Oh Lord. I told him no, that wasn’t happening, but he persisted. “Come on, Elle. You’ll feel better. Let me do this for you. Let go for once. I’ll help you relax.”
Somehow, I managed to make him understand that I wasn’t going anywhere. When I got off the phone, I hadn’t fired Jerry, but at least I’d avoided having a drink with him. I’d fired him next time we talked, though. And I’d get a locksmith.
I finished vacuuming, but didn’t turn the vacuum off. I left it running while I sat on the sofa. Its motor was almost loud enough to drown out the repetitive deadly thunks, but not quite.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday morning, school opened. And clearly, Mrs. Marshall wasn’t around.
Dozens of children pressed against the front doors in a writhing, shapeless mass. Mrs. Marshall always had students line up quietly, in an orderly fashion according to grade and classroom. She’d hung signs for each classroom on the outside walls of the building, had upper-class monitors help organize the lines. But today there were no signs, no monitors, no lines. Children crowded around the doors in a noisy, swelling mob. Mr. Royal stood on the steps red-faced and frantic, waving his arms and shouting, attempting to get kids to follow directions.
“People!” His voice was lost in the din. “People!”
Kids shrieked and pushed. Some laughed. Some cried. None seemed to notice him. I gaped, readying myself. Teachers would have to rescue him.
I parked, got out of my car.
And saw Joyce Huff rushing my way. She grabbed my hand, led me away from the school toward the playground.
“Joyce?”
She pointed past the swings to the ball field. The Jolly Jack’s ice cream truck was parked there. At 8:35 in the morning, it was already open for business. Parked on the far end of the ball field, on school property. Mrs. Marshall had made it repeatedly and abundantly clear to the ice cream man that he couldn’t park his truck there. That he had to keep it off school grounds. Now that she was dead, as if to spite her, Duncan Girard—that was the ice cream man’s name—had parked his truck right where she’d told him not to, at the end of the playground.
“He has nerve. How dare he take advantage of Mrs. Marshall’s death to defy school policy!” Joyce ranted. She dragged me by the arm.
“Joyce, wait. Did you see all the kids at the front door?” I looked over my shoulder, back at the school. “Mr. Royal’s there alone—”
“Serves him right.” She marched on. “I sent him a detailed plan for opening day and he ignored it. Let him sweat.”
I explained that the children needed our help, but Joyce was unmoved, focused solely on the Jolly Jack’s Frozen Treats truck. “This will only take a minute. Just help me for one minute, will you?” I wasn’t wearing the sling. My shoulder was still tender, and I worried she’d pull my arm too hard as she led me past the slides, the climbing wall, the swings. Onto the ball field.
“Duncan Girard, what do you think you’re doing?” she called from fifty yards. “You ought to be ashamed, using the principal’s death as an opportunity to break school rules. Do you have no respect?”
I was right beside her, and her shrill shouts ripped at my eardrums. As she ran the last several yards to the truck, I yanked my arm from her grasp, triggering a pang in my shoulder. Joyce banged on the hood of the truck.
“Come on out here, Duncan.”
Before she finished saying his name, he stepped out from the rear of the truck, smiling.
The smile was dazzling. His teeth gleamed white. His eyes twinkled brown. His shoulders stretched the seams of his Jolly Jack’s shirt. He nodded at Joyce, then at me. I’d heard about Duncan Girard from Mrs. Marshall and other teachers, but I’d never met him. He looked into my eyes so directly that my face heated up.
Joyce told him that if his truck wasn’t gone in ten minutes, she’d call the police.
Duncan’s smile didn’t fade, but his gaze moved past us. “Yo, Brodsky. That you? You grew a foot. How was your summer?” I turned. Saw Dennis Brodsky, a fifth grader, much taller than I remembered, walking toward the school. He yelled back that his summer had sucked.
Duncan laughed. “Come by later. I’ll give you a free water ice.”
Dennis waved, shouted, “Sweet!”
Joyce sputtered. “I meant what I said. I’ll have the police here. You have no business on school property!”
