4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

I wasn't sure if stealing somebody's trash off their front curb was legal. There was a case involving Bob Dylan's trash a decade or two ago, but I couldn't remember which way the courts decided.

  But as long as the cops didn't catch me, it didn't matter if it was legal or not.

  Andrea wasn't overly thrilled about the garbage-grabbing scheme, but eventually she agreed it was a risk worth taking. So several hours later, at one a.m., I kissed her good-bye and left the house. I took her minivan so I wouldn't have to walk home carrying large bags of garbage. I avoided using my Camry, because she's way too loud for secret nocturnal missions. No matter how many times we get her muffler fixed, it never seems to do any good.

  Hopefully the Camry wouldn't find out I was two-timing her with our other car.

  Our street was deserted. Nothing but parked cars. I turned off Elm onto Oak Street, then off Oak onto Ash, where Ms. Helquist lived . . .

  But as I took that second turn, I spotted something: a car behind me, not real close, but close enough to make me wonder. I drove for a few blocks down Ash . . . and the other car stayed right behind. Who could be following me—the killer? The cops? Whoever it was, I decided to keep right on going past Ms. Helquist’s garbage cans, which were out front as I'd expected. The other car matched my pace. It was average size, and dark colored.

  Should I pretend I was starring in my own private action-adventure movie? Was it time to gun my engine and try to shake my tail? But I'd probably just end up driving into a tree or something. Besides, if it was a cop, why give him any excuses to bust me?

  So I drove as calmly as I could down Ash to Beekman, then turned left. The car followed at a discreet distance. I turned right on Congress and right again on Broadway. My secret admirer followed maybe forty yards behind me. Squelching an impulse to lean out my window and shout, "Nyah, nyah, I see you," I drove at exactly the speed limit down the almost-empty main drag of town. After about half a mile I turned right into the Spa City Diner, next to the Greyhound bus station. That's the one place in Saratoga where you can get a hamburger or a slice of pie twenty-four hours a day. Most nights they don't have any knife fights or big drunken brawls, so most nights you're perfectly safe there.

  I pulled in at the diner and walked right in without looking behind me. I was trying to act like any old ordinary joe who gets a sudden one a.m. craving for blueberry pie, and goes straight to the nearest diner to satisfy it. Except that first I stopped in the foyer, where I was out of sight of the Spa City parking lot, pulled a quarter out of my pants and called home.

  Andrea picked up in the middle of the first ring. "Hello?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Hey, babe—"

  "Oh my God, where are you? Did they catch you?"

  "Slow down, everything's cool. I'm at the Spa City Diner."

  I heard a sigh of relief, then, "Did you get the trash?"

  "Actually, no." I looked around, but there were no cops or murderers within hearing range, just a sour-faced Hungarian waitress who didn't speak English. I knew that from experience, because she doubled as a Greyhound clerk. Trying to buy a ticket from her was like getting trapped inside a bad Abbott and Costello routine.

  Since I wasn't afraid of the waitress's eavesdropping ability, I laid out for Andrea what had happened. I finished up with, "So how about you get the garbage?"

  "Me? You think it’s safe?"

  "Sure. I can't imagine there were two different cars watching the house. I'll just stay here and have a doughnut and keep the cop or whoever it is occupied."

  "I don't know."

  "Come on, you're the big Sue Grafton fan. Pretend you're Kinsey Millhone."

  "We'd have to leave the kids alone in the house."

  "Just for five minutes. Nothing will happen to them. Come on, this is an emergency."

  There was a pause, then: "Okay, I'll do it."

  "That’s the spirit."

  "I just hope I can get your car to start."

  "All you have to do is sweet-talk her a little."

  "She's a one-man woman. She only starts for you."

  "Just promise her you'll still respect her in the morning if she gives you a ride."

  I hung up and took a booth by the window. When the waitress came over to take my order, I simply pointed to the one lone doughnut that was underneath a Plexiglas cover on the counter. It was jelly filled, not my favorite, but this way I could avoid linguistic hassles.

