by Carolyn Hart
The bedroom was small but cheerful: bright yellow chintz on a love seat, a painted pine bed with a soft white chenille spread, old golden wood floors with a patchwork throw rug of red and blue and orange, more bookcases and, in a window alcove, a small white desk. The night lamp on the bedside table glowed, the covers were flung back. “Look, Billy, she’d gone to bed.” Henny pointed at the lamp. “It’s on. Kay must have heard the bell ring and gone to answer the door.”
Billy’s big face was somber. “That’s what the chief thinks, too. It figures from where she was found. It looks like she opened the front door and pow! somebody shot her. Except for those flyers tossed around the hall, nothing seemed to be out of place.”
Those damn flyers…Henny skirted the narrow bed, reached the white desk. “It looks like Emma’s right.” An annoying habit of Emma’s, but sometimes useful. “Those have to be journals, Billy.” Henny pointed at the small books with floral covers.
Emma Clyde gave a bark of laughter, a cross between the guttural cry of a sea lion and the creak of a dungeon door. “Max, is that a delicate way of inquiring whether I was gunning down my old friend last night?”
Max blinked at the speakerphone. “Your old friend?”
“Oh yes.” Emma’s tone was pleasant. “I liked Kay. I suppose I sounded a little snappish at your office today. She did seem a natural to have done the flyers. But I gave it some thought and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve urged our young police chief to see if Kay kept a journal. Serious people so often do, you know.”
Max fought down the desire to ask Emma if she kept a journal.
“No,” came the crisp declarative, answering the unasked question. And another bark. “But about midnight at my house…” There was sheer delight in her voice. “My dear, I do have an alibi. Actually, I’ll have to use this in a book someday. I was working—I’ve got to get this damn book done—and I finished for the night at just past twelve and, of course, I saved the chapter. You will be pleased to know—or perhaps not, if you’ve cast me as chief villain—that the time the chapter was saved is quite clear in my file index. Twelve-oh-four A.M. You can come over and look if you like. I started a new chapter this morning, so that file hasn’t been touched. I’ll definitely use that in a book one of these days. And if that’s all, my dear Max, I must get back to work.” The connection ended.
Max crossed through Emma’s name. Only two names left. Diane Littlefield and Frank Saulter. Yes, it was possible that one of them was guilty. Even now, if he was persisting in this line of inquiry, Pete Garrett must be closing in on these names. Max had an empty feeling. The flyers—what had Emma muttered when they first discovered them? Smoke screen? Yes, that was it. Smoke screen. Somewhere, hidden in swirling mists of subterfuge, had a clever murderer outfoxed them all?
Students filled the hallway, but it was uncannily quiet, the only sounds the shuffle of feet, an occasional soft comment. Annie reached the wide double doors to the gym just as outside doors across the wooden expanse opened. The stocky police chief, his khaki uniform crisp, strode through, followed by a uniformed policeman. From Annie’s point of view, it was unfortunate that the crowd in front of her thinned at that moment and Pete Garrett looked across the basketball floor directly at her. His frown was quick and intense.
Annie simply nodded, forced a smile and moved to her left, stopping beside the blue steps to the bleachers. Running footsteps sounded and Rachel arrived beside her, grabbing her arm. “Annie, you can sit with us.” Over her shoulder, Rachel announced, “This is my sister, Annie. Come on, everybody.”
Annie hesitated, then moved with a swarm of girls, looking around for Meredith Muir. But there were too many people, too many blondes, too many girls. Rachel led the group up the bleacher steps to a top section. Annie took the last seat next to the stairs. At the far end of the gym, Dr. Allensworth shook hands with Chief Garrett. The principal introduced Garrett to the counselors. George Wilson, his round face somber, leaned forward and spoke to Garrett. Mrs. Heaston tossed her head like a fractious horse, pointed at her watch. Dr. Allensworth nodded.
The assembly reminded Annie of her high school days: women teachers in summery print dresses; men in short-sleeve shirts and slacks; students of all backgrounds—black, white, Hispanic, a smattering of Asians—and every style of clothing from preppy to high fashion to grunge. The only difference from a usual high school assembly was the somber quiet that pervaded the gym.