“Easy, lady. Don’t get your panties in a knot.” Duncan eyed her, head to toe. Then, still speaking to her, he turned to look at me. “You’d think I was a damn drug dealer the way you’re carrying on. But the fact is, I have every right to be here. It’s a public street.”
“You’re in defiance of school policy—”
“Yo—Shelly! Linda!”
Two fourth-grade girls walked past, giggling and waving when he called their names. “Hi, Duncan.”
“Stop by later. Free water ice today!”
“You see how he acts with them?” Joyce turned to me. “Ingratiating himself to them. Gaining their trust.”
I frowned, didn’t want to take part in Joyce’s squabble. “I’m heading back to the school.”
“No, listen to me.” She grabbed my wrist, whispered urgently. “Elle. That’s what pedophiles do. Oh my God. That explains everything. I bet he’s a pedophile.”
What? “Joyce, stop. You don’t know—”
“What did you say?” Duncan Girard stepped over to Joyce, leaned down, and put his nose into her face. “I’m a what? I heard you. Now, say that to my face.” His voice was a growl.
Joyce’s mouth opened. He took hold of her shoulders.
“Okay, that’s enough.” I sounded puny. “Let go of her.”
He held on, breathed into her eyes so that she kept blinking. “Don’t go making accusations about me, ma’am. In fact, don’t even say my name out loud. Ever. You get that?”
I grabbed his arm, tried to pull it off of Joyce. But my left arm had no strength, and his was steely and muscled. Indifferent to my efforts. It didn’t budge, held onto her, stared into her eyes.
“Tell me what she said about me.” He gave Joyce a shake. Another.
“Who?” Joyce’s eyes bulged.
“You know who,” Duncan scoffed. “Obviously, she said something to you. Bitch was after my blood. I thought I was finally done with all the hassles and accusations.”
Bitch? Finally done? Wait—was he talking about Mrs. Marshall? I knew they’d had words, but not that she’d accused him of anything, let alone of pedophilia. Oh Lord. Was that why she’d wanted his truck moved away from school property?
I kept pulling his left arm, to no avail.
“Whatever that witch told you was bull. She had no proof—no complaints. Not one reason to think anything happened—”
Joyce was ashen, trembling in his hands. I thought she might faint.
“—and I warned her to shut her face.” He paused, glaring first at Joyce, then at me. “Now she’s gone, and do I get left alone? Even for a day? No. First day back, you two start hounding me.” He released Joyce so roughly that she almost fell over.
“Hey, Duncan!” A bunch of kids ran over to the truck. “Guess what? We got an extra week of vacation!”
“Because of our principal. Know what happened? She got killed.”
“Yeah. Someone chopped her to pieces.”
Duncan beamed an instant smile, reached out and tousled a redheaded kid’s hair, welcomed them all back to school, said that, yes, he’d heard about their principal, and offered them free water ice. As he talked to them, his eyes remained on Joyce and me, cold as the coldest of Jolly Jack’s frozen treats.
Joyce trembled all the way across the ball field. “I’m calling the police.”
I suggested that we go to the teachers’ lounge and have a cup of hot tea, collect ourselves. We still had a few minutes before school started.
“He assaulted me. You saw it—and did you hear what he said about Mrs. Marshall? He did it, Elle. I tell you. He’s the one. He kill
ed her. She found out he’d been molesting the children, and he killed her so she wouldn’t reveal the truth—” She slipped on some loose gravel near the swings, fell flat onto her butt.
“Joyce!” I helped her up. “Are you okay?”
Her face was crimson, body shaking. She brushed dirt off her dress, bit her lips, checked her beehive for loose hairs. Her chin was quivering, her eyes filling. “Elle dear, did you see the way he strong-armed me?”
I nodded, yes, I had. “Well, that was after you called him a pedophile.”
“Of course it was. What pedophile wants to be exposed?”
“Joyce,” I began. “We don’t actually know—”
But she continued as if I hadn’t spoken, repeating her theory. “And the way he talked about Mrs. Marshall? The names he called her? He all but confessed to killing her. She found out about him, and that’s why he did it. I know I’m right. That pervert needs to be stopped!”
