The Skeleton Takes a Bow (A Family Skeleton Mystery) (16 page)

M
adison had Byron out for a walk when we got home, and as soon as they got back, she said, “Mom, can I go out tonight?”

“Where, when, and with whom?”

“Over to Chelsea’s house, whenever, with a bunch of people.”

I waited.

“Okay, yes, Chelsea’s parents will be there. Samantha, Liam, Colleen, Nikko, and Serena are definitely coming, and I think Tristan might come over, too.”

“And that supplies the why,” Sid said with a smirk.

“That’s fine,” I said. We negotiated drop-off and pick-up times, and since I hate the idea of any other parent having to feed six teenagers without outside help, I let her have a package of Oreos that I’d been saving for a gloomy day.

After making and eating grilled ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner, I delivered Madison and the Oreos and came back feeling a bit disgruntled. After the afternoon I’d had, I could really have used those cookies.

Sid was waiting for me. While I’d been gone, he scrounged some Hershey’s Kisses, arranged them on a plate, and put them out on the coffee table along with a frosty glass of Coke.
Strictly Ballroom
was already in the DVD player, and I’m pretty sure he’d fluffed the sofa cushions. He’d even given Byron a chew stick. It added up to an amazingly welcoming picture.

I said, “Well, I was planning to grade papers responding to a reading on the appeal of reality TV and be depressed, but now you’ve blown that.”

“Eat your chocolate and watch your movie.”

“Only if you’ll watch with me.”

It’s really hard to stay discouraged with a skeleton like that around.

By the time Paul Mercurio and Tara Morice had paso-dobled across the ballroom floor and into each other’s hearts, I was willing to view the day’s events in a more positive light.

“You know, talking to Mr. Chedworth wasn’t a total loss. He gave me all that information on the students in my classes, so now I’m all set for parent-teacher night.”

“True,” Sid agreed.

“And there was that bit about Robert Irwin having zero chance of being hired, even though he thought he had it in the bag. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

“Definitely.”

“And we got so distracted by Chedworth that we’ve never really talked about what I found out from Ms. Rad about how the SATs are administered.” I told him about the procedures, ending with, “I’ve been trying to think about how the Sechrest people can get around all that, but it’s got to be possible. The impostors must be taking the tests at different schools from the ones the real students attend.”

“That makes sense.”

“So maybe they’re bribing proctors to look the other way when they show up with the wrong IDs. Not Ms. Rad, of course, and I don’t think Mr. Chedworth would be susceptible to bribery, either, but I don’t know the other teachers at PHS well enough to say.”

“Good thought.”

“Or maybe they’re doing something with the photos. It’s supposed to be fairly easy to fake an ID, and if the kids are using school IDs instead of something like driver’s licenses, that’s even easier.”

“Wow, you’re right.”

I looked at him. “Sid, you’ve given me chocolate, you showed me one of my favorite movies, and now you’re agreeing with everything I say. Stop it! It’s making me nervous.”

“Just making sure you’re not giving up.”

“Don’t be a bonehead!”

“Hey, it’s not like I have a lot of choices here.” He rapped his hand against his skull, making a surprisingly loud noise.

“Granted.”

“So what do we do next?”

“Well, we’ve linked Patty Craft’s death to Robert Irwin’s and connected both of those murders to the Sechrest Foundation. And . . . And that’s where we’re stuck. It all goes back to them, and we don’t have an in there.”

“Could we get Yo or one of the adjuncts to take a job with them?”

“No, I couldn’t put anybody in that kind of situation. Not only could it be dangerous, but it could also damage somebody’s career if it were to come out. And make no mistake, the Sechrest Foundation is going down. I know we’re not absolutely sure they had anything to do with the murders—”

“Of course they did!”

“I think there’s some connection, but even if there isn’t, I’m going to make sure that the people who run the SAT find out exactly what Frisenda and company are up to.”

“Really? As much as you hate the SAT? Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see them get conned?”

