The Skeleton Takes a Bow (A Family Skeleton Mystery) (4 page)

T
here was no more discussion of the murder that night. Instead we watched DVDs until Deborah started snoring in the middle of an episode of
Leverage
and I sent her home. Then I did a cursory kitchen cleaning and booted up my laptop to jot down some lecture notes for the next week’s classes while Sid and Madison watched more of
Doctor Who
. In other words, it was a typically festive Saturday night at the Thackery house.

Eventually Sid headed upstairs to catch up with his ever-increasing number of Facebook friends, and Madison and I started getting ready for bed.

When I went into her room for a good night kiss, I saw from the look on my daughter’s face that she had something on her mind.

She said, “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about what Sid said he heard at school?”

“Ah. Mind if I have a seat so we can talk about it?”

She pulled Byron onto her lap so there would be room for me to sit down.

I said, “That’s a fair question, but I’m afraid I don’t have a very good answer. Sid and I were still discussing the murder when you came home from Wray’s, and my knee-jerk reaction was not to tell you. At least, not yet.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“As soon as the story had an ending. I really thought that calling the police last night would give them what they needed to find the killer and arrest him, and then I could explain it to you once it was a fait accompli, and you wouldn’t be scared about going to school.”

“I’m not scared of going to school.”

“It doesn’t bother you that there was a murder committed in the auditorium?”

She hesitated and picked up the stuffed pig that she still keeps on her bed. “Do you really believe Sid heard what he says he heard?”

“Yes, I do. But you don’t, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Do you think he’s lying?”

“Not exactly lying. But could he have misinterpreted? Made it sound worse than it really was?”

“Sid’s not the kind of person to make something up just to get attention.”

“I guess not, but—”

“But you still don’t believe him. Okay, I accept that. But you have to accept that I do believe him. I’ve known him most of my life—I trust him completely.”

“But Aunt Deborah said—”

“Aunt Deborah has her own issues with Sid. Don’t forget that she spent years not even speaking to him.” Around the time Deborah graduated from high school, she’d decided that Sid was too ridiculous to exist and therefore she wouldn’t acknowledge him directly in any way. I suspect that she still thought he was too ridiculous to exist, but some events the previous fall had convinced her to revisit her interactions with him.

“That was uncool,” Madison said, “but it must have been kind of weird for her. Having Sid around, having to keep him hidden, and never being asked about having him in the family or anything.”

Okay, I thought I knew what was going on. It wasn’t an issue that had ever shown up in any parenting article I’d ever read, so I was going to have to play it by ear.

“You’re right, nobody asked Deborah if she was okay with Sid joining the family, but you have to remember that Deborah was only ten years old when Sid showed up at our door, and it was a very different time. Though our parents were pretty open-minded, they didn’t always consult us kids before making big decisions. You, on the other hand, are significantly older than ten and you and I do discuss decisions. Usually. But maybe I blew it with Sid. I mean, I’d never get married or adopt another kid or even let a roommate into the house without talking to you, but I did spring Sid on you.” It hadn’t been planned that way. I’d wanted to introduce Sid to Madison for years, but when the time finally came, it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.

“No, you didn’t. I mean, you did kind of surprise me with Sid’s . . . Sidness, but once I knew him I wanted him to stay with us. And this is his house anyway. I just hadn’t known he was living in the attic until then.”

“True, but now that you do know, Sid has really inserted himself into our lives. Does it bother you that we’re a threesome now and not a duo?”

“No, of course not.”

“No, not ‘of course.’ I want a real answer.”

This time she took a moment to think. “Okay, it is different. I mean, you and he have a lot of history, and you and I have history, but he and I really don’t have much. Except that he knows so much about me from talking to you.”

“He always loved hearing about you, if that makes you feel any better. Did you know he has a photo album of pictures of you?”

“He does? That’s kind of sweet.”

“He’s a sweet guy, which you wouldn’t expect from somebody without a heart.”

She halfway smiled. “That whole skeleton thing is taking some getting used to, I guess. I feel awkward inviting people over to the house.”

“Don’t!” I said. “Sid won’t mind spending an evening or a whole weekend up in the attic. I can sneak up there if he wants company, but now that he’s got his computer—plus books and movies—he’s fine with it. Your aunt and I had company when we were growing up, and it didn’t bother him. It gave him new people to spy on, which he loved. But even if he did mind, he’d be willing to stay out of the way so you could have friends over. He doesn’t want you to miss out on anything. Okay?”

