by Ada Madison
Doug Richardson was waiting for me at a table against the wall and perilously close to the large tropical fish tank. I questioned the Inn decorator’s choice to display the tiny striped and patterned fish at a venue that served up their larger, plainer cousins on steaming platters.
The principal stood as I approached. He gave me a hesitant, uneasy smile and ran his hand over his full head of white hair, smoothing it. He checked his tie and dropped his napkin, as nervous as if we were on a blind date and he was worried I wouldn’t like him.
“Sophie,” he said, extending his hand.
I greeted him, noticing that today’s suit, a navy pinstripe, fit much better across his middle. Had I rated a new outfit? It felt strange to be in a situation where the principal of a school seemed to be trying to make a good impression on me. I, on the other hand, made no attempt to apologize for my lackluster mourning outfit. I had to admit I was enjoying the dynamic. I had too many memories of being on the opposite end of the principal-student scenario as I’d made my way from K through 12. I had to keep reminding myself that I was now the same age as a school principal, probably within a year or two of the one sitting opposite me.
We went through the small-talk ritual of traffic (heavy with the lunchtime crowd), weather (Beautiful, isn’t it?), and ordering (crab salad for both of us, iced coffee for me, merlot for him).
One sip of wine later, Doug was ready to jump in.
“I’d like to explain a little about why I called you.” I flashed an agreeable, expectant smile. “I realized in retrospect that you might have wanted something from me yesterday, and I rudely rushed by you.”
Another first. A school principal was apologizing for not paying attention to me. I was sure Doug wasn’t springing for a four-star meal so I’d forgive him for not hanging around to tend to my needs yesterday. I smiled again, sipped my refreshing iced coffee, and waited him out.
“This is a little awkward,” he said.
The better part of me won out and I decided to help him through the ordeal. “You mentioned that you needed to talk to me about something,” I said. Then the worst part of me took over. I wasn’t perfect. “Was it about the argument between you and Superintendent Collins that I overheard?”
Doug blanched, apparently buying into my suggestion that I knew what the fight was about. I realized I had no idea if Doug knew the superintendent was in custody. I wished I could call Kira or Bruce, the most informed friends I had, to find out if Collins had been charged or released or neither.
“Pat and I, we have our differences. He was never on the front lines. He’s been a bureaucrat all his life, with no idea what it’s like to wrestle with the day-to-day operation of a school.” Doug leaned toward me. “Sophie, may I tell you a little about charter schools?”
“Certainly,” I said, in spite of feeling I knew enough about them already. It was only fair to let Richardson have his day in my court. I could definitely say that charter schools were more important to me than waste handling, although I might not stick to that position if disposal services were suspended for any length of time.
Understandably, Doug began with all the positives about the charter school model—more hands-on learning, students on all levels working together on ungraded projects, internships for older children in the business track.
“Did you know that our students manage small businesses right at Zeeman Academy? They run the snack bar at the back of the cafeteria, buying and selling the cookies and drinks and handling the money. Another group runs a car wash in the parking lot on Saturdays. Our drama group puts on plays for the community and donates proceeds to emergency relief all over the world. How many regular schools”—here Doug made quote marks in the air—“even know what’s going on in the world outside their little soccer teams?”
“But that’s not what you and Superintendent Collins were arguing about, is it?” I tried not to sound too smug, lest Doug call my bluff.
“We’re always arguing. It’s not a new battle. Do you know how Zeeman is funded?”
“I got a taste of it from a couple of teachers,” I said. “I know it comes from everywhere and nowhere.”
Doug shot me with his index finger. I took it as confirmation of my assessment. “Most of our teachers buy supplies with money out of their own pockets. They’ll do anything to help improve the performance of our students. Theoretically, federal grant money is available to charters to implement turnaround plans for underperforming schools. But good luck getting the funds unless your school qualifies with good test scores.”
I nodded at a familiar catch-22. “You have to be performing well to get money to improve your performance.”
Doug slapped the table, lightly, in deference to those around us, I surmised. The Inn was much less crowded than it had been on graduation night, the music more mellow and suited to the office crowd I picked out. “You got it. Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it? The state can close the school if we don’t reach certain grade levels. They could do something to help, but they don’t; they just keep making recommendations. And threats. Lots of threats.”
“So you have to make the numbers look good,” I coached.
Doug nodded, seeming pleased that I was following his winding argument toward exoneration. “Take the student-teacher ratio. You’re going to read that Zeeman has a ratio of twelve to one. That’s what I submitted. But that’s because we include every teaching assistant, every college intern, and every parent who spends time with our students.”
“And me?” I asked.
Doug blushed. “And you.”
“What’s the real number?”
“More like twenty-three to one, and with cuts next year, it will be up to twenty-six to one.”
I wouldn’t have guessed that more than grade inflation was involved in the fraud. There was the teacher-student ratio, and probably a host of other line items on the school’s report card.
