Back To School Murder #4 (3 page)

B
ill Stone pulled his pickup truck alongside the mailbox that stood at the end of the driveway and pulled out the day's assortment of catalogs and bills. Setting it beside him on the seat, he turned smoothly into the driveway and parked in his usual spot by the back porch.

The house seemed oddly quiet with the kids in school. Through the summer he'd gotten in the habit of coming home for lunch and then taking the kids for a swim at nearby Blueberry Pond. Taking a break in the middle of the day made sense—he found he accomplished more by working in the cool of the evening rather than the heat of the afternoon. It was one of the compensations of the lifestyle he and Lucy had chosen. He knew he could make more money if he worked for a big corporation the way his father did, instead of struggling along on his own as a restoration carpenter and contractor, but then he wouldn't be able to spend much time with his family.

He hardly ever saw his father when he was growing up; Dad often worked late and was frequently away on business trips. Bill remembered his father's look of surprise when he asked him for driving lessons.

“You're too young to drive,” his father had said.

“But Dad, I'm sixteen,” Bill had replied.

“That's impossible,” declared his father.

It wasn't until he'd checked with Bill's mother that the senior Mr. Stone accepted the fact that his son was really sixteen. Somehow Bill had grown up without his father even noticing.

Bill was determined that wouldn't happen to him. Even so, despite his best efforts, it seemed that the kids were maturing awfully fast. Toby was starting his freshman year in high school, and Elizabeth, now twelve, was already developing ominous curves and bulges. Where had the time gone? Sara was eight, and even little Zoë wasn't a baby anymore. If he asked her how old she was, she delighted in holding up two chubby fingers.

Climbing out of the truck and mounting the porch steps, he mopped his brow with a crumpled red bandanna. It was sweltering. He considered going for a quick dip, but abandoned the idea. It wouldn't be much fun by himself. Instead, he went into the kitchen, sat down at the round oak kitchen table, and leafed through the mail, putting the bills aside for Lucy. A heavy vellum envelope bearing the engraved name of
NICHOLS, NICHOLS AND BROWN
caught his eye. It was obviously from a law firm, and as a small businessman he knew such letters rarely brought good news.

Grunting, he slid his callused thumb under the flap and withdrew a word-processed letter. Randy N. Wiggins, whose round signature made Bill suspect he was a rather junior member of the firm, regretted to inform him that his client, Nelson Widemeyer, was filing for protection from his creditors under the provisions of the bankruptcy act. Needless to say, both Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Widemeyer regretted the necessity of this action.

Bill sighed and tossed the letter aside. He regretted it, too, especially since Ned Widemeyer owed him a final payment of $15,000 for converting an old one-room schoolhouse into a summer home. This wasn't going to do Bill's credit any good—he himself owed a good portion of that money to the local lumberyard and hardware store.

Placing his hands on the table, Bill pushed himself to his feet and opened the refrigerator door. A tall, green bottle of beer caught his eye. What the hell. He knew he shouldn't drink so early in the day, but who could blame him? He twisted the cap off, chugged most of the contents, and yanked open the meat drawer.

He must have pulled harder than he'd intended, because the drawer flew out of its shelf and fell, spilling slices of plastic-wrapped cheese all over the floor.

“Shit,” he said, stooping to pick up the mess. After he was finished, he made himself a ham and cheese sandwich, topped it with a handful of chips, and grabbed another beer. Then he went out to the porch and sat down on the creaky old glider. That's where Lucy and Zoë found him, snoring loudly, when they arrived home a few hours later.

“Daddy!” exclaimed Zoë, as Lucy boosted her up the porch steps.

“Shhh, you'll wake him up,” cautioned Lucy, but not meaning it. She wanted him to wake up. She was furious that he was sleeping, obviously ignorant of the explosion.

“Unh,” mumbled Bill, then he lurched upright.

“Don't mind us,” said Lucy, with an edge to her voice. “We didn't mean to disturb you.”

“It's the heat,” said Bill. “I must have dropped off.”

