Death on a School Board (Book 5 Molly Masters Mysteries)

by Leslie O'Kane

  “There’s only one car in the parking lot. Maybe that belongs to the…PI. What was his name again?”

  “Sam?” I called, killing two birds with one stone. My voice echoed slightly. The place seemed completely deserted. “If that car is his, it seems strange that he doesn’t answer.” I was stating the obvious, but needed to hear myself talk. The eeriness of the place was getting to me.

  I walked slowly and took in my surroundings. There were numerous betting booths and thick pillars, all built in white-painted wood. I felt dwarfed by the structure, which had a rare elegance about it. Maybe that was because there would never be a modern stadium like this. As was the case for the fence surrounding the track, the wood would be replaced by manmade materials.

  My appreciation of my surroundings was broken when I glanced down. There were a couple of dark spots on the cement floor. I froze and stared. Jim stopped beside me. “Jim? What does that look like to you?”

  His eyes widened, and he’d obviously drawn the same conclusion that I had. “It might not be what it looks like. That could be…paint, or grease.”

  “Sure. That’s all it is. Watery red grease. I’ll buy that.” I was trying hard to convince myself not to panic. “Those grease spots seem to be making a trail in that direction,” I said, pointing.

  Jim put a hand on my shoulder. “You’d better wait here.”

  “I don’t think so, Jim. I’m not staying here alone.”

  “Then let’s go back to the car.”

  “Sam might need immediate help. Let’s get this over with.”

  Grabbing onto Jim’s arm, I kept walking, telling myself that it was my imagination that what we were following was a trail of blood, the drops of which increased in frequency as we proceeded.

  The trail led to the last betting booth at the end of the row. Despite part of my mind, which was screaming at me not to look, I opened the door.

  This time my scream echoed through the rafters.

  It was Sam Dunlap, his lifeless eyes fixed in a horrific expression, his blood pooled around him from a stab wound in his midsection.

  “Christ almighty!” Jim cried.

  We stumbled out toward the parking lot. “Call nine-one-one,” Jim murmured, his face as pale as I’d ever seen it.

  A police car was pulling into the parking lot of the grandstands just as we were heading outside. Jim flagged it down and ran up to the car, which I dimly realized was Tommy Newton’s.

  I sat down, feeling dizzy. A minute or two later, Jim returned and said, “Tom’s contacting the local police on his radio. He says they’re probably going to want to take us into the station house to get our statements.”

  I nodded. Jim sat down next to me. Tommy walked up to us. His normally placid expression looked stony. “Molly, we got to stop meetin’ like this.”

  I gave him a glare, which he returned. “I’m serious. You find dead bodies faster than flies do.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure. And it’s not as though I’m deliberately looking, Tommy.”

  Jim said forcefully, “Tom, there’s no reason to take this out on my wife. She’s already upset, and she certainly didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  As if to himself, Tommy muttered, “I should’ve had someone from the Saratoga PD get over here and check the place out till I could arrive. Might’ve saved this guy’s life.”

  He glared at me again, then added, “Figured if I did, they’d arrest you on the spot.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. A lump formed in my throat. Was this man’s death my fault? Had he died because his killer had found out he was about to give me damning evidence?

  “‘Sorry’ doesn’t help my investigation any. And it sure doesn’t help your friend back there.”

  Sirens in the distance grew near. I rose, shivering against the cold. Jim put his arm around me. He was shaking every bit as hard as I was.

  There’s some old adage about there being “no rest for the weary,” or perhaps it’s “the wicked,” but in any case, there’s definitely no rest for the parent. Nathan only knew that my arrival at Peter’s house was late, and apparently the two boys had run out of sources of entertainment, so he was not pleased. Jim, meanwhile, picked up Karen and BC in the second car.

  “Did Nathan have lunch?” I asked Gillian, in my numb state forgetting that my son was old enough to speak for himself.

