by Leigh Perry
Chapter Three
Louis called for more cops and various forensics experts and had one of the uniformed officers give Madison, Byron, and me a ride home while they got to work. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and knew Sid had to be bursting with questions from inside the sugar skull bag, but my hands were so cold I didn’t want to remove my gloves to text with him. Madison was shivering too, and though we both knew it wasn’t just the frigid weather that was affecting us, we huddled with Byron to try to warm up during the short drive back to the house.
My father, who I’d called Phil since I was young, had arrived while we were gone, and he and Mom must have chased off the grad students because the house was blissfully empty. They herded us into the living room and onto the couch and whipped out a pair of afghans to cover us. After making sure the curtains were all drawn, I pulled out Sid’s skull, and a minute later, the rest of his skeleton clattered down the stairs to grab it, put it where it belonged, and squeezed in between Madison and me on the couch.
“Are you two okay?” he asked.
“No,” Madison said. “I’m freaked out.”
“You’re not alone. Sorry I didn’t respond to your texts in the car, Sid,” I said.
He waved it away. “I was just checking on you.” He put one bony arm around each of us.
It was a testament to the oddity of my life that I found the embrace of a human skeleton comforting after the shock of finding a human skeleton.
A minute later, Phil brought in mugs of hot chocolate, complete with the pastel marshmallows Madison preferred, and insisted we take a few sips before telling them what had happened.
“My gracious,” Phil said when Madison and I had finished tag-teaming our way through the story. “And you don’t know who the poor deceased person was?”
“All I saw were bones and what I think was an item of clothing, maybe a shirt,” Sid said. “Louis got us out of there pretty quickly.”
“And rightfully so!” Mom said, looking at Madison.
“Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Dr. T,” Sid said. “Believe you me, I wanted Madison out of there as fast as possible.”
“Okay, stop talking about me like I’m made of china,” Madison said. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are,” Sid said. “You’re a fine brave girl, even if you do have an impressive hot chocolate mustache.”
Madison thunked him on the skull loudly. It had taken her a while to learn how to do so without hurting her finger, but she had it down pat.
“You say it was on Thatcher Street?” Mom said.
I said, “Technically the street that runs parallel to Thatcher. We went off the sidewalk in front of that blue house with white shutters. You know, the one that goes a little overboard with Christmas lights.”
“The Lupton’s place,” Mom said.
“If you say so. Right behind their backyard is a vacant lot. I didn’t know there was any empty land in the middle of town.” Pennycross wasn’t a big place, but it was old and, as the street signs said, thickly settled.
“There used to be a house there, a big Queen Anne place,” Phil said. “Unfortunately, the woman who lived there was a hoarder, and after she passed away, the place was found to be in such bad condition that it was torn down.”
“Wait, are you talking about the Nichols house?” Madison asked.
“Yes, Margo Nichols was the owner. Why do you ask?”
“I heard it was haunted.”
“Seriously?” Sid said, and I could tell he’d have been raising an eyebrow if he’d had one. “Since when do you believe in ghosts?”
“Present company excepted?” Mom said.
“I’ve told you, Mrs. T., I’m not a ghost. For one, I’m corporeal, and for another, I don’t haunt. I cohabitate.”
“An interesting distinction,” Phil said. “Yes, Madison, there were rumors of mysterious lights and sounds from the Nichols house, but I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.”
“I hadn’t thought about it in years, but one summer when I was visiting, I had a play date with Jo Hensley, and she loved telling ghost stories. She tried to get me to sneak out to come see the place at midnight once.”
“You fell asleep before midnight, didn’t you?” I said.
Madison grinned. “Yep. Anyway, Jo’s family had moved away by the next time we came to visit, so I missed my chance.”
“I never have understood the whole ‘go visit a haunted house at midnight’ thing,” Sid said. “Haven’t these people ever seen a horror movie? No good ever comes of visiting a haunted house at midnight.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” I pointed out.
“There’s no reason to tempt fate.”
A buzzer went off in the kitchen, and Phil said, “That must be the macaroni and cheese. I thought serious comfort food was called for tonight.”
There are disadvantages to living with one’s parents as an adult, but when one of those parents cooks as well and as enthusiastically as Phil, it makes up for a lot. Madison and I usually set the table, but this time Mom insisted that we should continue to warm up while she took care of everything. By mutual decision, we decided not to discuss the discovered skeleton over dinner.
Sid was at the table too. Though he doesn’t eat, of course, he does like joining us for family meals whenever possible. Once dinner was over, I wasn’t at all surprised when Sid gave me a nudge before saying in an overly loud voice, “Well, I’ve got something I need to do.” He looked at me, and if he’d had eyebrows, I felt sure he’d have waggled them a time or two to make sure I got the hint. “Up in the attic.”
I dutifully followed him up to his attic. “What’s up?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Somehow Sid and I had become immersed in what he called murder cases. Okay, I guess they were murder cases, but it still felt both pretentious and silly to say it that way. Naturally I assumed he was going to want to jump right on the case of the remains we’d discovered.