By now, I could write my own blog on the perils of charter schools. Time to dig deeper. I waited until the servers departed, leaving behind overflowing salad bowls, a new basket of warm bread and butter, and a refill of drinks. It was hard to concentrate amid such luxury.
“Neither Superintendent Collins nor Mayor Graves saw your predicament, did they?” I asked, counting on the fact that Kira was right about her Edward.
Doug inhaled deeply and let out a long breath. “I won’t belabor the issue of whether tweaking the grades is the answer to the problem. I never saw it as a long-term solution, but at the moment I see no other way to save the school and I don’t regret my decision. I know you talked to Dan and Rina, and…uh…well, that’s that, and I don’t know what your plans are for spreading the word, but…” He threw up his hands, a gesture I took as both a question and a plea not to turn him in.
I gave Doug points for creativity in describing his crime as tweaking the grades. I did what I always do when I’m unsure of how to respond. I stalled.
“I didn’t mean to upset Rina and Dan, or pry into school matters,” I said. “I’m simply eager to see Mayor Graves’s murderer behind bars.”
Doug dropped his fork and sat back, seeming genuinely surprised. “And you think we have something to do with Ed’s murder? Me? My teachers?”
I gave him a look, neither yes nor no. “What did the mayor think of your tweaking?”
“He was no more sympathetic than Pat.” Doug leaned in toward me. “What do you know about the mayor, Sophie?”
The truth? Not much while he was alive.
Had he been worthy of Kira’s admiration and affection? That had to be put in perspective, given Kira’s personality and nearly cloistered upbringing. I knew what Monty told me—that the mayor, who was a husband and a father, was seeing Monty’s sister and had just dumped her, taking a large sum of her money with him. But, again, that was someone else’s—Monty’s—perspective. The only other thing I knew was that he’d wanted the W. Thomas Company to take out his trash for the next ten years.
“Why don�
�t you tell me about him?” I asked Doug.
“Ed Graves is dead, and in a very violent, ugly way. So, it’s tough to talk about him objectively. You know how we canonize people once they’re gone.” I nodded agreement. “He wanted truth and honesty when it came to some things, but he had his hand out when it came to his own pockets.”
“His hand out, as in, he could be bought off? Can you be more specific?”
Doug used another bite of bread and butter as cover for preparing his answer. I was familiar with the trick.
“You’ve read about the waste management contract dispute?”
I nodded, feeling confident since my Internet search.
“There’s a reason Graves wanted the work to go to Thomas, and it wasn’t because their containers are prettier.”
“Your only beef with Mayor Graves was that he might have been taking a payoff for a contract award?” I asked.
Doug looked sheepish. “Okay, he also threatened to report me to the district. It would have meant my job. Now here you are taking his place.”
“You think I’m going to report you?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and bit his lip. “I thought I might be able to give you my side of the story. I have a wife, a family.”
I never understood why that would matter. Were married parents to be excused just on that basis while single, childless people could be put in jail willy-nilly? I let Doug go on without querying him on that matter.
“I know you’re on friendly terms with the HPD,” Doug added.
Why was I not surprised? If I were a less self-confident person, I’d be bemoaning the fact that my chief value as a friend or colleague was that I was on a first-name basis with an HPD homicide detective.
I thought of recommending that Doug speak to Kira or Bruce, who were much better sources of insider information at the moment, seeming to be on the front lines of communication with the HPD. Instead I ignored the remark and asked my own question.
“What about Superintendent Collins? Is he about to report you?” From his jail cell, I might have added.
“I’ve taken care of that. He no longer has credibility.”
I frowned, concentrating. Bruce had mentioned that the HPD had acted on information from an anonymous source. Was I sharing a basket of bread with the tipster? A murderer?
Before I could relax enough to work out the chain of events, picturing Collins and Richardson pointing fingers at each other, a hubbub at the front of the restaurant caught my attention, and that of all the diners.
Two uniformed police officers became the main attraction in the dining room through their large and bulky presence. But it was the plainclothes detective in front of them who set my head buzzing. Virgil Mitchell had entered the building.
They were headed for our table. For me? Of course not. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Doug, who’d had his back to door, was now turned one-eighty. He stood and dropped his napkin on the table. The two uniforms hung back, there for backup, in case the person of interest put up a fuss, I figured. One of them hung his head, not looking at the person of interest. Maybe he was a former student and couldn’t bear to arrest his principal?
I had to admire Doug’s response, one befitting an educator and administrator. He must have assumed, though incorrectly, that I’d summoned Virgil, but he still spared me any embarrassment by walking toward the police contingent.
I couldn’t hear the words exchanged as the four men left the restaurant. Had the cops read Doug his rights? Or simply asked him to accompany them downtown?
Doug Richardson had surrendered himself—I wished I knew to what—causing a minimum of disruption to the upscale diners.
All eyes then turned to me. An accomplice? The moll? I wouldn’t have minded so much what anyone thought if I hadn’t also been left with the check.
