Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

  I stopped at a light. Heard Ty saying that he’d thought about me in juvey. Oh God. What if he didn’t have just a crush on me? What if it was an actual obsession? If so, he might not be able to tolerate a rejection. He might lose it, might even try to kill me. I heard a loud thunk, saw Patsy Olsen fly into the street. Ty’s hair was kind of long. Had it been Ty who’d pushed her, thinking she was me? No, of course not. He’d had no reason to harm me. And he hadn’t tried to even when he’d had me alone at the school. No. It hadn’t been Ty. Ty wasn’t dangerous, and I wasn’t in danger. It just felt like I was.

  I pulled onto my street, up to my house. Grabbed my bag, my phone. Ran up the path, the steps. Unlocked the door, threw it open, dashed in, slammed and bolted it. Closed my eyes and let out a breath.

  “Hell, Elle. Are you all right?”

  I jumped and screamed, not sure which came first, but the scream lasted longer. At the same time, I threw my phone, dropped my bag, spun around, and groped for the doorknob so I could run.

  “Elle?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The afternoon light glared through the living room windows, but I saw a silhouette. A man was in my house, coming at me. I turned the knob, but the door was still bolted. Wouldn’t open.

  “It’s okay.” He spoke softly, almost a whisper.

  His hand grabbed my shoulder. Oh God. He turned me around to face him. And there I stood, panting, nose to nose and eye to eye with Jerry.

  “Jerry?” Fear instantly morphed into fury. “What the hell? What are you doing here?” I pushed him, sidestepped to move away.

  “Calm down, Elle.” He moved with me, still talking in that raspy, unfamiliar whisper. His breath smelled like whiskey and onions. “It’s only me.”

  I stammered, couldn’t articulate my thoughts. Words of outrage scrambled on my tongue. “Jerry. What—How—I can’t—No—” Wait, I told myself. Slow down. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I’d forgotten an open house? A scheduled showing? But no. I knew I hadn’t. What I’d forgotten was to call a locksmith.

  Jerry rubbed his chin, shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His eyebrows furrowed. “I know, I know. I should have let you know I’d be here. You’re right. But honestly, Elle, I didn’t intend to scare you.”

  “Then what did you intend?” I shoved him away, temper flaring. No longer too stunned to speak. “Get out. You need to leave. What did you do, use the key in the lock box? That’s unethical and illegal—”

  “Elle. Relax. We’re friends.”

  “No, Jerry—”

  “Okay, cool down. I confess. I was going to surprise you. I hired a staging consultant—on my own dime.”

  “A what?”

  “Elle, we’ve talked about how to make your house more appealing to buyers, and I’ve suggested better staging. But so far, you haven’t had the time or inclination to make changes. So I talked to a colleague—”

  “Bullshit. No. Stop making excuses. You have no right to come in here without my permission.”

  “Well, technically, when you hired me as your agent, you gave me permission to do what I have to—”

  “No. No. I gave you permission to show my house. Nothing more. Real estate agents aren’t given carte blanche to come and go—”

  “Elle.” He moved closer, lowered his voice again. “To be honest, I thought that by now, I was more than just your real estate agent.”

  Good God. “Actually, Jerry.” I stepped back. “Right now you aren’t even that. You’re fired.”

  “What? You can’t mean that. Elle, I have your best interests at heart. I came here to measure walls for the consultant, that’s all. Why don’t I take you to dinner? We can talk.” Again he came closer. Again I smelled booze. He reached out to touch my arm. I moved out of reach, stepped back, into the living room.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Jerry. We’re done.”

  “Come on, Elle. Don’t pretend you don’t feel a connection.”

  I didn’t know what to say, just put up a hand and shook my head. No.

  “Dammit, Elle, what’s the deal? You and I—you’ve been giving me signals from the start. We both know it. So, let’s cut the playing-hard-to-get act. I’m here for you, babe.” He came at me, lips parted. Oh God. He was about to kiss me.

  I dodged. Turned my head and put my hands up to fend him off. “Jerry, you need to leave.”

