by Matt Witten
Little Napoleon dispensed with the preliminaries quickly and announced the first case. Since he was going alphabetically, it was Laura's.
"The People versus Laura Braithwaite," he pronounced stentoriously. After Laura and Malcolm stepped up to the bench, he continued, "Ms. Braithwaite, you are charged with murder in the first degree. How do you plead?"
She gulped, and said nervously, "Not guilty."
"Mr. Hawthorne, does the D.A.'s office have a recommendation?"
"Yes, Your Honor," said Hawthorne, the assistant D.A. He had gotten all duded up for the occasion, even going so far as to put a folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket. "Given the severity of the crime, and the terrible effect it has had on our entire community, the People request that bail be set at five hundred thousand dollars."
"Oh, knock it off," Malcolm Dove broke in scornfully. "This woman is no threat to anybody, and she's not escaping to Argentina, either. She has a seven-year-old boy to take care of. We request that she be released on her own recognizance, so she can go home to her child."
"This is a murder case," Little Napoleon said dubiously.
"A remarkably flimsy one. Totally circumstantial, no eyewitnesses . . . and new evidence has come to light in the last few hours which strongly indicates the real murderer is not in custody."
"What new evidence is this?" Little Napoleon asked.
"It’s a complete fabrication," Hawthorne interrupted. "A friend of the defendant burglarized the scene of the crime. When he was apprehended, he tried to pretend somebody else had broken in before him—and this 'somebody else' must be the real murderer."
"The individual we're speaking of is Jacob Burns," Malcolm declared. "His reputation—"
"I know his reputation," Little Napoleon said, and then gave a sniff. I got the feeling my reputation didn't impress him all that much. In fact, he looked straight at me with narrowed eyes while he said, "The suspect is ordered remanded to the county jail. Bail is hereby set at four hundred thousand dollars."
Malcolm sputtered, "But—"
Little Napoleon brought down his gavel. "Next case. The People versus Jacob Burns."
As I stepped up to the dock, I had trouble focusing at first. Damn, four hundred grand. If I was really bankrolling Laura's defense—and it sure looked like I was—then I'd have to spring for ten percent of that, or forty grand, for a bail bondsman. Suddenly my three hundred K nest egg didn't feel quite so large.
Forty thousand dollars. That was more than I used to make in three years as a starving artist. How much more dough would I end up spending on Laura's defense? And how much would I need to shell out for my own bail?
The answer, as it turned out, was five thou, because the judge set my bail at fifty thou. He also gave me a stern warning to avoid any "shenanigans" related to Laura's case. Malcolm told me later that fifty K was way higher than the average bail for B and E's in Saratoga County. Especially for a first-time offense. Okay, they were hitting me for obstruction of justice too, but still, what was the deal here? Was Little Napoleon buddies with Chief Walsh? Or maybe he saw my Gas That Ate San Francisco movie and didn't like it.
Speaking of movies, the way my finances were getting zapped, I might be forced to crank out another Grade Z flick after all.
Laura and I were removed in separate police cars to the Ballston Spa County Jail. Meanwhile, Andrea feverishly set to work contacting bail bondsmen and imploring our mutual funds to wire emergency cash to our bank account.
Fortunately, she managed to untape enough of the red tape that my fellow crimie and I were released at 5:27, just before the administrative office of the jail closed up for the night. Andrea was waiting for us at the front desk, and Laura and I took turns hugging her. My concussion-induced headache, which had held me tightly in its grip all day, began to dissipate.
"God, Andrea, I don't know how to thank you," Laura said, tears streaming.
"Hey, I had to make sure you don't miss bowling tomorrow night," Andrea replied.
After we got into Andrea's car—a red Honda minivan that made me feel hopelessly suburban—I said to them, "Guess what, ladies? I have a couple of hot murder suspects for you."
Laura leaned forward eagerly from the backseat.
Andrea's hands gripped the steering wheel tight. "Like who?" she asked.
