The Witch of Agnesi (15 page)

“I can tell you right now you’re going to have to quit the teacher hitting.” Bonnie laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But I know that particular teacher pretty well, and I’ll bet we can get her to forgive you. Rumor has it, she’s pretty cool.”

Jesse hadn’t shed one tear at the hospice, and Bonnie didn’t expect he’d shed any now, but she thought she saw a quiver in his lower lip.

“Why you guys doing this?”

Armen gave Jesse an exaggerated wink. “I don’t know about her, but me, I’m trying to impress a lady.”

It’s working, Callahan.

“What about it, Jesse? Sound like a plan? You’d have to stay out of trouble.”

Jesse licked his lips, and Bonnie could see the old synapses firing.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but could I get back with you guys?”

Before Bonnie could mount a protest, Armen said, “You do that. When you make up your mind, you know where I live.”

Bonnie held out a hand, and Jesse helped her up.

“Let’s have those crutches.” When she’d reached the car she turned back. “Just one more thing. Thurs day morning.”

Jesse seemed to stiffen. “What about it?”

“At the hospice you said someone told you that Peyton Newlin said unkind things about your mother.”

Jesse laced his fingers behind his bald head, obviously ill at ease. “That’s right. But I’m not sure about ratting this person out.”

Bonnie threw her crutches into Alice’s back seat and slammed the door. She leaned unsteadily against Alice. “Fair enough. I won’t ask you to say a thing. I’m going give you a name. You do what you want after that.”

Jesse didn’t move.

“Edmund Sheridan.”

The boy did nothing for so long Bonnie decided to let the issue die.
Nice try, Pinkwater.
She opened Alice’s passenger door and plopped onto the seat. When she looked back, Jesse Poole was standing behind his screen door. He nodded once and disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 12

B
ONNIE SNUCK A QUICK PEEK AT ARMEN’S
derriere
as he slid the casserole dish into the oven. By the time he’d closed the door and turned back around, she’d lowered her eyes to her coffee cup.

“You make a mean cup of coffee, Callahan.”
Very
smooth, Bonnie.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He wiped his hands on his apron. A caricature of ex-president Richard Nixon, arms raised making the V for victory sign filled the bib. A cartoon balloon read, “I am not a cook.” “Cheese enchiladas ala Callahan. Ambrosia.”

Untying his apron as he walked, he strode past where she sat at a small claw-footed table. He threw Richard Nixon face-down on a gray leather futon.

“You like Van Morrison?”

She’d turned round so she could follow him with her eyes. “Yes, I do, which is strange, considering I rarely understand a thing he’s singing.”

Armen placed a CD in a slim black player. Almost immediately the familiar guitar opening of “Into the Mystic” trickled out of a pair of oak-trimmed speakers. He crossed the room and stood before her, his hands extended. “May I have this dance?”

“Excuse me?” She nodded to where her crutches leaned against the kitchen counter. “I don’t think I’d make a very good dance partner right now.”

He bent low. “I’ll dance for both of us. Trust me.”

She hesitated then wrapped her arms about his neck. As he had done at Griffith’s, he scooped her from the chair. Unlike that first time, he held her firm, the two of them swaying to Van Morrison’s sure voice and soft guitar.

Armen’s hair was still damp from his shower.

Bonnie breathed deep his aroma of soap and after-shave.
The essence of clean boy.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “You know how to show a girl a good time, Armen Callahan.”

“We aim to please.”

She closed her eyes, and Armen became her world—the smell of him, the feel of his arms, the gentle rhythm of his dancing. She didn’t want to ask where these feelings would lead. Her life was a lazy river, and she intended to float. When the song went into a long instrumenttal, Armen whirled her. They both laughed. His beard brushed her face. She liked the soft yet scratchy feel of it on her cheek and nestled in closer.

Bonnie wasn’t exactly aware when Van Morrison switched from “Into the Mystic” to “Crazy Love.” If anything, the new song was more romantic than the first, and yet it conjured images of Edmund and Ali—both in black, conical hats. Bonnie tried to put them out of her mind, to slide back into that comfortable haven where only she and Armen populated the planet. The pair of teenagers would have none of it. Leering, they whispered together and laughed.

“Where have you gone?” Armen asked into her hair.

Bonnie lifted her head so she could see his face. “Is it so obvious?”

His eyes held a mixture of understanding tinged with the barest hint of sadness. “Your whole body tensed. Edmund?”

She nodded. “And Ali. I’m sorry, Armen. I really loved our dance.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m going to accept the four minutes we had as a gift from the universe.” He carried her back to the kitchen/dining room and set her at the claw-foot table.

He tapped her nose with an outstretched finger. “The next time we trip the light fantastic we take a longer whirl.”

At least he wants a second dance.
“Count on it.”