  I didn't see any medium-sized dark cars in the parking lot. Maybe the guy had parked down the street. Nobody came in the front door, but it could be he was eyeing me surreptitiously through one of the diner's many windows. It felt creepy to sit by a window when somebody might be spying on me, but I figured I was just doing my job—acting as decoy.

  Twelve minutes later I got up and called home. No answer. Oy. Not only that, the machine gulped down my quarter. I hoped the phone hadn't woken up my kids. If it did, I hoped they wouldn't freak out. They'd never been left alone in the house before.

  The waitress came up to my booth. I said "coffee" and she nodded. Coffee is the universal language. What I really wanted was decaf, but that would probably be way too complex for this woman. After five minutes I got up and went to the phone again, then realized I was out of quarters. I contemplated asking the waitress for change for a dollar, then decided to use my calling card instead, even though that would cost me an extra buck or two. I dialed the thirty or so digits you're required to dial, then finally the phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times, and our answering machine came on. Damn, had the cops sent out a second car to our house, and had the car followed Andrea? Was she even now being processed at the police station for felony garbage theft in the first degree? Were our children at home by themselves, crying—

  The answering machine cut off suddenly. "Jacob?" Andrea said.

  Phew. "So you're not in Chief Walsh's greedy clutches?"

  "Nope, I got the trash bags. Just brought them in the house."

  "Nice work, Kinsey. I'll be right there. What took you so long, anyway?"

  "Your stupid car took ten minutes to start. I really think it’s time to buy a new one."

  "Did you caress the dashboard lovingly with one hand while you turned the key with the other? Try it next time," I said, and hung up. I paid for my doughnut with two dollar bills, giving the waitress the full fifty cents change for a tip. She hadn't acted quite surly enough for me to stiff her.

  I didn't spot any Ted Bundys or Kaczinskis lurking in the parking lot. But as I got in my car and drove home, I noticed my faithful new friend driving along right behind me.

  By now I had just about convinced myself it was a cop. Chief Walsh must have set this little trap for me, in case I got inspired to try any more late-night maneuvers—like, for instance, stealing somebody's garbage.

  Just in case I was mistaken, though, and my silent accompanist was some crazed marauder, I jumped out of the minivan as soon as I parked it and walked quickly into my house, locking the door behind me. I was still trying to act like I didn't know I was being followed, but at this point I doubt I was fooling anybody.

  Andrea was in the kitchen. She had a thousand crumpled pieces of paper of various types and colors on the table in front of her. "What exactly are we looking for?" she asked.

  I made sure all the window shades in the kitchen were pulled down all the way and nobody could look in. "Any paper that’s been torn," I suggested, remembering Ms. Helquist ripping up paper in her study before she threw it away.

  Then we heard a noise in the living room. We both froze. But then Latree ambled in. Looking a little disoriented, he sat down at the table and began reading one of Ms. Helquist's old credit card statements.

  I would have been ticked off at Latree, except I knew he was still asleep. We'd been through this many times before. I sat down and pulled him onto my lap, took the paper out of his hands, and gave him a hug.

  Gradually he woke up. I could see his eyes regain their focus. He yawned. "Hi, Daddy."

 
; "Hi, Latree. I'll carry you up to bed."

  Now he was fully awake. "Was I sleepwalking? What was I doing?" His somnambulism episodes always intrigued him.

  "Nothing too exciting, honey," his mom said, rubbing his back. "Do you want to hit the bathroom before you go back to bed?"

  "What time is it?"

  "Late," Andrea said. "Come on, I'll take you upstairs." She was trying to sound loving and calm, but she had an edge of desperation in her tone, which any parent who has ever struggled to put a kid to bed would instantly recognize.

  Latree wasn't buying her quasi calm for a second. He eyed the clock. "One-thirty? What are you guys doing up? What’s all this paper?"

  "It's nothing," I said, but Latree, ever the alert reader, saw Ms. Helquist’s name on the credit card statement.

  "Why's it say 'Hilda Helquist’ here? Are you solving the murder?"

  Andrea said, "We'll explain in the morning—"

  "Can I help?"

