Are You Nuts? (7 page)

“Thanks.”

Rachel said, “What's really tough to figure is, who comes under more suspicion? Those who left or those who stayed?”

I said, “If they left the room before Jerome, they could have simply waited for him and lured him away. If they left after him, they might have caught up with him. Either way the killer could have come back to the room afterward and no one would have been the wiser. They'd never be able to pin the time of death down that closely so that a minute-by-minute analysis of movements is going to help.”

“Does anybody know why Jerome left the room?” Rachel asked.

“He could have simply been going to the bathroom,” Jim said.

“There are washrooms between the gym and the library,” I said. “He had to be going out of his way and there had to be a reason. Maybe he was meeting someone.”

“Trysting in the library stacks,” Jim said. “You'll be disappointed to know that nobody came to the meeting covered in blood and gore. I'd have noticed. Nobody acted suspicious.”

Rachel asked, “How is Meg holding up?”

“I haven't been able to talk to her.” I needed to call Todd and check on his progress with getting Meg bail.

Jim asked, “What was it like being on those television shows?”

“More exhausting than I ever thought it would be.”

Beatrix Xury burst into the room. “Isn't it awful about Meg and Jerome,” she gasped. She stood in front of me holding a calibrated thermometer in her hand.

We all nodded and murmured at her.

“I can't believe something like this would happen in our district. Can you imagine? Are any of us safe? Are they going to take action to protect us?”

“I hadn't thought to ask,” I said.

“Well, you should. There's a murderer on the loose. You've got to do something.”

“I'm going to prove Meg innocent.”

Beatrix rounded on me and held out the thermometer. “I presume you're going to file a grievance about the lack of air-conditioning. I just checked seventeen different rooms. Mine is over eighty-nine degrees.”

Jim said, “I sure wish the union could do something about the heat. It's going to be miserable with these kids in here. Most of the faculty are bringing fans from home. How can kids learn anything with the heat engulfing them? It's like trying to teach underwater.”

Rachel added, “Can't you do something?”

“They won't let us take them outside anymore,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “One parent complained last year that her child wasn't learning because they took them outside one day for one class period.”

One parent complaining in the River's Edge school district was enough to start an avalanche of administrative panic.

“What are you going to do?” Beatrix demanded. She looked triumphant. Finally, she'd picked an issue that would have broad public support.

“If you don't get satisfaction from the administration, you should call the Occupational Safety and Health Administration,” Rachel suggested. “They can file suit and make them fix the air-conditioning.”

Everybody always wants to help.

I said, “They can investigate. If the administration can show they're making a good-faith effort to fix things, OSHA won't do anything.”

“Is the administration trying to fix this?” Beatrix asked. “I don't think so. You'll have to do something. It isn't just me complaining. Everybody is upset.”

“I'll get on it,” I said.

“It's about time.”

“Beatrix, what time did you leave the PTA meeting last night?” I asked.

“I left early. No one was interested in listening to me. I went to the hardware store to buy this thermometer.”

“Anybody see you leave?”

“I don't need to check my movements with anyone. You will find the time on my receipt from the hardware store. Then I went home. I've told you and the police as much as I wish to about the meeting.”

Beatrix stalked out.

Rachel said, “In the ‘Moron Olympics,' Beatrix would win all the gold medals. That woman needs a personality transplant.”

I said, “She'd probably get a donor who was a serial killer.”

“We'd be better off,” Rachel responded.

“Sure wish you could do something about the air-conditioning,” Jim said. “My room is in that odd corner between the old and new wings. It is totally ghastly.”

That was one of the main things about being a union official. There was always another person with a new problem to be solved immediately. I went in search of heat relief and suspects.

I stopped in the office. Georgette wasn't in. Edwina was going through some files on the counter. She wore black horn-rimmed glasses and a pantsuit the color of a
caffè latte
, heavy on the cream.

I said, “Can we fix the air-conditioning?”

“Fat chance.” Her attitude toward me was kind of weird—at times flippantly sarcastic as if she were willing to dare me to try to get something changed.

I asked, “Can you say OSHA?”

