Back To School Murder #4 (6 page)

W
hen Lucy and Zoë arrived at the day-care center on Friday morning, Sue Finch was leaning on a counter near the row of cubbies that stood ready for the children's jackets and lunch boxes, reading
The Pennysaver
.

“Good morning,” she said, looking at Lucy over her half-glasses. Raising a jet black eyebrow she asked, “So, what's the story that Ted didn't print?”

Lucy grinned. One of the best things about working was seeing Sue every morning. The two were longtime best friends, but nowadays they rarely had time for leisurely chats at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee. Sue, who was a member of the town's recreation commission, was the moving force behind the day-care center in the recreation building basement.

“Moms need affordable, high-quality care,” she had told the Board of Selectmen, the Finance Committee, and finally the entire town meeting. Everyone, Sue included, was amazed when the normally tightfisted voters approved the funding and the center opened with Sue as director.

“‘It's all in
The Pennysaver
,'” said Lucy, repeating the paper's familiar slogan. She set Zoë down and unzipped her jacket. Then she pulled a brown paper bag from her tote bag and gave it to Zoë. “Give these to Aunt Sue, okay?”

Zoë toddled toward Sue, holding out the bundle.

“Is that for me?” asked Sue, taking the bag. “Tomatoes! Thank you, Zoë.” The little girl beamed with pride, then turned and scooted over to the play kitchen.

“There was one thing that didn't make the paper,” said Lucy. “Barney said the call to the police reporting the bomb came from the school.”

“
Hmmm
,” said Sue, thoughtfully massaging her chin with a perfectly manicured hand.

Watching her, Lucy decided that if she didn't like Sue so much, she would have to hate her. Here she was messing around with fingerpaint and Play-Doh all day and she looked ready for a day on the town in her black slacks, sleeveless white turtleneck, and black patent leather sandals. A smart black and white plaid jacket completed her outfit.

“That means someone inside the school did it? I can't believe that.” Sue shook her head. “What do you think about our Ms. Crane? Pretty gutsy, I'd say.”

“You were on the search committee that hired her, weren't you?”

“I was,” said Sue proudly. “Did we do good?”

“You did good,” said Lucy. She watched as Zoë began putting pots on the play stove. “Don't you want to hear about my class? I think it has possibilities.”

“To you, maybe. To me,” continued Sue, smoothing her glossy pageboy hairdo, “Victorian literature is about as appealing as doing my taxes. Cleaning the cat box. Washing windows.”

“I get the idea,” said Lucy. “Each to her own. But I bet even you would find the professor rather attractive.”

“Really?” Sue cocked her head to the side.

“‘Dishy' is the word I heard used.”

Sue was focusing on two little boys across the room. “Justin, I really like the way you're sharing that truck with Jason.” She turned back to Lucy. “How old?”

“Not too old, not too young.” Lucy lingered over the words.

“Lucy!” Sue's eyes grew big and round. “You sound as if you're interested in him. Are you considering signing up for some extracurricular activities?”

“Absolutely not!” Lucy exclaimed. “I would never, ever do such a thing.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest a bit too much,” said Sue; hurrying over to the dress-up area. “Jill, you can wear the bride's veil now, but in a few minutes it will be Tiffany's turn, okay? Tiffany, why not try the policeman's hat for a few minutes, until Jill is ready to give you the veil.” She turned back to Lucy, a skeptical expression on her face.

“Believe me, it never even occurred to me. In fact, he asked me out for coffee and I turned him down.” Lucy nodded virtuously.

“If I were you, I'd keep turning him down.”

“He'll never ask again.”

“Don't bet on it. When I was in college, there were professors who were absolutely relentless. They had to get their hands on as many of the girls as possible—I think it was a contest or something. It was rumored they had a scoreboard in the faculty club.”

“I remember a few professors like that, too. But I think things have changed. They call it sexual harassment and you can file a complaint.”

“Maybe.” Sue didn't seem convinced. “Is everything okay with you and Bill?”

“Sure.” Lucy's tone was a bit defensive. “It's just one of those rough times that all couples go through. He's having a hard time adjusting now that the kids are growing up. He wants everything to stay the same. He doesn't like me working.”

