Not Good Enough for My Daughter
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Dave Paxton asked, stepping toward me as if to peer over my shoulder. “An insulting caricature?”
“No, just different,” I replied as casually as possible, quickly flipping the drawing onto the bottom of my stack. The student artist was clearly venting some raw emotions. There was no chance that I’d let anyone who’d been dressed like a clown see the drawing and risk stirring up reactive emotions.
Come to think of it, the students were unlikely to know that I wasn’t a suspect. Furthermore, whoever drew the hanged clown had to assume that Dave would see it. Was it intended as some sort of accusation or dare, to him or to me? That thought sent a chill up my spine.
Olivia Garrett stepped into the room, looking very classy in a peach-colored business suit that brought out the red highlights in her hair. Her expression fell at the sight of me. Apparently she still resented me for the way Stephanie had barged into my house yesterday—guilt by association, I suppose. She nodded slightly to me, then turned to Dave. “Good morning. Have you got the painting for me?”
“I forgot all about that. Good thing one of us is still thinking clearly.” He attempted to tamp down his hair, which did resemble my wild-man drawing—as he led Olivia toward a door at the back of the art room. “It’s still in my office.” He unlocked the door, then glanced at me. “Now that you’ve shared one of your drawings with my class, want to see one of mine?”
“I’d love to,” I replied, rolling up the stack of student drawings as I spoke. I grabbed a rubber band en route and slipped it over the tube-shaped papers.
“Olivia has a gallery in Ballston Spa, and she sometimes exhibits my work,” Dave explained.
“He’s one of my best-selling artists,” she said in a haughty tone, though with her high-pitched voice, it wasn’t especially effective.
“That’s wonderful, Dave.”
He gave me a friendly wink. “And it pays so well that it allows me to hold down a second full-time job here at the school.”
His office was packed with file cabinets, most of which featured thin, oversized drawers, which allow artists to store their work flat. One drawer was open a couple of inches, and I caught sight of a portion of the sketch on top. “Mind if I flip through some drawings?”
He glanced over from his task of removing a protective carrying case. “Go ahead. Those are my handiwork, too. Just don’t judge my ability too harshly. They’re preliminary sketches I was doing for my oils.”
I pulled out the stack of papers and leafed through them. They were all competently drawn, mostly of objects or what appeared to be sections of compositions he’d been studying. As he’d warned, the sketches failed to indicate how good his final work might be.
Two-thirds through the stack one drawing stopped me. It was a portrait of Corinne, in a much later stage of completion than the preceding drawings. “Corinne,” I murmured appreciatively and studied the sketch. The drawing had an Andrew Wyeth quality to it, with Corinne shown in full-body profile on the left side of the page. Her hands rested in her jean pockets, and the wind blew her hair back as she stared across the otherwise barren field. Though beautifully rendered, the drawing was visually out of balance. Something was needed on either the right side or the center of the work to draw the viewer’s eye.
“Let me see,” Olivia said, and I turned so she could look over my shoulder.
She took it from me. “Ah, yes. That was the first painting I ever sold. I like the composition of the final piece much better. Remember, Dave?” She held the drawing up for him to see.
He looked at the drawing. “Of course. That was my first big sale, too. Though I like to think I’ve improved since then. Who’d you sell it to, anyway? Do you remember?”
“That German couple, visiting from Frankfurt.”
“Right. How could I forget? The sale made me an internationally selling artist,” he said to me, wiggling his eyebrows. Though his facial expressions had been playful ever since Olivia arrived, there was an underlying sadness to his bearing, as if he were playacting for her benefit. He held a picture frame, which was roughly three feet across and four feet high. Taking a nervous breath, he turned it around so we could see. “I hope you agree that my newest work is much better.”
