Must Be Murder

by Jen Carter

Of course, this does little to assuage the loss felt by the one person who mattered most this weekend: the soon-to-be bride, now motherless.

  “She’s gone,” Angelia Jennings said as tears streamed down her face. “She’s gone.”

  Maybe, after this, OV will be next.

  This coming weekend is OV’s annual crush festival. Will you be there? Will you support a community trying to sweep its dirty little secrets under the rug?

  I will not.

  I dropped my phone in my lap and stared at the street. Must be murder? Was that her attempt at a clever play on words? The woman seemed to have an axe to grind against Otto Viti. Maybe I was just sensitive since OV was my family’s livelihood, but Lucy Argyle’s distain for OV seemed to be a bigger deal to her than Marlo’s death.

  Why? Why attack all of OV when so few of its businesses were involved with last weekend’s bachelor-bachelorette party festivities? Why not focus on Marlo and finding her killer?

  Okay, I could see why Stella was upset. This was a pretty ugly article.

  I got up and trudged toward my apartment. It was time for a shower, breakfast, and more Antigone. Just as I reached the door, two texts came in, one right after the next.

  The memorial service is at 213 Bow Street. Starts at 1pm on Friday. Very short service. Reception to follow.

  That was from Shane. For a split second I considered putting his phone number back into my contacts list since we were communicating more lately, but then I dismissed the silly idea.

  Thanks, I typed back to him.

  The next message was from Amy.

  Call me when you have a chance.

  I let myself into the apartment and immediately placed the call.

  “Hey,” she said upon picking up. “Thanks for calling. There was too much to type in a text.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “So, yesterday when everyone left the coffee shop, Holly followed Will and Chris over to Checkmate—as you already know. Morrie was in the store with Artie when they got there, and she lectured all of them about minding their own business and leaving the investigation to Detective Fitts. Will and Chris didn’t know what was going on, so they just shrugged it off and left. They didn’t want to rile her up any more than she already was. But their curiosity was piqued, and as soon as they saw Holly cross the street and go into the winery, they went back to Checkmate. Artie and Morrie filled them in with the background, and of course they decided it was their mission to hack into the system and find evidence of Alex’s wrongdoing.”

  “And? Did they?”

  “Not at first, but you know how good they’ve gotten with computers over the last couple years. They’re like the tech department for all of OV. They went back late last night and spent a couple hours there—and they got it.”

  I let out a little gasp involuntarily. “What happened?”

  “They found all kinds of messages between Alex and Marlo. But different from what I expected. Remember at Deseo when we heard Marlo saying she wouldn’t give in to his demands? All the messages that Will and Chris found were more like Marlo was blackmailing him. Things like if you don’t stop having coffee with Angelia on the weekends, I’m going to tell everyone what you’re doing. I’m going to tell everyone your little secret. I’m going to ruin you and your business.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Chris printed them out. I’d take pictures and send them to you, but that’s probably not a good idea. I don’t want you to have them on your phone. I don’t really want them on my phone either, actually. When will you be back in OV?”

  My heart sank. I really had to get my classes prepped. Then the next three days were staff development at school, and then there was the memorial service after all that. Was Friday night really the soonest I’d be back in OV?

  I crossed into my apartment’s living room, and, with a glance at my computer where I needed to be working on lesson plans, plopped down on the couch.

  “I don’t know with school and all,” I said. “I wish I could be back there right now.”

  “Should I tell Artie that he needs to give the messages to the detective?”

  It pained me to think that Fitts could see those messages before me. Maybe I needed to drive back there right away to take a look.

  No, I was an adult. With responsibilities. I had to get ready for school. And this case didn’t involve me.

  Really, it didn’t.

  “Yeah, it probably would be a good idea to have Artie turn the information over to Fitts,” I said. “It could be useful. Maybe.”

  “I know it’s not the same as seeing them, but let me read some of the stuff to you. Oh, wait—I can’t right now. A customer just walked in. I’ll try to call you later.”

  We said goodbye, and I took a deep breath, slouching down further on my couch. It would have been nice to hear Amy read the messages over the phone, but she was right—it wasn’t the same as seeing them. I was a much more visual than auditory person and probably wouldn’t get much from the reading anyway. And so it was time to get on with the day: shower, breakfast, and Antigone.

  The unflattering newspaper article and Marlo’s demanding messages to Alex needed to be put out of my mind for the time being.

  SIXTEEN

  I sat in my school’s auditorium Wednesday morning, watching our new principal stride across the stage to address us, his new staff. He was tall and thin with neatly-combed brown hair and glasses—pretty much the opposite of our last principal who was short and chubby with unruly blond hair. Just seeing the new principal made me miss the old one. Jacob Anders had fostered a culture of trust and creativity among the staff, and I bet every one of us teachers was sad to find out that he had taken a job at the district office this year. He was a good guy, and whoever followed him had big shoes to fill.

  Our new principal grabbed the microphone from the stand and tapped it. It wasn’t on. The auditorium was pretty small, though, and a mic really wasn’t needed. He replaced it in the stand and stepped toward the front of the stage.