“Okay. I guess it has been kind of weird, but mostly it’s good. I love Sid, I really do.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. And I’m even more glad that you’re willing to talk to me about the situation. Because it would be really hard for you to go to the guidance counselor at school with this particular problem.”

She snickered. “Yeah, Mr. Carabello is great, but I don’t think he’d be prepared for helping set up a family meeting with Sid.”

“Exactly. And while we’re at it, there’s something I want you to know. My first priority is and always will be you. I love Sid, I love my parents, I’m pretty fond of Deborah—”

“Mom!”

“Okay, I love Deborah. But I love you most-est of all!”

“Most-est? They are so going to kick you out of the English professor club.”

“All English professors have a creative license, with special dispensation for amphigory.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, as I was trying to say, you are the most important thing in my life. If you’re not happy with our living arrangements, then we will rearrange them until you are. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Now it is past bedtime.”

Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and I headed for my room. A couple of seconds later, I heard tiny sounds from the attic stairs.

I was really going to have to talk to Sid about eavesdropping, but maybe it was just as well that he’d overheard that particular discussion.

A
fter she swore that she’d finished her homework for the weekend, I took Madison and her dog to spend Sunday afternoon at her friend Samantha’s house. Once I got home, I took my laptop up to Sid’s attic room to keep him company.

The place was looking much brighter than it had when I’d first moved back into the house. His furniture was still used, but I’d replaced some of the more obvious castoffs. Sid might be completely secure in his masculinity, but no grown man—not even a skeletal one—wanted to have to rely on Deborah’s old Hello Kitty flashlight.

Sid was typing away enthusiastically when I came into the room and got settled on the couch. Finger-bone typing is considerably louder than any other kind of typing, but I can filter it out well enough to do my own work. In fact, I filtered it so thoroughly that I didn’t notice at first that Sid had stopped, and when I did, I looked up and saw him looking at me with an air of expectation.

“So what’s our plan?” he asked.

“Um . . . I’m going to grade papers, and you’re going to play on Neopets?”

“No! Well, yes, but I mean what’s our plan for solving the murder.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going to just let a killer get away with it, are we?”

“I didn’t realize we had a choice in the matter, Sid. We told the police what we could, which should help as soon as they find the real body—I mean, the second body— Or have they found it?”

“Nope. I’ve scoured the Web, and the only body found was that woman Deborah was talking about. The overdose.”

“Well, when the other body is found the police can take it from there.”

“But what if they don’t find it? Or what if the physical evidence has deteriorated by the time they do? The first few days after a murder are key to solving the crime, Georgia. Key!”

“And that’s very important for the police to keep in mind, but considerably less so for us. I’ve got plenty on my plate already.”

“But you said you believed me.”

“I do believe you. That doesn’t mean I’m going to get myself into a mess like I did last time. You do remember what nearly happened, don’t you?” Being knocked out and tied up wasn’t nearly so much fun as it looked in the movies, and though I wasn’t a hundred percent sure my death would have been next on the list, I didn’t want to chance it a second time.

“We’re more experienced investigators now. We’ve learned from our mistakes.”

“Exactly. I learned not to make the mistake of getting mixed up in a murder investigation again.”

He just looked at me.

“Sid, stop making Bambi eyes! You know it’s completely impossible for you to make Bambi eyes, so stop it!” I pointedly looked at my computer screen, but I could feel his Bambi eyes boring into my brain. After an eternity—which translated to about ten minutes of my reading the same paragraph over and over again—I said, “Besides, I have no idea how to start.”

“Me, neither,” he said cheerfully. “That’s why I thought we should brainstorm.”

“Don’t you need a brain for that? Because your skull is noticeably empty.”

He ignored that. “I’m thinking that we can assume the murder was unplanned.”

“Since you seem to be assuming we’re doing this,” I muttered, “what’s one more assumption?”

He ignored that, too. “If the killer had planned the killing, he’d have had a way to get rid of the body without making an emergency call for help with the cleanup. Right?”

“I guess, but where does that get us? We don’t even know who the victim is, let alone the killer. There was no evidence the cops could spot, so we’re not going to be able to find anything, either. All we’ve got is what you heard, which was just enough to convince us that it was murder. What can we do with that?”

“I don’t know,” Sid said, “but we’ve got to do something.”

“Why?”

“Because if we don’t . . .” He paused dramatically. “Madison could be in danger.”

“That’s not funny!”

“I don’t mean it to be funny. What if the killer is the principal or one of Madison’s teachers or one of the cafeteria workers? What if he’s at the school every single day with Madison?”

“Come on, you said yourself that it sounded like a spur-of-the-moment thing. Even if it is somebody at PHS, he’s not going to start attacking people at random.”

“We don’t know that.”

“What do you expect me to do, Sid? Take Madison out of school? Homeschool her? She’d never go for that, not even if she did believe—”

“Not even if she believed me?”

“You were eavesdropping last night, weren’t you?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just wanted to get a book I left downstairs. But I heard my name, and, well, old habits die hard.”

“I get that.” Before Madison had learned about Sid, eavesdropping had been his way of being part of the family. “I’m sorry Madison doesn’t believe you. Just give her time.”

“I can do that; I will do that. But for now, her not believing me means she won’t be careful the way she should be with a killer on the loose.”

“I just don’t see why she would be a target. And I have no idea what we can do to find the killer anyway.” He started to speak, but I interrupted him. “So this is what I think we should do. I want you to keep going to school with Madison, and I want you to eavesdrop like you’ve never eavesdropped before. If you hear anything that will give us a starting point, we’ll go from there. Okay?”

Sid wouldn’t have been the skeleton I know and love if he hadn’t argued, but he finally had to agree because he couldn’t think of anything more proactive to do, either. If he did hear something, he would be able to let me know right away because instead of just sending his skull to school, we were going to put one hand and an old cell phone in his bag so he’d be able to text me if he heard anything important. During classes, he’d eavesdrop from Madison’s locker, and during rehearsals, he’d be listening from backstage.

Despite having recently fussed because I hadn’t told her everything, Madison did not seem enthused by being let in on the plans that evening. In fact, she rolled her eyes when we explained the idea to her. The expression reminded me far too much of Deborah, which was probably why I played dirty and pointed out that if Sid had had a hand and phone the Thursday before, he would have been able to remind her to come get him. She wasn’t happy with me, but she agreed to carry out her part of the scheme.

None of us brought up the fact that Madison didn’t believe Sid’s story.

Even though I still did believe, I didn’t really think Madison was in any danger at school, even if Sid hadn’t been there to keep an eye out. Or at least an eye socket. But apparently my subconscious had other ideas—that night I had one bad dream after another.

F
or once, I was glad to see Monday morning. Normally I greeted it with dread. That semester I was teaching five sections of freshman composition at McQuaid University, and since there’s an unwritten rule that adjuncts get the most inconvenient schedules imaginable, I had classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at eight
AM
, nine
AM
, ten
AM
, and eleven
AM
. Naturally I had to change classrooms for each of those—adjuncts don’t get permanent classrooms. If I survived that, I had enough time to run by the adjunct office to check messages and go grab lunch before keeping office hours from one thirty to three thirty, which was always a mob scene on Monday because that was the day I handed back the previous week’s assignment—usually either reading response papers or essays—and announced that week’s assignment. That meant I usually didn’t shake loose from anxious freshmen until after four, which gave me an hour or two to catch up on accumulated paperwork and get home. By that point Madison was usually starving, so I’d throw together dinner, eat, clean up, and collapse. I sometimes skipped the cleaning part.

I only had one McQuaid class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was stuck with the eight
AM
slot again, but at least it left me time for grading and doing paperwork.

The routine was complicated enough that I lived in fear that I’d forget which day it was. The only good thing to be said for my schedule was that it would only last another month and a half until the semester ended. Of course, I had the added pleasure of not knowing whether or not I’d be hired for another semester. I could make out fairly well if I didn’t get anything in the summer, but if my “vacation” lasted into the fall, I’d be sunk, financially speaking.

At least my life wasn’t boring.

I made it through my Monday morning classes and headed for the adjunct office. My mailbox, one of a rack outside the office, was halfway filled with McQuaid internal memos, notes from students, and a few pieces of actual mail. First up was a reminder that parking passes were not to be given or sold to students. “If you paid adjuncts enough, we wouldn’t be selling them to the highest bidder,” I muttered as I tossed it into the conveniently located recycling bin.

Next was a postcard announcing the date of the next Northeast Popular/American Culture Association conference. It was being held in Providence in October, and I would have given my left arm to attend. Well, Deborah’s at least. True, I had no paper to submit, but I knew of a dozen New England schools that would be screening prospective hires there.

Most colleges began their hiring process for tenure-track positions at conferences, and some even provided grants for graduate students to attend and get a shot at those carrots of employment. Adjuncts like myself, on the other hand, only got grants when we had papers to present, which we rarely did because we didn’t have time to write papers. And of course we didn’t make enough money to pay our own way.

I’d been hoping to take advantage of living at my parents’ house to scrape up enough money to attend a conference or two, but now that Sid had joined my household permanently, I had to plan for the future expense of a third bedroom once my parents returned and wanted their house back. That didn’t leave enough in my budget for conferences.

