Schooled in Deception: A Michael Bishop Mystery

by Anthony J. Pucci

  He reflected on the ways that prom night had changed over the years. It was not uncommon for parents to spend around a thousand dollars on this one event. Girls needed to find that perfect dress that no one else had and that would probably not be worn again. That cost alone could easily run into the hundreds of dollars. Not to mention a trip to the salon to get their hair and nails done. Gentlemen had to rent a tux and buy flowers. Some of them orchestrated elaborate and expensive “promposals.” Bishop wondered if that word had made it into Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary yet. In addition to the cost of the tickets themselves, a pre-prom dinner, limousine rental, professional photography, and after-prom party added to the expense. For the indulgent parents, no cost was too great in order to ensure that the young people had “a night to remember.”

  Bishop tried to remember his own senior prom. He could scarcely recall that event some fifty years later. What was the name of his date? Linda. Linda something. He could still bring to mind what she looked like, but what was her name? Why was he having difficulty remembering? Linda. Linda DiDonato? No, that wasn’t right. Linda DelDonna? Perhaps if he didn’t try too hard to remember, it would come back to him.

  He hadn’t planned what to have for dinner. A quick search of his pantry served as a reminder that he needed to do some serious grocery shopping. Just as on the previous night, he settled on a can of tuna fish that he dumped into a bowl along with some chopped up celery and onion. It wasn’t until that point that he checked to see if he had any mayonnaise or even bread for that matter. Fortunately, the jar of mayo was not quite empty and there was still a half a loaf of 12-grain bread. He ate the sandwich in less time that it took to make it. Shopping and making meals were tasks that he avoided as much as he could. Grace had done all the cooking during their thirty-eight years of marriage, and since her death, he chose to dine out or to pick up something prepared to take home. That combination was far from ideal, but it worked.

  He had an hour or so before he had to leave for the country club where the prom was being held. He placed a CD of Domenico Scarlatti’s keyboard sonatas in the player in the sunroom, and picked up the Donna Leon mystery that he had been reading. Bishop knew that in this work of fiction, the relentless yet patient pursuit of justice would eventually lead Commissario Brunetti to solving another murder in his beloved city of Venice. Would Bishop’s pursuit of Cooper’s killer be as successful in real life? Bishop was no Brunetti. Nevertheless, he thought of Brunetti’s dealings with his officious superior, Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta. If Brunetti had to navigate around Patta, so too did Bishop have to contend with the incompetent Sister Pat and the mercenary Sister Ann. If Brunetti often relied on the efficient but devious secretary, Signorina Elettra Zorzi, Bishop could count on the resourceful and inquisitive Terry Mortenson in the main office. There was, however, one glaring difference between the fictional detective an himself. Brunetti had Paola, his intelligent, independent wife whose wit, humor, and wisdom contributed to his success. Bishop had only his memories of Grace.

  ***

  His reading was interrupted by a phone call from Lieutenant Hodge.

  “Sorry to bother you on a Friday night, but I thought you’d want to know that I caught up with Ryan Baxter.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “He admitted that he had lied to Amy about where he was the morning of the murder. As we established, he had already lost his job at UPS. Amy broke up with him when she found out where he really was that morning.”

  “At Holy Trinity?” Bishop suggested.

  “I’m afraid not. He was with another woman.”

  “Oh, I see.” After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Do you believe him?”

  “Mr. Bishop, in my business, it pays not to believe anyone. I checked out his story for myself. The young lady’s name is Amanda Minton. She lives in Ridgefield. I talked with her myself, and she claims that he spent the night there.”

  “I thought you just said that you don’t necessarily believe anyone.”

  “That’s right. That’s why I spent an hour talking to her neighbors who all seemed to agree that her car and his motorcycle were in the driveway that night. A few of them apparently follow Amanda’s love life quite closely, and that motorcycle announces Ryan’s comings and goings rather emphatically.”

  “I guess he did have something to hide, but it wasn’t murder. If we can safely remove him from the list of suspects, I have two names that we can add.” Bishop went on to tell Hodge about his conversations with Hannah Ward and Tim Kelleher. Hodge agreed that it was an angle worth pursuing. Fear of Cooper reporting them might have been enough of a motive for one or both of them to silence him.

  “It raises another good question,” said the lieutenant.

  “What’s that?”

  “Who else might Cooper have tried to blackmail?”

  It was, indeed, a very good question.

  ***

  While taking a shower, Bishop mulled over what Hodge had told him. Ryan Baxter was no longer a suspect. Another strikeout. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with Jack again. After that, who else?

  He put on his charcoal gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and brown Oxfords, and checked himself in the mirror. Not bad for seventy. Although he didn’t feel much differently from when he had arrived at Trinity forty-five years ago, he certainly had changed over the years. A collage of all the photos of him that had been taken for the Trinitarian, the school’s yearbook, would capture the aging process. If Sister Ann and Sister Pat succeeded in implementing staff cuts, this year’s school photo would be his last. There had to be a way to stop them. He just didn’t know how he could do it.

