The Ghosts of Lovely Women

The Ghosts of Lovely Women

A Teddy Thurber Mystery

by Julia Buckley

Copyright © 2011 Julia Buckley

All rights reserved.

Cover Design: Ivan Diaz

eBook edition by
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“Nora, Nora—how like a woman!”

—Torvald Helmer;
A Doll’s House

“Now, then, no sooner had Queen Persephone driven off the ghosts of lovely women, scattering left and right, then forward marched the shade of Atreus’ son Agamemnon, fraught with grief and flanked by his comrades, troops of his men-at-arms who had died beside him, who met their fate in Lord Aegisthus’ halls. He knew me at once… tears sprang to his eyes, he thrust his arms toward me, keen to embrace me there—no use—the great force was gone.”

—From Homer’s
The Odyssey

“Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchased, take my daughter…”

—Prospero, from
The Tempest

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

About the Author

“…for I have lost my daughter.”

—Prospero,
The Tempest
, Act V

Jessica was murdered in spring, when the lilacs were in bloom but the air held a reminiscence of winter’s chill. Lustful bees had started to venture into open classroom windows, causing the girls to scream and press against the walls while the boys laughed and boldly tried to catch the flying visitors by their wings, risking stings to impress their classmates.

We teachers didn’t like this at all; it was a distraction on top of all the other distractions, the most notable of which were the young women and young men, who thought of very little except each other or, to be honest, themselves.

I’m sure I was thinking about this, or some other spring thought, as I passed the lilac bushes that fateful morning and saw Rosalyn Baxter, one of my seniors.

Rosalyn caught up with me as I marched up the school steps, clutching my coffee.

“Ms. Thurber! How’s it goin’?” she asked, bright and perky at seven-thirty in the morning. “Hey, you know the reading you assigned us last night? I actually did it!”

I stopped to face her just in front of the glass entrance doors of St. James High. I liked Rosalyn; she was one of my nicest students, and she wanted to think and learn. Right now, though, I was having trouble being awake. “That’s great,” I said. “I expect you to contribute lots of discussion in class.”

“Oh, I totally will. You know what’s funny? I really feel sorry for the murderer. Are we supposed to feel sorry for him?”

We entered the building and began walking down the hall. “Let’s raise that subject in class. Think about this until then: is he someone who has lost his humanity, or does he have a chance for redemption?”

Rosalyn looked thoughtful. She was seventeen, with naturally nice skin and enviably auburn hair. I stared at it. In my family gray hair came early; I’d found my first strands when I was in my mid-twenties, and now, at twenty-nine, I had gray-winged temples that I carefully colored with “Brown Sugar” in a box.

“Redemption,” she repeated, and then looked up and gasped.

I turned in time to receive a full body-blow from the figure that had been hurtling down the hall. My coffee, purse and books went flying, but I only managed an indignant “Hey!” before I landed on my butt, hard, on the floor across the hall from the Main Office.

Rosalyn stared at the departing figure, who had never stopped running. “What the hell?” she said. “You’re a total loser, Danny! You knocked down Ms. Thurber!”

I was still sitting in a coffee puddle, shocked, moving gingerly on my tailbone. “Danny Washburn?” I asked, surprised. I’d never found him to be rude, but this fell into that category, and I had a feeling I’d be holding a grudge.

Students were gathering now, some looking concerned, some snickering. A couple of them came forward and began to pick up my things, murmuring “Are you okay?” Steve Jansen and Juan Perez, both from my world literature class, held out their hands to help me back to my feet.

“Did Washburn knock you down?” Juan asked, his face bellicose.

“Not on purpose, I’m guessing.”

“Still. That’s not cool. Are you okay and everything?”

“I’m fine,” I said, although I could feel a throbbing pain in my coccyx that I didn’t want to discuss with seventeen-year-old boys. “Listen, could you ask Mr. Hendy to come with a mop so that no one slips in this coffee?”

Steve said “No prob,” and shambled toward the janitor’s room.

I spied our Assistant Principal, Fred Bastian, coming toward me down the hall, wearing a look of disapproval. This was one of only two expressions that Fred’s face could achieve, the other being a sycophantic smile. The latter was never directed at me. He reached the area of my recent collision, looked at me, then down at the brown puddle on the floor. I vaguely heard Rosalyn, ever resilient, giggling with Juan and saying, “Isn’t it funny how coffee makes your breath smell like salami?”

I wondered if she was referring to my breath or the breath of others, but then Fred Bastian distracted me by putting his disapproval into words.

“Teddy, what happened here?” He was still staring at my coffee.

“One of the senior boys just crashed into me.”

His eyes met mine and his eyebrows hiked upward. “Who was it?”

“I didn’t see,” I murmured. I wasn’t thrilled with Danny, but I didn’t really want to force him into an encounter with Fred. “Tom Hendy will be coming with the mop any minute,” I said, edging toward the lounge where my mail awaited me.

