by June Shaw
I tried a door. Locked. The second door opened.
Creaking sounded as I slipped in with as little opening as possible. My purse vibrated against my side. Gil, calling back? Or my arm shaking?
I scooted past the enclosed swimming pool. Its water reflected off the darkened room’s pale blue walls. The next door was open, bringing me into the main corridor. I paused. An eerie quiet claimed the space, cavernous now without students’ noises and bodies. Their smells lingered. Schoolbooks, liniments, and sweet body lotions. The small wall lights probably stayed on. I craned my neck and listened.
Breathing seemed to come from my right—the mathematics hall.
I waited, my legs tensed. Was someone nearing?
I wished I’d gone to the bathroom before coming. My heart began counting out seconds. Minutes. Numbers pushed through my head, growing louder. I needed to move before my knees gave out.
I dashed to the math hall’s doors and yanked.
Locked. Glass panes revealed darkness down the hall, with darker shadows fabricating black pictures on a rear wall.
I scanned the main region again. A click sounded. It came from…somewhere I couldn’t fathom in this large space. No one moved that I saw. Maybe a clock? I hoped so.
Scuttling down the main pathway, I tried other doors. The English hall was locked. So was science. Gym doors wouldn’t yield, nor would the ones to the office. Lights inside the office remained on. The secretaries’ desks bore scattered papers beside their computers. Cynthia Petre’s desk held her calendar and picture of John Winston. New posters on the glass panes shielding the office announced dates for exams. The spirit stick was gone.
I scooted to the cafeteria hall. As I figured, one auditorium door wasn’t locked. A man I hadn’t known was murdered inside this room. I clasped the door handle, my body trembling. Cealie, you’re a concerned person but usually not stupid, my mind warned. I could leave here and do as I’d planned. Attend graduation. Then go on with my life.
But Kat needed help. Maybe to stay alive.
I darted into the auditorium, scrambled up a short flight of stairs, and reached the deck. Staring in a doorway, I eyed an absolute black abyss. Do you think you’re Super Hero? flashed inside my head. I forced my mind to shut up. Stop thinking about me. Take care of Kat.
I wanted Gil. Roger. The police.
But Roger would also tell me to leave everything to the authorities. And those authorities might arrest me for trespassing now. Detectives might discover who killed two people and then bombed Kat’s car, but would they do it before Monday night? Before another explosion might occur in this room during graduation?
A small light played up from the stage.
My quivering body made my purse shake against my hip. From the main landing, I peered down at the backs of rows of chairs. The auditorium, dark except for the stage’s tiny spotlight, could seat hundreds. This rear hall was circular. Other doorways back here led down to more seats. The molded chairs’ seats were folded up, except for the broken ones. Cracked seats hung, creating odd geometric shapes. Chairs that alternated the blue and yellow school colors resembled a tremendous checkerboard. The yellow ones stood out, looking friendlier than the darker ones. Metal strips connected all of them. Between each wide section of chairs, concrete steps led down toward the stage.
Cougars had been painted on the walls outside it, facing the audience. The big cats appeared fierce, poised to charge. An American flag stood on the stage beside a podium. Up there was where Kat would soon make her grand crossing. I hoped.
My eyes adjusted to the dark, and an oppressive quiet pressed against my eardrums. I clutched a chair’s rear. Rubbed my palms dry against it. “Someone’s upstairs,” my mind or throat whispered while my heart drummed. I stood on wobbly legs, feeling the doors close behind me, encasing me in this tomb. Upstairs, my thoughts ordered.
My knees bumped against each other as I moved. I glanced at chairs stretched along the room’s rear. On which one did that young man die?
I backed out and darted to the stairs leading above. If I stopped, I’d turn around and dash away from the terror. I wished I’d worn running shoes instead of pumps. My shoes click-clicked on concrete while I made my way up the sinister stairwell, sliding my palm along the handrail for support.
