by Tami Hoag
As he shuffled his stuff around, he glanced down the conference table at the teacher. Pretty and petite, she looked late twenties and very serious. She was uncomfortable, arms crossed defensively, pacing a little, frowning. Twice she reached up and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
“You have training in child psychology?” he asked.
She flinched ever so slightly at the sudden sound of his voice. “I took some courses in college. That’s not even close to having a degree.”
“But you know your kids. You can read them pretty well?”
“The school year just started. I’ve known them six weeks.”
“I don’t know them at all. Have you met the parents?”
“At conference time. An hour. One evening.”
“So tell me about . . .” He consulted his notes. “Wendy Morgan. What’s she like?”
That coaxed a little smile out of her—for Wendy, not for him. “Wendy is very self-assured. She has opinions and she won’t hesitate to tell you what they are. She’s the class feminist.”
“She’ll be an easy interview, then. Good. And the mom?”
“Sara. She seems like a very nice woman. Very caring of her daughter. She teaches community ed classes in art.”
“And the father?”
“Nice guy. He’s an attorney. Very busy. He does a lot of pro bono work in family court for the women’s center. I think he even does some lobbying for women’s issues in Sacramento.”
She huffed a quick sigh. “What is it you want me to do here, Detective?”
“Reassure them. Make sure I don’t break out the billy club.”
Anne Navarre scowled at him, unimpressed with his sense of humor. Looking back on it, his fifth-grade teacher hadn’t been impressed with him, either.
“When did you arrive on the scene?” he asked, hitting the Record button on the cassette player.
“The scene was already taped off,” she said. “There were deputies everywhere. Are you taping this?”
“Just making sure the machine is working,” he said, turning the thing off, rewinding, playing back the sound of Anne Navarre’s voice. She sounded highly suspicious of him.
“And where were the kids then?”
“Tommy and Wendy were away from the scene. Dennis Farman was right there, trying to see what was going on. His father was there. You know him, I suppose. Frank Farman.”
“Did any of the kids say they had seen anyone else in the woods?”
“No,” she said. “They talked about a dog.”
“I don’t think a dog buried her there.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be. I was being sarcastic.”
“Nothing about this is funny,” she snapped. “And you weren’t being sarcastic, you were being facetious.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking away from him, crossing and uncrossing her arms. She reached up and tucked that strand of brown hair behind her ear again. “This situation . . . I’m a little rattled.”
“I understand. It’s okay.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She probably didn’t mean for him to see it, but she was wary of him. He got that a lot. Even the most innocent people could become nervous around cops. It went with the territory.
“You’re not a suspect,” he announced.
The eyebrows snapped downward again. “Of course I’m not.”
She sighed again and looked at the ceiling, turning her head as if she was trying to get a kink out of her neck.
“Do you know who she is—was?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“No one has missed her yet. How awful is that?”
The door opened then, and Principal Garnett ushered in a blonde woman and a little girl who was her spitting image in miniature.
9
Wendy walked into the big conference room with its big windows and big table, and felt as if she were getting smaller and smaller. Even though she was way over having to hold hands with her mom, she was glad to be doing so in that moment.
Miss Navarre looked angry at first—she was looking at the man at the end of the table—but then she turned and smiled a little.
“Hi, Wendy. Hi, Mrs. Morgan,” she said. She had dark circles under her eyes, just like Wendy’s mom did. “How are you doing today?”
“I’m okay,” Wendy said. “I’m just weirded out, that’s all.”
“She had bad dreams,” her mother confessed. “So did I.”
“So did I,” Miss Navarre admitted.
“So did I,” said the man at the end of the table. He came around and offered his hand to Wendy’s mom. “I’m Detective Mendez from the sheriff’s office.”
“Sara Morgan.”
“And you’d be Wendy,” he said, offering his hand to her.
Impressed, Wendy shook it. He was very cute. He looked a little like Magnum P.I. with the dark hair and the mustache—only he was shorter, and he probably didn’t drive a red Ferrari or live on a fabulous estate. And he was wearing a coat and tie instead of shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. That was the difference between being a TV star and working in Oak Knoll, she supposed.
“I’m the detective assigned to investigate the case,” he explained as he motioned for everyone to take a seat. “So one of the first things I need to do is ask you and your friends some questions about what happened in the park yesterday. There’s nothing for you to be worried about. You’re not in any trouble.”
“I didn’t do anything to be in trouble for,” Wendy said, taking the chair nearest to the detective at the head of the table. She straightened her acid-washed denim skirt and matching jean jacket, wanting to look appropriately grown-up and hip. Copying the style from a picture of Madonna in a magazine, she had pulled half her thick wavy hair up into a ponytail on top of her head.
“Dennis touched her,” she said. “He should be in trouble for that, right? Touching a dead person. Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“That depends,” the detective said.
“It was all Dennis’s fault,” Wendy said. “If he wasn’t such a psycho and hadn’t been chasing us, we never would have cut through the woods.”
Detective Mendez stopped her to turn on his tape recorder and announce who was in the room.