“I need to speak with you before you go. In my office?” He was already moving away and speaking over his shoulder.

This was typical of Fred. He liked having power, and one of the common ways he wielded it was to make every meeting, however small, happen in his office; he’d sit behind his desk and narrow his eyes at whomever stood before him, assessing them as if they were trying out for a Broadway show or, as my friend Joshua put it, as though they were seeking parole.

With a sigh I followed Fred, first making sure that the janitor was on his way. I gave a wave of thanks to Rosalyn and Juan.

Fred’s office was tucked into the corner of the Main Office complex. Rosa Martinez manned the phones with ease and grace and also managed to be a storehouse for every nugget of gossip that the busy main artery provided. I rolled my eyes at her and she laughed. “Got a summons?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yeah. What did I do this time?”

She shook her head. “Got me. Nothing I heard about.”

“I just sat in coffee. Do you have something I could blot it with, Rosa?”

She reached into a drawer and handed me a wad of paper towels. We asked Rosa for all sorts of crazy stuff, and she usually had what we needed. I pressed the absorbent towels at my damp posterior, smirking at Rosa, whose face said, “I’ve seen it all.”

“At least I’m wearing black. Hopefully no one will see a thing. Thanks. See you at lunch maybe,” I said. Teachers never knew who they’d be having lunch with — someone will always be detained by a student seeking help, a colleague requesting a meeting, a phone call from a parent (and those were rarely calls of praise or thanksgiving). “Oh no, wait — I have a committee meeting today.”

“Tomorrow we’ll get there. I have another husband story for you.”

I laughed. Rosa’s husband was much-beloved but also affectionately teased all the time. They were, I think, quite happy. Her last husband story had involved his total inadequacy as a plumber.

With a nervous glance at my watch, I tossed the towels in the garbage, waved to Rosa, and moved into Fred’s office, where he stood talking to a chestnut-haired, bearded, thirtyish man. “Ah, here’s Teddy,” Fred said. “Teddy, this is Derek Jonas; he’s the new social science department chair.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shook the man’s hand, then turned back to Fred. “I need to make copies,” I said, going for an apologetic tone. I hadn’t planned on falling or on being waylaid by the assistant principal, and now I was running out of time. I had a first period class, as Fred well knew.

“That’s fine; and when you go upstairs, you can let Derek into the computer lab. You’re the only other one on that floor who has the key, and I have a meeting in just a few moments.”

I looked helplessly at the new teacher. It was true that as the moderator of the newspaper I had a key for one of the big computer labs. But letting the new guy in would entail more wasted time: I’d have to turn off the alarm and show him where the switchbox was and give him a quick lesson in how to use the machines.

“I’ve been in there already, so I know the drill,” the new guy said, much to my relief.

“Oh, uh— okay…”

Fred’s phone rang and he held up a finger that meant “Just a minute.”

I stood there and briefly considered throwing a tantrum. Fred’s office clock said 7:45. The bell was going to ring in ten minutes. I sighed loudly, but Fred had turned away and was murmuring into the phone.

I raised my eyebrows at the new guy. David? Donald? I had already forgotten his name, which was a terrible trait of mine. Anyway, this seemed like a serious call.

I glanced at Fred’s desk, where he had now turned back and started writing on a pad:
Former student dead
.

My heart thudded in my chest. I watched Fred’s pen, which shook slightly, afraid of the upside down information it was about to impart. “Yes,” Fred said. “Yes, of course we’ll have to make an announcement with our morning, uh— prayers. And we’ll pass funeral arrangements on to the students. Yes, uh— If you would remind me how to spell—”

And he wrote it. Jessica Halliday.

“Oh my God,” I said.

The new man grabbed my arm. “Are you all right?”

I stared at him, but I was seeing Jessica, her bright pixie face, her pretty blonde hair.

“What?” I said.

Fred was off the phone. “Teddy, there’s been a—”

“Jessica,” I said, cutting him off. “How did it happen? What happened? Was it a traffic thing? I know she was in New York…”

“She was murdered last night. Found strangled. Her father didn’t go into further details. He asked that we simply say she passed away.”

Murdered
. “You’ll be announcing this?”

Fred shrugged. “Half of them will have heard it on their cell phones already, or from text messaging. Stupid phones,” he said, scowling. We were in agreement on that one.

“I have to go,” I said, and I tapped the new man to indicate that he should follow.

We walked in silence into the faculty room, where we both retrieved our mail, and then I led him to the stairwell closest to my classroom; the lab was across the hall.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said.

“What? Oh, sure.”

I marched up the stairs, my mind racing. Jessica. She’d been my student last year in Senior Honors English, and the year before in British Lit. Bright, pretty, ambitious — she had wanted to be an actress. She’d told me that she was destined to be famous and to make lots of money. I had laughed at her mercenary tendencies, but I was sure that she could succeed in whatever she set out to do.