I don’t know where Joseph Beardsley is at this point in time. I also don’t know what his feelings are about his daughter Abigail attending public school.
Matt and I had mulled all this over this morning and Matt left a message for one of our apprentices—Marvin Luis Lewis--to take on the task of finding him in case the issue over her education went in the really bad direction we knew it could.
In that event, Joseph Beardsley--whatever his current health--could well be dragged into this business.
My feeling was, if Gloria just accepted this detour from homeschooling for a little while and let Abigail experience the monotony and general turmoil typical of the average American high school, Abigail would quit on her own, and return to the much richer environment she now felt she needed to escape.
But Gloria P. was in a snit-fit over her daughter’s rebellion, and she wasn’t inclined to accept anything. Gloria explained to me this morning that she just wanted time to work things out with her daughter.
Chapter 7
As if Anonymous’ grainy photographs of the fateful accident weren’t bad enough, then the words of John Shaw were found by the world. The entire transcript of what the boys said to each other when they thought no one was listening had been instantly slammed to approximately two billion Chinese, Indian and European email accounts.
This other half of the world, the Eastern Hemisphere, learned about the boys’ deaths before we Americans did. The sun wasn’t up here yet.
My immediate reaction to the email when I read it was that privacy had joined sensitivity at the bottom of our list of important things.
Again I scanned the hallway, now wondering when the principal or his aides would finally cough up Abigail.
The contrast between the many expressions of grief in these halls and the bloodlust sometimes found on the internet was disturbing to me. It left me wondering what precipice the human race was teetering off. And, what dichotomous coupling had produced our bipolar human race.
Perhaps God was a woman and the Devil her husband, and we were their offspring.
Of course some guy somewhere had the opposite theory. We were probably both wrong.
My wondering came from my formal study of history and my lifelong observance of human behavior. The lessons contained within these two activities taught me that these behaviors—simultaneous grief and bloodlust--are a symptom that usually precedes great human turmoil, as in war. As in the downfall of great empires and the chaos then ushered in.
Five young, intelligent boys and one devoted, hardworking father dead, and also scavenged to feed our amoral lust for entertainment.
I hated that I was also a watcher.
“Not much being accomplished in the classrooms today.”
The voice over my shoulder startled me out of my dismal reverie and I turned to see a short, heavyset man somewhere in his fifties leaning against a door jam. Behind him was the school’s media center.
“I can imagine,” I said. “You must be Stephen Norton, the librarian.”
“Right. And you are?”
“Waiting for a student,” I answered. “My name is Rachel Lyons.”
“Why do I know that name?”
I returned his stare, wondering if the recent events in Cleveland County had made me famous or infamous. But he didn’t make the connection and we moved on.
“Mind if I take a look? I used to be a librarian.” I motioned toward the interior of his library.
While showing me around his media center our conversation continued.
“Not at all. Come on in. I’m just waiting for my next class to arrive. Where were you a librarian?”
“North Carolina, a few years ago now. This is nice. Quite good-sized.”
“Not for a high school with over three thousand students, but California doesn’t have the money it should for its support buildings--science labs are even worse off.”
I nodded my head. The media center was basically the size of four regular classrooms, and separated into four different spaces by low cases. The section just to the left of the door was a well equipped computer center.
A closer look revealed that the machines were five or six years old. Wires twisted everywhere beneath them, dirty fingerprints stained the sides of the monitors and the keyboards were almost illegible. The books in the room looked tidy, though. I caught Norton giving me the once over, caught him while his eyes were mid-chest.
“Still have many readers?” I asked.
“Every class that comes in. They’re required to check a book out every week, whether they read it or not. Whether they return it or not.” His face turned slightly red. I noticed his shirt collar was grimier than the school walls.
The phrase burnout came to mind. My librarian’s heart went out to him. My women’s lib heart wanted him drawn and quartered for sexual assault. Speaking of dichotomies.
The awaited class arrived at Mr. Norton’s door and I slid by them back out into the hallway, waving a little goodbye to him as I went.
The kids were staring at my sponge-wrapped neck as I wriggled by their sloppy line. I thought one of them was going to grab it. The collar began to feel like a lifesaver’s ring, heavy and bulky. White on my decidedly orange jacket.
I headed back down the hall to see if any progress was being made on “finding” Abigail P.
There wasn’t. I sighed and sat myself back down on the torture chair and continued my musings.
Gloria’s discovery of Abigail’s rebellion hadn’t come until last evening. The fool girl didn’t bother to return home until well after five yesterday—several minutes after her mom. So mom started making calls.
Mom said she still didn’t know where Abigail had been from mid afternoon on, Thursday. Abigail wasn’t telling. Nana was feigning indifference.
Maybe grandma was a co-conspirator.
Abigail had made no excuse when confronted. She just mumbled something clearly made up on the spur of the moment, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Slammed her door and locked it. Refused dinner.
Gloria had told me all this at least three times this morning, each time asking, where did she eat? Where did she eat?
As if that was the whole issue. Abigail had eaten somewhere other than her mother’s kitchen.
