? Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree, I can tell you that.”

  Bud looked at me. “Well, Morgan, I guess that answers all of our questions. Guess we can shut down the case and blow this place.”

  Bud and his razor wit. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Rowland. We’re just interviewing Mr. Classon’s colleagues here at the academy.”

  “I understand that, of course. I just want you to know right off the cuff that I’m not involved in any way, form, or fashion in what happened to that man.”

  That man. With a definite disgusted ring. “Might we sit down, sir? Have a little chat?”

  Rowland looked around, nervous as the proverbial feline, maybe more so, then he put one finger to his lips and gave us some interesting hand signals. Clearly, he thought his office was bugged. Uh-oh. Shades of paranoia, maybe with a little schizophrenia thrown in. Bud and I watched Rowland quickly bundle his small frame into a tan James Bond belted overcoat and a sissy pink-and-orange-paisley fringed scarf. Academia cool. He motioned us to follow, and we did, outside the nearest exit to a small patio with round wrought-iron tables covered by a good foot of snow. Nobody else in sight. Wonder why?

  “Is there a reason you wanted us to interview you out here, Mr. Rowland?”

  “Because, detective, my office is bugged by the director. He’ll deny it, of course, but hidden cameras are everywhere. Hidden microphones, too. This place is not what it appears on the surface.”

  Boy, tell me about it. “Why do you say that, Mr. Rowland?”

  “Because I’ve worked here long enough to know that if you don’t play the director’s game, and, yes, Classon’s, too, you get canned. They rule this place like two kings and they squash people that stand up to them like ants under their thumbs.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  Rowland gave a snort. “Too long. I’ve got my résumé out everywhere. I want to leave. Anybody with an ounce of integrity has already gotten out of here.”

  “I see. What can you tell us about Simon Classon?”

  To our surprise he began to hum the Wicked Witch song from The Wizard of Oz. Rowland said, “Know what that is? Classon’s theme song. Everybody hums it under their breath when they see him coming. Perfect, isn’t it, for a bastard like him? Prissy little shit.”

  He shook a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and kept glancing around. Paranoia Man.

  Bud said, “So you didn’t much care for the victim?”

  “I’m telling you that Simon Classon was the worst human being who ever set foot on this earth. He demeaned everybody he ever met, that’s all he did, all day long, demean other people, tear them down, and you know why? So he could build himself up. Talk about insecure, that man was threatened by anybody nice or good-looking or happy, yeah, especially happy. He couldn’t stand anybody to be happy. If he couldn’t be happy, nobody better be. Forget the smiles, the good mornings, forget anything but kissing his ass.”

  So there you go.

  A big fan of Butch Cassidy, Bud said, “Quit sugarcoating it, Rowland. Tell us like it is.”

  “Sorry, but I get so pissed off just thinking about Classon. Yeah, I’ll say it, sure I will. I’m glad that bastard is dead. I wish I could have hung him up in that tree and watched him strangle in that noose. It would’ve made my day, hell, it would’ve made my year, my life, for God’s sake.”

  Bud glanced at me, then said, “Okay sir, let’s try to take it down a notch. I mean, all this is making you sound guilty.”

  “I know that, detective.” Sarcasm. “I’m just being honest. I was honest with Simon. He knew I hated his guts. That’s why he saddled me with that asinine paganism class.”

  “He suggested the class?”

  “Suggested?” Rowland laughed, as contemptuous a sound as I’ve ever heard. “He didn’t suggest shit. He ran this place. Johnstone’s nothing but a figurehead here, a pawn, not smart enough to know he’s Classon’s puppet. Simon used Johnstone’s vanity and played him like a freakin’ fiddle.”

  Well, now, a man who likes his similes can’t be all bad. “You believe that Mr.
Classon ran this school?”

  “Oh, yeah. Ask around, but everybody here’s so damned scared, they probably think he’ll come back from the dead and get them fired.”

  Bud said, “Mr. Rowland, man, you gotta chill before you have a stroke or somethin’.”

  “What do you mean? This’s the happiest I’ve been in the six years I’ve worked at this hellhole.”

  “Okay. Really, we’ve got to calm down now. There’s no need to get your back up so hard.” The words were hardly out when I cringed, expecting Bud to explain the derivation. I was not disappointed. Maybe he was only trying to get Rowland’s mind off Classon and onto something else.

