by Mary Maxwell
“I should hope so!” Sarah said with a sparkly smile. “I can barely boil an egg, so I’m always blown away by anyone who can create such beautiful works of art out of sugar and flour and all the rest.”
After thanking her again for the kind words, I asked if I could dive into the reason for my visit.
“That would probably be a good idea,” she said, checking the time on her phone. “I’m meeting with the parents of one of our least cooperative students in an hour. I need to prepare for that little tête-à-tête because they’re convinced all of the problems are the school’s fault.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I said. “I really have what I hope will be a simple request. I’m looking for school records for a group of kids that were here about forty-five years ago. They were pretty tight, as I understand it; sort of an elite clique known for bullying students that were shy loners or misfits.”
Sarah’s bubbly grin softened. “Isn’t it heartbreaking,” she said, “that society makes so much progress over the years, but those kinds of kids are always part of the world?”
“Have been forever, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “Most definitely. But it still seems so unfortunate. Besides grouchy parents and budgets, those types of children are my greatest challenge as principal.”
“You wouldn’t know it,” I said. “Whenever someone talks about their kids being a student here, they praise you as a stable influence and a patient listener.”
“Well, I love to see them grow and thrive,” she said. “And speaking of kids, can you tell me the names of the individuals again?”
“Lawton Gleave, Dixie Corcoran, Natalie Packwood and Walker Oldham,” I said. “They would all be around sixty years old, give or take a few months, so they would’ve been in class together or possibly one year ahead or behind.”
“So forty-five years ago,” she said, flipping through a calendar on her desk, “would’ve been…the mid-1970s. Does that sound about right?”
“Yes,” I said. “So they would’ve been into ABBA and Steely Dan, Young Frankenstein and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
Sarah cringed. “Oh, I hate that movie! My high school boyfriend wanted me to watch it once. I lasted about twenty minutes.”
“I’m right there with you,” I said.
She glanced at the names that she’d written on a pad.
“So these four students were known as bullies?” she said. “I believe that’s what Detective Kincaid mentioned.”
I nodded.
“Where did you all get that information?” she asked.
“Well, without getting into too much detail,” I said, “there’s a possibility that they’re tangentially connected to a crime that happened here in town earlier in the week.”
“Really? What crime?”
“Did you know Walker Oldham?” I asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I’ve heard the name, but never met the man.”
“He died under suspicious circumstances, and so—”
“Oh! The man who was murdered in his office?”
“That’s him,” I said.
“Sorry, Katie,” she said. “I just didn’t make the connection. Someone on our staff told me about the murder the day after it happened. She was Mr. Oldham’s neighbor for a few years until she and her husband bought a place outside of town.”
“Could I get her name?” I asked.
“Hannah Olsen,” Sarah replied. “She’s only here part-time though, Tuesday through Thursday in the afternoon.”
“Okay, got it. I may want to talk to her at some point. Would you mind letting her know?”
“I’ll be happy to,” Sarah said. “I didn’t get the impression that she and her husband were close to Mr. and Mrs. Oldham, but I’ll definitely mention it to her.” She scribbled something on the notepad. “Besides those student records, is there anything else I might help with?”
“That’s it really,” I said. “If we can get a look at those records and transcripts, it might be helpful.”
She shrugged. “There are still a couple of issues that I’ll need to look into before I can release anything,” she explained. “Like medical or financial information, the Crescent Creek School District takes student confidentiality very seriously.”
“Even if the student is deceased?” I asked.
Sarah smiled. “I wish I could answer that,” she said. “But I’ve never had anyone ask for records that old, so I want to check with our legal counsel before I take any steps to locate the files.”
“How long do you keep the records?” I asked.
“That actually varies,” she answered. “It’s at the district’s discretion; some destroy files after twenty years, others keep them permanently. Now that everything can be digitized, it’s much easier to do than in the past. If you’re talking about boxes and boxes of physical paper files, you can see why a district would choose to destroy documentation after a certain period of time.”
“What about this district?” I asked. “Is everything digitized?”
She sighed. “Wouldn’t that be lovely? It’s a long story. You know, funding and disputes between board members and historical precedents. But the short answer is this: Nearly all of our files after 1985 are now on hard drives that are stored and maintained by an outside vendor that works with our Information Technology Department. Anything before that date is in good, old-fashioned cardboard boxes at a warehouse in the Doniphan Industrial Park.”
CHAPTER 15
My mother called at four o’clock the next afternoon while Julia and I were in the Sky High kitchen, working on a large order of Banana Oat Bars that we were donating to Crescent Creek Community Food Pantry for their annual fundraiser. One of the organization’s board members was coming by at five to pickup the goodies, so we were hustling to decorate the last two dozen with Sky High Glistening Glaze, edible jumbo heart sprinkles and gold glitter flakes.
“How’s your day going?” I asked.
“Better now that I hear your sweet voice,” my mother said.
