Dying to Teach Page 30

  “It isn’t,” Angie said, receiving a roomful of confused looks. “But I thought it was.”

  “You thought Mr. Reynolds killed Ms. Forest?”

  “I entertained the notion, that’s all. I wondered if Mr. Reynolds was the one tearing apart the auditorium—”

  “And Gwen’s apartment,” Kiana added.

  Just then José entered. Without a word, he joined the group, dragging a seat from across the room.

  Angie continued her explanation. “I thought maybe he and Gwen had argued. And maybe she threatened to tell what she knew in hopes it would ruin his career.”

  “Ms. Forest wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “A detective has to look at all sides,” Kiana said.

  “Right,” Angie said, ignoring José’s sly smirk. “I wondered if he’d killed her to keep it all quiet.”

  “’Cuz he would’ve lost his job.”

  “Probably.”

  “And he was looking for anything that might incriminate him,” someone offered.

  “That’s where my thoughts headed for a short time.”

  “When did you suspect Mr. Philmore?”

  Angie gestured at José who told about Cilla’s shoplifting. He finished with, “We don’t have the entire story yet. Priscilla acknowledges that Gwen knew about her disease—yes, guys, kleptomania is a disease. Mrs. Philmore had been ordered into treatment for it, but couldn’t suffer the potential embarrassment. For quite some time, she and Mr. Philmore tried to treat her problem themselves.”

  “But they couldn’t,” somebody said.

  “Right.”

  “Then Ms. Forest found out.”

  “Right.”

  “And then something happened between either Mrs. Philmore and Gwen, or her and Mr. Philmore. Either way, he feared she’d tell what she knew,” Angie said.

  “She would never do that,” the same person who’d said this before, repeated.

  “I guess when you’re desperate,” José said, “you tend to forget things like that.”

  “So, he killed her to keep her quiet,” somebody said.

  “What was he searching for all those times?” Kiana asked.

  “Cilla told me she’d given Gwen a bracelet for her birthday last year,” José said. “It was very expensive—and stolen.”

  “He didn’t find it,” Angie said.

  “No. But we did. In Ted’s apartment.”

  Angie explained about Gwen and Ted’s relationship. Some of the kids already knew. Others expressed major surprise.

  Someone from hospital staff came and shooed everyone away. Amid thank yous and hugs, Angie promised to return in a few weeks to visit the kids. She and Kiana savored one last hug. “I will see you and Evan on Monday.”

  And then she and José were alone. They sat side-by-side staring at the surgery doors, which continued to remain closed.

  “Question,” Angie said. He swung around to face her. “At one point, you suspected Evan of Gwen’s murder.”

  “I more so suspected Kiana. But yes, I wondered about him because of two witnesses who said he and Gwen had been arguing.”

  “Did you find out what that was all about?”

  “Evan thought Gwen and Kiana were too close. Unnaturally close. Since Kiana had rejected his efforts to grow their relationship, he entertained the thought that they had some gay ‘thing’ going on.”

  That explained Evan’s severe reaction to the news about Randy’s homosexuality.

  “I’m not sure—you’ll have to ask him,” José added, “but I have the feeling Gwen divulged her relationship to Kiana in hopes of diffusing potential trouble.”

  That made sense.

  “You told Jarvis you had two suspects in mind.”

  “He told you that?”

  José grinned, wide and white. “I know one was Philmore.”

  “When I realized Ted had a penchant for wearing women’s clothes, I wondered whether he’d done it to keep her quiet.”

  “Women’s clothes?” José asked.

  “Yes. I believe his cross-dressing was the reason Gwen couldn’t commit to him on a permanent basis. Remember, she’d already been through a situation with a gay man. I think she feared to take on something so…unusual, again.”

  José nodded. And then he frowned. “You have another question.”

  “Marie Jason.”

  A wide grin broke out on his smooth skinned face. “Jarvis was right. You are amazing.”

  Angie didn’t say anything.

  José continued, “Do you remember when Josh tried out for a part at your theater?”

  “I don’t personally handle that end of things, but Cilla told me he did. Apparently Randy tried out at least once also.”

  “I think that’s why Josh did—he wanted to one-up Randy. You know, spout about it if he got one and his boss didn’t. Anyway, at that time you were involved in solving another case. Cilla told me he came home complaining how you should keep to business, work in the theater and stay out of detecting. FYI, Randy told me he was impressed at your expertise.”

  Suddenly she knew where all this was going. Josh had planned to kill Gwen, perhaps for several weeks. Somehow he knew Randy would request her services, and had sent Diva Marie to keep Angie so busy she wouldn’t be able to get away and help out when Randy called.