  He said, “Rowland, you know where they got that saying about getting your back up?”

  “What?”

  “It goes way back to the Dark Ages and refers to the way cats arch up their backs and strut around on their toes.”

  Rowland scowled, blew out smoke. “So?”

  “Just thought it was interesting.”

  Rowland looked at me, obviously confused. I shrugged. “Bud’s got this book I gave him on phrase origins. It annoys me, too.”

  Rowland did not look remotely impressed, but he’d stopped spewing hatred, too. We remained silent as he pulled out a red Bic lighter, to match his office, I guess. He lit up and puffed like a crazed adder for several seconds.

  “All right, all right. Sorry I went off on you guys. I just have all this anger built up inside, rage, really, at what goes on around here. The only redeeming element in this school are the students, and hell, they’d be better off somewhere else, anywhere else. This place sucks all the positive energy out of people, makes them bitter and angry and frustrated.”

  “We’re beginning to notice that,” I said.

  “Good.” More puffing, interrupted at one point by a fit of congested hacking. Smoking sucks. People ought to wise up.

  I stepped out of the shade hugging the wall and into the blinding sun where the temperature wasn’t ten below zero. “It’s good you’ve calmed down, sir, because we need to ask some questions. Don’t freak out, please, but where were you on the night of December 16?”

  “That was Wednesday night, right? I usually have dinner alone at home. Sometimes my neighbors see me getting my newspaper at the curb, though. Sometimes they don’t. I’m not a social man. I can’t help that. I’ve never been.”

  Bud looked at me, and I said, “And that’s what happened on Wednesday? No one saw you or spoke to you?”

  “Wait, that was the night I slid my Mustang into the ditch.” He acted relieved. I could understand why. “I stayed here at my office on the futon. It’s rare for me to work late. I sure as hell don’t owe any loyalty to this hellhole.” He drew in on the Camel and the tip glowed red. “You know what that bastard Classon called me once over the phone, detective? A brat. Can you believe that? A grown man! I have a master’s degree, for God’s sake. I’m retired military and served my country honorably, and that asshole called me a brat. But hell, that’s his MO, he calls people terrible things, and everybody has to put up with it because he controls that idiot, Johnstone, in his stupid white suit and sandals.”

  I could see now why Rowland wanted to talk to us outside. The insults he was spitting out were pretty provocative.

  “He really call you a brat, no kiddin’?” Bud said. “I wouldn’t’ve liked that kinda crap, either.”

  “Yeah, and that’s mild to what he usually called me.”

  Bud’s brow was all furrowed and sympathetic and seemed to soothe Rowland’s ruffled feathers. “Tell you what, detectives, I’m sorry if I’m coming off like a jerk, but you know how it is, sometimes the truth’s got to come out. People around the lake need to know what goes on out here. Man, the morons that run the place need to be exposed for what they are, and then fired.”

  Right, and maybe Rowland was just the one to do it, starting with Simon Classon. I said, “Yes, sir. I understand how you must feel. Tell me, did you kill Simon Classon, Mr. Rowland?”

  Rowland gazed at me, apparently shocked. He blinked once and came out with a long, put-upon sigh. “Oh yeah, I’m glad you asked that. Yep, you got me cold. I did it. Couldn’t stand him being around me any more so I hung him out in the woods, then slid my car in the ditch so I’d be a prime suspect.”

  “Is that a confession, sir?”

  He stared hard at Bud then shook his head. “Are you kidding me? No, of course, I didn’t kill Classon. I was being sarcastic, ever heard of that?”

  Oh yeah, we’ve heard of it. And to think I thought we were good at it. “I wouldn’t be quite so cavalier with your police statements, Mr. Rowland. Somebody, like us, maybe, might believe you and take you in for murder one.”

  He sobered instantly. My threat was empty at this point, but Rowland didn’t know that. “Now, if I were you, Rowland, I’d find somebody to verify your whereabouts for the last few nights. Especially the night of December 16. Okay?”

  He frowned, stared across the quadrangle at Building White for a moment. “Okay. I just remembered that on the night I stayed here on campus, a custodian stuck his head in and asked me what I was doing.”

  “And this custodian’s name?”

