Death by Diploma, page 8
Emma watched him checking out the book. “Awww, come on, we’re suspects already. Does he have to be a suspect too?” All of a sudden, she turned businesslike. “No, Ah’m only joking. Of course he has to be a suspect. But does he have to be a suspect?”
“Of course he does, dummy. Did we not deduce that anyone over five-nine or so had to be a suspect? Melvin had to have been killed by someone tall, and your Lothario over there is at least six feet. It’s the only clue we got, baby. Let’s not toss it, ’kay?”
Emma sighed and put her hand over her forehead, Scarlett O’Hara-ish. “All right. But let’s get to work so we can eliminate him from the list. So I can date him. Hey, that kinda rhymes. The Nancy Drew rap!”
They got up and left so they could talk privately, Emma chanting “eliminate him so I can date him” the whole way. After stopping at the office to ask about Debbie—the janitor who hadn’t picked up her schedule—and finding out she was on vacation in Las Vegas until Monday, they went to sit in Leslie’s room.
“Well…” Emma sighed. “At least we’ve eliminated one suspect. Unless that Las Vegas story is just an alibi and she sneaked back to murder Melvin, her deceiving lover.”
“Nah, she’s pretty short, now that I think about it.”
“Then what do we do now?”
Leslie sat at her desk, one long arm ending in a fist under her chin as she pondered. But she couldn’t really make a fist since her fingernails were too long, so she rested her chin on some knuckles, with the red talons splayed out underneath. She was wearing a long sleeveless tank dress with sandals, which would be pretty summery if it weren’t all black. For Melvin, she’d said, but Emma suspected black was a primary color in Leslie’s wardrobe—seasons and mourning notwithstanding.
“I guess we should have eliminated her immediately. My bad,” Leslie said. “I think we need to find out more about Melvin—his associations, how he spent his days, what kind of guy he was. That way it’ll be easier to figure out if someone killed him for personal reasons, or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She flipped up the top of the laptop on her desk, turned it on, and her fingers clicked across the keys.
“What are you doing?” asked Emma.
“I just googled Melvin’s name. Hey, it says ‘Find two listings for Melvin McManus in the North Carolina white pages’! Is that anywhere near Holly Hills? No”—she scrolled—“nope, nope. Here’s a George Melvin McManus who died in 1958.”
“No, silly, you’re in a completely different state.” Emma looked over Leslie’s shoulder. “Hey, what are you doin’ now?”
“Checking the database for Melvin’s address. We have a planning hour right now—I think we should plan to pay Melvin’s house a visit.” The clicking stopped, and a printer in the corner hummed.
Emma crossed the room and pulled out the paper. “He lived at 1129 Washington. Is that far from here?”
“No, actually, it’s the street on the other side of those apartment buildings we parked at yesterday. Whaddya say? Shall we play hooky? Do a little B&E?” Leslie pushed away from the desk and twirled in her chair.
Emma knit her brows together. “B&E? Blowing off school and embarking upon a life of crime?”
“Breaking and entering, goofball. Common crimespeak for all your typical murder mysteries, which you know. But I like yours better.”
“Oh, hell—excuse me!” Emma’s hand covered her mouth. “I know what breaking and entering is—I just missed the acronym. That’s pretty serious, isn’t it? Ah mean, seriously illegal. Like, losing our jobs, being in the police blotter that they publish in the newspaper illegal.” She paced in front of the student desks, her flowered skirt rippling as if she were giving an intense lecture.
For all her twang and inexperience, she did feel intense when she lectured—especially when it was about how important English was to your overall education. She felt lecture-type energy now as she worried aloud about losing her job during the first week of school.
But Leslie quelled her fears. “No, I promise we won’t break anything—just enter. And if we get caught, we’ll do a dumb-girl routine. ‘Oh, Mister Ossifer, we just wanted to put some flowers on Melvin’s mantel in remembrance.’ Smile, smile, bat, bat of eyelashes. You can do that in your sleep, Miss Consummate Southern Charm. I just think it’s the best place to go from here.”
