An Educated Death (41 page)

After I paid for breakfast, we separated. Lisa and Greg left in Greg's car with the video camera to go the school to tape his statement. I went to the Nashua Police Department to see if I could get any information. I knew that there was a wide variety of responses I might meet. Some police departments are user-friendly and believe in treating citizens decently; some operate like paramilitary organizations and refuse to give out records and information even when people are entitled to get them. There was no way I was entitled to stuff about Greg, even though he'd given me a hand-written note with his permission, so I was praying for user-friendly.

Although lately it had seemed like I was rather unlucky, today was my lucky day. The senior officer on duty was gentlemanly, polite, and bored out of his mind. He was happy to be interrupted by an attractive woman who was begging for a few minutes of his valuable time. He also remembered Greg Jenner's case very well and recognized the damage that it had done. He was outraged to hear that LaVonne was trying the same thing again and glad to do what he could to help me out. I left with copies of LaVonne's interview, Greg's interview, and the motel desk clerk's interview and his promise to send me copies of the court documents as soon as he could get them. I also left with a warm feeling in my heart for those cops who elevate justice over rules.

I followed Greg's directions to the school and found Lisa standing alone by the door, soaking up some sun and reading a paperback book. She shut it and shoved it into her briefcase. We traded places and before she backed up, we slapped palms in a celebratory gesture of solidarity. Things were looking better all the time for Denzel Ellis-Jackson.
As long as I didn't think about the Bucksport School, it was a fine day.

"You done good," I said.

"I am feeling rather proud of myself," she said. "Now all we need to do is finesse this just right."

"I think we can let Emmett do that." Emmett was a superb blend of the courtly and the crafty. He would play this like a poker hand. I closed my eyes and let Lisa drive me home.

 

 

 

Chapter 22

 

Back at my place, Lisa and I reviewed the recording she'd made. We both thought Greg Jenner came across very well. Then she left, taking that and the police records I'd finagled to give to Emmett Hampton. I called the office. Things were quiet. Checked my voice mail. Lots of messages but no one wanted me for anything urgent, no one desperately wanted anything from me. No excuse to avoid going back to Bucksport. No call from the one person I wanted to hear from. This time it was up to me.

My listless, purposeless state didn't last long. I'm not the relaxed type. I called Suzanne, learned from Paul that she was out at Bucksport, and called her there. She sounded almost cheerful when she came on the phone. "Hi, partner," she said, "how'd it go this morning?"

"Very well, I think. The guy she dug up in New Hampshire is great. Very similar circumstances. Emmett and Arleigh are going to be very pleased. Lisa's going to do some more prowling around. I think she loves this detective stuff. She can't wait to go and talk to the people at the hotel."

"The folks at King already think you walk on water, Thea."

"Not me. Us."

"You are too modest for words. Well, we're doing pretty well out here, too, considering the circumstances. Coincidental with yesterday's nasty discovery, last night there was an ammonia leak at the skating rink and a water pipe broke in one of the dorms. I won't comment on whether these disasters were the result of natural causes other than to say that for once Curt Sawyer was a help rather than a hindrance. The whole campus had to be temporarily evacuated because of the ammonia and Dorrie is using it as an excuse to send everyone home early."

She sighed. "Today we've got a group of grumpy, tired trustees calling the parents and telling them to come and get their kids. I don't have to tell you what a headache it is. You know this place is dysfunction junction. We could use a full-time travel agent just to rearrange the flight schedules because Suzi can't go to Daddy in Santa Barbara yet because he and his third wife aren't back from Hawaii, and little Jerry wasn't supposed to arrive until next Saturday 'cuz Mummy's redoing his suite in a style more suited to his mature status. Probably putting in a minibar and an armoire stocked with designer condoms. But it's good for me. Keeps me from thinking about whether my own kid really is adjusting happily to life with Marion. She seems too good to be true. How are you doing?"

"Other than Bucksport, you mean? I'm teetering on the verge of the holiday blues. My mother wants to know if Andre is coming for Christmas dinner. I'm beginning to wish I could just skip the whole holiday season this year. Go to sleep on December twenty-fourth and wake up on January second. Once I've unpacked and done some laundry. I've been living out of a suitcase so long I feel like a traveling salesperson." I checked my watch. "If I hit the road now, I'll be there in less than an hour."

"You kill me, Thea," she said. "Most people look forward to the holidays."

"Most people lie. Besides, maybe most people haven't just had their homes trashed, their lovers walk out on them, topped like the cherry on a sundae by finding a body in a trunk. Most people live less eventful lives."

"You're whining," she said.

Wasn't I lucky to have such a sympathetic partner. "True," I agreed. "All I want for Christmas is for the killer to be caught. I can't stop thinking about Carol Frank and Laney Taggert."

"I know," she said. "I understand. I've got to go do some hand-holding. I'll see you when you get here." There was a pause, and then she said, "Did you eat?" My partner knows me too well.

"The biggest damned lumberjill breakfast you ever saw."

For all that she chides me for being too serious, Suzanne is even worse, but the "lumberjill" brought a genuine laugh. I unpacked the bag I'd taken to San Francisco. Less than a week ago and it felt like years. I felt silly and sad as I put away all the bits of frilly lingerie and the silk paisley bathrobe. I wondered how Andre was doing and whether our split had sent him back into his depression. The last thing out of the suitcase was one of his shirts I'd brought home to sew a button on. I buried my face in it, inhaling his scent. I spent a full five minutes being a sentimental fool before I threw it into the laundry bin and headed for Bucksport, giving the parking lot a quick once-over as I left. El Dorado was gone but now the rusty junker was in his spot with the hood up and one door open. Someone was lying underneath it with only his feet sticking out. Very reassuring. It didn't seem likely that I was being stalked by a car repair junkie.