“You wouldn't.”

“I would and can.”

She shook her head. “We're doing everything we can.”

“When did that start? I heard it wasn't going to be fixed.”

“Five minutes before you came in.”

“I'd like you to have to work in the heat like the rest of us. I bet if your office was miserably hot, it would get fixed.”

She smiled at me. “Feel the atmosphere in here? It did get fixed. We'll get on your complaint right away.”

I walked out. Edwina was good at telling lies to your face. There must be a course on the graduate level called Bald-Faced Lying for Administrators. I had no doubt Edwina had gotten an A.

I used the phone in the English office to try to find out Meg's status. Frank Murphy wasn't in. Todd's secretary said he was still in River's Edge. There was no answer at Meg's. Out of perversity, I decided not to call OSHA right then. I know it's immature, but I felt hard-pressed, and not calling immediately was my little way of rebelling. As if it made some kind of big-deal difference.

In the corridor near the line of people waiting to be questioned by the police, I spotted Mavis Lukachevsky. She beckoned me over. I followed as she led me into an empty classroom.

“What's up, Mavis?” I asked.

“Georgette gave me the address of Beorn Quigley, that man at the meeting dressed in the battle fatigues.” She handed me a slip of paper with a name and address on it.

“Thanks.”

“He really frightened me. I think he was armed.”

“A concealed weapon?”

“If anyone would have one, he would.”

I examined the paper she gave me. “He's the owner of a feed store?”

“Yes. He comes from a very prominent family. They've lived in the district a long time.”

She handed me a file folder with several pages of copies in it.

“What's this?”

“Georgette told me I should give them to you. She said you would never tell the superintendent.”

“Carolyn won't find out from me. Thanks for your help.”

“Thank Georgette. Not only are all the secretaries making the calls we're supposed to make, we're finding out information and passing it on to her. She likes Meg and you a lot. You're nicer than the other union people who call the district office. You're polite and never make impossible demands.”

Mavis glanced over her shoulder and saw Edwina looking at us through the glass in the office. Mavis moved her head slightly in Edwina's direction. “Anybody asks, I gave you the health files you requested on kids you're going to have in your classes.”

I looked in the folder. Under the first few documents there were health notices. Always tell as much of the truth as you can. It is important to get health information on the students you're going to teach. If a kid has some special health need, and you ignore it because you didn't read the proper health notices, you might be held liable. Georgette would have been bright enough to know this and planned ahead for a cover for the file.

Mavis left and I walked to my room to read through the data. Quigley had a child in third grade, another a freshman in high school, and an older child in a private college in Montana. The River's Edge Feed Store he owned was on Route 6 on the way to Joliet. I decided to take a trip out. It was daylight, and in a public store, I didn't think he could get violent. If there was no one else there, I could just turn around and walk out.

 

It was nearly noon and I was feeling the lack of sleep. I stopped for several small bottles of orange juice at a convenience store on 159th Street and Wolf Road.

The store Quigley worked at was the only unboarded-up one in a small strip mall. The parking lot had two pickup trucks parked outside. I crossed the gravel surface and entered the store. The room was dusty and smelled of manure. The property turned out to be far more extensive than it looked from the front. Out in back stood numerous tin-roofed sheds filled with row upon row of bags of seed, feed, and fertilizer.

One man wearing gray steel-rimmed glasses stood behind the counter. He was in his early forties: tall with broad, round shoulders, a ring through his left nostril, and blond hair cut severely short. He was talking to a man in his late teens. This guy wore dusty blue jeans, a white T-shirt with a beer-company logo, and cowboy boots. As I approached, I heard them talking about the possibility of rain. Out back I could see another man maybe in his late twenties. He was strolling down the aisles looking down at the bundles and bags.

The man behind the counter nodded at me. He finished his conversation with the young man and rang up his purchases. The youth called to the other man, and they left.

He turned to me. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Beorn Quigley?”

“Yeah. Who's asking?”

“Tom Mason. I'm a teacher at Grover Cleveland High School. There was a murder at the school last night. You spoke at the PTA meeting.”