One of the reasons I find it hard to accept our odd avocation was that I get things wrong so much. This was another one of those times.
Sid said, “I’ve got a line on some manga for Madison’s Christmas present. Brand-new, hot titles, won’t be officially released until after Christmas, but the guy at Wray’s Comics says he can get them for me early. The problem is that there won’t be time to ship them, so somebody would have to pick them up at the store on Christmas Eve. Can you help an elf out?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
“Excellent! Don’t forget!”
I waited a minute, thinking he’d segue into a less festive conversation, but he’d pulled up what looked like a Christmas spreadsheet and was muttering to himself under his breath. Or under what would have been his breath if he actually breathed.
Though Halloween was Sid’s favorite holiday because it gave him a chance to get out of the house and interact with other people while in costume—usually skeletal-themed costumes, for obvious reasons—Christmas had been a close second when I was growing up. Then after Madison was born, there was a long period when Madison hadn’t known about Sid, making family caroling around the Christmas tree impossible. This year was only the third since that situation had changed, and since my parents hadn’t been around for the first and I’d been preparing to move out of town on the second, Sid was determined that this year’s celebration would be the best Christmas ever.
Still, I had expected him to say something about finding a body. “Anything else you want to talk about?” I asked.
“Do you have any ideas about what to give Deborah? She’s so practical that it’s hard to find anything really creative for her.”
“When it comes to shopping for Deborah, I gave up on creativity years ago. I got her a couple of sweaters exactly like the ones she usually wears.”
“That’s no fun.” He started flipping through web pages at an almost alarming rate. I think having no eyes or eyelids saves Sid time—h
e doesn’t have to pause for blinking. “How about these?” he said, showing me a picture of skeleton key earrings.
“I think she’d like those.”
“Yes!” He pushed the buy button. Since Sid can’t work, I give him a stipend so he has money of his own. I used to call it an allowance, but he objected.
“So that body we found,” I said. “I wonder if it was murder.”
“Probably,” he said. “It didn’t bury itself there.”
“Good point.” I paused for him to speculate further.
“And maybe a sweater with a key embroidered on it. What size does Deborah wear?”
“Either medium or large, depending on how it’s cut.”
“Got it.” He kept flipping.
“Sid, are you messing with me, or are we really not going to talk about that murder?”
“What’s to talk about? The police got to this one first, and I don’t think there’s anything we can add unless you know something about the body that I don’t.”
“Nope, nothing.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay. Good. We don’t have to get involved this time.” We discussed other ideas for Christmas presents, and then Sid chased me off, saying he knew I had student papers to grade. I did, but I was pretty sure he wanted to do some online browsing for my Christmas present.
I was really quite relieved that for once we weren’t going to be sticking our noses into places that they didn’t belong. I was an academic, not a detective, and Sid was…Sid was Sid. We had better ways to spend our time. Yes, I was definitely relieved.
Despite my overwhelming relief, I was restless, and instead of getting any work done, I spent the rest of the evening watching TV with my parents, even though they’d picked shows I don’t particularly like.
I stopped to peek in on Madison on my way to bed to make sure she hadn’t been upset by finding a body, but she was sleeping soundly, with Byron keeping watch beside her. I was drifting off myself when I saw my own bedroom door open just a crack. Mom and Phil were checking on me the same way I had Madison.
Chapter Four
It was Friday night when we found the body, and I was so relieved about not being involved that I didn’t even think about it over the weekend other than to check the Pennycross news site repeatedly to see if there was any new information. Which there wasn’t. It wasn’t until Monday afternoon that I had a good excuse to be interested.
I was spending the year teaching at Bostock College, a place I’d never expected to work. Even though the pay for an adjunct English professor was as good as it was anywhere—which is to say, not very good—and the school’s location outside Pennycross made it extremely convenient, I’d never been able to get a job there. The problem was that Bostock had a laser focus on teaching business, and preferred that even their English professors have some sort of business background, making a lifelong academic like myself a tough sell. But over the past couple of years they’d beefed up their core curriculum, which meant they needed more people to teach expository writing. A former student of my mother’s—one who worked at a different business college—had put in a good word for me and helped me get the job. In fact, I was getting enough hours that I didn’t have to work at multiple campuses or teach any online classes, which was a bonus.
I’d finished teaching my classes for the day, had gone back to my desk to check email and take care of some paperwork, and was packing up to go when there was a knock on my office door. Well, calling it an office was stretching the point, and the door was a figment of my imagination. Like the rest of Bostock’s adjuncts, I had a four-foot-tall green-cloth-covered cubicle with a desktop, a lap drawer, a file drawer, and two shelves fastened to the cube walls. If they’d been able to figure out a way to attach my desk chair and guest chair, I suspect they’d have done so. I’d had worse office space in the past, so I only complained about the slanting desktop once a week.
I turned to see a set of helicopter parents who’d been making my life interesting since their son started taking my class. I pasted on a professional smile. “Good afternoon.”
