Dying to Teach Read online

  “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in traffic.” She pretended to notice the man dressed like a janitor. He was of average height with short-cropped dark hair and a pencil thin mustache. She papered on a smile. “Hello. Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name, I’m Gwen Forest’s replacement.” Angie stretched a hand toward him.

  He transferred what she now saw was a mop, to his left hand, and shook hers. “Linc. Lincoln Underwood.”

  “Nice to meet you, Linc. Don’t tell me,” she acted surprised, “are you here to try out for a part in our play?”

  He shook his head. “I’m no actor. I’m the janitor. B-but I—”

  Angie reached into her handbag and came out with the sapphire necklace Cilla had given her. She handed it to Kiana. “I got that jewelry we needed. Check it out. I think it’ll go perfectly with that costume. Evan, your mother called my cell a few minutes ago. I told her you were on the way home.” Now Angie turned to the janitor. “Sorry if we disturbed your cleaning. We’ll get out of the way.”

  Angie spun on a heel and started along the hallway, hearing the rushed footsteps of the kids following. She ignored the janitor’s, “But wait. Those kids—”

  Nobody spoke till they were in the parking lot beside Angie’s car.

  “Phew! That was close,” Evan said.

  Angie snatched the bag from Kiana’s fingers. “I will not lecture you about what just happened.” She pressed the button to unlock the driver’s door. “Go home. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

  “But Mrs. Deacon, we found a clue.”

  “I know. I assume it’s something to do with a photo.”

  Kiana removed it from her back pocket and checked the school door. When no mop-wielding janitor peered out, she handed it to Angie, who gazed at the young couple in the picture. She couldn’t keep her eyes from widening in recognition.

  “What is it?” asked Evan. “Who is it?”

  “We know the girl is Ms. Forest,” said Kiana. “We were trying to figure out the guy’s identity when the janitor walked in on us.”

  “I almost jumped out of my shoes,” Evan said. “Thank goodness you showed up.”

  Angie shot him a this-wouldn’t-have-happened-if-you-listened-to-me look.

  “You know the man in the picture,” Kiana accused.

  Angie waggled the photo in the air. “Where did you find this?”

  “Under the blotter on Ms. Forest’s desk. What should we do with it?”

  Against every logical molecule in her body, Angie said, “I’ll handle it.”

  “What are you gonna do with it?”

  “Take it to the police.”

  Kiana broke into a wide grin.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m investigating. It only means I don’t want you kids involved any more than you are. I will tell the police where I found it. Now scoot, both of you.”

  “But who—”

  Evan cut her off with a jerk on the elbow.

  Angie remained standing beside the car. No, not standing, leaning because suddenly all muscular control deserted her body. Regardless of her repeated denials, those teens, and seemingly everyone else in the school, thought Angie was hot on the case. She sighed and waited till the copper colored motorcycle disappeared around the corner.

  In the car she laid the picture upside down on the passenger seat beside the muffin and necklace bags. The coffee had grown cold but she drank two large swallows anyway. Thus fortified, Angie drove to the Chinese restaurant two blocks from the hotel and ordered dinner.

  At the hotel she bypassed the elevator and took the stairs to her room, set the bags and folders on the table near the window, toed off her shoes, hung her jacket in the closet and flopped on the bed. Where was Jarvis now? The bedside clock said he was probably kicked back on his beat-up sofa, Red’s head in his lap, watching the Six O’clock News and eating dinner from a can. As soon as the news was over he would phone.

  Part of Angie dreaded the call because by the time she said hello, he’d know something was up. He’d laugh and taunt her for getting involved in the murder case. What was wrong with her? Yes, that would be his first question. How could she say that, despite her best resolve, despite her finest effort, she’d found herself buried in Gwen Forest’s murder? Why couldn’t she stay out of trouble? That would be his second question.

  A query to herself would be, why did these things keep finding her? It seemed like Trouble—with a capital T—deliberately sought her out.

  Jarvis would berate her and, no matter how hard she protested, he would never believe the finding of a clue was a total and complete accident. A mere attempt to keep the kids out of their own Trouble with a capital T.

  Right now, she had a bigger problem—Kiana and Evan. How could she convince them to leave the investigating to the professionals? Especially once they realized the man standing beside their beloved teacher was none other than their principal Randy Reynolds.

  TEN

  “You’ve done it again, haven’t you? Couldn’t keep from leaping headfirst into someone else’s problems.” Jarvis popped open another can of beer and went to stand in the back door. Dusk was falling but he could still see that two fence posts needed replacement. Perhaps this weekend—if he didn’t have to bail Angelina out of jail. Or identify her body in the morgue. He sucked down a long swallow and listened as she defended her actions in taking the photograph from the kids.

  “I agree you did the right thing. But why not just take it to the police? The problem would be out of your hands.”

  “I thought I should talk to Randy first. He admitted they’d been married for a short time back in college. I can’t imagine that picture being anything more than a sentimental way for Gwen to stay attached to the man she once loved.”

  “Or still loved. What was your feeling about their relationship?”

  “That the marriage was mutually dissolved and, at least on his part, there was no animosity.”