“I sure did. I know who you are now. I haven't seen you on television, but I know your name.”

“How come you went to the meeting?”

“I live in River's Edge and teach part-time at the school. What happens there concerns me. People have to speak up for what they believe in. Local elections are what's important. That's where the real direct effect on our lives is. I keep trying to convince my friends that they have to pay more attention to who's in charge locally. They're the ones who raise our taxes.”

“I was told you made a lot of strong statements.”

“My beliefs are based on the Bible and common sense.”

“What beliefs are those?”

“Less government intrusion in our lives, less taxes, less welfare, less giveaways, the government being given back to the people.”

I was tempted to ask, which part of the Bible are those in? Did I want a debate or did I want to solve the murder? Did I really care that much what he believed?

“What time did you leave the meeting last night?”

“Precisely seven minutes after ten. They had just announced the results of the election. I was pleased. I walked out with three friends. Would you like me to get them together to talk to you?”

“Not really, but the police will have to check it out.”

“I can handle that.”

I was sure he could. I left.

Back at school, I walked out to football practice. Trevor had his arm around a kid in a football uniform. The athlete was sitting on a bench. As I got closer, I saw the kid was bent over and holding his knee. He was moaning softly. I heard the sound of a siren, and a few moments later an ambulance pulled up. Behind it was a brown Chrysler. These contained medical personnel and parents respectively. The coach of the team, Jack Palmer, hurried over. He'd been promoted to head coach when Kurt gave up the job after his heart attack.

The paramedics briefly examined the teenager.

“Is it broken?” the kid asked.

“We're going to get you to a hospital where they can take X rays.” They put him on a stretcher and took him away.

The rest of the team had gathered around to watch. Palmer told them to take a five-minute fluid break. Team managers rushed to vats of soft drinks and began distributing bottles.

The heat was oppressive. The sun beat down on the field. I remembered my own playing days and for a few seconds wondered how I could have been so oblivious to the misery. Watching the team move quickly in the heat reminded me of the answer. It was fun and I was young and I didn't care. At the time, playing football was all that mattered.

Palmer gave me a friendly greeting. Two years ago, as building rep, I'd helped him with some problems he'd been having with his family insurance through the school.

Palmer nodded toward the departing ambulance. “That was my starting quarterback. I think his knee is shattered. Whether it is or not, my guess is this was his last day out here.” He shook his head. “Nothing you can do about that kind of thing. It was a clean tackle. The kid who did it is in tears in the locker room. He's lucky. He'll probably survive to play again.” He sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“You heard about Jerome and Meg?”

“Yeah. Who hasn't?”

Trevor stood up to leave.

“I wanted to talk to one of your assistants.” I pointed at Trevor.

“Sure, I can spare him. Everything's pretty organized. The administration keeps giving us these people who don't know anything about sports.”

Trevor looked irritated at this.

“Can you do something about that?” Palmer asked.

“You know the answer, Jack, we've gone over it before. They have the right of assignment and transfer over all coaching positions.”

“Doesn't seem right.”

Every district I knew posted all extracurricular duties each year. This meant any teacher could apply for any of those after-hours jobs. So a coach of twenty years could be out the next season, and the administration was not required to give a reason. This made for a situation ripe for complaints and grievances. All of which the union would lose. Lots of people did get the coaching job they wanted or had had for years, but districts both liked to keep control and have the ability to get rid of incompetent coaches.

“This won't take long,” I said.

Jack left.

“What?” Trevor snarled.

“You turning into a teenager?”

“Just tell me what you want and let's get this over with.”

“How come yesterday you're eager to chat and now you don't want to be near me?”

“Are you stupid?”

“I'm not sure I'm in your league. Perhaps you could give me lessons.”

He turned red. “I shouldn't have said that, but don't you see? If I'm friends with you, they might think I'm gay.”

“They who?”

“People. Everybody. The kids.”

“Everybody who talks to me and all my friends are gay?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don't.”

“What is it you want?”

“All I want to know is when you left the meeting last night.”

“I don't remember the exact time. It was before the voting. I was bored so I left early. I drove to a gay bar in the western suburbs. I met a couple friends. We had a few drinks and played a little pool.”

