Liz Jasper - Underdead 02

by Underdead in Denial

  “Not the easiest of units,” Carol mused. “I wonder sometimes if it might be better to switch that unit to the spring, when eighth graders might be better able to grasp abstract concepts like light years and Doppler shifts.”

  “Yeah, but then I’d have to contend with spring fever.”

  “Mmm,” she nodded thoughtfully. “I can see how that would be worse.” She popped a bite of dressingless salad into her mouth and chewed with all the enjoyment of a forced march.

  “Not to mention, I’d have a dozen parents calling to complain that I was teaching in a different order than in the book.”

  “They don’t do that.”

  “They do to me.”

  Carol bit back a grin.

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “I know.” The grin lingered a moment longer before she was able to wipe it off her face.

  I carefully arranged a bite of potpie on my spoon. A hunk of beef, half a carrot slice, one pea, a bit of crust and lots of gravy.

  “And Becky’s mad at me,” I said.

  “Becky?” Carol looked surprised. “Why?”

  I stuck the loaded spoon into my mouth to buy myself time. I wasn’t sure how much to tell Carol. It’s not that I was worried about her spreading gossip. Things I told her went into the vault and stayed there. But telling her about Becky’s plan to solve the mystery of Tom’s death to protect her would-be boyfriend seemed like tattling. Especially as I wasn’t sure I would be able to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t have Carol barging into Becky’s room to pound some sense into her.

  I shrugged and skirted the truth. “They’re putting up another haunted house in the theater parking lot. I think it’s a bad idea and I don’t really want to volunteer there anymore.”

  Ignoring the carrots and peas, I scooped up a hunk of beef and gravy. As I chewed, I caught myself swirling the gravy on my tongue and wishing I was eating juicy, raw beef instead. Disgusted with myself, I made myself eat three carrot wedges in a row. My “this isn’t meat” gag reflex instantly kicked in, which so annoyed me that I ate some peas.

  Carol reached across the table and squeezed my forearm. “You had a rough time of it last spring. The last thing you’d want to do is be anywhere near another investigation.”

  “Exactly.”

  For some reason, her support made me feel worse. Weren’t friends supposed to put themselves out a little for friendship’s sake? I remembered how Becky and Carol had rallied around me last year, even when it had been a vastly unpopular way to go. Becky and Carol and Jo. All for one and one for all.

  I ate another carrot.

  *

  When the last of my students left my classroom at the end of the day, I shoved on my sun hat and went downstairs. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Becky, but I needed to make things right.

  “Ms. Gartner!”

  I whipped around to find my department chair haring toward me from the left branch of the hallway. He was so angry his face was purple. He lowered his voice in deference to eavesdropping high schoolers, but still somehow managed to shout at me.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He shook a newspaper under my nose.

  “I have no idea, Roger.”

  He thrust the Press Telegram into my hands and planted a stubby index finger under a photograph of the haunted house on the front page. It was a little grainy, but behind the crowd of people in the foreground, I recognized myself. I was turned away from the camera, but it was still me. A lot of me. I was going to kill Becky for encouraging me to wear that bustier in public.

  “This is absolutely appalling!” Roger said.

  My mouth flopped open a couple of times but I couldn’t get any words out, even if I’d known what to say. The picture of me in the bustier, while not my usual style, was perfectly decent. But as I stood in the judging presence of my ultra-conservative department chair, the neckline of that bustier seemed to drop another inch. I pulled the collar of my unisex button-down shirt a little tighter around my neck.

  He stabbed the paper again. “Read that.”

  Swallowing, I read aloud, “‘Local Haunted House Proves Deadly’. What an incredibly insensitive headline,” I said, outraged on Tom’s behalf. “Imagine how his family will feel when they see that.”

  Roger ripped the paper back out of my hands and shoved the picture in my face. “This is an embarrassment to everyone here.”

  My eyes focused on the shot of my cleavage. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have a reputation to uphold. I expected, after your experience last spring, that you would have learned something about the appropriate conduct of a Bayshore Academy faculty member. And yet here you are, involved with another sordid—”

  I turned away before I said something that got me fired, and strode rapidly back down the hall. Roger would have to jog after me if he wanted to keep insulting me. Without thinking, I headed for Becky’s room for comfort instead of returning to my own. Rounding the corner like a bullet train, I plowed smack into Dan Sterling.

  Chapter Eight

  Dan reached out to steady me. “Whoa, speedy! You okay?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  We were about the same height and had narrowly missed knocking each other out.

  “Trust me—I get battered worse than this on a daily basis.” At my blank stare, he explained, “We do drama exercises in the mornings to improve our craft. Last week it was physical comedy, this week it’s sword fights.”

  “That must be fun,” I said enviously, thinking of the astronomy lecture I’d be giving while Dan was swashbuckling around a stage in the Milverne rehearsal room with his colleagues.

  “It is, until someone’s sword slips.” He gingerly rubbed a shoulder and his mobile face pulled into an exaggerated grimace of pain. “They’re not sharp but they can leave impressive bruises.”

  “Ouch.”

  Dan’s charm was a relief after Roger’s venomous arrogance. My shoulders started to climb down from around my ears.

