She couldn’t imagine what she could have done to bring this sly retribution down on herself. If she enlarged the circle to include people who hated her because of incidents in her life as Twyla Burnside, there were any number of people who qualified as candidates. But it was clear that this campaign was against Anne DeWitt.
Then Anne caught at an elusive thought, a shining fish in the water. She stood absolutely still until she grasped the fish and looked at it. She stared into the middle distance, a peach silk blouse clutched in her hands.
What if it’s not me?
What if . . . “What if it’s for Holt?” she said out loud. She was not just a principal. She was Holt Halsey’s “girlfriend.” Though that bashful word hardly covered their relationship . . . which was very adult.
“Him, not me,” Anne said, the revelation striking her, giving off the ring of truth. She sat on the edge of the bed, the blouse forgotten in her hands, and examined this new idea. After looking at it from all sides, Anne felt certain she was right.
Holt had come to work at the high school a year after Anne, but he’d only revealed that he knew who she was much later. Holt could have done a lot of things before they’d become lovers. Something stirred in Anne, an alien feeling. She’d never thought about Holt’s previous amours.
She was going to have to pry.
Holt would be tired after the long afternoon practice, and the Panthers had a game the next day. She could tell Holt was surprised when she insisted that he stop by before he went home. But she told him she’d cook dinner, and a balanced meal during the season was irresistible.
Anne had prepared lemon chicken, rice, and asparagus. Holt was tired, hungry, and preoccupied with his best catcher’s bad knee, so they ate in near-silence. Anne didn’t mind: she understood being absorbed in a job.
Holt roused himself after he’d cleaned his plate. “What’s the occasion?” he said. He was rough hewn and large, but he was also clever and ruthless. Abruptly, Anne realized she was fond of him.
“Holt,” Anne said. “I had an idea today about this . . . series of ludicrous events.”
“What was it?” he said, looking more interested.
“Who would be angry that you were unavailable?” Anne said, her eyes intent on his face.
Anne had seldom taken Holt by surprise. She had this time.
“Ohhh,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You mean, because I’m seeing you? Someone I had a relationship with before you?” He had to think about it. “Carrie Ambrose,” he said after a long moment. Carrie was a divorced biology teacher. “And Lois, the nurse.”
Anne held herself still with an effort. Anne wouldn’t have thought Carrie would appeal to Holt, since she was what Anne thought of as “fluffy.” But she’d been wrong, obviously. And Lois . . . that was really unexpected. “Anyone else?” she said quite calmly.
“Melayna Tate,” he said. An emotion passed over his face quickly, too quickly for Anne to read it.
“You had some kind of relationship with these three women?”
“No,” he said. “We had sex.”
Anne knew Lois best of the three. And she felt that if Lois was dreaming up this elaborate plan against her, Lois was deeper than she’d ever given her credit for being. But the nurse was an intelligent woman. It was possible. Carrie Ambrose had been dating a man in Travis for a while, at least as long as Anne could remember. Melayna Tate was the girls’ basketball coach. Anne did not know Melayna very well: Melayna’s team won often enough, the parents seemed content, so Anne had had no reason to observe the coach closely.
“The person in the security footage could be Melayna or Lois,” Anne said. “I think they’re more likely than Carrie. Whoever hung the sign, she swarmed up that ladder. Carrie isn’t muscular, and she’s heavier. Tell me about Melayna and Lois.” She waited, her hands folded.
“You’re too smart to be sensitive about Melayna or Lois.” Holt sounded doubtful.
Anne said, “Yes, I am.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you quit having sex with them.”
Holt tried smiling back. “Lois is smart, and she has a good sense of humor, but I was not what she was looking for. I think she knew that too. She quit calling. Melayna was wild. And emotional. I had the feeling she was thinking of names for our children. She mentioned moving in with me after two dates.”
Anne didn’t comment on that. “So Lois and Melayna seem possible, but I should check out Carrie Ambrose,” she said. “Whoever it is, she wants to discredit me. Apparently, she feels I took you away from her.”