  He stood, staring at me, bereft. He blinked a few times, and I worried he might cry. But he didn’t cry. He looked away, jaw clenched and rippling. When he looked back at me, his eyes were ice. “Look, honey, I’ve done a lot for you. Spent my own cash on brochures and ads, spent dozens of hours trying to sell this dump when I could have been earning huge commissions on my other properties—I’ve got plenty of listings for over a million dollars each—”

  “Nice. Now you’ll have more time for those.”

  He glared. “Do I have to remind you that I’ve not just been trying to sell your place? I’ve also been busting my butt searching for a home for you to move into? And that we’ve still got three properties to visit.”

  “Forget it.”

  “They’re already scheduled and confirmed.”

  “So what?” My God, didn’t he get it?

  “Just one more outing. Then you’ll be free of me.” His eyes looked wounded, puppy-like.

  “Okay, fine. We’ll look at those.” God help me, I was a sucker and a fool.

  He looked hopeful.

  “But that’s it. After that, we’re done.”

  He watched me, bit his lip. “We’ll see,” he said. Then he whirled around, unbolted the door, and left.

  I watched through the living room window as he stomped to his car. Then I sank onto my sofa, noting the impressions of his shoes on my newly vacuumed rug.

  So it had been Jerry, after all. Jerry coming into my house uninvited, unauthorized, abusing the realtor’s lock box key. But why? What did he want? Jen’s voice popped to mind with an extensive list of perversions Jerry might have committed in my home. Oh man. Did I have to reexamine my towels and sheets? My lingerie? Had he gone through my photos and private keepsakes? I recoiled, eyed his footprints in the carpet then sat back and surveyed the room. The two antique wingback chairs carefully arranged at specific angles and distances from the fireplace. The coffee table polished to a gleam, the single nonimposing—no, not just nonimposing—the boring pale-green porcelain vase on its surface. Jerry had dictated the whole living room presentation, had made me remove pillows, afghans, knickknacks, mementos. Had called it “clutter.” But now, without the clutter, nothing looked real. The room looked hollow and soulless, like no one lived here. Like a movie set. Or, Jen’s voice suggested, like the setting for a pornographic fantasy.

  I cringed again. The room felt stained. I looked out at the entranceway. This time, Jerry had gone way too far. I could still smell his whiskey-onion breath. Never mind. I was finished with him. The locks were going to be changed today. I got up, looked around the kitchen for the list of locksmiths. Couldn’t find it. Started over. Opened my laptop, logged into Google, searched again for locksmiths, cursed Jerry the whole time. What was wrong with him? I should have called the police. Should report him to the Realtors Association, whatever that was. If there even was such a thing. I clicked on Safety Lock Company. It had a nice website. Fine, I wrote down their number. Went back to the Google list and, as a backup, wrote down the number for Lock and Safe. Good. Even if Jerry had made a copy of my key, he wouldn’t be able to use it.

  I called Safety Lock and got voice mail. Left a message. Called Lock and Safe. The woman who answered said Mr. Johnson would be at the house at seven thirty that evening.

  Good.

  Next, I searched for a new realtor. Or I began to search. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. How was I supposed to choose one? How could I be sure the new one would be less crazy than Jerry? “We have three more properties to visit,” his voice reminded me. Why had I agreed to go? I should have flat out tol
d him to cancel them. Why did I have so much trouble standing up to people? I was a pushover. A wimp. I needed to work on being more assertive.

  To start with, I’d interview new realtors. I was scanning the list of names and services when Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds” began.

  Caller ID said “Becky.”

  Damn. She was going to yell at me for missing the faculty meeting. After all I’d been through that afternoon with first Ty and then Jerry, I was in no mood to be scolded.

  “Don’t start with me.” I picked up the phone swinging. “I’ve had possibly the most horrible afternoon in human history, and I’m not the least bit interested in what happened at that stupid meeting.”

  “Did you hear?” she asked.

  What? She seemed not to have heard anything I’d said. “They’re a waste of time. And I just don’t have the patience, not after all that’s happened.”

  “You mean you knew? Before the meeting?”

  “Seriously? Of course, I knew. So did you and everyone else—”

  “No, I didn’t know. No one at the meeting knew. So how did you? They only just found her.”

