Fear for Zofie, or despise herself. Two unhappy choices, brought to her in a surprise visit by Detective Connor McLean.
She could not be attracted to him. She wouldn't let herself be. Surely she possessed that much self-discipline.
Careful not to back into him, she stepped aside and turned. "Shall we?" she said briskly.
The hall was empty, the banks of lockers closed. The linoleum floor still gleamed from the weekend polish. Her heels clicked on it, but Detective McLean walked lightly.
A few doors down, light and a masculine laugh spilled from Rod Cabot's classroom. He and a new young Social Studies teacher were conducting a flirtation, Mariah knew. She had felt a few pangs of … not jealousy, exactly, but wistfulness. It would be nice to be in love again.
Maybe that's all that was wrong with her today. Three years without a date was a long time. She hadn't been interested when a few men had hinted that they might be. But if her body was reacting this way just because she was alone with a well-built man who had an oddly sweet smile, it was time she consider reentering the dating world.
Relieved, she said, "Back to Tracy. She does dress a little differently than most of the girls. Skirts shorter, shirts tighter, more makeup… She acts more sexually aware than her peers. I assumed she was imitating her mother, who also tends to wear miniskirts and three-inch heels even when the other mothers are in jeans." Tracy's mother also wore her bleached hair teased high and her skimpy tank tops cut low.
"She's a cocktail waitress down at the Customs House Inn," he said, as if in answer to a question.
"I know."
She felt his glance.
"I asked."
They reached the third-floor landing. A thunder of footsteps warned them to step aside. A kid tore past them going up, his face red and his breath coming in gasps.
McLean turned to watch. "A gunman in the basement?"
"I'd guess he forgot something in his locker. Seventh-graders are unlucky enough to be assigned lockers on the fourth floor."
"You work your way down with seniority?"
"Exactly."
They continued down the broad, polished linoleum steps with a peeling abrasive strip on each meant to prevent slips.
"I heard you were asking about the dance last week," Mariah said. "Do you mind telling me why?"
Voices rose from the stairwell below.
"Let me wait until we get outside," he said.
They reached the heavy doors on the second floor that opened outside to a grand porch and wide steps that curved in two directions. The air was damp but cool, typical for a Pacific Northwest autumn day.
Students still loitered on the sidewalk and narrow stretch of lawn between the building and the street, some waiting for rides, others hanging out with friends, some skateboarders doing forbidden jumps off the curb. The two adults were alone on the porch.
"Rumor has it," Connor McLean said, "that a high schooler—maybe even a junior—sneaked into the last middle school dance to see Tracy. A four year age difference—that's a big gulf in sexual sophistication. I'm wondering whether he didn't come for more than a dance."
"You mean, she had sex, but not with Gerald," Mariah said slowly.
"Exactly." He shrugged. "Could be it was consensual, but then she panicked thinking she might be pregnant. Or it could be she thought if she sneaked away with him, they'd make out, only he pushed it further."
Mariah ran her hand along the rough stone cap on the railing. "But if he raped her, why lie?"
"I was hoping you could tell me." He grimaced. "You understand teenage culture better than I do. So here's my question—if this junior is popular, a guy all the other girls think is hot, and suddenly Tracy claims he raped her, what would the reaction be among students?"
"You mean, would 'snitching' be social suicide?"
"Exactly."
She thought. "I don't know. I wish I could honestly say every single kid would be repulsed by a boy who would rape a seventh-grade girl. The truth is, teenagers still have some pretty old-fashioned ideas about sex and sexuality and even gender roles. I can just hear some of them saying, 'She was asking for it,' because she dresses the way she does and because she agreed to go behind the gym with him, assuming that's your scenario."
His gaze never left her. "Would it make a difference whether he's popular or not?"
"I don't know that, either. But frankly, I doubt a really popular junior in high school would bother with a seventh-grader—that might be social suicide."
"In my day—" his tone was dry "—a certain set of boys kept track of how many virgins they'd had. You might have to hunt young for that."