“I guess you didn't hear the news,” said Lucy, glancing pointedly at the beer bottle on the floor. The gesture was lost on Bill.

“What news?” he asked, still groggy as he got to his feet.

“Somebody blew up the elementary school.” Lucy tossed off the sentence, pulling open the screen door and disappearing inside.

“You're kidding, right?” asked Bill, following her.

“No, it's true,” said Lucy, opening the refrigerator and pouring a glass of juice for Zoë. She set it on the table and lifted Zoë into the high chair. “I was there when it went off. Thank God it didn't do much damage.”

Bill scratched his chin. He was having trouble absorbing this. “Was anybody hurt?” he finally asked.

“No. They evacuated the building. Tommy Spitzer, you know him, the little boy with crutches, got trapped inside somehow. Carol Crane, the new assistant principal, rescued him just in time.” Lucy began to sniffle, and reached for a tissue. “I was so afraid. What if…?” She left the sentence unsaid, unwilling to voice her worst fears, and dissolved into tears.

Bill wrapped his arms around her. “This is incredible.”

“It was horrible,” Lucy cried. “I couldn't believe it was happening, but it did.”

Bill pulled away. “A bomb! Here in Tinker's Cove!” he exploded, pounding a fist on the kitchen counter and staring out the window over the sink. “I'd like to get my hands on the maniac who did this…”

In imitation, Zoë pounded her fist, making the juice glass jump.

“What good would that do?” asked Lucy, picking her up and sitting down at the kitchen table, setting the baby on her lap. “Don't you think there's been enough violence already?”

“Who's in charge over there, anyway? How could they let something like this happen?”

“You make it sound like it's the school's fault there was a bomb.”

Zoë was tired. She gave a big sigh and relaxed against her mother. Lucy wiped her juicy mouth with a napkin.

“Well, maybe it is. They sure managed to get somebody pretty mad. Mad enough to blow the place up.” Bill sat down heavily at the table and flapped the envelope. “You know what this is? Widemeyer declared bankruptcy.”

“How bad is it? Are we in trouble?”

“We'll manage.” Bill snorted. “It's kind of funny. I thought that was just about the worst thing that could happen and then you told me about the bomb. It sure puts things in perspective.”

“It sure does.” Lucy's expression was sober. A little line formed between her eyebrows. “What kind of maniac would want to hurt innocent children?” she demanded, stroking Zoë's downy head.

“Listen, Lucy. I'm sure the police will catch whoever did this,” said Bill, sounding a note of caution. He knew Lucy tended to get involved in local crimes, such as the wave of arson that had swept through the town a couple of years ago.
^*
“There's no need for you to try and solve this yourself.”

“Maybe you're right,” said Lucy, surprising him with her agreement. Then she continued, in a thoughtful tone. “Maybe it was someone angry at the school. Somebody who didn't get a job, or got fired or something like that.” Realizing Zoë was asleep, she carried her upstairs and put her in her crib.

When she returned to the kitchen, Bill tried to pick up the argument, but was cut off by the grinding gears of the late-afternoon activity bus as it made the climb up Red Top Hill. Since Toby was on the soccer team and Elizabeth was playing field hockey, they usually took the late bus home. Bill and Lucy heard the brakes squeal as the bus stopped at the end of the driveway. Seconds later, Elizabeth and Toby burst into the kitchen, laden with backpacks and sport bags which they dropped at their feet.

“There was a bomb at the elementary school!” exclaimed Toby.

“It blew up!” added Elizabeth.

“I know. I was there,” said Lucy. “How did you hear about it?”

“Everybody was talking about it. Is it true Miss Crane was a hero for saving Tommy Spitzer?” asked Toby.

“It's true.”

“Sara has all the luck—she won't have to go to school,” complained Elizabeth, throwing herself into a pressed oak chair. She sprawled across the table, leaning on her elbow. At twelve she was skinny and lanky, with knobby knees and short, dark hair. Lucy allowed her to shave her legs, but she drew the line at plucking her eyebrows, much to Elizabeth's disgust.