“You know, I see that a lot.” Sue grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the snack table, where the little bride had just spilled a cup of grape juice. “When the moms first bring their kids here, they're happy and excited. But pretty soon they start getting a worried look and the next thing you know we're getting a letter from the lawyer advising us that divorce proceedings are in progress and not to release the child to anyone but the mother.”

“I don't think it will come to that,” said Lucy, looking absolutely stricken. “At least, I hope not. I was really joking about the professor.”

“I'm exaggerating,” said Sue, patting her arm. “It's only happened once, maybe twice.”

“You had me worried,” said Lucy, laughing with relief. “The way I see it, we're going to need two incomes. College isn't that far away for Toby and Elizabeth, you know.”

“Don't I ever.” Sue's daughter Sidra had graduated from Bowdoin in June. “We'll be paying off those loans until it's time for us to retire.” Hearing a wail from across the room, she looked up. “Justin, you don't really want to hit Eloise with that truck. You want to share the truck with Eloise. See? Eloise is going to load the truck with blocks, and you can dump them out.”

Glancing at her watch, Lucy saw she was already a few minutes late. Giving Sue a wave, and Zoë a peck on the cheek, she hurried out. Mounting the steps to the sidewalk, she noticed a vending machine filled with issues of
The Pennysaver
. It was old news today, but the page one photo of Carol Crane was still compelling.

Caught by the camera, she was a picture of courage under stress. Slightly disheveled, her stocking torn, a streak of dirt across her skirt, she seemed a very fragile heroine. Bending over little Tommy Spitzer, her body conveyed a message of care and concern. But the expression on her face, raised to the camera and the crowd beyond, was exalted. She might have been Saint Joan, defying the flames.

Lucy shook her head and hurried down the street to the newspaper office. As she marched along, she thought of the Clothes Theory that Mr. Irving had mentioned in class the night before. It seemed an odd name for a philosophical theory about religion. An odd idea, really. People changing religion to suit their needs, just like they changed their clothes. A Christian Conservative would wear a suit and tie. A liberal Unitarian would wear blue jeans. Atheists were doomed to wear sweat suits. Lucy smiled at her cleverness as she pulled open the door and confronted Ted.

“I know I'm late,” she began.

“No problem,” said Ted with a casual wave of his hand. “I was just on my way to the post office. I'll be right back. We've got a bulk mailing to get out.”

When he returned, he was carrying several plastic trays for the mailing, plus a big bundle of letters held together with a thick rubber band.

“This is odd,” he said, setting the trays on the counter. “We don't usually get this much mail.” He went over to his desk and reached for the letter opener.

Seeing a big stack of printed subscription notices piled on her desk, Lucy busied herself attaching address stickers while Ted read the mail.

“This is amazing,” he said, waving a handful of letters. “These are all letters to the editor.”

“Don't you usually get that many?”

“Are you kidding? We print them all—maybe three or four a week. And they're usually about John Q. Public's favorite gripe. Like kids playing basketball in the street. Or the no parking sign in front of the library. These are all about Carol Crane.”

“What do they say?”

He began reading from the letters. “How heroic she was. How brave. What a wonderful woman she must be. An inspiration to our youth. Courage in action. A true feminist. Our schools are privileged to have her.” He slapped them down on the desk and shook his head. “This is really something, Lucy. I've never seen anything like this.”

“It's the picture. It's an image people respond to. It's half Jackie Kennedy, half Christa McAuliffe. It's like an icon.”

Ted held up the paper and examined the picture. “I see what you mean. She's the teacher-saint.”

“I know,” said Lucy. “It makes me suspicious. It's too perfect, somehow.”

“Go on,” said Ted, his interest caught.

“Well, it was a hot day. But here's Carol coming in to work in a little Chanel suit with a jacket and a tight, tight skirt. And high heels. Women who work with kids don't dress like that. Take Sue, for example. She always looks great, but she wears flats and slacks. If it had been Sue in that picture, the whole message would be entirely different. She would have looked competent and strong. Instead of people being all overcome with her bravery and courage for saving the kid, they'd want to know why she didn't defuse the bomb on her way out.”

“The perils of being Superwoman,” joked Ted.

“Yeah, well think about it. What exactly was Carol Crane dressing for that morning? A normal working day?”

“It was the first day of school. Maybe she wanted to make a good impression.”