It was a full-body self-portrait done in oils, in which he sat against the trunk of a tree. Dressed in jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, he was barefoot and was seated cross-legged with his elbows on his knees, his face slightly turned. His work, almost too lifelike for my personal tastes, reflected an incredible skill that I greatly envied. And the rendering of light and shadow as sunlight filtered through the leaves of the tree was exceptional.
“It’s…astonishing,” I said. “I had no idea you were this good, Dave. I can’t believe you brought me in to do a demonstration to your class.”
“Thanks,” he said, beaming. He turned his hopeful eyes to Olivia. “And you?”
“Astonishing, indeed,” Olivia said. “But that frame! Did you pick out that matte work yourself?”
“You don’t like it?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Should have been darker. A deep forest-green would have accentuated the colors. Don’t you agree, Molly?”
“I…yes, now that you mention it, but I don’t think that the sandstone matte detracts from the work.”
“It doesn’t detract, just doesn’t accentuate.” She sighed. “What do you want to do, Dave? Shall I hang it as is for a while and see if we get any action?”
She’d dampened his enthusiasm. “Yeah. I guess.” Taking much less care with the rewrapping than Dave had used in its unveiling, Olivia continued to chastise him for having mounted his painting without consulting her. As she left with his painting, I recognized remorse on his features. It was akin to that of parents as their kindergartners disappear into the classroom. In this case, his “child” was being admonished for wearing an ugly dress.
The second bell had already rung, signaling the start of the next school period. “I’d better get back to work,” he said.
No one had come into the art room in the meantime. “Where are your students?” I asked. “I was hoping to just watch you do all the work for this next class, since I’m not supposed to do my demo again for another hour.”
“Unfortunately, I’m on study hall duty now.” He gestured at the couch along one wall of his small office. “You’re welcome to stay and make yourself at home.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
“There’s just one catch. Art supplies being what they are—i.e., often poisonous—I have to either know that a responsible adult is in here throughout or lock this room.”
“I’m not sure that I consider myself a responsible adult, but I can probably find one to stay with me.”
He chuckled. “What I meant was, if you think you might want to come and go, I’d better give you my key.”
“If you don’t mind, that’d be great. I’d like to go say hello to Lauren for a minute.”
He gave me his keys—one for the art room and one for his office—then left, chastising himself for already being late.
I looped the strap of my purse around the tube-shaped collection of students’ caricatures so I wouldn’t forget them when I left. After perusing Dave’s sketches a second time, I returned them to the drawer and decided to visit Lauren. The building was mostly quiet, with only a few students in the halls.
“Lauren will be back in a minute,” Nadine immediately told me when I entered the office. “Thanks. Mind if I wait for her in here?”
She smiled a little. “Not at all. How did your presentation go?”
I took a seat in Lauren’s chair. Sizing Nadine up as a possible killer at worst and an unethical, bribe-accepting creep at best, I studied her features—her piercing gray eyes, downturned lips, button nose. Interestingly, she seemed to be studying me just as carefully. “The kids sat there like lumps of clay. I’m fairly certain I bored them to t
ears.”
She peered at me over the top of her reading glasses, as was her habit. “Kids this age are so conscious of their peers that they don’t always want to take the risk of giving you a whole lot of feedback.”
“In that case, they succeeded.”
She pursed her lips and made no comment. “Lauren tells me you’re about to embark on a home construction project. Have to say, I don’t envy you in the least.”
“I’m not looking forward to it either, but it’s really nothing major, just putting on a sunroom. The room itself has already been made for us at the factory—it’s a prefab aluminum-and-glass structure. They just have to come out, remove the ten-by-twelve upper-deck section, put in the footings and flooring, anchor it, and cut a door where we now have a window. Chester says the whole process only takes three days.”
“Ah, yes. My husband and I had a simple remodeling job done on our house a few years ago. We had to sell the house at a loss as a result. And he’s now my ex.” She smiled ruefully. “Overall, it was worth every penny.”
I, however, having no desire to lose my husband in the process, asked nervously, “Chester Walker wasn’t your general contractor, was he?”