Emma smiled. “Okay. But let’s not forget to bring some actual flowers with us, because otherwise…”
“Yeah, yeah, flowers.” Leslie grabbed her purse, and Emma grabbed the address.
They got as far as out into the commons, where the principal rolled up to them. He was wearing a short-sleeved green oxford with khakis and a tie with geometric blue and darker green shapes. His skateboard had multicolored geometric shapes on it too—Emma wondered if he did that on purpose. His blond hair was longer in back, and it curled around his ears and over the nape of his neck. A darker-blond handlebar mustache lifted as he smiled at the pair.
“Hi, ladies! Are you doing okay today?” His brown eyes were a little sad, like a beagle begging for a bone. “I wanted to talk to you, make sure you’re okay.”
Leslie said, “Nathan, this is Emma Lovett, our new English teacher.”
“Lovett.” He chuckled. “I love it! Heh heh heh.” His face suddenly grew serious. “I’m sorry I missed your interview. I was out of town, and I knew the vice principal would make a great choice.”
Emma looked at Leslie, who shrugged in an I-told-you-who-was-really-in-charge way.
He continued. “Are you doing okay after you… after… yesterday? I’m sorry I didn’t call you at home, but I was involved in the police investigation.”
Leslie widened her eyes at Emma. What investigation? But she said nothing.
“Ah’m fine,” Emma replied. “It was a little disconcerting, to say the least.”
Nathan nodded, his mustache wiggling.
“Leslie and I will do anything we can to help Melvin and his family,” Emma added.
Nathan shook his head. “I don’t think he had a family, at least not anyone close.”
Leslie squeezed Emma’s hand—no one would be at Melvin’s house.
“Well,” said Emma, “anything we can do to get school back to normal. Y’all just let us know! Nice to meet you, Nathan.”
He waved good-bye and skated away.
Leslie gazed at Emma in wonderment. “Did you just say, ‘Y’all just let us know?’ Holy cow, woman, you turn that Southern stuff on and off like a faucet, don’t you? I mean, the accent is always there, but that drippy debutante stuff comes and goes.”
Emma twirled her hands. “Some people think it makes me sound stupid; other people hear it and want to go to bed with me. Others just think it’s sweet. I choose the impression I want to make and go from there.” Her green eyes sparkled. “Whatever works.”
Leslie shook her head as they walked to the parking lot. “All I have to say is this: there’s more to you than meets the eye, Emma Lovett.”
The August heat shimmered off the parking lot as they got into Emma’s green slower-than-molasses Honda—they had determined that her car was definitely less conspicuous than Leslie’s red bomber. After a quick run to the market for flowers, they headed to the street just west of the school.
Chapter 11
The residence at 1129 Washington Street was a tiny house that stood amid a row of almost identical box-like houses. They were all set back from the road with rectangular strips of neatly tended grass and mailboxes shaped like ducks or pine trees. The houses were white or cream colored with shutters of varied shades and brightly colored flowerboxes in the windows. Melvin’s house was one of the white ones, and it had blue shutters and no flowerboxes. That’s because there’s no female living there. Emma felt sad again, remembering the sequined bookmark.
His mailbox was shaped like an old-fashioned schoolhouse though, which was too precious for words. Emma touched it lovingly as she walked by, then she slapped her own hands. Fingerprints, dummy!
As they approached, they noted the front door was free of crime-scene tape.
Leslie snorted. “Figures.”
She strutted up to the door like the Avon lady coming to call, then right before she reached it, she feinted left and sneaked toward the back. Emma followed suit, even though she thought Leslie looked pretty funny feinting and sneaking in her long black sundress. A little gate led to the backyard, and Leslie was about to enter when Emma put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“Hellooo. A gated backyard. What could that signify?”
If Leslie was embarrassed at possibly forgetting something significant, she didn’t show it. “Well, of course it could mean a dog.” She whistled. “Here, Rover. Rover, Rover, come on over!”
Nothing. Oh, the poor man. Not even a puppy to keep him company.
It took them a minute to squeak the gate open; obviously no one had come or gone that way in quite a while. The backyard was as well tended as the front though, with a sidewalk going all the way to the back fence and a little picnic table in the far corner, shaded by a large tree. Maybe oak, Emma thought. Maybe… maybe this wasn’t a good time to get started on her name-that-tree game. She sighed and, pulling out her Swiss Army knife in preparation for the B part of their B&E, followed Leslie to the back door. But Leslie took out a handkerchief, wrapped it around the doorknob, and walked on in.
Emma was astonished. “How did you do that? Do you think someone was here before? Maybe it’s the killer!” She whirled around as if she’d been tapped on the shoulder by an invisible stalking hand.
Leslie shook her head. “Come on, ninny. You’re a small-town girl. How many people in your small town lock their back doors during the day?” She rolled her eyes. “I told you we wouldn’t be breaking, just entering.” She went in, threw the flowers on the kitchen table, and faced Emma. “I think we should split up and search for clues.”
Emma nodded. “Sounds good. Are we looking for something in particular or just clues? Specificity might be helpful here.”
“Hmmm.” Leslie cocked her hip, musing. “I think any papers that might have information—mail, pictures, scrapbooks, et cetera. You start in his bedroom, and I’ll start in the living room.”
They stood at the edge of the dollhouse-sized kitchen. Emma went right, and Leslie turned left.
Melvin’s bedroom wasn’t nearly as well kept as the yard. A blue comforter was scrunched up on the floor at the base of a queen-sized bed. The bed had no headboard, and aside from a bookshelf to its left, which held a few hardback books, a reading lamp, and an alarm clock, the room was devoid of decoration and color. Even the window treatments were simple white blinds. Emma sat on the corner of Melvin’s bed and sniffled. What a lonely life this man must have led. Although Emma’s interactions with him had been brief, she’d sensed the good heart beating in his bulky chest. This detecting stuff was depressing.
“Emma?” called Leslie. “Are you searching?”
Emma sniffed. “Yes, searching. I’m searching, Leslie.” Searching for meaning in a sad ol’ guy’s life.
She scooched over on the bed and riffled through the library books in Melvin’s bookcase. Of Mice and Men, A Wrinkle in Time, Island of the Blue Dolphins—some of her childhood favorites. Odd choices for a grown man’s room but nothing she would consider a clue. A Bartlett’s Book of Quotations sat next to the bed, and Emma smiled, remembering Melvin’s quote from Monday—something like “it ain’t worth doin’ if you don’t do it right.” That was a version of something her father had always said—anything worth doing was worth doing well.
She sighed. Lordy, do I miss my daddy. She checked under the bed and found only dust. His small closet held a few T-shirts, some jeans, two gray jumpsuits, and three pairs of shoes. She even checked in the toes of the shoes and in the shoe boxes for hidden papers. Nothing.
She headed back to the living room. “Ah’m finding zilch. A book of quotations, which we already knew he liked. Some young adult books, which is interestin’, Ah guess, but Ah know a lot of adults who are into YA. You?”
Leslie shook her head. “I got jack squat as well. Nothing interesting in his phone bill, which, aside from some coupon flyers, was his only mail. I found four quarters in the couch cushions though. I’ll spring for a soda on the way back to school, eh?” Leslie took a long-suffering breath.
Emma shrugged. “What about that angry voice I heard earlier in the week? Could that have something to do with Melvin’s death?”
“Well,” Leslie replied, “you said the voice talked about sports. There’s not so much as a Sports Illustrated here. Just the books you found in the bedroom.” She picked up a TV remote from an end table and flipped on Melvin’s old set. “ABC.” She flipped through the channels. “He doesn’t even have ESPN, only your basic networks.”
“Oh well,” Emma said, “this detecting stuff can’t be easy or everyone would do it. Where do we go from here?”
“I think we should go back to school for fifth hour. Someone might get suspicious if all sixty of our students are wandering about ’cause their teachers didn’t show.” She headed into the kitchen. “The soda idea sounds great though, if I do say so myself. Let’s see if he has anything to drink.”
She opened the refrigerator, which held a chunk of moldy cheese and a bottle of salsa. Emma opened cabinets—a few plates here, some crackers in this one, and—her eyes widened. “Whoa. Looky here, Leslie.”
