Murder on the Prowl (7 page)

11

Roscoe glanced out his window across the pretty quad that was the heart of St. Elizabeth's. Redbrick buildings, simple Federal style, surrounded the green. Two enormous oaks anchored either end, their foliage an electrifying orange-yellow.

Behind the “home” buildings, as they were known, stood later additions, and beyond those the gym and playing fields beckoned, a huge parking lot between them.

The warm oak paneling gave Roscoe's office an inviting air. A burl partner's desk rested in the middle of the room. A leather sofa, two leather chairs, and a coffee table blanketed with books filled up one side of the big office.

Not an academic, Roscoe made a surprisingly good headmaster. His lack of credentials bothered the teaching staff, who had originally wanted one of their own, namely Sandy Brashiers or even Ed Sugarman. But Roscoe over the last seven years had won over most of them. For one thing, he knew how to raise money as he had a “selling” personality and a wealth of good business contacts. For another, he was a good administrator. His MBA from the Wharton School at University of Pennsylvania stood him in good stead.

“Come in.” He responded to the firm knock at the door, then heard a loud “Don't you dare!”

He quickly opened the door to find his secretary, April, and Sandy Brashiers yelling at each other.

April apologized. “He didn't ask for an appointment. He walked right by me.”

“April, stop being so officious.” Sandy brushed her off.

“You have no right to barge in here.” She planted her hands on her slim hips.

Roscoe, voice soothing, patted her on her padded shoulder. “That's all right. I'm accustomed to Mr. Brashiers's impetuosity.”

He motioned for Sandy to come in while winking at April, who blushed with pleasure.

“What can I do for you, Sandy?”

“Drop dead” was what Sandy wanted to say. Instead he cleared his throat. “I'm worried about Jody Miller. She's become withdrawn, and this morning I found her behind the post office. She had a bruised cheek and a black eye and refused to talk about it.”

“There is instability in the home. It was bound to surface in Jody eventually.” Roscoe did not motion for Sandy to sit down. He leaned against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

“A black eye counts for more than instability. That girl needs help.”

“Sandy,” Roscoe enunciated carefully, “I can't accuse her parents of abuse without her collaboration. And who's to say Kendrick hit her? It could have been anybody.”

“How can you turn away?” Sandy impulsively accused the florid, larger man.

“I am not turning away. I will investigate the situation, but I advise you to be prudent. Until we know what's amiss or until Jody herself comes forward, any accusation would be extremely irresponsible.”

“Don't lecture
me
.”

“Don't lecture me.”

“You don't give a damn about that girl's well-being. You sure as hell give a damn about her father's contributions to your film project—money we could use elsewhere.”

“I've got work to do. I told you I'll look into it.” Roscoe dropped his folded arms to his sides, then pointed a finger in Sandy's reddening face. “Butt out. If you stir up a hornet's nest, you'll get stung worse than the rest of us.”

“What's that shopworn metaphor supposed to mean?” Sandy clenched his teeth.

“That I know your secret.”

Sandy blanched. “I don't have any secrets.”

Roscoe pointed again. “Try me. Just try me. You'll never teach anywhere again.”

Livid, Sandy slammed the door on his way out. April stuck her blond-streaked head back in the office.

Roscoe smiled. “Ignore him. The man thrives on emotional scenes. The first week of school he decried the fostering of competition instead of cooperation. Last week he thought Sean Hallahan should be censured for a sexist remark that I think was addressed to Karen Jensen—‘Hey, baby!'” Roscoe imitated Sean. “Today he's frothing at the mouth because Jody Miller has a black eye. My God.”

“I don't know how you put up with him,” April replied sympathetically.

“It's my job.” Roscoe smiled expansively.

“Maury McKinchie's on line two.”

“Who's on line one?”

“Your wife.”

“Okay.” He punched line one. “Honey, let me call you back. Are you in the office?”

Naomi said she was, her office being in the building opposite his on the other side of the quad. He then punched line two. “Hello.”

“Roscoe, I'd like to shoot some football and maybe field hockey practice . . . just a few minutes. I'm trying to pull together dynamic images for the alumni dinner in December.”

“Got a date in mind?”

“Why don't I just shoot the next few games?” The director paused. “I've got footage for you to check. You'll like it.”

“Fine.” Roscoe smiled.

“How about a foursome this Saturday? Keswick at nine?”