  “No,” Gillian said, just as Nathan was answering “Yes.” She looked at him in surprise. “We made ourselves hot dogs while you were gone,” Peter explained.

  “I had to run out for a while,” Gillian said with a shrug that didn’t quite mask her obvious embarrassment. “Something came up. I was only gone for a few minutes.”

  “More like two hours,” Peter grumbled, rolling his eyes.

  “It was a few minutes. Kids can’t tell time.”

  “We watched the entire Star Wars tape and had lunch, Mom!”

  Gillian blushed a little as she met my eyes. “A friend of mine was hospitalized, I just found out when I got home. I went to visit.”

  “No damage done. Thanks for—” I glanced back, distracted as Nathan stormed off and got into the backseat, “—having Nathan over.”

  I got into the car, wondering about the coincidence. Could Gillian have gone to Saratoga to meet with Sam Dunlap? While we drove, Nathan complained that he’d have had more fun today if I’d gotten there on time so that he could have another friend over to play. “Now it’s too late!” he went on.

  His tongue-lashing was falling on deaf ears, as I realized how much danger I was in now. Two people had been murdered. If the killer had indeed murdered Sam rather than risk his passing along evidence, could I be next? I needed this person behind bars. That meant I needed a board member on my side to give me inside information. Dad wasn’t cut out for the espionage business, but I knew someone who was.

  Once the kids were fully engrossed in their own pursuits and Jim was preoccupied watching a football game, I grabbed the phone and dialed.

  She answered and we exchanged a couple of words of obligatory small talk, then I said, “Stephanie, I need your help.”

  There was a long pause. “That has to go down as one of the most unexpected sentences I’ve ever heard.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  I paused, mulling over whether or not I could use that phrase somehow in a greeting card. The virtual front of the eCard would read: What did one cornstalk say to the other cornstalk? The virtual inside would be: I’m all ears. Stupid idea, I chastised myself-not only lame, but had been used in children’s riddles for years. “I need you to help me get some information on the other board members.”

  “Information?”

  “The latest gossip, really.”

  “Why, Molly. Suddenly you’re speaking my language. I’ll get right on it.” She was so excited about her new mission that she hung up without another word.

  The next morning was Sunday, and to my surprise, Stephanie was waiting in the parking lot as we left the early Mass at the Catholic church a couple of miles from our house. Jim was the first to greet her and said, “I didn’t realize you’re a parishioner here. Are you early for the next mass?”

  “No, I’m not Catholic. I’m here to speak to your wife.” She grabbed my upper arm and started leading me away, calling, “I’ll have her back with you in just a minute.”

  “You learned something already?” I said in a half whisper. Dropping the more melodious tones she’d used while speaking to my handsome husband, she said under her breath, “That private detective that Sylvia hired was killed in Saratoga yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know. I found the body.”

  She stopped and released my arm. “And you didn’t tell me? Molly, you’re a rank amateur when it comes to gossip.” She put her hands on her hips and studied me, giving her head a shake of disgust. “The rumor is that Kent and Michelle are longtime lovers and were pulling some sort of scam that was bilking the budget. I’ve alerted my
accountant, who’s looking into the financial end of it, but you should talk to the two of them. See what they have to say for themselves.”

  I nodded, Kent being someone I’d already realized I needed to learn more about. If nothing else, he had such a machismo attitude about him that he struck me as potentially violent. “I was thinking of going to football practice after school tomorrow and—”

  “Kent runs practices on Sunday afternoons, too,” Stephanie pronounced.

  “Okay, I’ll go scope things out today, then. Not that watching someone coach a football team would necessarily tell me whether or not he was a murderer. Which reminds me. Do you have any idea if it was a man or a woman who tried to strangle you?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is it was someone with bad breath and strong hands.”

  Short of shaking everyone’s hands while sniffing their breath, those weren’t helpful clues. “Hear any other rumors about board members?”