"Hold on to that wheel. You ready?"
"Come on, who?" Laura said.
"Susie and Elena."
Laura gave an explosive sigh and sat back again. "Oh, brilliant."
"Hey, why not?"
Andrea wasn't too joyful either. "Bad enough the cops are after Laura. Now you want them hounding all our other friends, too?"
"Hey, Susie and Elena may be our friends, but I always liked Laura best."
Andrea took her eye off the road and threw me a sharp look, almost running into the black Buick in front of her. "Jake, this isn't funny. Laura didn't kill Meckel, and neither did Susie or Elena. Get real."
"They do have motives. We can't let ourselves be blinded by misguided loyalty."
"Look, there's no way Susie or Elena could have done it, or Barry either for that matter," Laura said. "None of them was out of each other's sight for more than a minute."
"Their time line isn't quite that clear," I said. "Susie and her two daughters got to the library at seven-fifteen. Susie could have slipped out and done the deed."
Andrea said, "But—"
I interrupted her. "And Elena says she went to her classroom for a few minutes. But maybe it was a little longer than that, and maybe she went to Meckel's office, not her classroom.
This time it was Laura who said, "But—"
I interrupted again. "And if we can think up a motive for Barry, he's a possible too. Maybe he didn't really go to the bathroom."
"But none of them had much of a window of opportunity," Andrea said.
"More like an infinitesimal crack," said Laura.
"You gotta remember, passions were running real high," I said. "It wouldn't have taken them long to get into a knockdown, drag-out fight with Meckel. Especially if Susie or Elena had just found out their kids were getting excluded from the gifted program."
"I still think the Robinsons make much better suspects," said Andrea.
"That's because you don't care about them as much," I said.
"What Robinsons? What are you talking about?" asked Laura.
I was still filling Laura in on the Family Robinson when we arrived home and Latree, Charizard, and Adam immediately raced outside to greet us. Before we even made it out of the minivan, we were smothered in embraces.
It was a big day for this hugging stuff. I picked up both my kids at once, thereby ensuring a week's worth of back pain, while Laura held Adam. Meanwhile Judy Demarest stood and watched from the front door.
"How was jail, Daddy?" Latree asked.
"Not too bad," I replied, burying my nose in his hair. I love the way my sons smell.
"Did you catch the murderer yet?" his little brother queried.
"I'm working on it."
"I hope you catch him before Saturday, because there's a Pokémon tournament at the mall."
I laughed. Charizard looked hurt. "What's funny?"
"Nothing, honey. I'm just glad to be home."
"Did you really break into the principal's office?" Latree asked, wide eyed.
"Sort of. Actually, I just walked in."
"Did you find the skateboard?"
"What skateboard?"
"The one you were looking for," Charizard piped in.
Where do kids come up with this stuff? I gave them my condescending grown-up voice. "No, you don't understand. I was looking for evidence."
"We know that, Dad," Latree said impatiently. "But Mommy said something about the Robinsons, so we thought you were looking for Mark's skateboard."
"Mark?"
"Yeah, their kid. He's really big. He's in fifth grade," Charizard said. "Mr. Meckel constipated his skateboard."
"You mean
confixated," Latree corrected him.
"Whatever. Mark was, like, yelling and stuff at lunch. About how mad he was 'cause Mr. Meckel stole it."
"He used some really bad words," Latree added sanctimoniously.
"When was this?"
"Last week. Thursday or Friday."
Curiouser and curiouser. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"We didn't think about it till we heard Mommy talking about the Robinsons," Latree said, and added reproachfully, "If you'd tell us more about your investigating, then we could help you more."
"So did you find the skateboard or not?" Charizard demanded.
"Not."
"It wasn't there?" Latree asked, excited.
"I don't think so."
"Then maybe me and Adam are right!"
"About what?"
"We think Mark stole it back."
Charizard cut in, "Don't forget me, I think so too!"