“Hello, I don’t know if you remember us, but we’re the Gleasons. Reggie Gleason’s parents?” Mrs. Gleason always did the talking while Mr. Gleason stood by and looked concerned. She was a curvy blonde who invariably wore a dark blue pantsuit with either a white or a light blue blouse. Her husband was taller, balding, and wore a suit with the air of someone who’d be a lot more comfortable in khakis.
“Yes, I remember you, Mrs. Gleason.”
“Is Reggie doing all right in your class?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gleason, but as I told you before, I can’t share any information with you. The FERPA regulations are very strict.” I’d reminded them about the Family Education Rights and Privacy Act which forbad me from sharing their student’s records at least once a month since September. I wouldn’t even have acknowledged that Reggie was in my class if Reggie hadn’t introduced them to me himself.
“Oh, we didn’t mean his grades,” she said, then smiled winningly. “Though of course, if there’s anything you can tell us…”
I said nothing, though had I done so, she’d probably have been more worried than she already was. Reggie had been late with several papers, and once he did get them in, they were marginal at best. It was a toss-up as to whether he’d do well enough to pass.
She gave a tiny sigh of disappointment, but went on. “The reason we came by is that we’re wondering how the strike is going to affect Reggie’s assignments. Will he get some extra time because of the disruption, or will final papers be canceled entirely?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, there’s no reason to try to keep it quiet. It’s all over the Bostock Parents’ Facebook page.”
“Then you guys have better sources than I do.” I’d always suspected as much. “I haven’t heard anything about a strike.”
“Really?” she said, sounding as if she didn’t completely believe me. They looked at one another and had one of those silent married-couple conversations before she said, “Speaking hypothetically, what effect would a strike have on your course requirements?”
“That’s really not something I’ve ever had to address.” I pointedly looked at my watch. “I’m sorry, but I do have an appointment. If I hear anything about anything that would affect Reggie’s class, I will let him know.” I didn’t really think my emphasizing him would work, but it was worth a shot.
“Well, thank you for your time,” Mrs. Gleason said, and they left, no doubt heading for one of Reggie’s other instructors. I beat a hasty retreat before they came up with any more hypothetical questions.
In an ironic twist for somebody who’d just chased off a set of helicopter parents, my appointment was for a late lunch with my parents. I wasn’t sure if that made me a helicopter daughter.
Bostock has a sprawling campus, and my classes and office were in a building that was about as far as possible from the parking deck. Fortunately, there were shuttle buses available for students and faculty, even adjuncts. I only had to wait for a couple of minutes outside the Core Center, where the core curriculum classes were taught, before a Bostock green-and-gold shuttle pulled up. When I climbed on board and flashed the ID attached to the lanyard around my neck, I saw David Chaudoir at the wheel. Though I’d ridden with all the shuttle bus drivers by that point in the semester, David’s choice of T-shirts had shown me early on we had more in common than mere transportation.
I said, “Valar morghulis, David!”
“Valar dohaeris, Dr. Thackery.”
The other passengers were all students, none of whom I knew. While I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop as the shuttle hit several stops on the way to the parking deck, I did hear the words faculty strike repeated. Maybe the Gleasons really did have cause for concern.
I was meeting Mom and Phil at a very different campus. McQuaid University is in the center of Pe
nnycross and is much more compact. Both my parents have been tenured faculty for decades, so I knew my way around the place long before my stint as an adjunct there. Though I’d gladly have stayed, my extracurricular murder-related activities had kept me from getting invited back. I told myself that was another reason I should be glad that Sid wasn’t dragging me into another case.
I joined Mom and Phil at Hamburger Haven, one of the on-campus restaurants, and we shared gossip over our cheeseburgers. Neither of them knew anything about a faculty strike brewing at Bostock, but Phil had heard that the faculty union’s contract negotiations were not going well.
From there we moved on to the best way to get a research grant, since I had a project I was hoping to get a grant for. If adjuncts aspire to tenure track position, they need publications, but the Catch-22 is that there isn’t much financial support for adjunct research. My parents had a few ideas, and I took notes, meaning to go back home and do some preliminary work. I was on my way back to my car when I saw our favorite Pennycross cop Louis Raymond standing in front of one of the campus map boards McQuaid has erected around campus.
“Hey, Louis. Are you lost?”
“A little. I’m trying to find Easton Hall, and according to the online map, it should be right there, but…” He looked over at the fence that was surrounding the latest on-campus renovation project, which was the building he was looking for. “This map wasn’t much help.” The laminated notice taped at the top had a list of changes, starting with The 3rd Floor of Easton Hall has been temporarily moved to the 2nd Floor of Savage Hall.
“I see your problem. They’ve got people scattered around campus until they finish rebuilding Easton. Which department are you going to?”
“Physical anthropology.”
“Hang on, I’ll call the department and ask where they’re living now.” It took a bit of telephone tag, but I finally got directions from the departmental secretary. “Okay, what you have to do is go to the computer science building, but not the main entrance because physical anthropology is camping out in the basement. So you need to go around to—” I noticed the look on his face. “Or I could just show you the way.”