“There wasn't much damage to the building,” said Lucy. “I don't think she'll miss more than a few days at most. So, how's eighth grade?”

“Boring,” said Elizabeth, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “I wish I was in high school, like Toby.”

“High school is better,” said Toby, opening the refrigerator door and waiting hopefully for a delicious snack to jump out and surprise him.

“Close the door, you're wasting electricity,” said Bill.

“Mom, how come there's never anything good to eat?”

“Probably because you ate it all. Have a bowl of cereal.”

“Yuck,” said Toby, opening a cupboard and moving boxes around. He finally chose one and poured himself an enormous bowl full, adding at least a pint of milk.

“Why is high school better?” asked Lucy.

“You get to change classes—no matter how boring a teacher is, you only have to stand it for forty-five minutes. And they're not all boring. Mr. Cunningham is really pretty interesting. He told us we're going to do all kinds of neat stuff, like make hydrogen sulfide. It smells like rotten eggs.” Toby paused, and began shoveling cereal into his mouth.

He was sandy haired, and almost as tall as his father. Always hungry, he ate a prodigious amount of food. His room was usually littered with empty glasses and plates, testament to his frequent snacks.

“You're disgusting,” observed Elizabeth, watching him eat. She was chewing on a stubby black-lacquered fingernail.

“Don't insult your brother,” admonished Lucy. “He's growing, and so are you. Don't you want something to eat?”

“No, I'm too fat.” Elizabeth tentatively touched her chin, checking for pimples.

“You are not,” insisted Lucy. “You need to eat good foods to stay healthy. How about an apple? Or some yogurt?”

“I'm not hungry. Is Mr. Cunningham the same Mr. Cunningham who coaches field hockey?”

“I guess.”

“Well, if he is, he's a pretty neat guy—for somebody who's really old.”

“He must be all of thirty,” said Lucy, catching Bill's eye.

“There's a new kid,” offered Elizabeth.

“Really?” Lucy was interested. Newcomers were rare in the little town.

“His name is Lance. He comes from California.”

“Sounds like trouble,” said Lucy, exercising her New England reserve. “What does he look like?”

“He's got a great tan—and a nose stud.”

“What color is his hair?” Lucy was suspicious.

“It's not purple or anything,” said Elizabeth.

“That's nice.”

“It's kind of orange.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, shaking her head. She looked up as the door flew open and Sara marched in, stamping her feet.

“What are you so mad about?” asked Lucy, sticking her head out the door and waving to Karen, who beeped the horn before continuing down the driveway.

“We've got school tomorrow,” said Sara, pouting.

“Are you sure?”

“It was on the car radio.”

“It's for the best,” said Lucy in a soothing tone. “If they had to close the school, you'd have to make up the time—on Saturdays or something.”

“It stinks!” said Elizabeth emphatically.

“At least you got out of school today,” said Toby philosophically, setting the empty bowl in the sink.

“We had to sit in the hot sun and roast.”

“What about Ms. Crane? She was a hero, braver than any of the firemen,” said Elizabeth, who occasionally exhibited feminist tendencies.

“She's mean. I saw her yelling at Mr. Mopps.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow. All the kids loved the school custodian, whose real name was Mr. Demopoulos. Since he was usually seen pushing a mop, and the kids had trouble pronouncing his real name, they settled on calling him Mr. Mopps. He didn't seem to mind.

“Well, she's his boss and Mr. Mopps has to do his job. I've got to get supper started, but you've all got time for a swim.”

“Good idea,” said Bill. “The truck leaves for Blueberry Pond in five minutes.”

“Wait for me!” shrieked Sara as they all clattered off to change into swimsuits.

“Take your bags—don't leave them here in the kitchen,” yelled Lucy, but the kids were already gone. She shrugged and turned to Bill. “Thank goodness the bomber didn't seem to know what he was doing.”

“You said it.” Bill's agreement was heartfelt.

