The Skeleton Takes a Bow (A Family Skeleton Mystery) (8 page)

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either my daughter nor my skeletal pal was pleased.

“Mom! Have you gone insane?” Madison asked.

“She must have,” Sid said. “Or maybe she’s sick. Check her forehead for a fever, Madison—I’ll go get the thermometer.”

“I am not sick!” I’d waited until we were at dinner to share what I thought were glad tidings: while Mr. Chedworth was out on leave, I was going to be teaching SAT prep at PHS.

“Then Madison is right,” Sid said. “You’re insane.”

“What is the matter with you two? Madison, didn’t you tell me just last night that you don’t have time to do detective work?”

“But I didn’t mean for you to do it!” Madison protested.

“And Sid, didn’t you say that you need somebody to gather data?”

“Yes, but—”

“So it makes perfect sense for me to take the job.”

“You already have a job,” Madison said.

“I won’t be teaching at PHS full-time—just two classes for juniors on Tuesdays and Thursdays, where I have a gap in my schedule anyway.” I’d taught SAT prep courses at Kaplan during dry spells in my academic career, and I had substitute teacher credentials dating back to a particularly awful dry spell. “Plus it’ll only be for a few weeks, until the kids take the SAT.”

I gave them another chance to applaud my ingenuity, but it wasn’t happening. “Come on, guys. This is perfect. It gives us another set of eyes at the school.”

“But, Georgia,” Sid said, “you’ve barely got enough time to take a breath now. You’re not like me, you need to breathe!”

“I breathe just fine, thank you.”

“What about sleep? When was the last time you got a full eight hours? In a row?”

“I know, I know, I’m pretty busy—”

“Georgia, you know what you get when you work your fingers to the bone?” He waggled his at me. “Bony fingers!”

“Sid, you’ve spent the last week trying to hear something that’ll clear this up, and you’ve drawn a blank.”

“I’m doing my best!”

“I know you are.” I patted his scapula. “You’ve been great, but there’s a limit to how much you can do hidden away backstage and in lockers. We need somebody who can walk around and rattle cages. Madison can’t, so it has to be me.”

“Don’t blame me for this crazy idea,” Madison said.

“I’m not, I just—” I stopped. “Look, this was my idea and my decision, and since the last time I checked I was running this household. You two are just going to have to accept that.”

It’s funny—the two of them look nothing alike. Madison is curvy, with green eyes and strawberry blonde hair. Sid is, well, a skeleton. Yet when I looked at them, they had the exact same expression on their faces.

It was neither a happy expression nor an approving one.

The rest of the meal was not particularly convivial.

Once it was over, Madison pointedly announced that she’d be doing homework in her bedroom, though at least Sid hung around while I did the dishes and wiped down the kitchen.

It was only when I was starting to think about bed that he said, “Georgia, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think you can do that I can’t?”

“I can actually ask questions instead of just waiting for somebody to say something worthwhile within my hearing. That ought to count for something.”

“What are you going to ask? ‘Excuse me, but did you perchance recently bash somebody over the head in the auditorium?’”

“Oh, let me write that down,” I said. “I most definitely want to learn from your vast experience.”

“I’ve got as much as you do.”

“Again, I point out that I can ask questions, which is kind of what detective work is all about.”

“Hey, I’ve been working hard!”

“I know you have been, Sid.” I sighed. “Look, I realize that you’re doing everything you can, but the only thing we’ve found out is who died. We have no idea who did it and we don’t even know where the body is. Think about what that means.”

“That I suck at this?”

“No! It means that the killer is smart. From what you heard, that murder wasn’t planned. It’s like somebody lost his temper and hit the guy—maybe he didn’t even intend to kill him. Most people would freak out if that happened. But not this guy. No, he calmly calls for help to move the body and then cleans up any evidence. After that, he hides the body well enough that it hasn’t been discovered. The police don’t even believe that a murder has taken place!”

“He must have nerves of steel,” Sid said.

