A Lesson in Foul Play: A Cozy Mystery Book

by Cynthia Raye

  “As I was trying to comfort her, two of Sylvia’s followers came by, stopped when they saw us, and started to giggle.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  Ronni interrupted. “I think it means that they thought that the name-calling was funny.”

  “You have no evidence that this is what happened. That they would be laughing a something like that. I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, Ronni, but I think you’re reading a lot into something that simply doesn’t exist.”

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Ronni stood abruptly. She turned and strode quickly into the hallway. She was surprised at Hostetler’s anger. He usually supported the teachers. At least that’s what other teachers had told her. He’d been very friendly in welcoming her to the faculty and always had a smile when they met in the hall.

  Chapter 5

  Ronni was upset as she left the office. She hadn’t been trying to get Sylvia into trouble. Rather, the opposite. She was hoping Hostetler would agree to keep an eye on her and then try to provide help for her. Yet, he was blinded by the pretend Sylvia: the good girl who would never deliberately do anything wrong.

  She sighed as she gathered up her lesson plans and books and walked to class. She admitted to herself that she certainly wasn’t in the mood to teach. At least improv was fun. Maybe the class itself would help get her into a better mood.

  Ronni decided she’d try to talk to Emma in her office after class and see what she thought about Sylvia. That is, if Emma even would agree to talk with her.

  In class, she asked the students to portray the animals each had chosen. As usual, Carlos did the most outstanding job, hands clasped in front of him, elbows sticking out. He sank to the stage floor and stayed very still. Quickly, his head jerked to the right and the back to face the auditorium.

  Now his head jerked the other way. For a moment again, he became very still. Then his head jerked quickly up and down a few times. Hands still clasped, he raised his arms. With quick, jerking motions, he bit at his arm again and again. In a few seconds he spread his arms out to the limit, stood, and ran toward the step, his arms flapping up and down.

  It was pretty apparent he was imitating a bird.

  Sylvia did well too. She lowered herself to all fours, then scurried a little ways Stage Right where she pretended to pick up something with her mouth. She turned and crossed to Center again. Carefully, she lay down the pretend thing she carried. She repeated the movement again and again, going to different areas of the stage and bringing the imaginary object back Center.

  After she laid each piece on the floor, she nudged it with her head until she had it in the right position. She ended by bending over and pretending to drink something—water obviously—from the stage floor. A beaver, building a dam and later taking a drink of water.

  “Emma,” Ronni called, as the class was leaving at the end of the period.

  Emma turned back toward her. “Yes, Ms. Adams.”

  “I’d like to talk to you, if it’s all right. I notice you also are free next period.”

  “I am. But what is this about? Am I in trouble for something?”

  “No, not at all.” Ronni drew in a breath and exhaled. “It’s about Sylvia.”

  “What about her? Is she in trouble?”

  “In case you need to do anything else this period, this won’t take long.”

  Emma nodded. “Okay.”

  “Thanks,” Ronni replied as she let Emma precede her out the door. Ronni led the way to her office and ushered Emma inside.

  “Would you like something? A Coke? A pastry?”

  Emma shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Please have a seat.” Ronni walked behind the desk and sat down. Emma took one of the chairs across from her.

  “I heard and saw some disturbing things about Sylvia yesterday.” She glanced into Emma’s face. “Now, if you don’t want to talk about this, I understand. Sylvia is your friend.”

  “It’s all right.” She sighed and shook her head. “I knew she was going to be found out sooner or later.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re talking about the things she does to other kids, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She learned forward in her chair. “I know you heard what some of the students in the acting class were saying about her.”

  Emma nodded.

  “The thing is that I heard them too.” She paused for a moment. “At first, I couldn’t believe they were talking about Sylvia.”

  “And you were surprised, right? Everyone would be, I’m sure. All the teachers. Those whose classes she’s taken.”

  “Shocked would be more like it. Of all the students I know, she’d be the one I’d choose last to do some of the things the others accused her of doing.”

  “Oh, she did them all right.” Emma bit her lower lip. “She’s always been like that.”

  “Why, Emma? Do you have any idea why?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’ve known her for a long time?” Ronni asked, surprised.