The ten-minute bell rang. I looked across the playground to the front of the building. Students still flocked in disorder around the front door. Mr. Royal still stood on the steps, waving his arms and shouting for attention. Several teachers made their way through the crowd, attempting to sort students into groups by grade.
Joyce recovered from her fall, and we walked back. She continued to rant, insisting that Duncan Girard shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near children, that the police needed to be informed of his pedophilia. That he was the one who’d killed Mrs. Marshall.
As we approached the building, half a dozen cheerful children ran our way. Former students greeting us, chattering, grinning. Telling us what room they were in this year, who their new teachers were.
Joyce and I welcomed them, patted heads, herded them back toward the school. As we approached the other teachers who were trying to organize the pint-sized mob, Joyce once again took hold of my arm, aggravating my sore shoulder.
“Elle?” She looked even paler than before. “What if I’m right?”
I freed my arm from her grasp, rubbed my shoulder. “Joyce, please listen. He was rude and out of line, but we have no reason to think—”
“Elle, stop defending the brute. Think about it.” She stepped close, put her mouth to my ear. “If Duncan Girard killed Mrs. Marshall to keep her quiet, what do you think he’ll do to quiet us?”
Our eyes met. Joyce’s looked feverish. As I thought about the answer to her question, a wave of excited, noisy children engulfed her. Her eyes didn’t leave mine, even as they swept her away toward the school.
What Joyce said jarred me, but I didn’t have time to dwell on Duncan Girard. Twenty-three seven-year-olds demanded my attention. They swarmed into the classroom where I helped them find their desks, locate their cubbies, and store their lunches. We introduced ourselves as I took attendance, and each child talked a little about his or her summer. I told them about the exciting year they would have, what we were going to study in class, what our daily schedule would look like. I led them through the different sections of the classroom: computer tables, cozy reading corner, writing and art tables. I answered questions, tried to memorize names. Noticed Seth Evans. Ty’s brother was short for his age, thin and dark-eyed.
I passed out textbooks and workbooks, helped the children write their names in each. In a heartbeat, it was time for gym class, and they lined up. I marched them single file to the gymnasium. As we passed the main office, a boy said, “That’s where Mrs. Marshall got killed.”
Another boy was doubtful. “How do you know?”
“Because. My brother Trevor told me.”
“Shh,” I told them.
“Is there blood? Can you see?”
A few children stepped out of line to find out and pressed their noses against the glass windows outside the office.
“Get back in line,” I said.
“But how does your brother know?”
“He just does.”
“Children.” I put my finger over my lips. “No talking in the hallway.”
They obeyed, eyeing me warily. Not yet sure how strict I was. But even though they were silent, their curiosity persisted, hummed in the air like electricity. I decided to address it and talk about what had happened openly. After all, the loss of Mrs. Marshall was theirs as much as anyone’s. Their questions and worries needed to be addressed.
So, after a few games of dodgeball with Mr. Lyons, we returned to room 2B. And I plunged right in.
“On the way to gym, some of you were talking about Mrs. Marshall.”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to me. A girl with blond hair—the name on her desk was Elana—gasped and covered her mouth as if I’d uttered an unmentionable word.
“As you know, something terrible happened, and she’s no longer with us.”
“She was killed,” Trevor’s little brother said. “Somebody killed her.”
Forty-six eyes watched to see how I would respond. My credibility was at stake. If I tried to deny or soften the truth, they’d never trust me. But if I gave too many gory details, I’d scare them. And creep them out.
“She was killed, yes. And it’s very sad.”
“Who killed her?” “Was she really cut into little pieces?” “How come she got killed?” “Will the killer come back and kill somebody else?”
Questions poured. I was honest with them. I explained that I didn’t have the answers, but that the police were working hard to find the killer, and that the police, the other teachers, Mr. Royal, and I would all make sure they were safe at school.
They weren’t satisfied.