“No. I know nothing about Chester as a contractor.”
Just as a cohort in crime, I thought sourly. “He seems to have quite the pulse on the top students at Carlton. What classes they’re taking, their grade-point averages…”
I let my voice fade. She had no reaction whatsoever to my thinly veiled accusation, merely continued to watch me, so I upped the ante. “I saw him carrying school transcripts as he was leaving the grounds yesterday.”
“Yes,” she said, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, or, more likely, had been prepared for me to bring up the subject. “They were his son’s, which he’d asked me to provide for him, as he’s entitled to request.” She forced her downturned lips into something of a smile. “It may have looked suspicious yesterday, the timing of how you stumbled onto us right as he was making a school donation and where we happened to be standing at the time. I had been sneaking a cigarette, to tell you the truth.”
“I didn’t realize you smoked.”
“I don’t. Except when I’m seriously stressed. Old habits die hard, as they say.”
So does suspicion, I thought, but kept this to myself. I have a keen sense of smell and could not believe that I would fail to detect the odor of recent cigarette smoke on a person’s clothing and hair. Nadine had walked right past me as she returned to the building yesterday and bore no traces of smoke.
Lauren returned just then, and I sprang to my feet, still dying to tell her about my very strong suspicions regarding her de facto boss, Nadine. “Hi, Lauren. I’ve got thirty minutes free till I have to give my last presentation. Can you grab a cup of coffee with me in the teachers’ lounge?”
She glanced at Nadine, who nodded, then said, “Let’s go.”
We headed down the hall. “I’ve got to tell you something in private, about Nadine,” I whispered. “If there’s anyone else in the lounge, let’s just head outside, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We entered the empty lounge and headed straight for the coffeemaker. “I think Nadine is accepting bribes from Chester Walker to keep him apprised of the top students’ grades,” I told her quickly as she was pouring herself a cup. “Yesterday, I saw—”
“Molly, there you are.” Elsbeth Young entered the room and joined us.”
“Morning, Lauren. How’s everything going?”
She directed the question mostly at me, so I replied, “Fine. Though I hope your presentation went better than mine.”
“Not much chance of that,” she replied. “I was hoping to drum up some new students, but I’ve played at wakes that were more receptive. I’m so glad this is Tamara’s final year here, and we’ll be done with Carlton Central School forever.”
Because neither Lauren’s nor my children would be done with Carlton Central School for a number of years yet, and Lauren worked there, I was not of a mind to congratulate her.
She shifted her vision to Lauren. “My daughter doesn’t stand a chance of being valedictorian with all the adult interference that’s taking place. I just overheard some kids talking in the hall. Olivia Garrett, Jenny’s mother, sells Dave Paxton’s paintings. So you can bet that Jenny gets nothing but As from him. Jenny is one of the three or four strongest candidates for valedictorian, along with my Tamara.”
“That’s nothing to worry about,” Lauren replied. “Dave would never let a personal relationship influence his grades. Besides, I don’t think Jenny is even in his class.”
Elsbeth furrowed her brow, her normally pretty features now in a scowl, which, matched with her ratty-looking red hair, made her frightening to look at. “Trust me. She is. And so is Danielle’s son and Chester’s son. All three students are neck and neck on their GPAs. Like it or not, one B is going to determine the valedictorian, even if that B is only in an art class.”
Good thing she didn’t show this side of herself during her lessons, I thought, or we’d be looking for a new piano teacher. I said, “Technically, Jenny isn’t Olivia’s daughter now. Stephanie is her legal guardian. And anyway, surely a teacher’s business relationship with one student’s estranged mother isn’t something to fret about.”
Elsbeth sighed, then said, “I guess you’re right. Besides, it really doesn’t matter to me what happens. Whether or not Tamara gives a speech at graduation, she’s going to Stanford next year. It’s the other parents who’ve made it into such a big deal. Personally, just so long as Chester’s son doesn’t finish number one, and I won’t have to watch Chester gloat, I’ll be happy.” She started for the door. “I’d better get home. Piano lesson next hour.”
