Little Mim, a petite woman, advanced on April, not quite petite but small enough to be described as perky. “I am chair of the fund-raising committee. If I am to properly present St. Elizabeth's to potential donors, I need information. Roscoe and I were to have our meeting today and the files were to be released to me.”
“I don't know that. It's not written in his schedule book.” April shoved the book across his desk toward Marilyn, who ignored it.
Marilyn baited her. “I thought you knew everything there was to know about Roscoe.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Take it any way you like.”
“Don't you dare accuse me of improper conduct with Roscoe! People always say that. They say it behind my back and think I don't know it.” Her words were clipped, her speech precise.
“You were in love with him.”
“I don't have to answer that. And I don't have to give you this file either.”
“Then you're hiding something. I will convene the board and request an immediate audit.”
“What I'm hiding is something good!” She sputtered. “It's a large donation by Maury McKinchie for the film department.”
“Then show it to me. We'll celebrate together.” Little Mim reached out her left hand, with the pinkie ring bearing the crest of the Urquharts.
“No! I take his last words to me as a sacred duty.”
Exasperated, tired, and ready to bat April silly, Little Mim left, calling over her shoulder, “You will hear from a lawyer selected by the board and from an accounting firm. Good or bad, we must know the financial health of this institution.”
“If Roscoe were alive, you wouldn't talk to me this way.”
“April, if Roscoe were alive, I wouldn't talk to you at all.”
29
Little Mim was as good as her word. She convened an emergency board meeting chaired by Sandy Brashiers. Sandy had the dolorous duty of telling the group that he believed April had removed files from Roscoe's office: she refused to cooperate even with Sheriff Shaw. The suspicion lurked in many minds that she might have taken other items, perhaps valuable ones like Roscoe's Cartier desk clock.
Alum bigwigs blew like bomb fragments. Kendrick Miller called Ned Tucker at home, asking him to represent the board. Ned agreed. Kendrick then handed State Senator Guyot his mobile phone to call the senior partner of a high-powered accounting firm in Richmond, rousing him from a tense game of snooker. He, too, agreed to help the board, waiving his not inconsiderable fee.
Maury McKinchie, the newest member of the board, suggested this unsettling news not be discussed until the Homecoming banquet. He made no mention of his large bequest.
Sandy Brashiers then made a motion to dismiss April from her post.
Fair Haristeen, serving his last year on the board, stood up. “We need time to think this over before voting. April is out of line, but she's overcome by grief.”
“That doesn't give her the right to steal school records and God knows what else.” Sandy leaned back in his chair. Underneath the table he tapped his foot, thrilled that revenge was so quickly his.
“Perhaps one of us could talk to her,” Fair urged.
“I tried.”
“Marilyn,” Maury folded his hands on the table, “she may resent you because you're a strong supporter of Sandy.”
“I am,” Little Mim said forthrightly, as Sandy tried not to grin from ear to ear. “We have put our differences behind us.”
“I don't want to open a can of worms—after all that has happened—but there had been tension inside the administration, two camps, you might say, and we all know where April's sympathies rest,” Fair said.
“As well as her body,” Kendrick said, a bit too quickly.
“Come on, Kendrick!” Fair was disgusted. “We don't know that.”
“I'm sorry,” Kendrick said, “but she's grieving more than Naomi.”
“That's inappropriate!” Maury banged the table, which surprised them all.
“She spent more time with him than his wife did.” Kendrick held up his hands before him, palms outward, a calm-down signal.
“Who then will bell the cat?” Sandy returned to business, secretly loving this uproar.
No one raised a hand. An uncomfortable silence hung over the conference room.
Finally Maury sighed. “I can try. I have little history with her, which under the circumstances seems an advantage. And Roscoe and I were close friends.”
Little Mim smiled wanly. “Thank you, Maury, no matter what the consequences.”
“Hear, hear!”
