“I did,” he said.
“And you didn’t even think to tell me about it?”
He put the mug aside. “We just found out this morning. I’m waiting for the test results on the hair and blood.”
“How did Margaret Allen find out?” I asked.
“She’s a beat reporter. They have their sources.”
I thought Rhodes might have considered the information important enough to pass on to me. “You could have called me. If you don’t share leads with me, I can’t possibly do my job. The entire newsroom knows about the bat. I’m writing the column, yet nobody thought to tell me.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “But we only found out about this a short time ago. And we can’t publish anything until the police confirm …”
“How can I write about Whitley without even knowing about the murder weapon?”
“You’re whining, Colleen.”
“I’m not whining. I’m making a point.”
“You’re making noise. The next time I get information, I’ll pass it on to you immediately.”
Satisfied with what would be as close to an apology as I’d ever get from Ken Rhodes, I took out a notepad from my pocketbook. “Is there anything else you neglected to tell me?”
“Only that you should be hounding Ron Haver and anyone else you know at the prosecutor’s office for information.”
“I don’t know anyone else up there.”
“How about the local police?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Find a way to make friends with them. Do you have any old connections, prior arrests by a friendly cop, anything like that?”
“Not so much as a parking ticket,” I said. “How about Stanley Da Silva? Is there anything special you’d like me ask when I interview him?”
“Start with the usual—dates, times, the cost of his basketball camp. You can bet he’ll charge a small fortune to share his expertise. After you cover the particulars, shift to his background. Dig into his past—he had a place on the high school team when they could actually win a game. That should loosen him up, make him more talkative.”
I started writing. Ken leaned forward.
“Then drop the big one. Ask him how it feels to be the only living nominee at the high school for the Teacher of the Year award now that Whitley’s dead.” Ken laughed. “Do it right and you’ll get a couple seconds of honest unguarded reaction.”
“Yeah—and make me sound about as sensitive as Kevin Sheffield.”
“The vice principal?” Rhodes asked.
“He acted like a callous clod at the memorial service when I asked him about the faculty losing Whitley.”
“Can you talk to him, too? Find out how well he got along with Whitley?”
“How do I fit a vice principal into a basketball clinic story?” I asked.
“Did Sheffield ever play basketball? What does he think of Da Silva’s coaching skills? I know what you think of them.”
“The Harbor Sharks are as bad at basketball as my kid’s team is at baseball.”
Rhodes laughed. “And Da Silva helps coach them, too. I think I see a pattern here.”
I returned the pad to my pocketbook. “I’m heading up to the high school now. Maybe I can catch Da Silva during a free period. I’ll let you know about Kevin Sheffield.”
“And the Vernon woman,” Rhodes reminded me as I left his office.
Meredith called out to me when I passed her desk. “Colleen! Don’t forget Domingo’s!”
I walked back to her cubicle and pulled out my notebook. “Who’s Domingo? Did he know Jason Whitley?”
Meredith rolled her eyes. “Your restaurant review for our Cinco de Mayo theme? Domingo’s Enchilada Palace? It’s due tomorrow morning!”
I sighed. “I forgot all about it. I haven’t been there yet, and I have a million things to do.”
“I guess your new column is more important than my stories,” she sniffed.
“Can you extend the deadline for just one day, Meredith?” I pleaded. “It’s too late to get anyone to come with me. I don’t want to go there and eat all alone. I know I’m in a pitiful state, but I’m not that pathetic just yet.”
“I need time to edit the section in the morning before it goes to pagination tomorrow afternoon. It has to be tonight. Hey, I’m free for dinner. I’ll go with you. They have great margaritas.”
Just what I needed—a kid editor with a penchant for margaritas tagging along on a Mexican restaurant review. At least I wouldn’t have to go to Domingo’s alone. “If I didn’t have to write this place up for a story, I’d drink you under the table,” I told her.