  “—who’s ever been to one of those—” I stopped mid-sentence. Replayed what she’d just said. They only just found her. “Wait, what did you say?”

  “My God, Elle.” Becky was crying. I hadn’t heard it at first, but she sniffed, and when she went on, her voice choked. “After the meeting.” She stopped, sobbing. Took a breath. “Somebody found Joyce.”

  Joyce? My stomach contorted. Mouth hung open. I couldn’t speak, wanted to drop the phone or run, anything to escape what Becky would say next.

  “In the parking lot. In her car. And, oh God, Elle. Just like Mrs. Marshall. Joyce—they cut her throat.”

  We met at Susan’s, the way we would have anyway. Mondays, while Susan’s husband took their daughters to their dance classes, we four friends usually had dinner together. That particular night we’d planned to eat at The Blue Cat, a restaurant not far from my house. But we didn’t go to The Blue Cat. We sat in her kitchen, Susan drinking coffee, Jen Chablis. Becky and I not drinking at all. None of us thinking about food.

  “When’s he coming?” I asked.

  Susan checked the stove clock. “Any time.”

  “WTF,” Jen said. “I don’t get why he wants to talk to Elle. Becky works at the school, too.”

  “He’ll probably want to talk to both of them.”

  “But he said he wanted to talk to Elle,” Jen persisted. “Isn’t that why he’s coming all the way over here?”

  “Better here than at the Roundhouse.”

  He’d given Susan those choices? I swallowed. Decided that I would have a glass of wine after all. Went to get a glass. Listened to the others talk about me.

  “Look, Elle didn’t go to her faculty meeting. He’ll want to know why. And he’ll ask whether she saw anybody in the school or the parking lot when she left. Stuff like that.”

  “So why didn’t she go to the meeting?” Jen addressed the question to Susan.

  “How should Susan know?” I poured wine. “Why don’t you ask me?”

  “Elle.” Susan frowned. “Do you really want to drink that? Detective Stiles should be here any second.”

  “Okay.” Jen turned to me. “Why didn’t you go to your meeting?”

  “You guys always talk about me as if I’m not here.”

  “No, we don’t,” Becky said. “We don’t talk about her, do we?”

  “You just did it again.”

  “Did what?” Jen raised her eyebrows.

  “Talked about me as a ‘she.’ If I’m standing right in the room, I should be a ‘you’.”

  “Your breath will smell like alcohol.” Susan came over to me, reached for my glass. “You want to appear sober.”

  Before she could take it, I put the rim to my mouth and gulped, looking her in the eye.

  “Elle, do you really want Stiles to take you downtown where he can be sure you’re sober?”

  “Will someone effing tell me why she didn’t go to the meeting?” Jen insisted.

  “I’m standing right here, Jen. Ask me.”

  “I just did. So why aren’t you answering me?” Jen got up and refilled her glass.

  “Yes, Elle, answer her,” Susan snapped. She was annoyed that I was having wine. More annoyed that I’d disobeyed her.

  I took another sip, just to prove she wasn’t my babysitter anymore. I was my own adult person.

  “For God’s sake, Elle. Your friend Joyce is dead,” Susan scolded.

  Right. In her Toyota. With her throat slit.

  “So stop avoiding the question. Tell us why you didn’t go to your meeting. You need to be ready for Stiles.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “No one asked if you’d killed her.”

  I nodded. Sat. Didn’t want to talk about Ty. Didn’t want to think about the possibility that he’d killed Joyce and Mrs. Marshall both. Mrs. Marshall had unfairly disciplined him for years, so he’d have motive. But Joyce? She hadn’t ever even been his teacher, so why would he have killed her?

  Unless she’d seen him at the school after he’d come to see me and cornered him. Maybe even threatened to call the police. He might have killed her after he’d left my classroom.

  But wait—maybe it wasn’t Ty. It could have been Duncan Girard, preventing Joyce from spreading rumors that he was a pedophile. He’d implied that Mrs. Marshall had also accused him. Had he silenced them both?

  “Elle.” Susan nudged my arm. “I’m serious.”

  She was?