  “How come you’re on campus?” I hadn’t seen him at Bayshore since our regular drama teacher had returned from maternity leave.

  Dan’s wince was genuine this time. “Picking up my last paycheck. With the haunted house closed, it’s going to have to last.”

  “I thought you guys were going to whip up a new one in the parking lot.”

  He shrugged. “It was a nice idea, but…”

  “A lot of work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does Becky know it’s not happening?”

  “She knew it was a possibility. I was on my way to tell her.” He started walking toward Becky’s room and I fell into step beside him.

  “I didn’t know you were getting paid for the haunted house. I suppose it makes sense. After all, if you weren’t doing the haunted house, you could be making money acting elsewhere.”

  Dan shook his head. “The haunted house was a labor of love for all of us. All the money went into the general fund. But now that our fall fundraiser’s kaput, the Milverne can’t afford to put on as many plays, which means less work and fewer paychecks for us.”

  His words had a slightly canned ring to them. I had a feeling I would have known all this if I had been on time to that first volunteer’s meeting. Or paid a lick of attention to his speech after I finally did arrive.

  Becky was at her desk, grading. Her face lit up when she saw Dan. The smile faded when she saw me.

  Dan said, “Hey, Becks. I see you made it through the day okay. Sorry about the late night.”

  “Like it’s your fault.” Becky put down her grading pen and came around her desk to join us. “How’s the new haunted house going?”

  “Canceled,” Dan leaned back against the counter. “Not enough volunteers.”

  “I’ll bet the drama kids will help. If you ask them.” Becky batted her eyelashes suggestively.

  He said, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. The kids can help with…”

  We all turned as Roger thundered int
o the classroom like an angry bull and shut the door behind him. I braced myself for the rest of his “teachers represent the school, even when they’re not on campus” speech, but Roger’s anger had a new target. He rounded on Dan.

  “Do I understand that you plan to use Bayshore Academy students to do something that will financially benefit your theater?”

  Becky opened her mouth to respond, but Dan beat her to it. “Hello, Roger. Nice to see you again. Yes, I’m going to ask students to volunteer some time at the theater.”

  “It’s completely inappropriate. You are no longer a teacher here.” The way Roger said “teacher” made clear his opinion of the arts program. “Which, given your poor judgment, can only be a good thing.”

  Becky said, “You’re taking it the wrong way, Roger. Dan—”

  “That is for the administration to decide.” Roger spun on his heel and left.

  Dan dropped his friendly veneer. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Damn,” he said softly. He looked at us with a small, twisted grin. “That went well.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. Ten minutes ago, I would have stopped there, but Roger’s pigheadedness had cleared a few things up for me. “It’ll work out. You’ve got Becky and me to help. Well, you get me as soon as the sun goes down, but in the meantime, I’ll help you hunt down the drama kids. I’m sure they’ll lend a hand.”

  I got the full Becky grin. “I’ll go find the headmaster and remind him that Roger’s full of shit.” She grabbed her keys off her desk. “Diplomatically, of course.”

  We both stared at her.

  “Hey, I can do diplomacy. I’ve learned a few acting tips hanging around the theater all week. Might as well put them to use.”

  *

  I decided it was a good time to put one of my new resources to use—a functioning cell number for Gavin. If I was going to do some sleuthing, or, as was more likely, spend an evening reining in Becky, I needed to know as much about what was really going on as possible.

  “What you want?”

  No, no, don’t shower me with warmth. I might get a swelled head. “Did you tell the other detectives that I made the cookies?” No sense beating around the bush.

  “Are you suggesting I withheld evidence from the principals on the case?”

  Someone was in a bad mood. “Of course not. I just wondered if it was important.”

  “Everything’s important.”

  I made myself count to ten. It was the only way to keep from saying some rude, and I didn’t want Gavin to hang up on me. One, two…

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “No. I wondered how seriously the police are considering the theory that someone was actually trying to poison Dan.”

  “It’s a theory, is it?”

  “Oh, come on. They were Dan’s cookies. It’s not too big a stretch to imagine Tom taking something that wasn’t his.”

  “Sounds as if you haven’t forgiven Tom for eating your sundae at the diner.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the grating of my teeth.

  “I assure you, we consider all options when we investigate a suspicious death.”

  “Glad to hear it, Detective.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your precious time,” I said. “Thank you so much for easing my concerns.”

  “I knew giving you my cell number wasn’t a good idea,” he muttered.

  “Actually, I think the cell phone was a very good idea. If I were talking to you in person right now, you’d have to throw me in jail for police brutality. And think of all the tiresome paperwork that would generate.” I punched off my phone, forced a smile on my face, and went to find some high school drama kids to help with the haunted house.

  *

  Becky had left school a half-hour before me, but I caught up to her three blocks from the theater as she was wedging her Mustang into a microscopic spot. I lucked into a parking place big enough for the Volvo only a half block farther down the street.

  Becky waited for me and we walked to the theater together. She was still fuming from no-parking road rage. “Remind me never to be late for a play here. There is zero street parking. I feel like I’ve been circling for hours. What were they thinking, setting up the haunted house in the parking lot? Where’s everyone supposed to put their cars? Sometimes I think theater people take the ‘show must go on’ philosophy a little too far.”