Reluctantly, I put the postcard into the recycling bin and turned my attention to the messages from students. They were the usual excuses for late homework along with the late homework papers themselves. I added them to my satchel with a sigh—I really preferred that work come in electronically to cut down on the paper I was forced to carry and keep track of. But, no matter what I said, some students were convinced that actual paper, placed in a snazzy report folder, would give them extra points.

As I continued to sort, somebody came up behind me and said, “Dr. Thackery, you’re looking well today.”

I turned to see who it was. “Thank you, Dr. Peyton. You’re looking pretty natty yourself.”

History adjunct Charles Peyton was in fact one of the more nattily dressed men of my acquaintance. Though he made no more money than the rest of us adjuncts, he once told me that buying classic clothes of quality is actually more frugal than buying cheap and trendy. What he didn’t tell me, but which I discovered for myself, was that squatting in unoccupied offices was a swell way to save money, too. He went to great lengths to conceal that fact, both because he was embarrassed by it and because he could lose his job if it were found out.

I noticed an accessory Charles didn’t usually sport. “Why the black armband?”

“Haven’t you heard? We lost one of our own over the weekend. Patty Craft succumbed to her illness.”

Sara Weiss, an adjunct in biology who’d never heard a piece of gossip she didn’t like, had walked up as we were speaking and piped up with, “Yeah, mental illness. She killed herself.”

Charles looked vexed. “It is my understanding that the authorities have yet to determine the precise cause of death. For all they know, it was the cancer from which she’d been suffering. Or perhaps she accidentally ingested too much of her medication.”

Sara snorted and went inside the office.

“An overdose?” I said. “I think I heard something about that.” Craft’s death had to be the one that Deborah had been talking about Saturday night. “I didn’t know she taught at McQuaid.”

“Actually, she wasn’t currently employed here. She was an adjunct in the Mathematics Department for several years, but was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer perhaps a year and a half ago. She managed to keep teaching for a while, but I suspect her work wasn’t up to its previous standards. So she hadn’t been offered any classes since the last summer semester.”

That meant she and I hadn’t intersected—I’d started at McQuaid partway through the fall.

“She had insurance, but it was minimal, and between her expenses and not being able to work, she’d been having a very difficult time these past few months. Frankly, I’m not sure how she managed to keep her bills paid.” He hesitated. “I’m not saying that she did take an excess of medication intentionally, but if she had, I would find it difficult to censure her.”

I nodded. I carried insurance, both for myself and for Madison, but keeping up the premiums was sometimes a strain.

“I’ve been letting people know about the arrangements, but I don’t suppose you would care to attend the funeral, since you didn’t know her.”

“When is it?” I asked.

“Thursday morning. Patty’s sister Phoebe is her only living relative, and she can’t get here any sooner.”

“Sure, I’ll go. Police and firefighters will travel halfway across the country to honor one of their fallen brethren. I think I can manage a drive across town.”

We made plans to meet beforehand, then went into the office.

The room we adjuncts called home was large, but not nearly large enough for privacy. It was filled to the bursting point with rows of mismatched desks, squeaky chairs, and other hand-me-downs from when the offices of tenured faculty and loftier administrative personnel were redecorated and upgraded.

My own spot was against a wall near the door, which would have been a prime location if Sara’s desk weren’t right in front of mine. Her constant presence scared most people off, but I hadn’t had many choices when I picked my spot, and that one was the best available. I didn’t like the woman—she was nosy and vindictive—but with practice, I’d learned to ignore her most of the time. Sadly, I’d had worse office neighbors.

I started grading the late homework assignments—one-page responses to a reading about Freud’s influence—while Charles made his way through the office, telling people about his friend’s death and when the funeral would be.

Sara sniffed loudly and said, “I hope Charles doesn’t expect me to go to his girlfriend’s funeral.”

Had it been anybody else speaking, I’d have asked what she meant by “girlfriend,” but not with Sara. For one, I didn’t want to encourage her, and for another, I knew that she’d spill any dirt she had anyway.

Sure enough, a minute later she said, “Of course he claims they were just colleagues, but I used to see them coming to work together in the morning.” She raised her brows. “Early in the morning, if you know what I mean.”

Our dog Byron would have known what she meant. “Was she married?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Neither is Charles, and both were adults. You’re a biologist—why would you think this was odd?”

“Well, if it wasn’t odd, why won’t he admit it?”

“You could ask him.”