“It’s not that simple. The SAT is flawed, and I can’t stand the fact that somebody’s future can be so influenced by a single test, but cheating just makes things worse. I mean, there are kids who are good at taking tests, and if it gives them an advantage for scholarships or whatever, they should be able to benefit from that. Those scholarships shouldn’t be given to kids who are bad at tests just because their parents can afford to pay somebody to take the tests for them.”

Sid reached over and gently slugged my arm. “I love it when you get all idealistic and stuff.”

“Bonehead!”

“Meat puppet!”

We went on in that affectionate way for an interval until I said, “Fun times aside, we still need a way into the foundation.”

“I know what we can do. Mail me to their office, and put a box cutter in the box with me. Then I cut my way out and search the office for clues.”

Rather than argue with the logistics of the plan, I said, “I don’t have a street address for them. Just the e-mail and Web site.”

“Yeah, and you know what they say. On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog.”

“Say that again.”

“On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog. It means that—”

“I know what it means. It’s given me an idea.”

“We’re going to send Byron after them?”

That I just ignored. “Instead of hoping for them to approach me, I’m going to approach them.”

“How?”

“Get me my laptop, and I’ll show you.”

After nearly an hour of careful writing and rewriting, which would have gone faster without Sid’s help, I had what I hoped would be a tempting letter to send to Ethan Frisenda.

Dear Mr. Frisenda:

It has come to my attention that the Sandra Sechrest Foundation is actively recruiting specialists in testing strategies. Though I am not within the ideal demographic for test specialists, I do have special expertise and access that would add value to your organization.

I’ve been an adjunct faculty member for almost two decades, and have worked in eight different institutions, which has helped me form an extensive network of contacts.

I work part-time tutoring high school students in taking standardized tests such as the PSAT and SAT, so I would be able to identify studants who might benefit from hiring a test specialist and whose parents would have the financial assets to afford such a service.

I would very much like to discuss opportunities within the Sechrest Foundation.

Regards,

Jean Schulz

“I think that’s got it,” I said with more than a little satisfaction. “It’s both pompous and slimy—perfect for the Sechrest Foundation.”

“I still think you could shorten that second bullet item if you—”

“English is my department!”

“You misspelled ‘students.’”

“Coccyx!” I fixed it. “Now for your part. You’re sure you can create an e-mail address that they won’t be able to trace back to us?”

“Of course. I’ve read a dozen articles about how it’s done and what services to use. It’s simple if you know how.”

“Okay, then, if you’re sure.”

“Sure as sacrum.”

Since it was late Friday night, we didn’t expect an answer until the next morning at the earliest, and we weren’t even surprised at not hearing anything over the weekend. Still I had high hopes of getting a response on Monday.

I did, but it wasn’t what I’d been hoping for. Despite Sid’s best efforts, by lunchtime the Sechrest Foundation had tracked the letter back to me.

I
’d finished up with my morning classes at McQuaid and was reading while eating a ham sandwich, which is undeniably rude but since I was alone, I figured it wasn’t going to offend anybody. Unfortunately, it meant that I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings at the Campus Deli and didn’t notice that I had company until a man slid into the other side of the booth. I looked up and was suddenly glad I’d already swallowed or I might have choked.

Ethan Frisenda, the man from the Sechrest Foundation, was sitting across from me.

Logically, I should have realized that there was nothing he could do to me in public, but I couldn’t stop myself from stiffening as if he’d pulled a gun on me.

“Ms. Schulz?” he said politely. “Or should I say Dr. Thackery?”

I nodded.

“We received your note this weekend and found it extremely interesting.” He smiled thinly. “I thought it might save us all a great deal of time and effort if I were to come talk to you. I can be difficult to find, whereas you were easily located.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Merely an observation.”

I wasn’t convinced. He clasped his hands on the table between us, which also seemed vaguely threatening. Admittedly, at that point I’d have been alarmed by a sneeze.

