DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (17 page)

T
wenty

Cody and his Malibu didn’t materialize in our drive around Fetlock Meadows, the subdivision
for Halo’s one percent. Todd and I made it home without further comment on my heart’s
failings to kick the step-Branson to the curb.

The next morning, I rose after Todd had left for work and donned a skull print pyramid
top. After a quick hot glue job on a ribbon of skull beads to the hem of my flared
jeans, I pulled on my boots and headed out the door.

It felt like a skull-crusher kind of day.

When I arrived at the Peerless office, it appeared someone had ordered a delivery
of bedlam with a side of insanity. Pamela Hargraves manned the counter, answering
phone calls and registering visitors. Behind her, the office girls ran around like
uniformed, headless chickens, carrying papers and folders under their wings. A parent
sat at Amber’s desk, looking close to tears. Assistant Principal Brenda Cooke stood
in the middle of the room, catching students as they passed, glancing at the items
in their arms, and pointing them in a different direction. She wore another expensive
suit and her pumps had a familiar designer emblem, but her blonde bob had not been
fully squashed of cowlicks and the knot of her snazzy scarf had been loosened like
the groom’s tie midway through a wedding reception.

I stood at the counter, watching disorder reign with Max’s warning of Phantom-induced
anarchy sailing around my brain. “What’s going on, Miss Pamela?”

She grimaced. “Amber, the school secretary, quit. Ms. Cooke’s fixing to get a sub
to catch up on the office work. In the meantime, she’s trying to organize Mrs. Overmeyer’s
students into doing actual work and they’re not taking to it. They can’t even figure
out how to file the attendance sheets.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Amber seemed pretty fed up with trying to handle both the front and
back office stuff.”

Pamela shrugged. “Cooke is going to have an aneurism if she doesn’t get some help.
I don’t know why she doesn’t make Cleveland come back to school. He must realize how
pathetic he looks, taking grief time for Pringle’s funeral.”

“At least someone’s mourning her. Miss Pringle doesn’t have any family.”

“Really?” Pamela leaned closer until I could see the swirls of her foundation powder.
Her heavy perfume smelled of roses dipped in patchouli. “The funeral is Monday. I
heard Dan Madsen, Ellis’s father, might show.”

“I thought he didn’t live around here.”

“He and his wife moved away after Ellis died, but they split soon after. Between the
death of her child and his infidelity, Bethany Madsen kicked him out. I believe he
got
a
job in Atlanta, but I don’t know where he’s living.”

I leaned away, taking a breath of fresh non-patchouli-rose air, and thought about
Dan Madsen’s move. “When did he move back? Recently?”

Pamela shrugged, wafting another blast of perfume toward me. “I just heard with the
news of Pringle’s funeral.”

“Where does his wife live?”

Pamela squinted. “North Carolina? Tennessee? I’m not sure. They lived on the other
side of Ballantyne, and Kadence wasn’t friends with Ellis, so I didn’t keep up with
the Madsens.”

“Was anybody friends with Ellis?” I muttered, then directed my thoughts to Pamela.
“Besides Mr. Tinsley, were there any other staff who would have known Ellis well?
Maybe an adult who might have seen the signs of her impending suicide and didn’t do
anything? Or gave her a hard time? Anything that could have been related to her death?”

Pamela tried to arch a brow. “Why?”

“Just wondering. The more I learn about Ellis, the worse I feel about her death.”

And perhaps that teacher might be next on the Phantom’s list, but kept that thought
to myself.

“I didn’t really know her,” said Pamela. “Ellis was a sophomore, so she would have
taken chemistry, English, World History, and pre-Calc that year. Probably a foreign
language and a couple electives.”

“What about art?”

“Generally, art and drama don’t overlap. The drama kids might take chorus, maybe dance,
and don’t have room for other electives.”

“What do the art kids take?”

“More art. And chemistry.” She chuckled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s well known that one of the art seniors deals drugs. I heard he uses the print
shop. You know, designs graphics for sheets of acid tabs?”

What an entrepreneur. “Does he sell magic mushrooms, too?”

Pamela turned up her nose. “Entirely possible. I told Kadence to stay away from the
art rooms.”

Preston King. Vail’s favorite student.

