“Purchasing some tickets for the show,” Nadine completed on his behalf.
“For the variety show?”
“Yes,” Nadine said. “We’re postponing it, but when it takes place, we’re going to set up a memorial fund in Corinne’s honor.” She smiled at Chester. “Thank you for being so generous.”
“It was the least I could do.” The color had risen so high in Chester’s face that his bald scalp had reddened.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work,” Nadine said.
“Me, too,” Chester said. “Molly, I’ll be over first thing Monday, to get the workers started on your addition.”
Monday? During our last conversation on the subject, he had said it would be today, at the very latest. “That’s great, Chester. Thanks.”
He gave me a sheepish smile, then left, heading for the west parking lot, rolling some sheets of paper into a tube shape as he walked.
Those sheets looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them. I was halfway back to my house before it hit me what those forms were: school transcripts.
Chapter 5
The Sun Will Come Out, Tamara
“Are you sure there’s school today?” Nathan asked me, even though at the time I was standing in the doorway, waving to Karen as her bus for middle school pulled away from our cul-de-sac. Karen had long since decided it was “uncool” to wave goodbye to one’s mother, which was why I made a special point of waving. If I’d learned anything from my teenage years, it was that at no time is it as important for parents to show how much they love us than when we are acting our most unlovable and the least in need of parental love.
I pointed out the window. “You see that? It’s a school bus.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ll have school today. Maybe they won’t open the elementary schools today. It’s a Friday. Nobody learns anything on Fridays anyway.”
“Well, maybe you can be the first.” I glanced over at him. He was currently wiping down the kitchen counters. Betty Cocker was at his feet, attempting to sniff out the inevitable spillage. “Nathan, quit cleaning and go to school.”
“But the house is a mess.”
“It’s barely in the beginning stages of disarray. Meanwhile, your bus is corning.”
“Fine!” Nathan set a bowl containing milk and some dregs of his sugar-coated Cheerios on the floor and swept up his backpack. BC was, of course, delighted and ran over to lap up the milk while Nathan stormed out of the house.
Well aware of the diminishing point of return from reacting to this behavior, I called cheerfully, “Have a great day. And be sure and buck the system and learn a lot, even though it’s a Friday.”
He let the glass outer door slam behind him.
“Bye, Nathan,” Jim called after him as he came down the stairs. Nathan said nothing, merely continued his trudge toward the bus, doing the slouch-shouldered forward lean he takes on whenever he’s especially unhappy. Jim looked at me. “What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s mad at me, as usual.” I hugged myself with feigned delight. “Ah, the rewards of motherhood! It hardly seems fair. All of this adoration bestowed on one mere mortal.”
Jim chuckled, grabbed a cereal bar and a yogurt to eat on the drive, then rubbed the dog’s tummy, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and left for work. So long as he remembered which of us received which display of affection, things were all right by me.
The phone rang. I answered and was greeted with a particularly melodious, “Good morning, Molly. This is Nadine Dahl.”
“Morning,” I replied, confused. The woman had never called me before, plus her vocal tones were so different in person. She seemed to have a phone voice and a regular speaking voice.
Nadine said, “Under the circumstances, I thought that I had best call first to verify that you’re still coming in this morning.”
“‘Coming in’?”
“You’re supposed to give a demonstration and talk at the high school about cartooning.”
“Oh, my gosh. That’s right. I’d forgotten.”
“Can you still come?”
“Yes, though I’m not sure that it’s appropriate. I can’t imagine any of the high school students caring about cartooning on the first day back after what happened to one of their teachers.”
“True, but it’s not as though you have to keep them enraptured. I think it’s best that we give the assurance to the students that life goes on as usual, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Life doesn’t ‘go on as usual’ for Corinne. Plus it’s a Friday, so nobody will be paying attention,” I said, effortlessly employing my son’s logic, even if it hadn’t worked on me. “Maybe it’d be better to let the teachers have open discussions in their classes. Encourage the kids to talk about their feelings.”
She made a noise that sounded like a puff of derision, but maybe I was being overly sensitive. “You’re scheduled for Dave Paxton’s second- and fourth-period art classes. What you and he decide to do during that time period is up to the two of you.”
“Right. I’ll be there.” Her statement, too, was surprising. Dave Paxton had been so distraught Wednesday night that it seemed odd he was even planning on coming in today. “Nadine, does Lauren happen to be nearby?”
A clattering noise resounded, as though the phone had been dropped. Without another word from Nadine, Lauren was on the line and said, “Hello?” as if confused.
“Lauren, is everything all right there? Business as usual?”
“Sure. Everyone’s a bit more subdued. Some teachers are wearing black ribbons or armbands.”
“Such as Dave Paxton?”
“Yes. He’s really dragging today, but he’s here.”
“I forgot to tell you about something strange I witnessed yesterday. Is Nadine nearby?”
“Yes. Maybe we can talk about it later today.”
“Sounds good.” We said our goodbyes, then I rushed upstairs and started to change my clothes. While scanning my choices of apparel, I realized that I might as well stay in my casual, no-great-loss-if-ink-is-spilled-on-them clothing. I fed the dog and then drove to the school.