I laughed. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since our last conversation. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m feeling on top of the world, dear. I had my physical this morning with Dr. Franklin. She proclaimed me fit as a fiddle.”
“Did she use actually use that phrase?” I asked.
My mother snapped her chewing gum. “She most certainly did. Because it’s true. I’m fit as a fiddle, Katie.”
“Well, that’s really good to hear. How about dad?”
“Pretty much the same,” she replied. “He needs to drop another five pounds to get to his ideal weight.”
“That should be easy enough, right?”
“If I can keep him away from Binky Wabash’s peanut butter fudge,” she quipped.
“I don’t know that name,” I said. “Is she someone new in the complex?”
“No, no,” my mother said. “She has a little café a couple of miles from the condo. It’s not as cute as Sky High, of course, but one of her specialties is handmade candy. There’s always a little tray by the register with peanut butter fudge samples. Your father absolutely attacks it when he’s paying the check. I mean, four or five pieces each time, and we go there at least twice a week. You do the math, honey. That’s a lot of needless calories.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t we all deserve to indulge now and then?”
She laughed. “That’s exactly what your father says. And you’re both right; indulging every so often is a good thing.”
“And when you’re talking about fudge,” I said, “who can resist?”
“Well, I can,” my mother replied. “It’s mind over matter, dear. But I didn’t call about that. I talked to Trish this morning, and she told me that Natalie Packwood had been receiving strange phone calls in the weeks before her death.”
Neither Dina Kincaid nor Tyler Armstrong had mentioned the calls, so I asked my mother if she was talking about Patricia Crandall,
a pediatrician in Crescent Creek that she’d known since Dr. Crandall and her husband moved to town when I was living in Chicago.
“Well, of course!” she said, sounding a little annoyed. “Have you ever heard me mention anyone else named Trish.”
“Just want to make sure I know who you’re talking about,” I said. “I didn’t know if maybe you were referring to someone that you met down in Florida.”
“Well, how would that Trish know about Natalie in Colorado?”
“Never mind,” I said. “What all did Dr. Crandall tell you?”
“Well, you know that she and Aaron lived a couple of doors down from Natalie and her husband before they moved to California,” my mother said. “She and Trish kept in touch after the Natalie left town. It was mostly phone calls and emails, but they also met in different places for a long weekend at least once a year.
“Anyway, Natalie had been reaching out to Trish much more often during the last couple of months. It took a conversation or two before Natalie confessed that she was feeling a little anxious because a strange man with a foul mouth had been calling her every few days to say that her life was at risk.”
“Did Natalie call the police about the threats?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, she did not,” my mother answered. “She was obviously unnerved by them, but I guess she figured it was a prank of some sort.”
“A prank? Who would find it amusing to make threatening phone calls?”
“I’m sure plenty of nuts do,” she said. “The world is home to a lot of crazy people, Katie. Some get great pleasure making other folks feel fear or terror.”
“Did Natalie give any indication to Dr. Crandall that she knew who was making the calls?”
“No. Trish asked her directly, but Natalie claimed to have no idea. It was a man, by the way. Did I mention that?”
“You did,” I said. “But that makes it doubly odd that Natalie didn’t call the police. It seems strange that she was bothered enough by the anonymous calls to tell Dr. Crandall, but not enough to get the police involved.”
“I don’t know what to say, dear. Trish told me that she urged Natalie to let the authorities know, but she never did.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Maybe Natalie did call the police, but didn’t tell Trish for some reason.”
“She ever called,” my mother said. “According to Trish, when she called the police in Sacramento to let them know about the threats after Natalie had been killed, they confirmed that she’d never reported any threatening phone calls.”
“Do you know if they checked her phone records?”
“I don’t know that for a fact,” my mother answered. “But I know someone who could.”
“And who might that be?” I asked, anticipating what she was thinking. “Besides the police in Sacramento?”
My mother groaned. “Just like your father!” she said. “I get everything set up for the big reveal and you beat me to the punch. I was talking about your friends with the CCPD, silly—Deputy Chief Walsh or one of the detectives! Couldn’t they call the cops in Sacramento and get the scoop on the threatening calls to Natalie?”
“I bet they could,” I said, sensing that it would be better not to argue the point with my mother. “And I’m sure they’ll be grateful that you called to pass along the tip.”
CHAPTER 16
Late that night, after Zack went back to his place and I indulged myself in a bubble bath that left me smelling like lemon and coconut, I crawled into bed with my laptop, a cup of hot chocolate and an iced sugar cookie.
There were eighty-four new emails, but my eyes went instantly to one in the middle of the pack. It was from Sarah Westbrook at Crescent Creek Middle School, and I had to open it first because of the subject line: Do you hate lawsuits as much as me?
My instant reaction: Who said anything about lawsuits? I was trying to learn about a quartet of students from forty years in the past.
I drank some hot chocolate and nibbled on the cookie, trying to interpret the curious question before I opened the message. After only one conversation with Sarah, I didn’t really know her at all. But I had detected a lively sense of humor when we talked in her office.
