The Skeleton Takes a Bow (A Family Skeleton Mystery) (17 page)

I
’d dropped my phone as I hit the floor, and the light showed only a pair of sneakered feet standing behind where I’d been a second before.

“Help! Police! Help! Fire! Help! Police! Help! Fire!”
Sid yelled.

The person in sneakers hesitated, probably trying to figure out who was making all the noise. Then he—or she—turned to go. I stuck my foot out, hoping to trip him, but he dodged it easily and ran down the hall.

“Help! Police! Help! Fire! Help! Police! Help! Fire!”

“Sid! Sid, he’s gone.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I took a moment to make sure I was telling the truth, but while I might find a bruise later, nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding. “I’m fine,” I said again and got up from the floor.

“Call 9-1-1!”

“Already on it.”

An hour and a half later, I almost wished I hadn’t bothered. First off, the woman answering the phone sounded all too familiar—I was pretty sure she’d been the one who answered the phone when I’d called in my anonymous tip, and I was afraid she recognized my voice, too.

To add to my paranoia, Deborah’s friend Louis Raymond was one of the responding officers, but if he was suspicious about my being attacked after having been involved in a bizarre murder case a few months before, he kept it to himself.

Principal Dahlgren, on the other hand, couldn’t quite hide his feelings. While he said all the right things, I couldn’t help but pick up the impression that he thought the incident was most peculiar. He kept asking why I’d stayed at school so late, even after I explained that I was dodging a tardy but overly persistent parent. I couldn’t tell if he thought I was stealing school supplies or if I’d been doing something illegal and/or immoral on school property.

He insisted that they’d never had violence at the school before, and when Officer Raymond reminded him of Irwin going missing after his interview there, he came just short of snapping when he insisted that Irwin’s disappearance had nothing to do with PHS. What he really wanted was for the police to confirm that I’d been attacked by a random stranger coming into the school.

The police weren’t buying it. For one, my attacker had known how to temporarily disable the hall lights. It turned out that it hadn’t been a fuse—it was something much simpler. There were switches on both ends of the long hall, and the lights had been turned off using the panel farthest from me. Plus the switches had been left halfway between on and off, so they couldn’t be turned back on from the end I was on. It was an old trick, but it showed that my attacker was familiar enough with the building to know where the light switches were and how to rig them. Moreover, the police found that he’d left behind the weapon that had hit the locker instead of my head. It was a baseball bat clearly marked as PHS property. Dahlgren had no rebuttal for that.

The police started out by focusing on any kids I might have flunked out of my class, or possibly arguments with their parents during the night’s meetings, but I kept telling them that it was a pass-fail course and nobody was failing. Then they asked about my personal life, and I had nothing to tell them about that, either.

Eventually they concluded that they couldn’t conclude much of anything. It could have been random or it could have been personal, but they were having a hard time reconciling either scenario with somebody finding out that I’d be at school late and alone, knowing how to deal with the lights, and being able to locate the baseball bat.

Of course, I couldn’t explain why I thought I’d been targeted, and I certainly couldn’t tell the real story of how he’d been scared off. I’d had Sid back in his bag before the police and Dahlgren arrived, and if anybody wondered why I was carrying a bowling bag, they didn’t mention it.

Finally everybody agreed that there was nothing else that could be done. The police took the bat with them to check for fingerprints and escorted me to my car to make sure I got there safely.

Sid managed to contain himself until we were out of the school parking lot, but then he started thumping on the inside of the bag and kept at it until I was stopped by a red light long enough to unzip the bag.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked immediately.

“Yes, Sid, I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me? If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t be involved in this crazy mess!”

“Stop that!”

“You know it’s true.”

“And you wouldn’t have gotten us involved if Madison hadn’t forgotten you at school, and Madison wouldn’t have had you at school if I hadn’t let her take you. So that makes it my fault.”

“That is the worst logic trail I have ever heard.”

“Okay, then blame Deborah. That’s always fun.”

“Seriously—”

“Seriously, Sid, you had my back. As always. And literally this time.”

“But—”

“But me no buts until you grow one of your own.”

“Hey! I have a very shapely tailbone.”

“If the shape to which you refer is a point, then sure you do.”

“You’re just jealous because I’m prettier than you are.”

“Speaking of looks,” I said, happy to have moved the subject away from the blame game, “I don’t suppose you got a look at the face of the guy who tried to hit me, did you?” The police had responded so quickly I hadn’t had a chance to ask before. That and the fact that I might have been too much in shock to think of the obvious.