  She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t even think of reminding me that I supported this crazy idea.”

  “Wasn’t gonna.”

  We reached the theater and followed the sounds of activity around to the back.

  “Holy cow,” I said, squinting against the brightness.

  A long row of floodlights amped up the light from the streetlights, illuminating…nothing. Unless visitors were supposed to imagine a haunted house in place of the chalked-in track snaking through the parking lot, we were in trouble. It occurred to me that the storage rooms with all the leftover plywood screens, black sheets and Halloween props were also behind locked doors that were covered with yellow crime-scene tape.

  Houston, we have a problem.

  Just then, a couple of pickup trucks, fully loaded and riding low, turned into the lot. A couple of burly guys descended from the truck cabs and started to unload old plywood sets with impressive efficiency. Another truck pulled in behind them. It looked as though whatever had been taking up space in theater storage rooms around town was getting trucked to the Milverne. I wondered who’d called in the favors.

  Becky spied Dan coming around the dark side of the theater and sped to his side. I followed her. For a moment, I thought they had decided to admit their feelings and publicly embrace, but as I got closer, I realized they were arguing.

  “All I’m saying is, be careful.”

  “You’re nuts,” Dan told her. “Tom died, not me. No one’s secretly trying to kill me.”

  His response surprised me. Not only had I assumed he was on board with Becky’s theory, I’d expected he would enjoy the attention.

  Hearing my footsteps, Dan turned and placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. He admonished Becky, “The person who needs our support at this time is Jo.”

  Huh?

  Someone called for Dan’s help over at the trucks. He gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and jogged over to help unload sets. Becky watched him go, a worried frown on her face.

  My expression was one of bewilderment.

  “What the hell?” I noticed then that a lot of people were shooting surreptitious looks of concern in my direction. “What the hell?” I repeated, a little more vehemently.

  “I think…” Becky cleared her throat. “Everyone thinks you and Tom were dating.”

  “What? I barely knew him. The only time I really spent with him was that one night at the diner when you dragged me along so you and Dan could date. That’s it, isn’t it? Becky, what did you do?”

  “Nothing…I… Oh, fine. I might have mentioned that Dan and I were only there because you and Tom wanted to meet.”

  My mouth flopped open. “I can’t believe you did that. You know how I hate being the center of attention. These people are just as gossipy as teachers.”

  “Why do you think Dan and I were trying to keep it quiet? A lot of the female fans come because they like to sit in the audience and dream up scenarios where they and Dan meet and fall instantly in love, like a scene out of Cinderella.”

  “You sold me out for personal gain? I feel so much better.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. You know no one would have cared if Tom hadn’t been killed, and I could hardly have anticipated that!”

  She was right, but that was beside the point. A group of volunteers was eyeing me and whispering, as if deliberating whether or not to come over to offer their condolences. I decided it was time to clear things up.

  “Tom and I were not dating,” I told Becky in ringing tones that carried.

  “I know that.
Why are you telling me? Unless…” Her eyebrows wiggled under the spiky green fringe of her bangs. “‘He who doth protest too much’…”

  My voice rose in real irritation. “Stop that. It was a fix-up. A bad one. All Tom did was talk about his stupid garage sale finds and then filch my dessert. I—”

  I realized the parking lot had gone silent. Becky finally noticed all the people staring at us. It was hard not to, with the temperature dropping ten degrees from the icy looks sent my way.

  “There’s a time and a place,” she said, trying not to laugh.

  “Shut up.”

  I dragged her with me to the trucks. Dan and Ian, the tour guide who’d been dressed as Igor, had taken charge, directing the helpers to arrange sets along the chalked path. I didn’t realize how heavy the sets were until I helped Ian carry one well into the middle of the horseshoe.

  “Man, this is heavier than I thought it would be,” I dropped my end with a loud thump and rubbed my sore shoulders.

  “I could tell you it’s functional, so they don’t fall over in the middle of a performance when someone walks by, but the truth is, most theaters can’t afford anything lighter. Can’t afford to give us, anyway. Most of what we have here has been hanging around in theater basements for decades.”

  He pulled a ropy cobweb off his shirt. I was about to suggest we upgrade to a less cheesy brand of fake spider webs when I realized it was real. I spun around a few times to make sure a spider the size of Shelob wasn’t piggybacking on my clothes.

  Ian laughed. “You might have a career on the stage. Not everyone can do the ‘help there’s a spider on me’ fear as convincingly as that.”

  I picked a microscopic fragment of web off my left sleeve. “I wasn’t faking. But hey, I’ll keep it in mind. It can’t pay worse than teaching.”

  “Oh, it can.” He shrugged. “But that’s a vocation for you. Something gets in your blood. You do it because you have to, not for the money.”

  His face had lit with an inner fire. It was a little humbling, being around people like Ian and Dan, who truly loved what they were doing. I didn’t have the heart to tell him my definition of “have to” was a little different than his. I certainly worked for the money, as little as it was.