2 Death Makes the Cut (28 page)

Dinner. That sounded promising. That didn’t sound like a breakup, which could be done in my living room even if he was too much of a gentleman to do it over the phone.

“I could make us reservations at Olivia,” I suggested tentatively.

“Great, Olivia. But I’ll take care of the reservations. Leave it to me. Jocelyn,” he said my name again with tenderness, “I’m … very relieved to hear your voice. I’ll see you Friday.”

“See you then,” I said. We disconnected, and I stood in the hall a moment, thinking of all the things we’d said and left unsaid. Then I dialed my parents.

*   *   *

The bell rang, indicating the end of fourth period, and as the kids filed out, I remained at my desk feeling exhausted and depressed. And hungry. I’d forgotten to pack my lunch this morning, which meant either facing the crowd in the cafeteria or leaving school and driving to the nearest fast food restaurant. However, going hungry was not an option, and I was beginning to succumb to the siren call of burgers and cheese tots, when the door to my classroom opened. For one instant I expected to see Laura’s face peer around the corner, to hear her cheerful call of “
queso paso
.” My breath caught in my throat.

Kyla entered, carrying a couple of white bags and two Styrofoam cups.

I sagged back, acid disappointment rising like bile in my throat.

Her face softened. “I know. That’s the reason I’m here. I remember you saying you guys ate together a lot.”

Her kindness was almost overwhelming. I kept my face hidden, fighting back tears.

In the tone of someone coaxing a toddler to take a spoonful of cough syrup, she said, “Look, it’s your favorite. Number two burger, large tater tots with cheese, and a cherry limeade.”

Maybe none of us ever grows up. Her tone and the smell of the food made me sniff and sit up a little straighter as Kyla spread our greasy little feast on my desk. She even unwrapped my straw and stuck it in my cup for me.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I popped a crisp tot into my mouth and mumbled around its squishy goodness. “New purse?”

Her face lit up. “Yeah. Look at this baby.”

She plopped it down in front of me with a desk-rattling thud that told me it was loaded to the brim. Loaded. Oh no.

“Don’t tell me…” I began, but she cut me off.

“It’s a gun purse. Or rather, a concealed-carry accessory.” She opened the top gleefully. Look, there’s an inner pouch that holds your gun upright. You just casually slip your hand into this little slot and your gun is right there, ready to go. You don’t even have to draw it—you can fire right through the side of the purse. And if you do? They replace the purse. For free. You just can’t beat that kind of guaranty.”

I just stared at her. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What?” she asked defensively. “I have a permit now. I can carry.”

“Not on school property, you can’t. You know that. And today, of all days. When you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a policeman.”

“Why do people swing cats?” she asked, distracted. “I mean, when does that ever happen? Under what circumstances would you ever pick up a cat and swing it to measure crowd density?”

“Okay, no one swings cats,” I said. “Focus, here. You have to leave and take this gun with you. Now.”

Her lower lip jutted out ominously. “I don’t see why. No one is going to know. That’s the definition of ‘concealed.’”

It was like arguing with a post. I let it drop and returned my attention to my food. I could tell she was miffed but was making a pretty good effort to suppress it for my sake. Sulkily, she pried off the top of her cup and fished one manicured finger through the ice until she found the maraschino cherry. I wiped one hand on a napkin and did the same.

“This is really good. Thanks,” I said.

Her face softened. “Yeah, no problem. Hey, have you heard anything from Colin? Does he have any idea who did it?”

“I haven’t talked to him today, but I don’t think so. I just can’t get it out of my head that this is related in some way to Fred’s death.”

She frowned at this. “Why, did they have something in common? I mean besides both working here? And being dead?”

“No, not a thing. It just seems so unlikely that we would have two killers on the loose. This is a nice school, in a nice area. We might have some peripheral gang activity, maybe a few kids who take some drugs or think they’re tough, but not many. It’s not like it’s downtown Detroit. It’s not even east Austin.”