Holt looked embarrassed. “They should know better,” he said.
“Whoever. We need to shut her down,” Anne said. “Because the superintendent is asking pointed questions. The teachers and the kids are laughing at me. It’s going to take me a long time to rebuild my standing.”
“If we expose her,” Holt said, “that would clarify the blame.”
“Principal, coach, and another school employee, caught in a love triangle? Not good.”
“This has to stop, and it should be explained somehow. What if . . . what if you weren’t the only person she was trying to smear?”
“That would dilute the situation,” Anne said slowly. “And take the spotlight away from me.”
“So, who’s our choice?”
“Let’s make it a man.” Anne smiled. “What about Ross Montgomery? The middle school principal? He’s a douche.”
“Ross? Perfect.” Holt looked happier by the second. “How can I help? My game and practice schedule right now…”
“I understand,” Anne said calmly. “You can leave it to me.”
Ross Montgomery had a hell of a week. He’d been the middle school principal in Travis for fifteen years, and he planned to die in harness there. He’d gotten things just the way he liked them, as he told everyone who would listen. His assistant did most of the work, Ross could bully his secretary (which made him feel important), and the kids weren’t too bad since most of them were small enough to be cowed.
Ross drove into the staff parking lot just before the first bell on a Wednesday. He saw no point in getting there any earlier. As he strode up the sidewalk to the front door, he noticed a clump of students pointing and looking up. Naturally, he looked up too. The banner (which had started life as a white sheet) hanging between the US flagpole and the state flagpole had blue painted writing; it looked the same as the pictures of the one left for Anne DeWitt, Ross remembered. ROSS DATES DONKEYS, this one read.
Ross had had a few belly laughs about Anne DeWitt’s problem, along with a lot of other people. Now the shoe was definitely on the other foot.
Though the damn kids weren’t supposed to have cell phones, of course some did. Before Ross could confiscate the phones, at least three children had taken pictures and sent them. There was never any way to hide anything now!
In the ensuing week, Ross Montgomery received ten fifty-pound bags of manure, dumped in the schoolyard despite his protests. Ross loathed the Clemson Tigers with a mighty passion, which was no secret. He found stuffed tigers of all descriptions hanging from the trees in his front yard when he got up on Monday morning. One was glued to his front door.
Ross called Anne DeWitt later that day. She was the one person uniquely qualified to sympathize with him, he figured. Ross forgot all the sly remarks he’d made about Anne’s “first husband,” her black bouquet, and the sign over the high school entrance . . . and of course, the stripper. If he expected Anne to exhibit some collegial feeling, Ross was sorely disappointed.
Not only did Anne DeWitt offer no sympathy, she barely responded to his complaints. “Sorry, Ross. I’m really snowed under today,” she said. “It won’t last forever.” Ross didn’t know if she meant the work or the persecution.
The same police detectives visited Ross, Nedra Crosby and Leland Stroud. They reviewed security footage of the middle school and only discerned a slim person about five foot eight, swaddled in sweat pants, a ski m
ask, and a hoodie. The person arrived with a step stool and all the other materials needed to hang the banner, and that was that. Quick in and out, no shot of the face. During the tiger-hanging incident, Ross’s neighbors had seen nothing. And the individual who’d paid for the manure had left a note and cash to book the delivery. The note had been signed in a good imitation of Ross’s signature.
The smart-ass remarks and the derision switched from Anne to Ross Montgomery. As all the other school principals in the area realized they could be targeted next, the laughter died down and the worry started up.
After four days, Anne judged the right effect had been achieved.
She’d been gathering information about Lois Krueger, Carrie Ambrose and Melayna Tate, of course, including a look at their employment records. She laid her plans. She would set them in motion the next day, after she attended the funeral of the husband of one of the bus drivers.
Anne was definitely in the mood to tackle a problem. The funeral home director had caught Anne in a corner to urge her to make “pre-need” arrangements.
