“I agree with you there.” Herb's deep voice filled the room. “There's more to it. You think Rick is guarding McKinchie?”
“I'll ask him.” Miranda picked up the phone. She explained their thinking to Rick, who responded that he, too, had considered that Maury and Sean might be in jeopardy. He didn't have enough people in the department for a guard, but he sent officers to cruise by the farm. Maury himself had hired a bodyguard. Rick requested that Miranda, Harry, and Herb stop playing amateur detective.
Miranda then replayed this information minus the crack about being amateurs.
“Cool customer,” Herb said.
“Huh?”
“Harry, Maury never said anything about a bodyguard.”
“I'd sure tell—if for no other reason than hoping it got back to the killer. It'd put him on notice.”
“Miranda, the killer could be in Paris by now,” Herb said.
“No.” Miranda pushed aside the mail cart. “We'd know who it is then. The killer can't go, and furthermore, he or she doesn't want to go.”
“The old girl is cooking today, isn't she?” Pewter meowed admiringly.
“That body in the Toyota has something to do with this,” Mrs. Murphy stated firmly.
“Nah.”
“Pewter, when we get home tonight, I'll take you there,” Mrs. Murphy promised.
“I'm not walking across all those fields in the cold.”
“Fine.” Mrs. Murphy stomped away from her.
Susan walked in the backdoor. “Harry, you've got to help me.”
“Why?”
“Danny's in charge of the Halloween maze at Crozet High this year. I forgot and like an idiot promised to be a chaperon at the St. Elizabeth's Halloween dance.”
“You still haven't figured out how to be in two places at the same time?” Harry laughed at her. As they had exhaustively discussed Roscoe's demise over the phone, there was no reason to repeat their thoughts.
“All the St. Elizabeth's kids will go through the maze and then go on to their own dance.” Susan paused. “I can't keep everyone's schedules straight. I wouldn't even remember my own name if it wasn't sewn inside my coat.”
“I'll do it”—Harry folded her arms across her chest—“and extract my price later.”
“I do not have enough money to buy you a new truck.” Susan caught her mail as Harry tossed it to her, a blue nylon belt wrapped around it. “Actually, your truck looks new now that you've painted it.”
“Everything on our farm is Superman blue,” Murphy cracked, “even the manure spreader.”
That evening Mrs. Murphy and Tucker discussed how to lure a human to the ditched car. They couldn't think of a way to get Harry to follow them for that great a distance. A human might go one hundred yards or possibly even two hundred yards, but after that their attention span wavered.
“I think we'll have to trust to luck.” Tucker paced the barn center aisle.
“You know, they say that killers return to the scene of the crime.” Mrs. Murphy thought out loud.
“That's stupid,” Pewter interjected. “If they had a brain in their head, they'd get out of there as fast as they could.”
“The emotion. Murder must be a powerful emotion for them. Maybe they go back to tap into that power.” The tiger, on the rafters, passed over the top of Gin Fizz's stall.
Pewter, curled on a toasty horse blanket atop the tack trunk, disagreed. “Powerful or not, it would be blind stupid to go down Bowden's Lane. Think about it.”
“I am thinking about it! I can't figure out how to get somebody out there.”
“You really don't want Mother to see it, do you?” Tucker saw a shadowy little figure zip into a stall. “Mouse.”
“I know.” Mrs. Murphy focused on the disappearing tail. “Does it to torment. Anyway, you're right. It's a grisly sight, and it would give Mother nightmares. Didn't like it much myself, and we're tougher about those things than humans.”
“In the old days humans left their criminals hanging from gibbets or rotting in cages. They put heads on the gates in London.” Tucker imagined a city filled with the aroma of decay, quite pleasing to a dog.
“Those days are long gone. Death is sanitized now.” Pewter watched the mouse emerge and dash in the opposite direction. “What is this, the Mouse Olympics?”
A squeaky laugh followed this remark.
“Those mice have no respect,” Tucker grumbled.
32
Hands patiently folded in his lap, Rick sat in the Hallahan living room. Sean, his mother, father, and younger brother sat listening.
Cynthia had perched on the raised fireplace hearth and was taking notes.
“Sean, I don't want to be an alarmist, but if you did not act alone in placing that obituary, you've got to tell me. The other person may have pertinent information about Mr. Fletcher's death.”
“So he was murdered?” Mr. Hallahan exclaimed.
Rick soothingly replied, opening his hands for effect, “I'm a sheriff. I have to investigate all possibilities. It could have been an accident.”
Sean, voice clear, replied, “I did it. Alone. I wish I hadn't done it. Kids won't talk to me at school. I mean, some will, but others are acting like I killed him. It's like I've got the plague.”
Sympathetically Cooper said, “It will pass, but we need your help.”
Rick looked at each family member. “If any of you know anything, please, don't hold back.”
“I wish we did,” Mrs. Hallahan, a very pretty brunette, replied.
“Did anyone ever accompany your son on his paper route?”
“Sheriff, not to my knowledge.” Mr. Hallahan crossed and uncrossed his legs, a nervous habit. “He lost the route, as I'm sure you know.”