* * *
Tranquil Harbor Regional High School was a marvel of concrete cinderblock when it was constructed in 1964. Two wings had been added in recent years, as well as a separate girls’ gym. The building consisted of numerous, maze-like hallways that led to classrooms and offices. It had been years since I roamed the hallowed halls. I found myself lost after I turned two corners in search of the teachers’ lounge.
“Mrs. Caruso?” a woman called from the open doorway of one of the smaller offices that lined a narrow corridor.
I peeked inside and knew exactly where I was—the guidance wing.
“Hi, Miss Vernon.”
“You look a little lost,” she said.
Betty Vernon kept Maybelline’s profits sky-high. Her lips were tangerine, her cheeks jaundice-bronze, and her mascara-caked lashes would make Lady Gaga green with envy. She dressed like an extraterrestrial—an orange-and-blue wrap-around dress, orange stockings, and orange sling-back heels. A polka dot scrunchie kept her unruly spiral curls in check.
“I thought this hallway led to the teachers’ lounge,” I said. “I need to speak to Mr. Da Silva.”
“I think he has a class right now.”
I seized the moment. “Are you busy, Miss Vernon?”
Betty placed a book on an already overflowing shelf and came to the door. “I have a few minutes if you’d like to discuss Sara.”
Sara’s marks had gone into a free fall over the past month or so. English, her favorite subject, had taken a nosedive. She’d failed Algebra II the previous marking period, so Jason Whitley was bound to come up without me broaching the subject.
I sat down at Betty’s desk and waited for her to bring up Sara’s file on her computer.
“I don’t understand how a bright girl like Sara could let her grades slip so low,” the guidance counselor said, referring to my daughter’s transcript. “All her grades fell off last marking period. But Sara’s problems started with Algebra II—Mr. Whitley’s class. She’s been having trouble with it since first marking period.”
“Mr. Whitley made her nervous,” I volunteered.
“He had that effect on people. Whitley was especially hard on girls, though there are other girls in Sara’s class who aren’t failing.”
“Why was he hard on girls?” I asked.
Miss Vernon looked away from the computer screen and folded her hands on the desk. Her blue polished fingernails were the height of tacky.
“He had this male superiority thing,” she told me.
“Charming guy.”
“Actually, he was charming. Extremely attentive in a superficial way. He held open doors for women. Pretended to listen. But he didn’t like women, didn’t think they were equal to men, and definitely didn’t think they deserved respect, despite the good manners. He was a …”
“Chauvinist?” I suggested.
“A moron.”
There wasn’t much love lost between the guidance counselor and Jason Whitley, but how much had Betty Vernon hated him? Enough to kill him? “You didn’t think much of him, Miss Vernon?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But I thought …”
“Whitley was an interesting diversion, nothing more,” she told me. “The world is filled with all kinds of interesting diversions.”
I tried to hide my shock. “I guess he wouldn�
��t be the first guy who was good horizontally, but a jerk vertically.”
Betty Vernon smirked.
“I didn’t like him either,” I said.
“So I gather. I heard you threatened him at the parent-teacher conference. The whole faculty knows the story.”
Okay, my meeting with Whitley had gone a little further than a slight difference of opinion. I hinted at vigilante justice, Italian-style, if he didn’t stop picking on Sara. But it had only been a hint, not an all-out threat. My mother’s family was never in any way connected. Organized crime isn’t tough enough to deal with Stella Fleming.
“I never laid a hand on him,” I told Miss Vernon.
Betty Vernon saw through me like I was made of Saran Wrap. “Are you trying to find out if I killed Jason Whitley?”
“I’m here about Sara,” I lied.
“You’re here because you heard rumors about Jason and me.”
“Rumors are commonplace around here, aren’t they? You heard about the parent-teacher conference.”
“Your threat wasn’t a rumor. Two teachers were walking down the hallway and overheard your conversation with Jason. I hope you’re not trying to point the finger at me to divert suspicion from yourself.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” I told her.
