“We need to put Boots on a diet,” she said.
“Don’t body shame him. Besides, it’s just because his legs are so short that it makes his belly look big.” I stroked the backs of his long, floppy ears, which he loved and showed me by licking my chin.
“You do realize that with Mason gone, Dare inherits the Chalmerses’s fortune,” Mom said. “All of it.”
It was a weak reason because it had always been true. Unless something dramatic happened between the brothers to trigger some sort of fallout, I didn’t see it as a motive. I told my mother as much. Then I pulled out the plastic baggie of pills and tossed them on the desk.
“What are those?” she asked.
I wanted the surveillance tapes, but I knew she wouldn’t hand those over easily. Confidentiality, blah, blah, blah. That didn’t mean I had to walk away with nothing.
“What was the murder weapon?”
“Where’d you get those pills, Charlie?”
“The murder weapon?”
She sighed with exasperation. It was lucky I was her only child because if not, I doubted I’d be her favorite.
“It was a flat-headed shovel. It was in the back of Mason’s truck. It’d been scrubbed clean, but the handle was wood and absorbed some of Mason’s blood, as did a pair of gardening gloves, which we assume were Mason’s. There’d been some sort of tree planting with the Environmental Service Club the weekend before.”
“It’s Program. Environmental Service Program.” And since when did Mason Chalmers hang out with do-good environmentalists? “What did the gloves look like?”
“They were green rubber-tipped.”
“Any pattern on them?”
My mother pulled up a file and tilted it her way so only she could see it. “The pattern appears to be….” She squinted. “Pink peonies. Maybe carnations.”
“I can’t imagine Mason Chalmers picking out a pair of gardening gloves with that pattern.”
“Maybe he’d borrowed them for the planting and forgot to return them?”
“Maybe. Any other DNA?”
“None that we’ve found so far. Now, how about the pills?”
“You find the body?”
She raised her eyebrows. I took that as a no.
“Dare found them in Mason’s bedroom,” I told her.
“We searched Mason’s bedroom top to bottom.”
“Not well enough, it would seem.”
She tilted her head and studied me. I was deliberately provoking her to get her to reveal more, but this was a tactic she’d taught me, so of course she turned it around.
“Or Dare planted them,” she said.
I nodded begrudgingly. She had a point, and I had no proof otherwise. “It just doesn’t make sense, though.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“This had to be the luckiest murderer in the history of criminal activity to have a murder weapon, a stranded victim, and a lake nearby to dump the body. You find any footprints?”
She shook her head. “How do you know Mason was stranded?”
“The front tire. Mason was going to meet someone Friday night. Daniela overheard him making plans, and they fought about it. Somewhere along the way, he got a flat.” Because Daniela slashed his tires, I’d only recently discovered. I figured my mom already knew that as well since she’d seen the footage of the school parking lot. “So either the killer was following him the whole time, or he just got really lucky. And why are there no other tire marks on the trail? Where did the other vehicle come from?” I needed to see that footage.
Mom rose slowly and stretched her arms. She quirked her neck to crack her back, which always gave me an ill feeling, like if she cracked it too hard her head might fall off. Then I thought of Mason’s decapitated head and the nausea intensified.
“I blame myself for this obsession of yours,” Mom said. “I’m afraid I’ve only fed your investigative nature over the years.”
“Yeah, and also, I’m good at it.” It sounded to me like she was taking all the credit.
She smiled. “Yes, Charlie, you are good at it, but I don’t know what I have to do to convey to you how dangerous this is. If Dare is the killer, then you’re exposing all of our evidence to him, and if he’s not, then you’re potentially putting his and your life in danger by asking these questions. What if you’ve tipped off the killer already? These private eye shenanigans have got to stop.”
I swear she knew just what to say to get under my skin. “Private eye shenanigans? Really, Mom? It never stopped us before. It’s a little late to pull the Mom card now.”
