Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy

by Berenson, Laurien

  “Sure. Why?”

  “We had a pageant committee meeting this morning before school and when you weren’t there, Michael mentioned you’d gone home sick Monday afternoon.”

  “I’m okay.” Sally’s gaze dropped. “I guess I was just kind of in shock over what happened. I needed to get away.”

  We’d all been shocked, I thought. But with students who needed tending to, Sally was the last person I’d have expected to run.

  “Anyway, I was here bright and early this morning. I just didn’t know about the meeting in time to make it. Did I miss anything important?”

  “Are you kidding?” A steaming bowl of pasta came my way and I took time out to serve myself a generous portion. “We’re still wandering around in the dark, hoping for inspiration to strike.”

  “Are the archives turning out to be interesting?”

  I nodded, my mouth too full to speak.

  “Finding anything?”

  “Lots of stuff. Letters, memos, but so far nothing to build the pageant around. I’m going back for another look this afternoon. You know what was odd though?”

  Now it was Sally whose mouth was full. She lifted her brows.

  “I’d brought one of the cartons up to my classroom on Monday, figuring I’d go through it when I had a chance. But when I looked for it on Tuesday, it was gone. This morning, it appeared again. It’s really strange.”

  “I may be able to solve part of the mystery. Are you talking about an old cardboard box, frayed flaps, jumbled to the brim with papers?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I found it in my classroom when I got in this morning. All I could think was, great, I’m gone two days and people start using my room as a garbage dump. But then I looked inside and saw those old papers, and thought of you. I brought it down to your room and left it. You were probably at the committee meeting. Sorry, I guess I should have left a note.”

  “No, that’s fine. Now at least I know half of what happened. Though that doesn’t explain how the box got moved from my room to yours in the first place.”

  “Probably Krebbs,” Sally said automatically, then paled.

  During the semester and a half I’d been at Howard Academy, I’d heard people use that phrase numerous times, usually to assign responsibility for otherwise unexplainable events. Unlike the kitchen help who believed in ghosts, the faculty and administration tended, often with good reason, to blame the caretaker.

  “Not this time,” I said, attempting a small smile.

  “God, I must be going nuts.” Sally sat back and rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m taking this whole thing so hard. It’s not as if . . .”

  “As if what?” I asked, curious.

  “Nothing.” Sally’s answer was quick and sharp. “Forget I said anything. Pass me the salad, okay? Do you know that in Europe people eat the salad course after the meal? We Americans are the ones who are backwards. Eating the salad afterward is good for digestion.”

  I let her babble on and wondered what she’d been about to say. It’s not as if . . . what? As if she liked Krebbs? As if they were friends?

  I pondered that for a moment. Sally had been at Howard Academy longer than just about anyone else who was currently employed there. Maybe she and Krebbs shared some sort of past. The teacher and the caretaker? It seemed unlikely; but I supposed it wasn’t impossible.

  After lunch, I stopped in my classroom to retrieve the disappearing/reappearing carton and then headed, somewhat grudgingly, down to the basement. What had begun as a pleasant diversion was beginning to feel like a chore; and Michael’s growing impatience for me to find a quick fix for the pageant didn’t help matters any.

  So far, I’d delved mainly through those cartons that were easily accessible, either piled near the table or in front of the stacks. Maybe it was time to try something different. With that in mind, I lifted off the top tier of boxes, set them aside, and dug into those beneath them.

  The first I opened contained homework, mostly term papers written by Joshua’s sons, James and Matthew, at their respective colleges. Skimming through several, I could see why Joshua hadn’t been anxious to leave his considerable fortune in their hands. The next box I checked was devoted to clothing sketches and dress patterns, the papers interspersed with swatches of elegantly hued silks and satins. Interesting, but still not the stuff of which spring pageants were made.