  “You think he told the truth?”

  “He seemed genuine. And he was genuinely terrified about attention being focused on the school. If I take the picture to the cops, it will bring them down hard. Maybe it would be unjustified.”

  He heard her sigh and wished he were there to hold her and ease the frown lines that etched across her forehead during times like this. He moved away from the door and dropped into a kitchen chair, wincing at the sharp pain in what he referred to as his ass crater—a wound acquired a month ago when a suspect tried to murder both he and Angelina. Because of the ass crater, and incidents like it, he knew well that decisions came hard when you tried to protect people. In his line of work he saw it all the time, 99% of the time it created more trouble than it solved. Angelina knew this too.

  “You’re right,” he said, “the picture is probably not related to the murder, but it isn’t your decision to make.” Something nudged his right foot and he reached down to pat Irish Red, the puppy Angelina had given him—a big step for a person who hated any kind of mess. The puppy, already fifteen pounds, sat on his foot and leaned her head against his knee. He fondled the silky fur.

  “Look,” he told Angelina, “use your camera and take a picture of the photo. Send it to me. Maybe I can figure out what college they’re at.”

  “I can save you all that time and ask Randy in the morning.”

  “No need to alert him.”

  “I know but something keeps ringing in my head…that he might’ve already told me. I’ve been trying to recall our conversation from this morning. I didn’t realize at the time that our dialogues were in two different time zones. I was taking in information to help work with the kids and—”

  “And probably feeling very nervous.”

  “That’s an understatement! While I sat there thinking he was making conversation to help ease my nerves, he was actually feeding me information to help solve Gwen’s murder. I wish I could remember it all. I’ll feel stupid asking when he already told me.”

  “Remember the interrogation tactics
I taught you. Keep him talking. The information might come out without a direct question.”

  “Good idea.”

  Soon, the phone pinged letting him know the picture had arrived. The tiny screen reminded him he needed to see an eye doctor. In the photo, a young couple, probably in their late teens, wore medium quality jeans and identical Nike shoes. They stood on a dirt path in front of a brick building, smiling lovers’ smiles. Jarvis recalled a photo album he came across recently on the top shelf of his closet. One of the first pictures was he and Liz; they’d worn those same nothing-can-change-our-feelings expressions too.

  Jarvis had to agree with Angelina, the backdrop was at a college, probably one in New England if the architecture and setting were any indication. The path wound between six fully leafed maple trees, which meant the season was probably late spring or summer. Considering school schedules, it probably wasn’t summertime.

  He sat at the computer and uploaded the photo from the phone. On the large, flat computer screen, the details were fuzzy but easier to see. Wait. What’s that? He peered closer at the monitor. Were those wedding bands? Yes, narrow bands—he couldn’t tell whether they were silver or gold—decorated each left ring finger. Okay, that much of Randy’s story was true. Jarvis wished he were at the office where he could search for marriage records. Chances were good they had been married near the school.

  First, he searched for colleges in the northeast. If that didn’t pan out, he would spread the search down the eastern seaboard, and then west if need be. Two hours—man, there were a lot of schools in New England—and another can of beer later, he found it: Bridgewater State College in Massachusetts. The path was now paved and the trees were many years older, but no doubt about the location. What did the information mean? In the long run, probably not one thing. Most police research—the long, long hours chasing clues—turned out a waste of time.

  Even though it neared midnight and Angelina was probably still awake—she sometimes lay awake for hours—he went to bed. He’d phone from the office in the morning, hopefully he’d have a second piece of news, about the marriage license. With any luck he’d find a record of the marriage’s dissolution too.

  He considered phoning the detective on the case. Since Carlson was a small town, they had no functioning detective squad, so José Rodriguez, a full time detective in the neighboring town of Nashua, had been assigned to the case. Rodriguez had been unusually forthcoming with information. PDs were usually willing to share but mostly when the departments were working the same case. Jarvis had no case, only fell into this one because of Angelina. He had no official right to anything. The first night they met, Rodriguez mentioned their department being short of detectives, so Jarvis figured he would welcome somebody to run things past, a senior advisor, so to speak. Even so, it was late. Since the information probably had no bearing on the case, he’d save it till morning.

  Jarvis spent a half hour pressing the big barbells in his living room. Then he took the puppy outside. As always, they walked the perimeter of his in-town property to teach her limits. She did her business and they went inside.

  Jarvis showered and climbed into bed, arms under his head. Irish Red’s toenails clicked along the hallway, then silenced as they met the bedroom carpet. She came to the side of the bed. He reached down, as he did every night, to pat her. He watched her black shadow turn and go to her bed in the corner. Then he laid back staring at the ceiling.

  Usually exercise and a hot shower brought on sleep. Not tonight. For a long time he stared at the recently painted ceiling—one of the benefits of his relationship with the very-particular Angelina Deacon was that, to impress her, he’d redecorated most of the house he’d shared with Liz for so many years. He squashed thoughts of Liz and her premature death. He’d wallowed in sadness for far too long. Life was too short, as Liz had frequently reminded. She would be angry knowing he’d waited ten years to begin dating again. She probably wouldn’t approve of Angelina; the pretty blonde was kind of high maintenance. But Angelina was independent, a self-starter, and perfectly able to care for herself. Besides, she was hot as a summer BBQ grill.