“Firstly, it’s never too late to pull the Mom card, and secondly, I pull it so infrequently that I’m a little surprised you’re not taking me more seriously.”
“I’m practically an adult, legally, and this is what we do. You don’t need to sugarcoat it for me, and if you really wanted us to be successful and solve this case, you’d share what you know instead of playing spy vs. spy. The only reason for it that I can guess is you’ve hit a dead end.”
Her mouth fell open. She didn’t like that at all. I felt a little bad for the dig, but this was my best shot at getting information from her. I knew it was killing her not to prove me wrong.
“But I could help you,” I insisted. “I just need to see the surveillance tapes from the high school parking lot to—”
“This discussion is over, young man,” she snapped, cutting me off. “And, I’ve changed all my passwords just in case you thought you’d get in the backend.”
I frowned. I should have had this discussion after I’d accessed the files. Grrr. I hated it when she won a battle of wits.
“And another thing,” she said as I turned to go. “I spoke with Principal Thornton today, and she’s been made aware that the school is not to hand over any information about the case unless it’s to me directly.”
I turned back long enough to see the beginnings of a triumphant smile on her face.
“What are you going to do next, ground me?” I asked petulantly.
Mom crossed her arms. “There’s a first time for everything, Charles Scott Schiffer. Stay away from Dare Chalmers, or I swear, I will ground you.”
I grumbled. Having a mom who’s also a cop could be a real pain in the rear sometimes.
I HADN’T had a class with Ms. Sparrow since AP Environmental Science my sophomore year. Her lectures were engaging and informative and led me to the singular conclusion—we humans were doomed.
Like the fire-and-brimstone sermons of some preachers, Ms. Sparrow had a similar approach when it came to teaching climate change and mass extinction. Still, she hadn’t given up all hope for our species. She talked a lot in class about how to decrease our carbon footprint and encouraged us all to eat less meat and bike or walk to school whenever we could.
But Ms. Sparrow’s most ardent cause, and the one she crusaded relentlessly outside of the classroom, was to Save Our Springs by putting pressure on local landowners to terminate their contracts with Nestlé in order to relieve the springs of chronic overpumping. Ms. Sparrow had a long-standing feud with the Chalmerses over who owned the aquifer that fed Sweetwater Springs. The Chalmerses maintained that as landowners, the spring and everything contained within belonged to them. Ms. Sparrow contended the waters belonged to the citizens of Florida, who deserved clean, unpolluted water bodies. A few charges had been leveled against the Chalmerses, but the environmentalists’ lawsuit money always dried up, excuse the pun.
To discover Mason helping his family’s archnemesis with a tree planting was alarming, to say the least. The only conclusion I could draw was that Mason was working off some debt he owed to Ms. Sparrow. I had to wonder if that was what the fight between her and Mason was about.
During my lunch hour, I headed for Ms. Sparrow’s classroom, where she was holding an Environmental Service Program meeting. I slipped inside and took a seat in the back. They were discussing logistics for a cleanup they were hosting that weekend at Rainbow Springs. Ms
. Sparrow paused what she was saying to ask, “Thinking of joining ESP, Charlie?”
“I was actually hoping to talk to you after the meeting, Ms. Sparrow.”
I didn’t mention Mason or even hint at the investigation, but still she had a look of unease about her. And sorrow too. All the teachers appeared to be trying to put on a brave face for us students, and underneath Ms. Sparrow’s forced cheer, I detected a similar sadness.
After everyone was dismissed, I approached Ms. Sparrow’s desk. I didn’t know how to justify the questions I had for her, so I decided to try honesty.
“I’m investigating the murder of Mason Chalmers,” I told her. “I have a couple of questions for you.”
Ms. Sparrow studied me with a calculating look, which made me think she had something to hide. “Shouldn’t you leave the detective work to the authorities?” she asked with more than a little condescension.
I ignored the implication that I was out of my league. It was a classic gambit adults pulled, using their position of authority to avoid answering tough questions. “I didn’t realize Mason Chalmers was a budding environmentalist,” I said.