“You going to tell the police this?”

“What do you mean?”

“They haven't talked to you?”

“I'm supposed to go after practice. They had a lot of people in line.”

“They're going to want to know the answers to my questions.”

“I can't tell them I went to a gay bar.”

“Why do you have to identify it by sexual orientation?”

“Will my friends be questioned?”

“Maybe. Did you know Jerome?”

“We were in the same department. I saw him at meetings. I don't hang around school much. Lots of the teachers think of this as a social place, but other than you, I don't know any gay people here. I didn't find out about you until this summer, and you're not interested in going out. I usually party only with gay people.”

“Did you ever have any disagreements with Jerome?”

“No.”

“Who were you supporting in the union election?”

“I really didn't care who won. I'm not interested in that union stuff. Not many of the new teachers are.”

This was true. If you went to a union meeting, and this didn't apply to just teachers' unions, most of the time you only found people over forty.

“Yesterday, you were concerned about your job,” I said.

“And killing Jerome is going to insure that I get tenure?”

“Probably not. Did you kill him?”

“Get serious. I barely knew him. I had no reason to. No, I didn't.”

“Did you notice if Jerome was still at the meeting when you left?”

“Look, I noticed myself and nobody else. I gotta get back to looking like an idiot out here.” He began trotting away. He got about ten feet, then turned abruptly. “Can I get sued for this kid getting hurt?”

“Were you negligent?”

“I was in charge of their group when it happened.” He took a step or two back toward me. “I don't think I did anything wrong.”

“The district has insurance and you're covered through the union as well. It's not time to worry about that.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He hurried away.

It didn't surprise me that he was afraid of being sued. Teachers worry about that a lot these days. I was surprised at Trevor's gay avoidance. I thought young gay guys weren't as paranoid about being found out as I had been when I started teaching. When you're gay, a certain general wariness about the world is natural, but Trevor was as self-hating and paranoid as the worst closet queen in the fifties. I had some sympathy with him from my own history, but this much paranoia seemed way out of line. Plus, he'd known I was gay yesterday when he wanted to be friends. Something didn't add up here.

Back in school, I stopped at the office. Georgette said I had several messages. One was from Todd. Meg would probably get bail tomorrow.

I called his office.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Very depressed. She said she didn't want to see anyone. So, if you're planning to go over, don't.”

“I think she'd see me. We're close friends. Why wouldn't she?”

“I'm not sure. Most people get really depressed when something like this happens. No matter how innocent you are, or as bubbly as you've said Meg is, eventually it dawns on you that you could be convicted and spend significant amounts of time in jail. All the stories lately about people falsely convicted and stuck in prison for years don't help. She's scared. Does she have family in this area?”

“No. An ex-husband in downstate Illinois. She never had kids.”

“You might plan to come to the hearing. Maybe by then she'll see the wisdom of having friends around for support. Going it alone at a time like this is tough. You also might want to arrange for money at that time.”

“How much?”

“Bail will be at least a hundred thousand. So you need to bring at least ten percent—ten thousand.” He explained the process to me and we hung up.

Another message was from Scott. He would be in around six o'clock and would hire a limousine to take himself out to my place. He always insisted on my not picking him up or taking him to the airport. The limousine service was easier and he could afford it. O'Hare traffic at six in the afternoon on any day could be a nightmare.

I was tired and hungry. It was nearly three o'clock. Before I left, Georgette said, “You have a call from Agnes Davis. She doesn't want you to call her, but she gave me her address. She hopes you have time to stop by this afternoon around four.” She handed me a sheet of paper.

I thanked her for all her help, then stopped in my classroom. This time, nothing seemed odd or out of place. At first. Then I couldn't find my notes that I'd been constructing for the start-of-school list of things to do. No one was in the corridor. The nearest custodian I found claimed not to have seen anyone going into or out of my room. I called down to the office on the intercom and asked Georgette if she knew about anybody who'd been looking for me or who might have had an excuse to enter my room. She said no. I began to feel uneasy. I knew those notes had been nowhere else but in the middle of the top drawer of my desk.