Annie looked for familiar faces in the bleachers. One by one, she found Mrs. Nevis’s daily lunch companions. Lois Thompson was almost lost from sight among the bigger, taller students, but her erect carriage and gray suit made her noticeable. Her small dark face was thoughtful and attentive. Nita Harris moved impatiently, her eyes darting restlessly around the gym. She perched on the edge of a seat, as if ready to jump to her feet and race away the minute the assembly ended. Lean and muscular Jack Quinn hunched his shoulders and stared toward the podium, his face abstracted. Amy Mendoza’s slim fingers plucked at the neck of her silk tank top. Her lovely face was somber. Maureen Riley’s bright orange hair and vivid makeup emphasized the paleness of her face. Occasionally she lifted a shaking hand to her lips.
And there, finally, was Meredith Muir, a few rows below Mrs. Riley. Annie was relieved to see that Meredith was talking—and talking fast—to a girl…Oh, hey, Meredith’s companion was Diane Littlefield. The girls were deep in conversation, Meredith clutching Diane’s arm, bending close to listen. Both girls looked upset. Annie shifted on the hard seat. She wished she were near enough to hear. What were they talking about with such intensity? Maybe talking to Diane would help Meredith. Annie wished she’d spotted Meredith earlier, sat on that side of the gym. The girl was a long way away.
Abruptly, she turned to Rachel. “Rachel, are Meredith Muir and Diane Littlefield close friends?”
Rachel broke away from the girl next to her, peered across the gym floor. “Oh, sure. Big-time.” She held up two fingers pressed together. “I heard that Diane was over at Meredith’s last night and she’s really spooked to think Mrs. Nevis got killed right across the way. I mean, everybody’s just knocked out. And”—she hunched closer to Annie—“I’ve got the word out and everybody’s coming to the meeting after school and they think it’s a swell idea to plan tributes to Mrs. Nevis.” Suddenly she was very still. “Ohh.”
Her change of tone was so sudden, Annie looked at her sharply.
Rachel’s face softened. “Gee, look, Annie. Up there two rows behind Meredith and Diane. The guy in the blue Oxford shirt next to Mrs. Riley. That’s Ben. Doesn’t he look sad?”
Annie didn’t have any trouble picking out Ben Bradford, the senior who had invited Rachel to the prom, the boy who loved Meredith Muir, the editor of the school paper. He sat with his chin on his chest, arms folded, as he watched Meredith, the pain in his face easy to see.
Dr. Allensworth picked up the microphone. It gave a shrill beep. “Students and faculty, as I unhappily informed you earlier today, our own Mrs. Nevis was shot to death at her home last night. We have with us Police Chief Peter Garrett. We appreciate his taking time from the ongoing investigation to provide us with the facts of Mrs. Nevis’s death. Chief Garrett.” The principal handed the microphone to Pete.
The chief didn’t look much older than many of the students, his blond hair thick and unruly with a noticeable cowlick, his round face cherubic, but his youthful voice was quick and precise. “Mrs. Nevis’s body was discovered this morning by a friend, Mrs. Henrietta Brawley.”
There were stirs and murmurs. Henny often substituted at the high school.
“Mrs. Brawley immediately contacted us. Our investigation has revealed that Mrs. Nevis was shot to death. There is no evidence that the house was broken into. The position of the body near the open front door suggests that Mrs. Nevis admitted her assailant. Death is believed to have occurred between eleven P.M. and one A.M. Possible motives are under investigation, though no arrests have been made.”
A
nnie leaned forward. Would Garrett mention the flyers?
The chief gazed soberly around the gym. “If any faculty member or student has information about Mrs. Nevis or her murder, please contact me, come by our office or call our Crime Stoppers hot line.” He gave the hot-line number twice and returned the microphone to Dr. Allensworth.
Annie wondered whether the omission meant Garrett had changed his mind about Kay Nevis as the author of the flyers. It could equally well mean that the chief preferred not to reveal details about the crime scene. Whatever the reason, Annie was glad she could report to Henny that her good friend’s reputation had yet to be sullied. Of course, word would ultimately get out. But if they could discover the truth about the flyers soon enough, perhaps Kay Nevis would rest in peace.
Dr. Allensworth moved slowly to the podium. He poked the microphone into a holder. He surveyed the gym, rocked back and forth on his heels. “I would like for us to take a moment to remember Mrs. Nevis, the place she held in our world, our debt to her as a wonderful teacher and a good person.”
The kindness and sincerity in his voice rolled through the huge quiet gym like soothing balm. Annie heard the sounds of indrawn breaths, sighs and occasional sniffles.
Dr. Allensworth bowed his head, folded his thin dark hands together.
Up and down the bleachers, students and teachers followed his example, some with rigid faces, others uneasy, a few indifferent, most respectful. Annie’s gaze darted from face to face, faces she was beginning to know: the small dark teacher with the aura of dignity, the impatient blonde who didn’t do funerals, the angular track coach, the lovely Hispanic model, the blowsy art teacher, the stocky counselor. Tears slipped down Lois Thompson’s cheeks. Nita Harris moved restlessly. Jack Quinn rubbed his knuckles against his chin, slowly bowed his head. Amy Mendoza shivered. On the gym floor near the podium, George Wilson stared at the golden floor, head down, hands clasped behind his back. Maureen Riley clasped her hands, bowed her head.
In a moment, a long, sad, powerful moment, Allensworth cleared his throat. “Out of all sorrow, some goodness comes.” There was a marked cadence to his voice and Annie wondered if he’d grown up a preacher’s son. “I have been told that one of our students—Rachel Van Meer—has invited everyone to come together after school on the soccer field…”
There was a gasp from Rachel. Her fingers dug into Annie’s arm.
“…because Rachel wants to invite everyone who knew Mrs. Nevis to bring a written piece to school tomorrow. Rachel has volunteered to take these writings and put them into a scrapbook for Mrs. Nevis’s family. Rachel”—his dark face lifted, his eyes searched the gym—“I commend you.”
Two rows down a boy in an oversize football jersey twisted to shout, “Stand up, Rachel.”
“Here she is.” Christy yanked up Rachel’s arm, waggled it.
Rachel, her face burning, reluctantly came to her feet. She wavered unsteadily on the narrow metal walkway. “Yes. Please. Everybody come. Mrs. Nevis—well, we can do this for her. Thank you.” She sank down on the bench.
“Thank you, Rachel.” Dr. Allensworth folded his thin arms. “The service for Mrs. Nevis is scheduled at four P.M. Monday at Saint Mary’s by the Sea. Several members of the faculty have been asked to speak. It is always difficult to understand when our lives are disrupted by violence. Man is never reconciled to evil. I urge all of you—students and faculty—to take advantage of the caring and support we have here at school. Our counselors, Mrs. Heaston and Mr. Wilson, stand ready to speak with you—today, tomorrow, next week. Both counselors will be in their offices following this assembly. Thank you.”
Rachel jumped to her feet. “Annie, I’d better hurry out to the soccer field. Come on, Christy.” Rachel squeezed past Annie, thudded to the steps and ran down.
Across the gym floor, as the students began to file down the bleacher steps, Meredith Muir moved fast.
Annie moved fast, too, but she had to cross the gym. She’d lost sight of Meredith by the time she reached the outside doors. Annie shaded her eyes against the bright sun. Some students were gathering around Rachel and Christy on the soccer field. Car doors slammed in the parking lot, motors roared. Many of the younger students converged at the covered walkway, where buses waited. Of course, not all students would be personally acquainted with Kay Nevis.
Annie didn’t see Meredith Muir. She hesitated, glanced toward the soccer field. Rachel didn’t need her. She glanced toward the building, then shook her head. She wanted to talk to George Wilson. He was the only lunch-table occupant she’d not yet contacted, but this was not the time. He and Mrs. Heaston were waiting in their offices to help students. But definitely it was important to see Wilson. He was trained to listen and understand. Perhaps he might have picked up on some look, some word, some act from Kay Nevis that might reveal a problem at school. A problem with a teacher? Or a student? Perhaps tomorrow…
Annie started toward the parking lot. She was almost at her car when she saw Meredith Muir. Meredith stood by the open driver’s door of a bright blue Mustang. She glared up at Jack Quinn, shaking her head violently. She flung her purse and backpack into the car, jumped into the seat, slammed the door. The Mustang jolted back, narrowly missing a green pickup, gunned forward.
Dust swirled around the track coach. He stared after the Mustang, his sharp features grim. Then he shrugged, jammed his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Head down, he walked swiftly back toward the school.
Annie almost started after him. But Quinn’s attitude had been antagonistic when they spoke earlier. She didn’t expect he would be any more forthcoming if she tried again. Now she was intrigued. He’d followed Meredith Muir out of the assembly. Why?
Fifteen
ANNIE PACED up and down the kitchen. “Nobody answers at the Muir house. All I get is voice mail.”
