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

by Leslie O'Kane

  After a pause, Mom replied stiffly, “I’m never annoying, Molly. You must have me confused with someone else’s mother.”

  “It was something like, ‘So blow your nose, slave.’”

  “Oh, that. Somebody whines that he has a runny nose, and the philosopher retorts, ‘Then wipe it, slave,’ meaning that you become a slave to your illness when you let yourself obsess over—”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. But, believe me, Mom, it was darned annoying to have to listen to when you’re suffering from a bad cold. But who said it?”

  “Epictetus.”

  “Epic who?”

  “Epictetus. He was Roman, one of the many Stoic philosophers, as in stoic with a capital S. They all presented a basic, quit whining and buck-up style of philosophy. They probably came from some region named Stoicia, or something similar.”

  “Well, that certainly wouldn’t be a place I’d care to have my car break down near. Imagine trying to find a good mechanic there, let alone a little sympathy. But would any philosophy professor know that quote?”

  “No, there were so many Stoics who—”

  Cutting her off before she could turn this into a full lecture, I asked, “But any philosophy professor would know who Epictetus was, right? And that he was a real Stoic, with a capital S?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Why?”

  I didn’t want to get another lecture about how I shouldn’t be investigating this myself, so I quickly said, “Because Karen’s coming down with the sniffles. Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hung up, planning on apologizing for my abruptness to my mother once this was all over, then called Stuart. I identified myself, then said, “I’ve been thinking about the whole thing of my stumbling onto you and Gillian like I did, and I just wanted you to know that I’ve decided to drop the ‘So, blow your nose, slave’ attitude.” “Pardon?”

  “Sorry. I meant, ‘wipe it, slave,’ I think. Are you familiar with that Epictetus quote?”

  “Who?”

  “Epictetus.” There was a long pause, but Stuart never responded or indicated that the name meant anything at all to him. “He was one of the Stoics.”

  “Good for him,” he said, clearly annoyed. Apparently this particular quote had that kind of effect on us non-philosophy majors. He went on, “But what are you trying to tell me? Are you going to tell the world about Gillian’s and my relationship, or aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because we’re calling it quits anyway. That’s why I’m a little… edgy. I’m just not myself today.”

  That was exactly what I was beginning to suspect. Stephanie suspected that he was really from the state of Massachusetts. But how could I check that—call information and ask for every Ackleman listed in the state and hope to stumble upon a relative? It was bad enough having to always come off as a fool to my mom and others who know me; intolerable to also have to ask inane questions of total strangers.

  After ending my conversation with Stuart, I decided to take shot at searching on the name “Ackleman.” I’d assumed there would be a few hundred listings in the state of Massachusetts alone, however, there was only one listing: Linda Ackleman, which gave her address and phone number in a city called Westfield. Figuring that this would be pretty low on my scale of embarrassment factors, I dialed the number. A woman answered and I said, “Hello. May I speak to Stuart please?”

  There was a pause. “Stuart hasn’t lived here in years. May I ask who’s calling?”

  I hadn’t taken the time to consider the possible consequences of answering truthfully. I decided not to risk doing so. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have an old number here. Is the more recent number the one I have for upstate New York?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Making a fast, reasonable assumption, I asked, “So I must be speaking to his ex-wife?”

  “Yes, who is this? What’s this in regards to?”

  “I’m sorry. I meant to identify myself earlier. My name is Marilyn Smith and I’m with…Information Retrieval Services. I’ve been trying to locate—”

  “You people again? Don’t you ever take no for an answer?”

  “Ma’am, I’m new at my job, and I—”

  “Then you need to talk to your employer. I told that man to leave me alone. The case was resolved years ago, and Stuart is no longer practicing medicine. Everyone has suffered enough.”

  She hung up.

  I began to pace the floor. Okay. I needed to get to the bottom of this. The woman was obviously very upset about whatever Sam had uncovered.

  How could I possibly find out what that was? Drive out to Westfield and go through their old newspapers until I discovered Stuart’s name? If Stuart had been a doctor, he’d surely have to have been certified, or licensed, or whatever.

  Maybe there were some public records of all court cases involving doctors. I didn’t know how to go about finding that kind of information.

  What I needed now was some contact in the community of Westfield—some doctor or lawyer who’d be willing to pass information on to me.

  Though part of me inwardly chastised myself for being so devious, I located a national doctor referral service, who, upon my request, gave me the number for a local service in the city of Westfield. Massachusetts.

  I procrastinated for a few minutes, wondering if I was really taking this too far. I’d already lied about my identity to Linda Ackleman, an innocent person I’d never met. At length, though, I decided to ponder my sense of ethics at a time when my father’s freedom and reputation weren’t at stake and two people hadn’t lost their lives.

  A woman with an elderly, nasal voice answered the doctor-referral service number in Westfield, and I said, “My name is Marilyn Smith. I’m moving to Westfield, Massachusetts, and I’d like some information on physicians in that area.”

  “All right, ma’am. Are you looking for a general practitioner, family physician, or a specialist?”