“I don't know. The whole thing seems pretty fishy to me.”

“Oh, Lucy,” said Ted, waggling his finger at her. “What a suspicious mind you have.”

“I can't help it, it's just the way I am,” said Lucy contritely.

“Don't apologize. I like it. Somewhere along the line you must have got some ink in your blood.”

Lucy went back to her work, but she couldn't help feeling a warm little glow. It was nice to be appreciated.

“T
he thing that gets me,” said Bill as he and Lucy drove together to the school committee meeting on Monday evening, “the thing that really ticks me off is the fact that school is compulsory, right? We have to send the kids to school, but the school can't guarantee that they'll be safe while they're there.”

Lucy had been looking out the window as they drove along; Bill had taken the long way around on the shore road. She liked passing the old farms with their houses and barns scattered among the golden hay fields. Peeking through the tall firs, she could catch glimpses of gray ocean, with a rocky island poking up here and there.

She turned and looked at Bill. Tonight he'd changed out of his usual working uniform, a plaid flannel shirt and jeans, and was wearing chinos and a blue button-down shirt. Instead of work boots he had slipped on a pair of boat shoes. Tall and bearded, he never seemed to gain a pound; he looked just as he had when they'd married almost twenty years ago. Good old Bill, she thought. He's steady and reliable, you could tell time by him. He left at seven in the morning; he came home at five-thirty and wanted dinner at six. She knew him so well, she could have laid odds on what he would say next. He would bring up Toby's missing backpack.

“It was just last spring, wasn't it,” he asked, “that Toby's fancy new Country Cousins backpack was stolen. Did it ever turn up? No. How much was that worth?”

“About twenty dollars. I used my discount.”

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head and a little shrug. She didn't know why she felt so defensive when Bill criticized the schools, but she did. “They do the best they can, Bill. The budget is tight, there aren't a lot of frills. But the kids get a good education. Look at the colleges they go to. Sidra went to Bowdoin, that Franklin kid went to Harvard.”

“That's all very well and good, Lucy,” said Bill, turning the pickup sharply into the high school parking lot, “but nobody's going to college if they all get blown up while they're still in elementary school.”

“Tell me what you think,” said Lucy, laying her hand on Bill's forearm as he reached to turn off the ignition. “Who do you think set the bomb?”

“It's obvious—it had to be one of the kids. Probably one of those special-needs kids with emotional problems.” He turned the key, and the truck shuddered as the engine kicked a few times in protest before shutting off.

“I wish I could be so sure,” said Lucy, jumping down from the cab. “It's so much easier when things are black and white.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Bill as they fell into step together.

“Admit it,” challenged Lucy, waving her arms as she spoke. “You think the school is run by a bunch of liberal wussies who waste our tax dollars, let the kids get away with murder, and don't bother to teach them anything.”

Bill turned and stared at her, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. “You know, you're right,” he said. “And you know what else? I don't think I'm alone.”

Looking around, Lucy had to agree. A steady stream of cars was turning into the parking lot, and clumps of people, in pairs and threesomes, were marching toward the school with determination. In the lobby, lines had formed leading into the auditorium.

Finding herself beside Josh Cunningham, Lucy greeted him warmly. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she joked.

“Hi, Lucy. Are you here for the meeting?”

“Sure am,” said Lucy. Aware that Bill was eyeing Josh rather suspiciously, she hurried to introduce them.

“Josh, this is my husband, Bill Stone. Bill, Josh Cunningham is Toby's teacher. He calls him Mr. C.”

“Hi,” said Bill, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Are you coming to the meeting, too?” asked Lucy.

“Not me,” said Josh, grinning and shaking his head. “I try to stay as far away from meetings and politics as I can.”

“Good idea,” agreed Bill.

“No, I just came by to set up a demonstration for my classes tomorrow. It's a model of the atom. For some reason the electrons keep disappearing.” He shrugged. “I've got to find them or think of something to replace them.”

“Well, good luck,” said Lucy.

“You'll need it more than me,” he said, indicating the already crowded auditorium. “Atoms can't talk.”