Max grated a final curl of cheese, fished a box of mushrooms from the refrigerator. “I don’t know what else you can do, Annie. Meredith’s not a little kid. Didn’t you say she’s a senior? She’s got a family, friends. If she’s upset, there should be plenty of people who can help.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just…” Annie walked slowly to the cabinet, lifted down two plates. Funny, how she’d got so easily in the habit of setting the table for three or, when her father was here, for four. Tonight, it would just be the two of them, since Rachel was having dinner and spending the night at Christy’s. The girls had already been to the gift shop on the marina and found a big scrapbook with a green leather cover. Annie carried the plates to the white wooden table. “…that I think she’s scared. Max, you know how a lost animal looks?”
Max chopped the mushrooms. “That bad?” He cut the top off a green pepper, lifted out the seeds, rinsed the pepper, sliced it.
“That bad.” She yanked up the portable phone, punched “redial.” “Damn. I followed her home. Her car was there, but she wouldn’t answer the door.”
The buzzer sounded at the back door. It opened and Henny poked her head inside.
Annie clicked off the phone as the Muir voice-mail message sounded. “Henny.” She hurried across the kitchen, pulled her old friend into a swift embrace. “Hey, stay for dinner. Max is fixing omelets.”
Max flashed a grin at Henny. “Tell me what you like. Cheese, onions, mushrooms, sweet peppers? Or how about some green chilis? Best omelets on the island.”
“Modesty becomes him, doesn’t it?” Annie took Henny by the hand. “Come on, sit down. Join us.”
Henny sank into a chair at the kitchen table, dropped her purse on the shining wood floor. “I came by to find out what you learned at school. But if you’re sure it’s okay, I’d love to stay.”
“We’re sure.” Annie swiftly pulled out another place mat, added a third plate.
As Annie described her day, Henny listened and Max swiftly made three omelets to order: onions, cheese, and green chilis for Annie; mushrooms, onions, and cheese for Henny; mushrooms, green peppers, and onions for Max.
Annie t
alked and ate, finishing her omelet as she concluded.
Henny frowned. “Nothing’s clear-cut, is it? Maureen Riley thinks Kay was angry with someone at the lunch table, but Lois Thompson believes Kay was upset about a student. Jack Quinn brushed you off and Meredith Muir won’t answer her door.” Henny took a last bite. “That was wonderful, Max.” She picked up her tea. “Someone at the lunch table. Or a student.” She sighed. “If only we’d found the journal.”
Annie leaned forward. “What journal?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Henny gave a tired sigh. “It was such a long day. Late in the afternoon, Pete Garrett sent Billy over. Apparently Emma Clyde called Pete and suggested he check and see if Kay kept a journal. I’m surprised Emma did that.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that Emma’s come around to your viewpoint, Henny.” Max grinned. “I called our esteemed novelist to ask if she had an alibi. Damned if she didn’t.” He explained the late-night work and the file time in Emma’s computer.
“That should make her Suspect Number One.” Annie’s eyes glinted.
“Only in her books.” Henny almost managed a smile.
“According to Emma, the murder investigation”—Max’s tone was dry—“is interfering with the book. To be precise, Emma is distracted. She is fascinated by the possibility of the flyers’ being fobbed off on Kay Nevis to throw up false suspects.”
“Of course she’s fascinated.” Henny’s eyes glinted. “The murderer and Emma have similar thought patterns, though I’d better not tell her that. But I’m glad Emma has an alibi. Even if it should turn out that Kay did the flyers and that the flyers provoked her murder, I know Emma wasn’t involved. Emma never panics. She’s lived with the story about Ricky for too many years to worry when it turns up again. No, not Emma. That’s another reason I’m sure those flyers were created to divert attention from Kay’s life. There’s no way there could be any evidence about Ricky’s death that would threaten Emma. That makes all the accusations in the flyers suspect. Those flyers have nothing to do with someone seeking justice and everything to do with confusing the search for Kay’s murderer. Anyway”—she leaned back in her chair—“Emma called Pete and he sent Billy over to the house. We searched and Kay did keep journals, but we couldn’t find a journal for this year. Billy and I looked everywhere. Kay kept the journals in her bedroom. There was one for each of the last twenty-two years. But not this year.” Henny’s voice was grim. “I talked to Pete and he doesn’t think it matters. Pete says the murderer took the journal because Kay spelled out the facts behind the accusations in the flyers. I don’t see it that way at all. If we ever find that journal”—she glanced toward the windows overlooking the lagoon—“and we won’t, not with water all around us, I’m sure there’s no mention of those people. But there would be Kay’s thoughts about the problem she’d encountered.” Henny looked sharply at Annie. “Something at school! It has to be something at school, but Pete’s not even looking there.”