A Simple Suburban Murder (13 page)

— 5 —

M
rs. Evans rushed out of the room and down the stairs. I took the disc as I followed her out. I caught up with her on the landing overlooking the family room.

We saw Scott sprawled on the floor, and Keith draped over the back of a chair—both laughing uncontrollably. The two riotous ones below noticed their audience at the same moment. They pointed at each other and yelled simultaneously, "He did it." Their laughter redoubled.

I watched my lover laughing and pounding the floor like a little kid. It was impossible to keep a straight face. We joined the laughter. The two of them stopped only when they began to choke.

His mother descended the stairs and went to Keith. He waved her help away, and slowly composed himself. I looked around the room to find the debris from the crash. Nothing seemed broken or out of place.

"What happened, Keith?" Mrs. Evans said with a confused and, of course, worried smile. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm fine." He pointed at Scott. "Mr. Carpenter is funny. He can stand on his head and belch the alphabet."

We all looked at Scott, who now sat up in the middle of the floor grinning and holding his sides. This was the man who pitched no hitters in games five and seven of the World Series two years ago. That seventh game was the highest rated show in TV history.

Scott explained, "I got through the alphabet twice. Keith insisted I show him how. I was glad to. I helped him lean against the wall, with his legs up and all balanced. I was halfway through the alphabet again when Keith lost his balance. He fell into me. I fell into the bureau." He pointed at a piece of furniture now resting against the far wall. "The crash you heard was when it banged into the wall. I hope we didn't break anything." He picked himself up.

Mrs. Evans checked the bureau. "It's fine." She turned back to them. "You're not hurt?" she asked.

"No," they both replied.

She looked relieved.

"We're almost done with our talk," I said. "Is it safe to leave you two alone down here?"

They nodded, holding in grins that threatened to break out in renewed laughter.

"Why don't you show Mr. Carpenter one of your nice games?" Mrs. Evans suggested. "You could play quietly until we're finished."

"Okay," they said.

We went upstairs. Occasional laughter drifted from below.

"I hope your friend is all right," she said.

"He's pretty tough. I hope he didn't damage anything." "No, and anyway the bureau is old. I am glad that Keith seems to like Mr. Carpenter."

"Yes, he does."

Her doubts about my taking the disc didn't resurface. I didn't remind her. I switched back to Mr. Evans. "About your husband."

The worried smile found its accustomed place.

"Do you have any idea where he went the night of the murder?" "No."

I should have expected that by now. "What time did he leave the house?"

"Around nine."

"He didn't say anything?"

"No, he never did."

"Everybody else was home?"

"Oh, yes. I put the girls to bed right after he left. I looked in each of the boys' rooms at ten o'clock. They were watching TV."

"Phil said he was out all night."

"I don't know why he would say such a thing. If he was out, he left after ten, and I didn't know about it. I couldn't control what he did these past few years," she ended lamely.

There was nothing I could say to that. There was nothing more to learn from her.

In the car I gave Scott a long look. "You never told me you could belch the alphabet."

"While standing on my head," he reminded me.

"Yeah, that too."

"I don't tell you everything. There are still some mysteries about me."

He started the car.

"Do I want to know where you learned how to do it?"

"Sure. In the minor leagues. We used to do all kinds of stupid stuff like that. There was never anything to do in the one-horse towns we played in. We didn't have any money to do it with if there was. So in cheap motels we entertained ourselves. One guy, Slimey Doubloon—"

I interrupted, "Slimey Doubloon?"

"He claimed that was his real name," Scott insisted.

"Okay," I said.

"Slimey was special. He could fart 'Dixie' after he ate a sixteen-inch pepperoni, sausage, and anchovy pizza."

"He ate the whole thing himself?"

"Had to, or he couldn't get beyond the first verse." "Oh."

"Anyway, he was gross. And seventy-five pounds overweight but all muscle. If he ever hit the ball it went miles. Unfortunately, he spent most of his summers spinning wind. He couldn't learn to hit even a minor league curve." He paused.

