1 Per Cent Murders
Page 1
1% MURDERS:
THE ADAIR CLASSROOM MYSTERIES
Vol. I
BY T.W. MORSE
Copyright © 2018 by T.W. MORSE
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2018
eBook
ISBN: 978-1-5136-4223-9
Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-5136-4224-6
Adair Classroom Mysteries
Naples, Florida
https://adairclassroommysteries.sitey.me/
--For Rebecca--
Without her I am lost.
1% MURDERS:
THE ADAIR CLASSROOM MYSTERIES
Vol. I
BY T.W. MORSE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
- LOGAN -
THE NOT-QUITE-BROKEN ADAIR FAMILY
CHAPTER 1.5
- ULYSSES -
THE NOT-QUITE-BROKEN ADAIR FAMILY, CONTINUED
CHAPTER 2
- ULYSSES -
THE PINK HIGH SCHOOL IS NOT A PRISON?
CHAPTER 3
- ULYSSES -
FLUORESCENT BULBS MAKE A LIT STUDY HALL
CHAPTER 4
- ULYSSES -
JUST A GUY AND A GIRL
CHAPTER 5
- LOGAN -
WOW, A RED VELVET TRACKSUIT?
CHAPTER 6
- LOGAN -
THE NEW AP GETS THE FULL NELSON
CHAPTER 7
- LOGAN -
AN UNLIKELY DATE?
CHAPTER 8
- ULYSSES -
SHENANIGANS ABOUND
CHAPTER 9
- ULYSSES -
OFFICE COMMOTION
CHAPTER 10
- ULYSSES -
WAIT, WAIT... JUST A SLAP ON THE WRIST?
CHAPTER 11
- ULYSSES -
MY BEST FRIEND IS MY GIRLFRIEND?
CHAPTER 12
- ULYSSES -
PENNY UNIVERSITY
CHAPTER 13
- LOGAN -
AWKWARDNESS FOLLOWED BY A DUET...CHECK, PLEASE!
CHAPTER 14
- ULYSSES -
PIZZA, DRUGS, BASKETBALL, AND TRACKSUITS. OH MY!
CHAPTER 15
-ULYSSES -
WHO KNEW BASKETBALL WAS MURDER!
CHAPTER 16
- LOGAN -
THE 1% MURDER
CHAPTER 17
- ULYSSES -
A CAFFEINATED WAR ROOM?
CHAPTER 18
- LOGAN -
THE COACH NEEDS A NEW PLAY
CHAPTER 19
- ULYSSES -
KNOCK, KNOCK AT THE GALLANT HOUSE
CHAPTER 20
- ULYSSES -
IT'S A HOLEY ESCAPE!
CHAPTER 21
- ULYSSES -
A NOT-SO-PRIVATE READING NOOK
CHAPTER 22
- LOGAN -
IT'S A TRACKSUIT INTERROGATION
CHAPTER 23
- LOGAN -
THE DETECTIVE IS A REAL BRUTE
CHAPTER 24
- ULYSSES -
IT'S A MEATBALL CONCERT
CHAPTER 25
- LOGAN -
THIS CARPOOL SUCKS!
CHAPTER 26
- ULYSSES -
GG&W?
CHAPTER 27
- LOGAN -
PINEAPPLE EXPO MARKERS + MURDER BOARD = DEAD ENDS
CHAPTER 28
- ULYSSES-
WAKE, WAKE, DON’T TELL ME
CHAPTER 29
- LOGAN -
REDHEADS AREN’T FUN AT WAKES
CHAPTER 30
- ULYSSES -
CUBAN SANDWICHES AND MAFIA CONNECTIONS
CHAPTER 31
- LOGAN -
I DIDN’T LIE TO THE SHERIFF. I ONLY LIED TO THE DEPUTY
CHAPTER 32
- ULYSSES -
PROMISES CAN BE BROKEN—A LITTLE
CHAPTER 33
- ULYSSES -
WHO IS THE REAL MARY CLIFTON?
CHAPTER 34
- LOGAN -
P.E. TEACHERS WORRY TOO MUCH
CHAPTER 35
- ULYSSES -
ASSISTANT PRINCIPALS SHOULD NEVER STEAL
CHAPTER 36
- LOGAN -
PRINCIPALS SHOULDN’T LIE
CHAPTER 37
- ULYSSES -
X MARKS THE HIT
CHAPTER 38
- ULYSSES -
HELL HAS NO FURY!
