Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Lucy, unimpressed with his theatrics.

  “It may seem trivial to you,” said DeWalt, “but I can assure you that some members of the Revelation Congregation take their Scripture very seriously indeed.” With that, he strode off self-righteously and mounted the white granite steps to the police station.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Lucy decided to head over to the courthouse. She wanted to find out how Josh was faring at the arraignment, and she could tell Ted what she had learned about Josh’s suspension.

  Arriving at the courthouse, Lucy slipped into the crowded courtroom and stood at the back, looking for Ted. Even if she had wanted to sit down, she couldn’t have. Every seat was taken, and TV crews and photographers lined the right-hand wall; it was the best position from which to get a good photo of the defendant.

  She finally spotted Ted in the second row, but there was no sign of Josh Cunningham. There was a lot of coming and going, however, as court officers, attorneys, and local cops conferred with the clerk, who was scheduling the day’s hearings. Finally, all was ready and the bailiff pounded the floor twice with his pike.

  “All rise, court now in session, the Honorable Joyce Ryerson presiding.”

  Lucy sighed in sympathy for Josh Cunningham. Judge Ryerson was known as the dragon lady, and the term was not a reference to her long, carefully lacquered scarlet fingernails. In her court, defendants were always presumed guilty. If they weren’t guilty, she was known to argue, why were they there in the first place? She was able to get away with this attitude only because of the New Englander’s finely developed sense of original sin. Most of those who came before her knew full well they were guilty of something, even if they happened to be innocent of the precise crime they were charged with.

  When the sheriff brought Josh into the courtroom, handcuffed, in rumpled clothes and with a day’s growth of beard, Lucy knew the judge would not be lenient. She tended to favor wellgroomed defendants, ignoring the fact that few people looked their best after a night in the lockup. Josh’s attorney, Bruce Gilmore, could ask for bail until he was blue in the face, Lucy thought, but he wasn’t going to get it.

  “Your honor, Mr. Cunningham is a respected member of the community, and he has no previous record,” argued Gilmore.

  Judge Ryerson raised a skeptical eyebrow and glanced at Josh, who looked absolutely miserable. He also looked guilty, even to Lucy.

  “What does the prosecution have to say?” asked the judge.

  “Well,” drawled Fred Carruthers, the assistant district attorney assigned to the case, “we’ve all heard what a fine, upstanding young man Mr. Cunningham is, and that’s all very well and good…” Carruthers paused for effect, then continued. “But I’d like to remind the court that he is charged with brutally attacking and murdering a defenseless young woman. I do not think the community would be well served by letting this man run free, where he could be a threat to our most vulnerable citizens.

  “Furthermore,” he said, holding up a sheaf of papers, “the police have found evidence that Carol Crane had proof in her possession that Josh Cunningham was responsible for the bomb that damaged the Tinker’s Cove Elementary School.”

  Suddenly, the courtroom was in an uproar. A collective gasp was immediately followed by noisy conversation. Flashes of light burst from numerous cameras as photographers disregarded courtroom etiquette and scrambled to capture Josh Cunningham’s astonished expression.

  “Order! Order!” screamed the judge, bringing down the gavel. “I will not hesitate to clear the courtroom,” she warned, glaring balefully at the press photographers. She tapped her fingers on the bench. “I’ve heard enough. Bail denied. Prisoner to be confined at the county jail until trial. Next case.”

  Lucy swallowed hard, watching as Gilmore conferred briefly with his client, concluding the chat with an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Then Josh was led away by the sheriff, and Gilmore made his way to the exit, followed by Ted.

  When she managed to worm her way past the crowd in the back, she found Ted interviewing him in the lobby.

  “Mr. Gilmore, I’m covering this case for the Globe. Do you have a minute?” he asked, then broke into a coughing fit.

  “Sounds like you’re coming down with something,” said Gilmore, grinning sympathetically. Unlike some defense lawyers, he welcomed pretrial publicity, especially if it could engender sympathy for his client. “What can I do for you?”