“Neither did I,” she said. “I wasn’t Jason’s last fling. Find the mystery woman if you want to put your scorned-lover theory to the test. Can we get back to Sara’s problem now, or would you rather pursue this Jason Whitley thing a bit further?”
My sleuth time was over as far as Betty Vernon was concerned. “I guess we should get back to Sara. Her grades are awful, and she’s just about done for the year in algebra. Is there anything we can do about it?”
“It depends on why she’s failing,” she said. “She might not have a head for algebra.”
“But she aced Algebra I last year. How can that be?”
Betty Vernon shrugged. “Different teacher. Different style of teaching. I’ve never observed Mr. Da Silva in a classroom setting, but maybe he has a knack for reaching his students.”
“And Jason Whitley didn’t have that?” I asked.
“He didn’t coddle his students, I know that much. His teaching style was direct and no-nonsense—very different from Mr. Da Silva’s style, I’m sure. There are several students from Mr. Whitley’s class who are failing, and they all did extremely well in Algebra I last year. I know Jason was puzzled that these kids seemed to slip over the summer. He said they came to him with empty heads.”
“Odd,” I said. “But I think with my Sara, it had more to do with Mr. Whitley.”
“Yes, but he’s dead, and she’s still failing. Remember Sara’s vulnerable right now. Her world crashed down around her. Her father walked out on her and the family. That’s very traumatic, Mrs. Caruso. It is still Mrs. Caruso, isn’t it?”
“Technically,” I mumbled.
“Sara might be able to bring up most of her grades. If she does well on the finals, she shouldn’t have a problem. As you said, Algebra II is another matter. If she doesn’t bring her mark up and do well on the final, it’s either summer school or flunk the course. Not only will she lose credits, her grade point average will also be affected.”
It made my head spin. Sara had plans—not exactly on a grand scale, but her grade point average would affect her choice of college greatly.
“What is she interested in pursuing in the future?” Miss Vernon asked.
“This week? Who knows? She keeps changing her mind.”
Betty Vernon smiled, the first genuine one I’d seen her give. “Okay. She’s young. That’s normal enough. I’ll set up an appointment and have a heart-to-heart talk with her. Maybe I can get her to go to the math lab for some tutoring during her study hall.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said. “Now if you could direct me to Mr. Da Silva.”
She glanced at the clock over the guidance office door. “Classes are changing soon. Mr. Da Silva may have a free period. Let me see if I can get hold of him for you.”
Da Silva walked into Betty Vernon’s office when his class ended, chewing on a grainy-looking power bar.
“Lunch,” he explained.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Da Silva, but I’d like to schedule an interview for a story I’m doing on your upcoming basketball clinic.”
“How about a week from Thursday?” he said. “I have to stay late for a senior fundraiser anyway. Say about seven thirty? We can meet in my office. Boys’ gym.”
“Works for me,” I told him. I took out my notebook and wrote down the appointment.
“I would have preferred to be interviewed by the sports reporter, of course,” Da Silva told me. “It would go better talking to a guy who knows a little something about basketball.”
“It’s my assignment, Mr. Da Silva. You’ll just have to settle for me.”
Da Silva’s chin jutted out in a manly pout. “I guess any publicity’s better than nothing at all.”
I stood and smoothed the wrinkles from my slacks. Already about two miles beyond annoyed, I felt a bit nasty. The ex-jock algebra teacher deserved a verbal kick in the pants, the kind only a female reporter could provide, but I also knew it would have to wait until the scheduled interview a week from Thursday.
Domingo’s Enchilada Palace awaited me.
9
Meredith lifted her third margarita to her lips as I slid into my seat at Domingo’s. Seated alone at a table for four, she munched on warm tortilla chips and hot salsa between salty sips.
“Your blouse matches your eyes,” she said, but it came out mashes your eyes.
I’d purposely chosen the blouse for the restaurant review. The gauzy, flowing azure fabric came down to mid-thigh, long enough to cover my hips. I didn’t really mind that the only thing the color did for my complexion was make me look anemic.
