“Thanks and you’re welcome. It’s nice to win one once in a while.” The phone rang again, and as she answered with her typically cheerful voice, Bishop stopped by Ron’s office to see if he was busy.
He arrived there to find the door closed. Derek Yeager was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair dabbing at his nose with some blood-splattered paper towels.
“Derek, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. The bleeding’s just about stopped,” he said as he checked the paper towels for a clean spot.
“Does Mr. Jennings know that you’re out here?”
“Yeah. He told me to wait out here while he talked to Sam.”
“Sam Blanchard?” Sam, who was on the basketball team, was about a foot taller than Derek.
“What happened?”
“Well, did you see the newspaper this morning about Nick’s death and stuff?”
Bishop nodded.
“Well, I told Sam that someone on the team must have done that to Nick. I didn’t think he’d start a fight, but he shoved me first, and I shoved him back, and the next thing I know I took an elbow to the nose.” He crumpled the bloodied paper towels in his hands as his nose was no longer bleeding. There were some blood stains on his white uniform shirt.
“It’s probably not a good idea to start making accusations without any evidence.”
“But those guys had access to Nick’s drink,” he said with the same accusatory tone that must have caused Sam to react the way he did.
“That’s true, but there were hundreds of people in the building that night including you and me, and anyone of us might have tampered with that drink.”
Suddenly, his cockiness faded, replaced by a worried look. “Mr. Bishop, do you think I’ll get suspended?”
He felt like telling him that he should have thought of that before he started making accusations, but he simply replied, “It doesn’t really matter what I think. I’m sure that Mr. Jennings will be fair.”
Just then, the office door opened, and a pale-looking Sam walked by Derek and Bishop without even looking at either of them. Ron spoke sternly as he told Derek to take a seat in his office. He winked at Bishop and whispered that he would catch up with him later in the day.
***
The halls had filled up considerably as he made his way up to his room. Some students were gathered in small groups discussing the disturbing morning news as other students who usually got up at the last minute, took a quick shower, grabbed a cup of coffee, and barely arrived at school on time, tried to absorb the significance of what they were being told.
The other hot topic was the fight between Derek and Sam. Bishop caught snippets of conversation as he walked by. As expected, the extent of the fight was exaggerated by some, while others speculated on the punishment that they would receive.
He arrived at his classroom door to find no one waiting there to get in. He unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and threw open the windows. He wanted to replace the stale smell of the closed room with the fresh air of this sunny April morning. It was his theory that the students were more alert when the windows were open. He greeted some students as they began trickling in from the halls before the homeroom bell. Sipping from his cup of tea, he set up his laptop and prepared himself for the first class of the day.
Homeroom period ended without one of the semi-regular visits from his chatty colleague, Charlie Mitchell. He had assumed that Charlie would waste no time in adding to the speculation over Nick’s killer. Bishop’s morning classes expressed no interest in discussing anything other the work of the day, and that was fine with him. Even though his students were somewhat subdued, he much preferred the time spent discussing literature. With spring break only a few weeks away and the Advanced Placement exams scheduled for early May, each class period was especially important for his seniors.
Morning classes finished, he grabbed his lunch bag and headed down to the faculty room. As he passed the office area, someone said, “Wait up!”
He turned back to see Ron Jennings making his way through the crowded hall. When he caught up to him, he was a bit winded.
“Busy morning?”
“You might say that,” replied Ron as his breathing returned to normal. He explained that after listening to Derek and Sam who each had different versions of the fight, he gave them both an in-school suspension and notified their parents.
“Headed for lunch?” They both started walking in the direction of the cafeteria.
“I wish. I’m still looking for a kid who didn’t show up for math class last period.”
“You might find who you’re looking for in the café. Wouldn’t be the first time,” he added with a laugh.
“I did check there once, but I might have missed him. I’ll check again. Listen, since today’s payday, Mary Ellen and I were thinking of going to Christy’s for a pizza. Why don’t you join us?”
Never one to spend time in the kitchen preparing meals, Bishop readily agreed to meet them there at 6:00 p.m. He sat with Sister Pascala in the lunchroom. Although she was only a few years younger than Bishop, it was obvious that she had not adapted to change very well. She still used the name she had chosen at her profession as a Sister of the Holy Rosary rather than her birth name that he knew to be Barbara. Long after most of the nuns had abandoned the veil, the long black dress, and the oversized rosary that hung from the waist, Sister Pascala proudly wore the habit. Her approach to teaching was also definitely old school. Although she cared deeply about her students, she played the role of martinet in the classroom.
“Hello, Michael. Did you read the newspaper this morning?”
“Yes, Sister, I did.”
“That poor boy! How awful!”
Bishop shook his head in agreement, but said nothing as he opened his lunch bag and unwrapped the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that he had slapped together that morning.
Sister leaned toward him as she said softly, “I wanted to tell you that I won’t be in school for the next couple of weeks.”
“Oh, dear!” Bishop ‘s look of concern was obvious. Was it her health? “I hope that everything is all right.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine. My brother’s wife had a stroke. They don’t have any children, so I thought I’d go out there and help out for a bit. I haven’t seen them in years.”