  “What’s your reaction to the charges made this morning against Josh Cunningham?”

  “It’s early days, Ted. I haven’t really had a chance to go over the evidence. Josh tells me he didn’t do it, and you know, I believe him.” Gilmore nodded his head for emphasis. “I really do, and that’s not always the case, believe me.”

  “What about this witness the police say they have?” asked Lucy.

  Gilmore turned and beamed at her. “I don’t know who this person is, but I can say it’s pretty rare that a person is absolutely sure of themselves once they’re on the witness stand and subject to critical questioning.”

  “Do you think Josh will be charged with the bombing in addition to the murder?” asked Ted.

  “I think we have to be prepared for that. Frankly, I’m looking forward to seeing the evidence myself. Before I see what they’ve got, I’d rather not comment. I’m sure you understand.”

  Ted nodded in agreement. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Anytime,” said Gilmore with an affable smile.

  Lucy and Ted watched as he made his way across the lobby with an optimistic bounce to his step.

  “I don’t know what he’s so darned optimistic about,” observed Ted. “I’m no legal expert, but it doesn’t look to me as if Josh’s chances are very good.”

  “It’s something they teach them in law school,” said Lucy. “Defense Law 101. Always remain upbeat, no matter how poor your client’s chances really are.”

  They began walking to the door, but had to stop when Ted was overtaken by another fit of coughing.

  “I know just what you need,” said Lucy. “A cup of Jake’s chicken soup. It’s supposed to be better than Mom’s and is guaranteed to cure whatever ails you.”

  “Sounds good,” agreed Ted. “I’ll meet you there.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Ted arrived at Jake’s, he found Lucy sitting at a table, reading the new issue of The Pennysaver.

  “If only we could have gone to press a little later,” he said. “Then we could have scooped everyone with the story of Carol’s murder.”

  “Well, I think it’s a pretty good issue anyway,” said Lucy loyally. “I really like Jewel’s photo. She’ll be pleased it’s on page one.”

  Ted shrugged, and sat down heavily. “You can only do what you can do,” he said. “Did you see the Globe?”

  Lucy shook her head, so he got up and took one from a pile near the donut counter and proudly placed it in front of her.

  “This is great,” enthused Lucy. “You made the front page. They even used your photo of the neighbors.”

  “I wish it had been my own paper.”

  “Oh, well,” sympathized Lucy, looking up as Jake came over with two tattered menus.

  “We won’t need those,” said Lucy. “Ted needs chicken soup, and I’ll have a bowl as preventive medicine.”

  “You can’t do better,” said Jake. “Damned shame,” he added, indicating the Globe with a tilt of his head. “Still, there’s plenty that won’t miss that little lady.”

  “So I’m discovering,” said Lucy.

  “A lot of the teachers stop in here in the morning for coffee. They couldn’t stand her. You know that nice kindergarten teacher? The Italian lady?”

  “Lydia Volpe?” offered Lucy.

  “Yeah, that’s her. She was fit to be tied one day. I heard her talking to the others. Said some parent had a complaint or something. I didn’t get the details. Anyway, this Carol Crane musta chewed her out real good. She said she
wasn’t gonna take that kind of language from anyone, and especially not from her—that’s exactly what she said.” There was a little twinkle in Jake’s eye. “Pretty funny, huh?”

  “I guess so,” said Ted, not getting the joke.

  “Must be the first time in history that somebody over at the school, somebody in charge, I mean, took the parent’s side and chewed out a teacher!” Jake grinned.

  “You’ve got a point there,” said Lucy, recalling a few teacher conferences she had participated in. Even Sophie Applebaum had made it very clear to her that any problems the children were having were certainly no fault of the school’s. The school was always above reproach.

  “It’s no wonder she got killed,” said Jake as he returned to the kitchen. “She broke rule number one.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ted.