CHAPTER 39
- LOGAN -
CONCUSSIONS ACCOMPANIED BY SQUEALING ARE NOT GOOD
CHAPTER 40
- ULYSSES -
AN UNEXPECTED FAMILY REUNION
CHAPTER 41
- ULYSSES -
THE GALLANT MURDERS
CHAPTER 42
- ULYSSES -
A SHOT IN THE DARK—AND YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO QUEEN?
CHAPTER 43
- LOGAN -
A TRACKSUIT REVENGE
CHAPTER 44
- ULYSSES -
IT PAYS TO PAY ATTENTION IN SCIENCE
CHAPTER 45
- ULYSSES -
HELLO DOLLY!
CHAPTER 46
- ULYSSES -
NEVER BACKING DOWN
PROLOGUE
THE FAMILY’S HOME
T he white house with green trim swayed, appearing hollow in the downpour, yet still standing tall against the abyss of conservation land. Having lost its power, the house stood ominous in the night. The robust home was imposing as the winds beat against its clapboard siding. Each raindrop pelting the ground bathed the lonely child. The child began to creep in from its hiding place. Ripped white pajamas and total darkness would not deter the child from the truth. Walking around the wraparound porch to the front entrance, the sound of the glass was diminished with the waves of wind and searing rain.
An entryway, once ornate with fine Brazilian wood and intricate wainscoting, now was adorned with leaves and debris from the ferocious storm. The windows of the house, once welcoming, were now blown in and threatening every step of the child's petite footsteps. The child’s footsteps crunched over the shards of glass. The rain had been blowing in all night, creating puddles on the floor that now turned red from the lacerations on the child’s feet. The wind screamed through each open window while the child, barely dressed, shivered from the humid, damp air.
The darkness of the stairwell awaited the child as it climbed, shivering, bleeding, following the large muddy boot prints. The child only briefly glanced up to see the photos of the family through the years along the way. The child stopped at one framed photo near the top. It showed a strong blond man, wearing summer golf apparel, which included a straw fedora. His dimpled, protruding chin led up to kind, loving eyes that gazed upon a woman with a simple polka dotted summer dress. The woman bore a soothing, motherly smile directed toward two young children who sat at the parents’ feet. Each child hugged the other in playful admiration, as only toddlers can do.
The wounded child continued to cautiously climb the immense staircase, quietly expelling sobs that were lost to the wind and rain attacking the house with ferocious precision.
The Brazilian floorboards switched to a darkened carpet at the top of the curved stairs; the footprints were no longer visible. The carpet was a soothing relief to the child’s shredded feet. The child peered over the hallway banister to the opened entryway below. The wind was calmer here, as the windows were still intact. H
ung above the entryway was an ostentatious glass chandelier, twinkling as it danced in the blowing winds. The child hesitated at the landing. The murmurs coming from the hallway sounded muffled in the storm, but the child knew a different kind of tempest waited ahead.
Three doors lay in the child’s path, but only one had a broken handle. Only one contained the murmuring — growing louder. Murmuring coming from the first door, a muffled gurgling sound, was now increasing. Definitely not the wind, the child nervously thought. The child touched the door ever so gently, and with the smallest of ease, it swung open. A crack of thunder blasted as the door opened, and a mere second later, the room came alive with a flash of light. The child jumped! The sobs and sniffles grew intense as the lightning’s illumination of the room exposed its dark secret. In the few seconds of illumination, the child saw the gigantic bureau turned over on its side, clothing scattered on the floor, and jewelry spilling all over the carpet. Chairs were thrown and splintered against the walls.
The child inched further into the room, following the sounds like a series of bread crumbs, moving debris, slipping on a silk handkerchief that lay on the floor, stumbling around the fallen chairs. The sound was now all around the child, heavy gasps, short then quick. The child was stunned, shaking. Pain from the glass magnified as the floor transitioned from the bedroom’s dark soothing carpet to the master bath’s cold, white, marble tile.