  “Actually, I’m interested in finding out about one particular physician by the name of Stuart Ackleman. He had a practice in Westfield several years ago.”

  I waited through a pause as I heard the clicking of computer keys in the background. “There’s no Dr. Ackleman listed. I’m sorry.”

  “I heard he retired. There may have even been a lawsuit involved.”

  “Oh, yes!” she cried. “Dr. Stuart Ackleman. I remember that myself. I was still working as a nurse at the time.”

  “What happened?”

  “My memory is too fuzzy to rely on, but I can tell you this: I sure can’t recommend him, even if he’s still practicing medicine, which I doubt.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a GP. He nearly killed a patient, accidentally, when he overlooked an allergy and prescribed the wrong medication. He wound up losing his medical license and moving out of town. The whole thing caused quite a hubbub around here, let me tell you. Broke up his marriage and everything.”

  Chapter 19

  I Suppose You Think This Is All My Fault

  Twenty minutes after hanging up the phone, I was sitting in Tommy’s office, rehashing what I’d uncovered about Stuart Ackleman. We were playing our typical game-Tommy pretending that none of this was of any interest to him, me pretending that I didn’t notice his lack of attention to my every word.

  Sounding as though he were half asleep, Tommy droned, “Let me get this straight, Molly. You think that Stuart could have killed Sylvia Greene and Sam Dunlap—”

  “Jacobsen,” I interrupted. “That was his real name, remember.”

  “Jacobsen,” he patiently corrected, “rather than have his reputation in his new hometown get tainted by his past?”

  “Yes. He denied being a retired doctor when Sylvia collapsed. Obviously, then, he truly didn’t want everyone to know about it.”

  “And yet he hadn’t even taken as minor a preventative measure as to change his name. But your theory is: Why go through the effort of changing your name when you can
simply murder anyone who discovers the truth about your past, right?”

  His smugness made me clench my fists, which were below his line of vision because of his desk. Still maintaining a measure of calmness in my voice, I asked, “Are you saying that killers are always rational and intelligent about their decisions? Maybe Stuart isn’t rational about the whole thing. I mean, he knew CPR better than anyone, yet he let my father administer CPR, rather than risk revealing any medical expertise. How rational is that?”

  “That’s not at all irrational, if you hate the person in need, just immoral and despicable. But I can’t go arresting the guy just ‘cuz he’s a less than stellar human being.”

  “Right. And at the very best, we have a ‘less than stellar human being’ running our school board.” An even less appealing thought occurred to me an instant later. “Tommy, if Stuart is the killer, Gillian Sweet is in mortal danger.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Remember how, after Stephanie’s choking incident at Proctor’s Theater, I told you about the couple I overheard arguing? I’m now sure that it had to have been Gillian and Stuart, and Gillian said that she was ‘sick of keeping his secret.’ Or something to that effect.”

  “I’ll talk to her and to Stuart. But I got to warn you, Molly. It’s not going to make any difference. I interviewed Gillian personally that evening after speaking with you, and she denied being anywhere backstage and having had any discussion of that nature.”

  “Did anyone else confess to, as you put it, ‘having had a discussion of that nature’?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then…?”

  He pushed back from his desk. “Like I said. I’ll talk to both of ‘em. You could be right. Gillian might’ve still been trying to protect Stuart then. Now that they’ve had a falling out, maybe she’ll change her tune.”

  “Thanks. Because, while I can’t identify the person under that sheet at the bathhouse, I can rule out Kent Graham. He’s just too muscular and broad-shouldered to have disguised himself that way. And we’re certain it was a man who pretended to be my father who called the place. It sure wasn’t my dad, and the private investigator wound up as the second victim, so the only male suspect that leaves is Stuart Ackleman.”

  Tommy remained silent. His features were so cross that I couldn’t help but point out, on my behalf, “At least you’ve got to admit that I’ve given you some potentially helpful information about one of the suspects.”

  “Since you brought it up, Molly, truth is, Stuart told me this himself, way back when I first interviewed him at the hospital. He was feeling guilty for not performing the CPR himself. Pleaded with me not to spread it around to his peers on the school board. The guy was in tears over the whole thing. Furthermore, Kent told me the same thing about Stuart. Called Stuart a worm for not trying to save Sylvia’s life, and that if that got out to the press, it’d destroy Stuart’s reputation.”

  “How did Kent find out?”

  He gave a small shrug. “Unintentionally overheard a private conversation.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks were instantly blazing hot. “You couldn’t have just told me that when I first started telling you about Stuart?”

  He stared at me, a blank expression on his face. “See, Moll, there’s some folks out there who, believe it or not, actually respect this here uniform.” He tugged on the fabric of his sleeve.

  “That must make you feel really proud. I’m happy for you.”

  “Tell you what. You get yourself accepted into the academy, get yourself in shape physically so you can pass the tests on the obstacle courses and so on, endure a few years of traffic patrol, work your way up the ranks, and you should be qualified to take over my job right around the time I’m ready to retire. How’s that sound?”

  “What? And give up the glamour and excitement of the eCard business? Don’t be silly. I’ll see you later, Tommy.”