  He arrived at the country club about ten minutes early. He parked in a lot farthest from the entrance so that he could walk the extra steps. The scent of lilacs filled the air, and the scattered trails of cirrus clouds in the western sky promised a stunning sunset. As Bishop reached the door, a limo pulled up under the portico of the building, and three couples emerged to join their classmates. Parents and prom-goers were taking photos and selfies with the meticulously kept gardens as a backdrop. Bishop anticipated a few relaxing hours as the seniors enjoyed each other’s company as a class for one of the last times before graduation sent them on their separate journeys. The evening, however, turned out to be far from relaxing.

  He bypassed the small line that had formed awaiting inspection by one of the assistant principals before being allowed into the dance. Bishop waved his greeting to Ron who was complimenting the students on their attire while he checked them in. Sister Pat, whose scowl indicated that she was in a particularly bad mood, didn’t bother to acknowledge Bishop’s presence so he made a point of saying something to her.

  “Good evening, Sister.”

  “What’s so good about it?” That was a typical comment from Holy Trinity’s Sister Meany. Perhaps the prom was cutting into her television time. Just then the two girls who had been harassed by Sister Pat for their early dismissal arrived with their dates.

  “I see that you two made a miraculous recovery,” she said sarcastically.

  One of the girls flushed with embarrassment but said nothing. The other girl wasn’t about to be intimidated. “We never said we were sick. We had legal excuses to leave.”

  Before that conversation escalated, Bishop motioned for those who had been checked in to follow him. The members of the prom committee had done a remarkable job of transforming the banquet hall into the world of a “Starry Night,” the theme that the seniors had chosen. To the left were a number of round tables with white tablecloths and a floral centerpiece. At each place, there was a tall glass filled with party favors. To the right stood an enormous star with an arch-shaped opening. Clusters of tiny twinkling lights were strung along the far wall. Hundreds of stars of various sizes hung from the ceiling. Spotlights positioned from the left and right caught the glittering surfaces creating a dazzling display.

  Some couples milled about on the dance floor,
not quite sure what to do or how to act. Others gravitated to the trays of snacks that were beautifully arranged around an enormous punch bowl. As Bishop chatted with a group of students about the weather and complimented them on their attire, he noticed Sister Ann in an animated conversation with the deejay, a tall man in his twenties wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and faded jeans. He wore a baseball cap backwards with the visor in the back. More than likely, she was dictating what music she did and did not want him to play. He listened respectfully as Sister did all of the talking, more than likely not planning to comply with any of her demands.

  Bishop spotted a couple of the other chaperones over by the large star. They were talking among themselves and watching as couples posed in the archway as a professional photographer gave them instructions and snapped away. Heads turned as Sister Pat stomped across the dance floor. Like the parting of the Red Sea, students made way for her. Bishop wandered in that direction to see if he could figure out what bee had gotten in her bonnet this time.

  “Did you see that Hoffman girl?” she barked at the principal. Before she had a chance to respond, she added, “That dress! It’s disgraceful!”

  Sister Ann put a finger to her lips in an attempt to get her good friend to lower her voice. A quick glance around the room failed to locate the offending party. “Where is she?” whispered Sister Ann.

  “She’s right over there!” she said loudly as she pointed in the direction of several couples queued up for their portrait. “She’s wearing a scarlet gown with a split on the side that goes halfway to Kansas.” A few of the seniors exchanged anxious looks as the conversation continued.

  Sister Ann signaled to the deejay that he should play some music, hoping that that would neutralize Sister Pat’s loud voice. “It’s not that bad, Pat. Just ignore it.” She smiled at a few students who were nearby and started to walk away.

  “What about that top?” the assistant principal bellowed. The music had only made her speak even louder. “She isn’t leaving much to the imagination! I say we tell her to cover up, and if she refuses, we call her parents to come and pick her up.” In her mind, it was a done deal, and she was looking forward to seeing it play out.

  Sister Ann checked her watch. It was only a few minutes past eight o’clock, and she already had a headache and wanted to go back to the convent. She looked around the room. Few of the girls were dressed modestly. Most of the gowns the girls wore were either strapless, backless, or too tight. She knew that this was a battle not worth fighting. She remembered what had happened a few years earlier when Sister Pat had been on a similar rampage. About half of the seniors left early, and many of them demanded their ticket money back. The parents naturally sided with their kids, and it took a week or more for tempers to calm down. “We can’t expect them to come in their school uniforms, can we?” Hoping to divert her friend’s attention, she added, “This music is starting to give me a headache.”

  “You call this ‘music’?” she asked as she scowled at the deejay and took aim at the table of refreshments.

  ***

  Having finished checking everyone in, Ron Jennings wanted to introduce his date to his good friend, Michael Bishop. Over the years, Ron had been in a couple of relationships that had left their emotional scars. Bishop was pleased to see Ron smiling again as he escorted the lady to meet him. She was rather petite with short, dark, curly hair and a winning smile. Her sleeveless aqua dress, which was modestly only slightly above the knee, emphasized her physical fitness. She looked familiar. Did he know her or did she simply look like someone that he knew? He was fairly certain that she was not a former student. Why did his memory fail him now? Was she a waitress at one of the many restaurants that he frequented? No, that wasn’t right. In just seconds, they would arrive. Wait! The bank! That’s it!