“At any rate, now we have a chance to talk,” he said. “We were very surprised to find out how much you know about the business of the Sechrest Foundation. I’m hoping to find out how that came to be.”

I suddenly realized that Frisenda must have seen too many movies and TV shows, because he sounded just like a Hollywood villain, with his euphemisms and vague warnings. Having seen those same movies and TV shows, I knew exactly how I was supposed to respond: “How did you find me?” And in an ominous tone he’d say he had his ways, and I’d point out that I wasn’t without resources myself, and he’d say that he hoped unpleasantness could be avoided, and I’d say . . . Screw it. I’d been asking people discreet questions for weeks, and I was tired of it.

In a clear voice, I said, “You mean how did I find out about you guys committing fraud? Arranging for parents to hire people to take the SAT and other tests on behalf of their kids? Is that the business you’re talking about?”

I saw his knuckles whiten, as if he was squeezing his hands too tightly, but he tried to stick to his script. “I have my ways of learning these things.”

“Well, obviously, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Frisenda blinked. “Then you have been taking an interest in the foundation?”

“Duh!”

He blinked harder, and I knew he was trying to remember his next line. “I do hope we can avoid—”

I held up one hand to stop him. “Why don’t we cut to the chase? I despise your business. It’s dishonest and immoral and more than a little tacky. I wouldn’t work for you guys if I was starving.” Okay, I’d do it if Madison was starving, but that was a moot point.

“You seem to know a lot . . . You have a great deal of knowledge . . .” He paused, then triumphantly added, “For a disinterested party.”

“I said I’m not interested in working for your crummy business. I
am
interested in what happened to Patty Craft.”

I’d gone so far off script that he actually had to start making up new lines for himself. “I thought Patty killed herself.”

“Is that what you thought? I’ve got reason to suspect otherwise.” Coccyx, now I was starting to sound like a TV villain. “She was murdered.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“And you think I had something to do with it? Hey, I liked Patty. Even after she went through chemo and couldn’t fool anybody into thinking she was a high school student, I used her for other work until last year, when she got too sick to do even that.”

“She must have needed money pretty badly after that. Did she maybe call and threaten to go to the police if you didn’t pay her?”

“You mean like blackmail?” he said.

“That’s what blackmail is.”

“That’s crazy. How could she turn me in without getting herself in trouble?”

“People get immunity for testifying against others.”

“Sure, but it would have ruined her career, right? What school would have hired her once word went out about her being involved?”

That hadn’t occurred to me, but I didn’t want to admit it to him. “What about Robert Irwin?”

“What about him? I haven’t used him since he started losing his hair and showing his age. He couldn’t even fake being a college student for the LSAT anymore.”

“He’s missing, probably dead.”

He blinked. “For real? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“So Irwin wasn’t blackmailing you, either?”

“Same answer. He couldn’t have said anything without losing his job. To tell you the truth, both Patty and Bert had as much to lose as I did.”

“Then were you blackmailing them?”

“Of course not! Patty Craft had cancer—what kind of an a-hole do you think I am?”

Maybe I was nuts, but his mingled shock and offense sounded utterly sincere.

He pulled himself together and assumed his oily, urbane tones again. “I assure you, Dr. Thackery, I am simply a businessman providing a valuable service. I treat my contractors with utmost respect.”

I believed him. Not about the simple businessman, valuable service, or utmost respect parts, but that he didn’t know what had happened to Patty Craft or Robert Irwin. Given the amount of trouble he’d gone to in order to confront me, I figured I could at least let him finish the scene closer to his original vision. So I said, “Very well then. I have no further interest in your activities, though I suggest that in the future you utilize universities other than McQuaid for your recruiting efforts.”

He nodded regally and stood. “I think I can guarantee that. I’m gratified that we were able to resolve this without any unpleasantness.” Then he moved away smoothly.

