Mystery Bundle (Saints Preserve Us, Pray For Us Sinners, Murder Most Trivial)

by Leigh Ellwood

  Dan tossed a few greasy corn curls into his mouth. Take that, diet police. “Doth my flesh runneth over?” he posed to Maura jokingly. “I don’t think so.” He turned the open bag of chips toward her. “Frito?”

  “Ugh, no.”

  “Suit yourself.” Dan attacked another handful of corn chips.

  Lawrence eyed with fascination the aggressiveness of Dan’s eating habits and chuckled to himself. “You may swallow, Dan. I think you’ve pulverized those poor, defenseless chips into powder by now.”

  Those in the lounge tittered. Even Dan himself shook with unheard laughter. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Tough day, what with Edna Wallis gone and her classes being so disruptive. Amazing how sound can penetrate concrete walls.”

  Debra, the phone finally extracted from her ear, now glided to an empty table to eat. “Yeah, Bailey Stone’s in there subbing,” she griped, rolling her eyes. “I’m surprised they haven’t strung her up by her sandal straps.”

  “Ay, pobrecita,” Maura exhaled. “She subbed for me two months ago. I’m still finding stray tiles from the Spanish Scrabble games on the floor under desks and tables! I can only imagine how she allowed my kids to get out of hand like that.”

  Gail Dorhys, a “traveling” English II teacher who used Maura’s classroom for one of her classes, nodded from the booth behind Dan. “They taught her some new words, I heard. I just hope she never got around to translating them.”

  “Why does Alise keep calling her to come to work?” Maura wanted to know. “I’ll put a chimp in my class before I let Bailey take over again.”

  Dan set down his cola can and shot Maura a look that asked her to be fair. “She probably needs the work,” he reasoned. “As much as I believe Bailey isn’t cut out for high school, I can understand if Alise is just trying to help her out. You know how much subs make, and if she isn’t working at another job to supplement that income, she’ll barely make rent.”

  “Funny to hear you, of all people, defending her,” Maura countered, “after that little incident.”

  Dan lowered his eyes and tried to preoccupy himself with the remains of his lunch. The incident of which Maura spoke could hardly be called “little.” It rivaled any climatic soap opera revelation; who could forget the sight of teenage faces pressed against the glass walls of the school office, glued to Bailey’s high-pitched jilted lover monologue?

  It was one particular episode Dan wished he could forget, but it seemed impossible to do so since so few of his colleagues loved to rehash the memory, like savoring discussion of a favorite movie. It happened on a Monday morning, that was clear in Dan’s mind, as the school year was dwindling to an end. Jason had been away with Mitch and his family on a weekend trip to King’s Dominion, and Dan and Bailey had the house to themselves.

  Bailey wanted to make love. She enjoyed the casual, slow progression of their relationship and was ready to shift gears. Fueled with several glasses of chardonnay shared on the front porch as she and Dan watched the sun set over Stockley Gardens, Bailey let her actions speak for her.

  Dan, however, stilled her hands as she fumbled with his shirt buttons and explained that he would not compromise his faith. He cared for Bailey, he assured her, but sexual intimacy was too important, too sacred a commitment to be explored without the benefit of marriage. He and Liza had waited for each other, he explained, and without reservations he affirmed the wait was worth his time. Perhaps, he told a tearful, disappointed Bailey, a wait for them could lead to something equally special.

  Bailey agreed to wait, glowing warmly with the assurance that somebody found her that special. What did not occur to Dan was that Bailey had not planned to wait very long. The next school day, she took measures into her own hands quite literally as she confronted potential faculty bridesmaids for dress sizes. When Dan arrived and gently set her straight, her screams could have been heard from across the street.

  They argued, attracting a crowd that had to be brushed away by various teachers, many of whom strained to eavesdrop themselves. Bailey, inconsolable and unwielding to Dan’s pleas to slow her pace, gave Dan an ultimatum. She stormed out of the building when Dan gave the answer she did not want to hear, leaving Alise to call a substitute to cover Bailey’s classes.

  What Maura and the other teachers at Colley did not know was that “The Incident” actually extended into the early evening, with a surprise visit from Bailey during dinner. Delirious with denial and alcohol, she rambled on gaily as if the events of the morning did not happen. She studied the pinstripe wallpaper of the living room and proposed a change, adamant that the room’s current decor would clash with her furniture. What transpired next made the morning incident seem tame.

  “I don’t wish Bailey homeless, or jobless,” Dan insisted quietly. A pat on the hand from the Spanish teacher served as the only apology. “I’m thinking maybe she would do better as an elementary level teacher or something like that.”

  “Anything to keep her out of your hair, eh?” Debra remarked snidely.

  “Bailey and Alise are pretty good friends,” Gail offered. “That’s the only reason I can come up with. Alise must be the one keeping her in the loop.”

  “You presume correctly.” Lawrence said, visibly annoyed. He stood and arched his back, then gathered up his work. “Bailey Stone is a complete nitwit, and I’ve said as much to Alise myself. However, the school secretary seems to forget my preferences on occasion, and calls Miss Stone to sub for me. Rent or no rent, I certainly don’t want to patronize anyone who can’t even operate a VCR without bursting into tears!”

