Death by Diploma, page 7
Leslie followed, muttering, “Ronald? You were married to a guy named Ronald? Did he have red hair and giant french fries as his pals? Didja call him ‘Ronnie’? How ’bout ‘Reynaldo’?”
Leslie continued gibbering in disbelief until Emma shushed her as they reached the courtyard.
Chapter 9
They stood in front of the building, looking at the yellow crime-scene tape that had been placed in five or six uniform strands across the door, starting at the very top and marching on down to the doorstop.
“It’s just like on TV!” cried Emma. “Neat!”
Leslie looked the barricade up and down. “The thing that cracks me up is that Andy Taylor here thinks that five pieces of tape will somehow make it more difficult for us to enter than just one.” She snorted. “Maybe on TV that’s how it works.”
They went around to a side door and used Leslie’s key to enter the school.
“Gee, do you think we should be wearing gloves?” Emma whispered. “You know, fingerprints and all that.”
“Gee, darlin’,” Leslie changed her voice to a sugared Southern drawl, “do you suppose the Mayberry RFD squad might have some technology that can tell them these fingerprints are different from the ones we put here yesterday? Or the day before that? We’ve got the gloves to wear in the main office—the crime scene.”
“Thank you, smart aleck. All I meant was what if they checked the door for fingerprints earlier, and now we’re puttin’ new ones on, thus proving our postmortem entry. Well, our post-postmortem entry, I guess. Our earlier one qualifies as that too, since he was dead when we got here.” She sighed. “Poor Melvin. He was such a teddy bear kind of guy—I could tell. And such a thankless job—can you imagine?”
But Leslie was already wiping the doors where they had touched them. “Okay, you got me on that one, Agatha Christie. Just be careful.”
They sneaked into the commons, gloves on. The coppery stench of blood lingered in the air, making the hairs inside Emma’s nose quiver. She remembered smelling pot for the first time at a high school party. It was an unforgettable smell, always flying straight into the memory cells of her brain the moment it hit her nose. This would be one of those smells, she could tell. Only without any good memories attached.
The women went under the wildcat sign into the office—neither jumped to hit the sign. Too bad. This may be a good time to do everything possible to avoid accidents.
Leslie ducked under the crime scene tape at the office entrance and paused. Emma followed suit and stood right behind her, staring at the sharp shoulder blades poking out from her black T-shirt with lettering down the back—Bon Jovi Slippery When Wet Tour, 1987. Anything to avoid looking at what Leslie was looking at. But, Emma decided finally, if they were to solve this thing, it would probably be important to, you know, study the crime scene a little. For Melvin.
Taking a deep breath, she peeked around Leslie’s back. The floor where Melvin had fallen held a taped outline of a body. The silhouette looked smaller than the hulking figure who had entered her room on Monday. Was that only two days ago? A large pool where his head had been was drying to a brownish clot. The spatters on the sides of the desk, the ones she remembered as a vivid red, had turned brown and dull like the inside of an old Band-Aid. Even the air in the office seemed brown, like a haze of pollution had entered the building and settled in the office. The whole scene seemed surreal and sepia toned, an old film noir.
“See anything new?” Leslie’s voice sounded as if it was strangling.
Emma noticed her tense posture and clenched fists. No wonder those shoulder blades were poking out of her T-shirt. “No, it seems the same as I remember, only darker. I think the first thing they do is try to determine what happened in what order. Let’s just try to figure out a chain of events and then get out of here, okay?”
Leslie walked in a circle around the taped outline. “His head went down here”—she pointed and continued to the other side—“and his feet were facing toward the front counter here. So if he walked in the same way we did and went down almost immediately, the killer must have come…” She went to a little cubbyhole with a sink and a coffee machine in the back right corner of the office. “From here. They surprised him from behind—wham!—with the pewter wildcat.” She brought her hand around in a circular motion and came down from above on Melvin’s imaginary head.
Emma’s eyes went bright with unshed tears. But with the unpleasant vision came information. “You knew Melvin; he was a tall enough guy. And even though that wildcat was heavy, Ah’m sure someone would have to come down hard on his head to kill him.”
Leslie picked up on this train of thought. “And come down from a pretty decent height. Look, you do it. I’ll be Melvin.”
Emma positioned herself in the cubby with the imaginary paperweight in hand. Leslie came in and stood where they approximated Melvin to be. Emma swung her arm around and down. The imaginary paperweight struck with mighty force—right between Leslie’s shoulder blades.
“Nope, I’m too short. Okay! There’s some valuable information. The killer had to be pretty tall, unless he had time to stand on a chair before Melvin entered. Assuming this was a sort of hit-and-run killing, the chair would still be somewhere close, I think.”
“The way his body went down looked like he was headed for this desk. Why would he have been going toward the desk? Or been in here at all?”
Emma walked to the other desk. “I don’t know. Maybe he saw something at the desk that the killer had left, and he went to look at it, but the killer had gone to the cubby for coffee. He saw Melvin approaching and killed him to prevent him from getting to the desk.”
Leslie ran her hands over the desk; it was clean. “Nothing on the desk, but even Carl the Clueless would’ve probably picked up something that stood out.”
