Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  “He was Scottish,” offered a pretty young thing in the front row.

  “That’s true. It’s a beginning,” he said, with an encouraging smile. “What else do you know about him?”

  The student squirmed. “Well, he was known as the ‘Sage of Chelsea.’”

  “Very good. Anyone else?”

  “The Clothes Philosophy,” offered the older man in the back of the room. “The idea that old ideas, even religions, should be discarded like old clothes.”

  Lucy regarded the man with new interest. Already she was enjoying the exchange of ideas with her classmates, and the professor’s ready wit.

  “Ah, yes,” said the professor. “Perhaps D. H. Lawrence, a twentieth-century writer who struggled mightily to free literature from the constraints of the Victorian period, said it best when he wrote, ‘Gods die with the men who have conceived them…Even gods must be born again.’ Thank you, Mr.…” He paused and looked down at his class list. “Mr. Irving. And on that note, I think we will end for tonight. I will see you all again on Tuesday.”

  Checking her watch, Lucy saw the professor had dismissed the class a little early. With luck she might get to the bookstore before it closed at nine. She was heading for the door, when he stopped her.

  “Mrs. Stone, that was a very insightful comment.”

  “Really?” Lucy felt a bit uncomfortable at being singled out.

  “Yes, it was.” He gave her a lopsided little smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I wonder if you would like to continue the discussion with me at the student union. I usually stop there after class for a cappuccino.”

  “Oh, that would be nice,” began Lucy, as an embarrassed blush crept over her face, “but I really want to get to the bookstore before it closes. Thanks anyway.”

  It was only afterward, as she stood in line with her arms full of books, that she wondered why she had been so unnerved by the professor’s invitation. After all, she was reasonably attractive and this wasn’t the first time since her marriage that another man had expressed interest in her. The problem was, she realized with a shock, until now she hadn’t felt tempted to accept.

  Trudging toward the parking lot with her heavy bag of books, Lucy was surprised to see Josh Cunningham.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was just catching up on my reading,” he said, shortening his steps to walk beside her. “I need to keep up with new developments in chemistry and biology, but I can’t afford the journals—teacher’s salary, you know. So I come here every now and then and use the science library. Can I carry those for you?” he asked politely, indicating the books.

  “Oh, I can manage. Thanks, anyway,” said Lucy, thinking he was awfully nice. “You have another one of my children, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Toby. He’s in ninth grade.”

  “Toby is yours, too? He’s a nice boy.”

  “I like to think so, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed, just in case.”

  “Growing up is tough. Sometimes they make bad choices.” Josh shook his head mournfully. “Even kids from good families.”

  “Is that what you think happened with the bombing? Was it one of the kids?”

  “I hope not,” he said earnestly. “We’re a pretty small school system, almost like a family. I don’t think it could have been one of ours, but you never know. Kids can really surprise you.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Lucy, stopping at the Subaru. “This is my car.”

  He took the books while she fumbled for the keys.

  “You know, Mrs. Stone…”

  “Call me Lucy.”

  “Okay, Lucy. I guess you’re taking a class? At night?”

  Lucy nodded. “Victorian literature.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be using the parking lot at night, I’d suggest you have your keys ready. That way a mugger wouldn’t have time to attack you. And you really ought to park under a light, if you can. And stay away from the bushes.”

  Lucy looked around the dark, shadowy parking lot that was surrounded with tall trees and leafy shrubs. She rarely worried about her safety in Tinker’s Cove, but she realized Josh had a point.

  “It was still light when I parked,” she said, finally pulling the keys from the bottom of her purse and unlocking the door. “Thanks for the advice.”

  She took the books and climbed in the car.

  “No problem,” he said, giving her a little wave as she started the engine. “Get home safely.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Lucy and Zoë arrived at the day-care center on Friday morning, Sue Finch was leaning on a counter near the row of cubbies that stood ready for the children’s jackets and lunch boxes, reading The Pennysaver.

  “Good morning,” she said, looking at Lucy over her half-glasses. Raising a jet black eyebrow she asked, “So, what’s the story that Ted didn’t print?”

  Lucy grinned. One of the best things about working was seeing Sue every morning. The two were longtime best friends, but nowadays they rarely had time for leisurely chats at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee. Sue, who was a member of the town’s recreation commission, was the moving force behind the day-care center in the recreation building basement.

  “Moms need affordable, high-quality care,” she had told the Board of Selectmen, the Finance Committee, and finally the entire town meeting. Everyone, Sue included, was amazed when the normally tightfisted voters approved the funding and the center opened with Sue as director.

  “‘It’s all in The Pennysaver,’” said Lucy, repeating the paper’s familiar slogan. She set Zoë down and unzipped her jacket. Then she pulled a brown paper bag from her tote bag and gave it to Zoë. “Give these to Aunt Sue, okay?”

  Zoë toddled toward Sue, holding out the bundle.

  “Is that for me?” asked Sue, taking the bag. “Tomatoes! Thank you, Zoë.” The little girl beamed with pride, then turned and scooted over to the play kitchen.

  “There was one thing that didn’t make the paper,” said Lucy. “Barney said the call to the police reporting the bomb came from the school.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sue, thoughtfully massaging her chin with a perfectly manicured hand.