She shuddered. "What a thought! And, yes, of course it's possible. Have you asked Tracy about the dance?"
"I'm looking for ammunition first."
Her mind jumped. "And why Gerald?"
"Because she genuinely does hate him," the detective said reasonably. "What a chance to kill two birds with one stone! Get rid of a teacher you detest, and have an excuse parents and authorities will accept for maybe being pregnant."
Mariah gazed sightlessly at the few students still hanging around the front of the building. "Does she hate him just because he's giving her a bad grade?"
He hesitated. "I'm getting the feeling there's a little more to it than that. At this point, I'm just guessing."
She hugged herself. The day was cold. She had no reason to feel as if a ghost had brushed by her. Sure, she was a teacher, too, but she'd never had a student actually hate her.
Had she?
"Kids aren't the only ones who make fun of someone to get a laugh. Teachers do it, too. Or they sit in judgment on the basis of a narrow ideological focus."
She turned her head. "You're saying…"
He held up both hands. "I'm not saying yet. It's too soon."
"You told the principal it could take weeks."
"That's right."
She was clutching her purse to her breast like a shield. "Do you know how agonizing those weeks will be for Gerald Tanner as well as Tracy?"
Emotions moved in his eyes, giving her a glimpse of a conscience she had wanted to believe he didn't possess.
"Yeah." In contrast, his voice was utterly without emotion. "I know."
Mariah took a breath. "Just … hurry. Okay?"
Gaze intense on her face, he reached out and briefly gripped her arm just above her elbow. "I'll do my best. That's all I can do."
Her head nodded, puppetlike. She didn't move.
"Mariah…" His voice lowered, roughened.
"Yes?" she whispered.
Behind them one of the doors opened. "Detective McLean!" Noreen Patterson said. "You're still here."
He blinked, and the next moment Mariah wondered if she had imagined that moment of shimmering intensity.
"Start early, work late," he said easily. "I had some questions for Ms. Stavig."
Ms. Stavig. Not Mariah.
And why would she want it to be Mariah?
"Did you have something you wanted to ask?" he continued.
"Nope." Noreen scanned the cars at the curb. "I was hoping to catch Justin's mother. And there she is." She lifted a hand to them, then hurried down the steps and across the lawn toward a red minivan with the doors open to what looked like half a dozen teenage boys in soccer shorts and shin guards.
"I've got to pick up Zofie," Mariah said quickly. "Unless you had anything else?"
"No." His voice was very quiet, very controlled. "I didn't want anything else."
"Oh." Foolish to feel letdown. "Then I'll take my bag…"
He looked back at her, expressionless. "I said I'd walk you to your car, and I will."
"You really don't have to…"
He merely raised his brows. "Which way?"
"I'm parked on the side." Mariah was embarrassed by her sulky tone. She pivoted abruptly and started down the steps, aware of him following.
He was silent until she was fumbling to get the key in the lock of her
small red car.
Then, rather oddly, he said, "I take it I haven't improved on acquaintance for you."
Startled, Mariah turned, the car door open. "What do you mean?"
"I'm just gathering that you despise me as much as you did last week when you walked into your principal's office and realized I'd been called."
He sounded as if he didn't care, but his very stillness told her otherwise.
"What difference does it make?" she asked. "You don't need me for this investigation."
"I told you…"
"That I'm symbolic." For some reason that made her angry. "Well, find another symbol." She snatched her tote bag from him and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
Creases formed on his brow. "Now I've annoyed you."
"I want this not to be happening," she told him, a snap in her voice. "I want not to be a part of it, but you keep involving me."
His eyes narrowed. "You didn't seem to mind talking about Tracy."
"No. I … I'm curious. How can I help it?" She got into the car, feeling safer. His hand on the open door kept her from slamming it. Childishly she said, "That doesn't mean I like my role in this!"
"You mean, giving the cop ideas? Letting him bounce his off you?" Now his voice was silky. "What is it, too much like consorting with the enemy?"
She gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead at the granite and stucco wall of the school. "Do you blame me if I have mixed feelings?"
There was a moment of silence. He sighed. "No. I don't blame you. I hoped… Oh, hell. Never mind. I do appreciate your time and thoughts, Ms. Stavig. Drive safely."
He closed her door and was already walking away by the time she turned, her mouth open as if she were going to say … what?
"Damn," she whispered.
What had gotten into her? One minute, they'd been talking like friends. No, more. She would have sworn he'd been … oh, flirting with her. That was one way to put it. And then when Noreen came out, he shuttered his every emotion, and hers had come irrationally screaming forth.
Maybe he was right, and she had felt like a collaborator, whispering under the portico with the man investigating the school's secrets. That's how the other teachers would view their low-voiced colloquy, she knew it was.
She heard that low, rough, "Mariah."
Not a question, but perhaps the beginning of one.
But what had he intended to ask?
Or was she, once again, imagining things?
And if he had asked, what would her answer have been? And why had she been so afraid of the question?
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
"I'm going out for a pass!" Evan yelled, running a zigzagging path across the open grass. "Breaking right…"
Connor let loose the football, an easy toss, sending it spiraling gently into his nephew's outstretched hands. Evan clutched it to his chest and raced the last few yards to an imaginary goal line, where he spiked the ball and did a victory dance.
Lazing on his side in a sunny spot on the park grass, Hugh called, "Good one, kid!"
Connor reached the "goal line" himself and picked up the ball. "Okay, why don't you throw me a few."
"Yeah. Cool." The seven-year-old's thin shoulders slumped. "Except mine wobble."
Connor made his shrug careless. "Of course your passes wobble. You have to grow into throwing a football. At the moment, your hand is too small to put the right kind of rotation on it. Time will take care of it. For now, you can work on accuracy and developing your arm."
"Really?" Evan looked hopeful, then downcast. "My friend Ryan can throw really great passes."
"Is he bigger than you?"
He frowned. "Well, yeah."
"There you go." Connor grinned. "Evan, you're seven years old. Trust me, by the time you hit high school, you'll be ready to star."
A big smile lit the kid's freckled face. "Okay!"
"Now, throw the ball." Connor broke into an easy lope, turning so that his pattern brought him into the path of the short pass. "Good one," he called, and tossed it back. "Another."
Connor reveled in the normalcy of the scene and of John's son and his daughter, Maddie. She was off watching the soccer games and kicking the soccer ball with friends but within eyesight of her uncles. Hugh, who'd had a late night with one of his blondes, pretended to watch both kids while really catching some shut-eye.
Evan and Connor played catch until the boy was panting and red-faced. To be tactful, Connor said, "I need a break. Let's go see what your uncle Hugh has in that cooler."
Maddie arrived about the same time, dribbling the ball between her feet. She was playing on a special team this year that traveled all over the state to compete. Evan, perhaps recognizing that he wouldn't equal his sister's ability as a killer forward, had dropped out of soccer and started youth touch football.
"I'm hungry!" Maddie announced, easily lifting the ball into the air with one foot and bouncing it from her forehead.
Hugh jerked and opened his eyes. "Jeez! You scared me!"
"I think he should play goalie for you," Connor suggested ruthlessly. "He's getting lazy."
"Yeah!" she exclaimed gleefully. "We could practice penalty kicks!"
Hugh laughed. "You don't think you could get a kick by me, do you?"
His pretty niece dropped cross-legged to the grass. "You never even played soccer, did you?"
"I'm a good athlete," he said carelessly.
She gave him a piranhalike smile. "You're on."
Connor rubbed his hands together. "Oh, this is going to be fun. Whaddaya say, Ev? Shall we watch the slaughter?"
"Yeah!" his nephew exclaimed.
Hugh gave a kind smile. "You should take pity on your sister. Let's not embarrass her too much."
Evan fell to the ground with a raucous laugh.
Hugh lifted his eyebrows.