Armen went to a matte-black coffee maker and re-turned with his own cup. “I’m so hungry, I could eat school food.” He frowned at her. “No long faces. I won’t have you feeling bad.”

Easy for you to say. You didn’t turn a romantic
moment into a bad dream.
“I spoiled our dance.”

Armen reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Have you ever seen
Old Yeller
?”

She blinked at the unexpected question. “The Disney movie about the dog?”

“Yep.” He hummed the opening bars of the theme song finishing with, “Best doggone dog in the west.”

She smiled at this man who had succeeded in keeping her off balance for the better part of two days. “I’m not sure why we’re talking about a dog movie, but yes, I saw
Old Yeller
when I was a little girl.”

“I own it. It’s one of my prized possessions.” He rubbed his thumbs across the tops of her hands. “Not many people know this, but
Old Yeller
is a repository of Zen wisdom.”

“As in Zen Buddhism?”

“Absolutely.” He nodded, showing not a hint he wasn’t serious. “If you ask anybody what scene they re-member, they’ll tell you the scene where the boy has to shoot the beloved dog because it has contracted rabies. They think that’s what the movie’s about.”

Where are you going with this, Armen?
“Isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Not for me. For me the heart of the movie happens a few scenes later after the father, played by Fess Parker, comes home from a cattle thing-a-ma-jig.”

The image of a large man wearing a buckskin vest came into focus. “I remember him—the actor who played Davy Crocket.”

“Give the lady a cigar. He also played Daniel Boone, now he runs a winery somewhere. For my whole generation, Boone and Davy Crocket got sort of blended into one person, Fess Parker. However, I digress.”

He let go of her hands and sat tall in his chair. “I’ll be the father, Fess Parker.” He straightened an imaginary cowboy hat.

God, you’re cute. Strange, but cute.
She caught her-self nodding with amusement. “Okay, you’re the father.”

“And you’re the eldest son who is unable to get over Yeller’s death.” Armen reached across the table and laid a consoling hand on Bonnie’s arm. “ ‘Boy, a lot of life is mighty fine. You can’t afford to waste the good part frettin’ about the bad. That makes it all bad.’ “ Armen’s voice had gone unexpectedly deep with a trace of a southern accent.

She waited for him to continue, but the look of accomplishment on his face told her he had nothing more to offer. “That’s it?” She immediately regretted the accusatory tone. She needn’t have worried. Her incomprehension only served to prime Armen’s philosophical pump.

He slumped forward, resting his bearded chin on his forearm, staring up at her. “That’s everything. The heart and soul of Zen—focus on the moment, restart your life from where you are right now, view the world with a beginner’s mind. What Fess, like any great Zen master, was trying to teach his boy is that the present should never be colored by the past, especially if all the past has to offer is bad news.”

Bonnie lowered her head so she could be eye-to-eye with Armen. “Sooooooo, you’re telling me I shouldn’t let this little setback taint future dances. Leave the past in the past, even if it was only five minutes ago.”

He winked at her. “The great Fess Parker has connected with yet another convert.”

“Not so quick. I still have Edmund Sheridan on the brain. And furthermore, can we sit up straight again? This table-level talk is killing my back.” Twisting, she sat erect. She heard a pop in her neck. “That’s more like it.”

Armen followed suit minus the audible neck-pop. “I’m surprised you could wait this long after Poole’s revelation.”

“You want to know the truth?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Give me a veiled lie any old time.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. “I’m not sure why I said Edmund’s name back there with Jesse. My mouth was forming Ali Griffith when I blurted out Edmund. Surprised the hell out of me when Jesse told me I was right.”

“Me, too. It makes no sense whatsoever. He res-cues Peyton at Knowledge Bowl then goes out of his way to get Jesse Poole to unleash the wrath of God on Peyton’s skinny behind. What’s up with that?”

She spun her index fingers one around the other. “Reverse those.”

“What?”

“First, he gets Peyton’s ass kicked then he rescues him. And don’t forget, somewhere in there he murders Stephanie Templeton.”
And tries to run over the
world’s greatest math teacher.

“Then there’s the e-mail from Ali Griffith, which he takes the time from his busy macabre schedule to read.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Armen took a sip of his coffee. “Which don’t we know for sure—that he read the e-mail or that it was written by Ali?”

“Either . . . both.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know, but just because the letter is archived doesn’t prove Edmund read it, and Your Wicked Little Witch doesn’t have to be Ali.”

“I see.” He scowled, and gave her a look of disappointment. “I didn’t know your denial ran that deep.”

Her first reaction was to lash out at him.
How dare
he? I’m Bonnie Pinkwater, God damn it. Doesn’t he
know most people consider me an institution?