  "No," Andrea said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I said so." When Andrea was pregnant, we both vowed we'd never use that sentence with our kids. But of course, like most of our parenting vows, we break this one repeatedly.

  Latree was indignant, on the point of tears. "You never let me help. It’s not fair!"

  "Latree Burns, I'll give you up to three—" Andrea began—

  But I cut in. "Honey, maybe we should let him." Andrea shot me an irate look, like she always does when I contradict her in front of the children. "Look, he's wide awake, he's not going to sleep soon anyway," I said defensively. "And he can help us fit the torn pieces of paper together. He's good at puzzles. Better than we are."

  Andrea protested, and I had a feeling she'd be giving me heck as soon as the two of us were alone together, but I stuck to my guns. It was a good thing, too. Because half an hour later, it was Latree who gave us a big break in the case.

  The three of us had managed to fit together all twelve torn pieces of a yellow invoice from Staples Office Supply in Saratoga. The invoice looked pretty innocuous, though. It was for the purchase of four computers for the High Rock Elementary School library. Each computer was priced at $999, which seemed about right.

  "I don't see anything here," I said to Andrea, who was looking over my shoulder.

  "Me, neither."

  "What is it?" Latree asked.

  "Just an invoice," I replied, in the tone grown-ups use when we're signaling kids that something is too complicated to explain to them right now. "Let’s see what else we can find."

  "What’s an invoice?" Latree persisted.

  I wouldn't be surprised if Latree asks sixty questions a day, not thirty. By that estimate, in the last five years Latree has asked me one hundred ten thousand questions.

  Piecing together tiny crumpled pieces of paper at two in the morning had left me short on patience. "Latree—"

  "’Four Compaqs—High Rock School Library!’" Latree read aloud. "That means four computers, right?"

  "Right."

  "But the library only has three computers."

  I looked at Latree, then at Andrea.

  "What happened to the fourth computer?" our little logician continued.

  Good question. "Maybe it broke," Andrea said.

  "We never had four computers," said Latree.

  I closed my eyes. I was trying to visualize the computer I'd spotted in Ms. Helquist’s study at home. It was big and chunky—just like the three computers in the school library.

  It sure looked like good old Ms. Helquist had appropriated that fourth computer for herself.

  Had her boss found out?

  10

  The next day, Friday, Andrea got one of her colleagues to cover for her early-morning class at the community college. Then she came along to High Rock with me and the kids. She wanted to help me interrogate Ms. Helquist.

  In my previous scrapes with homicide, Andrea had never shown any interest in helping me interrogate people. She was happy to leave the dirty work to me. But I guess last night’s garbage bag follies had gotten her blood up.

  And I guess she wanted to do anything she could to get Laura off the hook. A twenty-year sentence would definitely disrupt their weekly bowling routine.

  I wasn't too excited about having Andrea along. I was afraid she'd cramp my style. But she wouldn't take no for an answer, so at eight-thirty that morning we were sitting together in my Toyota outside the school. We waited until all the bells had rung, all the kids were safely stashed away in their various classrooms, and Ms. Helquist was alone in her office. Then we walked in on her.

  She was sitting behind her desk, slicing open a thick brown packet she'd gotten in the mail. The return address was from Albany, I noted; probably the packet contained a mother lode of government memos.

  Ms. Helquist looked up and frowned. "May I help you?"

  For answer, I held up the computer invoice, which we had taped together.

  Ms. Helquist squinted at the yellow paper, then gave a start when she recognized it. "Where'd you get this?"

  I started to say something, but Andrea surprised me by taking over. "Mr. Meckel found out about you keeping a computer, didn't he?"

  "I can't believe this," Ms. Helquist sputtered angrily. "You went through my trash?"

  Andrea ignored her and pressed on. "And what happened then? He told you he'd have to fire you?"

  Ms. Helquist dropped her aggressive pose and said plaintively, "That’s not how it was. Not in the slightest. Mr. Meckel knew all along. It was his idea."

  "His idea for you to steal the school's computer?" said Andrea in disbelief.