  “Only that the friction between Kent and Stuart is an object of some creative speculation. Word has it that their troubles go way back, before they were on the board. That Stuart has some past life that he ran away from, deserted his kids, that sort of thing, and that Kent called him on it.”

  I furrowed my brow, and Stephanie held up her hands. “That’s all I know. I’ll tell you more as the information comes in.”

  “Thanks, Stephanie. I’m impressed. How did you hear this so fast, anyway?”

  “Oh, you give a few tidbits of information and you get a few back.”

  “What tidbits were you giving?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know yourself. I’ve got to run.” She whirled around on one of her spike heels and strode to her car, leaving me to ponder just what it was that she or I knew that could be fodder for the grapevine. Maybe my alliance with Stephanie had been too rash a decision.

  Later, with Jim now engrossed in a second professional football game on TV, I drove out to the high school fields and soon found the team. Kent Graham was making them run through various drills. Only a dozen or so people were in the stands, watching the practice. I made my way across the first row, scanning to see if there was anyone I recognized and could pump for information. No familiar-looking faces, but I did spot a familiar back of a head. It was on the shoulders of a teenage boy Tiffany had once dated, and he was on Kent’s team and sitting alone on the bench. He was such a fan of the Atlanta Falcons that he’d had his hair shaved in the shape of a falcon. In my opinion, it looked more like a bat than a falcon, but then, I doubt he had much chance to observe the back of his head. I made my way over to him, trying in vain to recall his name.

  “Hi there. I recognized your…” What? His bird? His logo? “…head. I’m Molly Masters. Tiffany babysits for me.”

  “Oh yeah.” He nodded then mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “Howzitgoin’” as I sat down next to him. I noticed then that his arm was in a sling. “How’s the team doing this year?”

  “Not bad.” He indicated his injured arm. “Course, I could be better myself.”

  “Sprained wrist?”

  “Broken collar bone. Can’t do shi—crap on the field, but Coach says I gotta come watch.”

  I made some sympathetic murmurings, then asked, “Can you tell me if Coach Graham’s wife is here, by any chance?”

  The boy looked back and scanned the stands, then shook his head. “Nah. Don’t see her.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Kind of pretty, I guess. Kind of top-heavy.” He gave me a sly grin, which I ignored. More important, Kent’s wife did exist and the team members were not mistaking Michelle as the coach’s wife. We watched in silence for a couple of minutes as the offense and defense scrimmaged. “Do you like Coach Graham?”

  “He’s all right.”

  Kent blew his whistle and called out for his team to “hit the showers.” My companion rose and trotted across the field to join his teammates.

  Kent did a double take in my direction, then strode toward me. “Molly Masters. What brings you out to our practice?”

  “I’m a football buff, actually.”

  “Really? That surprises me.” He spat into the dirt, making like a baseball player. “I would assume you think sports are a waste.”

  I ignored his hostility, trying to “make nice” for the purpose of gleaning information. I stood up a little too quickly for my still-sore muscles and came over to stand beside him as we watched the last of his team jog toward the gym. “You’ve got some great linebackers. They really seem to do a pretty good job on pass rush. The nose guard was being held on almost every play during your scrimmage, and he still managed to force the quarterback into throwing it away.”

  “So you weren’t bluffing.”

  “Not about football. Horseback riding, maybe.”

  “You seem to be a little sore.”

  “I’ve felt better.” In truth, a certain key area of my anatomy felt as though it might well be bruised beyond all repair, but this was not a matter I felt like discussing with Kent.

  Kent raised an eyebrow. “You know, Molly, some people are just not meant to horseback ride after they reach a certain age.”

  “What the heck do you mean by that? I’m younger than you or Michelle.”

  “True, but unlike either of us, you’ve allowed yourself to get out of shape. See, skinny people have that problem. It’s harder for you to realize when your muscles are getting flaccid.”

  I found being called “skinny” every bit as insulting as being called “fat” and snapped, “If you want to test how flaccid my muscles are, grab me a baseball bat and let me take a few whacks at your shin.”