“So something specifically to do with Fred and Laura. Was there someone they were both having problems with?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, both of them were having minor issues with Nancy Wales, the drama teacher, but in Laura’s case that was just about getting to use the theater and not working the kids to death. And Fred wanted her to let one of his students keep her role in the play and still play tennis. Not anything serious. Besides, if Nancy started killing everyone in the school who pissed her off, we’d all be dead.”

“So what else do we know?”

I took a breath and blew it out slowly, thinking back. “It all started with Fred having a fight with Gary Richards.”

“The asshole parent from the tennis team?”

“Yeah. At the time, I thought that Gary might have lost his temper and attacked Fred. Maybe he didn’t even mean to kill him, just hit him a bit too hard. And he was pretty mad at me for not doing what he wanted with the team. I even considered whether he might have followed the team to the park and took the chance to jump me.”

“That part seems pretty weak.”

“Exactly. And if he had somehow accidentally killed Fred, I think he’d be scared. It seems like he would want to keep a low profile, not show up at the courts and try to bully me. That would just draw attention to himself. Plus, what good would attacking me do for him?”

“Well, what good would it do anyone?”

“A very good point and something I’ve been thinking about a lot, believe me. It brings us back to Fred’s note. Fred had found out something that he intended to tell me before he died. Something important and delicate, because otherwise, he would just have e-mailed me or mentioned it between classes.”

“I don’t get what you mean.”

“Say Fred found out that our school accountant, Pat Carver, had been skimming money out of school funds. He had some receipts and a spreadsheet hidden in a clock he kept on his desk, which must have been important or he wouldn’t have bothered to hide them. That might be enough to make her want to kill him.”

“That’s stupid. If he’d found that out, he would just have reported her.”

But at this I shook my head. “You didn’t know Fred. He was the most truly decent guy I’ve ever met. He would never have turned her in without giving her the chance to explain the discrepancy. And if she pretended that it was an honest mistake, he would have given her the chance to fix it. Even if he knew she’d been stealing on purpose, he still might have given her a break rather than ruin her life. Something like that would mean losing her job at best, and fines and prison time at worst.”

“So why write the note to you?”

“Who knows? Fred was the kind of guy who backed up his hard drive daily. He reviewed his will every year. He might have wanted to make absolutely sure that she didn’t get away with it if something happened to him. Which doesn’t necessarily mean he thought she would kill him. He was just like that.”

Kyla was thinking hard. “Say that’s all true. Say this Pat person was embezzling money, Fred finds out, so she kills him. But he’s also told her that he’s given the proof to you. So, she follows you to the park on the day of the movie shoot.”

“Yeah, but she can’t have planned that. For one thing, she couldn’t have counted on my being off by myself like that.”

“A crime of opportunity then. She’s lurking around just waiting for any chance to get you. Then, seizing the opportunity, she kicks the shit out of you and goes to your house and trashes it while looking for the receipts or whatever they are. But how’d she know where you live? I thought you kept that stuff private.”

“There is no privacy anymore. Besides, my address is in the school files, and she works in the office. That part would be easy,” I answered absently, still thinking hard.

Kyla was looking excited. “I’m liking her for this. It sounds right.”

“Yeah,” I said doubtfully. “All except mugging me. I still don’t get that part.”

“She had to make sure you wouldn’t walk in on her when she was searching your house. Anyway, put that aside for now. How does she tie in with Laura?”

“She doesn’t.”

“What?”

I held up empty hands. “I can’t think of a thing. Laura ran the Foreign Language Studies cultural recital. She would have had a few very minor expenses to file with Pat, but that’s it. Oh, and she mentioned she was going to check with Pat about the theater budget,” I added, remembering Laura’s feverish excitement at the thought that Nancy Wales might have made a misstep at last.

“Theater budget?” Kyla drained the last of her cherry limeade with a short slurping sound.

I popped the last cheese-covered tot into my mouth. It was cold by now, but still good. I looked longingly at the cheese that coated the paper container, but decided Kyla would judge me if I used my finger to scrape it off and eat it.