  The contents of the bottom box had belonged to Joshua and Mabel’s youngest daughter, Ruth. On top were several photographs, each carefully labeled and dated on the back. Ruth looked like a charming child, with auburn curls and dimpled cheeks. The snapshots showed her at varying ages: flying a kite, sailing a toy boat, picnicking in a garden. Judging by the pictures, Ruth had enjoyed a happy, carefree childhood.

  Beneath the photos, I found a doll whose wispy blond hair and heavily soiled dress spoke of heavy use. Under that was a small, leather bound book. My Diary. The words were embossed in gold script across the front.

  Eagerly I pulled the book out and turned to the first page. Ruth had written the date, March 1, 1934, and her full name, Ruth Winston Howard across the top. Today I turn sixteen, she’d written below. Father says I’m nearly all grown up now. I’ve waited so long, I’m sure this will be the best year of my life.

  Reading the hopeful, innocent words, I found myself wondering what had become of Joshua’s youngest child. Or the rest of the siblings, for that matter. Having been born near the beginning of the century, any that were still alive would be quite old by now. There must have been descendants, though. Was the family still in Greenwich? I wondered. Did they maintain an interest in the school Joshua and Honoria had founded?

  There was no time to look for more answers. The bell was ringing in the hallway above me, which meant I should have already been in my classroom. Hastily, I repiled the boxes out of the way against the wall. The diary, I took with me. It was small enough to be easily portable and offered the prospect of fascinating reading.

  The remainder of the afternoon flew by. I had two more tutoring sessions, and spent forty-five minutes writing up a student evaluation. Paperwork. If anyone had told me before I became a teacher that there would be so much of it, I’d have been tempted to turn and run the other way.

  Since I’d managed to catch Russell Hanover late in the day on Monday, I decided to give it another try. Harriet was once again guarding his outer office. I knew the headmaster had another life. I’d met his wife, Bitsy, and seen pictures of his kids. Harriet, I wasn’t so sure about. Sometimes I suspected she simply curled up in a ball and slept beneath her desk at night.

  The door to Russell’s office was standing open. Though he was talking on the phone, he saw my approach and waved me in. Passing by Harriet’s command post, I tried not to look too smug.

  Russell quickly wrapped up his phone call. “I’m glad you stopped by. I was wondering how things went this morning with Detective Shertz and that girl, Jane.”

  “It was fine,” I said, wondering how he’d known about the interview. Perhaps Detective Shertz had mentioned it to him. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Russell ran Howard Academy like his own private fiefdom. Nothing happened on his campus that he didn’t know about. “I think the detective got all the information he needed.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Russell looked agitated. His fingers knotted together on his blotter, only to unclasp a moment later and begin to drum. “We want to do everything possible to aid the police in their investigation.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, as the headmaster glanced toward the window. “Is something the matter?”

  “No. Yes.” He stopped and frowned. Russell was a master of control. I’d never seen him so distracted. “They’re out there digging up the ground beneath the shed,” he said.

  “Digging? What for?”

  “To see what they can find, obviously.”

  “Buried treasure?” One look at Russell’s face told me this was no joking matter. I remembered that S
hertz hadn’t ruled out the possibility of a robbery. But what could have been hidden in the old caretaker’s cottage?

  “They’re looking for drugs,” said Russell.

  Stunned, I sank down into a padded wing chair. “Krebbs ?”

  “Apparently so.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t have suspected it, would you? Certainly I never did. An old man like that, still collecting a salary here after all these years, his position secure for as long as he wanted it. I thought Krebbs kept coming to work every day because he had nothing else to do with his life. I guess I was very naive.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I said quickly.

  Like any informed headmaster, Russell had taken a strong, proactive stance in the war against drugs. Howard Academy’s no-tolerance policies were well-known and stringently enforced. Students as young as fourth grade took drug-awareness classes. Some private schools viewed this issue with complacency; not Howard Academy. What a blow it would have been for Russell to find out that a school employee was responsible for polluting his campus.

  “Was Krebbs dealing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, though I have to assume that’s what the police suspect. Detective Shertz asked for permission to do everything but take the shed apart. Apparently he’s been led to believe that something might have been stashed there.”

