Dying to Teach

  Dying to Teach

  By Cindy Davis

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  London, Texas

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Copyright 2011 by Cindy Davis

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN- 978-1-60318-406-9

  * * * *

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  * * * *

  My thanks to Margie and Joel, and the staff of the Olde Bay Diner. You give the Angie Deacon series a focus.

  * * * *

  Steve—you’re in my heart and mind, daily.

  ONE

  The broadcaster warned that the upcoming scenes might be too graphic for some viewers so Angie Deacon went back to her reading—the latest copy of American Theatre Magazine. Not that she couldn’t take blood and gore, she’d been an ER nurse, after all. And heaven knew she’d seen enough of it over the course of her relationship with Detective Colby Jarvis. But why topple this peaceful moment—there were so few of them in her life.

  When the newsman said, “Tonight, the murder of the Carlson South High School’s drama teacher rocked the community,” Angie slapped the magazine shut. On the television was a picture of the woman. She was pretty, maybe of Polynesian descent, with short dark hair and black rimmed glasses over deep brown eyes. She had a tiny blemish on her left cheek.

  The scene shifted. Police and ambulance strobes illuminated a pair of EMTs like dancers on a disco floor. The men rolled a gurney through a glass door and eased it down six cement steps. As they loaded it into the back of a waiting ambulance, the broadcaster said, “I’m standing here outside 1606 Maple Avenue where the body of Gwen Forest was discovered in her second floor apartment.”

  The camera panned up and across a row of picture windows, then zoomed in on one about midway along the right side of the building. Two small windows flanking the wide one were open. White ruffled curtains fluttered against the screens.

  “Apartment manager David Vickers…” The scene switched to a squat balding man with a bulbous nose sandwiched between two uniformed police officers. He clutched tiny wire-rimmed glasses in his left hand and appeared as though he might crumple onto the grass at any moment. A picture of the apartment building splashed back onto the screen. “…was preparing to wax the second floor hallway when he noticed Ms. Forest’s door ajar. Receiving no response to his knock, he went in and discovered the body. At this point authorities will only confirm that Ms. Forest was murdered, and that no suspects are in custody. By our morning broadcast we hope to have further details.” The camera zoomed in on a clear plastic bag dangling from one of the officer’s hands. Angie squinted. It looked like a tube of toothpaste. Murder weapon?

  The camera moved to the apartment manager’s myopic face. He spoke to the officer on his left then gestured with his chin toward the building. The officer jotted something in his notebook. A reporter stabbed a microphone in their faces but was shooed away. Two men, one uniformed, one not, joined them. That’s when Angie sat up straighter. The magazine slid to the carpet. She snatched at it but missed.

  What the heck was he doing there? She leaned forward, unfolding her legs and setting both feet on the floor. No mistake. The man in plain clothes was none other than Detective Colby Jarvis. He stood half a head taller than everybody else, that ridiculous deerstalker hat prominent in the strobing red and blue lights. Nothing unusual to see him at a crime scene here in Alton Bay, New Hampshire, quite surprising for him to be at one in Carlson, some sixty-five miles to the south. She watched him for a moment—her friend, her lover, her occasional crime-solving partner, but most of all, the man who’d asked her to marry him. Angie didn’t want to think about marriage proposals. That’s what she’d told him again yesterday—that she wasn’t ready to remarry.

  She turned off the television and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of pinot noir. Too bad about that drama teacher. In the photo she looked happy and friendly, smiling openly, comfortable facing the camera. Angie took the glass and the magazine to the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. She ruffled past twenty-six pages of advertising and had just begun reading an article about stretching last year’s wardrobe when the phone rang. The caller ID said it was Jarvis on the other end. After seeing him on television she hadn’t expected his call tonight.

  “Hi, Jarvis.”

  “Hey, love. You see the news?”

  That was Jarvis, always to the point.

  “What brought you to Carlson?”

  “Remember the Johnson kid I arrested last week? We finally got a break in his case. I found his father at a bar there.”

  “The case isn’t related to that teacher’s death, is it?”

  “No. I was talking to a fellow officer when the call came in.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Suffocated. Whether by accident or on purpose, she was knocked unconscious then a tube of stage makeup was shoved down her throat and duct taped in place.”

  That explained the tube in the evidence bag: stage makeup, not toothpaste. What a horrible way to die. “Do they know who did it?”

  “Nah. Just once would it be too much to find the perp standing over the body with the murder weapon in his hand?” She didn’t remind him how often that actually happened. And how often that person turned out to be innocent.

  “So, that was the makeup in the evidence bag?”

  “Evidence bag?”

  “Yes, the one the cop was carrying outside the building.”

  He laughed in the way that never failed to curl her toes, and vowed he had no inside information on the case. That he did not know what was in the bag.

  If he’d been here in person, she could’ve coerced the information out of him. Which made her smile. They talked a few more minutes then said good night. For the first time in ages, he didn’t end with the dreaded M word.

  Angie leaned back on the fluff of pillows and contemplated going back out to watch television. She didn’t watch very often though Jarvis had gotten her in the habit of turning on the news before bed. Two weeks ago he’d arrived with the new 42” flatscreen and she laughed while he installed it, knowing he bought the thing to replace her ancient 13” he had to strain to see. She’d teased him that he should get glasses rather than a bigger television.

  Instead of more TV, she finished the wine, beat the pillows into submission then settled on her left side. But sleep wouldn’t come. The image of drama teacher Gwen Forest wouldn’t leave her head. Not that she had any idea what the woman looked like as of today—that picture could’ve been forty, or a hundred, years old—but they were of a kindred spirit, they shared a love of the theater. Gwen taught acting to kids; Angie owned a community playhouse where everyone acted like kids.

  Two teens from Carlson had acted in one of her playhouse’s performances. It wouldn’t be surprising if either were Ms. Forest’s students.

  Suffocation. What a terrible way to die.

  Early in their semi-professional relationship Jarvis taught Angie a few things. One was, that type of murder usually signified somebody was trying to keep the person from talking. That the murdered person kn
ew something they shouldn’t.

  Angie cursed. This was the real reason she hadn’t wanted to watch when the broadcaster recommended turning away. She knew she’d lie here and speculate about the dead person—their life, their death, and most of all, the person or persons who caused it. What was wrong with her? Other women were content puttering in a garden or cooking gourmet meals. Once she’d tried learning to knit. That lasted almost an hour.

  Well, this time the mystery could stay a mystery. The authorities could do their jobs. She had no vested interest in the outcome.

  Morning arrived bright, sunny and chilly—a traditional New England October morning. The trees’ brilliant colors had faded; leaf peeping tourists had gone home. Now, leaves rained down from the branches with each whisper of breeze. Within a week, all but the oaks and aspens would be bare. Angie jogged up Route 11, toward Gilford. She hugged the guardrail as a semi whooshed past. She ran almost every morning. Running presented three miles of uninterrupted thinking time. The cell phone rested in her pocket in case of an emergency, but it was shut off. With every other step it thumped comfortably against her thigh.

  The theater would be a madhouse today. First thing on the agenda, she and partner Tyson Goodwell would select the next play to be performed at their community theater. Statistics said it took most new businesses more than five years to operate in the black but after a year and a half, Prince & Pauper Theater had achieved the goal—in spite of the fact that the leading man had been murdered during the first performance. In spite of the fact that they’d lost a most promising playwright, and their next three scripts. Now, a mere eighteen months later, they had a pool of scripts to choose from.

  The latest show, a drama titled Coming Home, was in the second week of production. Unfortunately things weren’t going smoothly. Not going smoothly was a rousing understatement. The leading lady was acting like a diva, the costumer couldn’t locate the right outfit for the hefty-sized leading man, and the music score—well frankly, it sucked.

  Angie reached the turnoff, an area where motorists could stop to take pictures of Alton Bay, a small town of five thousand at the southernmost tip of Lake Winnipesaukee. Most mornings she jogged in place for an appreciative glance at the scenery, but thoughts of the upcoming day spurred a quick about-face.

  At home, she showered and dressed and was halfway through a second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Angie didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID and, it being an election year, almost didn’t answer.

  The voice was male, deep and a bit raspy. A smoker’s voice. “Hi Angie, this is Randy Reynolds.”

  It took a moment to put a face to the name: sandy hair that always needed cutting, piercing blue eyes, one of which gazed slightly to the left and took actual concentration not to stare at. He’d tried out for a couple of their productions. So far he hadn’t been right for a part.

  Angie was about to chastise him for calling her at home when he said, “I have a huge problem. I wonder if you’ve seen the news. That drama teacher who was killed… She was one of mine.”

  One of his? What was he talking about?

  He must’ve sensed her hesitation. “Right. Right. I guess you didn’t know. Sorry, I’m very discombobulated this morning. You see, I’m principal of Carlson South High School. Gwen Forest was one of my teachers. My friend. My—”

  “Oh Randy, that’s awful. A terrible blow not only to the school but to you personally.”

  “The reason I’m calling. Well, I know how busy you are. I just don’t know where else to turn.”

  Angie waited for him to get to the point.

  “Let me digress a second. Early in the school year the board voted to eliminate a number of our extracurricular activities, first and foremost, our drama club. Economy, finances—you know the drill. Well, the kids decided they weren’t letting go without a battle. Almost single-handedly, they wrote this fabulous play and have been staging the most professional performance I’ve ever seen.”

  Angie felt warmth on her leg and realized the cup had slipped in her fingers. She set it safely on the island counter and groped for a handful of napkins.

  “I guess you’ve probably guessed our dilemma.”

  “You need someone to step into Gwen’s shoes.” Please say I’m wrong. Please ask for money, costumes, or props. Just don’t ask us to come there.

  “Right. Right. Believe me, I know what an imposition this is but you’re the only person… I know I have no right to ask. The performance is this Friday night. Everything is in the final stages. I know it sounds melodramatic but if the show doesn’t go off— I’m sure you know how many schools are closing down their extracurricular programs. Carlson’s no different.”