  Maura raised an eyebrow. “When are you ever absent, Lawrence? You make Cal Ripken look like a slacker.” Everyone at Colley was aware of the Drama teacher’s impeccable attendance and of his overprotective nature when it came to the Drama department. When Bailey was full-time and teaching the lower level Drama classes, Lawrence would barge in when time permitted and commandeer the lessons, so she had complained once to Dan.

  Dan, however, always remained silent, though his colleagues sniggered. Judge not, that ye be not judged. He was certain his own voluntary celibacy was grist for the rumor mills as well. Far be it for him to fuel any fires about Bailey’s incompetence as a teacher or Lawrence’s constant boasting.

  He let his mind wander as Maura as other teachers balled up their lunch bags and replaced lids on plastic sandwich containers. Lunchtime was coming to an end, save for Gail, whose planning period adjoined her lunch. She opened a paperback romance and tuned out the rest of the room.

  Maura walked out with Dan since both were headed in the same direction. “How much you wanna bet Larry was working on that budget proposal of his instead of grading tests?” she whispered. Most teachers called the drama teacher “Larry”, a nickname he detested, behind his back. “I think he brings that stuff in the lounge with him to show off how much money Drama gets.”

  “I didn’t really see,” Dan admitted. What he wouldn’t give to have extra funds for his English and Latin classes to buy more film adaptations of assigned reading and other materials, he thought, not to mention money for field trips and fees for the regional declamation competitions for the Latin Club. Perhaps he, too, could one day boast about the Latin program by waving purple victory ribbons under Lawrence Brantley’s nose. All he needed was the ribbons, and the money.

  Maura, who taught the school’s only Advanced Placement Spanish course, echoed her desire for extra funds. “He’s buying high tech video equipment my brother the lawyer can’t even afford, and I’m teaching from textbooks published during the Carter administration,” she complained. “Our last unit featured Pilar and Isabel going to the mall to buy bellbottom jeans.”

  “Oh, that’s not so bad,” Dan chided. “At least bellbottoms are coming back into style, I think.” When Maura didn’t respond, he continued, “We could stand to get off our duffs and apply for some grants as well.”

  “If Lawrence weren’t so busy, I’d ask him to do it for me. I’ve tried appealing
for money and I get turned down. What makes his department so much more important than foreign languages? If you go to Miami, nobody down there’s going to care if you can recite Hamlet’s soliloquy.”

  “If you can in Spanish, maybe,” Dan pointed out.

  Maura let out a guttural groan, and Dan patted her on the back. “Don’t sweat it, kiddo,” he assured her. “You’re in my prayers. The Lord will provide for us wretched, underpaid souls.”

  “At least the Lord understands Spanish.”

  “Latin, too. Sure you don’t want to go to the prom?”

  “Why bother? Willie snagged the only man worth taking,” Maura teased, giving Dan a playful shove. “What about Jason? Who’s his date?”

  “Good question.” Dan stopped in his tracks, causing Maura to skid forward a few inches.

  “You don’t even know?”

  “It’s never come up, believe it or not. We’ve been so busy looking at schools and trying to get scholarship money, next thing you know May’s here.”

  “Yeah, but you’re settled on W&M now, right? That’s no longer an excuse,” Maura said.

  “I know,” Dan said, recalling his failed attempt the night before to get information. Why was Jason so unwilling to open up to him?

  Maura tightened her grip on her purse. “Well, in the event he’s still unattached, I can name at least ten girls in my classes who wouldn’t mind being asked, so they murmur among themselves when they think I’m not listening. Speak of the devil!”

  Dan looked as Jason approached, striding purposefully with accelerating speed, as fast as he could go without breaking into a run. Even from a distance Dan could not mistake his son’s clenched jaw, a look so serious that Maura quietly excused herself and walked past the boy toward her classroom. Dan, meanwhile, was already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “How much?” he asked. “This better not be spent on doughnuts.” He had seen one of his junior students carting boxes of glazed sweets for sale to line the coffers of the Anchor Club treasury. Milking every last cent from the student body to get a head start on next year, he guessed.

  Jason’s face was still grim. “Forgot my lunch money,” he muttered, accepting a five.

  “Did you check the kitchen table before you went tearing out of the house this morning? I hope you weren’t as haphazard with your homework?”

  “I wasn’t, Dad.” Jason rolled his eyes.

  “You still going out after work? Do you have your bank card for that?”

  Jason nodded. “Yeah. Mitch and Gooch and I are going to a movie. Back by midnight, of course,” he added, his voice labored. He knew the drill, and he also knew his father would have preferred the curfew be moved up an hour or three. Not that Dan distrusted him and his friends, but the rest of the world unsettled him, particularly those whose driving skills and IQs tended to wane in the late hours.

  “That’s comforting to know. I should be back well before then, too,” Dan glanced at his watch; his students should already have begun an unenthusiastic trek back to his classroom. “Don’t ever say I’m not one to set a bad example.”

  Jason’s face broke out in a wide grin, and the two resumed a walk down the hallway. “Really?” he said. “Wish we had time before your date to have the ‘talk’.”

  “Goodbye!” Dan retorted, a smile escaping his own lips as he broke free from their synchronized stride to return to class.

  Once he was inside his room and back into the swing of teaching, however, his face fell slack with concern. He and Jason, to be sure, had the ‘talk’ before Jason’s interest in dating became evident. That was two years ago, but in that time Jason had not dated any girl exclusively. Would there be a need to reiterate the finer points soon, Dan wondered. Or at all?

  Chapter Four

  Spot on six-fifteen, a sharp rap on the side kitchen door announced the arrival of Father Ben Winslow, who let himself inside the house when he discovered the door was unlocked. “Dan? You here?” he called. The house was quiet, save for the faint monologue of a news anchorwoman floating in from the television in the main living room.

  The pastor of Incarnation Catholic Church, the Greeveys’ home parish, did not own a set himself. Attempts to gift Father Ben with a television always proved fruitless, for they usually ended up either with needy area families or as prizes in church raffles. Anyone inquiring of the priest’s behavior in this matter would be answered with a date: November 21, 1972.

  This was the night Maude Findlay of Maude discovered she was pregnant, and after thirty minutes of canned laughter the priest watched with horror as she decided to terminate the unborn child’s life, assuring herself that she was doing “the right thing.” Seconds later, Father Ben calmly and wordlessly unplugged the set in the rectory living room, carried it across the hall out to the curb, and unceremoniously dropped it next to a large trash can.

  Had Father Ben been aware then of the eventual advent of EWTN, the 24-hour Catholic channel, the good priest might not have acted so hastily, so many of his parishioners believed. Dan knew Father Ben very well, and judged him to be one more likely to swallow his pride for the sake of important matters. Personal wants, too, sometimes ended up on that list, which was why Dan was expecting him to “dog sit” tonight.

  Father Ben was not three steps through the kitchen when Ringo burst forward to greet him, barking excitedly and leaping upward to scratch at the elongated paper sack and the sub sandwich within that the priest held in his hands.

  “Some watchdog you are,” Father Ben cooed, giving Ringo a good scratch behind the ears. He took a seat at the kitchen table and set his sandwich far from curious paws. Ringo set his front legs on the silver haired man’s knee, his attention drifting from Father Ben to the sliver of paper bag visible from his point of view, and back again. He appeared to be torn between sustenance and affection, the priest decided, the only two things that probably mattered to a dog.

  “Ben?” a voice called from upstairs. “Hold up, I’ll be right down.”

  Seconds later Dan appeared in the open doorway, buttoning the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. Wet brown hair matted to his forehead. “Ringo, get down!” he ordered, and the dog reluctantly complied. He apologized to his friend and offered unlimited access to the refrigerator for the duration of his stay. “Plenty of leftover meatloaf in there if you want some.”

  “Thanks, but I came prepared.” Father Ben patted his footlong club, dressed all the way with extra bacon. Dan imagined Father Ben’s housekeeper roaring her disapproval were she to learn of the priest straying from the low-fat, low-salt, low-taste menu she prepared daily for him.

  “This should get me through my show, if Ringo doesn’t get too insistent.”

  “Ringo knows better than to beg for scraps, don’t you, boy?” Dan asked the pooch, who was too engrossed in getting his ears and muzzle scratched to bother responding. Ringo’s soulful eyes were a deadly weapon, his owner knew. One look could render anyone helpless and willing to share treats. Father Ben was a repeat victim.

  Dan offered his friend a root beer from the refrigerator, and found a puffed, white roll of paper towels and set it on the table.

  “Thanks, Dan,” Father Ben said. “I promise not to make a mess tonight, and I do appreciate you letting me borrow your TV. I’ve been wanting to see this program.”

  “Not a problem.” Dan now straightened his collar and glanced out the doorway. Ringo, having downed his snack, was now stretched contentedly before the television, entranced with the blond newscaster reporting unrest in Bosnia. “In fact, you’re welcome to hang around a while, maybe until...”

  “Yes?” Father Ben eyed his host curiously. “You want me to police the place in case you bring your girl home and she gets a bit fresh?”

  “No. No!” Dan felt flush. How much like a blathering idiot did he sound, he wondered.

  “Oh, well. Too bad. I kinda miss sneaking up on necking teenagers and scaring the life out of them with a lengthy discourse on charity. I g
ot an A in that in seminary,” the priest laughed. Then, “Don’t look at me like that, Dan. I’m joking!”

  Dan laughed uneasily at that. Why did he suddenly feel like a nervous teenager in front of his dear friend? It was not as if he was planning to confess a heinous sin.

  Confess, yes, but heinous? Far from it.

  “I take it I’ll be soon meeting this Willie?” Father Ben asked.

  “Probably not tonight, but soon. I promise.”

  The priest set half of the sandwich on a paper towel and picked off a lettuce shred hanging from the crusty bread. “I see,” he said calmly, lips twitching as if to mask excitement. “Does this intend to be a formal meeting, when I do meet your lady, of course?” He tucked another paper towel into his black cleric’s shirt, unbuttoned at the top and devoid of its white collar.