"Is there more?"

"Sure. Slimey taught a bunch of us how to belch the alphabet."

"While standing on your heads."

"Right." He gave me his dazzling smile.

"You could have worked up a whole routine to entertain during the seventh-inning stretch."

"We did. We were set to do it for a July fourth game. Slimey'd already eaten the pizza for his part of the act. The management got wind of it the inning before and threatened to fire us all if we went on with it."

"Show biz lost a great act."

"Want me to teach you?"

"Thanks, I'll pass."

He drove for a minute in silence then asked. "Okay, Sherlock, what'd you learn?"

"The Evanses' marital relationship was straight out of the

Middle Ages." I explained about the finances. "If she knows anything about the murder, it's buried so deep I don't think anyone could dig it out."

"She's hopeless?"

"I think so. I did find one thing." I held up the floppy disc and explained, "If whoever broke in took only the discs, then there must be something important on them. They missed this one and it might be vital."

"Do you think you can break into it?"

"I doubt it, but I'll try some combinations. An access code like that could be anything. If he hid his true financial status on the disc, he probably made breaking into it supremely complicated."

"Oh."

"Or he could have made it as simple as using his name spelled backward. I'll work at it, but I don't hold out much hope for it. What did Keith say when you gave him the envelope?"

"He let me read the note. Phil talked about seeing him soon and to take it easy, that kind of stuff. Nothing helpful. He also included a thousand dollars."

"That's a hell of a scale he must be working at. I'd like to be in his union."

As we walked in the door at my place I heard the phone ringing. I hurried to snatch it up.

"Oh good, you're finally there," Meg said after she heard my voice.

"What's wrong?"

"I got a visit from Armstrong around five today. At first he tried to be all slick and friendly. What he really wanted to know was what you and I talked about earlier today."

"Sylvester must have reported seeing us talking."

"I assume so. I told him that as far as I knew my job description did not include revealing the contents of private conversations. After I said that, he switched to threats about fraternizing with faculty while working. I told him that as a librarian it was part of my job description to meet with teachers. After that he muttered threats about job security."

"I'm sorry to bring this pressure on you, Meg."

She laughed. "Don't be absurd. That son of a bitch can't touch me. I work because I enjoy it. I could have retired ages ago. I'm not worried. I called because he also made threats about you."

"What'd he say?"

"He said he knew you were pursuing the investigation contrary to his direct orders. That you were in big trouble, and that if I was part of helping you I would be in as much trouble. I'm afraid I didn't help the situation any by bursting into laughter when he said that."

I smiled at the picture of Meg laughing in Armstrong's face.

"You know how he splutters when he's angry?" Meg continued.

"I've heard, but I've never seen."

"He started doing that, spraying several shelves of nearby books. He listed more threats at the same time, and amid all those he let it slip that he will call you in for a meeting tomorrow. I thought I'd better warn you."

"Thanks. I'll be ready."

I started to apologize again, but she cut me off. "Nonsense, I enjoy this. You're doing the right thing, Tom."

I thanked her again. After I hung up I told Scott what Meg said.

"Can he do anything to you?" Scott sounded worried.

"He's the boss, not God. That's what administrators tend to forget. He's got no control over what I think—ever, nor over what I say and do outside of my classroom. None. Tomorrow he'll probably try to bully me into doing what he wants."

"That sounds like such bullshit to me," Scott said.

I shrugged. "What puzzles me is that so many administrators are former teachers. I've known some. As teachers they were relatively normal people. Giving them an administrative certificate turns them into arrogant, insensitive bullies. It's happened to every one that I know."

"Is that why you never became an administrator?"

"Partly, but the main reason I never wanted to be an administrator was kids."

He gave me a quizzical look.

I explained, "As far as I'm concerned there's no point in being in the education field if you aren't dealing directly with kids in the classroom. The vast majority of administrators have two main functions—push paper and punish kids. I can't see doing that with my life. The higher salary isn't worth the headaches."

