Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

Was she serious? “Then there’s nothing a teacher can do about it. We tell kids what the rules are and hope they’ll follow them.” I put down the stencil. Reached for scissors.

  “Why should they follow the rules when their teacher doesn’t? ‘It’s helter-skelter in here.’” Becky mimicked Joyce. Looked around the room, frowning. “‘Everything’s clashing and competing for attention. You don’t even have a focal point.’”

  I grinned. “Focal point? What the hell does that even mean?”

  “No idea.”

  We laughed. Becky looked around. “It really is bright in here, Elle.”

  I tried to be objective. “Too much?”

  “No,” she managed. “It’s perfect.” Still laughing, she hugged me good-bye, reminded me of our weekend plans, and left me contemplating colored markers, letters, and star-shaped cutouts.

  I worked another hour, finishing the Superstars sign, fending off images of Ty and his dead father. It was around four thirty when I closed my classroom door. On the way out, I noticed the lights on in the principal’s office and stopped in to say hello, somehow not noticing the dark red smudges on the floor.

  Mrs. Marshall sat at her desk, arms at her side. Head tilted. Blouse drenched with blood.

  I stopped breathing. The walls swayed and, for the briefest moment, Mrs. Marshall became Charlie, my late husband. Her office became our study. Just as he had two years before, Charlie sat on the sofa, a knife in his back. Dead. I grabbed the doorframe, bit my lip, and the flashback faded. Charlie vanished, but Mrs. Marshall remained, her head slumped to the side, exposing a deep gash in her neck. Her empty eyes gazed at blankness, and her cheeks oozed crimson clots. Wait—had her face been cut?

  I didn’t move closer to find out. Didn’t move at all. My heart pummeled my ribs, adrenaline flooded my veins. I stood stunned, frozen, absorbing the sight. Move, I told myself. Do something. Finally, I did. I spun in a circle, looking for a killer, finding no one, just a dead elementary school principal with a mop of dyed dark curls and blood, lots of blood.

  Okay. I knew what to do: call the police. Right. My phone was somewhere in my bag. I opened it, started digging. Remembered that there were landlines in the office. Phones on the desk. I dropped my bag, took two steps forward, reached for Mrs. Marshall’s phone. Pushed a button for a dial tone, then 9-1-1.

  When someone picked up, I told him who and where I was, what had happened. My voice sounded disconnected, far away. The operator said that police were on the way. That I should stay on the line with him until they arrived. But no. I hung up, wasn’t comfortable staying there with Mrs. Marshall. Sarah Lorraine. Those were her names, not that I’d ever used either one. No one had, as far as I knew. No, staying there with her was way too intimate. Mrs. Marshall wouldn’t want a staff member with her at such a private moment. She didn’t mix with staff, didn’t warm up and chat or even celebrate birthdays. She kept everything coldly professional, rarely even smiled.

  Oh God. Was that what was cut onto her face? A smile? I looked at her again, saw slits extending from her mouth to her ears. A wide grin carved onto her face?

  I backed up, bumped into the door jamb, knelt to get my bag. Spun around and dashed out of the office into the lobby. Scanned the vacant seats, the “Welcome to Logan School” banner. Where was the killer? Was he still around, watching me? My skin itched. I had to get away, somewhere safe. The lobby was too open, exposed. The double doors—I could run outside. Leave. But the 911 operator had told me to stay. Did that mean stay inside? It made no sense. Why should I stay inside with a murderer? Why couldn’t I think straight? Thinking was oddly difficult, taking too long. But I couldn’t stay in the open lobby, vulnerable. I hurried up an empty hallway, along polished linoleum floors, under long fluorescent lights. I passed stairways and classroom doors, away from what I’d seen. Getting nowhere. Surrounded by silence.

  Lots of silence.

  What was I doing? The police would arrive and go to the lobby. I should stay where they could find me. I looked over my shoulder, saw no one. Started back.