Sandy noticed the lights were on in the gymnasium after the meeting adjourned. He threw on his scarf and his tweed jacket, crossing the quad to see what activity was in progress. He couldn't remember, but then he had a great deal on his mind.
Ahead of him, striding through the darkness, was Maury McKinchie, hands jammed into the pockets of an expensive lambskin jacket.
“Maury, where are you going?”
“Fencing exhibition.” Maury's voice was level but he had little enthusiasm for Sandy Brashiers.
“Oh, Lord, I forgot all about it.” Sandy recalled the university fencing club was visiting St. Elizabeth's hoping to find recruits for the future. One of Coach Hallvard's pet projects was to introduce fencing at the secondary-school level. It was her sport. She coached field hockey and lacrosse, and had even played on the World Cup lacrosse team in 1990, but fencing was her true love.
Sandy jogged up to Maury. “I'm starting to feel like the absent-minded professor.”
“Goes with the territory,” came the flat reply.
“I know how you must feel, Maury, and I'm sorry. Losing a friend is never easy. And I know Roscoe did not favor me. We were just—too different to really get along. But we both wanted the best for St. Elizabeth's.”
“I believe that.”
“I'm glad you're on the board. We can use someone whose vision and experience is larger than Albemarle County. I hope we can work together.”
“Well, we can try. I'm going to keep my eye on things, going to try to physically be here, too—until some equilibrium is achieved.”
Both men sidestepped the volatile question of a film department. And neither man yet knew that Roscoe had been poisoned, which would have cast a pall over their conversation.
Sandy smiled. “This must seem like small beer to you—after Hollywood.”
Maury replied, “At least you're doing something important: teaching the next generation. That was one of the things I most respected about Roscoe.”
“Ah, but the question is, what do we teach them?”
“To ask questions.” Maury opened the gym door for Sandy.
“Thank you.” Sandy waited as Maury closed the door.
The two men found places in the bleachers.
Sean Hallahan was practicing thrusts with Roger Davis, not quite so nimble as the football player.
Karen Jensen, face mask down, parried with a University of Virginia sophomore.
Brooks and Jody attacked each other with épées.
Jody flipped up her mask. “I want to try the saber.”
“Okay.” Coach Hallvard switched Roger and Sean from saber to épée, giving the girls a chance at the heavier sword.
“Feels good,” Jody said.
Brooks picked up the saber, resuming her position. Jody slashed at her, pressing as Brooks retreated.
Hallvard observed this burst of aggression out of the corner of her eye. “Jody, give me the saber.”
Jody hesitated, then handed over the weapon. She walked off the gym floor, taking the bleacher steps two at a time to sit next to Maury.
“How did you like it?” he asked her.
“Okay.”
“I never tried fencing. You need quick reflexes.”
“Mr. McKinchie.” She lowered her voice so Sandy Brashiers wouldn't hear. His attention was focused on the UVA fencers. “Have you seen the BMW Z3, the retro sports car? It's
just beautiful.”
“It is a great-looking machine.” He kept his eyes on the other students.
“I want a bright red one.” She smiled girlishly, which accentuated her smashing good looks.
He held his breath for an instant, then exhaled sharply. She squeezed his knee, then jumped up gracefully and rejoined her teammates.
Karen Jensen flipped up her face mask, glaring at Jody, who glared right back. “Did you give out already?”
“No, Coach took away my saber.”
Roger, in position, lunged at Brooks. “Power thighs.”
“Sounds—uh—” Brooks giggled, not finishing her sentence.
“You never know what's going to happen at St. E's.” With Sean in tow, Karen joined them. “At least this is better than shooting those one-minute stories. I hated that.”
“If it's not sports, you don't like it,” Jody blandly commented on Karen's attitude.
“Took too long.” Karen wiped her brow with a towel. “All that worrying about light. I thought our week of film studies was one of the most boring things we ever did.”
“When did this happen?” Brooks asked.
“First week of school,” Karen said. “Lucky you missed it.”
