A second bell, a tardy bell mostly likely, echoed through the campus. Seconds later, feminine voices and laughter shook the tiny storage room. It seemed the wall with the shelving was shared with the girls' locker room.
I pulled one of the boxes forward. It was heavier than I expected. Someone had stuck masking tape carelessly across the top. I held the light with one hand and lifted the tape carefully so I could replace it without notice. I opened the right flap and looked inside. There were books instead of canned peaches, and not a variety of books, but one title. I was looking at Smithville High's new yearbook. I pressed the tape back down and looked at a few of the half dozen boxes. They all contained pristine new copies of the yearbook. There could have been any number of explanations. Maybe the printer had made a horrible mistake with quality or content, and the school stuck the bad copies in storage, afraid that if they were thrown out, students would find them. Maybe this was the first run of books, and they were waiting for the rest, which was the reason for the delay.
There I was again trying to solve a mystery when there was probably just a dull reason for the books being stored in maintenance. I stuck the penlight back into my purse. As I pushed the box back into place, another beam of light struck my eye. It was coming from the wall. I pulled the box forward and stretched up to look at the wall behind it. A tiny hole had been drilled into the wall. It went all the way through to the next room, the girls' locker room. The light beam wavered and turned on and off as people walked past the hole. Even with the faint stream of light, I could see a pile of white dust on the gunmetal gray shelf beneath the hole. I dabbed my finger in it and brought it closer for inspection. It was plaster dust. Someone had drilled a hole through the wall. I thought back to a few of the comments Everly and Belinda had made about Alder Stevens. Had the custodian been caught peeping on the female students? But then wouldn't the hole have been covered by now? Or maybe my discovery was just one of Alder Stevens' many sordid secrets.
The clamor outside the building had quieted, signaling that most everyone had gone into their next class. It was my chance to leave. I was sure if I hurried I could leave through the back gate, my original plan. This time I wouldn't stop to inspect trash.
Chapter 18
After a long morning of dodging people and finding myself in more than one opportunity to snoop around the school for information about Alder Stevens, I had finally made good my escape through the back gate. My feet plodded along the hot asphalt leading out of the back of the school. By my estimate, it would be at least a mile and a half walk to circle the entire campus and get back to my jeep. The sun was bearing down through a humid heat, but the exercise would give me time to gather my thoughts.
I'd gathered more than a few details and opinions about the man, but as a whole, I was more confused than when I started. It was hard not to smile about how much had happened since the morning with the wonderful quilters and the raisin muffins. But even those women had given a fairly conflicting narrative. Their stories began nostalgically with mention of Alder being in the Smithville halls back when their children were young. Then there was the sweet story of Alder promising to build his wife, Pauline, a castle. And their plans to travel the country together in a trailer, a dream that was cut short by Pauline's unexpected death. But when my line of questioning took us to the subject of his retirement, their expressions darkened and furtive glances were passed around the quilting table. They were short on specifics, but there seemed to be a general agreement that Alder's retirement was not voluntary. I'd gotten the same line of thinking from the students on the bleachers.
A text broke me from my thoughts. It was from Ursula. She and Henry were going to finish patching the crown moulding in the sitting room. With any luck, they'd have it ready for me to paint by the weekend.
"Newman is acting strange," Ursula wrote.
My heart skipped ahead to worried mom mode. "Is he sick?" I texted quickly back and picked up my pace.
"No but he keeps dropping his ball. Then he stares into thin air waiting for someone to throw it."
My mind flashed back to the night before when Newman's ball shot back across the kitchen floor after it rolled away from him. My silly dog apparently thought he'd found some magic way to play fetch without having to wait for someone to throw the ball.
"As long as he's not sick, I think he'll get over it." I texted back.
A white work truck pulled onto the asphalt driveway leading to the back of the school. I could see the school district name on the side.
"If you say so," Ursula wrote back.
I decided her response didn't need a follow-up text. I dropped my phone back into my purse. I was hoping the driver of the truck would just wave and drive past, but he slowed down and pulled over. The window rolled down. The driver was a young guy with a few rolls of chins and cherry pink cheeks. He was wearing a custodian's uniform. A quick glimpse at his badge told me his name was Victor Hanson.
"Are you lost?" he asked.
I had to give the school employees props for safety. They were all on their toes about strangers wandering in or near the school. Thankfully, I was still wearing my bright yellow visitor's pass. It took me a second to come up with my excuse for being outside the back gate.
He stepped into my pause with his own inquiry. "Visitors are supposed to check out at the office."
"Yes, I know. I was at the back of the school and I—"
"Are you with the police?"
My mouth opened in surprise. I'd learned how to twist truth and fib to find out details for a story, but a flat out lie was not in my repertoire. "No, actually"—I lifted my press pass—"I'm with the Junction Times." I was about to break into my explanation of how I was sent to do a write-up on the summer work program when he leapt into a diatribe against none other than Ms. Mills, the kitchen manager.