Behind Pamela, the noise grew. With the skill of a good cat wrangler, Ms. Cooke herded
the office girls to another room. A good time, I thought, to do some scrounging without
ol’ Eagle Eye Cooke around. “Who handles student schedules?”

“The guidance counselors are in charge of schedules. But you can look them up on any
of the office computers.”

“Thank you, Miss Pamela.” I grabbed my visitor badge and scooted around the counter.
At Amber Tipton’s desk, I waved to the parent. “Hey there. You look like you need
a break. Why don’t I take over for a minute?”

At her enthusiastic nod, the mother’s sleek ponytail bounced against her velour hoodie.
She bent to snatch her Coach bag, giving me a glimpse of a butt-full of rhinestones
spelling “Juicy.”

“Thank you, I didn’t expect to have to do this kind of work,” said the mother.

“Of course you didn’t,” I replied. “You don’t pay twenty thousand a year to do office
work.”

“I know
.
”
S
he laid a hand on her extra firm breasts. “I’m supposed to go to the spa this morning.
I’m not even dressed.”

“You go get yourself a Diet Coke and I’ll sit here until the temp comes in.”

Her extra-white teeth gleamed. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“No problem
.
” I dropped into her chair and switched on Amber’s monitor. The guest password had
been sticky-noted to the front of the computer. I logged in, then stared at the screen
before randomly clicking on an icon. A spreadsheet of names and numbers appeared,
blinked at me, then disappeared.

“Computers hate me as much as I hate them,” I muttered. Clicking again, a different
screen showed a blank form. Panicking, I hit the escape button.

“Cherry!” squealed an all too familiar voice. “I’m here to help!”

I felt the blood drain from my head and a nerve began to hammer near my eye. Turning
in my chair, I spied Tara bouncing before the visitor sign-in log. Two seconds later,
she skipped to Amber’s desk. Today she had kept the pink Keds, but swapped the dress
for navy skinny capris and a pink and navy print blouse.

Tara got an A for prep school attire. I glanced at my skull top and jeans. D+. Although
I hoped the skull beads were good for some kind of extra credit.

“I’m volunteering to sub for Miss Amber,” she shrieked. I waited for her herkie jump,
but it never came. “We get to spend the day together!”

“Great
.
” I winced. “Do you know how to work Miss Amber’s computer?”

“Let me try!”

“Tara, you’ve got to stop shouting. This is a school.”

Her cheeks flared to match the color of her brilliant pink shirt. “I’m so sorry. I’m
just excited.”

“I know you are,” I said, feeling abashed. “Just show me how to look up a student’s
schedule. Please.”

She leaned over my shoulder, smelling of sunshine and orange blossoms. How could Luke
break this bundle of joy’s heart just to get back at some old high school rival? I
felt like pulling Tara in my lap and stroking her hair, but even Tara would find that
unnerving.

Good Lord, Tara was turning me into Lennie from
Of
Mice and Men
.

“Which student schedule do you need?” she chirped.

“Preston King. I need to talk to that boy.”

Tara clicked and clicked again. A moment later, a paper chugged from the printer.
“Anything else?”

“Does this computer have last year’s schedules? I want to look at Ellis Madsen’s classes.”

“Oh,” breathed Tara. “Let’s see. I think she had some classes with Laurence. Maybe
her transcripts?”

Tara was such a trusting soul. I would have questioned myself, but then like a barnyard
cat, I leaned toward suspicion in most matters.

A moment later, another sheet shot from the printer.

“Can I help y
ou
with another schedule?” Her smile caused the pixels to spontaneously vibrate on the
computer screen.

“Is there anything you can’t do, Tara?”

She tapped her chin, thinking. Her smile plummeted. “I can’t get Lukey to love me.”

My heart nosedived, and I grasped Tara’s hands. “Luke Harper is a piece of dirt. You
don’t deserve him. So is Anthony Pettit. I heard about him. You need to find a better
man.”

“How can you say that? Luke’s your friend. He’s wonderful. Kind and caring. Patient.
Loyal. Handsome.”

“No, you are describing a well bred
g
olden
r
etriever. Or my roommate, Todd McIntosh.”

Her smile brightened. “Todd is very sweet. I enjoyed talking to him last night.”