Maybe it was that very thought that extinguished her anger like a torch thrust in a rain barrel. Institutions didn’t take crap from anybody, but they didn’t have a lot of friends either. And right now she wanted this cranky Science teacher to be her friend—and maybe a little more.

She gave birth to an honest chuckle. “Don’t pull your punches, Callahan. Tell me what you really think.”

The remark set just the right tone. Armen matched her smile for smile, and the tension bled from the room.

“Whad-a-ya-say we put the letter on the back burner for a moment.”

“I’d say good idea.”

He scratched at his beard. “I don’t know if you’re going to find this any easier to hear, but something else about Ali Griffith has been chewing on me.”

“You mean beside the fact that like Edmund at the Academy, she was the only one at her home who actually saw the red pickup truck?” She loved the look of surprise on Armen’s face.
That’s right, Callahan.
You’ll always get my A-game.

He blinked like a cat that’s been stared at too long. “Well, yes . . . I mean no. Whatever. Don’t you think it’s funny both of these teenagers saw Jesse’s truck, but no one else did?”

“I saw it.” She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, keeping her expression impassive.

“You know what I mean.” He made a steeple of his fingers and regarded her over the tips. “Bon, I’ve got to tell you. With all that’s going on with Ali Griffith, to find out she lied about the truck would cinch it for me.”

“Sounds like you’re convinced of Ali’s guilt already.” She went out of her way to emulate Armen’s reasonable tone of voice. She didn’t want or need to sound strident.

“I don’t understand your recalcitrance. The girl did everything but sign her name on that e-mail.”

Bonnie slapped the table. “That’s just the point. Every word, every punctuation mark in that letter pointed to Ali Griffith. Hells bells, she might as well have signed her damned name. If she wrote that letter, Ali Griffith showed the intelligence of a bar of soap.”

“So, the girl made an error in judgment. She’s just a kid.”

Bonnie wanted to shout out her reply, but first she took a sip of coffee to give herself a chance to settle down. “She’s not a member of that club. For that matter none of the teenagers in this affair are mere kids. Peyton Newlin might be a boy genius, but Ali and Edmund aren’t anybody’s slouches. These are acutely intelligent individuals.”

“And your point?”

“I’ll bet when the police run down the e-mail ad-dresses on those letters they lead to an untraceable sender. From the beginning the letter writer covered her tracks. If Ali is the author then why write a letter that circumvents all her precautions?” She surprised herself with the vehemence of her objections.

Armen leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He studied her, looking like a man who needed to make a proclamation but was choosing each word carefully.

Bonnie let the silence hang uninterrupted. Friends gave one another time to think even if they feared what the other might propose.

He pulled at his goatee. “Bon, I know you’d just as soon not consider this subject, but we need to be able to talk about Ali Griffith being the actual author of that letter. So I’m asking you to entertain that supposition.”

Easy for you to say. I’ve already lost Stephanie,
Peyton, and Edmund. Now Ali? Did all four children
hold me in contempt?
Her head felt heavy as she nodded. “Fair enough. Assume Ali is the author.”

“Thank you.” He squeezed her hand. “Consider the letter itself—dated Thursday, and if I remember correctly the archives listed the time at ten-ten p.m.”

“Ali was home by then.” Bonnie drew in a long breath. “She definitely had the opportunity.”

“She comes home and the first thing she does is fire off an e-mail to Edmund. The letter refers to you and her mother. Neither of you suspect a thing, the letter says. Suspect what?”

“Their love affair?”

Armen chewed at his lower lip and beard. “There’s always that. She also could have been speaking about Stephanie’s death.”

“Time’s all wrong.” Bonnie waved her hand to indicate time past. “Stephanie wouldn’t be murdered for another four to five hours.”

“All right, Stephanie’s impending death.” Again silence hung in the air.

Bonnie’s throat felt dry. The implications of Armen’s assumption brought back the earlier leering images of Ali and Edmund. “You’re saying the e-mail was Ali pushing Edmund to go out and murder Stephanie?”

“She does encourage him to be strong. I don’t think anything in a simple teenage love affair would require that sort of encouragement.”

“What about Peyton’s disappearance? We know the boy spent time in Sheridan’s barn. Suppose Ali knew about Edmund’s plans and was just encouraging Edmund to keep Peyton safe from his father?”

Armen cocked his head and frowned at her. “Are we talking about the same letter? The one I remember is mean-spirited and contains hints and promises of sexual rewards, hardly the altruistic urgings of a Pollyanna.”

Bonnie closed her eyes and played the letter across her mental teleprompter. She mumbled the words, “busybody Pinkwater,” and “the risk will be worth the reward, if you know what I mean.” Then there was the bit about holding her body close to his. Nodding, she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “The probability seems high the letter isn’t referring to either an innocent love affair or hiding Peyton.”