“And no chairs close enough for someone to stand on and hit Melvin over the head,” Emma noted. “So Ah guess we’ll just have to start with the tall theory.”
“Well, great. That narrows it down to half of the teaching and student population at this school, me included. Assuming it’s even someone from here. Maybe he had gambling debts, and the killer was Tall Joe Someonelli coming to extract payments.”
They sighed in unison, but Emma felt encouraged. “I think it’s a good start. Besides, don’t they just break bones on people with gambling debts? He’s sure not going to be payin’ anyone back now. What should we do next?”
“Let’s go upstairs and check his mailbox,” replied Leslie.
They headed back across the office for the stairs on the other side, careful not to touch anything as they went.
The teachers’ lounge looked the same as it had yesterday, which seemed odd to Emma. Something huge had happened down two short flights of stairs, and this room didn’t even know it. Leslie walked to the far end of the boxes and peeked into one labeled simply Custodians.
“Why don’t they each get their own?” asked Emma. “That seems unfair.”
“I think there must not be as much spam sent out to janitors. You know, we get the professional journals plus surveys, catalogues, all that. It takes up more room.” Leslie pulled a couple of papers out of the box and studied them. “Okay, what we have here are two work schedules for September. One’s addressed to Melvin, and the other is Debbie’s. She’s the blonde who cleans over in the 400s. We know why Melvin didn’t pick his up. I wonder why Debbie hasn’t picked hers up? Hmm.”
Emma looked thoughtful. “That’s strange. Maybe Debbie killed him and she’s now on the run.”
Leslie looked about to reply when they heard noises in the office. She grabbed Emma’s elbow and drew her behind the door of the lounge. They listened to Detective Niome and another voice Emma didn’t recognize.
“Are you sure you’ve got enough here, Detective?” said the voice.
“Yup,” Niome’s flat-lipped twang floated up the stairs. “My men spent the whole morning gathering evidence from this sidea the building. No fingerprints out of the ordinary—our technician said only the secretaries and you had fingerprints on the computers and the coffee machine. Nothing out of the ordinary. The murder weapon—yer pewter paperweight—was wiped clean, so that’s a dead end. As long as you know we might be comin’ back and forth, I don’t see why you can’t open school tomorrow. I know those kids would love the time off, but…”
“But they’ll hate it when they have to make up the lost time come June. I’ll call in a cleanup crew for the office. Thanks, Detective.”
“No problem, Nate. Say, how do you think it’s gonna be for them Broncos this year?”
The voices faded as the men walked out of the front office. Leslie let go of Emma’s elbow, which Emma realized hurt like the dickens where it’d been clutched. They breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“Who was the other guy?” asked Emma, rubbing her funny bone.
“You met him—the principal, Nathan Farrar. Or you saw him zip by on his skateboard, at least. I’ll introduce you when this all calms down. Hopefully I can introduce you as my partner on this case we’ve solved singlehandedly!” She winked at Emma.
“Wouldn’t that be doublehandedly? And what do you want to do now, Mademoiselle Poirot, since others are prowling the school and makin’ our lives more difficult? We can check out the janitor Debbie thing tomorrow, but…”
“Nah, let’s go. We’ll have an easier time of it tomorrow when we’re actually supposed to be here. Right now I need a drink!” Leslie went around to Emma’s other side, and they walked—quietly, cautiously, not touching anything—down the stairs to take a small hiatus from a hard afternoon of detecting.
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent.
—Twelfth Night I.2.54–6
Chapter 10
Friday, August 28
Thomas Jefferson High School started at the usual time on Friday morning, with the usual bell and the kids bemoaning the fact that summer was officially over. It was very officially over, since their parents had now been to the school and met their teachers—that made it more real somehow. But the ambience was ever so unusual, with kids whispering to kids and teachers whispering to teachers and janitors sneaking around on tippy-toe, watching over their shoulders for what Emma had overheard some students calling the “Custodian Canceller.”
Emma felt sorry for the janitors, although she couldn’t imagine Melvin had been killed by some demented serial killer who had it in for the hired help. What, the killer’s father was a janitor and he was ashamed of his blue-collar background? Somehow, the killer’s whacked-out brain thought crushing all the custodians made it okay that he couldn’t afford a letter jacket in high school? That was just too ridiculous for Emma to stomach.
No, his murder probably had something to do with Melvin’s background. Or maybe he’d just stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. Janitors were in the building late; it could have been a wrong-place-wrong-time thing. How sad.
She got through her first three classes without noticing what she said—which was okay, because the kids weren’t really listening anyway. She overheard some boys in her American Lit class betting each other on who would sneak into the office after hours and try to find some overlooked crusted brain matter. That gave Emma the big-time heebie jeebies, but she maintained enough composure to remind the boys that Melvin had been killed in that office after hours, and shouldn’t they be more careful? However, that didn’t have the effect Emma desired. They just looked, wide-eyed, at each other—they hadn’t considered that. They high-fived and upped the bet from ten bucks to twenty. Oh well.