“Where do they live?”
“Seattle.”
“Well, have a safe trip. I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.”
“Thank you, Michael. I’ll be back after break.”
“May I ask who will cover your classes?”
“I discussed my plans with the Superior General, and she knew of a gentleman who had just finished a stint as a long-term sub for a Chemistry teacher who was on maternity leave. He was willing to come down here for a few weeks. That was perfect for me, and fortunately, Sister Ann had no problem with it.”
As Sister ate her grilled cheese sandwich, the conversation turned back to Nick. “He certainly wasn’t much of a Chemistry student.” She hesitated for a moment and then added, “Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.”
Someone at one of the other tables must have said something funny as the entire group seated there burst out in laughter. Sister Pascala, after casting a disapproving glance in their direction, continued, “He certainly was a likeable young man. One of the more vivid memories I have of him in my class was just a week or so before he died. I saw that someone had slipped him a note. He knew that I had seen what happened, so he slipped the piece of paper into his notebook. I said, ‘Unless you want to read that note to the entire class, I better not see any more of such childish behavior while I’m teaching.’”
“How did he react?”
“He just gave me that winning smile of his, and that was the end of it.”
He wasn’t sure that it would make any difference, but something about her story made him ask, “Do you remember who passed him the note?”
“I certainly do,” s
he promptly answered. “It was the young man who spoke at the memorial service, David Cavanaugh.”
Chapter Six
When he wasn’t teaching that afternoon, Bishop’s thoughts kept going back to Dave Cavanaugh. Jack had suggested that jealousy over lost playing time might have led him to strike out against Nick. Sister Pascala had mentioned that a note had been passed from Dave to Nick in her class shortly before his death. Was that just a coincidence? Was it possible that the note contained a threat or a warning? Of course, that note might have been nothing more than an innocent exchange between friends and teammates. He wondered if that note was still in Nick’s chemistry notebook where Sister had seen him tuck it away. Someone must have cleaned out his locker by now. He made a mental note to ask Ron about that at dinner that night, assuming that his ability of recalling mental notes was still functioning.
In addition to Jack’s theory, Terry had suggested that a jilted Liz Atkins might have wanted revenge on Nick. Both scenarios seemed farfetched to the veteran teacher. It was hard enough to accept the fact that someone had deliberately laced Nick’s drink with a lethal dose of caffeine. It was almost impossible for him to accept the notion that a teenager could commit such a heinous act. Was Steinbeck correct in thinking that there were “monsters” among us? Or was it more likely that, driven by hate, jealousy, greed, revenge or some other emotion, any one was capable of such evil?
The jarring sound of the final bell of the day brought with it a sense of relief. He sat at his desk in the empty classroom watching some puffy white clouds move gracefully across the western sky. The revelation of the circumstances of Borelli’s death had jolted the Holy Trinity community. He looked forward to having a quiet dinner with his friends, Ron and Mary Ellen. Tomorrow would be better. Just then, Charlie Mitchell bolted into his room waving an envelope high over his head.
“I can’t believe this!” he shouted as he plopped himself down in one of the student desks opposite Bishop. He clutched the envelope so tightly that it had crumpled.
“Is that your pay envelope?”
“How very observant! It is, indeed, my pay envelope. The problem is the contents of said envelope. Have you picked up your check yet?”
“No. I thought that I would grab it on my way out.”
“Be prepared, Michael, be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” Bishop was accustomed to Mitchell’s penchant for melodrama, but he had no idea what he was talking about.
“Mary Ellen has royally botched my payroll deductions. I usually have eight hundred dollars deposited directly to my checking account, but only eighty dollars was deposited this time. I have already sent out checks assuming that that money would be there. Those checks must be bouncing like rubber balls all over town by now. I’ll probably be arrested!” He slammed the envelope on the desk. “Damn that Mary Ellen!”
“Instead of getting upset about it, why don’t you go down to her office and talk with her. I’m sure that it’s a problem that can be easily resolved.” If she had made a similar mistake with his check, it wouldn’t cause an issue since he hadn’t written any checks recently. At least, he couldn’t remember writing any.
“I already tried that,” he replied with a look of disgust on his face. “There’s a line of people outside her door, and believe me, they look royally peeved.”
“Charlie, give the lady a break. She’s new to the job, and I’m sure that she has a lot to learn.” He couldn’t blame Annette for not training her replacement given the circumstances of her forced departure. His suspicion was that the “help” Sister Pat provided Mary Ellen was probably the real source of the problem.
After a few more minutes of venting, Charlie left to see if he could get into the business manager’s office. Bishop packed his briefcase for the evening, straightened up the room, and went down to check his mailbox. He passed by Mary Ellen’s office where several people stood commiserating with each other as they waited their turn to enter. Charlie was not in line. He was either in the office already, or he had decided to go home and brood on his impending arrest. How foolish! In the worst-case scenario, he would have to pay some fines for checks returned for insufficient funds.