  She started to rake her hands through her hair and realize most of it was fastened atop her head. She undid the barrette and shook it loose just as the double doors of the surgery burst open. A green-suited doctor strode through, carrying a green cap in both hands. Angie and José shot to their feet and met him a few feet inside the door.

  * * * *

  It was just after five in the morning. Dawn light squeezed between the heavy curtains in intensive care at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Beside her, oxygen whooshed through one tube, IV fluids and meds through another. Rough and tough Colby Jarvis had dodged another one. The bullet had pierced his rib cage, miraculously missing anything vital. The surgeon said that barring unusual developments he’d be moved to a regular room later today.

  His eyes opened. They roved left and then right, and found her. She half-stood and planted a kiss on his lips. Then she sat, gripping his calloused hand like she’d never let go.

  COMING IN NOVEMBER 2011

  Rest in Pieces

  When a popular sixteen-year-old girl is murdered, it devastates residents of the tight-knit communities surrounding NH’s Lake Winnipesaukee. But when the jury sets the accused man free, it shakes people to their very core. Detective Colby Jarvis blames himself for the verdict—his testimony wasn’t strong enough; he didn’t do enough to pull the case together. But he won’t take the murderer’s release sitting down.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Snow wafted from the darkening sky in delicate, airy whispers. Holiday lights twinkled off the Winnipesaukee River. A perfectly shaped balsam tree, glittering in white, filled the gazebo in Rotary Park at the end of the snow-covered walkway. The only sound was the occasional shush of cars, like skiers, up on the main road. Angie Deacon could almost forget the reason she and Jarvis were here. She linked her arm tighter through his. A snowflake landed on her nose and she sneezed.

  Colby Jarvis unlinked their arms and turned her to face him. “You coming down with something?”

  “Snow tickles.”

  He planted a feather-light kiss on the tip of her nose then laid an arm around her shoulders and they began walking again. She nestled into the crook of his arm, difficult because they were close to the same height.

  “Think you can do something about those pesky snowflakes, Detective? Arrest the little buggers.” She snatched at one with an ungloved hand. “Here, start with this one.”

  His ringing cellphone cut off his laugh, making it come out like the bark of a small dog. She didn’t laugh. She and Jarvis, like dozens of others, had been praying the call would come tonight, so Crystal Folsom’s family wouldn’t have to wait through the holidays for the verdict.

&nb
sp; He flipped the cell phone cover open, and snapped, “Jarvis here.” He listened for two seconds, his face morphing through at least a half-dozen emotions in that short time, clicked the cover shut and crammed the phone back in place. Wordless, he started walking.

  Though she had long legs, Angie had to run to keep up as he practically sprinted toward Main Street. Thankfully the snow hadn’t made things slippery yet because no way would it have slowed him down.

  A gaggle of reporters crowded the sidewalk out front of the Belknap Superior Courthouse. Jarvis gripped Angie’s hand and muscled his way through, giving a curt nod when asked if the jury had returned.

  Halfway up the granite steps, out of earshot of the clamoring paparazzi, Angie asked, “What if they let him off?”

  “They won’t.”

  “A while ago, you were worried your testimony hadn’t been strong enough, to—”

  His brusque, “He will not go free,” was followed by an almost prayer-like, “I hope,” that she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear.

  The hallway outside the courtroom on the second floor was a madhouse. Jarvis wrestled along the corridor and into the courtroom. Things here weren’t any calmer here. Jarvis squeezed them onto the hard bench behind the bar—the barrier dividing the public from the court participants. None of the court staff had returned yet. The only people in the well were the defendant, his two-man defense team, and a pair of uniformed guards. The guards leaned against the wall looking serious. The defense team stood to one side, heads bent together and backs to the crowd. The defendant sat at the center of the defense table. Single, thirty-year-old, Abraham Gleason Jefferson presented an image of middle class respectability with his short Afro and neatly trimmed mustache. Until two months ago, he had been a hard-working member of the road crew for the town of Laconia. He had lived in town for almost ten years. He had no record, not even a speeding ticket.

  So, what suddenly made this man want to kill young women? In particular Crystal Folsom.

  As if feeling Angie’s attention, Jefferson rotated his head and their eyes met. He raised his right hand, folded it into a fist, extended his index finger, took aim and fired at her. Angie jumped as if a real bullet had exploded from the tip of that flesh and blood gun.

  Angie groped for Jarvis’ hand on the seat beside her. And found nothing. Which made Jefferson laugh out loud. No mistaking the sound of it over the hum of the crowd.