I wanted badly to drive straight home. I needed a shower. From the weather, which now bordered on hot, and from the heated activities of the day, beginning with a tricky negotiation with Elysse, and on to the ambush by Monty, and then a lunch date with an unhappy ending, all cushioned only by a memorial service stuck in between.
But I also needed groceries for the dinner I’d offered Bruce. With so much mental confusion to sort out, the idea of dealing with anything as mundane as pasta and vegetables was frustrating, but a promise was a promise.
As I drove toward the small market near my home, my mind was busy making connections and putting things in order. Why would the police be involved in what should have been a school board matter—unless they saw a motive for murder in Doug’s fraudulent reports to his funding sources?
I revisited my suspect list, drawing lines and arrows on the imaginary whiteboard that seemed to live in my head. I labeled my work the “CGR Theory,” for Collins, Graves, and Richardson, with a corollary of “MCS,” for Monty and Chris Sizemore. Having specific unknowns always made an equation or algorithm seem simpler.
I thought of the ring of crimes I’d constructed from Kira’s information what seemed like weeks ago, but was really only over the past couple of days. I played out my theory, adding the meager details I’d gleaned today. It was a simple matter of combinations and permutations.
C and G point to R: Superintendent Collins and Mayor Graves learn about Richardson’s fraud and threaten to expose him. At the same time, R and C point to G: Richardson and Collins are aware that Graves has shady dealings to conceal vis-à-vis waste management. And finally, G and R point to C: Graves and Richardson know something about Collins that gets him taken into custody.
Maybe not a simple matter, after all.
Either Collins or Richardson takes care of Graves by killing him; Richardson takes care of Collins by calling in a tip about—what?—something that gets Collins arrested so the police won’t believe him if he tattles on Doug.
Too many loose ends.
First, it seemed the police did believe Collins, since they came for Doug. Second, why would Doug kill the mayor but take such a risk with Collins? Why not kill him, too? Third, if Collins and Graves both wanted to squeal on Doug, what were they arguing about at the reception before commencement and why did Collins follow Graves into Franklin Hall?
I despaired of fitting Monty and Chris Sizemore into this circle; they each had their own motives, ranging from unrequited love to Henley’s trash pickup.
If I’d been at a real whiteboard I’d have taken up a red dry-erase marker and x-ed out the theory. Maybe someone entirely outside the circle was taking care of the great men of Henley.
I was certainly behind the curve in helping catch any wrongdoer associated with the mayor’s case. Maybe it wasn’t my job to solve the puzzle in the first place. What a concept. Bruce and Virgil would be proud of me for thinking of it.
I arrived at the market parking lot, wondering how I’d gotten there. Very bad. I had to stop losing focus on what was in front of me, like the road.
It would help my focus if I knew whether all three—Collins, Doug, and Chris—were being held at the police station. I had the crazy thought that if I could talk to them, I could figure out which one was a murderer.
I pulled out my phone and called Bruce, who should be awake at one in the afternoon.
“Hey,” he said, sleepy voiced. It was a sign of my current frenetic state that I felt little sympathy. “Are you cooking?”
“Something like that. I’m in the lot at Al’s Market. Anything special I should pick up for tonight?”
“I assumed pasta primavera, salad, good bread? Ice cream. I can get that. Mmm, I can almost taste it.”
“That’s still the menu but I thought there might be a special veggie or—”
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“You want to know what’s up at HPD?”
Busted. “Well, it’s either you or Kira.”
Bruce laughed. “Zucchini.”
“What?”
“I’d like some zucchini in the primavera.”
�
�Bruce.” My tone was as serious as I could ever make it when Bruce was in a joking mood. I was also a little envious at how he could go from sleepy to funny in a matter of seconds.
“Okay, give me a minute.”
I waited a very long minute for Bruce to return.
“Soph?”
“I’m here.”
“Here’s the latest. Doug Richardson—your lunch date—just arrived at the station a few minutes ago. Don’t know why. Probably the grade fraud you’ve been talking about.”
That much I knew. “Did you tell Virgil where to find him? That I was having lunch with him at the Inn?”
“My lawyer advises no comment.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Go on. Is Collins still at HPD?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. Pat Collins, you wouldn’t believe. They’re getting ready to indict him for embezzling city funds to the tune of a quarter million dollars. That anonymous tip I told you about sent the cops to a storage locker in Hopedale, rented under another name. Looks like Collins has been buying personal items with Henley money and also buying and selling stuff on eBay for a couple of years.”
I opened my window for air, warm and humid though it was. It would take a while to process the picture of Superintendent Collins sneaking around the city’s books, siphoning off funds for himself. I wondered if the image I was constructing should include a snapshot of him tossing a brick through my patio door, though I couldn’t imagine why.
I found it hard to imagine a person leading a double life. I hardly had time for a single one. Besides, it always amazed me when high-profile people took the risks they did, especially when punishable offenses loomed on the horizon. Did big shots think they were above it all, that their infractions would go unnoticed? Didn’t they realize they had a better chance of getting caught than low-profile people, like college professors?
Which reminded me. “Are they still holding Chris Sizemore?”