  I moved slowly, making no sound, and stood against the wall outside the lobby, watching, listening. Clutching my bag. Wait—what was that metallic clank? An old water pipe? What about that faint clicking, crackling? Shoes slapping the floor? I pressed against cinder blocks, teeth clenched, stomach knotted. The school was quiet, hollow, and the hollowness grew, echoed, roared so loudly that it drowned out the clamor of my breathing, my heart pounding, my blood rushing. Was that a shadow or a flicker of the fluorescents? Was someone across the room? Watching me? Yes, I could feel it, the heat of his eyes.

  Forget the 911 operator. I needed to get out of the building. I moved unsteadily toward the doors, certain that someone was behind me, sensing his body heat. Oh God. I should take off and full out run. Yes. On three. I took a breath. One. I readied myself, bent my knees slightly. Two. I recalled the morning, the school’s odd sinister aura. Three. I started to run, and a hand clamped onto my shoulder. I smacked it and whirled around, yelling and swinging my bag, expecting to confront the killer.

  And faced Stan Olsen.

  Stan didn’t flinch when my bag struck his head. He eyed the floor as if it hadn’t happened, mumbled. Something about not meaning to frighten me, about locking up. About security.

  I backed away, readying my bag for another swing. Maybe he had a knife. Maybe he’d killed Mrs. Marshall. After all, he had motive. She’d berated him a thousand times in front of faculty, even more in front of students. Maybe she’d criticized him once too often.

  Except that his hands weren’t bloody. And his clothes had no red splatter.

  Maybe while he’d stabbed her, he’d covered his shirt with a trash bag. Maybe worn work gloves.

  “You’re the last one.” He ran a gnarled hand through his sparse hair and stepped toward me, eyes aimed at the floor to my left. “The rest are gone.”

  I kept stepping backwards, inching toward the doors. Where were the police? I was chilly, shivering. Alone with a possible killer.

  “No.” My jaw was clenching. “Someone else is here.”

  He frowned. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Marshall.” Why had I said that?

  “So late? It’s almost five.” He peered into the office. Saw her light. Stomped toward it, muttering. “She knows it’s still summer hours. Why’s she still here? How am I supposed to lock up?”

  Did he really not know that she was dead?

  “Stan, wait. Don’t go in there.”

  He kept going. Maybe he was playing dumb to cover his crime.

  “Mrs. Marshall is dead.”

  He stopped, rotated slowly until he faced me. Didn’t say a word.

  “Someone killed her.”

  For a full second, his gaze actually flickered directly onto me. His eyebrows raised. Not surprised enough. Not upset or curious or scared. “For real?”

  I shivered, nodded. “Yes.”

  His eyes moved away. “Is there a mess?”

  Did he think he’d have to clean it up? To Stan, was a murder the same as a kid throwing up or spilling milk?

  There was a mess, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I told him we shouldn’t touch anything. “The police are on the way.”

  “They’re coming now? So I guess I can’t lock up even though it’s already past time.” He headed out of the lobby, down the hall to his custodian’s closet.

  As soon as he did, I ran out the front door to my car. Except for the principal’s car and Stan’s truck, it was alone in the lot. I turned on the engine, put on the heat, and sat there trying to get warm, not looking at the school. Afraid that it would grin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I remembered him well. Nick Stiles was the same detective who’d questioned me after Charlie’s murder. He was married to a friend of my friend Susan’s. Despite the big scar crossing his face, he was even better looking than I remembered, and his eyes were a disarming shade of blue. They watched me gently now, but two years ago, those same eyes
had been steel blades, slashing me with accusations. Not that I blamed him. I’d been the obvious suspect; statistically, the spouse was pretty much always the killer. Especially when the marriage was troubled, which ours had been. Very. Charlie and I had been separated. I’d filed for divorce. Detective Stiles must have thought he had a slam bang easy case.

  Of course, he’d learned otherwise.

  But that was two years ago. Now, he greeted me with a crooked smile, took my hand, and asked in a caring tone how I was doing after that “tragic affair” with my husband as if he’d never personally tried to crucify me. As if he and I were old friends. His hand was large and solid, and it held onto my unsteady fingers longer than it should have. Maybe he was trying to put me at ease? In that case, why was he talking about Charlie’s murder? No, Stiles didn’t give a damn about my ease or lack of ease. More likely, he was letting me know that he hadn’t forgotten me, even hinting that I might be a suspect in this murder, too.