“There’s no litmus test for caring about the environment, Charlie.”
“He participated in ESP’s tree planting last weekend?”
“Yes, I offered it to all of my classes as extra credit.”
I glanced down at the stack of papers on her desk: student essays on springs degradation. I recognized the topic from the marked-up essay I saw in Mason’s room, bleeding with corrections from her red pen. I never would have guessed Mason to choose an AP elective over something like weightlifting or shop.
“Did Mason need the extra credit?”
“Not really. He was doing quite well in my class.”
“And at the tree planting, did he use your gloves?”
“Maybe. I keep several pairs on hand for those types of events.”
That was true. I’d once attended a similar ESP activity, and Ms. Sparrow offered her gloves and yard tools readily. And she didn’t keep inventory like Coach Gundry. It was possible the shovel belonged to her too. “What were you and Mason arguing about last week?”
She took her time reordering the papers on her desk into two tidy stacks. Stalling for an answer, I presumed.
“Was he upset about a grade you’d given him?” I prompted.
She huffed audibly. “We were having an academic discussion about the essay I’d assigned. Mason refused to acknowledge the overgrowth of algae in the springs as the result of reduced flows from overpumping. He blamed, among other things—” At this she shook her head so her brunette bob bounced a little. “—manatees deciding to go on a diet.”
“Was he serious?” Mason was no idiot. Maybe it was his way of jabbing at her for all her campaigning against his family over the years.
She tilted her head and gave a wry smile that seemed touched with true affection. “I don’t think so. He knew the initial draft wasn’t for a grade and that I’d have to comment on it for revision. He was always saying things like that in class to get me excited.”
Her eyes pooled with tears, and she grabbed for a tissue. There was already a pile of crumpled ones on her desk, and her nose was red and swollen. I took another look at Ms. Sparrow through the eyes of a male heterosexual high school teenager. She was pretty young, and there were times in class when she could even be funny with a biting, sarcastic kind of humor. A lot of guys joked about taking her class because they were “hot for teacher,” though most of them regretted it when they realized it was no easy A. I wondered if Mason might have felt similarly.
“What kind of student was Mason?” I asked, a little gentler now, since she was clearly upset.
“Exasperating.” She smiled again, a private little grin. “He was so contrary, and he loved a good debate, even if his points were ridiculous. You know, he actually started looking for false narratives about climate and the environment so he could present them to me in class?”
“Sounds like he went the extra mile.” Obviously Mason was getting something out of their exchange as well. Was it only in the spirit of healthy debate, or was this Mason’s way of flirting with Ms. Sparrow?
“He really did.” She got quiet then, almost wistful. I studied her as she reflected on some fond memory they’d shared. I never would have expected Mason Chalmers to be a teachers’ pet, but then, with his charms and good looks, I probably shouldn’t be too surprised.
Ms. Sparrow glanced up as though just remembering I was there. She blew her nose and nodded. “The bell’s about to ring, and I don’t give late passes freely.”
“One more question.” I wanted to eliminate Ms. Sparrow as a suspect entirely and so I had to ask, “Where were you Friday night between 7:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m.?”
She looked at me as though I’d slapped her. Her fingers fiddled with the pendant around her neck, some item from the natural world preserved in resin. “That’s really none of your business, Charlie,” she said indignantly.
“I know it isn’t, Ms. Sparrow, but I’d really like to write you off as a suspect, and if you have an alibi, it makes it so much easier.”
“A suspect?” Her features turned stony and the warmth in her eyes receded. Her posture became stiffer, and her words were cool and unaffected when she said, “Like I said before, you should leave the detective work to the professionals.” She raised a finger and pointed to the door. Her intent was clear. She wanted me to leave.
As I threaded through throngs of people in the hallway, searching for Tameka, I suddenly didn’t believe Ms. Sparrow was completely innocent. Perhaps it was rude of me to ask, but I’d told her why I was there. Her defensive reaction seemed altogether… guilty.
