by T W Morse
I whisper to Hannah, “My dad must have taken pictures at the crime scene.”
I quickly recover from my shock and start to examine the picture.
Hannah pleads, “Swipe forward; I can’t stand seeing that again.”
“Okay — sorry.” As I am about to, I notice the position of the knife. The handle was pointing down, not thrust from above or straight on. It was also right at Mr. Wright’s heart. Doesn’t that mean his attacker was shorter than him? I express this thought to Hannah and then Dad.
Dad comes over from the stove. “I didn’t want you to look at those pictures!”
“I know Dad, but look.” Detective Poirot and Sherlock Holmes would agree with this assumption, I think to myself.
“I noticed that, too. The killer must have been much shorter than Mr. Wright,” Dad says before going back to the kitchen, speaking to me while his head is in the refrigerator. “Remember watching the old movie, 12 Angry Men? The jurors came to the same conclusion you just did. Good work!”
I smile as I flip to the pictures of Principal Barron’s personnel file. Hannah reads out loud, while I read along silently.
“A science teacher and a pilot, that’s an odd combo,” I comment.
“No. Most pilots know a thing or two about engineering, so it wouldn’t be a stretch,” Dad says from the stove, listening to our findings.
As he says this, my body freezes when I reach the end of Barron’s resume, where it lists his references. Hannah sees it, too, bringing out her phone and opening the article about the Gallants again.
“Dad! Check this out!” Even Mr. Nelson is intrigued enough by the tone in my voice to come and see what we found.
Hannah shows Dad the article about the Gallant family. How Toby Gallant once worked for a law firm named GG&W. The very same law firm listed in Principal Barron’s references.
“Does one of the G’s stand for Gallant?” Hannah wonders aloud.
“Why does some pilot trying to break into teaching use a law firm as a reference?” Dad contemplates.
“So that's the connection!” I exclaim, “GG&W law firm.”
Hannah quickly starts to Google GG&W. I am pretty sure something will come up on the internet about this law firm, but that hope is dashed when Hannah says, “Nothing! I cannot find any law firm with those initials.”
Dad takes his phone from me and searches for the law firm himself but he can’t find anything either. Right then the oven timer goes off. “We’ll have to put a pin in this investigation; dinner is served.”
Hannah loves Dad’s cooking. She is so impressed he can cook so well. Mr. Nelson tells stories of his college basketball days, keeping dinner very entertaining. Dad makes Hannah feel very welcome. Ortiz even gets a taste when I share a bite under the table.
When we finish, Hannah and I both offer to do the dishes. Mr. Nelson finds another beer and turns on the Red Sox; they are in Florida playing the Rays. Dad, of course, goes into his bedroom, coming out with his old banjo. Yes, he has that old of a soul, he owns a banjo.
Dad sits on our lanai, first tuning and then finger picking several tunes while Hannah and I finish cleaning up in the kitchen. Mr. Nelson mutes the TV, bringing his beer onto the lanai. I recognize a couple of the songs: One was Bob Dylan’s “Girl from The North Country.”
“That was one of Mom’s favorites,” I say to Hannah as she puts a hand on my shoulder.
Hannah and I join Dad and Mr. Nelson on the lanai, all sitting on our cheap Walmart camp chairs.
I quickly go back into the apartment to grab my Harmony guitar from my bedroom, resuming my position on the lanai, quickly tuning and then joining in with Dad.
Dad starts playing one of our favorite Mumford and Sons songs, “Not With Haste.” We are just about to start the lyrics after the intro but are shocked to the core when Hannah jumps in and starts singing the lyrics — really well! Dad and I sing back up to her angel-like lyrics. Hannah must be a Mumford and Sons fan because she knows the song by heart. I had no idea she could sing — and well, too. I can tell Dad and Mr. Nelson are impressed; they are grinning with sheer enjoyment.
We all finish the song, and Dad pauses before quietly murmuring to himself, “You sound just like Jill.”
I nod in agreement, beaming at a blushing Hannah. We all sit in silence for a few more moments. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear Dad wipes away a tear.