“That's why Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie are, I mean, were, so tight,” Sean said. “'Cause Mr. Fletcher said if we are to be a modern school, then we have to teach modern art forms.”
“Stick with me, I'll make you a star.” Jody mimicked the dead headmaster.
“Mr. McKinchie said he'd try to get old equipment donated to the school.”
“I didn't think it was boring,” Sean told Brooks.
“Mr. Fletcher said we'd be the only prep school in the nation with a hands-on film department,” Karen added. “Hey, see you guys in a minute.” She left to talk to one of the young men on the fencing team. Sean seethed.
“She likes older men,” Jody tormented him.
“At least she likes men,” Sean, mean-spirited, snarled at her.
“Drop dead, Hallahan,” Roger said.
Jody, surprisingly calm considering her behavior the last two weeks, replied, “He can call me anything he wants, Roger. I couldn't care less. This dipshit school is not the world, you know. It's just his world.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Sean, angry, took it out on Jody.
“You're a big frog in a small pond. Like—who cares?” She smiled, a hint of malice in her eyes. “Karen's after bigger game than a St. Elizabeth halfback.”
Sean's eyes followed Karen.
“She's not the only woman in the world.” He feigned indifference.
“No, but she's the one you want,” Jody said, needling him more.
Roger gently put his hand under Brooks's elbow, wheeling her away from the squabbling Jody and Sean. “Would you go with me to the Halloween dance?”
“Uh—” She brightened. “Yes.”
30
Harry dropped the feed scoop in the sweet feed when the phone rang in the tack room.
She hurried in and picked up the phone. It was 6:30 A.M.
“Miranda, it had to be you.”
“Just as Rick Shaw said, the story of Roscoe's poisoning is finally in the paper. But no one is using the word ‘murder.'”
“Huh—well, what does it say?”
“There's the possibility of accidental ingestion, but deliberate poisoning can't be ruled out. Rick's soft-pedaling it.”
“What has me baffled is the motive. Roscoe was a good headmaster. He liked the students. They liked him, and the parents did, too. There's just something missing—or who knows, maybe it was random, like when a disgruntled employee put poison in Tylenol.”
“That was heinous.”
“Except—I don't know—I'm just lost. I can't think of any reason for him to be killed.”
“He wasn't rich. He appeared to have no real enemies. He had disagreements with people like Sandy Brashiers, but”—Miranda stopped to cough—“well, I guess that's why we have a sheriff's department. If there is something, they'll find it.”
“You're right,” Harry responded with no conviction whatsoever.
31
The repeated honking of a car horn brought Harry to the front window of the post office. Tucker, annoyed, started barking. Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. Then she opened both eyes.
“Would you look at that?” Harry exclaimed.
Miranda, swathed in an old cashmere cardigan—she was fighting off the sniffles—craned her neck. “Isn't that the cutest thing you ever saw?”
Pewter bustled out of Market's store. She had put in an appearance today, primarily because she knew sides of pork would be carried in to hang in the huge back freezer.
Jody Miller, her black eye fading, emerged from a red BMW sports car. The fenders were rounded, the windshield swept back at an appealing angle. She hopped up the steps to the post office.
Harry opened the door for her. “What a beautiful car!”
“I know.” The youngster shivered with delight.
“Did your father buy you that?” Miranda thought of her little Ford Falcon. As far as she was concerned, the styling was as good as this far more expensive vehicle's.
“No, I bought it myself. When Grandpa died, he left money for me, and it's been drawing interest. It finally made enough to buy a new car!”
“Has everyone at school seen it?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, and are they jealous.”
Since she was the first student to come in to pick up mail that day, neither woman knew what the kids' responses were to the newspaper story.
“How are people taking the news about Mr. Fletcher?” Miranda inquired.
Jody shrugged. “Most people think it was some kind of accident. People are really mad at Sean, though. A lot of kids won't talk to him now. I'm not talking to him either.”