I waited until he was gone before I started laughing. He’d gone off with a napkin stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

A
fter the hilarity wore off, I realized that it was really no laughing matter. Okay, the napkin on the shoe had been guffaw-worthy, but now I was even more at sea than I’d been before. Instead of the shadowy crime kingpin I’d been expecting, I’d encountered a Netflix addict. Frisenda was a crook, but he wasn’t a killer.

So where did I go next?

I took a deep breath, tossed out my trash, and headed for my mother’s office. I still had a job to do. Two, in fact. As soon as I’d finished up with office hours at McQuaid, I had to run home, make sure Madison had something for dinner, and zip back to PHS for parent-teacher conferences.

I really wasn’t expecting many parents to care enough about a part-time SAT prep teacher when I hadn’t had their children as students for long and wouldn’t keep them for much longer, but there was a line of a half dozen parents waiting when I opened my classroom door at five o’clock to get things started.

Ms. Rad had told me that there were no set appointments for the parents—it was first come, first served. The evening would end at seven thirty, though it was considered polite to continue meeting with parents if they’d joined the line before then.

First up was a father.

“Hello, I’m Jarod Kingston. My son is Frank.”

“Of course. I’m Dr. Thackery.” I shook his hand, waved him to a desk, took my own chair, and pulled out my laptop with the class records. I didn’t see much resemblance between the lanky red-headed boy in my class and this man, balding and dressed in regulation Brooks Brothers from head to toe, but maybe Frank took after his mother.

Kingston said, “You know, Mr. Chedworth is great, but I’m really excited to have the opportunity to talk to somebody who teaches at the college level. I was wondering if you’d gotten a good picture of Frank yet.”

I wasn’t sure what he was asking for, so I went into the spiel Mr. Chedworth had coached me on. “He’s a great kid, always cheerful and on time, and he seems to have an excellent grasp of the material. We’ve only had the one practice quiz so far, but he did very well on that, and Mr. Chedworth’s records show that he’s made straight As all quarter.”

“Good, good. Do you have any suggestions for positioning Frank?”

“Positioning him?”

“For his college applications.” I must have continued to look blank because he added, “His college admissions hook. His grades are solid, and as you know, he tests well, but we’re still struggling to find his ‘wow factor.’”

“Wow,” I said weakly.

“I did have one thought. Frank is an excellent magician, particularly with card tricks, and I thought we could do something with that, have him perform at a children’s ward in the hospital or maybe at a senior citizens’ home. I’m just not sure which would be better.”

“I’m sure people would enjoy either.”

“But which would look better on the application? Sick kids or old people?”

I belatedly realized what I was dealing with. I’d heard rumors in the academic community about how parents hired consultants to help their kids get into college, but I’d thought it was something confined to people who had more money than they knew what to do with. Though I doubted Kingston had that much money—his suit was Brooks Brothers, not Armani—I could tell he’d either spoken to somebody or absorbed a boatload of articles about student positioning.

“Which group of people does he prefer being around?” I asked.

“Does that matter?”

“Absolutely. If he’s not really dedicated to magic or performing for one group or the other, admissions people are going to know he’s just being ‘packaged.’”

“But I thought—”

“I know, you thought that positioning wasn’t the same as packaging, and there’s something in that, but you still can’t fake it.”

“Oh,” he said. “What about music? Like playing the xylophone? That’s unusual, right?”

“Does Frank play the xylophone?”

“I could get him lessons over the summer. Hey, then he could combine magic and music. Like playing a song, then making the xylophone disappear!”

What I really wanted was to make Kingston disappear, but I hated the idea of the guy forcing his kid to spend all summer learning an instrument when it wouldn’t do him any good.

“My best advice is for you to figure out what Frank already enjoys. That’s all the positioning he needs.”

“I see,” he said, nodding. “Thank you for your insight.”

I could just tell that he was going to start disregarding my advice before he got to his car.

About half of the rest of the parents were a variation on that same theme. No matter what I said, they were sure there was a trick to getting their kids accepted at a good college, something beyond good grades, high test scores, and a well-written personal essay. Some of the exceptions wanted to tell me how stupid they thought the SAT was, which I agreed with, and a few actually wanted to know how they could help their kids do better on the test. I wished I could have talked to them all night.