  “She has no idea what you’re talking about.” Jen examined a fingernail. “She’s pulling an effing Elle.”

  “No, I’m not.” I had been, but wasn’t anymore. “I didn’t go because of Ty.” I told them about his visit. About his confession of a crush.

  And when their exclamations, comments, questions, and curses quieted, I told them about Jerry.

  By the time Stiles arrived, all three of them were gaping at me. Which part had stunned them? Ty or Jerry? Or both?

  Stiles didn’t seem to mind when I finished my wine right in front of him, so I began my story again. He listened, made notes in his book. Didn’t seem to think that my realtor would have reason to harm anyone at the school, focused more on Ty, listened closely as I described our visit.

  When I finished, he asked if there was anything else, and I told him about the incident with Duncan Girard.

  Stiles jotted more notes. Crossed his legs. Asked if I’d ever seen Joyce wearing a Phillies baseball cap.

  Becky said, “God, no,” and I said, “Never,” at the same time. I almost laughed at the idea. Joyce would consider the cap appalling and crass. Not to mention that it would ruin her hair.

  “Why do you ask?” Susan said.

  Stiles leaned forward, spoke confidentially. “A Phillies cap was found on the floor of her car. Might be nothing. Probably belonged to one of her students.”

  “But wasn’t an Eagles cap found in Mrs. Marshall’s office?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “So you think it’s not a coincidence. You think they both belonged to the killer. That he left them there.” Susan’s eyes lit up, excited at the prospect of evidence.

  “It’s a possibility, yes. But only a possibility.”

  “But you’re checking them for DNA, right?” Susan pressed.

  Stiles met her eyes. “We’re doing our job, counselor.” He moved on with his questions. He asked both Becky and me how well we knew Joyce. Had she been well liked? Did she have enemies? What had her relationship with Mrs. Marshall been like? Did we know anyone who’d want to harm her? Did either of us know the significance of the carving on her face?

  The what?

  Becky and I exchanged glances. Susan scowled and asked what he was referring to. Jen let out an obscenity. I heard a thunk, Patsy Olsen flew off the curb, and Mrs. Marshall appeared before me with her blood-encrusted grin.

  “A
s you know”—Detective Stiles looked from one to the other of us—“a smile was cut onto the principal’s face.”

  We waited. Becky’s eyes filled with tears.

  “And this one?” Susan asked.

  “This one,” he said, “had a frown.”

  Of course it did.

  The questions stopped. Stiles left. We went to The Blue Cat an hour and a half later than our reservation. The specials were sold out, but it didn’t matter; none of us was hungry anyhow.

  I finally got home around ten, found a note on my front door. Mr. Johnson from Lock and Safe had come by at seven thirty. I’d missed him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Only eleven of my twenty-three students came to school the next day. Seth was one of them. A lot of parents had kept their children home despite the flurry of official emails and phone calls stating that, regardless of recent tragedies, the school was secure and safe, and would remain open with a qualified team of grief counselors on hand. The administration had reasoned that, since the school building itself was not part of the crime scene, children would be best served by preventing further disruptions in their routines and proceeding with their educations in a normal fashion.

  Parents had not reacted well. Phone chains had been activated and an impromptu PTA meeting organized at the high school. The police chief and members of the school board had been pressured to attend. Reporters and camera crews had crowded in, and the high school auditorium had filled to capacity.

  I hadn’t gone to the meeting but had seen coverage on the eleven o’clock news. Confused and panicked parents had demanded answers. What was happening at their local elementary school? Did police have any idea at all who’d killed first the principal and now a teacher? Were people at the school being targeted, one by one? What protections were being provided for their children? Should children be kept home until the killer was caught?

  From what I could see on the news, police and school board members had been at a loss for answers, had tried to calm the crowd by promising police guards at the school and undercover cops in and around it. But few parents had been appeased. Many had declared that they’d keep their children home until they were certain that the school was safe. A woman whose son I’d had in class the year before told the reporter that her two boys were never coming back; she was going to homeschool them. The reporter had ended the segment by pointing out that, despite concerns, so far no children had been hurt at Logan Elementary and that school would open the next morning, on schedule.