“Sean?” Rick said.
“No. No one else wanted to get up that early.”
Rick stood up. “Folks, if anything comes to mind—anything—call me or Deputy Cooper.”
“Are we in danger?” Mrs. Hallahan asked sensibly.
“If Sean is telling the truth—no.”
33
Later that evening Sean walked into the garage to use the telephone. His father had phones in the bathrooms, bedrooms, kitchen, and in his car. Sean felt the garage was the most private place; no one would walk in on him.
He dialed and waited. “Hello.”
“What do you want?”
“I don't appreciate you not talking to me at school. That's a crock of shit.”
Jody seethed on the other end of her private line. “That's not why I'm ignoring you.”
“Oh?” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“I'm ignoring you because you've got a crush on Karen Jensen. I was just convenient this summer, wasn't I?”
A pause followed this astute accusation. “You said we were friends, Jody. You said—”
“I know what I said, but I hardly expected us to go back to school and you try to jump Karen's bones. Jeez.”
“I am not trying to jump her bones.”
“You certainly jumped mine. I can't believe I was that stupid.”
“Stupid? You wanted to do it as much as I did.”
“Because I liked you.”
“Well, I liked you, too, but we were friends. It wasn't a”—he thought for a neutral word—“like a hot romance. Friends.”
“Friends don't sleep with each other's best friends . . . and besides, you wouldn't be the first.”
“First what?”
“First guy to sleep with Karen. She tells me everything.”
“Who did she sleep with?” Tension and a note of misery edged his voice.
“That's for me to know and for you to find out,” she taunted. “I'm never letting you touch me again.” As an afterthought she added, “And you can't drive my BMW either!”
“Do your parents know about the car?” he asked wearily, his brain racing for ways to get the information about Karen from Jody.
“No.”
“Jody, if you had wanted . . . m
ore, I wish you'd told me then, not now. And if you don't speak to me at school, people will think it's because of the obit.”
“All you think about is yourself. What about me?”
“I like you.” He wasn't convincing.
“I'm convenient.”
“Jody, we have fun together. This summer was—great.”
“But you've got the hots for Karen.”
“I wouldn't put it like that.”
“You'd better forget all about Karen. First of all, she knows you've slept with me. She's not going to believe a word you say. And furthermore, I can make life really miserable for you if I feel like it. I'll tell everyone you gave me my black eye.”
“Jody, I never told anyone I slept with you. Why would you tell?” He ignored the black-eye threat. Jody had told him her father gave her the black eye.
“Because I felt like it.” Exasperated, she hung up the phone, leaving a dejected Sean shivering in the garage.
34
Larry Johnson removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose where they pinched it. He replaced them, glanced over Jody Miller's file, and then left his office, joining her in an examining room.
“How are you?”
“I'm okay, I think.” She sat on the examining table when he motioned for her to do so.
“You were just here in August for your school physical.”
“I know. I think it's stupid that I have to have a physical before every season. Coach Hallvard insists on it.”
“Every coach insists on it.” He smiled. “Now what seems to be the problem?”
“Well”—Jody swallowed hard—“I, uh, I've missed my period for two months in a row.”
“I see.” He touched his stethoscope. “Have you been eating properly?”
“Uh—I guess.”
“The reason I ask that is often female athletes, especially the ones in endurance sports, put the body under such stress that they go without their period for a time. It's the body's way of protecting itself because they couldn't bring a baby to term. Nature is wise.”
“Oh.” She smiled reflexively. “I don't think field hockey is one of those sports.”
“Next question.” He paused. “Have you had sexual relations?”
“Yes—but I'm not telling.”
“I'm not asking.” He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “But there are a few things I need to know. You're seventeen. Have you discussed this with your parents?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“I see.”
“I don't talk to them. I don't want to talk to them.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
“Let's start over, Jody. Did you use any form of birth control?”
“No.”
“Well, then”—he exhaled—“let's get going.”
He took blood for a pregnancy test, at the same time pulling a vial of blood to be tested for infectious diseases. He declined to inform Jody of this. If something turned up, he'd tell her then.
“I hate that.” She turned away as the needle was pulled from her arm.
“I do, too.” He held the small cotton ball on her arm. “Did your mother ever talk to you about birth control?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
She shrugged. “Dr. Johnson, it's not as easy as she made it sound.”
“Perhaps not. The truth is, Jody, we don't really understand human sexuality, but we do know that when those hormones start flowing through your body, a fair amount of irrationality seems to flow with them. And sometimes we turn to people for comfort during difficult times, and sex becomes part of the comfort.” He smiled. “Come back on Friday.” He glanced at his calendar. “Umm, make it Monday.”
“All right.” She paled. “You won't tell anyone, will you?”
“No. Will you?”
She shook her head no.
“Jody, if you can't talk to your mother, you ought to talk to another older woman. Whether you're pregnant or not, you might be surprised to learn that you aren't alone. Other people have felt what you're feeling.”
“I'm not feeling much.”
He patted her on the back. “Okay, then. Call me Monday.”
She mischievously winked as she left the examining room.