  “Not by Krebbs necessarily,” I pointed out.

  “I hate to say this, but it hardly matters. If the police do find something, the fact that the drugs are on the campus at all is damning enough. Our reputation will be ruined. And to think, just yesterday I was worried sick when I only had a murder to contend with.”

  “Who tipped Shertz off ?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think to ask,” Russell replied thoughtfully. “I’m not sure he’d have told me in any case.”

  “If it helps, I’ve never seen evidence that anyone, student or employee, was doing drugs at this school.”

  “That’s good to hear.” He didn’t look reassured. “Of course, anyone who’s involved in that kind of behavior would hardly flaunt the fact.”

  “No, but they might be the kind of kids who got sent into my program because they needed extra help keeping up with their studies.” I let that thought sink in for a moment. “I could be wrong, of course, but it’s not what I’m seeing. These are good kids.”

  Russell brushed a hand back through his thinning hair. “Even good kids do drugs. It’s everywhere these days. I just didn’t expect to confront the problem in quite this way. Imagine how you’d feel right now if you were a Howard Academy parent. Enraged? Betrayed? I know I would.”

  That was easy enough to see. Just talking about the subject had Russell’s face contorted in anger. I could understand why. He’d devoted his life to enhancing Howard Academy’s social standing and academic stature. Now, Krebbs’s murder was threatening to tear down everything he’d accomplished.

  How might Russell have reacted, I wondered, if he’d known about Krebbs’s involvement with drugs before the older man’s death? Would he have gone to the police and exposed the school to the sort of negative publicity it was experiencing now? Or would he have been tempted quietly to take matters into his own hands?

  Krebbs had been killed with a pitchfork, a weapon that had been conveniently available to his assailant. Suppose Russell had gone out to the shed for some reason and happened unexpectedly upon evidence that the caretaker was engaged in illegal activity. The headmaster would have been shocked. He’d have probably lost his temper. Would he have been angry enough to pick up the nearest tool and impale Eugene Krebbs with it?

  “Ms. Travis?”

  I was miles away, and it took me a moment to realize Russell was speaking to me. Uptight, upright, Russell Hanover with his serious features and bespoke suits. He didn’t make the most likely of murderers. “Yes?”

  “You wanted to see me about something?”

  “Right,” I stalled, trying to push the other image out of my mind. “I wanted to talk to you about Faith.”

  “Religion? Really, Ms. Travis, I think we have enough to worry about right now. Perhaps we could table that discussion until after things have calmed down a bit.”

  “No, Faith the dog. My dog.” I was still babbling. I took a deep breath and got my thoughts in order. “She’s a Poodle, similar to a dog named Poupee, once owned by Honoria Howard. Since the spring pageant is going to be a celebration of the school’s history, Mr. Durant mentioned that perhaps Faith might take part.”

  “I see.” His tone encouraged me to continue. Now that we’d gotten past the drugs and murder part of our conversation, Russell seemed to be doing better.

  “I was told that there used to be a teacher here, Mr. Bailey, who brought his dog to school?”

  “Yes, Heidi. She was quite a favorite with the students.”

  “With that in mind, I was wondering if it might be possible for me to do the same with Faith? She’s very well behaved. She won’t bark, or be any sort of problem. She could spend the day in my classroom with me. Nobody would even know she was there . . .”

  My voice trailed away as I waited for a response. It took a minute. I hoped that was a good sign.

  “One of the perks of working in the private sector is that one has some leeway when unusual situations arise,” Russell said finally. “I always rather liked Heidi. Her presence here predated my arrival, so I was never consulted; nevertheless, she didn’t detract from the school in any way. If anything, I might go so far as to say she enhanced the experience for some of the students. If your dog is as well behaved as you say—”

  “She is!”

  “I wouldn’t be averse to offering her a trial period in your classroom. Say, a week?”

  “Terrific. Thank you! Faith will be thrilled.”