Following the blur of morning classes, she went to meet Leslie for lunch. After an amazing lobster bisque, courtesy of Mrs. Albert, they popped over to the left side of the library to strategize. Emma stopped short of their customary discussion table to take note of the man in the sports section—it was that cute Lounge Lizard reading a book about Peyton Manning. Leslie took note of Emma’s googly eyes, sighed, and steered her toward him.
“Hunter Wells! This is Emma Lovett. She’s brand new—even newer than you.”
He looked up, startled, and dropped his book. Well, his books, as it turned out. The sports bio was a cover for another book. Emma knelt and helped him pick it up—Kierkegaard! He jumped up a notch in her estimation, from pretty cute coach guy to pretty cute coach-philosopher guy. He blushed, took the book back, and hid it on the shelves.
“Hello, ladies. How was your lunch?”
When he made eye contact with Emma, she about fell over. His soulful blue eyes and shock of black hair were enhanced by those candy-apple cheeks that guys hated but girls loved. He looked about six feet tall, slender but wiry, with a blue polo shirt that made his eyes bluer, and khaki trousers. Definitely someone she’d like to get to know. Definitely.
“Nice to meet you, Hunter,” she responded. “Our lunch was wonderful. And how was yours?”
“Well, our discussion today was about reasons for becoming a free agent. So I guess it was somewhat philosophical.” He grinned.
Oh, gorgeous grin too. With a dimple, for Pete’s sake. They sure do make ’em nice in Colorado.
Emma was bursting to ask, especially now that she’d seen his choice in literature, “Don’t you get tired of talking only about sports and sex?”
The three of them walked to the back table.
“Well, sports really is a multifaceted, complex issue,” he said.
Leslie snorted.
“And sex—let’s just say I’m already tired of discussing it with sweaty guys all the time,” he said.
“I imagine it does get tiring,” replied Leslie as they sat, “especially when mixed with sports. I thought the whole ‘scoring’ idea went out with junior high locker rooms—yet I’ve heard Charlie talk about touchdowns, and not the kind you make on the football field.”
Hunter snickered. “Charlie is maybe a taco or two short of a combination plate. But he’s been here a long time, and I’m learning fast that seniority definitely ‘scores’ with the Lizards.”
“Not to mention his superintendent parentage,” offered Leslie.
“Yeah, well, I won’t mention it if you don’t.” He smiled again. “And ya know, the only other people I can really talk to at lunch are in the social studies department—that’s where I teach—and they all have little kids and talk about bottles and breastfeeding all day. Except for Martha Bonaventure, who doesn’t talk much at all. To tell the truth, I’m slightly more adept at sports and sex—discussing them anyway.”
Leslie elbowed Emma. “So, are you a free agent these days, Hunter?”
The color came back to Hunter’s cheeks, matched by a blushing Emma, but his response was cut short when he saw Charlie and another coach walking by the library window. Leslie shoved Hunter under the table.
Emma eyed Leslie in astonishment. She craned her neck to look at Hunter now crouched below them. “My, my. I daresay I don’t know you well enough for you to be under there, Mr. Wells.”
“Please”—his voice was muffled—“call me Hunter.”
Emma giggled. “Hunter. What are you doin’?”
Leslie stage-whispered, “Lounge Lizards can’t be seen with English teachers. In the library, no less. My God, the ceiling might fall in.”
Emma’s head was still bent down. “Hunter, maybe you should tell the Lounge Lizards that English teachers know lots of nifty words for sex.”
Leslie knocked on the tabletop. “Okay, they’re gone. You can come up now. Unless… you’ve decided you like it better down there.”
Hunter came up, his hair disheveled and one side of his shirt collar standing up, looking completely embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be worried about stuff like that—I should have come right back up and called them over. It’s just that I’m still pretty new here. Emma, you must think I’m a total putz.”
Emma placed a thoughtful finger to her lips. “No, just a partial putz. But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Quick! Give me five multisyllabic words that mean ‘putz.’”
“Nincompoop,” he quipped. “Revolter. Supercilious featherhead. Impudent saucy-boy. Ahhh…” He screwed up his face, thinking hard.
“Come on!” Emma said. “You can do it!”
“Um. Butthead?” He collapsed on the chair as the women applauded, at least until they were eyeballed by Edward Dixon.
The three chatted for another minute until Leslie started rambling about open and closed nouns—which, to be frank, Emma had never even heard of—and which was a clear ploy to get rid of Hunter. It worked.
He made his excuses and headed through those electronic gates at the front of the library. Emma watched him go, salivating ever so slightly, until the gates bleated. Edward must have had them turned up to the highest possible volume setting, because they trumpeted through the whole south wing of the school. Hunter stopped short, face red and grin sheepish, while Edward minced over to the gates. Hunter pulled a book from the back of his pants, where it was hidden under his shirt, and handed it to the librarian.
Emma strained to see the title. Walden! He was stealing Walden from the library, probably so no coach would see him check it out. She couldn’t decide whether to be impressed once again by his choice of reading or endeared that he felt he had to sneak it out of the building. She chose both.
Emma was drawn from her reverie by Leslie, who grabbed hold of Emma’s earlobe and pulled her focus back to the table. “Concentrate! He’s a suspect. I don’t care how gorgeous or well read he is. We must focus.”