  I got into my car and sat there for several minutes, trying to figure out what to do next to prove once and for all whether or not Stuart was the killer. I couldn’t just drop by Gillian’s house again, and I’d pushed Stuart about as far as I could. That meant I had to either leave the evidence-gathering with regard to Stuart up to Tommy, or discuss Stuart with the two board members I had yet to talk about him with: Carol Barr and Michelle Lacy.

  I had no ready excuse I could use to set up a meeting with Carol. Michelle, though, had her decorating business. I could always feign interest in hiring her, while I picked her brain regarding what she knew about Stuart.

  By consulting an interior designer, once again, I would be the proverbial fish out of water. The only fun part of home ownership for me is in picking out furniture that fits my family and the house itself. I could not conceive of paying someone else to do this for me. It was tantamount to announcing, “I don’t know what I like and have lousy taste anyway, so dress my house for me.”

  I went home and called Michelle, who, try as I might to change her mind, insisted upon making a house call. I hadn’t wanted her to see how very non-decoratorish my house was, and so I’d told her that a house call was “pointless,” because I wanted her services for a future sunroom. She countered that she needed to get a feel for my taste and needs before we could proceed, and that she was going to be in my neighborhood anyway, as she had some paperwork to drop off at Gillian’s.

  Hence, at two p.m., I found myself furiously tidying the house, all for a bogus appointment with an interior designer to discuss her ideas, which under no circumstance would I implement, for a nonexistent room that I had no intention of actually constructing. Though the exercise did lead me to question my judgment, if not my sanity, at least my neat-nik son would be happy when he got home in an hour or so.

  Plus, it gave me at least a vague idea for a card: the image of a pilot of a small airplane that has crashed. The pilot glares at his terrified wife and says to her, “Damn. I knew I should’ve postponed takeoff till half-time! This is your fault for buying me a portable TV!”

  The doorbell rang, and I tossed my dirty dust rag and spray bottle into the coat closet and opened the door. Michelle, holding a couple of thick three-ring binders; was wearing such an attractive pale yellow skirt suit, and such a flattering hairstyle, her hair swept into a lovely up-do, that I instantly felt underdressed and inadequate, and had to remind myself that this was, after all, my home, and there was no dress code here.

  I smiled. “Hello, Michelle. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem, Molly. As I said earlier, I was in the neighborhood anyway.” She stepped inside, and, I found myself wanting to delay having to show her around, so I kept my place directly in front of her as she shut the door.

  “Everything went all right for you with Gillian?”

  Michelle raised an eyebrow, but said only, “Yes, of course. I was merely dropping something off.” She waited a moment, and when I still didn’t step aside, asked, “Were you interested in having me assess just the one room, or the entire house?”

  “Just the one room. Which hasn’t actually been built yet. But if you’d like, I can show you the part of the yard that it would probably eventually occupy.”

  “I don’t think that would be particularly helpful. I brought along some eight-by-tens of sunrooms that I especially like, since you said that you felt you wanted to get a feel for room possibilities before you did anything else. I thought we could flip through those for a minute, and you could show me a couple of rooms on your main floor. That’s really about as much as we can do, at this stage.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll take you on the two-cent tour, then.”

  I showed her the living room, dining room, and kitchen. She nodded politely and, in the family room, said, “I like this room. You’ve done a nice job here.” The remark was probably pure salesmanship on her part, but it made me feel good nonetheless.

  We took seats at the kitchen table, and she slid her albums over to me and asked me to flip through them. “While y
ou’re looking at the photos, let me get some rudimentary notes. What do you think you might want your room to say?”

  “My rooms don’t talk much, but if they did, I think I’d like them to tell me where I put my car keys.” Michelle stared at me, and I reminded myself that she didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. I returned my attention to her photo album and mumbled, “I’m always losing my car keys, you see.”

  “Let me rephrase. What kind of look are you going to be aiming for in this room? Since this is a sunroom, perhaps you’re thinking southwestern. Or tropical, perhaps.”

  “I like people to feel like they can be comfortable in my house, primarily. But I also want the room to look nice. And I want the kids to be comfortable as well. So I guess my main priority is that everything be cleaned easily and hide the dirt.”

  “Hide the dirt.” She sighed and jotted something in her notebook.

  “They do make products for people like me, right? Scotchgard?”

  “Oh, sure. Though it’s an unusual top priority when you’re talking to an interior decorator. As opposed to a house cleaner.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which I bristled at her “house cleaner” jab and looked through more room photographs, not really seeing them. My thoughts were now beginning to focus on how I could turn this conversation around to Stuart. I should have given the matter more thought earlier, but I’d been too busy cleaning.

  “Let’s talk a little about your budget, Molly.”

  “Budget? That’s got to be just about your least-favorite subject, considering all the controversy regarding the school’s budget.” I had to fight back a smile of pride for my smooth segue.

  “Yes. And just to warn you, I’ve made my mind up, though I know you and your father won’t approve.”

  “Meaning you’re making the mistake of cutting art and music programs?”