“Exactly. And knowing that somebody like that has access to the school—has access to my daughter—scares me. I don’t know that I can do any more than what you’re doing, but I’ve got to try something.”

“Okay, then. I didn’t want you to think I was milking this for attention.”

“Of course not. Who said anything like that?”

“Nobody, but you know Deborah—”

“Deborah! I love my sister, and her heart is in the right place, but she’s not my best friend. You are.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, and then it was just, “Well, I better go work on the Irwin dossier—I’ve found a new way to sort the information.”

That took care of half my family problems, so it was time to see what I could do with the rest. Madison had left her door open, which was usually a sign that she was approachable.

She, her books, and her electronics were spread out on the bed, leaving just enough room for the dog to snuggle up against her.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Mostly done,” she said. “Just texting Samantha to see when the next test is.”

“And maybe to complain about your crazy mother?”

She gave me half a smile. “Maybe a little. Nothing about the murder or Sid or—”

“It’s okay. I trust your judgment.”

That turned the smile up to three-quarters full, but after a minute, my message sank in.

“Oh. You’re saying that I don’t trust your judgment.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, but—” She stopped herself. “Yes, I trust your judgment, but I do worry about you. Are you sure that taking the PHS job isn’t going to be too much work? Or maybe even dangerous?”

“If it’s too much work, I’ll quit. If it’s dangerous, then that’s all the more reason for me to be there to keep you safe. That is my job, sweetie.”

“Okay, I won’t question your judgment again.”

“Sure you will, but then you’ll listen to my explanation. And we’ll go from there. Okay?”

“Okay. Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too.”

I gave her a kiss, and just to make sure everybody in the family was happy, I took a minute to rub Byron’s tummy, too.

P
rincipal Dahlgren had asked me to come to PHS Wednesday afternoon to fill out the inevitable paperwork, so I cut office hours short to take care of it. Mrs. Lynch, the school secretary, had a bundle of forms ready for me to fill out, and as many times as I’ve dealt with new-hire paperwork, it didn’t take me long to whip through them. Then she showed me Mr. Chedworth’s classroom, where I’d be teaching. Somebody had considerately emptied out a section of the closets lining the back of the room for me to use. I was touched—I’d taught at one college for three semesters without being given nearly that much storage space.

Mr. Dahlgren had also invited me to attend that afternoon’s faculty meeting, and Mrs. Lynch sent me down to the auditorium as soon as I was done with everything else.

I realized I needn’t have rushed through the paperwork. I was the first one in the auditorium, so I backed out into the hall. Every college I’ve worked at has its own customs for who sits where, and I didn’t want to sit in somebody else’s spot. Plus I couldn’t help remembering what Sid had heard happen there. Madison had been in there any number of times since, but I hadn’t, and it kind of weirded me out.

So instead, I read over a selection of essays on
Romeo and Juliet
that had been posted outside the nearest classroom. They weren’t bad. A couple had cringe-worthy phrasing, but on the whole they weren’t any worse than what I got in freshman comp.

A couple of minutes later, teachers started passing me on their way to the meeting. Most of them had two things in common. One, they were carrying coffee cups or water bottles, many of which had either the PHS lion or the apple motifs that mark most teacher gifts, and two, they gave me the hairy eyeball on the way past. Even the teachers I’d met through parent-teacher conferences for Madison just barely acknowledged my smile.

The only exception was Ms. Rad, Madison’s favorite teacher. She was a perpetually cheerful firecracker of a woman, despite her specialty in Holocaust literature.

“Dr. Thackery! I heard you were joining our little family.”

“Please, call me Georgia,” I said.

“Well, I usually make a point of being more formal with my students’ parents, but I’ll make an exception in your case,” she said with a wink. “Come on inside. Somebody should have warned you to bring your own refreshments. The budget in public schools doesn’t lend itself to extras like I’m sure you’re used to.”

It wasn’t the time to explain the usual status for an adjunct professor, or lack thereof, so I just smiled and followed her.

