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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

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He put his hand on my thigh. “We gave it our best shot.”

I sighed.

At the penthouse, on the couch in the living room. Lights in the apartment off, glow from the city providing enough light to see his white jockey shorts and the golden down on his chest. I put a Gordon Bok tape in the cassette player. Scott lay with his head in my lap. I leaned back and
listened to Bok sing “Saben the Woodfitter.” One of the quiet classics of folk music. I caressed Scott's chest hair with my fingertips, put my arm under his head, smelled his clean shower smell, sighed in near contentment.

The tape moved to the next song and Scott said, “I was a little scared for a while there tonight.”

“Fortunately for us, Bluefield is not the brightest.”

“I'm serious,” he said. “I was scared.”

I looked down. I could see the blue of his eyes searching mine. I traced his hairline, brushed a blond lock or two into place.

“I was too,” I said.

We wound up on the living-room floor, on an Indian rug woven by one of his teammates.

I arrived at school early the next morning. The kids had been given the day off so the faculty and administration could get together to figure out how to hold classes.

The fire department met with us first, explaining which parts of the building they would let classes meet in.

While much of the vast complex remained intact, it would be necessary to run double shifts for the rest of the year. This meant that some teachers didn't start until eleven in the morning and wouldn't be going home until nearly five. No teacher I knew liked double shifts. We heard a lot of grumbling as they decided who would take what time period.

I saw all of our suspects at some time the next morning, whether in the front hall or the teachers' lounge; none of them acknowledged my existence. I felt distinctly unpopular.

I'd tried to call the police several times during the day, and at noon had gone out to talk to the people poking through the remains of the fire. They told me nothing, and a burly old fireman urged me vigorously to keep the hell out of their way. The police hadn't told me anything about the pursuit of Bluefield. He could be lurking nearby, with a dual attack with his son planned as his next move.

The doling out of the unburned books and materials
took up the majority of the afternoon. Saying that some teachers are pack rats is as ridiculous as saying the sun will rise. I've seen teachers who save a copy of every ditto, test, and homework assignment they've ever given. Some never throw anything out, in hopes that someday it may come in handy. Getting them to part with some of their precious materials took direct commands from heads of departments, and in one vicious dispute in the math department, Carolyn Blackburn had to step in. It was nearly six before I got out of the building. I spent the last hour helping referee a fight between the Senior Honors English teacher and Al Welman over who would get to use the remaining copies of
Great Expectations
.

I endured a ten-minute tirade from Al Welman. I wanted to whap the old fool over the head with his multihued umbrella, today's accessory of individualism.

Tired and discouraged, I strode out to my truck. I noted the glorious sunset and gorgeous colors and plodded on. I thought about northern Wisconsin and fall colors and hoped the leaves hadn't completely turned so far north.

I got within ten feet from my truck and stopped. A body detached itself from the driver's side. In size and shape it could have been Bluefield father or son.

I felt annoyance more than anything else. Maybe I could simply pound the shit out of him and be done with it. Then again, this could be the elder Bluefield and his gun.

I shifted my briefcase to my left hand, freeing my right in case I needed to defend myself, and checked for the possibility of ambush or for possible help from a passerby. Lots of places to hide in the parking lot, and no one around at the moment.

The body moved into the light, to reveal Dan.

He said, “Hello, Mr. Mason.” He sounded respectful and calm.

The black paint of the truck gleamed in the last rays of the sun. I saw the two of us reflected in the surface.

“What can I do for you, Dan?” I asked.

He shuffled his feet, glanced up at me, then away.

“They arrested my dad an hour ago.”

I grunted acknowledgment.

“I'm pretty fucked up sometimes,” he said.

I remained silent and watchful.

He finally looked at me. The side of his face that caught the light looked troubled and unhappy. “It's like sometimes I can't control myself. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to bust. Not because I'm high, or angry, just like there's something inside of me that is bigger than me.”

“Did you kill Mr. Jones?” I asked.

He looked startled, then gave me a brief smile. “No. I guess you're still in trouble because of that.”

“I think I'm still a suspect.”

“I didn't kill him. He was a fool, but he was friendly. A couple times I almost trusted him.”

He scuffed his foot on the pavement, back and forth, for several minutes. Silence lengthened and more shadows gathered. I waited for whatever it was he came to say.

With his head still hanging down he whispered, “I hate my dad.” His whole body seemed to shudder. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

I didn't know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

He said, “You really know Scott Carpenter? You guys are really boyfriends?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “I wish I'd gotten his autograph.”

We spent a few more minutes in silence. Only the glow of sunset remained touching the western horizon. To our east, darkness reigned.

“I'm sorry,” Dan said. “For all the stuff I did.”

I accepted his apology. We talked for a while, both leaning against the side of my truck. He made no promises about reform or change or what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He did not break down sobbing in tears. He was a confused young adult doing a little talking.

As we spoke, the parking lot emptied of cars. A few of the faculty saw us. We got some strange looks. Meg waved but didn't come over to chat.

Dan said, “What's going to happen to my dad?”

“My best guess is he'll get charged with arson, probably attempted murder.”

“He really hated you, Mr. Mason. You're the first person I've ever known that he didn't frighten or bully into giving him his way. That's part of the reason I'm here apologizing. I wish there was something I could do to help you out.”