  “Mary Ellen! How nice to see you! You look lovely!” Bishop said as he shook hands with her and then with Ron.

  Before either one of them could respond, a young man who approached from the opposite direction said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bishop. May I speak with you privately for a moment?”

  He turned around, saw the look on Billy Sprowl’s face, and told Ron and Mary Ellen that he would catch up with them in a few minutes. Billy’s date was nowhere in sight. Could he have had an argument with her so soon after arriving? Billy was a star baseball player and well liked by his classmates and the staff. Bishop had been particularly impressed by a decision that Billy had made at the end of his junior year. The young man had been in Honors English since his freshman year and was scheduled to take Bishop’s Advanced Placement English Literature and Composition as a senior. Around this time last year, Billy had also asked to speak privately with the veteran teacher. He explained that after careful consideration of all of the challenges that he would face as a senior, he concluded that he would not be able to give one hundred percent effort to an Honors English class. The majority of students in a similar situation would have been satisfied with less than one hundred percent effort and taken the class because it would enhance their transcript for college. Bishop respected this young man’s maturity and integrity. After talking with him for a few moments this evening, he would have reason to change his mind.

  ***

  “You did what?” asked a bewildered Bishop. He and Billy had decided that a walk around the well-lit grounds of the country club would afford them the ability to talk freely. Billy told his date that Mr. Bishop wanted to speak with him for a few minutes.

  Like the ancient mariner in Coleridge’s poem who had to admit that he had shot the albatross, Billy painfully repeated what he had done. “I took the Modern Novels final exam from Mr. Mitchell’s desk.” Billy’s voice was shaky, and his face was pale.

  So many thoughts ran through Bishop’s mind. Billy was just about the last person that he would have suspected. Why did he steal that test? What would Charlie Mitchell do when he found out? How would Sister Ann and Sister Pat discipline him for such an offense? How would this affect his athletic scholarship to Holy Cross? Why did Billy decide to tell him?

  “Did you take the phone cord from Mr. Mitchell’s room?”

  “No.”

  “Did you take his nameplate?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you know who did take those items?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  Bishop was silent for a few moments as he considered a course of action. In his many years at Holy Trinity, he had dealt with situations that were far more serious than this. Billy hadn’t hurt anyone except himself, and it was clear from his demeanor that the young man had already figured that out.

  The sun had set, and there was a chill in the air. They had walked to the far end of the parking lot and had begun the loop back.

  “Why did you do it?” Although there was no reason that could justify his action, Bishop was curious as to his motivation.

  Billy shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he didn’t know why. “I hadn’t planned to do it. I knew it was a stupid thing to do as soon as I did it.”

  “Why didn’t you just put it back?”

  Instead of answering the question, Billy pulled out his cell phone and started tapping on the screen. It seemed to be an odd time to check his phone. “I was going to find a way to put it back on his desk until I got this.” He handed the phone to Bishop.

  Billyboy I know u stole that exam. If u don’t give me a copy I’m telling

  “Who sent this?”

  “Promise you won’t tell.”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” Bishop snapped back. He stopped walking and turned to face the young man. “You’re in no position to be making any demands. Now, who sent this?” He plunked the phone into Billy’s hand.

  After a moment’s indecision, he said softly, “Clare Mooney.” Clare? Squeaky-clean Clare? He thought back to the discussion of that Hawthorne story. Another veil removed? This past week had brought with it murder, lies, secrets, theft, and threats. The irony was not lost on him that all o
f this was taking place in a Catholic school.

  “When did you receive this?”

  “About an hour after I took the folder. She’s texted me every day since. I got another one just before I came to talk to you. She’s given me a deadline of next Monday at noon.”

  Bishop now understood the cause of the look of panic on Billy’s face when he had approached him moments earlier. They had almost reached the main entrance of the building once again. “You have to talk to Mr. Mitchell,” he said unequivocally.

  “What if Clare tells him first?”

  “Clare doesn’t have anything to do with it. Think about it. If she were going to turn you in, she would have done it right away. Plus, she knows that you have those texts. You have to face Mr. Mitchell because of what you did.”

  “Yeah, I know,” sounding more resigned to the inevitable. “I don’t know what he’s going to do to me.”

  “Neither do I, Billy, neither do I.”

  “Thanks for listening, Mr. Bishop.” Billy reached out to shake his hand.

  Bishop shook his hand firmly and smiled. He couldn’t condone Billy’s actions, but he couldn’t abandon him either.

  “One more thing,” Bishop said as they reentered the prom.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure that you save Clare’s texts. Just in case.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Bishop’s internal alarm woke him at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday. After showering and dressing, he went into the sunroom for a leisurely breakfast. The morning sky was a deep blue, giving promise to a beautiful day ahead.

  With a CD of Artur Rubenstein playing Chopin in the background, he sat in his favorite recliner with his tea and toast. It had been a rather tumultuous week, starting with the discovery of Ed Cooper’s dead body. One minor mystery had been solved when Billy Sprowl admitted that he had taken Mitchell’s exam. Many others still awaited resolution.