“Rather a strange accident,” Miranda mumbled.
“Mr. Fletcher was kind of absentminded.” Jody bounced the mail on the counter, evening it. “I liked him. I'll miss him, too, but Dad says people have a shelf life and Mr. Fletcher's ran out. He said there really aren't accidents. People decide when to go.”
“Only the Lord decides that.” Miranda firmly set her jaw.
“Mrs. Hogendobber, you'll have to take that up with Dad. It's”—she glanced at the ceiling, then back at the two women—“too deep for me. 'Bye.” She breezed out the door.
“Kendrick sounds like a misguided man—and a cold-blooded one.” Miranda shook her head as Pewter popped through the animal door, sending the flap whapping.
“Hey, I'd look good in that car.”
“Pewter, you need a station wagon.” Mrs. Murphy jabbed at her when she jumped on the counter.
“I am growing weary, very weary, of these jokes about my weight. I am a healthy cat. My bones are different from yours. I don't say anything about your hair thinning on your belly.”
“Is not!”
“Mmm.” The gray cat was noncommittal, which infuriated the tiger.
“Do cats get bald?” Tucker asked.
“She is.”
“Pewter, I am not.” Mrs. Murphy flopped on her back, showing the world her furry tummy.
Harry noticed this brazen display. “Aren't you the pretty puss?”
“Bald.”
“Am not.” Mrs. Murphy twisted her head to glare at Pewter.
“Wouldn't you love to know what this is about?” Harry laughed.
“Yes, I would.” Miranda looked at the animals pensively. “How do I know they aren't talking about us?”
“And this coming from a woman who didn't like cats.”
“Well—”
“You used to rail at me for bringing Mrs. Murphy and Tucker to work, and you said it was unclean for Market to have Pewter in the store.”
Mrs. Hogendobber tickled Mrs. Murphy's stomach. “I have repented of my ways. ‘O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.' Psalm one hun
dred four.” She smiled. “Cats and dogs are part of His riches.”
As if on cue, the Reverend Herbert Jones strolled in. “Girls.”
“Herb, how are you?”
“Worried.” He opened his mailbox, the metal rim clicking when it hit the next box because he opened it hard. “Roscoe Fletcher murdered . . .” He shook his head.
“The paper didn't say he was murdered—just poisoned,” Harry said.
“Harry, I've known you all your life. You think he was murdered, just as I do.”
“I do. I wanted to see if you knew something I didn't,” she replied sheepishly.
“You think his wife killed him?” Herb closed the mailbox, ignoring her subterfuge.
“I don't know,” Harry said slowly.
“Fooling around, I'll bet you,” Miranda commented.
“A lot of men fool around. That doesn't mean they're killed for it.” Herb lightly slapped the envelopes against his palm.
Miranda shook her head. “Perhaps retribution is at work, but there's something eerie about Roscoe's obituary appearing in the paper. The murderer was advertising!”
“Some kind of power trip.” He paused, staring at Mrs. Murphy. “And Sean Hallahan is the cat's-paw.”
“Yes, Herb, just so.” Miranda removed her half glasses to clean them. “I know I've harped to Harry about the obituary, but it upsets me so much. I can't get it out of my mind.”
“So the killer, who I still say is a coward, is taunting us?”
“No, Harry, the killer was taunting Roscoe, although I doubt he recognized that. He thought it was a joke, I really believe that. The killer was someone or is someone he discounted.” Herb waved his envelopes with an emphatic flourish. “And Sean Hallahan was the fall guy.”
“In that case I wouldn't want to be in Maury McKinchie's shoes or Sean's.”
“Me neither.” Harry echoed Miranda.
“Then perhaps the killer is someone we've discounted.” The Reverend Jones pointed his envelopes at Harry.
“You've got to be pushed to the edge to kill. Being ignored or belittled isn't a powerful enough motive to kill,” Harry said sensibly.
Murder on the Prowl Page 12