  "It wasn't stealing. He knew I did a lot of work for the school at home. But he knew he couldn't get it approved by the superintendent as part of the budget, so he did it this way."

  "You don't really expect us to buy that, do you?" Andrea said. I was taken aback—and impressed—by how hard-nosed Andrea was acting. From now on I'd have to bring her along to all my interrogations.

  "Look, you have no idea how tight the budget is. Mr. Meckel wanted to give me a raise, but he couldn't. Getting me my own computer was his way of doing that."

  "If this whole thing was so innocent," said Andrea, "then why'd you rip up the invoice?"

  Ms. Helquist looked abashed. "Because there's gonna be a new principal, and I don't know how he'll react."

  I put in my two cents. "I don't suppose you have any proof Meckel was really going along with your little scam."

  "What difference does it make, anyway? It’s just a computer. If you feel that strongly about it, I'll bring it back to school."

  "What we're wondering," said Andrea, "is if you and Mr. Meckel got in an argument about this."

  Ms. Helquist looked exasperated. "I told you, Mr. Meckel—"

  "And then the argument got physical."

  Ms. Helquist’s head snapped back like she'd been punched in the jaw. "Are you…? That’s insane."

  "Ms. Helquist, I'm sure you didn't mean to hurt him," Andrea said. "The cops will understand that."

  I piled on with: "You really should go to the cops now, before they figure it out on their own. They’ll go easier on you."

  Ms. Helquist’s voice was shaking. "Look, I was at home that morning. I never came in."

  "Can anybody back you up on that?" Andrea said.

  "No, but—"

  "Then we'll have to go to the cops ourselves," I said. Andrea and I were turning into a pretty good one-two punch.

  "How can you do this to me? I've been a secretary at High Rock for twenty years. I've given my heart and soul to this school."

  Andrea and I glanced at each other. We felt rotten about ruining this lady's life, but did we have a choice?

  Then Ms. Helquist gave us one.

  "There is one other person who knew about the computer purchase," she said hesitantly. "He can tell you I did nothing wrong."

  "Who is this person?" Andrea said.

  "Scott Lawrence."

  The
name rang a bell. "He's on the school board, right? Is that how he found out?" I asked.

  "I guess, or else he found out because his son goes to High Rock. Anyway, I know he and Mr. Meckel had a conversation about the computer, because Mr. Meckel mentioned it. If you talk to Mr. Lawrence and he says I'm telling the truth about Mr. Meckel giving me the computer, then you won't have to talk to the cops, right?"

  Behind me, two cute little dark-haired girls came into Ms. Helquist’s office and waited for her attention. Andrea and I shared another look, wondering what our next move was.

  Finally I turned to Ms. Helquist. "We'll talk to this guy Lawrence. Then we'll get back to you."

  "And in the meantime," Andrea threw in, "we're going to need a list of all the students in the school who are being held back next year."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "That information's confidential."

  Andrea pointed at the invoice in my hand. "If you want us to keep this information confidential, then you better make up that list. Fax it to us. Today. Here's our fax number."

  Ms. Helquist stared at Andrea, openmouthed, as she jotted the number on a piece of paper. I was staring at her too. Where did her tough-guy routine come from?

  Then Andrea walked out. I followed her.

  As soon as we got outside I said, "Jeez, you were fierce in there."

  "You oughta see me when I catch a student plagiarizing. It’s not a pretty sight."

  I shuddered to think of it.

  The Saratoga Springs School Board is a far from inspiring bunch. At the time of Meckel's death, three of the board's seven members also belonged to an organization called the City Taxpayers Union. The CTU seems to believe that our children would be much better off if we eliminated all school art and music programs, closed the school libraries for most of the day, had at least forty students in every class, and paid our teachers minimum wage, or less.

  Two of the other board members were middle-aged Republican types with kids who were already in college. I wasn't clear what their agenda was. Maybe they hoped the school board would be a stepping-stone to higher elective office. But they'd never get my vote. I'd been to a couple of school board meetings, and I'd never seen them come up with any halfway interesting or creative ideas.