"But then Mr. Meckel caught Mark," Latree went on. "So Mark killed him."
"Or else Mark's dad killed him," Charizard suggested.
"Or his mom," said Latree.
"Or his grandma, or his great grandma," Charizard added enthusiastically. "Or his great great grandma. Or his great great great—"
"I doubt it was his great great great grandma," I said.
But some of these other folks were definitely worth considering. My kids were turning into peewee Sherlock Holmeses.
I went up to Andrea, interrupting her chat with Judy. "Honey, I have an errand to run. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Andrea grabbed my arm. "What kind of errand?"
"I'm going to see the Robinsons. I promise, I'll be careful."
"I can't believe you broke into the school last night," she said. "You could've been killed."
"It just happened. I didn't mean to do it—"
"We should get a cell phone, so you can call me next time something like this happens. Or you can call the police."
Andrea had a point. But I've made it a personal goal to avoid having a cell phone for as long as possible. I hate the darn things. So I nodded vaguely and said to Andrea, "I'll see you, honey," and started off.
Judy called after me, "Hey, wait, I just ordered pizza."
"Save me some."
"You can't go, I was counting on you for my big page-one scoop. That’s my babysitting fee."
"You want a scoop, just ask my kids. They know more than I do," I told her, and jumped back in the minivan.
It was getting on toward seven as I drove to the Robinsons' house. The West Side was pretty quiet. Most folks were inside, chowing down. Every once in a while, though, I'd come across kids shooting hoops or playing hopscotch. And when I got to the Robinsons' house, there was a kid riding a skateboard on their driveway. But he couldn't be Mark Robinson, because Mark was only in fifth grade. This guy had to be a high school freshman or even older. He was tall and stocky.
"Hi," I said, giving him a false smile.
He stopped his skateboard and eyed me warily. He had thick eyebrows, his eyes were set close together, and he looked like he spent a lot of his life being unhappy.
"You a friend of Mark's?" I asked.
His sullen expression didn't change. "I am Mark."
Man, this kid would be ready for the NBA by the time he hit tenth grade. Come to think of it, he was already big enough to knock off Meckel with one well-aimed spelling bee trophy.
"I'm Jake Burns," I said. "You know, Latree and Charizard's dad."
Mark stood and waited, bushy eyebrows knit tight, like he was wondering why this grown-up was bothering him.
"My kids tell me you're a really good skateboarder. I used to be pretty good myself," I lied.
Mark had had enough of my blathering. He started to skateboard up the driveway away from me.
I felt sleazy interrogating an eleven-year-old, even if he did look more like sixteen, but I couldn't see any way around it. "I hear Mr. Meckel confiscated your skateboard," I called out.
Mark was so surprised, he fell off the board. It came rolling down the driveway toward me. I picked it up and held it out to him.
But Mark wasn't coming anywhere near me. "That's none of your business," he said from the top of the driveway as he dusted himself off. He looked worriedly over his shoulder, back toward his house.
"How'd you get it back?" I asked.
"He gave it to me."
"When?"
"Look, I don't want to get in any more trouble," he said, his voice turning plaintive.
"When?" I repeated.
He hesitated. "Friday afternoon."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not, I swear. I went in his office and told him I was sorry for skateboarding on school property, and he gave it back."
"Mark!" a woman's voice shouted. It was Sylvia, coming out the side door of the house wearing an apron and carrying a wooden spatula. But she didn't look like a Happy Housewife, she looked furious. "What the hell is going on out here?"
"We're just talking," Mark said.
Sylvia came storming down the driveway straight at me. I involuntarily stepped back away from her, and my foot landed on something squishy. Hopefully it wasn't dog poop. "Why are you bothering my son?" she snapped.
"Did you know Mr. Meckel confiscated his skateboard?"
She looked from me to Mark. "So what?"
"You sure you want to talk about this in front of the kid?"
"I don't want to talk about it ever."
"How'd Mark get his skateboard back?"