  “Since we were babies, practically.” She nodded. “We live just three houses away from each other, and our moms have been best friends since they were in college together at UCLA.”

  “I see. But you seem to be her only real friend.”

  “I think I am. She’s even nasty to the other girls who hang around her. Like they should be grateful she even acknowledges them.”

  “But you’re not like that, are you?” Ronni asked.

  Emma shook her head. “I certainly try not to be.”

  “How does she treat you? I’d guess not nearly like she treats other kids.”

  Emma shrugged. “We get along.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Partly, it means I’ve learned to overlook most of the nasty things she’s done.”

  “Nasty?” Ronni questioned.

  “Yes.” Emma looked as if she were somewhat ashamed to admit this.

  “For example?”

  “Little things… like saying I’m dumb. I’m too dumb to be in this school.” Again, the look of shame.

  “You certainly aren’t dumb! You can’t possibly think you are. You know, only the top students academically are admitted.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself when she starts in on me. But that’s the sort of thing I’ve pretty much learned to ignore, to overlook.” She glanced at Ronni and smiled. “Sometimes, it’s hard. But I try. But then she’ll do something really major that makes me never want to see her again.”

  “Can you give me an example?” Ronni asked.

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment. “Last year I took Mrs. Herbert’s scene design class. Our final project was to build a miniature a set, a model of a stage setting for a play we’d chosen. My play was Ionesco’s Rhinoceros.”

  Ronni nodded and smiled. “My favorite Ionesco play. Open to all sorts of interpretation in staging and setting.”

  “Anyhow, I spent hours constructing the set—making sure everything was exactly right.”

  “So what happened?”

  “As often is the case, Sylvia stopped by. This was the morning the project was due.” She exhaled a sharp breath. “She often comes by so we can ride to school together. Take the bus, or that morning, because of my set, a taxi, so as to keep the set from being jostled and damaged on the way. If the bus were as crowed as it usually was. Well, at least my intent was to take the taxi.”

  “But you didn’t?” Ronni asked.

  “I had my model on a little table in the hallway by the door. I leaned forward to pick it up. ‘What on earth is that!’ Sylvia said to me, her tone mocking.

  Emma glanced at Ronni, her eyes red. “I told her it was my final project. ‘It’s garbage, Emma. If you turn in something like that, you’ll be the laughingstock of the school.’ Then she turned to face me, her fist on her hips. ‘You know what I’d do if it were mine,’ she said. ‘Well, this is what I’d do.’ She smashed her fist down hard on the
top of the model and flattened at least half of it.” Emma shook her head, tears in her eyes.

  “What did you do, for heaven’s sake?” Ronni was very angry.

  “I ran to my room and slammed the door. A little while later I heard the outside door open and close. I decided I had to prove I’d done the work. I called another taxi and took the ruined model to school and immediately went to Mrs. Herbert’s office. I told her that I’d dropped it on the way. She didn’t believe me, of course, but she said she saw what I’d intended and what it should look like, and it didn’t affect my grade. In fact, contrary to what Sylvia had said, she gave me an A plus.” She shrugged. “So I guess it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “My heavens! And you’re still friends with Sylvia after something like that!” Ronni shook her head, outraged.

  “Oh, Sylvia apologized and apologized and apologized. Said she was very, very sorry and didn’t know why she reacted as she did. I knew her words were fake, but it was over with…and as I said, I got a good grade. Though Mrs. Herbert asked me several times how dropping the model could cause that much damage.”

  “And you’re still friends with Sylvia? I don’t understand.”

  Emma shrugged. “Habit, I guess, plus the fact that Mom would be really upset if she knew Sylvia and I weren’t friends anymore.”

  “Wow. But you aren’t really close friends then, are you?”

  “Maybe Sylvia thinks we are, but no, we’re not.” She bit her lower lip. “Sometimes I wish…”

  “What do you wish.”

  “That I’d never met Sylvia Hawkins.” She stood. “I want to return a couple of books to the library before my next class. Okay?”

  “Of course,” Ronni answered, feeling drained and very sorry for Emma and all the other students who were the target of Sylvia’s meanness.