We waited in silence as the click of Elsbeth’s heels faded. “That cements it,” I said. “I don’t want my children in high school. Not at this one, at any rate. All of this acrimony over valedictorian. What is wrong with these people?”
“Happens every year around this time, Moll. Generally, the students are gracious no matter what, but a parent or two goes bonkers.” Lauren took a quick sip of coffee, made a face, and poured the rest of her cup down the drain. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work. Don’t forget to tell me the details about our earlier conversation, all right?”
I nodded and glanced at my watch. “I still have twenty minutes to decide what to do for my next presentation.”
“Hope it all goes well,” Lauren said as we went our separate ways at the intersection of hallways.
I returned to the art room and let myself into Dave’s office, retrieved the paperback in my purse, which I’d been toting around with me of late for just such an occasion, and plopped down on the love seat. As is fairly typical of me, though, the minute I’m left alone some silly cartoon idea occurs to me. I quickly deserted my book, grabbed the small sketch pad from my purse instead, and began to draw.
All of those clowns dressed identically the other night had struck me as absurd, despite the tragic conclusion. I drew three identical clowns with those same rings of stiff hair from an otherwise bald cap. Two of the clowns were holding hands and a third was glaring at one of them. With his arms crossed, he says to the nearest one of the perplexed-looking clown couple, “So, tell me something, young man. What makes you think you and my daughter have anything in common?”
An instant later I heard the door creak open. “You’re sure Paxton’s still in study hall? The door’s unlocked,” a deep voice said.
“Positive,” a girl replied. “I just saw him a minute ago.”
“It’s not like him to leave the room open like this. Let’s do this quickly and get out of here.”
I heard what sounded like the jingling of keys. Whoever this was would bolt the instant they spotted the open door to Dave’s office. I sprang to my feet and headed to the doorway. Jenny Garrett and Brian Underwood froze at the sight of me, both giving audible gasps of surprise.
“
Mrs. Masters?” Jenny asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you two. I have Mr. Paxton’s permission to be here.”
“Uh, so do we,” Brian replied. “We were just trying to get some work done.”
“By doing whatever you had to do ‘quickly’ so you could ‘get out of here’?”
“We…were making out on his couch a couple of days ago when he was in study hall, and I lost an earring,” Jenny said, her cheeks now beet-red. “I wanted to retrieve it before we got busted.”
That, unfortunately, was a plausible explanation. “How did you get his keys?”
“He gave ‘em to me,” Brian said. “I’m his student advisor. I get to come in here and work whenever I want.”
“I’m sure your privileges don’t extend to making out on his couch.” With an unsolved murder having recently occurred in this very building, it struck me as an especially precarious time to allow a set of keys to be in the possession of students. I held out my hand. “Give me the keys. Mr. Paxton can return them to you if he so chooses.”
Brian shouted, “But he gave them to me! You have no right to take them!”
“Be that as it may, I insist. If you’re supposed to have them, you’ll get them right back.”
He scoffed and took on the classic nonchalant teenager air. He tossed me the keys. “Here you go, lady. Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. No problem. Come on, Jen. Paxton will understand about your earring.”
She nodded, but she seemed to be looking at something against the far wall. I followed her gaze and noticed the kiln in the room for the first time, but saw no telltale earrings. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Masters,” she said quietly as they left.
Curious, I thoroughly checked the love seat, which was apparently appropriately named, but found no earring there or anywhere else in Dave’s office, just some sort of rubber bulb under the love seat that was probably part of a handheld aerator of some sort. I decided to check the art room, too. There was nothing revealing here. It seemed so odd that Jenny would sneak into a teacher’s office for an earring that she hadn’t actually lost there.
Death at a Talent Show (Book 6 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 7