35
Not wishing to appear pushy, Sandy Brashiers transferred his office to the one next to Roscoe Fletcher's but made no move to occupy the late headmaster's sacred space.
April Shively stayed just this side of rude. If Naomi asked her to perform a chore, retrieve information, or screen calls, April complied. She and Naomi had a cordial, if not warm, relationship. If Sandy asked, she found a variety of ways to drag her heels.
Although the jolt of Roscoe's death affected her every minute of the day, Naomi Fletcher resumed her duties as head of the lower school. She needed the work to keep her mind from constantly returning to the shock, and the lower school needed her guidance during this difficult time.
During lunch hour, Sandy walked to Naomi's office, then both of them walked across the quad to the upper-school administration building—Old Main.
“Becoming the leader is easier than being the teacher, isn't it?” Naomi asked him.
“I guess for these last seven years I've been the loyal opposition.” He tightened the school scarf around his neck. “I'm finding out that no matter what decision I make there's someone to ‘yes' me, someone to ‘no' me, and everyone to second-guess me. It's curious to realize how people want to have their own way without doing the work.”
She smiled. “Monday morning quarterbacks. Roscoe used to say that they never had to take the hits.” She wiggled her fingers in her fur-lined gloves. “He wasn't your favorite person, Sandy, but he was an effective headmaster.”
“Yes. My major disagreement with Roscoe was not over daily operations. You know I respected his administrative skills. My view of St. Elizabeth's curriculum was one hundred eighty degrees from his, though. We must emphasize the basics. Take, for instance, his computer drive. Great. We've got every kid in this school computer literate. So?” He threw up his hands. “They stare into a lighted screen. Knowing how to use the technology is useless if you have nothing to say, and the only way you can have something to say is by studying the great texts of our culture. The computer can't read and comprehend The Federalist Papers for them.”
“Teaching people to think is an ancient struggle,” she said. “That's why I love working in the lower school . . . they're so young . . . their minds are open. They soak up everything.”
He opened the door for her. They stepped into the administration building, which also had some classrooms on the first floor. A blast of warm radiator heat welcomed them.
They climbed the wide stairs to the second floor, entering Roscoe's office from the direction that did not require them to pass April's office.
She was on her hands and knees putting videotapes into a cardboard box. The tapes had lined a bottom shelf of the bookcase.
“April, I can do that,” Naomi said.
Not rising, April replied, “These are McKinchie's. I thought I'd return them to him this afternoon.” She held up a tape of Red River. “He lent us his library for film history week.”
“Yes, he did, and I forgot all about it.” Naomi noticed the girls of the field hockey team leaving the cafeteria together. Karen Jensen, in the lead, was tossing an apple to Brooks Tucker.
“April, I'll be moving into this office next week. I can't conduct meetings in that small temporary office. Will you call Design Interiors for me? I'd like them to come out here.” Sandy's voice was clear.
“What's wrong with keeping things just as they are? It will save money.” She dropped more tapes into the box, avoiding eye contact.
“I need this office to be comfortable—”
“This is comfortable,” she interrupted.
“—for me,” he continued.
“Well, you might not be appointed permanent headmast
er. The board will conduct a search. Why spend money?”
“April, that won't happen before this school year is finished.” Naomi stepped in, kind but firm. “Sandy needs our support in order to do the best job he can for St. Elizabeth's. Working in Roscoe's shadow”—she indicated the room, the paintings—“isn't the way to do that.”
April scrambled to her feet. “Why are you helping him? He dogged Roscoe every step of the way!”
Naomi held up her hands, still gloved, in a gesture of peace. “April, Sandy raised issues inside our circle that allowed us to prepare for hard questions from the board. He wasn't my husband's best friend, but he has always had the good of St. Elizabeth's at heart.”
April clamped her lips shut. “I don't want to do it, but I'll do it for you.” She picked up the carton and walked by Sandy, closing the door behind her.
He exhaled, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Naomi, I don't ask that April be fired. She's given long years of service, but there's absolutely no way I can work with her or her with me. I need to find my own secretary—and that will bump up the budget.”
She finally took off her gloves to sit on the edge of Roscoe's massive desk. “We'll have to fire her, Sandy. She'll foment rebellion from wherever she sits.”
“Maybe McKinchie could use her. He has enough money, and she'd be happy in his little home office.”
“She won't be happy anywhere.” Naomi hated this whole subject. “She was so in love with Roscoe—I used to tease him about it. No one will ever measure up to him in her eyes. You know, I believe if he had asked her to walk to hell and back, she would have.” She smiled ruefully. “Of course, she didn't have to live with him.”
“Well, I won't ask her to walk that far, but I guess you're right. She'll have to go.”
“Let's talk to Marilyn Sanburne first. Perhaps she'll have an idea—or Mim.”
“Good God, Mim will run St. Elizabeth's if you let her.”
“The world.” Naomi swung her legs to and fro. “St. Elizabeth's is too small a stage for Mim the Magnificent.”
April opened the door. “I know you two are talking about me.”
“At this precise moment we were talking about Mim.”
Murder on the Prowl Page 13