"If you ask me that old crow, Candace Mills did it. She's always whining and complaining that the maintenance staff is useless and lazy. And I saw them have a big ole fight just a day before Alder retired. And that whole retirement thing is something else that's not adding up. If you ask me, Alder wanted to stick around for a few more years. He was a good guy too. One day I got to work dragging my feet and feeling low as can be because my dog died. I'd had him since I was a kid."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I've got dogs too, and they are the best."
"They sure are. I've got Rocky now. Alder gave him to me. That terrible day, I was walking around like I was wearing cement shoes. Alder stayed late and stepped in to help me clean all the rooms on my list. He didn't have to. He had already worked a full day, but he did. A week later he brought me a puppy. That's my Rocky. Love that dog. Anyway, Alder didn't want to go. He didn't have anything to do at home, what with Pauline being gone and all. May she rest in peace. Pauline used to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies that were so good they nearly brought tears to my eyes." He laughed. "And as you can probably tell, I know my cookies. But that Candace, she couldn't bake her way out of a cardboard box and she's kitchen manager. Doesn't make sense."
As a reporter, the shiny apple cheeked custodian, Victor Hanson, was a veritable gold mine. He obviously had no qualms about tossing out dirty laundry about his coworkers. While his type tended to speak in hyperbolic generalizations, they came in handy when everyone else was tightlipped and reserved. Unfortunately, he was also speaking so fast it was hard to keep up with him.
"I'm surprised you got safely past that back gate without that old bat chasing you down and stopping you," he added.
"Well, I—uh—" I decided to leave out my first failed escape attempt. "If you wouldn't mind backing up a bit in your words." I walked closer to the truck and stuck my hand through. "Sunni Taylor, by the way. I was covering Alder's retirement for the paper. You know, a nice story about all his years of hard work and dedication. When news of the murder hit the Junction Times office, I was stunned. He seemed like a wonderful man."
Victor nodded. A call came through on his radio but
instead of answering it, he turned the volume down so he could continue our chat uninterrupted. "Best boss I ever had."
"Boss? So you worked under him on the maintenance staff?"
"Sure did. I just earned my five year pin," he said proudly. "Alder taught me everything I know."
"Congratulations on the five years. Yes, several of the students had some nice things to say about Alder. One girl told me he bought a student whose family was in financial turmoil a nice winter coat."
Victor nodded again. "Yep, he did stuff like that all the time. That's why I don't understand why Morely asked him to retire. It was real sudden. I think Candace put in one complaint too many, and they just decided Alder was getting past his prime."
"Was he?" I asked. "Getting past his prime?"
"Alder? Shoot, he could still outpace me when we were mopping floors. Sure he was forgetting stuff more and more, but that's normal for an old guy." Suddenly his face grayed some, and he looked down at his steering wheel. "Here I am talking about him like he's going to show up for work. Can't believe he's gone."
I reached in and patted him on the shoulder. "I am sorry. He obviously meant a great deal to you."
"Sure did."
My moment of comfort seemed to revive him. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a card with his name and extension. "The district had these printed up for everyone. I never had a business card before." He handed it to me. "Let me know if you need any other stories about Alder. I've got some good ones. Oh, if you hear anything about the murder case, I'm sure itching to find out who killed Alder. I'd like to give 'em one of these." He wadded up his plump fist.
"Thank you for the card, and I'll let you know if I hear anything." As anxious as I was to get out of the sun and into Layers for a much needed lunch and iced tea, one thing Victor said had piqued my interest.
"If you don't mind, Victor, did you say that you heard Mr. Stevens arguing with Ms. Mills, the kitchen manager?"
Victor sat up higher in the driver's seat. He seemed anxious to relay the story. "Sure did. Wouldn't be the first time someone had an argument with Candace. She's always in everyone's business, but this time I think Alder was getting into her business and rightly so. I told him I had seen Candace after kitchen hours with her little green car at the loading dock. She was stuffing her car full with boxes of food. Everything from canned vegetables to frozen chicken. Alder was surprised to hear me say it, but he knew I wasn't the type to go making up any stories. And when he saw her doing the same thing, filling her crummy little car with food items, he brought it up to her. They had a shouting match about it. I think Candace told him it was none of his business. Alder wasn't his usual calm and collected self. He was red in the face when he finished with her, and she was even redder."
"Did they ever apologize to each other or straighten things out?"
"Not that I know of. After that, I think Alder decided it wasn't his place to say anything to the administration since he was retiring. But that Candace Mills can hold a grudge. One year, one of the cafeteria helpers slipped on a wet tile floor." He paused to annotate his story. "I had no less than three signs up with the wet floor warning, but Katey just scurried on through and bam, landed right on her tailbone."
Having landed on my tailbone more than once while skateboarding as a teenager, I winced at the phantom pain.
"So Candace blamed you for the fall, even though you put up signs?"
Victor's brows inched together in confusion. "Huh? No, that wasn't the point of the story. I had the signs up so that blame all landed on Katey. But the district sent this lady named Harriet as a substitute cafeteria worker." He laughed. "She was a hoot. Big, burly lady who spent a good many years as an army cook. Well, she didn't take any guff from Candace, and that old biddy was beside herself about it. She ended up making up some long story about Harriet, that she was spending too much time chatting with the kids and not enough time working, so the district replaced Harriet. That's how Candace rolls. She doesn't want anyone telling her what to do."