  “Willie Vines. Yeah, you better check him out, too. He’s a weird duck, if I ever saw one. And that girl he hung with, too. Wilma. She took my class and was into all kind of weird shit, showed me this devil holding a pitchfork tattoo on her ankle. I liked her, though, but Classon didn’t. He didn’t like any custodians. In fact, rumor had it he accused Willie Vines of dealing dope to the students. Just FYI, you know.”

  Bud perked up. “You got any firsthand proof of that, Mr. Rowland?”

  “I don’t use, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s what I’m askin’, all right.”

  “I’m not into that shit, but lots of people around here are. Have to be, to keep showing up for work.”

  “Want to name a few of them for us?”

  “No.”

  We waited a few seconds for him to change his mind. He didn’t.

  I said, “All right. I guess that’s it for now, Mr. Rowland. But a word of advice. Get a grip on your temper. It doesn’t look good for you to lose control like you did today. It could even make us consider that you might lose control if you get angry enough, you know, and hurt somebody, even kill them.”

  “I didn’t kill Classon or anybody else. But I hated Simon, and I mean loathed him. You would’ve, too, if you’d known him when he was alive.”

  “Thank you for your time, sir.” Bud paused at the door. “And you know, don’t you, that there are people you can hire to debug your office? Might think about it.”

  “This place is so full of psychos, we’re trippin’ over them,” Bud said as we took leave of our newest and bestest suspect.

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Let’s go find this Willie Vines guy and see if Rowland’s right about him dealing drugs. Simon had a stash at his house, so maybe they were in cahoots and had a falling-out. Or maybe a rival supplier took Classon out as a warning.”

  “Drug dealers don’t give warnings with spiders.”

  “What about the old Colombian necktie?”

  “Slitting throats is quick and easy. This took a lot of time and effort.”

  “So the killer’s a sadist.”

  “You bet he is.”

  We found the custodian mopping the cafeteria. He looked a lot younger than I expected, more like the students laughing and talking in the serving line. Bud had the angelology roster, compliments of Christie the Fox. Cross-referencing had the same students taking paganism, too. We’d have to interview them all but first of interest was Willie Vines.

  “Mr. Vines?”

  Vines jerked around, startled. Then he grinned. “Don’t many people call me mister, not around here.”

  He was a cute kid, bushy hair, blond, so unruly it kinked up in tight ringlets. He’d look like Shirley Temple at ten if it was longer. He had blue eyes, bloo
dshot but watchful. He watched me introduce myself and Bud. His smile was white as the weather outside. Did everyone use Crest Whitestrips now?

  Willie said, “It’s about Mr. Classon, right?”

  “Yes. We’re interviewing all faculty and staff.”

  “Somebody finally got him, huh?”

  “That’s right. And we’re here to find out who.”

  “Do you think I did it?”

  “We don’t know who did it at this point, Mr. Vines. We’re trying to understand who does what around here.”

  “I thought he was a mean man but I wouldn’t never hurt him or nothin’.”

  “Why don’t we sit down somewhere? Over there in the corner, maybe? Do you have a few minutes to talk to us?”

  He propped his mop against the wall. “I guess so. But I’ll get in big trouble if the director catches me goofing off.”

  Bud said, “Hell, I’ll vouch for you. Everybody’s supposed to cooperate with us. How about a soda and cheeseburger while we talk? On me.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks.”

  “Make it three, Bud.”

  Willie Vines followed me to a table in the far corner. He looked uncomfortable, scared, even, but somehow pleased, too. “Ain’t really allowed to sit down in here. I can’t even go in some buildings to the water fountain. Even in the summertime when it’s burning hot.”

  “Sounds like you work for a bunch of jerks.”

  Willie rubbed his fingers across his thin blond mustache. His gaze darted around, and I noticed he had a habit of rubbing a discolored spot on his forehead, a birthmark, maybe? “Yeah, they’re jerks. Especially Dr. Johnstone.”

  “By the way, Willie, it’s okay if I call you Willie, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. Watchful, lots going on underneath that calm expression.

  “We talked to Mr. Rowland over in Red. He said you check the buildings every night. That true?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did he sleep in his office night before last?”

  Willie nodded. “Yeah. I check the exit by his office a coupla times a night, usually. I saw the light on and stuck my head in to see why he was there so late.”