“Great.”

Roscoe hung up. He buzzed April. “You handled Sandy Brashiers very well,” he told her.

“He gives me a pain. He just pushed right by me!”

“You did a good job. Your job description doesn't include tackling temporary principals and full-time busybodies.”

“Thank you.”

“Remind me to tell the coaches that Maury will be filming some football and hockey games.”

“Will do.”

He took his figner off the intercom button and sat in his swivel chair, feeling satisfied with himself.

12

Harry sorted her own mail, tossing most of it into the waste-basket. She spent each morning stuffing mailboxes. By the time she got to her own mail, she hadn't the patience to wade through appeals for money, catalogs, and flyers. Each evening she threw a canvas totebag jammed with her mail onto the bench seat of the old Ford truck. On those beautiful days when she walked home from work, she slung it over her shoulder.

She'd be walking for the next week regardless of weather because not only was the carburetor fritzed out on the truck, but a mouse had nibbled through the starter wires. Mrs. Murphy needed to step up her rodent control.

Harry dreaded the bill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep up with expenses. She lived frugally, keeping within a budget, but no matter how careful her plans, telephone companies changed rates, the electric company edged up its prices, and the county commissioners lived to raise Albemarle taxes.

She often wondered how people with children made it. They'd make it better if they didn't work for the postal service, she thought to herself.

Gray clouds, sodden, dropped lower and lower. The first big raindrop splattered as she was about two miles from home. Tee Tucker and Mrs. Murphy moved faster. Pewter, with a horror of getting wet, ran ahead.

“I've never seen that cat move that fast,” Harry said out loud.

A dark green Chevy half-ton slowly headed toward her. She waved as Fair braked.

“Come on, kids,” she called as the three animals raced toward Fair.

As if on cue the clouds opened the minute Harry closed the passenger door of the truck.

“Hope you put your fertilizer down.”

“Back forty,” she replied laconically.

He slowed for another curve as they drove in silence.

“You're Mary Sunshine.”

“Preoccupied. Sorry.”

They drove straight into the barn. Harry hopped out and threw on her raincoat. Fair put on his yellow slicker, then backed the truck out, parking at the house so Pewter could run inside. He returned to help Harry bring in the horses, who were only too happy to get fed.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stayed in the barn.

“These guys look good.” Fair smiled at Gin Fizz, Tomahawk, and Poptart.

“Thanks. Sometimes I forget how old Tomahawk's getting to be, but then I forget how old I'm getting to be.”

“We're only in our thirties. It's a good time.”

She scooped out the sweet feed. “Some days I think it is. Some days I think it isn't.” She tossed the scoop back into the feed bin. “Fair, you don't have to help. Lucky for me you came along the road when you did.”

“Many hands make light work. You won't be riding tonight.”

The rain, like gray sheets of iron, obscured the house from view.

“The weatherman didn't call for this, nor did Miranda.”

“Her knee failed.” He laughed. Miranda predicted rain according to whether her knee throbbed or not.

She clapped on an ancient cowboy hat, her rain hat. “Better make a run for it.”

“Why don't you put me under your raincoat?”
Mrs. Murphy asked politely.

Hearing the plaintive meow, Harry paused, then picked up the kitty, cradling her under her coat.

“Ready, steady, GO!” Fair sang out as he cut the lights in the barn.

He reached the backdoor first, opening it for Harry and a wet Tucker.

Once inside the porch they shook off the rain, hung up their coats, stamped their feet, and hurried into the kitchen. A chill had descended with the rain. The temperature plunged ten degrees and was dropping still.

She made fresh coffee while he fed the dog and cats.

Harry had doughnuts left over from the morning.

They sat down and enjoyed this zero-star meal. It was better than going hungry.

“Well—?”

“Well, what?” She swallowed, not wishing to speak with her mouth full.

“What's the matter?”

She put the rest of her glazed doughnut on the plate. “Jody Miller had a black eye and wouldn't tell anyone how she got it. The kid was crying so hard it hurt to see her.”

“How'd you find out?”

“She cut classes and was sitting on the stoop behind Market's store.”

“I found her first.”
Pewter lifted her head out of the food bowl.

“Pewter, you're such an egotist.”

“Look who's talking,”
the gray cat answered Mrs. Murphy sarcastically.
“You think the sun rises and sets on your fur.”