"You haven't been to one of her games lately, have you?" Connor asked. "They don't play like girls anymore. You're in deep doodoo, bro."
Evan thought that was funny, too. Hugh was less amused.
"Bunch of girls," he muttered.
Maddie was moved to heave the ball at him. He caught it in midair and grinned rakishly. "See? Won't catch me snoozing."
"We already did," she said with a sniff.
However sunny, no late October day could offer picnic weather, especially not on the Olympic peninsula at the foothills of mountains already gaining the foundation for winter snowcaps. The McLeans had brought one to the park anyway. John and Natalie had taken a ferry to Victoria for a romantic weekend getaway. Privately Connor suspected they wouldn't leave their room at the Empress. Hugh and Connor had offered to stay with the kids. Last night, Uncle Connor had been enough entertainment. By today Maddie and Evan had begun to get antsy and whine about going to friends' houses. The picnic had been an impulse, but the kids had both jumped at it.
Yesterday Connor had worked, interviewing Tanner again and half a dozen more students from Port Dare Middle School. Today, he had decided to let well enough alone.
Tracy Mitchell and Gerald Tanner both could stew a little. The girl had missed a week of school now, and must be getting restless. The computer instructor's mood was swinging between anger and depression. Somebody was due to crack, Connor figured.
"Can we go to a movie tonight?" Maddie asked, unwrapping a sandwich. She seemed impervious to the wintry chill in the air and the cold ground that had barely thawed by midmorning. Her sweatshirt was tied around her waist, and she wore only jeans, a T-shirt and athletic shoes. But this was a girl who played soccer games in pouring rain and snowstorms. Her sport wasn't like baseball, postponed at the first drizzle. Officials never seemed to call a soccer game.
"Yeah!" Evan chimed in. "Cool! A movie would be fun. Can we?"
They had a rousing discussion about what was worth seeing, with both men knowing perfectly well they would end up at a PG snoozer. The trick was finding one that both a ten-year-old girl and a seven-year-old
boy would enjoy. Maddie's tastes were starting to lean toward the preteen, while Evan was bloodthirsty and repulsed by romance.
"Hey, that's my team," Evan said suddenly. On the hour, players from the games that had just finished were heading toward the parking lot, while the teams to play the next game were warming up. A group of boys, filthy and grass-stained, were whooping and dribbling balls while their parents trailed, chatting and carrying lawn chairs and coats.
"You should have kept playing," Maddie said.
Evan shrugged.
"You can go say hi," Hugh suggested.
He shrugged again. "Nah."
Connor watched him with the tangle of pity and compassion and anger on his behalf that a parent might feel. Evan, scrawny and with huge feet, wasn't very athletic right now. He would grow into those feet in a few years, but right now he was struggling with a sense of inferiority.
Connor shared John's belief that their mother had contributed to it. She had baby-sat the kids often after their own mother had been struck with multiple sclerosis and forced to move into an extended care facility. The kids' grandmother still stayed with them when a case had John working hours that Natalie couldn't be home. For reasons none of them understood, she had always been harder on Evan than on Maddie. John had told Connor privately that he'd confronted her after Maddie told him "Grandma is mean to Evan."
Mom was trying. Connor could tell. She'd smile softly at Maddie, start to say something tart to Evan and then bite it back. Sometimes she even managed a compliment. But he was sensitive enough to hear what she didn't say.
"Do you miss playing soccer?" Connor asked quietly.
Evan plucked a clump of grass and began shredding it. "Not really."
Maddie, gifted athlete and sometime-bratty older sister, had the tact not to say, You sucked anyway.
Connor glanced back toward the boys who had been Evan's teammates, and just by chance saw a clump of little girls, maybe five, six years old, leaving another, smaller field. The one in the lead, a cute kid with a bouncy dark ponytail and skinny legs enveloped in too-big shin guards, was walking backward and talking to friends. Something about her tugged at Connor's memory. Big eyes he guessed were dark, a small heart-shaped face and an air of gravity noticeable even from this distance.
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