The marble’s gray veins, shooting in every direction, were now a deeper color. The child inched into the bathroom, slower now. No external windows were present, and it was difficult to see. The child was navigating the surroundings only by memory. The moaning changed to intermediate light breathing. The child didn’t know what to think - or do. Calling out could be dangerous. The child’s eyes were adjusting slightly to the darkness, seeing silhouettes in the massive shower ahead, silhouettes that should not be there.
The child crawled on the floor, inching closer to the open glass door of the massive shower. Then the breathing and moaning stopped. The child stopped moving.
The massive house started to win against the storm. The child’s eyes quickly shut as the power surged back on, blinding the child as it lay on the giant marble bathroom floor, frozen in time. All the chrome and recessed lights were left on prior to losing power, and the bathroom burst with electricity.
Outside in the bedroom, the TV cranked on and the child could hear a familiar Disney Channel cartoon. When the child’s eyes opened, the darker veins of the marble were no longer gray; they were painted over with a dark crimson. The floor was all the child could process. The child could not look up to the opening of the shower. The cold marble was a safe place; looking down was safer than the realization of what was in the shower. Finally, a crackle of thunder rang through the night, shaking the house and causing the child’s eye to look up. Exposed before the child was a vivid and demonic scene. In the massive white marbled shower lay three bodies. The marble was no longer white; it was now a deep crimson.
The bodies were pale, white, all dressed in their night clothes. Their skin was flayed, and a knife with a dark curved black plastic handle protruded from the larger of the three victims. Their bodies lay contorted, with mouths open in horror, looking out into oblivion. The bodies’ blood was trickling into the shower drain, trailing from the white marble where the child lay in horror. For a moment the scene was too difficult and surreal to comprehend. The child started hyperventilating; no breath was coming, just gasp after gasp with no air getting through. After realizing the meaning of this sight, the child erupted with a deep, soul-crushing wail. It echoed and throbbed through the house and out into the night, “NO!!”
The screams were enveloped by the storm and ultimately silenced by a firm hand that latched over the child’s mouth.
CHAPTER 1
- LOGAN -
THE NOT-QUITE-BROKEN ADAIR FAMILY
W aking up is still difficult, even after five years, but Ortiz’s whimper is vexatious.
“Shut it, Ortiz!” He continues the whimpering. “Shut it! You have to be the neediest dog in Florida.”
Like clockwork, my cell phone comes to life precisely at 5:30 a.m. The hypnotic piano tunes of “She’s Got A Way” by Billy Joel work their way out of my phone and into my ears. I touch the screen before the lyrics are sung and rub my eyes, as an image of Jillian and I dancing to that very song at our wedding flashes through my mind. It was a lifetime ago. The memory begins to fade while I shower. I shave my beard with the electric razor, leaving nothing but a closely cropped goatee. I look in my vanity mirror and pick at my gray hairs, which now greatly outnumber the brown on my head. I always jokingly blame my son, Ulysses, becoming a freshman as the reason my hair is now practically gray.
The sink is covered in beard trimmings. As I clean, I look to the other side of the double vanity, remembering Jillian’s dream of having a sink all to herself. Every place we lived together only had one sink, and sharing a sink was difficult to say the least. The other side would’ve been Jillian's, but she never had the chance, and it sat there untouched, clean, empty. My side is a mess of contact solution, allergy pills, and toothpaste. The facial trimmings add to the fray. It has been that way for five years now; the faucet was never even touched or turned on. I blankly stare at the sink, with a growing urge to turn it on after all these years. It is a perfectly good sink, but never used since we moved into this tiny apartment. Finally, tired of this distraction, I scoot quickly over, turn on the faucet, and yank it off after a brief moment. Water had burst out, and then quickly extinguished. I sarcastically blurt, “Great job, Logan, your shrink would be so proud. You turned on a sink. You must be ready to date now!”
I’m not; I don’t feel the urge. The pain of her loss lingers everywhere, even in the freakin’ bathroom! I start to tear up again while my thin fingers fumble with my wedding band hanging on a chain around my neck. I quickly think of Ulysses and stop myself, remembering to be strong for him.