“I love the kids—you know I do.” Lucy sighed and bent to pick up the backpacks. “But summer vacation was plenty long enough.”

W
hen Lucy arrived at
The Pennysaver
office at nine the next morning, three phones were ringing, Ted was yelling into a fourth while scribbling furiously, and a man she had never seen before was bent over an oversized computer screen in the back corner.

“It's about time you got here!” hissed Ted, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “The device itself was amateurish, you say?
Unh-hunh
. What about domestic terrorists? The Maine Militia? Not their style, you say? Okay. Well, thank you for your time.” He hung up the phone and tilted his head toward the man in the back. “Lucy, this is George. He's our paginator,” he said as he punched numbers into the phone.

Lucy gave George a little wave, and sat down at her desk. “Am I late? I thought I was supposed to come in at nine.”

“Damn!” exploded Ted, slamming down the receiver and making her jump. “They lost my film. Can you believe it? Lucy—go right over to Capra's Photo and make them find my film, okay?”

“Right now?”

“Lucy, I'm not sure you understand the newspaper business. It's not a guideline, it's a deadline! Get going.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, diving for the door.

 

When she returned, proudly holding up a red and yellow envelope, Ted snatched it from her and spread the photos out on the counter. Lucy stared at them; the camera had captured in stark black and white the tension preceding the explosion and its aftermath. There were the chiefs, Pulaski in a white cap and Crowley in a dark one, conferring anxiously. A controlled Mrs. Applebaum speaking through the megaphone. A frightened little girl holding tightly to her teacher's hand. There was a sequence of pictures illustrating Carol Crane's exit from the school with Tommy in her arms, and then being helped to her feet by rescuers, little Tommy lying at her feet.

“This is it!” exclaimed Ted, tapping a photo. “Page One.”

“That's weird,” said Lucy.

“What? What's weird?”

“Don't you see it?”

“See what?”

“She looks just like Jackie Kennedy after JFK was shot. See the smudges on her skirt. The way her hair falls?”

“You're right,” said Ted.

“She was even wearing a pink suit—but these pictures are black and white so you can't tell.”

“Well, it was a good photo then and it's a good photo now. George, make sure this goes above the fold, okay? We ought to sell a lot off the stands with a catchy photo like this. Headline! We've got to have something snappy.”

“
BOMB THREATENS SCHOOL
,” suggested Lucy.

“Nah. Everybody already knows that. We need an angle.”

“
TEACHER SAVES KID
?
TEACHER SAVES CRIPPLED KID
?”

“Crippled?” Ted rolled his eyes. “You do have a lot to learn. Crippled is a definite no-no.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, chastened.

“Try this, George. I want a twenty-four-point teaser.
MINUTES BEFORE EXPLOSION
… Then,
DARING RESCUE SAVES STUDENT
. What's the biggest we've got? Sixty point? Will it fit?”

“Looks good,” said George, studying the screen.

“Then go right to my lead. Make that bigger than usual. Eighteen point or something, and transition down, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Save some space for the story about the investigation. I'll write that now. Lucy, I need you to typeset some last-minute legals that came in yesterday. I think I put them on your desk.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, switching on the computer.

“And by the way,” Ted added. “Phyllis called. Her mother will need her for longer than she thought. She's got breast cancer.”

“How awful.”

“Yeah. Phyllis sounded pretty upset. So, is that okay with you? Nine bucks an hour. Wish I could go higher, but I can't.”

“That's fine,” said Lucy, doing a quick calculation. Even accounting for day care and taxes, she'd be clearing more than $200 a week. She smiled to herself as she found the legals and started typing them into a computer file.

She was so absorbed in her work, she didn't look up even once until Ted asked if she would like some coffee.

“I'm going over to Jake's. Can I get you something?”

“You're done already?” Lucy was amazed. She hadn't finished typing out a few brief legal notices and Ted had written an entire news story.

“Unfortunately, there wasn't much to tell,” he explained. “They don't seem to have much to go on.”