I was too tired to continue puzzling about the anomaly. Staring at the empty space in the middle of my desk wasn't going to make the papers reappear. Nor was it going to make whoever was doing this pop out of the cabinet and confess.

I used the phone in the English office to call OSHA about the air-conditioning. The person there was actually pretty nice, nor did he give me unrealistic hopes. He would send me the proper form. His main concern was my willingness to follow through on a complaint.

“You are going to stick with this?” he asked numerous times.

“It's an impossible situation,” I said.

“We get too many people who get scared off and back out.”

“I'll stay with it. I'm the union rep here so I'm in for the duration. What if they solve it while I'm in the process of filling out forms?”

“You can be happy.”

I returned to my work in my room. By the time I had to leave for my four o'clock meeting, I had three electronic reading centers set up, and all the kids' names typed into my grade-book program on the computer. I had to find some time tomorrow to get back into my classroom. I still had a ton of work to do. At the very least the walls needed to be decorated. I'm not big on emblazoning the classroom in glory and ecstasy rivaling the Sistine Chapel, but I had some pleasantly soothing posters I liked to put up.

At quarter to four, I left. I checked the door twice to make sure it was securely locked.

 

I followed Georgette's directions to Agnes Davis's house. The message simply said she would have a friend with her who had also been at the meeting.

I drove into the older section of River's Edge off Wolf Road. Agnes lived in a home built in the last century. It was a pleasant Victorian structure—no turrets, but a little filigree decoration over a lintel. A solid, reassuring home, the kind your grandmother owned when you were a kid.

Agnes answered the door and led me into a parlor furnished with enough antiques to fill a collector queen's most vivid wet dream. Agnes and the furniture and the house matched perfectly—both gave off a warm, cozy, safe, secure feeling. Beautiful wooden molding framed all the doors and ran along all the walls on both the floor and ceiling. Heavy wooden furniture. Hardwood floors, highly polished with finely woven area rugs carefully laid near or under various pieces of furniture. A solid rocking chair. A minimum of lace doilies. Portraits of frowning males and females lined the walls. The backgrounds were dark and gloomy, the colors of the clothes on the people all gray fading to black. Sepia-tinted photographs sat atop a mantelpiece. They showed a young couple on their wedding day. Fresh flowers in bright-colored vases on every open surface kept back thoughts of a gloomy Victorian mausoleum.

“Beautiful flowers,” I commented.

“Thank you,” Agnes replied. “I grow them myself. How is Meg?” I gave her the information I had.

A woman of about Agnes's age sat on a divan. She was Stephanie Quinn. We chatted about the heat while Agnes served tea. The little sandwiches and cakes were delicious. I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Agnes smiled encouragingly as I began wolfing down a large quantity of everything.

When I'd finished eating and was sitting back and sipping tea, Agnes began. “We wanted to talk to you. Stephanie has known Meg as long as I, back from before she got married when she first moved to town. We want to help. I was too exhausted last night. I'm not sure anything I told you made sense.”

“You were excellent.”

Agnes smiled. “I taught first grade in the River's Edge School District for thirty-five years. I remember when you started, Tom. You were such an earnest young man.”

To my amazement, I blushed.

“I've been trying to remember more from last night,” Agnes said, “and Stephanie knows everyone in the community. She keeps up on everything.”

Which I translated to mean, she was a gossip. Excellent. Here were tales that could be told. These were the kind of people who could fill in important background information.

“We know Meg didn't do the murder,” Agnes said. “We've been friends for so long. When I talked to the police, I'm afraid I didn't tell them everything. I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't want to get innocent people in trouble, but I wanted someone to know the information I have. It might help Meg. I know you said you'd be helping her.”

Stephanie added, “Meg always says the nicest things about you and your friend, the baseball player.”

I said, “Meg's a good friend.”

“Well,” Agnes said. She put down her cup of tea. “That meeting last night was just symptomatic of what's wrong in River's Edge. People have been so angry in this community since that school board election.”

“It all came out in the open at that time,” Stephanie said, “but it's been brewing for many, many years.”