  Jarvis’ colleagues continually reminded him that Angelina was way out of his league. What she saw in him, even he couldn’t imagine. But he’d fallen like a boulder for her. Over the past year he’d proposed time and again. She kept turning him down saying she wasn’t ready to jump into that fire again so soon after her divorce. Most men would be disheartened, but like a puppy who’d gobbled down one treat, he continued to putter along, hopeful for a bigger, tastier one.

  ELEVEN

  Angie hung up the phone feeling relieved. Sending that photo to Jarvis released her from responsibility of delivering it to the cops, of being further involved. He would stay up all night figuring out the photo’s clues. Then he’d send it the whole business to the authorities. No further need to worry about it. Sleep could be restful and plentiful tonight.

  She reheated the Chinese food in the microwave and settled at the small table, with the heavy drapes open. She dumped the necklace out of the bag. It had an excellent quality gold chain with intricately woven links, but the most remarkable feature was the sapphire colored stone. She held it up and watched the light bounce around inside. And frowned. She’d never before noticed light reflected inside a fake stone. Angie held it closer to the bulb. It looked to be good quality, the setting was tight, the stones well set. She shrugged, put the pendant in the container with her other jewelry then returned to her dinner.

  Below, and across the quiet street, shadow-people ambled about in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. Directly across from her fifth floor room, a man stood in an office window on the same floor as Angie. He was balding and tallish, wearing dark slacks and a light color shirt. Nothing out of the ordinary except he stared at her. A tiny part of Angie considered slamming the curtains shut. A larger and bolder part of her remained there, sometimes looking right at him, sometimes breaking the contact and looking at elongated clouds on the navy blue and slate gray skyline. The man obviously tried to rattle her. Stupid man to think he could.

  The guy looked a little like Josh Philmore—the English teacher. The kids seemed to like him though Angie didn’t know how she herself felt about him. Her first impression that morning had been one of a quiet, self-effacing man who adored his wife. One who went all the way to her shop to make sure she felt okay after the death of her best friend. All day, something about that meeting didn’t feel right. The scene in front of the shop played in her mind. Loving husband arrives, surprises wife. Angie used to love it when Will did that. It provided a nice break in the day. But there had been something off-kilter about their exchange. Josh had been valiant in disguising it, but the more Angie thought on the topic, the more an underlying tension became evident. The way Cilla leaned against him, the way he resisted slightly before putting his arm around her. Question was, if he felt a reluctance to touch her, what brought him to the shop? Only one thing Angie could think of—he was checking up on her. Possibly Cilla had been unfaithful. Possibly he had. In Angie’s experience, the man’s cheating usually made him insecure enough to start checking to see how the wife utilized her time. With nothing more than a simple body movement forming the theory, Angie looked again for the man in the office building. But he had gone.

  She tugged on the rod to shut the drapes and sat to read one of the plays from the heavy manila envelope. Dead Restraint’s cover letter proclaimed it as a suspense—one of her favorite genres. Angie loved standing in the wings and watching the audience’s reaction to suspense plots, edge of the seat, hands gripped on armrests. And leaping out of those chairs when the ‘aha’ moment happened. Yes, suspense definitely sold tickets. She made notes to talk with Tyson about this one. She also wanted to discuss producing Adrift, the kids’ play. They might be able to use the cast—hopefully the kids would be excited about another set of performances. Prince & Pauper would make part of the proceeds available for the school’s drama program. She c
ould already envision the advertising possibilities.

  She stood and stretched out the kinks. She groped between the panels of the drapes and looked outside. It was almost dark, just a hint of light still oozing between the buildings. No stars, which probably meant the warmth of the day still remained. Making sure the guy from the window across the street was still gone, she slipped into a sweater, tucked the room key into a pocket, and left the room.

  Moments later, Angie stepped into the cool, fresh air where just a hint of exhaust fumes remained. By the time she went for her morning jog they’d be all blown away. For a couple of hours the air would be the cleanest and freshest of the day.

  She stood on the sidewalk taking in the mood of the neighborhood. This area was mostly businesses and offices and, because of the late hour, quiet. Only the whoosh of the occasional car on the cooling pavement broke the sound of night dropping over the town. Angie drew out her phone and dialed Tyson’s cell number. He answered on the second ring, which meant he was alone at home.

  “Hey partner,” he said. “How’re things in school?”

  “Good. Really good.”

  “You aren’t thinking of ditching me for the educational scene, are you?”

  “Not a chance. How’re things there?”

  He said, “Okay,” way too fast. Things weren’t okay at all.

  “We have to do it, you know,” she said.

  “Let her go?”

  “Yes Tyson. We have to fire her.”

  He heaved a giant sigh. “I know.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow and do it. I don’t have my schedule here, I’ll call you in the morning and let you know when I can get there.”

  “You don’t have to. I can do it.”

  She laughed, garnering the attention of a couple walking past. Angie realized she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and backed out of their path. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”