  So maybe Prince & Pauper could give money. Right now the company could spare it a lot easier than time.

  “I’m asking—no, begging you to come help out.”

  “Randy.”

  “Could I at least come talk to you about it?” Desperation rang in his voice.

  She wanted to scream NO! In deference to his dead teacher, her mouth wouldn’t form the rejection. Angie stood up and held the phone away from her ear for a four-count. Just. Say. No. It worked for Nancy Reagan.

  Angie moved the phone back to her ear. “I really sympathize with your problem but Tyson and I couldn’t possibly do it right now. We’re up to our ears in the October production.”

  There was a long moment of silence where the guilt didn’t just grow; it multiplied like a flu bug. It was a tactic Jarvis use on suspects, and sometimes on her. He knew if he waited long enough, she’d give the answer he wanted. Well, she would not let herself fall into that trap with Randy Reynolds.

  Finally he said, “All right, I understand.”

  They uttered a couple of platitudes then hung up. The creepy crawly feeling edging up Angie’s spine indicated two things, guilt plus a sure knowledge that she hadn’t heard the last of the subject.

  * * * *

  “Marie, please.” Angie urged the woman off the stage and into the wings. Not that she expected their conversation to be private; every sound carried in here—that was why she and Tyson bought the building in the first place. Marie Jason: five foot nine, bushy hair, and blue eyes. Except for her penchant for arguing, always arguing, Marie was perfect for the part of the leading lady. Angie stepped closer. Perhaps a little one-on-one would help. Help what she wasn’t sure because the only problem was this woman’s disagreeability. “Marie. You have been given the leading role in this play. It’s a position of great honor that can—will—make or break the production. We need the character to be convincing.”

  The close proximity seemed to make Marie uncomfortable. She backed a half-step. “My character is convincing. The trouble is, your…your…narrow-mindedness won’t let me make her come truly alive.”

  Angie slapped the manuscript against the nearest solid object, the wall separating the stage from the rest of the auditorium. The report was like a gunshot. Tyson came running. Which made Angie smile for the first time today. She eased back a step, giving over the floor to her partner.

  He moved between them. “Okay, here’s how it’s going to be. Your character is supposed to be assertive and forthright but not bitchy. When you put that tone in it, all we hear—all the audience will hear—is bitchiness. You will—”

  “I don’t agree. I think the character, in this particular scene, needs to be even more assertive. And while we’re talking about it, I think the line should be changed from, ‘Look David, I asked you to bring in the groceries,’ to ‘I told you to…’”

  The words, “You’re fired,” erupted onto Angie’s tongue. To keep the words from leaving her mouth, she bit down hard enough to draw blood, turned on a heel and walked through the hallway to the green room. Behind her, Tyson must’ve been performing his own stare-down. He had a weakness for pretty women, especially redheads, though Angie had to admit, till now he’d pretty much been able to handle them. Okay, okay, be honest; it wasn’t all Tyson’s fau
lt. Angie had wanted her too. Marie Jason had talent, charisma and, best of all, could project her voice to the upper recesses of the theater.

  Marie’s words echoed down the hallway. “It’s because you don’t like me. I know it. They all know it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then why did you change two lines for one of the others yesterday?”

  Tyson’s, “Because, I—” was followed by an I told you so harrumph from Marie, who said, “Because you don’t like me, that’s why.”

  “I’m done arguing with you. The line stays the way it is,” Tyson said.

  It wasn’t too late to fire the woman. They were only two weeks into the production. Inconvenient, but not too late to replace her; the understudy was friendly and agreeable. The only trouble was, the understudy couldn’t project worth a darn. It would take hours of extra lessons to teach her to propel her voice up and out.

  Suddenly, music started. Loud booming music—the Stones’ Moonlight Mile album, one of Tyson’s favorites—rattled the factory-turned-theater walls. Was this to drown out the shouting? Or had he sent everyone home? Whatever. A mountain of paperwork waited on her desk. Tyson could handle the staff. Angie sat at the scarred desk, a relic from the past that had been here when they bought the old factory building. Too heavy to haul out, she’d adopted it for her own in this dark, windowless room. Thankfully she didn’t have to spend much time here. Someday, when they got the second floor finished off, she’d be in a great office—at the back of the building overlooking Alton Bay. Though being on water made Angie seasick, she loved looking at it.

  She tapped a pen against the checkbook, reminded of the last time the same music played in this building…the day, to the pounding beat of Wild Horses, Jarvis made love to her for the first time. No. Wrong words. He’d plundered her. Like a pirate boarding a captured ship.

  Angie pushed the bills aside, stood up and paced twice around the desk. She made a mental effort to tune out the music, grabbed up a manuscript from the cardboard box on the worn flower patterned sofa against the far wall, and flopped beside it. The box—an identical one sat on Tyson’s desk—contained at least a dozen manuscript submissions, mostly from local authors, though there was one promising script from a man in London. From this collection she and Tyson would select two or three plays for the first quarter of next year.