I was only a couple miles down the road when the phone rang. My ESP told me it was going to be Rocky, so I braced myself for a boom of sound. I was right. His voice filled the car, more irascible than ever. "Okay, Sherlock," he said, "Drucker's got ironclad alibis for both murders. The night Laney Taggert was killed he was at dinner with a whole table of students and then went with them, on a bus, to the movies and then out for ice cream." He sounded as if it were somehow my fault.

"What about Friday?"

"Friday afternoon he went to the dentist and did some errands... and he had time-dated receipts for the things he bought... you'd think he was expecting me to ask... then he and Ellie had dinner with a friend from out of town and then he attended a lecture on Henry David Thoreau's relevance to the nineties at the Unitarian Church, had an Irish coffee at the pub and the friend came back to spend the night. Have you got any more bright ideas?"

I felt like I'd been physically assaulted. If Drucker wasn't the killer, we were right back at square one, and no, I didn't have any more bright ideas. Somehow, bright ideas and murder didn't seem to go together. "What about Chris Fuller? Or Josh? Aren't they still viable candidates? Anyway, Rocky"—I put on my sweetest voice—"you're the cop. I'm just a lame-brained girl consultant. How should I know?" Unnecessary, maybe, but I was annoyed that he, who'd been so ready to dismiss me, now seemed to think we were a team.

"We're looking into it," he growled. "Call me if you do get any ideas." He hung up.

I mentally reviewed my interviews. If the students were going home, was there anyone I still needed to talk to? Nadia Soren, the one Josh said Laney might have confided in, had already left. I'd never caught up with her. The guy from grounds and buildings was missing. I'd learned about all I was going to learn about procedures, all that was left was the report. I wasn't even sure why I was going back, except that I felt that I had to be there. That maybe if I was there, something would happen or something would change. Like someone coming up to me and confessing.

I was tired and grouchy and I felt like a failure at work, with men, in life. Lisa's coup this morning was the only bright spot in an otherwise unendingly dim existence. Why had I been such a fool as to let Hennessey into my bed? Why did I stubbornly cling to a job where I had nothing to offer? Then I mentally kicked myself. I had a lot to offer. Dorrie hadn't hired me to solve a murder, she'd hired me to do a procedures audit. If I accomplished nothing else, I could get rid of the Donahues and Chas Drucker, selfish adults who had preyed upon the vulnerabilities of the students in their care. I slammed my foot down on the pedal and the car responded so promptly I almost rear-ended the car in front of me.

As usual, my arch nemesis, the phone, continued to interrupt me. This time my ESP supplied no advance information, and when I said hello, a voice on the other end hit me with such a barrage of speech I couldn't process a word. "Excuse me," I said, "but you've got to slow down. I'm not catching anything you're saying."

"It's me, Rick McTeague. You remember. The writer." His voice was high and excited, like a record speeded up. "We were going to go over the murder scene, remember, but then I got hung up. I'm terribly sorry but when the creative juices are flowing I just have to go with them. All part of being a writer, I'm afraid. The characters just speak through me and I have to let them. Now I hear there's been another murder and you found the body. You must tell me all about it. Very important, firsthand-experience. It lends a real authentic touch to the work."

The wash of words rolled me around like a body caught by a wave. When I finally came up for air. I cut off the flow. "Mr. McTeague, please, you've got to slow down or I'm not
going
to be able to follow you. We're in traffic."

"Rick," he said. "Please call me Rick. I'm sorry. I do tend to run on when I'm excited, but you see I
am
excited. I've just remembered something important that I didn't tell you the other day. Something very important."

"What is it, Rick?"

He gave the high-pitched bray of an agitated donkey.

"I'm not telling," he said coyly, "but I'm willing to trade."

"What do you mean, you're willing to trade? This isn't a game. Two people have been murdered."

"I know. That's why I want to trade. My story for yours."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you do. I want you to tell me all about finding Carol Frank. In return, I'll tell you what I just remembered about the murder scene. It's a fair deal."

"It's a sick deal and you know it. If you have information about Laney Taggert's death you ought to call Chief Miller right now and share it with him."

"I don't think so," he said. "They were not very nice when they questioned me. Miller and his people insist on treating me like a nutcase instead of respecting me for the author that I am." There was a protracted silence on his end. Silence to me at least. I could hear him talking to someone.

"Rick? Rick? Are you there?" I said. I jammed on the brakes and swerved around a Chevette doing fifty in the fast lane. Chevettes are the Pinto's first cousins. The people who drive them are always too small to see over the steering wheel and holding the wheel with a death grip. They also have the most annoying habits of anyone on the road. Always in the high-speed lanes. Always slowing down. Fearful as bunnies, they will brake for a snowflake. Someday I'm going to get my own APC and start driving right over them.

There was the clattering sound of the phone being dropped and then picked up again. "Ms. Kozak? Are you still there? Sorry. I got distracted by an idea and when I have an idea, I immediately write it down before I lose it. Many writers carry three-by-five cards for that purpose but not me. I'm high-tech. I carry a tape recorder. You wouldn't believe how people stare at me. One insensitive soul even asked me to leave a meeting. Just because I was dictating. Can you believe that?"

I could believe that the world was full of people as disgusted and astonished by Rick McTeague's sick, oblivious, self-centered personality as I was. But what I said was, "What did you remember?"

He gave another braying laugh. "Oh, no. Don't think you can trick me. Remember, I spend my life thinking up ways for people to trick each other. You know the deal. But remember"—his voice dropped so low I could barely hear it—"I won't tell anyone else."