  She spotted Jarvis in deep conversation at the end of the row, with the prosecuting attorney Lillian Imada, a dwarf beside Jarvis’s brawny frame. Jarvis had once described Lillian as a pit bull in a Chihuahua’s body. This was Angie’s first real trial. The only others she’d seen were on television, but throughout the whole ordeal, Lillian had handled herself as well as Perry Mason. Her closing argument consisted of a rapid-fire narrative of what sounded like an open and shut case, though, all afternoon, Jarvis voiced his doubts. That worry showed now in deep lines in his handsome face. It was there in Lillian too, not so much on her face, but in her stance. The petite lawyer, in a red pay-attention-to-me business suit leaned a hip on the railing that separated her from Jarvis.

  To the left of the judge’s bench, a door opened. The sober-faced bailiff walked in and stopped in front of the judge’s bench. When he raised both hands to the crowd, Angie’s heart took on a rat-a-tat snare drum beat.

  “Everyone. Take your seats, please.”

  As if at a championship ball game, each spectator pushed for the best seat. Lillian eased into her chair behind the prosecutor’s table. Crystal Folsom’s parents and elder brother entered from the aisle and took their places in the front row behind Lillian. How Ann and Samuel Folsom sat stoic while the defense badgered the woman attempting to bring their daughter’s killer to justice, Angie couldn’t imagine. Samuel, wearing a black suit with tiny gray pinstripes, leaned over the mahogany bar and said something to Lillian, who merely shook her head. He slid back on the seat and linked arms with his wife. Angie imagined he asked Lillian if she’d heard any rumor as to the jury’s verdict. And received a negative reply.

  Son Justin, at nineteen, was three years older than Crystal. He’d attended the hearings every day with his parents, though Angie had the impression he’d rather be elsewhere. He sat hunched over what looked like a handheld video game.

  The bailiff’s next words brought the already high tension to a peak. “All rise.”

  With a rustle and shuffle, the assemblage rose as one.

  The door opened again and the judge entered. Angie liked the redheaded man; he’d presided over a fair trial, allowing neither side to squeeze in unwarranted information. He fluffed his robes and sat. Angie tried to read his expression and couldn’t help thinking what a great poker player he’d make.

  Another door discharged the jury: seven men, five women. Ten had children. Four were single. Two were retired. All bore unreadable faces.

  The words, “You may be seated,” brought another rearrangement of bodies.

  “Jury, have you made your decision?”

  The jury foreman, a tall, painfully thin man with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, stood. “We have, your honor.”

  “Would you read it please?”

  With much to-do, the man drew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and read, “We find the defendant, Abraham Gleason Jefferson…” a three-second hesitation had the audience leaning forward on the benches… “Not guilty.”

  ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS

  Cindy has many passions in life. As with most authors, books are foremost. Except for the constantly churning bread machine, her house could pass for a library. Cindy also enjoys needlework, hiking, canoeing and jigzaw puzzles. She and her husband spend most weekends in their motorhome seeking out new settings for stories and of course, promoting books.

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE ANGIE DEACON MYSTERY SERIES

  A Little Murder

  When a fishing trip hooks more than a few trout, ER nurse Angie Deacon and her husband find themselves unexpected suspects in a murder investigation. Who amongst the other five aboard Little One could have had a vendetta against the boat’s owner--especially one strong enough to see Nolan Little dead?

  Will Angie live to regret her decision to aid Nolan’s aggrieved wife once she learns the woman harbors secrets of her own?

  Untruths aren’t the only cause for alarm as the lethal pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place, leaving Angie wondering just exactly how her husband fit into the deadly equation…and if she is next on the killer’s list.

  Play with Fire

  Angie Deacon has a new career, co-owner of Alton Bay New Hampshire’s community theater. Her divorce is almost final and life is good once again. Until opening night when the co-star, played by new love interest Detective Colby Jarvis, shoots the star. Who substituted Jarvis’ real gun for the prop gun? And why would anyone want the star dead? By day he’s merely the owner of the local nursery.

  Hair of the Dog

  Angie Deacon thought her vacation in Weirs Beach, New Hampshire would be relaxing. But the dog next door would not stop barking. Finally she confronted the owner, Simon York at the local diner. Their ‘discussion’ ended in a near knock-down drag-out. The next morning he was found dead. And she’s the main suspect.

  Angie must seek out the real killer before they stuff her behind bars till her skin wrinkles and her arthritis knobs her joints. Her search for the real killer leads her to a cosmetics factory that’s putting out some very questionable products. Now the owner of the factory—Simon’s wife—is dead.

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Dying to Teach

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

&nbs
p; SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS