Murder on the Prowl (16 page)

37

Little Mim, taut under her powdered face, wig bobbling, wandered across the highly polished gym floor to Harry. At least she thought it was Harry because the vagabond's escort, a pirate, was too tall to be anyone but Fair.

The dance was turning into a huge success, thanks to the band, Yada Yada Yada.

The curved sword, stuck through his sash, gave Fair a dangerous air. Other partyers wore swords. There was Stonewall Jackson and Julius Caesar. A few wore pistols that upon close examination turned out to be squirt guns.

Karen Jensen, behind a golden mask, drove the boys wild because she came as a golden-haired Artemis. Quite a bit of Karen was showing, and it was prime grade.

But then, quite a bit of Harry was showing, and that wasn't bad either.

Little Mim put her hand on Harry's forearm. “Could I have a minute?”

“Sure. Fair, I'll be right back.”

“Okay,” he replied from under his twirling mustache.

Marilyn pulled Harry into a corner of the auditorium. Madonna and King Kong were making out behind them. King Kong was having a hard time of it.

“I hope you aren't cross with me. I should have called you.”

“About what?”

“I asked Blair to the dance. Well, it wasn't just that I needed an escort, but I thought I might interest him in the school and—”

“I have no claim on him. Anyway, we're just friends,” Harry said soothingly.

“Thanks. I'd hoped you'd understand.” Her wig wobbled. “How did they manage with these things?” She glanced around. “Can you guess who Stonewall Jackson is?”

“Mmm, the paunch means he's a chaperon,” Harry stated.

“Kendrick Miller.”

“Where's Irene? It isn't World War Three yet with those two, is it?”

“Irene's over there. It'd be a perfect costume if she were twenty years younger. Some women can't accept getting old, I guess.” She indicated the woodland fairy, the wings diaphanous over the thin wire. Then, lowering her voice, “Did you see April Shively? Dressed as a witch. How appropriate.”

“I thought you liked April.”

Realizing she might have said too much, Little Mim backtracked. “She's not herself since Roscoe's death, and she's making life difficult for everyone from the board on down to the faculty. It will pass.”

“Or she will,” Harry joked.

“Two bewitching masked beauties.” Maury McKinchie complimented them from behind his Rhett Butler mask.

“What a line!” Harry laughed, her voice giving her away.

“May I have this dance?” Maury bowed to Harry, who took a turn on the floor.

Little Mim, happy she wasn't asked, hastened to Blair as fast as her wig would allow.

Sean Hallahan, dressed as a Hell's Angel, danced with Karen Jensen. After the dance ended, he escorted her off the floor. “Karen, is everyone mad at me?”

Jody, dragged along by her mother, glared at Sean. She was in a skeleton outfit that concealed her face, but Sean knew it was Jody.

“Jody is.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“I feel like you've been avoiding me.”

“Field hockey practice takes up as much time as football practice.” She paused, clearing her throat. “And you've been a little weird lately—distant.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Sean, you couldn't help the way things turned out—Mr. Fletcher's dying—and until then it was pretty funny. Even the phony obituary for Mr. McKinchie was funny.”

“I didn't do that.”

“I know, it was on Roger's paper route, and he says he didn't do it either.”

“But I
really
didn't.” He sensed her disbelief.

“Okay, okay.”

“That's an incredible costume,” he said admiringly.

“Thanks.”

“Karen—do you like me a little?”

“A little,” she said teasingly, “but what about Jody?”

“It's not—well, you know. We're close but not that way. We practiced a lot this summer and—”

“Practiced what?”

“Tennis. It's our spring sport.” He swallowed hard.

“Oh.” She remembered Jody's version of the summer.

“Will you go out with me next Friday after the game?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

He smiled, pushing her back out on the dance floor.

Coach Renee Hallvard, dressed as Garfield the cat, sidled up next to Harry.

“Harry, is that you?”

“Coach?”

“Yes, or should I say ‘Meow'?”

“Wonder what Mrs. Murphy would say about this.”

Coach reached back, draping her tail over her arm. “Get a life.”

They both laughed.

“She probably would say that.”

“If you don't mind, I'll drop off this year's field hockey rule book on Monday.”

“Why?” Harry murmured expectantly.

“I need a backup referee—just in case. You know the game.”

“Oh, Coach. Make Susan do it.”

“She can't.” Coach Hallvard laughed at Harry. “Brooks is on the team.”

“Well—okay.”

Coach Hallvard clapped her on the back. “You're a good sport.”

“Sucker is more like it.”

Rhett Butler asked Harry to dance a second time. “You've got beautiful legs.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“I ought to give you a screen test.”

“Get out of here.” Harry thumped his back with her left hand.

“You're very attractive. The camera likes some people. It might like you.” He paused. “What's so curious is that even professionals don't know who will be good on-screen and who won't.”

“Rhett,” she joked because she knew it was Maury, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Ha.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Just the pretty ones.”

“In fact, I heard you have a car full of vital essences, so you must have said something to BoomBoom.”

“Oh!” His voice lowered. “What was I thinking?”

Part of Maury's charm was that he never pretended to be better than he was.

“Hey, I'll never tell.”

“You won't have to. She will.” He sighed. “You see, Harry, I'm a man who needs a lot of attention, female attention. I admit it.”

Stonewall and Garfield, dancing near them, turned their heads. “You don't give a damn who you seduce and who you hurt. You don't need attention, you need your block knocked off,” Kendrick Miller, as Stonewall, mumbled.

Rhett danced on. “Kendrick Miller, you're a barrel of laughs. I say what I think. You think being a repressed Virginian is a triumph. I think you're pathetic.”

Kendrick stopped. Coach Hallvard stepped back.

“Guys. Chill out,” Harry told them.

“I'll meet you after the dance, McKinchie. You say where and when.”

“Are we going to fight a duel, Kendrick? Do I get the choice of weapons?”

“Sure.”

“Pies. You need a pie in the face.”

Harry dragged Maury backward. She had heard about Kendrick's flash temper.

“Since we can't use guns, we can start with fists,” Kendrick called after him as Renee Hallvard pulled him in the direction opposite Maury.

As the dancers closed the spaces left by the vacating couples, a few noticed the minor hostilities. Fortunately, most of the students were wrapped up in the music and one another.

Jody put her hands on her hips, turned her back on her father, and walked to the water fountain. She had to take off the mask to drink.

“What a putz!” Maury shook his head.

“No one has ever accused Kendrick of having a good time or a sense of humor.” Harry half laughed.

“Totally
humorless
.” Maury emphasized the word. “Thank God his kid doesn't take after him. Funny thing, though, the camera liked Jody, and yet Karen Jensen is the more beautiful girl. I noticed that when we had our one-day film clinic.”

“Hmm.”

“Ah, the camera . . . it reveals things the naked eye can't see.” He bowed. “Thank you, madam. Don't forget your screen test.”

She curtseyed. “Sir.” Then she whispered, “Where's your bodyguard?”

He winked. “I made that up.”

Fair ambled over when he'd gone. “Slinging the bull, as usual?”

“Actually, we were talking about the camera . . . after he had a few words with Kendrick Miller. Testosterone poisoning.”

“If you keep saying that, I'll counter with ‘raging hormones.'”

“You do, anyway, behind our backs.”

“I do not.”

“Most men do.”

“I'm not most men.”

“No, you aren't.” She slipped her arm through his.

The evening progressed without further incident, except that Sean Hallahan had a flask of booze in his motorcycle jacket. No one saw him drinking from it, but he swayed on his feet after each return from outside.

He got polluted, and when someone dressed as a Musketeer showed up at the party, sword in hand, and knocked him down, he couldn't get up.

As Yada Yada Yada played the last song of the evening, some of the kids began sneaking off. Roger and Brooks danced the last dance. They were a hit as Lucy and Desi.

A piercing scream didn't stop the dancers. After all, ghosts and goblins were about.

The piercing scream was followed by moans that seemed frightening enough. Finally, Harry and Fair left the dance to investigate. They found Rhett Butler lying bleeding on the hall floor, gasping for breath as the blood spurted from his throat and his chest. Bending over him, sword in hand, was a paunchy Stonewall Jackson.

38

Maury McKinchie died before the rescue squad arrived at St. Elizabeth's. Rick Shaw, sirens blaring, arrived seconds after his final gurgle.

Rick lifted Kendrick's bloodied sword from his hand.

“It wasn't me, it was the Musketeer. I fought him off, but it was too late,” Kendrick babbled.

“Kendrick Miller, I am booking you under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain
silent . . .” Rick began.

Harry, Fair, Little Mim, and the other chaperons quickly cordoned off the hallway leading to the big outside doors, making sure that Irene was hurried out of the gym. Florence Rubicon ushered the dancers out by another exit at the end of the gym floor. Still, a few kids managed to creep in to view the corpse.

Karen and Sean, both mute, simply stared.

Jody walked up behind them, her mask off, her hair tousled, the horror of the scene sinking in. “Dad? Dad, what's going on?”

Cynthia flipped open her notebook and started asking questions.

Sandy Brashiers, in a low voice, said to Little Mim, “People are going to yank their kids out of here. By Monday this school will be a ghost town.”

39

A light brown stubble covered Rick Shaw's square chin. As his thinning hair was light brown, the contrast amused Cynthia Cooper, although little was amusing at the moment.

The ashtray in the office overflowed. The coffee machine pumped out cup after cup of the stimulant.

Cynthia regretted Maury McKinchie's murder, not just because a man was cut down, literally, but because Sunday, which would dawn in a couple of hours, was her day off. She had planned to drive over to the beautiful town of Monterey, almost on the West Virginia border. She'd be driving alone. Her job prevented her from having much of a social life. It wasn't that she didn't meet men. She did. Usually they were speeding seventy-five miles per hour in a fifty-five zone. They rarely smiled when they saw her, even though she was easy on the eyes. The roundup of drunks at the mall furnished her with scores of men, and they fell all over her—literally. The occasional white-collar criminal enlivened her harvest of captive males.

Over the last years of working together she and Rick had grown close. As he was a happily married man, not a hint of impropriety tainted their relationship. She relied on his friendship, hard won because when she joined the force as the first woman Rick was less than thrilled.

The one man she truly liked, Blair Bainbridge, set many hearts on fire. She felt she didn't have a chance.

Rick liked to work from flow charts. He'd started three, ultimately throwing out each of them.

“What time is it?”

“Five thirty.”

“It's always darkest before the dawn.” Rick quoted the old saw. He swung his feet onto his desktop. “I hate to admit that I'm stumped, but I am.”

“We've got Kendrick Miller in custody.”

“Not for long. He'll get a big-money lawyer, and that will be that. And it had occurred to me that Kendrick isn't the kind of man to get caught committing a murder. Standing over a writhing victim doesn't compute.”

“Could have lost his head.” She emptied her cup. She couldn't face another swig of coffee. “But you're not buying, are you?”

“No.” He paused. “We deal in the facts. The facts are, he had a bloody sword in his hand.”

“And there were two other partyers wearing swords. One of whom vanished into thin air.”

“Or knew where to hide.”

“Not one kid there knew who the Musketeer was or had heard him speak.” Cooper leaned against the small sink in the corner of the old room. She held her fingers to her temples, which throbbed. “Boss, let's back up. Let's start with Roscoe Fletcher.”

“I'm listening.”

“Sandy Brashiers coveted Roscoe's job. They never saw eye to eye.”

He held up his hand. “Granted, but killing to become headmaster of St. Elizabeth's—is the game worth the candle?”

“People have killed for less.”

“You're right. You're right.” He folded his hands over his chest and made a mental note to dig into Sandy's past.

“Anyone could have poisoned Roscoe. He left his car unlocked, his office unlocked. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to put a hard candy drenched in poison in his car or in his pocket or to hand it to him. Anyone could do it.”

“Who would want to do it, though?” She put her hands behind her head. “Not one trace of poison was found in the tin of strawberry hard candies in his car. And the way he handed out candy, half the county would be dead. So we know the killer had a conscience, sort of.”

“That's a quaint way of looking at it.”

“I have a hunch Roscoe was sleeping with Irene Miller.” Cynthia shook her feet, which were falling asleep in her regulation shoes. “That would be a motive for the first murder.”

“We have no proof that he was carrying on an extramarital affair.”

Cynthia smirked. “This is Albemarle County.”

Rick half laughed, then stood up to stretch. “Everyone's got secrets, Coop. The longer I work this show, the more I realize that every single person harbors secrets.”

“What about that money in the Jiffy bag?” Cynthia said.

“Too many prints on the bag and not a single one on the money.” Rick sighed. “I am flat running into walls. The obvious conclusion is drug money, but we haven't got one scrap of evidence.”

Cynthia shot a rubber band in the air. It landed with a flop on Rick's desk. “These murders are tied together, I'll bet my badge on that, but what I can't figure out is what an expensive school like St. Elizabeth's has to do with it. All roads lead back to that school.”

“Roscoe's murder was premeditated. Maury's was not—or so it appears. Kendrick Miller has a tie to St. Elizabeth's, but—” He shrugged.

“But”—Cooper shot another rubber band straight in the air—“while we're just postulating—”

“Postulating? I'm pissing in the wind.”

“You do that.” She caught the rubber band as it fell back. “Listen to me. St. Elizabeth's is the tie. What if Fletcher and McKinchie were filching alumni contributions?”

“Kendrick Miller isn't going to kill over alumni misappropriations.” He batted down her line of thought.

The phone rang. The on-duty operator, Joyce Thomson, picked it up.

Cynthia said, “I've always wanted to pick up the phone and say, ‘Cops and Robbers.'”

Rick's line buzzed. He punched in the button so Cynthia could listen. “Yo.”

“Sheriff,” Joyce Thomson said, “it's John Aurieano. Mrs. Berryhill's cows are on his land, and he's going to shoot them if you don't remove them.”

Rick punched the line and listened to the torrent of outrage. “Mrs. Berryhill's a small woman, Mr. Aurieano. She can't round up her cattle without help, and it will take me hours to send someone over to help. We're shorthanded.”

More explosions.

“Tell you what, I'll send someone to move them, but let me give you some
friendly advice. . . . This is the country. Cows are part of the country, and I'll let you in on something quite shocking—they can't read ‘No Trespassing' signs. You shoot the cows, Mr. Aurieano, and you're going to be in a lot more trouble than you can imagine. If you don't like the way things are, then move back to the city!” He put the phone down. “You know, there are days when this job is a real pain in the ass.”