  “And she will communicate that fact to you?” Russell asked dryly.

  “Definitely.”

  I guessed he wasn’t a dog man. Maybe Faith could change his mind.

  “Quietly, I hope?”

  “Very quietly,” I assured him. “Can we start tomorrow?”

  “Why not?” said Russell. “It’s not as if things could get any worse.”

  Thirteen

  I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Faith the good news.

  On the way, I stopped at Hunting Ridge Elementary to pick up Davey and his best friend, Joey Brickman. Joey lives down the block from us; and his mother, Alice, and I have been friends since we started making play dates when the kids were six months old.

  Picking the boys up rather than waiting for the bus shaves half an hour off their ETA. Usually they spend that extra time playing, but today I had other plans. Davey and I dropped Joey off at home, swung by and picked up Faith, then headed north to Redding, a picturesque town in upper Fairfield County, that also happens to be where Sam Driver lives.

  “Great,” said Davey when I told him where we were going. “I like visiting Sam’s house.”

  He should. Over the nearly two year span that Sam and I have known one another, Sam’s house has changed a great deal, morphing from a well-appointed bachelor pad to a home that is definitely kid-friendly. Occasionally I complain that Sam is spoiling my son, but since I suspect he enjoys the indulgences as much as Davey, I try to keep the grumbling to a minimum.

  Sam’s house is a contemporary, perched high on a hill. In a month or two when the leaves have come back on the trees, it will be invisible from the road. Sam enjoys having his privacy. Aside from the mailbox next to the road, there’s nothing to mark the steep, unpaved track as a driveway. Once you reach the house, however, the view is spectacular; and large windows in every room bring all of nature’s beauty indoors.

  “Does Sam know we’re coming?” Davey asked, as I parked beside the garage.

  “No. I thought we’d surprise him.”

  I climbed out and looked around. Sam’s Blazer wasn’t there. And though I could hear Sam’s Poodles barking from inside the house, no one seemed to be responding to their announcement of our arri
val.

  “I don’t think he’s home.” Davey’s mouth drooped into a pout. “You should have called him like I did.”

  Just what I needed to make me feel worse, lessons in etiquette from a six-year-old.

  “He works at home, so he’s usually here when he’s not traveling,” I said. “Let’s wait a few minutes and see if he comes back.”

  Faith jumped out of the car and began to chase around the front yard. After a day at home alone, she had plenty of surplus energy to run off. Hearing the dogs inside the house, she ran to the front door and jumped up to look inside.

  “Let’s go in,” said Davey. “I know where there’s a key.”

  I did, too, but all at once I wasn’t sure I wanted to use it. A week earlier I wouldn’t have hesitated to make myself at home; but suddenly everything felt different. Our relationship seemed to be shifting like sand beneath my feet. Things I’d taken for granted, I now found myself questioning. Things like whether or not I’d be welcome prowling around Sam’s house when he wasn’t there.

  “Here it is!” Davey cried, turning over a rock at the edge of the yard. “I told you I could find it.”

  “Davey, we can’t just invite ourselves into Sam’s house.”

  “Sure we can.” My son raced toward the door. “That’s why Sam left us the key.”

  It was no use explaining that Sam hadn’t left the key specifically for us. Davey was already using it to open the lock. A moment later, Faith’s weight pushed the door inward and Sam’s three adult Standard Poodles came spilling out into the yard.

  Sam’s breeding and showing operation is much smaller than Aunt Peg’s, but he’s been involved with Poodles for more than a decade. While he lacks her experience, he matches her in dedication; otherwise, Peg never would have trusted him with Tar. I could hear the puppy barking, still inside the house. No doubt Sam had left him crated while he was out.

  Faith joined in the play with the three older Poodles. Two, Raven and Juniper, had finished their championships while Sam was still living in Michigan. The third, Casey, he’d had in the ring when we’d met two summers earlier. Fortunately, the three black Standards knew us well enough to obey when Davey and I called them back into the house.