  Except that, this time, he had no reason to suspect me. I wasn’t the victim’s spouse or even her friend. I was one of dozens of teachers at the school, had no particular conflict with Mrs. Marshall. No motive. Detective Stiles needed to take my statement. He took a seat opposite me in the lobby, waited for me to start.

  But I didn’t start. Wasn’t sure what to say, didn’t quite trust him. Maybe I should call Susan. She wasn’t just a close friend; she was a criminal defense lawyer. But if I put off giving my statement until I talked to a lawyer, I’d appear to have something to hide. Better if I just told him what had happened.

  “Mrs. Harrison? You all right?” Stiles leaned forward, uncrossed his legs.

  Of course I was all right, I told him. But I wasn’t. I fidgeted, picturing Mrs. Marshall’s vacant eyes.

  He asked if I wanted coffee or a cold drink. Told me to start when I was ready. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Tell me about your day. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  Well, for starters, the school building had threatened me. But Stiles wouldn’t be interested in that. I closed my eyes, remembering. Sifting through hours of moving desks and arranging bean bag chairs. Greeting a few teachers who popped into my room to say hi. Hanging mobiles, decorating bulletin boards, organizing shelves, labeling cubbies. Listening to Joyce criticize my color scheme. And to Becky, interrupting. “Why didn’t you tell me Seth Evans was in your class?”

  Seth Evans, brother of Ty Evans, who had recently been released from prison.

  Where he’d been serving time for murder.

  Should I mention that?

  I looked at Stiles.

  “You thought of something.” It wasn’t a question.

  I looked away. “It’s not related.”

  “It might be.”

  “I was just thinking about a student. I taught his sister and brother, too.”

  “And?” Stiles’ eyes hardened, waiting for me to get to the point.

  “And.” I folded my hands. “The student’s brother is Ty Evans.”

  Stiles’ eyes glimmered as he repeated the name. He took a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket. Fired questions. How well did I know Ty? Had I seen him since his release? Had I heard from him while he was in juvey? To my knowledge, had Mrs. Marshall heard from him? How had he and she gotten along? He jotted down my answers as if they were important.

  As soon as I mentioned Ty, I regretted it. He had been released just days before the murder, but surely that timing was just a coincidence. He had no reason to kill Mrs. Marshall—hadn’t attended Logan in a decade. But because of me—because I’d said his name—he’d undoubtedly be hounded and questioned about the murder. Maybe accused of it. My stomach churned. I knew what it was like to be a suspect.

  I tried to minimize the damage I’d done. “But there’s no reason to think Ty had anything to do with this. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.” I heard myself sounding idiotic. Stopped talking, closed my mouth.

  Stiles kept jotting notes. Looked up. Asked me to continue going through my day. “Anything else of note?”

  Just a blood-drenched blouse. A clown-like smile carved into the principal’s face. Creaks and clanks, shadows flitting in an empty school.

  And Stan appearing from nowhere, his hand grabbing my shoulder.

  “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  Stiles finally walked me out of the building. The press was waiting. News reporters, lights and cameras. Shouted questions. “Detective Stiles, can you comment on the murder?” “Is it true the principal was maimed?” “Do you have a suspect?” “Ma’am? What’s your connection to the crime?”

  Stiles put a hand up, cleared a path through the confusion, and led me away, past the Medical Examiner’s van, the jumble of police and their cars, the gaggle of neighbors gathered in the parking lot. He walked me to my car, noticing that I was unsteady, asking if I was okay to drive.

  I said I was even though I wasn’t. I just wanted to get away. But in the car, my hand shook as it tried to fit the key into the ignition. And my mind drifted, unfocused. I wasn’t sure how I got to the parking lot exit, but somehow, I had. Turning onto the street, I looked in my rearview mirror. Detective Stiles was still standing there, hands in his pockets. Watching.

  I parked out front, hurried past the “For Sale” sign, up the steps to my door where I fumbled with the key, kept missing the keyhole, jabbing the key to the left or the right. I scolded myself: What’s wrong with you? Slow down. Watch what you’re doing.