“Did you see anyone else in the woods, Wendy?” he asked.
“No.”
“No one around the area where the body was?”
“No people, but there was a dog. He came out of the bushes and it was like he was guarding her or something.”
“What kind of a dog?”
“The scary kind with big teeth and beady eyes. You know.”
“A pit bull?”
“Maybe. But he didn’t attack us,” she hastened to add. “He just growled like he was telling us to stay away from the lady. Dennis said maybe the dog killed her and buried her like a bone, but that’s stupid—right?”
Her mother spoke up then. “She tells me that they didn’t touch the dog—”
“We didn’t!” Wendy insisted, mortified that her mother would bring this up again. Who cared if they touched the stupid dog?
“So it was just the three of you that found the body.”
“Four. Me and Tommy, and Dennis and Cody.”
“Cody was there too?” Miss Navarre asked.
“Who’s Cody?” the detective asked.
“Cody Roache,” Miss Navarre said. “I thought of him last night. He’s usually wherever Dennis Farman is, but he wasn’t in the park when I got there.”
“Because he screamed like a baby and ran away,” Wendy said with a certain amount of disgust. “The deputies came because of him.”
The detective looked at Miss Navarre. “I’ll need to speak to him as well.”
“Have you found out who the woman was?” Wendy’s mother asked.
“Not yet.”
“This is so awful. Nothing like this ever happens here.�
�
“The dog knows who she is,” Wendy said.
“Wendy,” her mother said impatiently, “enough about the dog.”
Mendez held his hand up to stop her talking, but his eyes were on Wendy.
“Did the dog have a collar on?”
Wendy shrugged. “I don’t remember. He had big teeth. I remember that.”
“What color was the dog?”
“White with big black splotches.” She turned and gave her mother her best so-there look, then turned back to the detective. “He was black all around one eye and ear.”
Detective Mendez scribbled that all down in his notebook. Obviously, these were very important clues.
“Could this really be important?” Wendy’s mother asked.
“If we can find the dog, and the dog has tags, maybe the dog belonged to the victim and we can find out who she was through the registration with the city,” Detective Mendez explained. “It’s probably a long shot, but you never know.”
“You’ve been a big help, Wendy,” Miss Navarre said. “It’s a good thing you’re so observant.”
“Thank you, Miss Navarre,” Wendy said, beaming. Detective Mendez reached out his hand to her again. “Thanks, Wendy. If you remember anything else, you can have your mother or Miss Navarre call me.”
Wendy had never felt quite so important. This was just like being in a Nancy Drew mystery. Maybe she would write this story herself and become famous. Maybe Tommy would want to be in on it with her. Now that the idea had come to her, she couldn’t wait to ask him.
Miss Navarre led the way out the side door to the dark, quiet hall, a place that called for whispers.
“I’m still not sure what we’re going to do about counseling,” her mother whispered to Miss Navarre.
Wendy intervened. “Mom, I’m fine. I saw a dead person. I’m not warped for life.”
“No, I am,” her mother said. “Maybe I’m the one that needs counseling.”
“Everyone is shaken up,” Miss Navarre said. “But if Wendy feels all right to come back to class, then that’s probably what she should do.”
“Yeah, Mom, don’t make such a big deal.”
Miss Navarre turned to her then. “It is a big deal, Wendy. So if you’re in class and find yourself suddenly feeling scared or upset, you have to promise you’ll tell me right away.”
“I will. I promise,” Wendy said and looked up eagerly at her mother, who was clearly not convinced.
“I’ll keep a close eye on her,” Miss Navarre promised.
“All right,” Wendy’s mother said grudgingly. She looked down at Wendy, worried. “But you do exactly what Miss Navarre just told you, and under no circumstances are you to walk home. I will be here to pick you up.”
So much for revisiting the scene of the crime so she could make notes about the setting for her story, Wendy thought. Oh well. It wasn’t like she was ever going to forget what had happened.
That was for sure.
She couldn’t wait to talk to Tommy.
10
Jane Thomas always began her day in the garden. This was her quiet time to think and reflect. Working in the garden was her version of meditation and the closest she would ever come to actually stilling her always-busy mind.
Even though she had gotten in late, driving up from LA after a long day of meetings, she had still managed to rise before most of Oak Knoll. The sky was that perfect electric blue of fall, the temperature comfortably in the low seventies. She made her way along the row, deadheading roses while Violet, her black pug, patrolled for mice among the overgrown patch of purple cone flowers.
Jane loved her home in Oak Knoll. She had purchased the 1928 Spanish hacienda-style house nearly five years before, after she had divorced her husband and Los Angeles. Oak Knoll had always attracted her with its interesting mix of people and small-town feel. The college gave it the sophistication of academia and the vibrancy of youth. Its proximity to Santa Barbara and to the northern parts of the LA sprawl made it a doable commute for young professionals with young families, promising a future. All of Oak Knoll’s attributes made it a desirable place for retirees with money, bringing affluence and support for the arts.