  “Test scores, test scores, test scores,” he said. “I am here to pull up your test scores.”

  No, hello, my name is Dr. Stevens. No, I’m looking forward to being Seaside’s new principal. No, nice to meet you.

  Just test scores.

  I found myself nodding as though I somehow agreed with him. Or, at least as though I understood what he was saying.

  He continued, “This school has potential, but there’s a lot of work to do if we want to harness that potential. Thus far, looking at the available data, everyone’s performance here has been unimpressive. We’re going to turn that around. In two minutes, we will break into departments. You will have thirty minutes to meet with your department chairs and develop a proposal for the biggest, most impactful change you can make this year to improve test scores. We will then reconvene as a full staff and share out the proposals. At that time, I will tell you the rest of my plan for the year.” He looked at his watch. “You have thirty minutes. Be back at 8:32. Go.”

  I stood and turned around, looking for our English department chair. Allie was a couple rows behind me and pointing toward the back auditorium door. I followed the line of teachers shuffling toward the exit, all of us uncharacteristically quiet—likely because we were stunned by Dr. Stevens’ welcome speech, if it could be called that.

  I found Allie outside with a group of English teachers. They were all whispering and looking over their shoulders. No one was smiling. After a few more teachers joined us, Allie led us toward the quad where there was more space and we could sit in a circle for a real discussion. I moved toward the front of the pack.

  “Hey Al, did you know he was going to do that?” I asked her.

  “Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “But we better come up with something good.”

  Behind us, I heard two ninth grade teachers muttering about test scores.

  I thought our scores were okay, one said.

  They are, said the other. T
hey aren’t the best, but they’re better than the California average. And they’ve gotten better since Anders came in.

  I didn’t turn around to join the conversation, but I waited to hear if anything else was added.

  Sounds like we need to brace ourselves for change.

  My stomach did a little flip.

  In the back of my mind, I knew that I needed to ask for a half day on Friday for the memorial service. Based on how Dr. Stevens started the day, I didn’t think he would take the request well.

  This was not how I envisioned the first ten minutes of the school year.

  ***

  Every department’s ideas were rejected. English, Math, Foreign Language, all of us. The Science Department had the nerve to get up and say they were doing everything right and didn’t need to change anything, and that too was rejected.

  I didn’t mind being told that I was wrong or that someone else had a better idea than me. That’s part of growth. Holly and Stella had been telling me I was wrong for years. But after Dr. Stevens shot down all our ideas, he gave us homework and then dismissed us to our classrooms for prep time without explaining his vision for the year as promised.

  And yes, I did say homework. By the end of Friday, we had to email him our teaching philosophies. Two-page minimum. I hadn’t looked at my teaching philosophy since I had written it for my credential program seven years before, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t two pages. Who needed two pages? I could sum up my philosophy for teaching English in four words. Love kids. Love stories.

  None of this made me feel more confident about requesting Friday afternoon off.

  At 3:30 when our day was technically over, I left my classroom and ventured to the front office. The expansive room dotted by desks for the registrar and administrative assistants was empty. One door was open at the back of the room—the door leading to the principal’s office.

  With growing dread, I walked slowly through the front office to the opened door and knocked on it. Dr. Stevens was standing behind his desk, looking down at some papers. His hands were clamped on his hips, and his sleeves were rolled up.

  “Yes?” he said without looking up.

  “Dr. Stevens?” I stepped into the office. “My name is Jill D’Angelo. I’m teaching English 11 and English 12. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “How can I help you?” His eyes were still glued to the papers on his desk.

  “On Friday afternoon I need to attend a memorial service. I was wondering if I could take a half day. Or maybe I could come in a couple hours early. I’m ready to go for the units we’re starting next week, and my classroom is all set up. I think I’m in pretty good shape so far.”

  Dr. Stevens looked up. He stared at me. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He dropped his head and flipped over a piece of paper. “What was your relationship to the deceased?”

  Ooh. I hadn’t expected that question. And I wasn’t sure how to give an uncomplicated answer off the top of my head.

  “My friend’s mother died in an accident Saturday night.”

  Angelia wasn’t really my friend, but it just seemed easier to go with friend than ex-fiancé’s new fiancée.

  Stevens nodded. “A half day is fine. Please report it as you normally would.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Halfway to the door, I heard his voice.

  “D’Angelo, you said?”

  I turned. “Yes.”

  “Any relation to the D’Angelo winery?”

  “Yes. It’s my family’s. My grandfather’s.”

  He glanced at me and then dropped his eyes again.

  “I live in Temecula. I saw your family in the Temecula Sunrise Newspaper yesterday.”

  Inwardly, I cringed.

  “I’m not sure that article offered a complete or accurate description of what happened—or why,” I said.

  He flipped another page on his desk without responding.

  “Have a good evening,” I said. I left the office and power walked toward the front of the building. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  This year was starting out a little rough.