Two parents were waiting when the announcement came that the evening’s conferences were over, so I took the first and told the second to warn off anybody else who tried to get in line. So naturally, when I opened the door again, I found that two more parents had shown up and were waiting with an air of determination. So I bit the bullet and spoke to each of them, though admittedly I was talking as fast as I could.

As I was ushering the last one out, I saw a woman walking quickly in my direction, so I firmly closed the door and locked it. Ms. Rad had warned me that there might be latecomers, and my best bet was to wait in the classroom until they were gone. So I took my time gathering my things, straightening the room, and making sure all the cabinets were locked before I peered out through the door’s inset window into the corridor.

The woman was standing right outside.

I texted Madison that I was stuck at school for a little while longer, checked e-mail on my phone, and peeked again.

She was still standing by the door.

Okay, if I let her in, it would take five minutes to get my stuff back out so I could access her child’s records and probably fifteen minutes of conference. So it was a choice of twenty minutes of work or an undermined amount of time waiting her out. Plus, if I did talk to her, it would encourage her to come late next time—maybe it wouldn’t affect me, but it would be a pain for other teachers. So I waited.

At nineteen minutes, I was about ready to throw in the towel. But then I heard the welcome sounds of her stomping down the hall toward the stairwell. Victory was mine!

Just in case she was lying in wait downstairs, I waited another five minutes before turning out the lights and locking up. By that time, it was nearly eight thirty, and apparently all the other teachers had managed to avoid being ambushed. I didn’t see another soul as I went toward the exit.

As I walked, I texted Madison again, to let her know I was really on the way this time, and got a message back:

Don’t forget Sid!

“Coccyx,” I said loudly, immediately regretting it because of the way it echoed through the empty building.

It had been Sid’s idea to stay at school during the meetings, hoping he’d hear a familiar voice or something juicy as parents wandered to and fro. Of course, what he’d really wanted was a chance to make up for his misstep in setting up the supposedly untraceable e-mail address that Frisenda had used to find me.

Now I had to go get him out of Madison’s locker, which meant backtracking down a corridor that seemed longer than usual.

I know it’s nuts for somebody who’s spent most of her life in the halls of academe, but I still get creeped out when those halls are empty. A school without students or teachers is just unnatural, and since PHS teachers were regularly reminded to turn out their classroom lights when they left, to save power, every doorway was ominously dark. Though I was annoyed I’d have to get Sid, I was just glad I was going to have him for company on the drive home. What could be more cheering than a talking skull?

Just as I turned the corner of the hall where Madison had her locker, the lights went out. “Coccyx,” I said again.

I felt along the wall at the corner where I was fairly sure I’d seen light switches, but my triumph at finding them was quashed when I flipped all the switches and nothing happened. I had no idea if it was a busted fuse or a security timer, but either way, I was stuck in the dark.

I reached into my purse for my phone and managed to find the flashlight app. Having only a streak of illumination was almost worse than being in darkness, but not quite, so I used it to make my way to the right locker.

“Sid? You okay in there?” I whispered. There was no reason to whisper, of course, but I didn’t want more echoes.

“What’s going on out there?” he said. “What happened to the lights?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. I just want to get out of here.” Then, of course, I had to find the text Madison had sent me with the combination, and that took what seemed like two or three hours of fumbling around. Once I had it, I had to hold the phone in one hand while twisting the ossifying knob on the ossifying lock with the other. Meanwhile Sid was humming the theme to
Jeopardy!

When the lock’s shackle finally let go, I swung the locker door open and snarled at Sid.

He was grinning at first, but then his eyes got impossibly wide. “Georgia, behind you!”

Without thinking, I threw myself to the side and onto the floor and heard the swish of something going over my head and the earsplitting crash of something slamming against the row of lockers.