Could she be joking? Did she accidentally send me an email meant for someone else? Should I close the laptop and wait until morning?
Since that would be impossible and I was more relaxed than sleepy, I double clicked the subject line and waited for Sarah’s message to fill the screen:
Dear Katie:
As promised, I looked into the transcripts and supporting documentation for the four students you mentioned. Since records for Crescent Creek Middle School fall under the jurisdiction of our Superintendent of the County School System, I reached out to Tom Dorning for his guidance regarding your request. Unfortunately, he refused to grant permission to forward the official transcripts to you. If the Crescent Creek Police Department remains interested, they are welcome to submit a subpoena to Mr. Dorning at the Crescent Creek County Board of Education.
I’d really hoped to avoid this outcome, Katie. As the principal of Crescent Creek Middle School, one of my priorities is protecting everyone that enters our campus as either a student or a visitor. As a mother, I strive to protect my children and their friends. And as a member of the community, it pains me to learn about any child being bullied, whether in this moment or at any point in the past.
After we talked, I reflected on some of the more recent episodes of bullying in our school. Despite our efforts to educate and enlighten both students and parents, these unfortunate and unacceptable incidents continue to occur, although I am pleased to say they are much less frequent than in the past few years.
In fact, as I reviewed the transcripts and files for the four students on your list, I was appalled to see how often incidents of bullying, taunting and outright violence took place in our school forty-five years ago.
For example, there was one episode that included one or more of the students you mentioned. (Since I am not specifying any of the alleged bullies by name, I feel comfortable describing this to you.) The victim was a student named Zoey Sutton. If that sounds familiar, it may be due to the fact that she was in the news last year after taking her own life. A note found with her body referenced the trauma that Zoey endured during her years in school here in Crescent Creek as well as the decades that followed. Zoey’s message also mentioned the same four students that you wanted to learn about.
To some, this may be happenstance. But I don’t believe in coincidences, Katie. After I read the contents of Zoey Sutton’s file, I felt that I must share some of the information with you, despite the official district policy. It feels like all the shame and hurt and suffering that led to her death began when she was bullied by those four students (and, quite possibly, others) during their years at Crescent Creek Middle School.
I will continue to lobby Mr. Dorning on behalf of Zoey Sutton and the many other young people who were bullied while they were students here. If he relents and agrees to let me provide you with copies of the four transcripts, I will be in touch immediately. If he refuses, the alternative would be the subpoena from the CCPD.
Thank you again,
Sarah Westbrook
Crescent Creek Middle School
CHAPTER 17
“There’s something weird in the mail for you,” Harper said, flipping through the stack of envelopes that arrived the next day. “Do you have a new pen pal that smokes cigarettes and eats Flamin’ Hot Doritos?”
I looked up from the spreadsheet that I’d been working on for the past hour. It was nearly four o’clock. After an especially grueling lunch service and a dozen special orders, I was ready for a bubble bath, a glass of chardonnay and a few episodes of Worst Cooks in America.
“Did you smell it?” I asked.
She made a face. “Not on purpose. The thing reeks so much that you can’t help but notice the stench.”
Harper held up a white envelope. The front contained my firs
t initial and last name, the Sky High Pies address and a series of orange smudges.
“What’s in the upper left corner?” I asked.
She glanced at the envelope again.
“Looks like the initials DC plus 1450 Foxglove Court,” she said. “The cancellation is pretty faint, but I think it’s for Briarfield.”
“Okay,” I replied. “I’ll open it as soon as I finish this cost analysis.”
“Is that the one for Charlie Kaplan’s office party?”
I nodded. “I love the guy, but he’s driving me crazy with all of the changes. He’s switched almost everything three or four times, always choosing more expensive ingredients and expecting the cost-per-person to stay the same or go down a little.”
“Typical.” Harper rolled her eyes. “He and Bonnie did the same thing to the carpenter when they remodeled their house last summer. It ended up costing them a couple of friendships, but they’ve got a gorgeous showplace now.”
“So it’s in his blood?” I asked.
“Seems like it to me,” Harper said, dropping the bundle of mail on the desk before positioning the unusual envelope on top of the stack.
“Oh, jeez,” I said, catching a whiff of the stale cigarette odor. “I see what you mean about the smell.”
“Maybe you should open that one outside,” she suggested. “Want me to put it on the back deck?”
“No, that’s okay.” I plucked the stained envelope from the top of the pile. “I’ll deal with it now so I can fumigate the office later. It’s probably a complaint from disgruntled customers.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Harper asked. “In case it’s about my bad service in the dining room?”
“No, I’m okay. And I doubt if that would be the reason for the letter. You and bad service have never appeared in the same sentence yet. I don’t expect that to change any time soon.”
After a cheery giggle and a delighted smile, Harper left me alone with the smelly envelope and a spreadsheet that I feared would push me over the edge into complete madness.