Originally, today had been planned as a career day at school. Though I’d felt that high school students were far too old and cynical to want to hear presentations on what some of us parents did in our jobs, the staff apparently disagreed. I suspected that this had more to do with their wanting to give themselves a day away from teaching while “they prepared the second-trimester report cards, but perhaps the “old and cynical” onus was only applicable to yours truly.
A half-dozen or so parents stood in the school lobby, waiting to sign in and get visitor badges. I recognized two of them: Chester Walker, my sunroom contractor, and Elsbeth Young, my daughter’s piano teacher. Chester was perhaps here to demonstrate something in the shop class—if they still had such classes in high school—and Elsbeth for music.
She and I greeted each other. “Seems almost disrespectful of us to be here,” Elsbeth immediately said.
“I agree.”
Though I liked her well enough, she always struck me as someone who had taken the thought of “artist’s temperament” too literally. She dyed her hair an unnatural shade of red and rarely combed it, and wore brightly colored Indian blouses, often with beaded necklaces—a youthful look for someone who appeared to have successfully pushed past fifty a couple of years ago. The March weather had brought its normal upstate New York chill. Today she was also wearing a black cape, felt tam, and gloves.
“They have the auditorium locked shut. That’s originally where I was scheduled to perform.”
“Are you just using the upright piano in one of the music rooms now?”
She nodded, looking past my shoulder. She clenched her jaw as Chester approached us.
“Glad to run into you this morning, Molly,” he said. “Shall we count on getting the construction into gear at your house Monday afternoon?”
Hadn’t he said �
��first thing Monday” the last time we spoke? “Sure. And it’s just three days from start to finish, right?”
“That’s what I said, all right.”
“Yes, but is it true? It’s hard to believe.”
“As well it should be,” Elsbeth said under her breath. He turned his attention to Elsbeth and glared at her.
“Ah, Elsbeth. Good morning. I got the chance to scan the top students’ class schedules the other day. I see you padded your daughter’s stats with some automatic A classes this last semester.”
I was already appalled at Chester for announcing that he’d done such a thing. What right did any parent have to scan other students’ class schedules?
“Tamara chooses her own course work, Chester,” Elsbeth retorted, “which she’s entitled to do.” She narrowed her eyes at him, her hands fisted. “She’ll have to do that next fall at Stanford, regardless.”
I was next in line for signing in and getting my visitor’s badge and did so. Both Lauren and Nadine were staring past my shoulder at Chester as he teased, “Yeah. Sure she does. You expect me to believe it’s just a coincidence that she’s got the easiest graders in the entire school this year?”
“I don’t expect or want you to believe anything of the kind, Chester. Tamara has done an excellent job in school and has earned my trust. She certainly doesn’t have to answer to you.”
“Yeah? I heard about those great grades of hers. Word has it that that was quite a paper you wrote for music theory.”
“Tamara wrote that herself! Honestly, Chester! Are you really so bloodthirsty that you think I would stoop to your level and turn in papers for my child?”
Although first period was currently in session, some students had this as their free period and were only now entering the building. A pair of them conspicuously listened in to Elsbeth and Chester’s discussion.
“I don’t turn in papers for my son!” Chester snapped. “He has always—”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” I said. “Did you notice that there are other people around, listening to you?”
Chester looked at me, his face clouded with anger. He yanked the pen from me, signed the register, then returned his focus to Elsbeth and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t act holier than thou. Everyone’s parents help their children when they get to this level. I’m not about to let some artificial sense of ethics destroy my son’s future.”
He snatched the visitor’s tag from Lauren and stormed off.
The moment I glanced at Nadine, she averted her eyes. My thoughts returned to the secretive rendezvous I’d stumbled into yesterday. This little interaction verified to me that Chester had indeed been bribing Nadine into supplying him with student transcripts.
Elsbeth quietly signed in. “Jeez. I’m sorry anyone overheard that. It’s so embarrassing to see a grown man treat his son as though he were his own personal puppet.”
“Yes, it is,” I said firmly, so Nadine would hear this as well.
Elsbeth suddenly smiled and searched my eyes. “Speaking of prize pupils, you know that I’ve progressed Karen into Chopin, and she’s doing just beautifully. She’s quite a gifted pianist.”
“Thanks. She’s not always great at practicing, though. I sometimes have a hard time dragging her away from the phone or the TV.”
She laughed. “Sometimes I’d throw the circuit breakers in my house and insist that the power wasn’t going back on until my daughter got her practicing in and completed her homework.”
“I imagine that would get quick results. So long as she could still see the piano music and her homework.” In fact, I was surprised that I’d never thought of this myself. Whoever coined the expression “necessity is the mother of invention” didn’t opt for the word “mother” for nothing.
“Good luck with your presentation,” Elsbeth said. “Cartooning, right? I believe my Tamara mentioned that this morning.”