  Chapter 6

  Ronni planned to work on blocking the first play of the year, Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie. She was responsible for directing three plays a year. She knew this one was a little ‘heavy’ for a high school production but thought her students were up to it. Already, she could see potential cast members in the acting class, and she was sure there were other capable students, as well.

  Mrs. Herbert already had designed the set, which Ronni loved. It was evocative of a by-gone era with lots of diaphanous curtains and curves, just right for the show, she thought, portraying an overall impression of vulnerability—particularly for Laura, but for her mother, as well.

  She’d already copied the script of the acting version, centered on sheets of typing paper, and bound them into a “prompt book,” in which she’d write stage directions—subject, of course, to change when the actual show was in rehearsal. She sat at her desk and opened the prompt book.

  Blocking a show—planning out the directions—to her, was like a puzzle that had to fit together just right. Of course, every director of the same show would find his or her own way of solving that puzzle; it was only important that things fit together effectively. She opened the book and got to work.

  Just about the time she was ready to take a break, her cell rang.

  “Hello,” she answered. “This is Ronni.”

  “Of course, it’s Ronni,” a voice answered. “How do I know that?” the person asked. “Because that’s the person I was calling.”

  It was Peter, her boyfriend. An estate attorney, a handsome man, age thirty-two; five years older than she was. He was a nice person, too. Courteous, considerate, placing her needs above his own. The thing was he was a little more serious about the relationship than she was. Maybe that would change, but they’d been dating for only about a month and a half, and she needed more time. But she was certainly willing to wait and see what happened.

  Peter came from a very wealthy family—a fact that was responsible for their meeting. At the end of August, Watson-Collins had a get-together with staff, faculty, and donors, a become-acquainted sort of thing. That’s where she and Peter met. His family, it seemed, was one of the biggest donors to the school. Peter himself had gone there before attending Stanford.

  The two of them found they had a lot in common—books and movies they both liked, spending time in coffee shops, discussing world events. And, of course, theater. They even discovered they had the same favorite writers—Arthur Miller and Edward Albee for more serious affairs and Neil Simon for comedy. Peter was astounded to discover that Ronni had appeared in a Broadway revival of a Neil Simon play.

  At the end of the get-together Peter had asked Ronni if she’d like to go to a nearby café. She had agreed, and that was the beginning.

  “Working hard?” Peter now asked.

  “What’s the stock answer? ‘Hardly working?’” She chuckled. “But that’s not true. I’ve been working on blocking The Glass Menagerie and I’m pretty much blocked out! I was just going to take a break.”

  “Good, because that’s why I called,” Peter said.

  “You knew I was going to take a break?” Ronni kidded.

  “I think we’re pretty well attuned to each other,” Peter said. “But no, the mind-reading thing hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “I’m not surprised because it hasn’t kicked up on this end yet either.”

  “Amazing,” Peter said. “At any rate, how about going out for a cup of coffee—or hot chocolate, or iced tea, or whatever you like?”

  “Sounds good. I could use a cup of coffee. And there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  She shook her head and then realize that of course, he couldn’t see her. “Something that happened at school. I tried to talk to Dalton Hostetler about it, but he doesn’t believe me. And I’m really concerned.”

  “Doesn’t sound good,” Peter answered, his voice filled with concern.

  “It’s isn’t.”

  “Okay. How about I pick you up in about fifteen minutes?”

  “See you then,” Ronni answered.

  They went to a little coffee shop on Third, a few blocks from where Ronni lived. It was one of her favorite places—where she often went to do lesson plans or work on grading papers.

  “Ronni,” a waiter greeted her. “Good to see you.” He was in his late twenties with blond hair and an infectious smile. “And you too, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Hugh, how are you? And incidentally, if we’re on a first-name basis, it’s Peter. Calling me Mr. Jackson makes me feel like an old man, my dad or my grandpa even.”

  The waiter smiled. “Sure thing, Mr. Ja— Peter.”

  “Now that we have all that settled…” Peter took Ronni’s hand and led her to a small table up against the wall. They both ordered cappuccinos.

  Once the waiter had left, Peter turned to Ronni. “So… You’re okay?” he asked.

  “Concerned, that’s all.”

  “Tell me about it.” He placed his hand on hers.

  She told him about Sylvia, about what she’d head the other students say, and about finding Millie Petrosky huddled in a corner.