  And I was frustrated. Maybe it was because our new principal shook us up the first day back to work. Or because he had read the Temecula Sunrise article about my family’s business. Maybe it was because I wanted to be back in OV checking things out—like those messages between Marlo and Alex. Or because I just wanted the person responsible for Marlo’s death to be caught.

  I needed to get answers faster. I should have been more straightforward when talking to the Berkes and simply told them I found the hair clip. I should have been more direct with Alex and asked him where he was on Saturday night. I wasn’t getting anywhere trying to be sly.

  Ugh.

  I walked to my car and sat in the driver’s seat. From my car’s center console I pulled out my purse and fished through it for Detective Fitts’ card. I punched his number into my phone.

  “Detective Fitts,” he answered.

  “Hi Detective, this is Jill D’Angelo. I just wanted to follow up with you about a couple things related to Marlo Jennings’ death.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did Livy Green tell you about the Berke sisters buying sleep aids before the accident on Saturday?”

  “She did.”

  “And did Amy Chase share with you the messages on Checkmate’s computer between Alex Benson and Marlo?”

  “She did.”

  “Oh. Good.” I was right on the edge of telling him about the hair clip in the wine, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew he’d yell at me for meddling, and I already had a crummy day at work. Maybe I’d mention it right at the end of the conversation. I needed another minute to work up to it.

  Impulsively, I blurted out “Does Alex have an alibi for that night? Or the Berkes? Do you think they could have snuck out of the inn without anyone knowing?”

  “Miss D’Angelo, please—”

  “What about Janelle Hentz? Angelia thinks that Janelle could have done it. Is there any way to tell if Janelle really stayed at the inn after she was dropped off?”

  “Miss D’Angelo, this—”

  “Can you please just tell me if Alex has an alibi? I can go ask him myself, but—”

  “Hey Jill?” he said, his voice suddenly sounding tired. “Can you let it go? Just let me do my job? Please.”

  Of course I couldn’t let it go. But he wasn’t going to tell me anything, and as frustrated as I was, I could understand why. This was his job. Not mine. And people like me just got in his way.

  “Detective, I really appreciate all that you do. Thank you for working hard on this.”

  He hung up. Telling him about the hair clip would have to wait.

  I thought about my next move.

  SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, school was a little more like what I expected. A speaker from the district office came to remind us of our goals and mission statement, there was a session on fostering growth mindsets in students, and then of course we had to talk about cross-curricular instruction.

  None of this was new to us. But I much preferred hearing the same old speeches to yesterday’s beat-down.

  Then came the big, fat teacher handbook after lunch.

  “Read it,” Dr. Stevens said as he handed the last person in each row a stack of handbooks to pass down. “It should take about an hour. Once you’ve read it, you are dismissed to your classrooms for prep time.”

  I didn’t dare glance at the history teacher sitting next to me, but surely I wasn’t the only one thinking, Sit and read the handbook now? Don’t we have more important things to do?

  But no one said a word. We all took a handbook and read.

  I wondered if we were going to be quizzed before being allowed to go. I didn’t want to ask.

  Not surprisingly, reading a handbook is quite boring. I knew most of the stuff already, and the information I didn’t know was due to its technical or legal nature—the kind of stuff that
puts most people to sleep before it sinks in.

  But then came the section on school property.

  Yes, school property.

  I perked up. Suddenly, the pen I always held while reading had a job to do. I underlined phrases in my handbook. Surplus furniture. . .must go to auction if undamaged. . .cannot be given away. . .gifts of public funds. . .illegal.

  Alex and his chess tables.

  He was using school property to build the chess tables. It was illegal for teachers or staff to take school property, even surplus, without it going to auction. Since taxpayers paid for that property in the first place, taking it was seen as a gift of public funds. When I mentioned the tables to him on Monday, his eyes got as wide as saucers. I thought he was worried about competition from other schools doing the same, but maybe he was taking the desks illegally and was worried about being caught.

  And maybe that was why Marlo was sending him threatening messages. Maybe she knew he was doing something illegal.

  Sure, this was a long shot, but it made sense, didn’t it? What if he was stealing desks, and she knew about it? She could have been blackmailing him, and he could have wanted to shut her up. When she showed up in OV for the bachelorette party—the place where he actually sold the tables—maybe he got extra nervous. They had that weird fight on the phone where Marlo twisted the truth to make herself sound like a victim, and maybe that put him over the edge.

  It totally made sense to me.

  I turned the page of the handbook as though I was actually reading it, but my mind was far, far away. Who could I talk to about this theory? Would Angelia know? Could Fitts figure this out on his own? The whole theory stemmed from school property laws. What did he know about that? And would he listen to my theory if I told him? Yesterday he asked me nicely to let him do his job. I needed to be certain if I was going to bug him again.

  I looked around and saw Dr. Stevens on the auditorium stage, staring at some papers on a table in exactly the same pose he adopted yesterday when I asked him about the half day. His hands were on his hips, and his sleeves were rolled up.

  I leaned forward and, feeling like a tenth grader in the back of a classroom, sneakily texted Shane while my phone was still in my purse.