Sid said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t. It was so dark, and his face was in shadow. All I saw was somebody behind you, and then him raising his arms.”

“All I saw was his feet, and of course he wasn’t wearing anything distinctive, like sequin-covered Uggs or limited-edition Converse high-tops. Just plain white sneakers.”

“Were the police any help at all? It sure didn’t sound like it from what I heard.”

“They were trying. I mean, they searched the school, but didn’t find any signs of him or any forced entry, just the baseball bat.”

It was when I said “baseball bat” that it got to me. Somebody had actually swung at my head with a baseball bat. He’d swung so hard he’d left a visible dent in the locker he’d hit instead.

“I’m sorry,” I said stiffly, “but I need to stop for a minute.” I guess there was no traffic because nobody honked when I suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and threw the car into park before my shaking got so bad I couldn’t drive anymore.

“Oh, Georgia,” Sid said. His hand reached out from the bowling bag and took mine in a firm clasp. I know it sounds incredibly creepy, but he meant it to be comforting, and I was in fact comforted. He murmured the kinds of things I used to say to Madison when she’d fallen and hurt herself, and eventually I remembered that the older version of Madison was waiting at home.

“I’m okay now,” I said firmly and took my hand back to put the car back in gear. I must have been somewhat better, at least, because this time I remembered to check for other cars before pulling out onto the road.

For the rest of the drive home, I tried to come up with a way to tell Madison what had happened without making her freak out. It was wasted mental effort. My sister had gotten to the house ahead of me.

D
eborah and Madison were at the door when I walked in, and my daughter immediately grabbed me with the desperate hug of a frightened child. Even if I hadn’t seen her face first, I’d have known she’d been crying. Meanwhile Deborah took Sid’s bag out of my hand, opened it to pull out his skull, and said, “Spill it, bone boy—everything that happened, not just what Georgia wants us to know.”

Sid did so, leaving out nothing, but at least not making it sound any worse than it had been.

When it was all over, Madison looked as if she was about to start crying again.

“Sit!” Deborah said, pushing the two of us toward the living room. “Take bone boy with you.”

We went to sit on the couch, with Madison so close beside me that she was nearly in my lap. Sid was on my lap. Even Byron seemed to sense something was wrong, because he was keeping watch. Or maybe he was hoping to run off with some part of Sid.

A few minutes later, Deborah came in with mugs of milk, a stack of ham sandwiches, and the package of Oreos I’d bought to replace the ones Madison took to her friend’s house. “Eat.”

Those of us who were in the habit of eating did so, and after the first half of her sandwich, Madison lost that about-to-break-down look. I felt a lot better, too—I’d nearly forgotten how hungry I was.

Only when we’d eaten our way through all the sandwiches and a ludicrous number of cookies did Deborah say, “Okay, then. Let’s recap. Did Sid leave anything out?”

“Nope, he told you everything I know—which is next to nothing—and what Officer Raymond told me. Which reminds me. Isn’t it against the rules for your bowling buddy to tell you about police investigations?”

“It wasn’t Louis who called me,” she retorted. “It was Mr. Dahlgren. He wants me out at the school bright and early tomorrow morning to see about replacing the locks, and he wants recommendations for updating the security system.”

“I’m impressed. From the way he was talking, I thought he’d convinced himself I was making it up or that I was using the school as a lair for my gang of hoodlums.”

“Hoodlums? Not hooligans?” Deborah asked with one eyebrow raised. “Never mind. The point is, no matter what Dahlgren believes happened, or wants to believe happened, he has to take measures to make sure it doesn’t happen again. He’s smart to get things moving before parents start finding out.”

“Dahlgren!” Sid said with a sniff. “‘Oh, it couldn’t be one of our students. Our students are perfect angels.’ If he’d heard some of what I’ve heard the past couple of weeks, he wouldn’t even try to say that. Can he really be that naive? Or is it denial?”

“Maybe it was something else,” I said. “You couldn’t see his feet from the bag, could you, Sid?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“He was wearing white sneakers.”

Madison said, “Mom, now you’re freaking me out. Look, I think it’s great that you’ve been trying to find out who killed those people, but this is getting too scary. You have to stop doing this before you get hurt.”

I’d been afraid that was coming. “I’m sorry, Madison, but I’m more convinced than ever that the killer is somehow attached to PHS, and I’m going to get that ossifying piece of sacrum out of your school!”