And now Gloria wanted more time to talk with her rebellious child.
I imagined Gloria and Abigail weren’t communicating so much as slinging epithets at each other these days, if only figuratively. Thirteen, a wonderful year to discover your mother has it all wrong.
Thankfully, I’d raised boys. Matthew the Marine had done all the tough stuff, keeping our boys out of trouble. I began wandering again, in an effort to control my wondering. I was getting a headache. Where the dickens was Abigail?
I passed a row of metal lockers badly in need of paint. A few of them were so dented by what I assumed was roughhousing that they wouldn’t even close anymore, certainly didn’t lock. They offered the protection and privacy of cubby holes. But at least cubby holes would hold papers and books. Here everything was spilling out into the halls.
Things were certainly different from my own high school days. I couldn’t imagine such damage left unattended back when I went to school.
Budgetary restrictions or administrative apathy?
Pavlov’s bell rang again and the classroom doors sprang open like mouse traps in reverse. A flood of noisy mice cascaded down the hall toward me and I scooted back toward the metal chair. I began practicing saying Pustovoytenko over and over. My lips were even moving in anticipation of pronouncing the difficult name perfectly. Now I was really attracting stares.
Chapter 8
“Uh-oh,” the school nurse mumbled as she moved from inside her office.
I looked at her as if to ask what then followed her line of sight to catch an official looking woman as she slid around the corner into the Admin offices.
“Latisha Harper from Social Services. She’s a nice enough lady if you don’t argue with her. “
My blood began to boil knowing that the Principal had been lying about not being able to locate Abigail. I’d been cooling my heels for close to an hour so he could line up a social worker visit.
But I took the nurse’s advice and put on my most agreeable face as I was called back into the principal’s office.
Latisha was a super-sized black woman, very middle aged and wearing a formal dark suit—brownish--with an emerald silk shirt underneath. Her oversized leather purse and briefcase matched each other, more shades of brown. Definitely dressed for fall.
She stuck a large, dry hand out forcefully and I took it. We shook. It was soft and warm. I immediately regretted not dressing more formally. My jeans and casual-though-expensive sporty jacket were outclassed.
“I felt for the school’s sake we needed to involve Social Services in this event…” Dr. Forsyth began smugly. But the Social Services woman cut him off.
“More to the point, Ms. Lyons, for the sake of Abigail, Dr. Forsyth felt a family advocate needed to be brought in from Social Services. I need to see your identification again, and I need you to fill out these.” She had a mild Southern accent she was controlling nicely. She slid several sheets of paper across the corner of Forsyth’s desk toward me. “We can’t just let you take her away from school, even with a letter from her mother. Especially since we have yet to actually meet Mrs. (she glanced at her notes) Pust…er…voo-tanko.” I smiled blandly.
“I think she goes by Ms. actually. Her married name was Beardsley but after the divorce she changed it back.”
“Oh? And Abigail took her mother’s maiden name?”
I didn’t explain why. “Yes.”
“I see. How well do you know Abigail?”
“Well, if we could bring her into the office I think she could better assure you than anything I might have to say. Have you found your newest student yet, Dr. Forsyth?” I was bluffing. I had no idea what Abigail’s reaction to me was going to be.
“She’s lost?” Latisha Harper said sharply.
“No, not really. I just felt it best…”
“Of course,” Harper said dismissively and returned her attention to me. “Ms. Lyons…”
“Actually, I prefer Mrs.”
Okay, I was getting on the wrong side.
She stopped and stared at me.
“Or, just Rachel is fine.”
“Rachel, then,” she smiled the warm smile of a hungry hyena. I returned in kind. At least now we understood each other.
“These forms are a mere formality.” She tapped the papers with a painted nail of her heavy right hand. The color was the dark red of freshly drawn, extra iron-rich blood.
“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way, Latisha.”
She pulled back in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap.
I began filling out the paperwork, one of which was a release form from the school, the other a general informational form about Abigail and her family and my relationship to them. In the background I heard Latisha suggest Edward go ahead and bring Abigail into the office to confirm my identification personally. He didn’t move.
“I understand Abigail’s mother works days. And where is Mr. Beardsley?” Harper asked me.
I glanced at my watch as if it held the answer and thought fast.
“Probably having his thrice weekly dialysis right about now.” Of course, I had no idea where he was or when he received kidney dialysis.
“He’s on…” Harper caught herself. The father having a disability might not help the principal’s cause, which I assumed was to keep Abigail in his school against parental wishes.
She tried another tack. “Are there no other relatives?”
I dodged. Always do a one-two punch with a misdirecting jab in the middle if you can. It helps undermine your opponents’ confidence.
“Interesting. This form asks for the name of the school Abigail is transferring in from. Since she’s not actually transferring--that is since her mother hasn’t authorized a transfer from her current school--do you want me to list the other school’s name anyway?”
“What other school? I thought you said she was being homeschooled, Ed..er…Dr. Forsyth.” Latisha’s intelligent brown eyes turned toward the principal. He made a whiney face and started to protest. Then he visibly switched gears and began gently educating the social services woman on the recent changes in the new laws governing California homeschooling.