The faculty had scattered themselves throughout the auditorium, but there was one seat left empty in the front row, where Ms. Rad promptly sat. I’d been right in assuming people had accustomed spots. I took a seat in the row behind the rest of the teachers, figuring that would be safe. Then a foursome I recognized as math teachers wandered in, and I saw looks of extreme irritation on their faces before they pointedly took the row behind mine. Oops.

No one spoke to me during the year that followed—or maybe it was only three or four minutes—not even Ms. Rad, who was deep in a discussion of the latest YA book phenomena. I’d have been happy to join the discussion, but the unwelcoming backs of too many teachers separated us. Finally Mr. Dahlgren came in, his own coffee cup in hand. His had an apple wearing a top hat, whose significance escaped me.

I’d met him before, of course, but there’s a difference between the way I look at a principal and the way I look at a new boss, even a temporary one. Dahlgren was a tall, thin man, with a definite but not overwhelming mustache. Though he usually sported suits for school functions, he stuck with khakis and button-down shirts for everyday wear.

He looked around, saw me, and said, “Ah, our new member is among us. A temporary member, it’s true, but no less welcome. Dr. Thackery, would you stand?”

Since I was the only stranger in the room, it was a meaningless gesture, but I obediently stood. Very few of the teachers even bothered to look at me, and of those who did, the majority shot me hostile glances. I sat down as quickly as I thought polite.

“As you may know, Dr. Thackery will be taking over the junior SAT English prep classes for the next few weeks while Mr. Chedworth is out of commission. I trust you will offer her a warm PHS welcome.”

Mr. Neal, a tall, dark man who taught Madison’s algebra class, raised his hand and asked, “Is Dr. Thackery going to be proctoring the SAT in Mr. Chedworth’s place?”

“We haven’t discussed that, actually,” Mr. Dahlgren said.

“I just wanted to remind you that I’m next on the proctor list.”

Okay, I had to quickly decide if Mr. Neal was unhappy about being stuck with SAT duty or worried that I was going to get it. In that the SATs were administered by an outside company, and knowing roughly how much they cost, I was willing to guess that proctors got paid to do the job.

So I said, “It’s fine with me if you take the proctor job. I probably shouldn’t proctor tests for the kids I’ve been teaching anyway.”

A scrawny woman with a dark gray cardigan gave me a baleful look. “I’ve always managed to proctor the students I’ve taught in SAT math.”

Sometimes the only way out of an awkward situation is to just flat-out lie. “Oh, excellent. I’m glad to know that people who know the students proctor here. One of Madison’s previous schools brought in the scruffiest bunch of people you ever saw to proctor their SATs, and one mother said—Well, that’s neither here nor there, but I’m glad to learn that the policy here is more civilized.”

The SAT math teacher looked mollified, but Mr. Neal said, “So you do expect to proctor the test?”

“I’m sorry,” I lied again. “I don’t have availability on Saturdays. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Dahlgren said, “No problem at all. Mr. Neal, you can certainly take the job if you’re next on the list.”

With that settled, attention mercifully turned away from me, and I could sit in back looking interested-and-concerned as I jotted notes on my pad, only a fifth of which had anything to do with what was being said. Mostly I was doodling. Since most university staff meetings include only a few agenda items that affect me, I’d long since learned how to hold my pad so it’s not easily visible to prying eyes.

After about an hour of serious doodling, the meeting broke up, and since I was fairly sure that nobody would want to chat with me, I was ready to beat a hasty retreat, when Ms. Rad came by. “Can you come over to my classroom for a minute? I want to introduce you to Lance.”

“Sure.” I followed her down the hall, up the stairs, and down a different hall to her classroom. The edges of the room were cluttered with mismatched shelves, all filled with books, and the walls were decorated with posters of authors ranging from Shakespeare to Jane Austen to Poe to J. K. Rowling.