As they took their seats, Lucy thought Josh had made a wise choice. School committee meetings were usually poorly attended and took place in the school library. Tonight it looked as if it would be standing room only. Furthermore, this was clearly an anxious crowd. The usual buzz of premeeting conversation was more like a roar tonight as voices bounced off the painted concrete block walls and the uncurtained stage. As people spoke with each other, they made short, choppy gestures with their hands, and nodded sharply, their expressions grim.

Lucy looked for people she knew. There in the front row, of course, was Ted, notebook in his lap and camera at the ready. Also in the front row were an agonized-looking group of teachers from the elementary school, including kindergarten teacher Lydia Volpe, and Sara's teacher, Ms. Kinnear. A few rows behind them sat a contingent from the high school. Sitting uncomfortably on the stage, at a small table set to the side of the larger one reserved for the school committee, were the three school principals: Sophie Applebaum, Frank Todd from the middle school, and Walker Mead, who headed the high school. They looked as if they were about to be charged with crimes against humanity, and Lucy sympathized with them.

The noise level subsided momentarily when one of the school committee members made his way to the stage. It was Stan Eubanks, the chairman. Stan was a round, red-faced man who looked as if he ought to sell insurance, and did. He was joined a few moments later by Caroline Hutton, a retired professor of dance from Winchester College. Lucy smiled to see her; a few years ago they had conspired to protect little Melissa Roderick from an abusive situation.
^*

Caro and Stan greeted each other with warm smiles and chatted as they began looking through the information packets at their places. A third member, local attorney George Witherspoon, soon appeared and sat down between them. The three became deeply absorbed in conversation, and Lucy wished she could hear what they were saying.

Then the fourth member and newest member of the board, DeWalt Smythe, took his seat. None of them greeted him, but turned instead to their packets, which apparently contained fascinating reading material. DeWalt was the minister of the Revelation Congregation and had been narrowly elected last spring, thanks to the votes of his parishioners, who turned out in record numbers.

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the other committee members were giving DeWalt the cold shoulder; he was clearly the odd man out, separated from the rest by an empty seat. Ruth Winters, a rather nervous woman who ran a gift shop, was absent tonight and Lucy didn't blame her one bit.

Finally, Stan Eubanks banged down his gavel and called the meeting to order. He leaned into the microphone on the table in front of him, and the sound system emitted a piercing screech. Mr. Mopps, the custodian, hurried forward and adjusted the microphone.

When Mr. Eubanks tried again, the shriek was even louder. This was met by the audience with a collective groan.

Mr. Mopps looked anxiously over his shoulder at the crowd, and then bent over the microphone, tapping it hopefully with his fingers but achieving little more than brief pauses in the annoying static it was producing. Then, as everyone watched, Carol Crane pranced up the steps to the stage. Taking the mike from Mr. Mopps, she pointed him in the direction of the backstage control box. Seconds later the cackle subsided, and Carol spoke into the mike.

“Testing…one, two, three.” Hearing her voice come through clearly, she smiled and handed the mike to Stan. The audience, recognizing the heroine who had saved Tommy, applauded enthusiastically. Carol gave a little wave and returned to her seat, and Stan called for the first matter of business, an update from the police chief on the status of the bombing investigation.

Chief Crowley got to his feet from his seat in the front row and lumbered toward the microphone set up near the foot of the stairs leading to the stage. He adjusted the metal stand, rocked back on his heels, and began speaking.

“As most of you know if you watch TV or listen to the radio or read the papers, the investigation is continuing.” He adjusted the blue tie that matched his uniform with thick, callused fingers. “If you have any questions, I'll do my best to answer them.”

“Do you have any suspects?” called out a voice from the audience.

“We got a whole bunch of suspects,” said the chief, coolly scanning the crowd.

Stan banged the table with his gavel. “Please don't speak until you are recognized by the chair. And when you are recognized, please identify yourself. You, in the red,” he said, pointing to a young mother with an earnest expression.

“I'm Susan Winslow,” she said in a voice that could barely be heard. “I understood you were going to question the children—what happened?”

“I think I'll pass that question along to Mrs. Applebaum,” said the chief, grinning smugly. “She went to court and got an injunction.”

There was an angry buzz from some of the audience members as Mrs. Applebaum approached a second microphone, located on the opposite side of the auditorium.