“Good. Luke is bad news. Forget about him.” My lecture done, I moved on to a less
personal topic. One that didn’t involve memories of me snogging Luke in the school
parking lot. “Now, show me how to access Miss Amber’s email.”

“Cherry, isn’t that wrong?”

Dang this girl’s ethics. She doesn’t question me wanting a dead girl’s transcripts,
but does question a peek at someone’s private correspondence? “What if a parent has
emailed Miss Amber about something important?”

“You’re right
.
”
H
er cheeks brightened again. “What was I thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Hopefully she wasn’t thinking about any financial reports from the
principal that I could forward to Max.

She clicked on the email box. “It’s not password protected.”

“That’s not too smart on Miss Amber’s part. But good for us.” My eyes sped over the
lines of text. “While I look over her email for important messages, why don’t you
get busy filing Miss Amber’s folders?”

Tara toddled off with an armload of folders, while I scanned Amber’s email, filled
with forwarded recipes and jokes of the day. I paged through a half-dozen online ads
and found a string of PeerNotes updates. I left those to search the previous day’s
emails. No messages from Cleveland. Clicking on her sent mail, I found several Amber
had sent to Cleveland. Including one marked “Urgent.” I clicked.

“Mr. Cleveland,” Amber had written, “I’m trying to catch up on Maranda’s work and
have found several items that she question marked for you. Should I send them on to
Brenda?”

She hadn’t attached anything to the email. In Amber’s dictionary, urgent must mean
vague. I clicked back to the inbox and began to scan her PeerNotes messages. An earlier
email listed an announcement of new photos loaded onto the site. I clicked and a new
screen popped up. I recognized the PeerNotes header and eagerly paged past the photos
of Tinsley tossing student audition sheets in the garbage. The day’s cafeteria meals
(Chicken biscuits. This school had everything.). Lacrosse team news. Solo auditions
for the choral Christmas concert. Finally, “Peerless Memorial Garden: Drug Bust or
Ghost Bust?”

I clicked.

“Four drama students abandoned their backpacks and a baggie of
p
orcini after witnessing the apparition of E.M. who now haunts this school in revenge
for the students who bullied her. Police came to investigate and didn’t find evidence
of drugs or ghosts. Nice going drama geeks, you losers.”

I rolled my eyes and clicked on the comment box. “Shitake not porcini,” I typed. “And
people who sell drugs, fake or not, are bigger losers than the ones who take them.”

Three seconds later, the computer pinged and twenty responses to my message appeared.
Most with creative uses of the word shitake. Realizing I had used Miss Amber’s login,
I tried to delete the message and instead reposted it.

I stuck my tongue out at the computer and moved on.

“Is Ellis Madsen haunting the teachers with ghost texts?” read the next post. I clicked
and scanned. Most of the comments belittled the poster, who responded with greater
creativity than those liking the word shitake.

However, one student comment made my mind hum. “Then shouldn’t she be haunting last
year’s senior drama students instead of Mr. Tinsley? He made her Evita. They made
her die.”

The response to that comment knocked my eyebrows into my hairline.

“Did Tinsley notice what the seniors were doing to her? If not, why? If so, why didn’t
he stop them?” Dr. Vail didn’t disguise her comment.

Her war with Tinsley was available for all the students to see. Not very professional
of Dr. Vail. But maybe her conflict with Tinsley went beyond departmental jealousies.
Maybe she knew Ellis and felt Tinsley had done her an injustice.

I snagged the two schedules from the printer cache and glanced at Preston King’s.
He had four academic courses and three art classes. I scanned Ellis’s schedule from
the previous year. Five academics, two-dimensional design, and basic drawing with
Dr. Vail. No drama. How did she get the part of Evita?

I needed to talk to Dr. Vail. But how could I get her to talk to me when she thought
I sided with Tinsley?

A fresh wave of chattering accompanied by violent shushing made me slip from Miss
Amber’s seat and steal back to the counter. Ms. Cooke, followed by her gang of office
chicks, strode into the reception area.

Cooke had her finger on the pulse of the school. Useful, except she didn’t seem to
like me. Probably picked up on the anti-authority vibe I had cultivated during my
school days. I followed her toward the back offices and stopped in her doorway.

Ms. Cooke had a handful of letters and tossed them on the desk before looking at me.