So Anne requested that Carrie come in to Anne’s office to talk about the lab equipment, which Carrie had complained was inadequate.
Their discussion was short and to the point. Though Carrie was not the brightest teacher at Travis High, she knew her math. Carrie could prove that there wasn’t enough basic equipment to go around, and knew the percent of breakage every year. Anne agreed to find enough money in the budget to bring the lab up to par. It was a cordial meeting. Anne carefully maneuvered the conversation to cover first husbands, dating, and Carrie’s hometown.
“Bowling Green,” Carrie said. “My former husband got a job here, so off we went.” She shrugged. “But I’m not sorry. It’s nice in Travis.”
“You’ve taught in Bowling Green and Travis, nowhere else?” Anne said casually.
“No,” Carrie said. “Seven years altogether, though.”
As Carrie got up to leave, Anne said, “Didn’t you date Holt Halsey?”
Of course Carrie knew that Anne was seeing Holt now; everyone at the school knew that. But Carrie’s expression stayed uninterested. “Oh, for about five minutes,” she said. “I’ve been seeing Mack McCormick for a year now. You know him? The manager at Chili’s?”
Anne was convinced she could strike Carrie Ambrose off the very short list, unless Carrie turned out to be a superlative actor.
That left Lois Krueger or Melayna Tate. Anne had read every word of Lois’s record, and the nurse’s office was close to Anne’s. It was easy to find a chance to talk to Lois, and Anne felt the time was right when Lois came into the office to report a student who’d developed symptoms of what looked horribly like measles. Lois had called the boy’s mother, who’d come to get him to take him straight to the doctor. They’d find out later.
“Good call, Lois,” Anne said.
Lois looked at her doubtfully. “Anne, what else was I going to do? Tell him to go back to class?”
Anne had hit a false note. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m so used to cheering on the kids that it’s leaking over into my conversation with adults.”
Lois relaxed. In a moment, they were laughing together over Ross Montgomery’s takedown.
Anne just couldn’t picture Lois doing everything her persecutor had had to do. For one thing, Lois had a child, a ten-year-old girl. That would make it hard (though not impossible) for Lois to sneak around with secret payments or a stepladder.
If the persecutor wasn’t Carrie or Lois, barring the discovery of some secret, ardent Holt fanatic, Anne was reasonably sure that Melayna Tate was the woman she was after. Anne could think of no justification for calling Melayna to her office. The basketball coach was popular with her talented team, and she was a competent teacher; more than Anne could say for most coaches.
To make absolutely sure she had treed the right raccoon, Anne arranged for her path to cross Melayna’s when they were on outside duty during the senior lunch period. The weather was beautiful, so most of the kids went to the covered picnic table area in the few minutes they had after eating in the cafeteria. Anne wandered over to the coach, who was staring into space.
When Melayna woke from her daydreaming to find Anne was standing beside her, her whole posture altered. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Melayna snapped. Obviously, she thought better of her words the minute they left her mouth. She looked away, her jaw hard because her teeth were clenched. Anne knew that body language.
It was something of a revelation to Anne, all the feelings that welled up inside her at that moment of clarity.
“I believe I can go where I like in this school,” Anne said calmly.
After a visible struggle, Melayna regained control. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was off in the clouds somewhere. You startled me.”
“Yes,” Anne said, and moved away at a calculated angle. Anne could see Melayna’s face reflected in a classroom window. It was tense and taut with strong emotion. One of Anne’s instructors had called such an open display of feeling “showing your ass.”
Anne strolled away, suppressing her smile. Objective acquired.
Anne called Melayna Tate’s previous school at a tiny town in South Carolina. She talked to the principal, a cordial man who knew Melayna’s whole extended family. “Melayna’s volunteered to be on the staff counseling service,” Anne said. She’d just made that service up. “We just wondered if she were strong enough?” Anne let the question trail off. “Since she was in therapy herself, she told me,” Anne said, following a hunch.