  “Weren’t you in the Navy?” demanded Jake as he ladled out the soup.

  “Nope. Not me.”

  “Well,” said Jake as he set the bowls down in front of them. “In the Navy, the first thing they teach you in boot camp is rule number one: Don’t make waves.”

  Lucy picked up her spoon, scooped up some of the rich, golden broth, and then tilting the spoon slightly, let it run back into the bowl.

  “What do you think, Ted? Do you think Josh made the bomb and Carol found out and that’s why he killed her?”

  “No way,” said Ted. “Somehow I just can’t see him as the bomber.”

  “Me either,” agreed Lucy. “Although he probably would know how to make a bomb. Could it have been a scheme to discredit Carol that backfired?”

  “We know she wasn’t too popular with her colleagues.”

  “Sophie thought she was after her job, and she got Mr. Mopps fired. Oh, I spoke with DeWalt this morning. He said Carol insisted that Josh be suspended. And do you know what he was suspended for? Suggesting one of the girls on the field hockey team wear shorts for practice. It’s against her religion or something.”

  “Lucy, go slower. Remember, I have a cold.”

  “It’s not you—it’s the craziest thing I ever heard. DeWalt said some people in the Revelation Congregation believe that girls have to wear skirts. By telling this girl to wear shorts to practice, he was supposedly undermining her religious training and encouraging her to defy her parents. You’re not supposed to do that. It’s in the Ten Commandments. DeWalt told me.”

  “So I’ve heard, but I’m not sure God cares an awful lot about what you wear,” said Ted, slurping his soup. “What was that you said? Something about Carol insisting that Josh be suspended?”

  “That’s what DeWalt said.” Lucy pulled out her notebook and flipped through it. “I’ve got it right here. He said Carol put her job on the line and insisted Josh be suspended. He also said he looked forward to ‘collaborating with her to restore family values to the schools.’”

  “That’s interesting,” mused Ted. “DeWalt and Carol were in cahoots. With her support, he probably could have picked up another seat or two on the school committee.”

  “That’s a scary thought,” said Lucy.

  “It would sure change the picture,” said Ted. “Up until now, the school committee and the administration, even the teacher’s union, usually present a united front. They’ve got a virtual lock on the system, and anybody who isn’t happy with it is at a real disadvantage. Just like Jake said.”

  “So you think Carol was killed because she was upsetting the educational applecart?” Lucy rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t realize how much is at stake here, Lucy. The school department is a big employer in this town and it pays very well. We all had to struggle through the recession, I know you and Bill had a pretty hard time, but they had contracts with five and ten percent raises built in. Most of them make thirty or forty thousand a year for ten months’ work. Even Mr. Mopps was making twenty dollars an hour, not counting overtime whenever there’s a meeting or a basketball game.

  “And so far, the unions have had a pretty cozy arrangement with the school committee. That school council Carol was proposing could have brought new people into the process. People who might start asking why the teachers should get another raise when SAT scores have gone down for five straight years.”

  Lucy put down her spoon. “Are you telling me this whole thing is about SAT scores?”

  Ted took another slurp of soup. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m not making much sense. Maybe it’s the cold medicine I took. I don’t know why Carol got killed, or who did it, but I do know that people were beginning to ask some hard questions about the schools. Then Carol came and all hell broke loose.”

  Ted didn’t stay long after they returned to the office. His cold got the better of him and he decided to head home. Lucy started working on the obituaries, including one for Carol Crane. The standard form from the funeral home gave only the sparsest details, and no survivors were listed. Lucy padded it out with material from the story about the bombing, and included information from Carol’s résumé. There were no visiting hours, she noticed, and no funeral was planned either. There would be, however, a memorial service at the school.

  Absorbed in her work, she didn’t see Sophie approaching through the plate glass window, and looked up, surprised, when the door opened.

  “I have two letters to the editor,” began Sophie, placing two envelopes on the counter in front of Lucy’s desk. “One from the teacher’s union, and one from the administrator’s association. They both state our faith in Josh Cunningham.”

  “I was at the arraignment this morning,” said Lucy. “He looked terrible—he must be in shock.”

  “Of course he is,” said Sophie. “This is absolutely unbelievable.”

  “The police seem to think they have a pretty solid case.”

  “Well, I know Josh, and I know he didn’t do any of this. If you think about it, all the evidence against him comes from Carol.”

  “You think she was scheming against him, before she was killed?” asked Lucy. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Sophie, the frustration evident in her voice. “But I do know she was a schemer. She had plots within plots. People like that usually end up in trouble, one way or the other.”

  “She sure got trouble,” said Lucy. “Smothered. In her own bed.” She chewed thoughtfully on the cap of her pen. “Were she and Josh seeing each other?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Sophie. “But then again, she didn’t confide in me.”

  “She has no family?” asked Lucy.

  “Never mentioned anyone. Mr. McCoul told me that nobody has contacted him about her remains. The union is paying for cremation, and we’re having a memorial service.” Sophie smoothed the lace collar to her print dress. “It’s only decent.”

  “It’s kind of sad, really,” said Lucy. “Everybody loved her and nobody loved her.”

  Sophie snorted. “You could put that on her gravestone, if she were going to have one. Unfortunately, the union’s funds are limited.” She leaned across the counter toward Lucy, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just between you and me, this vote was very close. It took some convincing to get them to ante up enough for the cremation.” She raised her eyebrows above her silvery plastic eyeglass frames, and gave a grim little nod.

  “Maybe DeWalt would like to make a contribution,” suggested Lucy.

  “Now there’s an idea,” crowed Sophie. “Of course, I’ve never heard of him actually making a contribution himself, at all. He’s much better at collecting them.” With that, she marched out the door, letting it bang behind her.

  That evening, as Lucy sat in class waiting for Professor Rea to arrive, she thought about Carol Crane. Right from the start she had sensed something phony about her; she was certainly not the person she was pretending to be. But why? What was it all for?

  She looked up as Professor Rea hurried into the room a good ten minutes late. He wasn’t quite himself, she thought. He hadn’t bothered to style his hair and it
hung in flat clumps around his face. He didn’t seem to have his usual energy either. Instead of pacing back and forth in the front of the room as he usually did, he sat down at the big wooden desk and, leaning his head on his hand, apologized for failing to finish grading the Matthew Arnold papers.

  “I’ll try to have them for you next time,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to talk about the force of convention in Victorian society. By way of example, I’m going to tell you about Professor Wilfred Owen Herbert Hewson, an extremely distinguished mathematician at Oxford.

  “To all appearances he was the typical bachelor academic. Absentminded. Head in the clouds. Lived by himself in a comfortable house with one servant, his maid. When he died, his colleagues were astounded to learn that he left his entire fortune, which was quite considerable due to the family coal mine, to the maid.

  “The only explanation for his unexpected generosity to the domestic that his colleagues could come up with was to assume that she had been his mistress. They were very shocked indeed to learn that she had actually been his wife. This was even more upsetting to them than a possible illicit affair. Why?”

  He scanned the class with dull eyes. When Mr. Irving raised his hand, he nodded at him.

  “Class differences were very marked at that time,” offered Mr. Irving. “Chances are the woman didn’t even know how to read. She couldn’t have filled the role of a gentleman’s wife—think of Shaw’s Pygmalion.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t like Eliza Doolittle—maybe she didn’t want to change,” offered the pretty blond girl who always sat in the front row.

  “Maybe he didn’t want her to change,” said Lucy. “Maybe he loved her the way she was.”

  “Exactly,” said Professor Rea. “Mrs. Stone has it. The really shocking thing about Professor Hewson was that he loved his wife because she wasn’t a lady. She was coarse, and vulgar, and uninhibited and very passionate. The professor’s diary reveals he was both madly in love with her and deeply ashamed of it.”