“Your blouse mashes your eyes, too.” I told her. “You might want to slow down on those drinks.”
She brushed tortilla crumbs off her red shirt and signaled the waiter. “You need a drink. Something exotic.”
I ordered my usual gin and tonic and surveyed the crowd. “This place is packed.”
Only the table next to ours remained unoccupied. The line of people waiting to be seated stretched out the door. Though I loved Mexican food, I never ate at Domingo’s. The parking lot always looked crowded, and patience—especially where food is concerned—was not one of my virtues.
The waiter brought over two menus and my gin and tonic. I removed the slice of lime perched on the rim of the glass and tossed it aside. Meredith lifted her half-full drink and clanked it against mine. “Here’s to a great review!”
“I’ve never done a review before,” I reminded her.
“I used to do them all the time. I can help you. Did you bring a pad and paper?”
“Of course I did.” I pulled a steno pad from my pocketbook and found an uncapped pen.
“Start with the décor, Colleen. What do you think about it?”
I studied the room, as if the loud colors and ridiculously staged Mexican props needed scrutiny to be noticed. “It’s ostentatious, gaudy, tawdry, obtrusive …”
“Did you memorize every negative adjective in the thesaurus? How about something positive like ’fessive,” Meredith slurred.
I reached over and took her drink away. “The word is festive and you really need to eat something.”
“I’m fine,” Meredith told me. She sat up straight and grabbed a warm tortilla chip. “As a matter of fact, I’m a lot finer than I was five minutes ago.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because Ken Rhodes is here,” she said. “He’s standing over there in the takeout line.”
Across the restaurant, people stood to place orders at the shocking-neon-orange counter. Ken Rhodes was at the end of line.
I shook my head. “I’m in no mood for him.”
“How could you not be in the mood for that?” Meredith s
aid, her voice loud enough to qualify as an authentic Irish whisper.
Rhodes turned and looked in our direction as if mental telepathy told him he was a topic of conversation. He came over to our table and pulled out a chair. “Good evening, ladies. I know you don’t mind if I join you.”
Meredith, ever the predictable soul, flushed and giggled.
“You need to switch to water,” I told her. I signaled the waiter.
Meredith didn’t realize there were no water glasses on the table. She reached for my drink and took a gigantic gulp.
“Whoa!” she said. “That’s not right!”
I took the glass away. “Of course it’s not right. You just mixed three margaritas with gin and tonic.”
I urged Meredith to eat a few more tortilla chips until the waiter came to take our orders. At the table next to ours, the hostess seated a couple—two people who shouldn’t simultaneously exist on the same planet, let alone sit at the same table.
Kate, my kid sister … and Ron Haver.
“What are you doing here?” I looked at Kate.
“I’m going to have dinner. What did you think I was doing here? Turning tricks?”
Ron Haver laughed.
Haver was one of the most straight-arrow guys I’d ever known. He simply didn’t go with Kate. My golden-haired sister’s delicate features, like a young Grace Kelly in her pre-Rainier days, in no way matched her personality. Her eccentricities could not be dismissed, even with her classic looks.
Enthralled with high fashion, Kate had opened a trendy boutique called Superior Attitudes four years ago. The store carried lines from dozens of overpriced designers and catered to the nouveaux riches—mostly the wives, squeezes, and current significant others of area doctors, lawyers, and Wall Street honchos. Kate’s clients, as she liked to call them, all weighed about twenty pounds soaking wet, wore size 0, and were filled with so much Botox that their foreheads appeared permanently preserved for posterity. Kate moved easily among their crowd, but her past romances with men like Scrub Callahan and Mongo Mike, who had a monstrous image of Satan tattooed across his hairy back, forever barred her from her clients’ social circles. Still, she looked gorgeous in pricey Joe’s Jeans, nosebleed heels, and a breezy mauve top.
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