“Well, yes,” Mr. Sherman said unhappily. “Melayna was a student here before she became a teacher. She had a problem with her mother’s remarriage. It took her a long time to adjust to Jay Tate as her father. But she got over that! Then, after her senior year, she had trouble with her boyfriend. He transferred to another college, and she, ah, took it wrong. But getting help is a sign of health. I hope she’s feeling well now? I haven’t said too much?”
“She’s got a solid record here,” Anne said reassuringly. “Her name before she adopted the Tate name was Wilson?”
“Yes,” Sherman said, relieved. “The Wilsons are all . . .well, they’re, ah, interesting people. Very nice!”
That hadn’t been the first comment that had popped into Mr. Sherman’s mind. Anne would bet good money that Sherman had been about to say, “The Wilsons are all high-strung,” or “The Wilsons have had their share of nuts on the family tree.”
Of course, Wilson was a common name, and there was a small chance that Melayna Tate had no connection with Tom Wilson, the mentally ill man who had claimed to be Anne’s first husband. But Anne did not believe in small chances.
Anne worked out her course of action. She was smiling. That night, in the dark, Anne left her house.
The Travis Panthers had a home game the next afternoon. Anne was in the stands, as usual. Melayna was there too, perhaps because she could sit and watch Holt Halsey for a long time without anyone noticing.
Anne watched Melayna, perfecting her plan as she did so.
That night, around one a.m., Anne again crept into Melayna’s yard. She’d parked a mile away. She was wearing dark clothes, but not all black, just in case she was stopped. She didn’t want to look like a secret creeping ninja. She had prepared a backup story involving a broken down car, a lost cell phone, and her need to find the nearest person she knew for help. She could sell it, but she didn’t want to be obliged to do that.
Much better to be unseen.
Anne was uniquely qualified to do that. She enjoyed employing the craft she’d once taught others. She hadn’t realized how confined she’d felt, being in the public sight all the time, being Anne. She paused beneath a large magnolia, safe from observation. She allowed herself to relax and revel in being Twyla again. But then she thought of how Melayna had made a fool of Anne. And she had coveted Holt.
I’ll kill her, Anne thought. To hell with the plan. The reckless joy she felt was as pure an emotion
as she possessed.
Anne had told Holt that she was not jealous, and she had thought she meant it.
She’d been lying.
It wasn’t that Holt had had sex with Melayna Tate. That was immaterial. It was that Melayna presumed to think she had a prior claim on Anne’s man.
Anne closed her eyes and breathed deep. This was no time to go off track. She recognized her conflict, dealt with it, controlled it. She would stick to the plan. When Anne was sure she’d regained her control, she proceeded.
Melayna had no security system. She lived in a home built around 1950. Though the windows were stiff and noisy, the back door was easy to finagle, for someone with Anne’s skills. Anne swept through the small house like a dark wind. She knew the floor plan well. She’d scouted the house the previous night. She moved silently into Melayna’s bedroom.
After checking to make sure Melayna was soundly asleep, Anne propped something up against the alarm clock on the night table.
The next day, Melayna Tate was late for her first class. When she arrived at the school, she was not only disheveled, but distracted. She jumped at any sudden noise, and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on her players at practice. Melayna asked Coach Jennifer Lee if she could spend the night at Lee’s house.
After a couple of days, the basketball coach was a little better. She resumed sleeping at home, but she got new locks and a security system.
After a month, rumors circulated that Miss Tate had applied for two jobs elsewhere in the state, one at Travis’s chief rival, Powell High.
A week later, when Melayna caught Holt alone in his small office, she said, “You haven’t even congratulated me on my move for next year.”
“You took a job somewhere else?”
“Yeah, at Powell. This is my last semester here.”
“Best of luck,” Holt said, with a polite smile, and went back to his computer.
Melayna made a noise like a sob when she walked away. But Holt did not look up.
“She felt pretty bad,” Holt concluded, when he was telling the story to Anne. They were eating dinner at Holt’s townhouse condo. He’d volunteered to grill.
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