“Yeah, Laura thought the set was outrageously expensive. Too expensive for them to afford in any legitimate way.”

“And is it?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is. But so what? That wouldn’t have been anything against Pat.”

“Unless she was passing stolen funds to the drama department.”

I gave her a withering look. “Yeah, it’s common for criminals to embezzle funds and risk jail time to support their local high school theater productions. I remember Al Capone was accused of the same thing, but the Feds couldn’t make it stick.”

“Fine. Then you explain it.”

I glanced again at the empty paper carton and discreetly picked a little cheese off the side. “I can’t explain it. None of it makes any sense to me at all.”

“How about you? You’ve been battered pretty hard. Who have you pissed off?”

I laughed mirthlessly at that. “You name them, I’ve pissed them off. Mr. Richards, Pat Carver, Nancy Wales, her toady Roland Wilding. I don’t know what’s going on this year. I usually get along with everyone.”

Kyla snorted, but it wasn’t that far from the truth. Normally, my interactions with the other teachers, the kids, and their parents were pleasant and reasonable. Minor conflicts occurred over things like lesson plans or grades and were generally friendly, or at least civil. But this year, everything and everyone had been out of kilter starting from the day before school began. What had changed?

We gathered the trash from lunch and stuffed it into my trash can.

“Look, what are you doing tonight? Want to hang out, maybe go see a movie?” Kyla asked, glancing at her watch. “I have to be back up here this afternoon to teach the computer-science girls again. We could go right after that.”

“Ordinarily yes, but today’s our first tennis match. I’m driving the kids over to Westlake High at three.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I have to run to pick up the short bus in about an hour.”

“You drive a short bus?” She laughed out loud.

I grinned back. “You know, some days I really think I do.”

*   *   *

I didn’t expect to see Kyla again that day, but she popped in, slightly out of breath and wild-eyed, just as I was gathering my things to leave for the tennis match.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. Surely no one else had been attacked.

“They’ve called me down to the office! They’re interviewing all the teachers, one at a time.”

“They who?”

“The police!”

I drew a relieved breath and closed my desk drawer. “So what? They’re probably just interviewing witnesses, trying to narrow the window for when the crime might have occurred. Just go down there.”

“How can I?” she asked, voice squeaking a little. She waved her purse in the air.

“Oh.” I looked at the new bag, realization dawning.

“Yeah, oh. What if they scan me or something and find the gun?”

“They aren’t going to do that. That’s just a guilty conscience talking.”

She glared. “I’m not guilty, and I’m not doing any more time. They can’t take me back.”

I grinned at that. “Why don’t you just run it out to your car?”

“Because you were right. This place is swarming with cops. It would look so suspicious.”

I sighed. “Fine. Look, take out your wallet and your keys. You can leave the purse locked in my desk here. I’ll take it home with me tonight after I get back from the match. And let this be a lesson to you.”

Chapter 19

MATCHES AND MAYHEM

The tennis team did better than I expected. Eric won his first two singles matches. Then his father showed up, his grim bulk throwing a shadow of gloom over his son if not over everyone else. I could see the tension in Eric’s shoulder when he tossed the ball for the first serve, and I knew he’d already lost. By the time the score reached four games to zero, his father was shouting obscenities at the opposing players, accusing them of cheating and worse. In interscholastic matches we had no referees, and players kept score themselves. The other coach and I finally demanded that he either keep silent or leave, at which point it looked like he was going to explode. I was about two heartbeats from calling the police, but then Eric lost the final game of the set, and his father stomped off in disgust without a word to his son. Something was going to have to be done about that man. The rest of the match went pretty well, at least by my admittedly low standards. We didn’t win overall, but Dillon won his match and the rest of the kids won a respectable percentage of their games. More importantly, as far as I was concerned, the team rallied around Eric, refusing to allow him to withdraw in embarrassment, gently teasing and cajoling until he regained his spirits and joined the rest of them in cheering on the final players.