"That’s none of your business," she said, sounding remarkably like her son.
"I can't help wondering if this skateboard had something to do with Meckel's death."
My words hung in the twilight air like poison gas. I was watching both Sylvia and Mark. Finally Sylvia was able to speak. "Get off my property," she said.
"You want me to go to the cops with this?"
"Don't you dare threaten me with cops. I'll tell them you're harassing my son."
"Sylvia—"
"I hear they threw you in jail last night. You want me to give them something new to bust you on?"
I could just imagine Little Napoleon licking his chops if I gave him an excuse to revoke my bail. "For your own sake, Sylvia, don't you want to get to the bottom of this?"
She advanced on me. "I want you gone!" she screamed, and raised her spatula high like she was about to whack me with it.
For a moment I got an image of Sylvia in Sam Meckel's office, holding that trophy up and getting ready to bring it down on his head.
Then the moment was over. Sylvia bent down, picked up the skateboard, and stalked back inside her house, pulling Mark along by the side of his collar.
After they were out of sight, I got back into the minivan. Then I sniffed the air and confirmed my worst suspicions.
It was dog poop, alright.
8
I opened all of the minivan's windows to get some fresh air and looked across the street toward the school. In the darkening light I saw that hundreds of flowers had been placed along the sidewalk leading up to the front door. There were a lot of lit candles, too. It was a moving sight. There had been a memorial ceremony at the school while I was in jail. According to Andrea, several hundred children had come to the ceremony. The media had come from as far away as New York City.
As I watched, a car drove up. A little girl and her father got out. She was crying, and he held her hand. She put several flowers—dandelions, it looked like—on the sidewalk. Then the two of them stood there a while.
I drove around the corner, got out of the minivan, and scraped off my shoe. Then I plotted my next move. I was eager to have my first real meal after a day of jail food. I wanted to catch a few Z's, too; I hadn't slept at all last night But first I drove to Ms. Helquist's house. Maybe she'd know if Mark had been skating around the truth with his skateboard story.
I walked past a bed of daffodils and knocked on her front door. Her house lights were on, but t
here was no answer. Maybe she was out back getting in a last bit of gardening before it got too dark. I went around the front of the house, headed up her driveway—
And saw a strange thing. Or thought I did. It happened so fast and the light was so faded that I wasn't sure. But for a split second, it sure looked like I was seeing a sudden flash of white hair—Ms. Helquist’s— disappearing through the bushes. When I called her name, though, she didn't answer. And when I tiptoed through the tulips in her backyard searching for her, I came up empty.
Was old Ms. Helquist running from me? But why?
"I guess she figured you wanted to talk about the murder, and she wasn't in the mood," Andrea suggested as we lay in bed together that night.
"Because she has something to hide?"
"Or because she's just plain tired of talking about it. It was late. And didn't you say the cops woke her up early this morning to ask questions?"
"I still think there's something fishy here. Ms. Helquist is the world's most pathologically punctilious employee. So why does she suddenly decide to take a day off on the one day her boss gets murdered?"
Andrea was trying to scratch her back, but not doing a very efficient job of it. I helped her out for a while and listened to her sigh with satisfaction. But then the sighing stopped on a dime. "Hey, honey," she said, "does Elena have tenure?"
"Why the non sequitir?"
"I was just thinking... if Henry ever told me he was opposing tenure, I'd want to strangle him."
I blinked. "Who makes the tenure decisions in elementary schools—the principal?"
"Basically, yes." She sighed deeply, but not with satisfaction this time. "I feel like a traitor, but maybe we should look into Elena and Susie after all. And Barry, too. We owe it to Laura."
"Sounds good," I said. "Let’s see how many friends we can alienate."
The next morning, two days after Sam Meckel's fatal encounter with the spelling bee trophy, High Rock Elementary School was officially open for business once again. At the breakfast table, Charizard and Latree were totally unenthused about going back to school.