Mr. Nelson breaks the silence by blurting out, “Well, it’s a school night, and this kid turns into a pumpkin if he doesn’t get his eight hours of sleep.”
I giggle when I hear Bob comparing himself to a pumpkin.
“Alright, let’s pile back into the Prius,” Dad says, sounding exhausted. “How about we meet back here after your basketball practice, Bob? We can compare notes on what we find out tomorrow. I’ll speak to O’Leary about his backyard visitor. Bob, why don’t you ask around tomorrow to see if anyone on your team or in your classes knows something about Terry and Jack’s lockers being messed with?”
“No problem, buddy,” Mr. Nelson says before burping a few times.
“That sounds great! I’m glad you’re jumping on board in the investigation,” I say enthusiastically. “Hannah and I will investigate that law firm more. There has to be information somewhere, maybe we can go to the Gulf University law library,” I add with Hannah nodding in agreement.
“We can make a suspect board like they do in the TV shows,” Hannah suggests energetically.
“I’m not endorsing all of this snooping around, but we need to get to the bottom of this mystery,” Dad adds before we all leave to take Hannah and Mr. Nelson home.
CHAPTER 25
- LOGAN -
THIS CARPOOL SUCKS!
I run out of the apartment to find Sam James’ crossover SUV idling. It is a nice new red one with all kinds of key features my little old Prius lacked. I sit in the back because he has already picked up Bob — who is gleefully sitting in the front seat, happy to have shotgun.
“Hey, guys. It’s another lovely Monday!” I say tiredly.
“Did you hear about the murder at Mangrove?” Sam says, glancing over his shoulder at me with a concerned look.
“You didn’t hear? Logan found the body!” Bob adds.
I frown at the back of Bobs round head. “Yeah, it was a lot to deal with this weekend.”
“I don’t have Conrad Wright in any of my classes. Poor kid,” Sam interjects as he is pulling on to O’Leary’s street.
Sam James is Ulysses’ English teacher. Bob and I sometimes hang out with him, getting a beer or a coffee after school, but Sam never hung with us consistently. He is married, and Sam and his husband would always find excuses not to hang with us, promising us a rain check. I blame Bob; he can be a handful. Sam’s a good guy, a bit of a gossiper though. It is his turn to drive this week’s carpool, and he is definitely fishing for information about the murder.
“Conrad’s a good kid. He’s a bit of a nervous nelly, but very athletic,” Bob adds somberly. “I read in the paper Mr. Wright’s wife is holding a wake tomorrow afternoon at their beach house.”
“Do they have any suspects?” Sam asks.
Bob is about to speak when I hit him on his arm. “No, not yet,” I answer for him. Quickly changing the subject, I add, “Good job Friday night with the poetry readings. The kids did a great job!”
“Thanks! They’ve been working hard and were a little nervous. You and Ulysses were the biggest hit; the crowd loved you guys! It was awesome! You’re scheduled for this Friday, too?”
“Thanks! I think so,” I say as we pull up in front of the Gallant house. I can see a little of O’Leary’s backyard; several of the mounds are visible from the road. O’Leary is waiting on his front porch, looking as irritable as always.
“Morning, Silas!” Sam says through a rolled down window, very chipper for a Monday morning.
Silas O’Leary is a royal douchebag — oh and now a possible murderer!
Also, what kind of a
name is Silas? Do we live in 1850? Well, I shouldn’t say anything. I did name my own son Ulysses.
O’Leary’s whole demeanor is weird. He wears full plaid vested suits every Monday, circa 1975, even when the temperature is above ninety degrees — which is most days! Today’s suit is dark tan with yellow stripes, straight from Mike Brady’s closet on The Brady Bunch. I’ve also never seen him sweat. Never trust a guy who doesn’t sweat.
As we pull over to pick him up, he slowly steps down each of his front porch steps, with irritatingly careful steps. He leers into Sam's car with sunken eyes lined with puffy bags. It has always been hard to like O’Leary, mainly because of the constant expression of dissatisfaction plastered on his face. His pursed lips are always pursed, and he’s always complaining about something. He never seems excited about anything, and he appears condescending to anyone who does show happiness or excitement. Welcome to the worst carpool!