“Miranda drove her over to Larry Johnson's. She stayed until Irene arrived. Irene wasn't too helpful, according to Miranda, a reliable source if ever there was one.”

“Jody's a mercurial kid.”

“Aren't they all?”

“I suppose.” He got up to pour himself another coffee. “I'm finally warming up. Of course, it could be your presence.”

“I'm going to throw up.”
Pewter gagged.

“You don't have a romantic bone in your body,”
Tucker complained.

“In fact, Pewter, no one can see the bones in your body.”

“Ha, ha,”
the gray cat said dryly.

“Do you think it would be nosy if I called Irene? I'm worried.”

“Harry, everyone in Crozet is nosy, so that's not an issue.” He smiled. “Besides which, you and Miranda found her.”

“I found her,”
Pewter interjected furiously.

“You are not getting another morsel to eat.” Harry shook her finger at the gray cat, who turned her back on her, refusing to have anything to do with this irritating human.

Harry picked up the old wall phone and dialed. “Hi, Irene, it's Mary Minor.” She paused. “No trouble at all. I know Miranda was glad to help. I was just calling to see if Jody's all right.”

On the other end of the line Irene explained, “She got into a fight with one of the girls at practice—she won't say which one—and then she walked into chemistry class and pulled a D on a pop quiz. Jody has never gotten a D in her life. She'll be fine, and thank you so much for calling. 'Bye.”

“'Bye.” Harry hung up the receiver slowly. “She doesn't know any more than I do. She said the girls got into a fight at field hockey practice, and Jody got a D on a pop quiz in chemistry.”

“Now you can relax. You've got your answer.”

“Fair”—Harry gestured, both hands open—“there's no way that vain kid is going to walk into chemistry class with a fresh shiner. Jody Miller fusses with her makeup more than most movie stars. Besides, Ed Sugarman would have sent her to the infirmary. Irene Miller is either dumb as a stick or not telling the truth.”

“I vote for dumb as a stick.” He smiled. “You're making a mountain out of a molehill. If Jody Miller lied to her mother, it's not a federal case. I recall you fibbing to your mother on the odd occasion.”

“Not very often.”

“Your nose is growing.” He laughed.

Harry dialed Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher. “Hi, Ed, it's Mary Minor Haristeen.” She paused a moment. “Do I need chemistry lessons? Well, I guess it depends on the kind of chemistry you're talking about.” She paused. “First off, excuse me for butting in, but I want to know if Jody Miller came to your class today.”

“Jody never came to class today,” Ed replied.

“Well—that answers my question.”

“In fact, I was about to call her parents. I know she was at field hockey practice because I drove by the field on my way in this morning. Is something wrong?”

“Uh—I don't know. She was behind Market's store this morning sporting a black eye and tears.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. She's a bright girl, but her grades are sliding . . .” He hesitated. “One sees this often if there's tension in the home.”

“Thanks, Ed. I hope I haven't disturbed you.”

“You haven't disturbed me.” He paused for a moment and then said as an aside, “Okay, honey.” He then returned to Harry. “Doris says hello.”

“Tell Doris I said hello also,” Harry said.

Harry bid Ed good-bye, pressed the disconnect button, and thought for a minute.

“Want to go to a movie?”

“I'm not going out in that.”

The rain pounded even harder on the tin roof. “Like bullets.”

“I rented
The Madness of King George
. We could watch that.”

“Popcorn?”

“Yep.”

“If you'd buy a microwave, you could pop the corn a lot faster.” He read the directions on the back of the popcorn packet.

“I'm not buying a microwave. The truck needs new starter wires—the mice chewed them—needs new tires, too, and I'm even putting that off until I'm driving on threads.” She slapped a pot on the stove. “And it needs a new carburetor.”

After the movie, Fair hoped she'd ask him to stay. He made comment after comment about how slick the roads were.

Finally Harry said, “Sleep in the guest room.”

“I was hoping I could sleep with you.”

“Not tonight.” She smiled, evading hurting his feelings. Since she was also evading her own feelings, it worked out nicely for her, temporarily, anyway.

The next morning, Fair cruised out to get the paper. The rain continued steady. He dashed back into the kitchen. As he removed the plastic wrapping and opened the paper, an eight-by-ten-inch black-bordered sheet of paper, an insert, fell on the floor. Fair picked it up. “What in the hell is this?”