  So I slowed down, watched the key and the hole, carefully lined them up, and inserted one into the other. Turned the key, heard the click. Opened the door. And dashed inside where I slammed the door shut and fastened the bolt with still-trembling hands, stayed there for a few heartbeats, leaning my head against the solid wood. Then I wheeled around, went to the wine rack in the study. Opened a bottle of Syrah. Poured myself a glass. Took a hefty swallow before taking the bottle and my glass to the living room and plopping onto the sofa. Leaning back, I let soft throw pillows and overstuffed cushions engulf me.

  No sooner had I settled down than my phone rang.

  Damn.

  Maybe I wouldn’t answer. The phone was in my bag, all the way in the hall. Whoever it was could leave a message. I’d call them back.

  But the phone kept ringing, repeating my ringtone, Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds.”

  Probably it was Becky, calling with details for Saturday’s class. Four of us had signed up for circus school. I pictured Mrs. Marshall’s grotesque clown-like grin, and circus school seemed abhorrent. I should take the call and tell Becky about the murder. I stood up, took my glass and bottle to the hall. Put them on the table beside the door, picked up my bag, dug inside to find the phone. Braced myself for Becky’s shock and tears.

  But it wasn’t Becky.

  “What the hell?” Susan greeted me. “Are you crazy or just stupid? Why didn’t you call me?”

  Call her?

  “You should know better. After everything I’ve said to you—”

  Wait, where did she get off calling me stupid?

  “—haven’t you learned anything?” Susan paused but not long enough for an answer. “How many times have I told you: Never, I mean, never ever talk to the cops without an attorney. Never. Not under any circumstances.”

  She had to be talking about the murder. But how could she know about it? Who’d told her? Stiles? No way.

  “But you completely, totally, absolutely ignored me and sat down to blab to Nick Stiles.”

  “I had no choice,” I began. “I only told him—”

  “Of course you had a choice. You shouldn’t have told him anything. Other than maybe your name. Which, as you recall, he already knew from the last time I told you not to talk to him.” She sputtered. Fumed. “Imagine my surprise when I turn on the six o’clock news and see none other than my dear friend Elle Harrison being escorted from the school by homicide detective Nick Stiles.”

  Oh man. I picked up the wine glas
s. “We were on the news?”

  “You bet you were. They said they didn’t know your connection to the crime, but they said police were talking to you, and they identified you. By name. And occupation. Elle Harrison, who teaches second grade at Logan Elementary.”

  They identified me? That couldn’t be good. Didn’t it imply that I might a suspect? Or that I was somehow involved? That the police had reason to spend time with me?

  I put the glass to my mouth, emptied it. Worried that my negative publicity would infuriate Mrs. Marshall. Then remembered that, no, nothing would infuriate her ever again. I pictured her soaked red blouse. The gaping wound on her neck. Poured more wine. The reds almost matched.

  “Okay?” Susan asked.

  Damn. I’d missed what she’d said.

  “Elle, are you there?” Susan barked. “Did you just pull an Elle on me? Not now, damn it, Elle. Come back to earth. Pay attention. I’ll be there in half an hour? Okay?”

  I told her, yes. I’d see her then. Ended the call. Took the wine and the phone back to the living room, planted myself on the sofa, and made the dreaded call to Becky. It went as predicted. Shock, fear, questions. I got off the phone feeling drained and sank back against the cushions.

  And noticed ever so slight indentations in the carpet. Shaped like shoes.

  But that was impossible. I’d vacuumed just the day before and hadn’t gone into the living room afterward, not until now. I’d walked across the carpet to the hall a couple of times, but hadn’t gone into the rest of the room. And these footprints made a circle with a second small loop near the window.

  I swallowed more wine, stared at the carpet. At the slight indentations shaped like shoes. Men’s shoes. Or maybe women’s flats?

  Maybe I’d missed spots in the carpet when I’d vacuumed. Or maybe the vacuum didn’t have enough suction to erase old footprints. Or maybe there were no footprints. Maybe I was imagining them the same way I’d imagined the school glaring at me. Maybe I was so upset about Mrs. Marshall that I was inventing intruders who’d snuck around my house, leaving shoe prints.