"One fight is hardly enough for someone to plot a murder," I suggested.
"Maybe not but that woman is as mean as they come when you get on her bad side. Well, I've got to get back on campus. I hear there was a food fight in the quad area. Kids these days," he said with a sigh of humor as if he was an old grandpa talking about a bunch of rowdy scamps. "But I guess there were a few good food fights in my day too. Good talking to you."
"Yes. Oh, one more thing. Who will take over as head custodian now that Alder is gone?"
He practically leaned out his driver's window. "Why? Have you heard something?" he asked anxiously.
"Me? No. I was just wondering. I take it you are in the running."
"I am. And I'm nervous as heck about it. I would sure love to have the position."
"Well, good luck to you then. Good day."
"Thanks. Take care."
Chapter 19
I'd spent the rest of the day typing up a flowery story about the summer program. I knew it would end up on the back page where a few people might peruse it, like the counselors at Smithville High. Before starting the article, I quickly typed up notes about the more interesting morsels of information I'd uncovered during my visit. Those notes would most likely never end up in a story but they helped organize my thoughts about the murder case. My journalist's intuition told me I was heading in the right direction on finding out who killed Alder Stevens. Or that might just have been wishful thinking.
Newman and Redford growled and wrestled with each other in the center of my bed as I finished dressing for dinner at Emily's house. She was making a frittata . . . again. When you had a chicken farm, it seemed to be the logical go-to dish.
I could hear Ursula and Henry griping at each other in front of the house as they packed up for the day. "I told you I don't know where that darn hammer went. All I know is I didn't take it," Henry insisted with a smidgen of disgust in his tone. It amazed me that they got anything accomplished with the amount of time they spent yelling at each other. This particular disagreement seemed even hotter than usual.
I grabbed the check I'd written for them on my way out the door, figuring a paycheck was always a good way to cool a heated argument.
Henry had his hands fisted and jammed onto his hips as I headed out to their truck. "If I wanted that darn hammer, I would have just taken it. Your name is on it anyway. And you know I don't like to use it because it's too small for my hands."
"Hey, guys." I waved the check like a white flag, hoping to get both sides to surrender. Ursula might have weighed just a hundred pounds, but she was a force to be reckoned with when she was mad. And from the look on her face she was that and more. She forced a brief smile as I handed her the check. She then jammed it into the top pocket of her overalls.
I looked over at Henry who had his entire face scrunched up in anger.
"What's going on? Or should I ask?"
"Nothing much except this guy took my hammer and then lost it. But he refuses to confess to the crime." Ursula folded her thin arms across her chest and lifted her chin at her brother.
"I'm not going to confess to a crime I didn't commit."
Silently, I warned myself not to get involved, but it seemed this incident had truly upset both of them. I motioned toward their toolbox. There were a number of hammers inside, along with a lot of other tools. "Maybe it just got mixed up with all your other things, Ursula."
The spikes of her short brown hair shifted as she vehemently shook her head. "Nope. My hammer has a long white handle, and I burned my name into it to make sure this guy kept his fat paws off of it. But just like those two strawberry tarts of yours he ate today, he can't keep his hands off anything."
I looked over at Henry. "You ate both tarts?"
He shrank down with a sheepish grin the way Redford did whenever he got caught stealing something off the kitchen counter.
"Couldn't help myself," he admitted with
a shrug. "They were so good."
"Yes, they are yummy. I'll tell Emi you said so. Which reminds me, I'm late for dinner. Ursula, I'm sure the hammer will show up. It's not like the thing could have just floated off on its own."
Ursula's brow arched. "I don't know about that. Especially in that old house. Sometimes, I could swear Henry and I aren't alone when we're working in that sitting room. And then Newman was waiting all day for some invisible person to throw the ball for him."
My posture straightened. "Did the ball ever roll on its own?" The second the question left my mouth, I wanted to draw it back in.
Ursula's dark eyes sparkled with intrigue. "No . . . but is there something you aren't telling us? The way your little ears perked up when I mentioned Newman and the invisible ball thrower makes me think you know something we don't."
"Of course not." I waved my hand a touch too dramatically. "It's just that dog is so obsessed with that ball, sometimes I think he can control it with his mind." I added a hearty laugh to assure them I was kidding. They didn't look too convinced. It was hard to deny that strange, unexplained things happened from time to time in the house, but it seemed counterproductive to come up with wild theories to explain them all. I had quickly settled on the tilted foundation theory as the reason Newman's ball had rolled back, and I was sticking to that.
Thankfully, the turn in conversation had taken Ursula's mind off the missing hammer. "Well, Henry, let's go home. I've got a pound of beef defrosting in the refrigerator, so you might as well fire up the grill." Henry didn't need any more incentive than a grilled burger to shift him into gear. He lifted the heavy toolbox into the back of the truck. I headed inside to get my keys.
Moments later, Lana showed up at my door in her running shoes. Her face was beet red and shiny with sweat. "Lana, come on in. You look like you could use a glass of water."
"You read my mind." She followed me into the kitchen. "Halfway through my run, I remembered I forgot my water bottle on the table."
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