That was far too direct for Sara. “I wonder if it was because she was so much younger than he was. I don’t really know how old she was, but she sure dressed like a kid—if I hadn’t known she was an adjunct, I’d have thought she was a freshman. I always think that it should be possible to tell a professor from a student at first glance.”

She certainly lived by that credo. No student on campus would have been caught dead in the long skirts she wore with black oxfords. I had no idea where she got those blouses with the bow collars—she must be hunting them down at vintage stores.

“The only thing worse than the way some professors dress,” she said, “is the way some students dress.”

I looked up to see what had provoked such an emphatic sneer.

Standing just outside the doorway and peering in was a young woman in a black miniskirt with chain trim, a black jean jacket, and Doc Martens. Her hair was precisely the shade of the red in her red-and-black-checked stockings—in other words, a color never found on human heads without chemical assistance.

“Yo?” I said. It wasn’t a vain attempt at street cred—Yo was her name, short for Yolanda. She was a graduate student in anthropology I’d met during the fall semester when I’d needed somebody to examine Sid’s bones.

She was looking considerably less frazzled than the last time I’d seen her, which I calculated to mean that she’d nearly finished her dissertation but was still in rewrites. I’d been around enough grad students to be able to make fairly fine distinctions with a high degree of accuracy.

“Hey, Georgia.” She came in and looked around the room with a disdainful expression surprisingly similar to Sara’s. “So this is your office.”

“Mine and many others’. Welcome to the adjunct corral—our home away from home.”

“Yeah, right. Look, can I pick your brain about something?”

“Sure.”

She looked around the office. “Maybe somewhere more private?”

“I was going to get lunch anyway. Hamburger Haven?”

“Suits me.”

I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the look of disappointment on Sara’s face when I gathered up my belongings without saying anything else to Yo, but I really did.

After we got our burgers, fries, and sodas from the counter, we found a table in the corner where we could talk without being overheard.

Once my burger had been enhanced appropriately with mustard, I said, “So what can I do for you?”

“What do you know about grants for attending conferences?”

“I know that most of us would give our eyeteeth for one, but they’re getting harder and harder to land. I hope this means you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“You tell me.” She reached into her backpack and handed me a piece of paper to read.

Dear Ms. Jacobs,

The Sandra Sechrest Foundation has funding available for graduate students to attend academic conferences as part of their academic growth and to facilitate their search for employment. If you would like to meet and discuss this opportunity, and whether or not you are eligible, please call this phone number.

Best regards,

Ethan Frisenda

“Have you ever heard of the Sechrest Foundation?” Yo asked.

“No, but if it’s for forensic anthropology grad students, I wouldn’t have.”

“It’s not. Some buds of mine got the same letter. One was in history, one in women’s studies, and another in English.”

“Did you Google them?”

She gave me a look that plainly said,
If I could have found out what I need by Googling, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you
. “They have a site, but there’s nothing there but the same kind of spiel as in this letter.”

“Sorry, Yo. I’ve never heard anything about this. It sounds kind of hinky to me.”

“Yeah, my spider sense went off, too, but I was hoping I was wrong. There’s a couple of conferences coming up where I could do some serious networking, maybe get a job nailed down right away so I don’t end up in that corral where you have to hang out. No offense.”

“None taken. If I could swing a tenure job, I’d be on it like white on rice.”

“But you don’t think this is legit?”

“I think it’s a case of the old saying ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.’ Though it probably wouldn’t hurt to make the call, see what they say.”

She shrugged and shoved the letter back into her backpack. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help. I’ll ask around back at the corral, see if anybody else has heard of it.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

We went on to chat about other things, which was a little awkward because we really didn’t know each other that well, but finding common ground in our admiration of the works of Joss Whedon carried us through lunch. Then Yo headed her way, and I headed off to attend my office hours.

Given the overly open nature of the adjunct office, and the fact that my parents were on sabbatical, I’d taken to using my mother’s office for anything that was better done in private. I could have used that office for all my personal chores, but if one is living the adjunct lifestyle, it behooves one to maintain relationships with as many other adjuncts as possible because one never knows where a job tip will come from. Besides, I didn’t want to get overly accustomed to the accoutrements of a tenured professor—it would make going back to my adjunct corral all the more difficult.

Thanks to their long tenure at McQuaid, my parents had adjoining offices, with a door between them. When I’d first arrived on campus, I’d used both offices, but a few months back I’d handed over my father’s to Charles to squat in. He’d had to vacate his previous place after the rightful owner returned from maternity leave, and I’d known him long enough to know that he wouldn’t snoop, and when he moves out of an office, he leaves it cleaner than when he found it.