  He chuckled. “I was just being honest. No offense, Molly.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, none taken,” I said sarcastically. So much for my “making nice.” In fact. I was at a loss for how to turn this around to pump Kent for information. Furthermore, someone was crossing the field toward us, so our conversation was about to be interrupted. I stared in surprise when I saw who it was. “Stuart?”

  “Molly. I’m…surprised to see you here.”

  “You too, Stuart. Are you a football fan?”

  “No, I’m here to discuss a personal matter with Kent.”

  Kent nodded and dismissed me with a flippant. “Thanks for stopping by, Molly.”

  “My pleasure.” Jerkface, I silently added.

  I left by way of the bleachers, which gave me some cover as I walked behind them slowly, watching the two men converse. Not surprisingly, they were soon arguing. Unfortunately, the acoustics were nothing like those of Proctor’s, and I couldn’t catch a single word.

  I decided to wait in the parking lot to see if Stuart would perhaps go for a sympathetic ear and tell me what the trouble was. To my surprise, though, it was Kent who returned to the parking lot, not Stuart.

  “You’re still here?” he asked.

  “I was waiting to talk with Stuart.”

  Kent gestured behind him with a jerk of his head. “I doubt you’ll see him for several minutes. He’s pretending to be interested in jogging around the track. Of course, he’s really only giving me time to leave so he won’t have to face me. That worm.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. He’s always a worm. Half of the board members are…” He let his voice fade.

  “Do you have as high an opinion of my father? Or is that reserved for Stuart?”

  He jabbed a finger at me. “We are all serving on the board out of sense of duty. To help the children of this community. For that, we deserve respect.”

  “I do respect you for that. But you’ve lost a lot more of my respect through your tactics. Nobody likes a bully, Mr. Graham.”

  Kent crossed his arms and gave me a haughty smirk. “Don’t they? Try askin’ ‘em how well they like me at season’s end, when we’re in the finals. And what about the boosters? Ask them how well they liked me after my team went undefeated last year. Ask them if they’d call me a
bully, or a winner.”

  “Life isn’t the same as football. That is just a game, after all, Kent, regardless of how seriously some of us might take it. Whatever your coaching record might be, you’ve got to get along with your board members to get anything done. Or do you just try to plow over them, as well?”

  The muscles in his jaw were working. “My strategies are successful. I’m going to get my way on this vote, too.”

  “How did you convince Michelle to switch her vote? Somehow, I can’t believe she did so purely out of a change in heart. Did you force her to, in order to keep herself eligible for reelection?”

  A vein on his forehead was bulging in anger. I had a feeling that, in his eyes, I’d just turned myself into an incompetent referee. “Watch yourself, Molly. You’re already in dangerous waters. You’re going to find yourself over your head in no time. I’d stop making enemies, if I were you.”

  He strode away at a furious pace. I headed to my car, thinking he was probably right about the make-no-enemies-unnecessarily part. It’s just that the killer was moving closer now. A man had been murdered right before he could meet with me.

  I was running out of time.

  Chapter 16

  An Affair to Forget

  Later that afternoon, somebody rang the doorbell. BC rushed up from the basement, barking maniacally. I yelled. “I’ll get it,” to my otherwise inattentive and uninterested household. It was Lauren. She was wearing jeans and an oversize Sports Illustrated sweatshirt that I’m pretty sure was once mine, having claimed it from Jim as equity earned by virtue of his overuse of our bathroom while reading that particular periodical. Her round face bore a look of deep concern, so she didn’t appear to be in the mood to want to trace her clothing’s past.

  The moment she stepped inside, she nervously combed both hands through her shoulder-length brown hair. “Molly, Tommy just told me what happened to you at the racetrack yesterday. I can’t believe he didn’t even tell me till just now. I’m so…” She stopped and took a calming breath, but with a voice still as agitated as before she asked, “Are you all right?”