“Yes. Hardly an appropriate subject, though.” I excused myself and made my way down the hallway. In my nervousness, and despite my apprehension about the timing of my presence in the school, I found myself singing, “The sun will come out, Tamara…” Fortunately, there were no immediate witnesses.
I hoped I wouldn’t have to sing that song all the way home to cheer myself up after my fiasco of a presentation. Never have I had so many bored faces aimed, more or less, in my direction. In fact, when I picked out Tamara’s face in that sea of placidity, I was tempted to sing a reprise just to get a reaction, knowing full well that she must get this joke all the time.
I moved away from my discussion of what makes something funny, having proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the answer was: nothing that I had to say on the subject. Instead, I talked about caricatures—how to select one characteristic feature and exaggerate it to comic effect.
Not wanting to subject a child to possible ridicule, I asked the teacher to be a model. This was, after all, the person who had originally subjected me to my current unease by selecting me to give this presentation.
He obliged by having a seat on the stool beside me in the middle of the art room. “Now, Mr. Paxton here has what appears to be unusually widely spaced eyes.”
“That comes from having to keep watch in all directions on my students,” he said with a smile.
A couple of snickers indicated that I had made a good decision; Dave was clearly game, and the class needed this opportunity to relax by having fun with the teacher. Now, if only by some minor miracle I were instantly granted the ability to produce good caricatures on the spot.
“We’ll just give Mr. Paxton a big head and a little body,” I said as I drew.
“So it’s an exact likeness, then?” somebody wisecracked from the back.
“One more remark and you’re Mrs. Masters’s next model,” Mr. Paxton said amiably.
“Notice that I’m making his curly hair look wild to augment the basic comic effect, and that I’m putting him at an easel himself, to show that he’s an artist. By putting the subject in their natural element within the cartoon, you make it easier to identify the person.” A technique for masking basic lack of artistic ability, I silently added.
I chattered throughout the drawing process and finished the sketch, which portrayed Dave Paxton as a wide-eyed wild man. I pulled the sheet off its pad and held it up for everyone to see. The students laughed and applauded. Afterward, I let Dave see, and he grinned and shook his head.
“You flatter me, Mrs. Masters.”
“Now you know why caricature drawing is just a sideline for me.” I sneaked a surreptitious glance at the clock and saw that I still had twenty minutes to fill. “Are there any questions?” I asked. No raised hands. Drat! Was I going to have to do more drawings?
“Turnabout, as we know, is fair play.” Dave started handing out sheets of drawing paper. “This being an art history class, you rarely get the chance to do your own compositions, but let’s all draw a caricature of Mrs. Masters, shall we?”
Being a model was easier than being an artist—I can do nothing with the best of them—so I switched places with Dave eagerly. “Draw away,” I said.
“Ten minutes, then we’ll hand them in and let our guest artist comment.”
During those ten minutes, I obsessed about my posture and my state of exhaustion, not having slept well for two nights in a row. The student drawings would likely feature bags under my bloodshot eyes. I also pondered the bad will between Chester and Elsbeth. Could one of them have been so angry over a bad grade that they’d killed Corinne? Surely not. Besides, I truly didn’t want to consider Elsbeth as a viable suspect. Karen spent too much time in the woman’s company for me to acknowledge any possibility that she could be a murderer.
The students were getting such a big kick out of the awful drawings of me that I was only halfway through the stack of thirty or so when the bell rang. The classroom began to empty out immediately, no one pausing long enough to get their pictures back. When I asked about this, one student called out, “Keep the
drawings as our present to you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, glad that I’d survived. “One more presentation and you’re done,” Dave said, nipping my sense of relief in the bud.
“Oh, that’s right. I keep managing to forget that I said I’d do this twice today.” I massaged my neck a little. “I’m already exhausted. I can’t tell you how impressed I am that you do this every day, all day long.”
“It does get a bit trying at times. Especially today.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t keep school closed for another day; start fresh on Monday.”
He shrugged and said bitterly, “Typical of the way things work around here. Lose a close friend and a peer, but we’re supposed to carry on as if it never happened.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Dave.”
He frowned. “We’d recently agreed to see other people, but all that was doing for me was showing me how special Corinne was.” Under his breath he added, “Not that I knew that her definition of ‘other people’ was going to include a student.”
“That must have made you pretty angry,” I prompted, thinking about how Brian Underwood had named Dave as the person he most suspected.
He gave me a lopsided smile. “Actually, Corinne was the one who was angry. It was my decision to see other people for a while. I’d gotten out of one bad marriage and wanted to be absolutely sure. She chose Brian Underwood as a means to rub my nose in my mistake.” His expression became almost unbearably sad. “It worked, too. Once the hubbub around the variety show settled down, I’d planned to propose to her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not one-tenth as sorry as I am to lose her.”
Feeling awkward at seeing someone I barely knew in such obvious pain, I averted my eyes and searched for a distraction. I started flipping through the students’ remaining drawings, until one froze me in place: a drawing of a clown, dangling from a hangman’s noose.
Chapter 6
Death at a Talent Show (Book 6 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 6