I found Tameka in a cluster of cheerleaders. I held my breath and entered the gaggle of high ponytails and short skirts as one wades through a den of vipers.
“Tameka?”
She caught my eye and nodded, told the others she had to copy my homework before class, and walked off with me.
“Like my cover?” she asked conspiratorially.
“I like the effort, but we don’t share any classes, so what homework would you be copying?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s why you’re the detective, Dick. So, what’s the 411?”
I told Tameka about my interaction with Ms. Sparrow. To which she replied, “Is that the teacher whose classroom smells like dirty hippies?”
“Patchouli oil,” I told her, though I couldn’t argue with her assessment. “You’re friends with the jocks. Can you see if there are any rumors circulating about Mason having a crush on Ms. Sparrow?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You think she’s the other woman?”
“I wouldn’t want to start that rumor, but I think she’s lying about something. There’s something else too.” I texted her a list of all the people involved so far in this investigation. “I need you to scour the social media accounts of these people for anything negative having to do with Mason—in particular, anything that sounds like revenge for pranks Mason or Dare might have pulled in the past. We’re looking for motive.”
Tameka scanned the names. Dare’s was one of them. “That’s a pretty long list. Why can’t you do it? Oh, that’s right, you have no friends.”
She actually sounded like she felt bad for me, which made it worse. My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket. Dare Chalmers. I stopped walking to answer it. I expected Tameka to continue on, but instead she ducked into the alcove with me to listen to our conversation. She was an expert at eavesdropping.
“Charlie,” Dare said. “Mason’s funeral is tomorrow. You coming?”
I thought he’d be calling me for an update on the case. “Yeah, Dare. Of course I’ll be there.”
“Good. That’s good.” There was a long pause and then, “That’s what I was hoping… that you’d be there. I’m sorry to disturb you. I know you’re at school.”
“Don’t worry about it. You want me to call you later?”
We said goodbye, and Tameka’s raised eyebrow suggested at a scandal. “We’re friends,” I said defensively.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, unconvinced. “Sounds like you’re mixing business with pleasure, Dick.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
“Whatever you say, player. Just remember, the boy is in a world of hurt, so don’t go messing with his emotions.”
“I wouldn’t,” I protested.
Dare and I had a strictly business arrangement. Of course, I’d offered him my shoulder to lean on, but there was nothing romantic or starry-eyed about it. I was about to explain that to Tameka when she held up her hand and said, “Save it.”
I may have succeeded in fooling myself, but I wasn’t fooling her.
Chapter 10
THE LAST time I went to a funeral was five years ago for my father’s burial. This time I stood in front of the mirror wearing one of his old suits. Black coat, black slacks, and a black silk tie. Did Dad ever imagine me one day reaching his height and weight? Could he have known my shoulders would span the same exact width? Did he ever wish to see that day?
Sometimes I went through my father’s things and pulled out an old T-shirt or flannel. It always surprised my mom to see me wearing his clothing, but it was one of the ways I felt close to him without being bitter.
“You look nice, Charlie,” Mom said when I joined her in the kitchen.
Mom wore her standard black pantsuit with a lavender shirt underneath and pearls. The color of her shirt complemented her green eyes. “You too, Mom.” On her hip were her badge and gun as well. I supposed this was more than just a social call for her.
I wasn’t sure if I was attending as Dare’s friend or private investigator. Both, I supposed.
Our car ride to the Methodist church where the visitation was being held was quiet. Mom tried to engage me on the topic of school, how my grades were, how my senior portfolio for IB was coming along, and whether I’d finished the essay for my UF application, but after a few one-word answers, she got the hint and gave up. Memories of my father’s death hovered around us like a fog. I knew Mom would talk to me about it if I brought it up, but I was already feeling a little raw. I wanted to be strong for Dare and focus on honoring Mason, not feeling sorry about my own loss.
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