“I thought they could get a lot of information from the bomb itself.”

“Well, since it blew up, there isn't much evidence left. And let's face it. It isn't as if we've got the Israelis working on this. Bombs are few and far between in Maine.”

“Can't they send it to the FBI or something?”

“They are—but like I said—it's not like there are known terrorist groups they can link the bomb to.”

“What about the Maine Militia? They were involved in that standoff with the Penobscot Indians, weren't they?”

“Yeah, but if you remember, they weren't exactly shy about claiming credit for their activities. In fact, they're always looking for publicity. If they did this, you can be sure they would have sent out press releases claiming responsibility. It's probably the work of some lonely nutcase who got his instructions off the Internet. Amateur hour. It's too bad. We're going to be feeling aftershocks for a very long time.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just that the schools have enough problems. Money's tight, special-needs costs are going up, parents want to know why Johnny can't have calculus and computers and football, too. The conservatives complain that the schools are undermining morals by teaching sex education. And the liberals don't want the kids reading
Huckleberry Finn
because they believe it's racist. No matter what they do, somebody's mad at them, and now this happens.”

“That's like Bill. He was blaming the school for the bombing.”

“A lot of people feel that way, believe me. The administration shouldn't have let it happen. How did the bomber get access to the clock? And how come Tommy was unaccounted for? People are going to be asking a lot of questions. So, how do you take your coffee? Cream and sugar?”

“Black,” said Lucy. “Thanks.”

As Ted was leaving, he held the door for Karen. She bustled in, obviously in a hurry. There were dark circles under her eyes.

“I'm late,” she announced. “Can you do me a big favor? I need to know when the school committee is holding their next meeting.”

“Sure,” said Lucy. “I typed it yesterday.” She tapped away on the keyboard, closing one file and opening another. “Here it is. Monday, the eleventh.”

“That's what I thought. Thanks.” She turned and started to leave.

“Wait a sec,” Lucy called. “Why did you want to know? Are you all right? You look terrible.”

“Couldn't sleep a wink. Every time I started to drift off, I'd dream about the bomb and wake up. I kept dreaming the same thing—how I was walking past piles and piles of rubble and there were children's voices calling for help. I heard them crying but I just kept walking. It was horrible.”

“It was only a dream. Everybody's fine. Tommy's home, resting, and Ms. Crane is back on the job.”

“This time. But what if it happens again? That's why I'm going to the school committee meeting. As PTA president, I've had a lot of calls from parents. They want to make sure this doesn't get brushed under the rug and forgotten. They want answers, and so do I.”

“The police are investigating. Ted said even the FBI is involved.”

“That's all very well and good but this never should have happened in the first place. A lot of people think Mrs. Applebaum isn't running a very tight ship.”

“Really? I like Sophie,” said Lucy.

“Well, you've known her for a long time. Some of the younger mothers think she's getting too old. They think someone like Carol Crane ought to be in charge. Listen, I've got to go,” she said, glancing at her watch. “See you at the meeting!”

Lucy went back to the legals, typing in an announcement for a Zoning Board of Appeals hearing. As her fingers flew over the keys, automatically copying the details of the request for a variance, she recalled her first encounter with Mrs. Applebaum. She had gotten Toby's first progress report from kindergarten teacher Lydia Volpe and had been disturbed to see that his fine motor skills needed improvement. She made an appointment with Lydia and, perched on a tiny chair, went over the results of Toby's “readiness inventory.” There seemed no doubt about it. Toby was definitely not as bright as she and Bill had thought; he was going to have a difficult time in school.

Leaving, she walked slowly down the hall, wondering what the future held for her darling little boy. She and Bill had such high hopes for him, and now it seemed he would probably have to repeat kindergarten.

“Is something the matter?” asked a pleasant voice.

Looking up from the linoleum-tiled floor, Lucy saw Mrs. Applebaum studying her with an expression of concern. Before she knew what had happened, she was pouring out her problem.