He was making a grave error. Latisha Harper’s dark face darkened even more. He was humiliating her with a patronizingly simple version of the new ruling. I almost felt sorry for him.
I waited until the embarrassing moment played itself out. Then always being helpful, I answered Latisha’s question about the other school.
“Her regular school, the one her parents have enrolled her in, is the Stowall Academy of the Arts.” Or was it Fine Arts? But it didn’t matter. Stowall was a powerful name in these mountain parts. Why not use it.
I didn’t let the fact that the Academy was a front for the homeschoolers stop me. And I wasn’t far off in adding Stowall to the nom de guerre of the fictitious school, as the two main families who drew up the paperwork for it were local Stowalls.
The principal and the social worker straightened their spines in response and looked at me with fresh eyes.
“The father is related to the Stowalls through the Beardsley family tree,” I added innocently.
The Stowalls were a historic, once-wealthy, still powerfully connected family in this part of Southern California, and I was still exploring how far those connections spread and how much dysfunction they have managed to cover up over the years. But in this case, mention of their name added credibility to my task.
I filled out another line on the school’s release form then answered the social worker’s way-back-when question, when she’d asked where Abigail’s mother was.
“Gloria Pustovoytenko (it slipped wonderfully off my now practiced lips) is the head nurse at Cleveland County Hospital Intensive Care Unit. So I’ll be dropping Abigail off at the Academy of Arts once I’ve finally retrieved her.”
Triple Whammy! Yes!
“There is no such…” Spittle flew from his churlish lips. His face did a presto-chango and he was once again a mature adult.
He’d caught himself, way too late. I raised my eyebrows in response and waited for him to shove his foot deeper down his throat. Of course there was no physical “school”; none was required by the new homeschooling laws—which he’d just baby-talked his way through. Oh, I was so winning this verbal battle.
But Latisha was still back at Gloria’s place of work.
“Cleveland County Hospital. That’s where they are caring for the Winters boy.” The sole survivor of Sunday morning’s crash.
I returned her shocked with my solemn and soulful.
“Yes. And she’s very busy right now caring for him.”
Her eyes had doubled in size. I thought I heard Edward groan.
I bent to fill out more of the form. My concentration was on connecting with Latisha. My face wore the mild mask of bureaucratic compliance. I had at least learned that trick with during my many years as a public librarian.
After a few minutes I reached down in my own briefcase, brown leather that unfortunately didn’t match my blue paisley purse. However the purse contrasted nicely with the beaded and embroidered orange jacket. My shoes were, well, my shoes. I handed Latisha a form of my own.
“Would you like to make a copy of Abigail’s registration form at the Academy?”
Thank heaven I’d stopped to pick this up from Nana after my talk with Gloria.
“Oh. Yes, that would be helpful.” Latisha smiled the warm smile of a proud lioness admiring another lioness’ performance and took the registration form out to the secretary.
I kept my head down, continuing to work on the papers she’d given me. When I finished, I placed my calling card and ID on top and turned them toward Latisha Harper, matching her pr
oud smile and raising her one perfectly innocent one.
“Rachel Lyons, Private Investigator…” She looked up at me as her brain light went on. “Aren’t you the woman who recently shot that suspected child molester?”
She was referring to my encounter with Eddie Stowall, the deeply damaged man-child of the Stowall clan, who seems to have rescued a kidnapped child from her abuser--though the circumstances were suspicious, to say the least.
“Yes, I am.”
Latisha’s eyes slid down to my Styrofoam collar.
“Turned out he may not actually be a molester…” she murmured.
“Yes. It did.” I agreed, humbly.
“But he shot you first, I believe I read.”
“Yes. Unfortunately. He was terrified.”
“Yes. Very unfortunately. An unfortunate situation all around,” she murmured.
“Yes. It was.”
“Is he still missing?”
I nodded my head, sadly.
“But you’re okay, are you?” Latisha’s eyes had softened to downright motherly, even though I was assuming we were around the same age.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“You’re a very brave woman, Ms…ah, Rachel. He certainly could have been—dangerous, and that poor little girl…. But I hear she’s doing okay.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
Dr. Forsyth forcefully cleared his throat.
Chapter 9
As we left the principal’s inner office to await Abigail’s arrival, not arm-in-arm as you might have thought but close, Latisha said, “Nice necklace. Where’d you get it?”
I picked up the large blue cloth covered beads that draped around my neck on a thin rope—just below my medical collar and fingered them gently. “Online at Clearwater Creek. I believe they were handmade in Kenya. Aren’t they nice?”
“Yes, they are lovely. Clearwater Creek, hmm? They match your bag very nicely.”
“Oh, thanks. I actually feel half dressed compared to you, Latisha.”
“Nonsense. By the way, that Eddie Stowall man, the one that shot you, if and when he’s found he may be able to use my boyfriend’s help.” She handed me two calling cards, one of her own and one with the name Jason Milkstone, Attorney at Law embossed in silvery blue on it.
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