We wandered into the kitchen to put together some dinner.

"What's in the fridge?" I asked as I looked through the cupboards.

Scott peered into the freezer compartment. He poked into it randomly. Bits of frost cascaded to the floor. "You haven't defrosted yet this year," he commented.

I defrost the freezer once a year. Someday I'm going to get one of the frost-free kind. That and the self-cleaning oven are probably the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. ( He closed the freezer door.

"Nothing there?" I asked.

"Nothing visible" was his cryptic reply. He began rearranging items on the shelves. "Thejre's a jar of olives here that look edible"—he sounded doubtful—"and some chicken that's been dead too long."

He doesn't criticize my food-keeping habits. He's just as bad. His advantage is he has the frost-free fridge and a self-cleaning oven.

I closed the last cupboard door. "Nothing up here."

"I suggest we eat out" Scott said.

Fortunately there was no other choice.

"Are we going to see Greg's sister tonight?" he asked as we got in the car.

"Yeah, let's.After we eat. She lives in Joliet. We can eat at Brun's in New Lenox. It's on the way."

As we drove I said, "What I don't get about Armstrong and Sylvester in all this is why they are so anxious to keep me from talking to people and asking questions. I don't buy that crap they gave me the day of the murder. I assume they have something to hide. I don't know what yet, but I intend to find out."

Greg's sister lived two blocks south of downtown Joliet. Even in the dark the neighborhood looked old and rundown. Her apartment was one-half of the third floor of what was once someone's sprawling upper-middle-class home. Domestic squallings leaked from behind sullen doors as we ascended the stairs. Brooding teenagers gathered in the pools of darkness of the stairwells.

When she answered our ring, she held a sleeping baby on her shoulder. She said, "Can I help you?"

I introduced myself and Scott.

"I remember your name from school, Mr. Mason. Come on in."

She closed the door. "I didn't catch your friend's name."

I repeated Scott's name. No reaction—she wasn't a fan. She had straight black hair and a pleasant face. She wore a faded gray dress and house slippers. I never had Sheila in class so I didn't know what she was like.

We entered what was now a living room. The walls were

bare. The only furniture was a couch and a lamp. Dust rose from the sofa as we sat on it.

"Let me put the baby down." She disappeared through a doorway. She came back minutes later carrying a beige folding chair. She set it up and sat down.

"This isn't about Greg, is it?" she asked.

"He's not in any trouble if that's what you mean," I answered. She looked relieved.

"It is about him in a way, though." Carefully I explained the situation to her starting with my discovering Evans's body last week. She listened without reacting. I concluded, "I hope you can give us some information that might lead to the killer."

She smiled slightly and said softly, "Phil should never have told, and Greg should have kept his mouth shut."

"Greg didn't have a lot of choice."

"Yes, he did. He should have denied it. It's none of your business." Her smile disappeared. Her voice remained low and flat as she went on. "I expect you want me to say this man traumatized me and lured me into evil beyond mention. Sorry, I can't help you there. I'd heard about his reputation from one of my girlfriends. Don't bother to ask who, I'm not like Greg, I won't be pressured into telling. After my girlfriend told me, I got interested. The boys who hung around us girls were so immature. I wanted to know what a real man felt like. I was far more willing than he was seducing."

"If not for yourself, think of the others who weren't willing. It must have been awful for them," I said.

"They aren't my problem. I knew what I wanted, went after it, and got it. And unlike my brother, I don't betray confidences."

I tried numerous other questions, but she refused to answer, finally retreating into stubborn silence.

Scott, seeing my growing frustration, forestalled my angry outburst by asking, "Won't you at least tell us what kind of person you think Evans was?"

She sneered at him.

I waited until my temper had eased enough for me to ask, "Do you know anything about a computer disc Evans had and why anyone would want to steal it?"

"No," she snapped.