I paused on a stair. Steadying my breaths, I glanced down through metal strips that supported the handrails. They resembled prison bars. I could see the entrance door. It was still shut, nobody coming inside. I wanted to run out.
Entombed in the tiny black cell, I inched up the stairs, the growing pulse in my throat tasting bitter. My scalp tingled as I neared the balcony, the glow from the stage below getting brighter.
Finally up, I paused. I was standing on a balcony.
Being up here wasn’t so awful, I told myself. Nobody was going to lift me up and pretend to toss me down, like my big cousin had. Satisfaction sprinkled through me. I’d done it. I had stood up to my anxiety about balconies.
Still, the air was scant, my legs feeling jelled. I made them take me down steps toward the handrail.
Scanning the area, I saw no one. But felt I wasn’t alone. A person could be hidden, stooped in the shadows behind those rows of chairs with raised seats. I peered at the stage, trying to center myself. Calm my breathing. I couldn’t believe I was really up here.
I forced new thoughts. Many people must have keys to this place. Band director. Office staff. Coaches. Some teachers. Custodians. They all had reasons to be here at different times.
The person here with me now had a purpose.
The single light on stage created a spotlight on its center.
I glanced back across the balcony. Three rear doors were left open. I had come up on the left, but this wasn’t the area where I thought I needed to be. With eyes trained on my surroundings, I crept toward the central section.
Nothing seemed unusual, I thought, moving all the way down to the rail, struggling against my body’s tremors. I scanned the rows of chairs I passed before exposing my back to them. A backward glance told me no one had come through a door.
Needing to stop my shuddering, I clutched the railing. Stared down across the dark auditorium. Focused on the stage. It looked ready for a performance. Someone would cross that platform. Maybe speak. Do another activity that would take center stage. The production might call for an encore. I envisioned it. Shoved the scene from my mind. Other lights surrounded that platform, I noticed. Small lights below it, some above. But only the single light shone, spotlighting the shiny wooden floor. I heard footsteps.
They came from behind me. Soft steps, slowed for my benefit.
Chapter 24
I gripped the balcony’s railing. The feet moving behind me stopped. My hearing shot into high gear. Once again the person moved.
“Inspecting the stage for graduation?” a voice asked from the black void to my rear.
I didn’t turn. Forced my voice strong. “I was just wondering how Kat is going to look out there.”
“I’m sure she’ll look pretty, as always.”
Breathing came closer. To my left and behind me. The darkness seemed to close in. Tapping sounded. The slightest tap-tap of something hard against flesh.
My eyes swiveled down and toward the left. Fringes of lagoon blue swept down. They rose. Swept down again. The spirit stick was tapping against an open palm.
“You probably owned a pistol,” I said without looking, “but it would be long gone by now.” If I faced the person, I might force a physical confrontation. I didn’t want that. What did I want? I asked myself again.
I wanted answers. To keep Kat safe.
No reply came from behind me. “Maybe a thirty-eight,” I suggested. “That you probably tossed in the bottom of a river.”
“You must have one yourself.”
“No, a gun would make my purse too heavy.” My fingernails pinched my right palm. So stupid, standing with that weapon tapping behind me, admitting I was unarmed.
&nb
sp; But my purse held my phone. And my purse might become a weapon. Sometimes it held bulk.
I shifted my shoulder. Damn, I’d cleaned out my purse to make it lighter. Forget the phone, too, Cealie. Not much good against a long heavy spirit stick. Unless I could get a quick call off.
“My gun is in a full cereal box. Stuffed in there after I shot at you.” I swallowed. More explanation came. “I was driving to the grocery store the day I spotted you walking to that corner. I tried to hit you with my car. Then later you were such a nice target, lying on your patio. I guess I’m not a very good shot.”
My mouth zapped dry. I forced words out. “Cereal box, that’s clever.”
“I thought so. I taped the box shut and then shoved it in the middle of a large bag filled with trash. That’s gone too.”
“And I imagine you’d seen Jayne Ackers and thought she was Marisa Hernandez and instinctively pulled out your gun.”
“They were both tall and slender. Blond hair down to their shoulders.” A pause. “So many young women today seem tall and blond.”
But not you and me. “And after you’d killed once, it got easier.”
A loud sigh sounded. “You have no idea of the exhilaration.”
“Sure, getting a good adrenaline rush would cause anyone to murder.”
My opponent seemed to ponder. “You’re pretty smart. For an older woman.”
I flung around. “You have gray roots yourself.”
Her free hand touched the base of her hair. She smiled, her humorless smile looking especially wicked with her lips shut.
“And that spirit stick you’re holding probably has that man’s blood stains on it,” I said. “That young man, your lover.”
“I didn’t want you around this school anymore,” she said, taking purposeful steps down the stairs toward me, “after I realized I would go after Katherine.”
My breaths stopped. I hated this woman. Fury gave me strength. Hatred was replacing my fear. “Why would you go after Kat?”
A half-grin smeared the woman’s lips. “I was after Marisa Hernandez.”
“I figured that.” I wasn’t totally sure why. “Grant Labruzzo always kept her room clean,” I said to prompt a reason.
Her gaze swept out toward the dark cavern below. “Grant became obsessed with Marisa. He started to watch her, and he watched Kat too, since she’s Marisa’s good friend. He was furious when Marisa asked him to hang her students’ things from her ceiling.” The woman looked at me. “As though he were just some lowly janitor.”
“But he thought of himself as someone Marisa admired,” I determined. “A man she might love.”
My opposition’s throat tightened with her swallow. She was about half a foot taller than I was, so I could easily view her neck. Absently, she tapped the stick. “But I’d also become obsessed. I made another mistake. I thought Sue Peekers was Marisa.”
“The teacher you locked in the custodians’ room.”
“A stupid blunder.”
Peekers and Hernandez, both blond, both wearing denim that day. I’d seen Peekers from the rear that morning and also mistaken her for Marisa Hernandez. “You saw her in the custodians’ room and saw that the boxes of cleansers had been left near the door.” A smile responded to my musing, and I said, “No one else was in the hall, so you poured the chemicals under the door, then hurried back to your office.”
Hannah Hendrick’s eyes flittered toward mine. “Cealie, you’re even cleverer than I figured. You might have even guessed that I locked you in that classroom, changed my mind, and unlocked it before anyone came near.”
“You kept Grant Labruzzo here even though he didn’t do his job well. And when he spurned you, you killed him.”
The principal studied me as though she were assessing me as a job applicant. “Before Grant, I hadn’t had a man in so long.” Hannah gave me a friendly smile. “You’re an older woman. Surely you understand.”
I held back my heated response. “The police are certainly figuring out some of these things,” I said, trying to sound more assured than I felt. Of course no one would be bothered by the principal’s vehicle being here at school after hours. If anyone even noticed her hidden truck.
“Nobody saw me do anything. And the kids here get into trouble all the time. I call the police regularly,” Hannah said, grinning. “Sledge pulled the fire alarm that day you were here. I knew you’d driven that ugly mail truck, and nobody was in the parking lot right after everyone went inside, so I wrote that warning on your door. One way to get at Kat was to scare you.”
Anger swelled up in my throat. Since it wouldn’t help Kat now, I forced it down. “What happened between Sledge and Grant Labruzzo? Sledge’s buddy suggested that Sledge had done something.”
Hannah’s smile faded. “They got in a fight after school one day. Sledge thought he’d won.”
“Is that it?”
Hannah turned up the palm of her empty hand. “That’s it.” She seemed relaxed about answering my questions.
Before her mood changed, I hurriedly asked more. “Did you mess up my Lexus?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I’m sure you can thank some of our delinquents. We have a few.”
“Abby seems to believe Grant was interested in Anne Little.”
Hannah smirked. Her shoulders drew up higher. “Lots of women worried about who Grant was interested in. He was a handsome man. He spent lots of time in the office. But not to see Anne. Or Cynthia Petre.”
My heart hammered while I considered the most important question. “Why did you blow up Kat’s car?”
Hannah moved so close I felt the stick’s blue fringes sweeping my arm. The full-figured woman stared out at the stage. “Kat had become like Marisa’s daughter.” Hannah quieted, apparently going off in her thoughts.
I pushed to learn more. “They’d often talk…”
Hannah nodded. We might have been two friends, sharing our experiences.
Clacking sounded. Her stick was striking the rail, working harder. “And what’s the worst way to harm parents?” Hannah asked.
I knew the answer. “Hurt their children.”
She peered at me. “So I went after Kat, at first thinking I’d just scare her. If her grades dropped, if she didn’t come to school for exams and got all F’s for them…” Smiling as if she had told me the best story, Hannah said, “Then she’d lose everything she had worked so hard for all those years. Kat wouldn’t become an honor graduate.” Hannah’s shoulders jerked while she seeped more into the tale. “And then—then I thought, suppose I didn’t only scare Kat away from exams?”
Hannah grew so excited her eyes sparkled. She said, “If I scared Kat enough, then she might even not even come to graduate. That would get Marisa for sure.”
And me, too.
Hannah’s empty hand clapped against her hand that held the rod. “But even better, I could kill Kat.”
My heart stopped.
“Yes, I could kill her. And then Marisa would be devastated.”
My throat only managed to squeeze out a small sound.
Enthusiastically, Hannah continued. “I learned to make a bomb. I’m a speed reader, you know, and have an extraordinarily high IQ.” I couldn’t speak, and she went on. “I set the timer and placed the device under Kat’s car while everybody was inside, listening to Anne make announcements. But I rushed so much that I set the timing device too early. I had planned for it to blow up right after school, when Kat reached her car. She is so punctual.”
My granddaughter’s principal smiled at me. “Now I’ll have to wait until summer to find a way to kill Marisa. Too much security around here now. But summer’s just around the corner. And, of course, I’ll be absolutely certain it’s Marisa this time.” Hannah grinned at me as if waiting for applause.
My grim face must have sobered her. Hannah said, “How did you know?”
My gaze dropped to her skirt. Her suit was tan. “Where your blood stain was the first day I came here. You hadn�
�t started your period. You’re probably too old to still be having them.”
Hannah snickered. “Not quite. I still have a few.” She looked smug. “So that’s it?”
“I knew you might still be having periods. But the place where that dark red spot was. I remembered for myself. Sometimes I bled through, but no stain ever came to the location of yours, that close to your hip.”
Hannah’s hand went to where the stain had been on her cerise suit skirt.
“You should have packed your skirt in that cereal box, too,” I said, “because it’ll incriminate you. Just like the stains that are certainly somewhere on that stick you’re holding. Those are Grant Labruzzo’s blood stains.”
“I cleaned them off.” She shook the spirit stick and made the fringes sway. “Pretty, isn’t it? Colors of the Fighting Cougars.”
“You knocked him down with that stick. And probably went downstairs, checked to make sure he was dead, and unknowingly brushed your skirt against him.” I considered and said, “You wore the same outfit for his funeral. Nostalgia maybe?”
Hannah grinned. She pointed with the stick. “Grant hit those chairs right down there.” She bent her head, the bob of her chestnut-colored hair rising from her neckline. “You must have some killer instinct yourself,” she said, not looking at me. Her next words were more sinister. “Or you’re stupid.” She drew back and peered at me.
“Sometimes both,” I admitted.
Hannah’s stick rose and lowered, its fringes falling over the rail. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. She beat the rail faster, harder, her nose starting to flare.
I needed to keep her in conversation. Needed to think. Plan a defense. “You probably made out with Grant Labruzzo here at school,” I said.
“Oh, lots of places. On my desk. In classrooms.”