“Maybe there is,” I said.

He leaned up a little straighter, looking wary.

“I'm not going to ask for secrets about drugs or illegal activity,” I said. “I just want you to tell me everything you remember about the night of the murder. From the time you got back from the hospital until you left.”

The sodium arc lights in the parking lot flicked to life, giving his blond hair a slightly reddish sheen.

Dan told his story. He'd come in with Jones. They'd talked for a few minutes. Jones had pressed him again to get psychiatric counseling. “I got mad at that. He was always bugging me about it.”

Maybe Jones hadn't been as much of a milquetoast with the kid as I'd thought.

Dan had walked away. Georgette was still in the office when he walked out. Dan hunted for Dalrymple to talk to her, but at first he couldn't find her. He knew she usually didn't leave until late, so he hunted all over the school for her.

“Who did you see?”

“I found Donna, Mrs. Dalrymple. We talked a few minutes. I left her and walked out. Everybody was gone. I saw the janitor, the old guy who's in charge. He seemed all excited about something.”

“How could you tell he was excited?”

“He kept singing to himselfâsomething about âI'm in the money.' I figured maybe he just won the lottery. The old fool practically danced down the hall with a cane.”

“He was blackmailing the killer,” I said. “Maybe he walked in on whoever did it.”

We talked for a while longer, but Dan remembered nothing else significant about that night.

I wished him luck as he left, and I meant it. He might or might not turn his life around, but I wished him well.

I turned to my truck and clambered into the seat. Because of the oversized tires I had a panoramic view of the grounds around the school. My eye roved over the faÃ§ade of the structure On the third floor, in the front of the new section, a light gleamed in a lone window. Third from the left on the top floor should have been the English department office. I started the car, wondering who was upstairs.

At the edge of the parking lot it hit me. I backed up, turned around, and parked. I entered the building through the doors near the gym. A basketball game organized by the Park District with men from the community rumbled over the wooden floor. I mounted the stairs through the all-too-familiar darkened halls.

I opened the door of the English office. Al Welman sat at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. At the sound of the opening door, he turned. I got a wintry smile.

“What's going on, Al?” I asked.

“Because of you I have to replan every one of my lessons for the next month.”

“I didn't set the fire, Al.”

“But you agreed with everybody else about the distribution of books. You're just making my job harder.”

I sat on top of the desk next to the one he was working at. He rubbed bloodshot eyes and sighed tiredly.

He said, “On days like this, I used to be able to go home and Mabel would have dinner ready and hot tea on the stove.” He sighed. “I miss her.”

I said, “It's Wednesday, Al. Where's your cane? You bring the umbrella on Fridays.”

He put his red pen down.

“I talked to a witness who saw the blackmailer with a cane just after the murder.”

Al's right hand shook nearly uncontrollably as he tried to lift his cup of tea to his lips.

“My cane's at home,” he croaked.

I said, “Let's go look.”

He shook his head.

“I thought you and Marshall were friends,” I said.

The tea spilled on a pile of student papers on the desk. He mopped at it clumsily.

“Marshall found the cane at the scene,” I said. “He was going to blackmail you. Why would a close friend turn on you?”

Welman sighed, then told the story. “Marshall needed money. He wanted out of this place. He knew he was going to get fired soon. He saw this as a way to get a free meal ticket for the rest of his life. I had to shut him up.”

I listened to his confession, his plotting and planning, the theft of the knife, waiting for the right moment in Jones's office when no one was around. In his excitement he'd dropped his cane, gone back for it, but it was gone. Then Marshall had begun the blackmail. They were to meet last Sunday. Welman found him asleep on the roof and took the chance to smother him. He'd tried to get into Longfellow's home since then to try and recover the cane, but he'd been unsuccessful. After a while he figured that even if the police found the cane in Longfellow's house, they'd never associate it with him. Only someone from the school could do that.

I called the police from the phone in the office. As we waited for them to arrive, Al said, “Jones was a mean man. If he'd been a little understanding, a little nicer, I could have retired in a couple years in peace.” His last words to me just before the police walked in were “I'm glad I killed him.”

On the shores of Lake Superior we huddled in our fur lined black-leather jackets against a rising north wind. A cloudless sky glowed faintly blue in the west as we watched shadows grow around us. We stood on a rocky promontory on one of the last reaches of an island that was still technically a part of Wisconsin. From our vantage
point we could barely see the twinkle of light from the windows of our cabin. No other sign of human habitation disturbed the serenity of the moment. Scott put his arm around me and we moved close.

BY MARK RICHARD ZUBRO

The “Tom and Scott” Mysteries

A Simple Suburban Murder
Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead?
The Only Good Priest
The Principal Cause of Death

The “Paul Turner” Mysteries

Sorry Now?

Stonewall Inn Mysteries
Michael Denneny, General Editor

DEATH TAKES THE STAGE
by Donald Ward

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE MYSTERIOUS
FRIEND OF OSCAR WILDE
by Russell A. Brown

A SIMPLE SUBURBAN MURDER
by Mark Richard Zubro

A BODY TO DYE FOR
by Grant Michaels

WHY ISN'T BECKY TWITCHELL DEAD?
by Mark Richard Zubro

THE ONLY GOOD PRIEST
by Mark Richard Zubro