“What if he comes back and shoots us?” “He doesn’t shoot people. He cuts them.” “I heard Mrs. Marshall’s head was chopped off.” “I want to go home.” “There was a shooter at a school and he killed kids. I saw it on TV.”
The class was flying out of control, fast. The little girl named Elana was crying, and seeing her cry, a girl named Stella began crying, too.
“Okay. Everybody.” I clapped my hands, interrupting the comments and tears. “You have nothing to worry about. Nobody wants to hurt you. The killer was angry with Mrs. Marshall, not anybody else.”
They watched me, clearly doubted what I said. Well, they should have doubted it. I wasn’t sure anything I said was true.
“So here’s what we’re going to do.” I assigned an art project. Asked them to draw pictures of their families, a task that would allow them to express themselves and focus on something other than the murder.
I passed out construction paper and crayons to those who’d forgotten to bring their own. As they worked, I tried to concentrate on the moment, not on Mrs. Marshall’s murder or Joyce’s encounter with Duncan Girard. I watched my students lean over their work, concentrating and creating. I heard them breathe and grunt and sneeze and cough, smelled the energy of children.
I collected the pictures at lunchtime and looked through them while the kids were in the cafeteria. Some were more detailed, more skillfully drawn than others. Some showed a mom and dad, a sister or brother, a pet or two. Some showed just mom and children. One showed two moms, a couple of dads, and a gaggle of siblings—I counted seven. Some had trees and flowers in front of the house. Puffy clouds and the sun in the sky. The pictures seemed happy enough, except for one that was different. It showed the outline of a house, but the outline wasn’t colored in. It was covered with jagged slashes, all of them bright red.
Seth’s name was scrawled on the back.
I wasn’t a psychologist, but the picture didn’t demand one. Clearly, the red slashes represented violence and rage. Maybe even blood. Was Seth that angry? He was only seven years old. How could he have so much fury? I heard Joyce insist, “Some children are just bad seed.”
No, I didn’t accept that. Maybe Seth’s picture wasn’t about his anger. Maybe it was about his distress at Mrs. Marshall’s murder. After all, hers hadn’t been Seth’s first brush with violent death. He’d been just a baby when Ty had stabbed their father, but the death and its aftermath
would have affected him deeply. The drawing might reflect Seth’s collective trauma.
For the rest of the day, I kept an eye on him. Paid attention to his interactions with the other children. His apparent mood.
Seth seemed quiet, a little shy. But he completed his arithmetic exercise, concentrated on the computer. Read out loud when called on.
Still, his drawing disturbed me. At the end of the day, while fifth-grade hall monitors led the class out to waiting parents and buses, I called him aside.
“Seth.” I stooped to match his height. “So how was your first day of second grade?”
“Good.” He avoided my eyes. Looked uncomfortable.
“I taught your sister and brother. Did you know that?”
“Yes.” He fidgeted, a bird trapped in my hand.
I waited a moment, not sure how to approach my concerns, not wanting to make him even more self-conscious. “So how are they? Ty and Katie.”
His eyes moved from the wall to me, back to the wall. “Good.”
“And your mom?” I pictured her screaming at Mrs. Marshall for picking on Ty.
“Good.”
Good and good. “That’s good.” I nodded, realized I couldn’t talk to him about his drawing yet. He didn’t know or trust me enough. I’d have to wait, assign more drawings, see if the imagery repeated.
“Katie’s going to take me home from school. I’m supposed to meet her.” He volunteered that information. Spoke without prodding. Maybe he was beginning to relax?
“Good.” That word again.
“Mrs. Harrison!”
I swiveled, stood. Three girls hurried toward us. If I hadn’t known that the blond one was Katie, I wouldn’t have recognized her, but there she was, now fifteen. And still with her two best pals—the three had been inseparable even in second grade—kind of like Jen, Becky, and me. They gathered around me for hugs, asking how I’d been, saying that the classroom hadn’t changed, which startled me, since I’d worked so hard to innovate my decorations.
“You’ve still got the cozy corner. That was my favorite,” Katie’s friend said.
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