  Watching her, Lucy decided that if she didn’t like Sue so much, she would have to hate her. Here she was messing around with fingerpaint and Play-Doh all day and she looked ready for a day on the town in her black slacks, sleeveless white turtleneck, and black patent leather sandals. A smart black and white plaid jacket completed her outfit.

  “That means someone inside the school did it? I can’t believe that.” Sue shook her head. “What do you think about our Ms. Crane? Pretty gutsy, I’d say.”

  “You were on the search committee that hired her, weren’t you?”

  “I was,” said Sue proudly. “Did we do good?”

  “You did good,” said Lucy. She watched as Zoë began putting pots on the play stove. “Don’t you want to hear about my class? I think it has possibilities.”

  “To you, maybe. To me,” continued Sue, smoothing her glossy pageboy hairdo, “Victorian literature is about as appealing as doing my taxes. Cleaning the cat box. Washing windows.”

  “I get the idea,” said Lucy. “Each to her own. But I bet even you would find the professor rather attractive.”

  “Really?” Sue cocked her head to the side.

  “‘Dishy’ is the word I heard used.”

  Sue was focusing on two little boys across the room. “Justin, I really like the way you’re sharing that truck with Jason.” She turned back to Lucy. “How old?”

  “Not too old, not too young.” Lucy lingered over the words.

  “Lucy!” Sue’s eyes grew big and round. “You sound as if you’re interested in him. Are you considering signing up for some extracurricular activities?”

  “Absolutely not!” Lucy exclaimed. “I would never, ever do such a thing.”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest a bit too much,” said
Sue; hurrying over to the dress-up area. “Jill, you can wear the bride’s veil now, but in a few minutes it will be Tiffany’s turn, okay? Tiffany, why not try the policeman’s hat for a few minutes, until Jill is ready to give you the veil.” She turned back to Lucy, a skeptical expression on her face.

  “Believe me, it never even occurred to me. In fact, he asked me out for coffee and I turned him down.” Lucy nodded virtuously.

  “If I were you, I’d keep turning him down.”

  “He’ll never ask again.”

  “Don’t bet on it. When I was in college, there were professors who were absolutely relentless. They had to get their hands on as many of the girls as possible—I think it was a contest or something. It was rumored they had a scoreboard in the faculty club.”

  “I remember a few professors like that, too. But I think things have changed. They call it sexual harassment and you can file a complaint.”

  “Maybe.” Sue didn’t seem convinced. “Is everything okay with you and Bill?”

  “Sure.” Lucy’s tone was a bit defensive. “It’s just one of those rough times that all couples go through. He’s having a hard time adjusting now that the kids are growing up. He wants everything to stay the same. He doesn’t like me working.”

  “You know, I see that a lot.” Sue grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the snack table, where the little bride had just spilled a cup of grape juice. “When the moms first bring their kids here, they’re happy and excited. But pretty soon they start getting a worried look and the next thing you know we’re getting a letter from the lawyer advising us that divorce proceedings are in progress and not to release the child to anyone but the mother.”

  “I don’t think it will come to that,” said Lucy, looking absolutely stricken. “At least, I hope not. I was really joking about the professor.”

  “I’m exaggerating,” said Sue, patting her arm. “It’s only happened once, maybe twice.”

  “You had me worried,” said Lucy, laughing with relief. “The way I see it, we’re going to need two incomes. College isn’t that far away for Toby and Elizabeth, you know.”

  “Don’t I ever.” Sue’s daughter Sidra had graduated from Bowdoin in June. “We’ll be paying off those loans until it’s time for us to retire.” Hearing a wail from across the room, she looked up. “Justin, you don’t really want to hit Eloise with that truck. You want to share the truck with Eloise. See? Eloise is going to load the truck with blocks, and you can dump them out.”

  Glancing at her watch, Lucy saw she was already a few minutes late. Giving Sue a wave, and Zoë a peck on the cheek, she hurried out. Mounting the steps to the sidewalk, she noticed a vending machine filled with issues of The Pennysaver. It was old news today, but the page one photo of Carol Crane was still compelling.

  Caught by the camera, she was a picture of courage under stress. Slightly disheveled, her stocking torn, a streak of dirt across her skirt, she seemed a very fragile heroine. Bending over little Tommy Spitzer, her body conveyed a message of care and concern. But the expression on her face, raised to the camera and the crowd beyond, was exalted. She might have been Saint Joan, defying the flames.

  Lucy shook her head and hurried down the street to the newspaper office. As she marched along, she thought of the Clothes Theory that Mr. Irving had mentioned in class the night before. It seemed an odd name for a philosophical theory about religion. An odd idea, really. People changing religion to suit their needs, just like they changed their clothes. A Christian Conservative would wear a suit and tie. A liberal Unitarian would wear blue jeans. Atheists were doomed to wear sweat suits. Lucy smiled at her cleverness as she pulled open the door and confronted Ted.

  “I know I’m late,” she began.

  “No problem,” said Ted with a casual wave of his hand. “I was just on my way to the post office. I’ll be right back. We’ve got a bulk mailing to get out.”