“Chief Crowley is correct. As part of the investigation, he requested permission to question all the children and I refused for two reasons. One, the role of the school is to educate the children and I believe the questioning would disrupt the educational process, and two, I believe the children have a right not to be questioned unless there are specific grounds to suspect they are involved. Chief Crowley went to the superintendent of schools.” Mrs. Applebaum nodded in the direction of Michael Gaffney, a rather heavy, balding man in a gray suit who was sitting with the committee. “Dr. Gaffney overruled my decision, so I went to Superior Court where I requested, and received, the injunction.”

Hands shot up all over the room. Mr. Eubanks recognized Vicki Hughes. Lucy remembered how they had stood together, waiting anxiously, on the day of the explosion.

“I can't believe you would behave so irresponsibly,” said Vicki. “Our children's safety is at stake here. I would feel a lot more comfortable if this investigation is allowed to proceed. I certainly don't mind if my child is questioned, if it will help find the person responsible for the bombing.”

There was a hum of approval from the crowd as she sat down in her seat. Not everyone joined in, however. A few parents were shaking their heads and looking uneasy. Sophie Applebaum remained placidly in place at the microphone.

“Mrs. Spitzer,” said Mr. Eubanks, recognizing little Tommy's mother.

“I just want to say that Tommy is doing fine, thanks to this wonderful woman.” With her hand, Mrs. Spitzer indicated Carol Crane, who bobbed up from her seat behind Lydia Volpe. She was answered with a roar of applause from the crowd. Mrs. Spitzer waited for the clapping to subside, and then resumed speaking.

“I am grateful that Tommy suffered no adverse affects, but I do have a question for Mrs. Applebaum and Mrs. Volpe. What happened? Why didn't anyone notice he was missing? It seems to me there was some negligence involved here. I dread to think what could have happened.” She sniffed, and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.

“I understand how upsetting this has been for you and your family,” said Mrs. Applebaum.

Everyone was silent, waiting for an explanation.

“Mrs. Volpe is an experienced and capable teacher,” Mrs. Applebaum continued.

Lucy nodded in agreement; she knew and liked Lydia.

“I would like to remind you all that this was the first day of school. It takes a few days for the teachers to get to know all their students. I have spoken with Mrs. Volpe and she has told me she did not see Tommy at all that morning. In fact, she marked him absent when she took the roll.”

“I brought him to the nurses' office that morning, just as I was instructed,” said Mrs. Spitzer with a challenging stare.

“We are continuing to look into it,” said Mrs. Applebaum.

“I hope you do,” said Mrs. Spitzer angrily. “I think I am entitled to some answers.”

The crowd buzzed angrily, and a number of people raised their hands.

“We all want answers,” said DeWalt Smythe, rising to his feet from his seat at the table on the stage. He was tall, and his suit with a lapel pin in the shape of a cross was a reminder of his calling. “I promise you, Mrs. Spitzer, that I will make this my personal mission. No stone shall remain unturned, I shall cast light into the darkest corners. Those who are innocent need have no fear; but those who are guilty should be afraid.”

He looked directly at Mrs. Applebaum, but she was equally firm in her convictions and did not flinch from his accusatory stare. Caroline Hutton glanced at her fellow board members, who shook their heads in disapproval.

Stan Eubanks banged down his gavel, and Lucy jumped. The tension in the room was terrible; she could not imagine how Sophie could remain so calm in the face of so much hostility.

“I will allow a few more questions,” said Stan, “but then I must return the meeting to the committee. We have a heavy agenda tonight.”

“This is more important than the agenda,” came a voice from the rear, but Stan ignored it and recognized a tall man dressed in a grubby sweatshirt and a pair of yellow fisherman's overalls. The unshaven stubble on his chin indicated he had come to the meeting straight from his boat—he had probably been pulling lobster traps.

“I'm no education expert,” he said, “but I do know how to spell…” Here he paused and then added, “Pretty much” which got him a laugh from the crowd. “And I got to tell you, I don't understand what they're doing in this school. I know we're all worried about the bombing, but I've been plenty worried about what's been going on here for a long time. My kids come home with papers, they get check-plusses which they tell me means they did very well, and not a word is spelled right. It doesn't seem to me that they're learning English, it looks like some foreign language to me, and what the hell is the matter with a grade you can understand, like an A or a B? That's what I want to know!”