There was no one in the faculty room when he emptied his mailbox. He tossed the junk mail in the circular file and decided to open his pay envelope more out of curiosity than concern. At first glance, everything seemed to be in order. Then he remembered that he had recently asked Annette to direct deposit the entire amount of his net wages into his checking account. Apparently, Mary Ellen didn’t get that memo. Considering that a minor inconvenience at best, he walked over to Ron’s office to see if he was there.
As Bishop walked in, Ron looked up, took off his reading glasses, tossed them on his desk, and said with a sigh, “I give up.” He pushed aside his calculator and a yellow legal pad filled with numbers.
He didn’t need the little grey cells of a Hercule Poirot to deduce the problem. “Paycheck not adding up?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that Mary Ellen is the right person for that job. She seemed to lobby hard to get it, but she’s just in over her head.”
“Give her a chance, will you? This was her first payroll, and she had Sister Pat helping.” As he said the last word, he grinned and made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.
“She didn’t make too many friends today. She already sent me an email saying that she planned on working right through dinner, hoping to resolve as many of the problems as she could. She suggested that you and I still go out for pizza.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “See you then.”
Instead of heading directly home, he decided to swing by Groveland Savings to deposit his check. Never one to use the drive-thru lanes, he pulled into one of the available parking spaces. The place seemed busier than normal. With his pay envelope in hand, he opened the door and saw a rather long queue of customers with only one teller on duty at the moment. He was debating whether or not to leave and do his banking another day when he heard a voice that he recognized.
“I’m not upset,” said the man whose loud response caused a sudden hush among the other customers. “I just need you to give me two hundred dollars in cash and deposit the rest.” After a long pause, he added, “Please.”
From his place at the back of the line, he couldn’t see the man, but he was certain that it was Frank Wilson, one of his colleagues at Holy Trinity. Frank was usually mild-mannered, but he had been known to lose his composure on occasion. In fact, he had almost lost his job the previous school year for throwing a punch at a member of the school board. He had served a suspension for that outburst.
He heard someone say, “Mark. Up front, please.” When Bishop saw Doris, the bank manager, leave her office to assist the teller, he decided to see if he could talk to Frank before he got himself thrown out of the bank. He walked past the sign that read, “Wait here for the next available teller,” and tapped Frank on the shoulder as he said, “Hi Frank! Must be payday,” in a lighthearted manner. Frank, who looked as if he had slept in his white long-sleeved shirt, dark blue sweater vest, and khaki pants, gave Bishop a quizzical look as if he was trying to figure out why his colleague had budged the line.
A young man with short curly hair and a neatly trimmed beard darted from a back room as if he had been shot out of a cannon. Presumably, this was Mark. He swept aside the “Next Window” sign, tapped a few keys at the computer terminal, and said, “I can help the next person in line.”
Bishop turned to the elderly lady who was unfortunate enough to have entered the bank right after Frank. He waved her forward, explaining, “I’m not in line.”
Doris had dealt with her fair share of irate customers, incompetent staff members, computer snafus, not to mention a robbery attempt a few years back. She smiled broadly at Frank as she asked, “What seems to be the problem here?”
For an instant, Bishop imagined that Frank would respond with the words of Hamlet to his mother, “Seems, mada
m? I know not ‘seems.’” Instead, Frank pointed at the teller, a thin young woman in her twenties. She had straight black hair, a plain, pale face, and a small tattoo on her wrist. This probably was the person hired to replace Mary Ellen. “This lady is trying to tell me that I can’t deposit my paycheck into my own account.” Perhaps because of Bishop’s presence, Frank spoke in a more measured tone.
Doris turned to the teller. “Elaine, is there a problem here?”
She quickly glanced down at Frank’s check in order to recall his name. Her face looked even paler as she spoke to her boss. “Mr. Wilson wants to deposit all but two hundred dollars in his checking account, but this check is post-dated.”
Bishop suddenly felt foolish standing next to Frank as if he needed help to conduct his banking, or that his right to privacy was unimportant. He thought of slipping back to the end of the line when he came up with an idea.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but since all transactions made after 2:00 p.m. are posted Monday, wouldn’t that eliminate the problem?”
Doris picked up the check and studied it for a moment through her half-glasses. “I’m afraid not, Michael. This check is post-dated for one week from today.”
“What?” asked Frank with increasing volume. “That can’t be!” he claimed as Doris handed him the check to verify the date for himself. Bishop pulled his own check out of its envelope to find that his check was similarly post-dated.
Trying to be as pleasant as possible, Doris suggested that Frank withdraw the two hundred dollars that he wanted today and deposit his check with the understanding that those funds would not be available just yet.
Elaine cleared her throat before speaking. “He can’t do that either, Mrs. Mahoney.”
“Why not?” asked Doris, seemingly annoyed that her new employee was contradicting her.
“Because he only has $12.71 in his checking account.”
“Mr. Wilson, do you have any other accounts with us?” Doris asked hopefully.
A Question of Judgment: A Michael Bishop Mystery Page 5