  When he returned, he was carrying several plastic trays for the mailing, plus a big bundle of letters held together with a thick rubber band.

  “This is odd,” he said, setting the trays on the counter. “We don’t usually get this much mail.” He went over to his desk and reached for the letter opener.

  Seeing a big stack of printed subscription notices piled on her desk, Lucy busied herself attaching address stickers while Ted read the mail.

  “This is amazing,” he said, waving a handful of letters. “These are all letters to the editor.”

  “Don’t you usually get that many?”

  “Are you kidding? We print them all—maybe three or four a week. And they’re usually about John Q. Public’s favorite gripe. Like kids playing basketball in the street. Or the no parking sign in front of the library. These are all about Carol Crane.”

  “What do they say?”

  He began reading from the letters. “How heroic she was. How brave. What a wonderful woman she must be. An inspiration to our youth. Courage in action. A true feminist. Our schools are privileged to have her.” He slapped them down on the desk and shook his head. “This is really something, Lucy. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “It’s the picture. It’s an image people respond to. It’s half Jackie Kennedy, half Christa McAuliffe. It’s like an icon.”

  Ted held up the paper and examined the picture. “I see what you mean. She’s the teacher-saint.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “It makes me suspicious. It’s too perfect, somehow.”

  “Go on,” said Ted, his interest caught.

  “Well, it was a hot day. But here’s Carol coming in to work in a little Chanel suit with a jacket and a tight, tight skirt. And high heels. Women who work with kids don’t dress like that. Take Sue, for example. She always looks great, but she wears flats and slacks. If it had been Sue in that picture, the whole message would be entirely different. She would have looked competent and strong. Instead of people being all overcome with her bravery and courage for saving the kid, they’d want to know why she didn’t defuse the bomb on her way out.”

  “The perils of being Superwoman,” joked Ted.

  “Yeah, well think about it. What exactly was Carol Crane dressing for that morning? A normal working day?”

  “It was the first day of school. Maybe she wanted to make a good impression.”

  “I don’t know. The whole thing seems pretty fishy to me.”

  “Oh, Lucy,” said Ted, waggling his finger at her. “What a suspicious mind you have.”

  “I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am,” said Lucy contritely.

  “Don’t apologize. I like it. Somewhere along the line you must have got some ink in your blood.”

  Lucy went back to her work, but she couldn’t help feeling a warm little glow. It was nice to be appreciated.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “The thing that gets me,” said Bill as he and Lucy drove together to the school committee meeting on Monday evening, “the thing that really ticks me off is the fact that school is compulsory, right? We have to send the kids to school, but the school can’t guarantee that they’ll be safe while they’re there.”

  Lucy had been looking out the window as they drove along; Bill had taken the long way around on the shore road. She liked passing the old farms with their houses and barns scattered among the golden hay fields. Peeking through the tall firs, she could catch glimpses of gray ocean, with a rocky island poking up here and there.

  She turned and looked at Bill. Tonight he’d changed out of his usual working uniform, a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, and was wearing chinos and a blue button-down shirt. Instead of work boots he had slipped on a pair of boat shoes. Tall and bearded, he never seemed to gain a pound; he looked just as he had when they’d married almost twenty years ago. Good old Bill, she thought. He’s steady and reliable, you could tell time by him. He left at seven in the morning; he came home at five-thirty and wanted dinner at six. She knew him so well, she could have laid odds on what he would say next. He would bring up Toby’s missing backpack.<
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  “It was just last spring, wasn’t it,” he asked, “that Toby’s fancy new Country Cousins backpack was stolen. Did it ever turn up? No. How much was that worth?”

  “About twenty dollars. I used my discount.”

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head and a little shrug. She didn’t know why she felt so defensive when Bill criticized the schools, but she did. “They do the best they can, Bill. The budget is tight, there aren’t a lot of frills. But the kids get a good education. Look at the colleges they go to. Sidra went to Bowdoin, that Franklin kid went to Harvard.”

  “That’s all very well and good, Lucy,” said Bill, turning the pickup sharply into the high school parking lot, “but nobody’s going to college if they all get blown up while they’re still in elementary school.”

  “Tell me what you think,” said Lucy, laying her hand on Bill’s forearm as he reached to turn off the ignition. “Who do you think set the bomb?”

  “It’s obvious—it had to be one of the kids. Probably one of those special-needs kids with emotional problems.” He turned the key, and the truck shuddered as the engine kicked a few times in protest before shutting off.

  “I wish I could be so sure,” said Lucy, jumping down from the cab. “It’s so much easier when things are black and white.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Bill as they fell into step together.

  “Admit it,” challenged Lucy, waving her arms as she spoke. “You think the school is run by a bunch of liberal wussies who waste our tax dollars, let the kids get away with murder, and don’t bother to teach them anything.”

  Bill turned and stared at her, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. “You know, you’re right,” he said. “And you know what else? I don’t think I’m alone.”

  Looking around, Lucy had to agree. A steady stream of cars was turning into the parking lot, and clumps of people, in pairs and threesomes, were marching toward the school with determination. In the lobby, lines had formed leading into the auditorium.