The cabinet farthest from the refrigerator held something to drink, all right. Lots of somethings. Bottles and bottles of whiskey lined the shelves—big bottles of Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Only a couple of the JD—Emma knew they were more expensive—but all in all, it was a staggering array. Leslie walked over and goggled at the stash.
“Wow” was all she said.
“Do you think this is a clue?” asked Emma. “And if so, what does it tell us? Just because he drinks doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He has enough money to keep a house, anyway.”
Leslie scowled. “You’re right. It doesn’t tell us much of anything except that he was an alcoholic. Which makes his whole life even sadder, in my opinion.” She seemed to consider something. “But wait. Maybe it does tell us something.” She pulled out the bottles and looked behind them, then she checked all the other cabinets and drawers.
“Nope, these are the only containers in the house,” she said. “You didn’t find any flasks or fifths or anything in his bedroom, did you?”
“Nothing like that.” Emma felt her eyes light up. “And there was nothing around his body or in his jumpsuit either; I think I’d have seen it. I hope I’d have seen it… I mean, it’s not like I was being ultra-observant when I came upon his body, but… I think I’d have seen it.”
“And that means…”
“That means he’d have to keep a stash somewhere around school!” crowed Emma.
“Exactly. Someone with this big of a habit could never have gone through an eight-hour shift all alone in that school without taking a nip at the bottle every now and then.” Leslie had a handkerchief and was wiping off the surfaces they had touched as she talked. “So now we know where to go from here—back to the school tonight to search out Melvin’s little hidey-hole. Well, first back to school for fifth hour. Say, do you know what you’re going to teach during fifth hour? I don’t have a clue. Ah, well—when all else fails, punt.” She scrubbed the refrigerator handle, and they headed on out the back door.
Emma laughed. “Well, actually, Ah have my classes planned through next month. Ah know, Ah know. A little anal retentive, maybe? Got some great ideas though. Ah’m not comfortable punting just yet, and this leaves me more Nancy Drew time.”
Leslie lifted her eyebrows. “Plus maybe a little time to make time with one Mr. Hunter Wells?” She bonked her hip against Emma’s as they walked through the gate.
Emma gave her friend a wicked “who knows?” grin as they climbed into the car to return to Thomas Jefferson.
Chapter 12
Emma was headed home after finishing her fifth-hour class and holding a brief huddle with Leslie concerning their plans for murder solving later that evening, which were to eat a pizza as big as a Chevy and have some beer from a local microbrewery. Emma had discovered that Coloradans only drank beers with names like Fat Tire or Tommyknocker or Tin Whistle, or that at least had a fruit flavor of some sort and cost seven or eight dollars a six-pack. Words like Michelob and Miller Lite were apparently sacrilegious. After eating and completing their plans, they’d go back to the school to find Melvin’s secret hideout—if such a thing existed.
She pulled into the driveway of her dollhouse, as she liked to call it, and sat momentarily to gaze at it. Her house! She could hardly breathe the words aloud, even though she had closed escrow in July. Always before it had been “her mother’s house,” then “Ronald’s house,” then again “her mother’s house.”
The phrase “Emma’s house” almost made her tongue ache as the words passed through her lips. Never in her whole twenty-six years had anything made her feel more satisfied than buying that house—it was an absolute I-am-Emma-hear-me-roar moment. She got out of the car and twirled a couple of times going up the walk. She stopped to kiss the gladiolus that lined the front porch, not really caring who saw her perform that daily ritual.
One person who saw her was Emma’s neighbor Delilah Thornberry, an aging hippie who had come out once before to kiss the flowers with her. Today Delilah just waved through the front window as Emma straightened the welcome mat on the front porch and adjusted the welcome plaque next to the door.
Her first image upon entering was a forty-gallon fish tank filled with angelfish, sitting on an oak stand at the edge of the living room. It was a small room with only a tiny forest-green couch, a fat striped loveseat, and a television, but it had two huge picture windows and enough plant life to qualify as a rainforest. Emma was so glad it was hers.