The college boasted a well-respected music program that attracted talented musicians and singers, both as students and teachers. Every summer Oak Knoll was home to a renowned festival of classical music.
Even though Jane still kept a condo in LA, Oak Knoll was her true home and the Oak Knoll Thomas Center for Women was her focus.
The Oak Knoll center was a scaled-down version of the original Thomas Center in Los Angeles. The centers, brainchild of Jane and her two sisters and started with money from the Thomas family philanthropic trust, were places for women to reinvent themselves.
The clientele was made up of women from all walks of life, women who needed and deserved a second chance. Homeless women, battered women, women with drug histories or police records—all were welcomed and not judged. Each center offered shelter to those who needed it, assistance with health care, psychological and job counseling, and the makeovers of wardrobe and self that would send them out into the job market with confidence and newfound self-esteem.
The Thomas girls had been raised on the ideal of giving back to the community and helping the less fortunate. Forty-one, Jane had found success in the business world and was a well-known patron of the arts. She sat on the boards of several nationally significant charities, but the Thomas Centers for Women were her pride and joy.
Through the open back door of her house she could hear the phone ringing for the third time in an hour. She never took calls during her gardening time, everyone who knew her knew that. But three calls in an hour made it seem like someone was desperate to get hold of her, and a strange uneasy feeling moved through her.
Her parents were both alive and well, but that didn’t mean something couldn’t happen to them. Her sister Amy was vacationing on a ranch in Idaho. She could have fallen from a horse or been attacked by a bear while hiking.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jane muttered to herself, but she was moving toward the house and pulling off her gloves as she said it.
The answering machine had picked up by the time she walked through the kitchen to her antique desk in the front room. Angry red numbers flashed seven messages unheard. She hadn’t taken the time to listen to the four that had been there the night before. She had been tired and had gone straight to her room for a bath, bed, and a chapter of Sense and Sensibility.
The first message was from her assistant at the center, Tuesday, 10:34 A.M.
“Hi, Jane. Sorry to bother you, but Quinn, Morgan and Associates called to say that Karly Vickers was a no-show this morning. Today was supposed to be her first day on the job. I thought you’d want to know.”
Second message: Tuesday at 3:23 P.M.
“Miss Thomas, this is Boyd Ellery from The Nature Conservancy. Could you please give me a call when you have a chance. I want to run something past you with regards to the benefit.”
Third message: Tuesday, 5:14 P.M.
“Jane, it’s me again. I’ve been trying to contact Karly, and she doesn’t answer her phone. I’m going to drop by her house on my way home and make sure she’s all right.”
Fourth message: Tuesday, 7:11 P.M. “It’s me again. I’m at Karly’s. She’s not here. I don’t know what to think.”
Fifth message: Wednesday, 7:27 A.M. Her assistant again. She sounded tired and nervous.
“Jane, I don’t know what time you got in last night. Did you see the news? Call me.”
Sixth message: Wednesday, 7:39 A.M.
“Jane, it’s Mom. We haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. We just saw the news. Please call and let us know you’re all right.”
The news. What news? Why wouldn’t she be all right?
Seventh message: Wednesday, 7:52 A.M. Her assistant again.
“Jane, there’s been a murder. Answer your damn phone. I have a terrible feeling it might b
e Karly.”
11
Tommy hadn’t slept very much at all. Every time he had started to fall asleep, he had jerked himself awake, afraid of the dreams he knew would come. But every time his father or mother would come to check on him—which they did several times—he would pretend to be sound asleep.
He had gotten up as soon as it started getting light outside and started the homework he hadn’t done the night before. He didn’t know what the day would bring. Maybe he would be taken to a doctor or a psychiatrist, or maybe the police would take him in for questioning. The thing he most wanted to do was go to school and carry on as if the day before had never happened. As if.
Now he sat in the school office, waiting, his mother on one side, his father on the other. The secretaries kept looking over at him, then exchanging glances. He felt like a freak in the circus. Murder Boy.
He sighed and shifted on his chair. His father put his hand on his shoulder and gave a little squeeze. His mother got up and went to the counter to ask the secretary how long it would be.
“Are you nervous?” his father asked.
Tommy shrugged.
“All you have to do is tell the detective what happened and what you saw.”
Tommy said nothing. He stared at the doorway that led into the hall where the principal’s office and the conference room were, willing Wendy to come out and give him some kind of signal.
He heard a door open, but it wasn’t Wendy who emerged from the hall. It was a dark-haired man in a coat and tie, and he looked right at Tommy, then at his dad.
“Dr. Crane?”
“Yes,” his father said, rising.
His mother turned away from the secretary and stepped forward with her hand outstretched and her smile wide. “Janet Crane.”
“I’m Detective Mendez.” The detective greeted his parents only briefly, then focused on Tommy, bending over and offering his hand. “Hey, Tommy. How you doin’?”
Tommy shrugged and slid off his chair, sticking his hands in his pants pockets. Adults always thought they could impress kids by pretending to treat them like they weren’t kids.