I was right when I told Ulysses that he reminded me of the judge from Who Framed Roger Rabbit; every word O’Leary speaks is in an obnoxiously loud tone, never having an appropriate volume. That leads me to believe he has an unchecked hearing problem.
O’Leary only nods hello to the three of us when he climbs into the small SUV, sitting next to me in the backseat. I am now thinking along the same lines as Ulysses: This guy is guilty of murder.
I shouldn’t let my personal opinion and dislike for a guy cloud my judgment. Just like Sherlock Holmes, we need data. I need to investigate to find solutions and evidence of guilt, not come to conclusions without data.
“You have a good weekend, Silas?” Sam asks as we drive onto Mangrove.
“Fine!” he says sternly.
“Did you catch the game Saturday night?” I quickly ask before anyone can start speaking about the murder.
“No! I do not watch sports!” O’Leary replies in a condescending tone.
“What did you do Saturday night, if you didn’t go to the game?” As I ask, Bob starts to squirm in his seat.
O’Leary slowly turns his head to me and narrows his oval eyes, which accentuates their puffy, sunken look. “What does it matter to you?!”
“I'm just making small talk,” I add, raising my hands in defense.
“I stayed in and worked on my house. I’m preserving a hundred-year-old home, and it’s very time consuming, if you must know,” O’Leary says in a somewhat normal tone, at least for him.
“Alone?” I ask.
“What?!” he screeches.
“Were you working on your home alone?”
“Why yes; what do you care?” O’Leary says, now changing to his typical disgusted tone.
“No reason. It seems like a nice house.” O’Leary nods like he didn’t care. “I heard some Gallant family owned it before you,” I say trying to read his face.
“No.” O’Leary stops for a long pause, sighs deeply to himself, and continues hesitantly. “If you must know. The last occupants were some family named Gallant, but no one has lived there since. It had been owned by the government for almost thirty years,” O’Leary finishes, looking irritated that he had to speak at all during this carpool.
“Oh. The government? Why the government?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Adair! Why do you care?!”
“No reason. Ulysses’ friend Hannah Reyes mentioned somebody tried to vandalize your yard yesterday. I hope they didn’t destroy too much,” I say, trying to sound like I cared.
“I know Mz. Reyes! She is a student of mine. As for the vandals, they have caused immense damage to my backyard! When I catch them, they’ll wish they had never messed with me!” O'Leary looks at me suspiciously, maybe wondering how much I already know. Or why I’m taking such an interest in him. His alibi can’t be corroborated, so he could still be a suspect.
“Why do you think they are messing with your yard?” I add.
“I don’t know; why don’t you ask your son? I think he did it!” O’Leary spouts.
Both Sam and Bob defend Ulysses simultaneously.
“Ulysses is a good kid!” Bob says.
“You shouldn’t throw out accusations, Silas!” Sam adds.
“I don’t know where you got that idea, O’Leary! But you can count on one thing, you accuse my son of anything again, either because you don’t like him or me, and they’ll have to dig a hole for you because I’ll put you in there!” I say passionately, knowing full well Ulysses may not have dug up his backyard, but he did break into his house and steal a picture.
“It’s funny that your son’s girlfriend is at my doorstep right at the time someone is digging holes in my backyard,” O’Leary sneers.
“Why the hell would Ulysses want to dig holes? I can barely get him to do his chores! I can think of a hundred better pranks that wouldn’t involve strenuous labor!” I sneer back at O’Leary in pure disgust, wanting to perform some of those pranks right now.
“Okay, okay, why don’t we all chill?” Bob suggests, trying his best to squash the tension.
I really feel like punching O’Leary, but I know it would exacerbate the situation.
“We’re here!” Sam says nervously. While conversing with O’Leary, I didn’t realize that we’d arrived at Mangrove High.
O’Leary zips out of the car, slamming his door behind him. He tells Sam he will take a Lyft home after school, saying he no longer wants to be part of this carpool.
“Fine! Nobody wants you in this carpool anyway!” I yell childishly after him as he scurries into school.
“Smooth, dude,” Bob says with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“O’Leary’s got his panties in a twist,” Bob says, trying to lighten the mood. Sam and I frown at Bob.
“What was that all about? He sure doesn’t like you and Ulysses,” Sam says, turning to me as we make our way into Mangrove.
“I don’t know; guy’s got issues,” I say flatly to Sam and Bob. But I think to myself, O’Leary’s definitely hiding something! He doesn’t have an alibi. The Gallant house is definitely connecting Barron, Wright and O’Leary; just how? Why did the government own the house? More questions to have answered. I’m not sure if I’m closer to the truth or further from it. Let’s hope Ulysses and Hannah have better luck with their investigating.
My blood is running hot, but it quickly boils over when I remember Ulysses has O’Leary in class today. Oh boy! I think as I text Ulysses to be extra invisible in geometry today. Ulysses is going to be pissed!
CHAPTER 26
- ULYSSES -
GG&W?
I feel sick to my stomach as we leave Penny University. I had just read from the Somerset Daily News that Mr. Wright’s wake will be at his beach house tomorrow afternoon. Thinking of Conrad without his dad reminds me of Mom. I am also over-caffeinated, which doesn’t help. Mrs. Reyes used me as a guinea pig for her new coffee and Frappuccino concoctions. This one was called the Dean's List. All of her coffee concoctions have college-related names, but this one had three shots of Cuban coffee, one cup of whole milk, two scoops of coffee ice cream and strawberries. First thing in the morning, along with a banana nut muffin the size of Ortiz’s head, and I am rolling my way to school. With the added news of the wake, my brain and stomach are swimming during our walk to school.
I often bike to Penny U and then walk the rest of the way with Hannah. In the past, we’d take this walk as friends, but now she’s my girlfriend. These last few days have seemed like an eternity with all that has gone on.
We start our walk to school, and Hannah puts her hand in mine. It is cold; “Cold hands, warm heart,” she says after I inquire as to why they were cold. This causes a huge grin that gives my brain the focus I need to think on how we’d investigate this murder.
“Where should we start?” Hannah asks, knowing what I was thinking. “I searched backwards and forwards on the internet last night for GG&W law firm: nothing!”
“I know; I did, too. It could be made up, or no longer in existence after this many yea
rs. The only reference we’ve seen is in the Gallant online article.”
“And listed as one of Principal Barron’s references,” Hannah adds, finishing my thought.
“Mr. Wright was an attorney. He could be the W, in the GG&W,” I say halfheartedly.
“Maybe!” Hannah says with energetic hope. “We can’t prove it. Maybe we can snoop around at the wake tomorrow?”
I look at her, surprised, as my hand gets hot and sweaty. “You want to snoop around at our friend’s father’s wake?”
“Yeah, just a little. In and out,” she says hesitantly.
“Well, I guess we go where the clues take us,” I say as a tropical autumn breeze brushes against me and Hannah, leaving us refreshed for today's challenges.
We arrive at Mangrove High feeling older and less innocent. We have barely been gone two days from this school, but as we enter its hallways we feel a change, a change felt by everyone from student to faculty. The innocence of our school is gone. We had a murder in our beloved school; maybe nothing would ever be the same.
We see groups of kids in the hallway whispering and glancing over to us. They are probably wondering if Hannah and I know anything they don’t, especially since we found the body.
Hannah looks at me, concerned, as we approach our lockers right next to the entrance where they film the Mangrove High morning news, Manatee Live. It sounds like a nature show on Nat Geo, but it was only Mangrove’s corny attempt at making school news. It’s televised throughout the school on every smartboard and computer screen.
Hannah and I unload the contents of our backpacks in our oversized, turquoise lockers, when out of nowhere the valley girls from hell pop over to check on Hannah: Sarah Flanders and Isabella Cortez, Hannah’s best girlfriends.