There’s something to be happy about; today is Friday! I am a teacher, and teachers, more than students, love Fridays. For me though, it is also Bow Tie Friday. I quickly struggle to tie my ruby red bow tie. It is my personal tradition to always wear a bow tie on Friday. It helps to take the attention away from my frayed blue shirt and wrinkled chinos. I am going to try and bring the bow tie back in style, if it ever was. It is truly a neglected accessory. Since I am such a great trendsetter, maybe more people will wear them. I am a little delusional — I know. I’m trying to bring back the words swell and nifty, too. I’m not sure they’re trending though — yet. Actually, I get teased by the teachers who are way older. The teasing is mainly because of my grumpy nature, love for jazz and Sinatra, and, for obvious reasons, my style. My regular use of the words swell, groovy, and “great googlie mooglie” doesn’t help the situation either. I think it’s funny, but sometimes I'm called grandpa or dad by the faculty and students. I may be 39 but have a 79-year-old’s personality. I’m okay with that though; I think of myself as vintage. Although lately I feel closer to 79 than 30.
I leave my room while pinning the Mangrove High School teacher badge to my brown belt, which is a required accessory, unlike the bow tie. It reads, “Logan Adair, social studies dept., teacher.” The picture on my badge shows an oval face sporting a long beard and crooked grin. Picture day was a bad day.
I quickly glance outside; it is going to be another hot sunny day in Southwest Florida. I wish Ulysses and I could go to one of Somerset's many Gulf Coast beaches rather than school. Yeah, even teachers like to skip once in a while. It’s Friday though, so at least I have my weekly trip with Ulysses and friends from work to Somerset’s local coffee shop, Penny University. On Fridays we cancel carpool, so we can grab some sandwiches and coffee after school. I am especially looking forward to this Friday; it’s Penny University’s first open mic night. People are going to play instruments, sing, and even read poetry. Ulysses and I may go against our better judgement and perform some rock classics. We both play g
uitar, and we are always eager to try out some new tunes. I may love Sinatra and jazz, but classic rock is my first love. My shrink says it's a good outlet, especially since Ulysses can take part. Jillian would’ve been so proud.
I snag Ortiz’s leash, clasp it on, and he pulls me down our seventeen steps to his favorite green patch. I can hear the Hernandezes’ baby giving her parents their daily wake up call. Ortiz is done, and we bound back up the steps.
I scoop his kibble into his favorite Boston Red Sox bowl. As he munches happily away, I grab the egg carton and loaf of wheat bread from the fridge, plug in our worn electric griddle, then tap on Ulysses’ door. “Time to wake up!”
I hear a muffled, “I’m up, I’m up!” A few seconds later, some AC/DC echoes through his bedroom wall.
“Nice,” I blurt out, as I bob my head with the rhythm coming from Ulysses’ bedroom. I boil some water in the electric tea kettle and proceed to prep the French press coffee maker, allowing the grinds to steep, while I finish cooking the eggs over easy. I add some strawberry jelly to the toast.
I switch on ESPN from our galley kitchen, fifteen feet away from our living room flat screen. The living room, furnished with a worn crimson red futon paired with two pleather club chairs, has an array of pictures littering the walls. A dented table with four chairs occupies the dining area, with two stools lying in wait at the bar to the galley kitchen. Our place is basically one large room, so I can watch my baseball highlights from anywhere in the main living area. We have a slider at the back of the dining area, leading to a screened lanai with a small red ornate bistro set. I usually frequent the lanai for breakfast, but it is very humid this morning, so I settle for the safety of our central air.
I eat at the kitchen table, glancing up to see Ulysses’ cooked eggs still on a plate at the counter, getting cold.
“Eggs getting cold!” I yell through his bedroom door on the other side of the kitchen, as I sit down with my coffee, freshly poured from the French press.
My coffee cup is a monstrous beast, three times the size of a normal cup, dwarfing my hand as I lift it to my mouth like a dumbbell. The mug has Winnie the Pooh and other Hundred-Acre Wood characters barely visible over the faded blue backdrop. It once was bright blue, with colorful characters, but many dishwasher cycles changed that. Jillian gave this to me on our seventh wedding anniversary while vacationing in Walt Disney World, when we first considered moving down to Florida permanently. The memory leaves a smile on my face that remains until I am startled by a persistent Ortiz, wanting to go back out for round two.