Ms. Rad put her pad on her desk and picked up a plush lion. “This is Lance,” she said, handing him to me with an expectant look on her face.

Fortunately, Madison had told me about Ms. Rad’s mascot. “So this is the famous Lance.” I ruffled his mane affectionately. “Looking good. And I love the shirt.” He was wearing a miniature PHS Lions football jersey.

Ms. Rad seemed satisfied, so I put him down. I saw nothing wrong with talking to a stuffed lion. For one, like all mothers I’d had many a conversation with toys of all description, and for another, my best friend was a skeleton. Most people would have had an easier time accepting a Lance than a Sid.

“As acting English Department chair while Mr. Chedworth is out, I wanted to welcome you to PHS, even if it is just temporary.” There was a slight edge in her voice when she said, “It is just temporary, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” I said firmly. “I don’t have the skill set to teach high school students other than on a limited basis. It’s a different ball game from college.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Teaching is teaching.” But I could tell that she had loosened up.

“Can I ask you something? Is that why people weren’t happy to see me? Because they thought I was trying to take away somebody’s job? Or was it the proctoring thing?”

“Well, proctoring is much sought-after because it’s easy and pays over a hundred dollars for just a few hours. Here at PHS, we offer the PSAT once a year, the SAT twice, and some achievement and AP tests, too. So it adds up. I save my proctoring money up for Christmas shopping.”

“But now that I’ve said flat-out that I won’t be proctoring?”

“That will help, but the fact is that you’re considerably more academically qualified than some of the other teachers in the English Department. Take Coach Q. Marvelous man, gifted teacher, but he’s only got a master’s, and his degree is in history, not American literature.”

“Why is he teaching English?”

She shrugged. “He needed a job, and they needed an English teacher. So he did his homework and he’s doing a wonderful job. Then there’s Ms. Sullivan, who teaches computer science. Her degree is in English, and she’s been promised a chance to move to this department when there’s an opening, but again, she’s only got a master’s.”

“So they’re afraid of me because I’ve got a doctorate?”

She nodded. “I’ve got a doctorate myself, and so do a handful of the other teachers, but most of us don’t. So when a real academic comes around, with published papers and such—”

“I haven’t published anything worthwhile since grad school. Honestly. I’m a teacher just like you guys—I just teach at a different level.”

“But with the whole tenure system, they’re afraid you’ll come in here and work for cheap because you can afford to.”

“If I had tenure, the last thing I’d do would be to take on extra work. I’m an adjunct.” I explained what that meant. “Do you think you could spread the word so people wouldn’t hate me?”

“I could try,” she said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure it would help. If they knew your job was that shaky, they’d be sure you wanted to come teach here.”

“So I have a choice of them being jealous because they think I have tenure or being anxious because they think I want my job?”

“That’s about the size of it!” Then she laughed at the expression on my face. “Don’t worry, they’ll get over it soon enough.”

We went on to talk a little bit about expectations, and then I patted Lance good-bye and told Ms. Rad I’d see her the next day, when I taught my first couple of classes. Then I drove home and tried not to get depressed.

It wasn’t concern about doing a decent job—I’d taught SAT prep before, and while it wasn’t my favorite topic, I knew the material. Nor was it that I didn’t feel particularly welcomed at PHS—I’d had that problem at any number of universities in the past. It was more that I didn’t know how I was going to make excuses to talk to people when they were so hostile.

I just hadn’t expected high school teachers to be so antagonistic of college professors. Then again, it went both ways. I remembered Patty Craft’s funeral, and how that one adjunct had mocked the deceased woman’s ex-boyfriend Bert for teaching high school. If Bert had worked at PHS, he’d probably have been just as suspicious of my motives as the other teachers.

Come to think of it, hadn’t Charles said that Bert was looking for a job? Just like our missing murder victim.

I kept walking, but I was no longer paying attention to where I was going.

The missing teacher was Robert Irwin, and Bert was a nickname for men named Robert.

Could it possibly be the same man?