I was expecting Deborah to chime in, which she did, but not the way I would have predicted.

“Georgia,” she said, “when are you going to learn how to cuss like a grown-up?” Then she turned to Madison and in a matter-of-fact tone said, “Here’s the thing, kiddo. Your mother is already a target, and the only way to change that is to catch the killer. The police can’t do it because they don’t have the same information we do and we can’t give it to them in a way that they’ll accept. So from this point on, you guys are going on red alert. You don’t go anywhere alone, you keep your cell phones charged and close to hand, and we work this problem until it’s solved. Madison, you are not to ride your bike to school—either your mother or I will take you there and pick you up again. As for walking the dog, both of you go or you let him do his business in the yard. A couple of days without walks isn’t going to hurt Byron.”

“Wow. Deborah, I’m impressed,” I said.

“Me, too,” Sid said. “She made a
Star Trek
joke.”

She reached over and thumped him a good one before giving us more instructions about everything from making sure we all had GPS enabled on our electronics to changing the password on the home alarm system.

The only sticking point was when she tried to mandate that Madison immediately quit all of her extracurricular activities.

“No way,” Madison said. “I could stall on choral ensemble, but the play is next week, and I am not leaving the club high and dry.”

“She’s right, Deborah,” I said. “Remember when you were in drama in high school and two people dropped out of the cast right before tech week?
Twelve Angry Men
suddenly became
Ten Really Angry Men
.”

So we compromised. Madison would attend rehearsal every afternoon of tech week—the last few days before the Friday and Saturday night performances—but she promised not to so much as leave the auditorium without accompaniment.

“And I’ll be there with her!” Sid said.

“I might be, too,” Deborah said. “I wonder if your director could use a little extra help backstage.”

“I’ve never known a student production that couldn’t,” I said. “Are you okay with that, Madison?”

“Sure,” she said. “Becca has been going crazy trying to do everything herself, and Jo is still finishing up costumes, so I’d be glad for the help even if things were normal.”

We worked out a few more details, and then I realized how late it had gotten. After testing the burglar alarm she herself had installed, Deborah left for home and Madison and I went to bed.

Normally I hate it when Deborah tries to pull big-sister rank on me, but for once, I didn’t mind a bit. Not only was it good to have her help and expertise, but I was more than a little gratified that she was assuming that I could find the killer. I just wished I was as confident in my abilities as she seemed to be.

I
got two e-mails from PHS the next day: one because I was the parent of a student and one because I was a member of the faculty. Both had the same message. In the most vague terms imaginable, Mr. Dahlgren described the attempted attack on me, emphasizing that I had not been injured and that it was likely a random occurrence. Then he invited the entire PHS community to attend a meeting that night in which questions of safety would be addressed.

The letter to parents referred only to “a member of the faculty,” but the teacher letter did give my name, so I was wondering what kind of welcome I’d get when I showed up at PHS. Would the teachers share Mr. Dahlgren’s opinion that I’d brought trouble to the school?

I got the answer as soon as the bell rang at the end of the day. Almost as fast as my students poured out, teachers poured in, with Ms. Rad leading the pack.

“Georgia, I heard what happened, and I am so sorry. I should never have told you to let parents keep you late!”

“It’s okay, I’m fine. It’s not your fault.”

Then Mr. Neal and Ms. Zale gave me a box of chocolates and the quartet of math teachers who’d been so irritated at my sitting in their row during the faculty meeting said they’d take turns walking me to my car after school. It went on from there. Some people had questions about what had happened, but it felt like honest concern, not morbid curiosity, and nobody even hinted that it could have been my fault. I’d never have gotten out of there if Madison hadn’t come in, wanting her ride home.

On the way, Madison and Sid both said that gossip had been flying ever since the morning announcements, when Mr. Dahlgren notified the students about the upcoming meeting. But while they’d both kept their ears open—well, Madison’s ears and Sid’s ear holes—neither had heard anything useful. Dahlgren may have been too circumspect when talking to the students—the rumors were far more alarming than the real story.

Since Deborah was also going to the meeting at PHS because of her job, we met up for pizza at the house first and took one car. It turned out to be a good choice—it looked like the entire town had shown up, not just the people with ties to PHS. I managed to squeeze my minivan into one of the last spaces in the parking lot.

I may have been overly sensitive, but given the number of people who glanced in my direction, I figured the word was out about who’d been attacked. We stopped by Madison’s locker to leave Sid—who’d insisted on coming just in case—and then filed into the auditorium. Normally I would have sat with Madison, but since the faculty had been asked to gather together in the rear of the auditorium, Deborah took Madison with her while I sat in the seat Ms. Rad had saved for me.