“My little boy—he's in kindergarten. His fine motor skills need improvement!” Lucy blurted it out, blinking back tears.

“Come into my office,” said Mrs. Applebaum.

Sitting Lucy down in a chair, she handed her a box of tissues and a glass of water.

“You met with Mrs. Volpe? And she showed you all sorts of charts and tests?”

Lucy nodded.

“Did you ask her for a comparison to other boys the same age as your son?”

Lucy shook her head.

Mrs. Applebaum smiled. “Well, if you had, she would have shown you another chart. And you would have discovered that ninety percent of all four-and five-year-old boys have poor fine motor skills. It's just the way they are. Your son is probably very normal.”

“Really?”

“I'd bet the school budget on it. What's your son's name?”

“Toby Stone.”

“I know Toby. He's a firecracker. I wouldn't worry about him.” She patted Lucy on the shoulder and helped her to her feet. “Don't worry. Toby's doing just fine. He's smart and healthy and has lots of energy—he's running and jumping. The fine motor skills will come in a year or two.”

When Lucy left Mrs. Applebaum's office, she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Toby was normal after all. Everything was going to be all right. And it had been. By the time he was in third grade, Toby was at the head of his class. In eighth grade he had gotten all A's, except in sewing, which was compulsory for both boys and girls.

He apparently never did develop those fine motor skills. Lucy smiled to herself and closed out the legal file, shipping it to the paginator with a few key strokes.

She was stretching her arms when Ted came in, carrying a paper tray of coffees. He was sitting down, his feet propped on his desk, prying the tight plastic lid off the paper cup when the phone rang. Lucy took the call.

“It's the printery,” she told him. “They're going to shut down early today so they can install some new software. Can you ship the paper now?”

“Are we done, George?”

“All done, boss. I'll take the disk right over.” He popped a disk out of the computer and tucked it in his pocket. “See you next week.”

“Well, that was lucky,” said Ted, sipping the hot liquid. “Some days it's three or four in the afternoon before we're ready to go to press. With luck, we'll be on the stands this afternoon.”

Lucy sipped her coffee and glanced around the cluttered office. She liked it here, she decided. It was exciting, and fun. She had a lot to learn, of course, but she was a quick learner. Already, she felt at home.

“Hi, Barney!” She smiled as Officer Culpepper closed the door behind him and approached the counter.

“I've got an announcement here, about Cub Scouts,” he began.

“Sorry,” she said. “The paper just went to press. It will have to go in next week's issue.”

“That's okay,” said Barney, lifting off his police cap and running his thick fingers through his bristly hair. “There's no hurry.”

“Anything new in the investigation?” asked Ted, casually sipping his coffee.

“Not really,” said Barney. “State police are handling the investigation, of course. They don't tell us much. Mostly, we're just supposed to keep the parking places in front of the station clear for them. You know how it is.” He sighed.

Ted nodded. He understood the resentment the local cops felt for the state police. They got stuck cleaning up the messes and doing the legwork, and the state cops got all the credit.

“I did notice something interesting,” said Barney. “'Course, if they ever found out I told you, I'd be in big trouble.”

“They won't find out from me,” said Ted, putting down his coffee and leaning forward in his chair.

“Well,” said Barney. “We've got this new 9-1-1 system.”

“I know. I wrote a big story about it,” said Ted.

“Right. One of the features of this system is that whenever we get a call, the computer tells us the location of the caller. That's so if somebody passes out or something, we can still help them.”

“Yeah,” said Ted.

“I happened to look at the log for yesterday. And you know what I found out?” Barney paused to adjust his belt, which was sagging under the weight of his gun and radio. “The call reporting the bomb came from the school.”

“What!” Ted sat up suddenly, spilling coffee on his khaki pants. “From inside the school? You're sure?”

Barney nodded.

“Dammit! Why couldn't you have told me sooner? That's big news—that's a breakthrough in the investigation!” He hit his forehead. “I can't believe it. The one time I get breaking news, it's too late. The paper's already gone.”