I’ve never attended a school meeting that started on time, and this one was no exception. It was ten after seven before Mr. Dahlgren came onto the stage, accompanied by the head of the school’s guidance department, the Pennycross police chief, Mr. McDaniel in his role as head of the PTO, and Mr. Chedworth, still on crutches. The actual meeting portion was fairly brief. Mr. Dahlgren didn’t say much more about the attack than what he’d put in his e-mail, and when people pushed for details, he would only say it was an ongoing police investigation. As soon as he could, he moved on to what the school was doing to prevent similar incidents in the future: added security cameras, more secure locks, and extra care in adhering to policies already in place. Then he opened the floor to questions. After the first ten minutes of those, my eyes glazed over.

I understood people being worried about their children’s welfare—I shared that worry—but I’d never figured out why it manifested itself in asking the same question that has been asked several times before. Though Dahlgren had plenty of experience with parent groups, I could tell he was starting to lose patience, and finally he shut it down despite the dozen or more parental hands still waving for attention and asked anybody with more questions to contact him later. Then he had us teachers distribute handouts outlining everything he’d said.

The auditorium was so full it took forever for everybody to filter out, especially when people were clumping in the least convenient locations possible to rehash the situation. The other teachers, more experienced in such matters, had zipped out before Dahlgren finished and were long gone, but I had to wait for Madison and Deborah. Then we three had to inch through the crowd to get to Madison’s locker, dislodge a man who was leaning against it, and retrieve Sid before we could get back to the minivan. By then, the parking lot was a gridlocked wonderland.

And once again, Sid was banging against the inside of his bag. “Let me out! Let me out!”

“Madison, let him out,” I said, still stuck in traffic.

“But for Pete’s sake, don’t let anybody see him!” Deborah said.

“I heard him! I heard the murderer!” Sid said.

“He was there? Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’m sure!”

“Who was it?” Madison wanted to know.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s go back a step,” I said. “You’re sure you heard the murderer’s voice?”

“Yes, but I didn’t see him. Too many people were around, and one guy leaned up against the vent of the locker, so I couldn’t see for most of the time. It’s a good thing I don’t breathe, or I could have suffocated.”

He was so indignant I didn’t bother reminding him that if he could breathe, his skull wouldn’t have been in a locker in the first place. “So what did the killer say?”

“Nothing useful. I only caught a few sentences while he was passing by. ‘I never would have expected something like this in Pennycross, let alone in the high school.’ Then a woman asked if he thought the kids would be safe, and he said, ‘I really think it was a one-time thing, but Dahlgren is right on it.’ Then they moved on, or got lost in the crowd, or whatever.”

“But you are absolutely sure it was the killer?” I asked again.

“How many times do I have to say it? I’m sure!”

I honestly didn’t know if I should be horrified or elated. Obviously, the idea of publicly rubbing elbows with a murderer was enough to make me want to turn hermit, but at the same time, it meant that our assumptions and deductions were correct. The killer had ties to PHS, and he was still around.

Madison and Deborah acted just like I felt, and Deborah decided that the only appropriate reaction was to go over all our security procedures again during the agonizingly slow trip out of the parking lot and the much faster drive to the house.

I appreciated her good intentions, but I was about ready to zip her into the bowling bag by the time we got home. Fortunately for all of us, she didn’t come in, just switched cars so she could go back to her place.

The rest of Sid’s skeleton was waiting in the armoire, so he pulled himself together and then searched the house—checking the perimeter, he called it, which I assumed he’d learned in a game or a book. He also announced that he’d be keeping watch downstairs every night since he didn’t sleep anyway. It made him feel better, so I didn’t mind, but I still armed the alarm system.

Madison asked, “Do you really think the killer is going to come after you again, Mom?”

“Not really. Why should he? He knows who I am, but it’s obvious I don’t know who he is or I’d have told the cops.”

“Then why did he try to . . . You know, last night?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out. Scare me, maybe? It just seems so stupid in retrospect. If he did hide Irwin’s body to make sure nobody made a connection with PHS, then why bring attention back to the school with an attack?”

“Maybe you’re making him nervous, and he’s losing it.”

“That makes as much sense as anything, and if you’re right, that’s going to make it easier to catch him.”

What I didn’t say was that it also made it more likely that he’d try more violence—she was worried enough.