4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

  The remaining two members were the school board's saving grace, the kind of people who almost restore your faith in democracy. They were both mothers of young school-age children who actually seemed to care about improving the schools. I knew one of these women, a freelance graphic artist named Patty, so I called her now. She wasn't in, so I tried the other woman, whose name was in the phone book. She was standoffish at first, but after I told her I had voted for her last time and gotten all my friends to vote for her too, she opened up some. She informed me that Scott Lawrence worked for H & R Block in town.

  We drove downtown and parked outside the H & R Block building, which is hands down the ugliest building on Broadway. It was built about forty or fifty years ago, during a particularly ill-conceived urban-renewal project. Next to the grand old edifices that occupy the rest of the street, the H & R Block building looks short, squat, and Styrofoamish.

  All of these adjectives also applied to Scott Lawrence, who rose to greet us with a plastic smile imprinted on his face. Lawrence was one of the leading bozos of the City Taxpayers Union. You'd think that with a kid in elementary school, he'd realize the CTU's ideals were incompatible with good public education. But I guess he found some way to delude himself.

  "Pleased to meet you," Lawrence said, beaming. "Sit down, sit down. Your names are…?"

  "I'm Jacob Burns and this is my wife, Andrea."

  Lawrence lifted his eyebrows. "You're the screenwriter, aren't you? Loved your movie. Bet it complicated your financial life, though, right?" He was off and running. "I do taxes for several other writers in town, so I'm well aware of the unique issues writers face—"

  "Actually, we're not here about taxes. We're here about this." I showed him the invoice from Staples.

  Lawrence took it and checked it out for a couple of moments, then gave us a puzzled look. "I don't understand. This is an invoice of some sort."

  Andrea said, "We're trying to confirm something Hilda Helquist told us. She says you were aware of a certain computer purchase the school made."

  Lawrence threw out a little laugh. "As a member of the school board I do try to keep close tabs on where the taxpayers' money goes. I consider that an important responsibility. But I don't keep track of every single equipment purchase. That would be a little extreme, even for me." He examined the invoice more closely. "Where did you get this, anyway? And why is it ail torn up?"

  "It’s a long story."

  "I see." He handed the invoice back. "Well, sorry I can't help you."

  Andrea and I got up. "Thank you for your time," Andrea said.

  Lawrence put on his big fake smile again and shook our hands. "Any time. And if you ever need help with your C form, let me know. Do you take a home office deduction?"

  "We'll talk later," I said, and eased on out of the room.

  On the sidewalk, Andrea asked me, "So who's lying—him or Helquist?"

  "I'll say him, because I dislike him more. Though I can't imagine why he'd want to lie."

  "Or how he would've found out. He's right—the school board members can't get involved in every little purchase."

  "So any ideas where we go now?"

  "You tell me, you're the sleuth."

  "Hey, you've been looking pretty smooth yourself," I said.

  Andrea kissed me. "I enjoyed sleuthing with you."

  "The family that sleuths together stays together."

  She checked her watch. "Unfortunately, I'm late for my office hours. So you better just drive me back home, and I'll get my car."

  On the way home we threw out ideas, but none of them seemed any good. "Okay, Jake," Andrea told me as we were saying good-bye, "I expect you to solve the crime before I get back."

  "No sweat."

  After Andrea drove off, I went in the house and checked for phone messages. There were none, but there was a fax. From Ms. Helquist.

  I picked it up. This was the list of High Rock kids who had been held back. There were nine names on it. I scanned them quickly. Mark Robinson's name wasn't among them.

  I scanned the list again, slower this time. When I came to the third name from the bottom, my eyes stopped cold.

  Megan Powell. Susie's younger daughter.

  Sam Meckel had decided that Megan would have to repeat first grade.

  I wondered how Susie Powell felt about that.

  Probably not too good.

  I wish Andrea was still with me, I thought as I drove up to Susie's house. I wouldn't have minded sticking her with this job. My last little chat with Susie had been none too pleasant.

  She lived in a development west of town that was similar to Sherwood Forest. The houses were a little bigger and the roads a little windier. Susie's corporate husband must be making high five figures by now, maybe even low six. I rang the front doorbell. It chimed cheerfully. But Susie didn't look too cheerful when she opened the door and saw me.

  "Now what?" she said.

  "Susie, I don't know how to say this. . . ."

  "Just say it."

  I tried the light touch. "Well, I just found out about another little murder motive you had."

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized they didn't sound nearly as light as I'd intended. In fact, they sounded about as light as an Al Gore campaign speech.

  Susie knew exactly what I was getting at. "You heard about Megan getting held back."

  "Yes."

  We both stood there in the doorway. She didn't invite me in; I guess she wasn't feeling too warmly toward me. Not that I really wanted to go in, anyway. Accusing people of murder always makes me feel socially awkward.

  "Look, I met with Meckel last week, after I got his letter. We worked it out."

  "How'd you do that?"

  "He was amazingly reasonable. We agreed Megan would get special tutoring this summer, and then she could go to second grade next year."

  "Was anybody else aware of this arrangement?"

  Susie flushed. "Just me and Meckel, as far as I know."

  Well, well, well. So now both Susie and Ms. Helquist had told me stories that couldn't be confirmed or denied, since Meckel was dead. If Susie's story were true, that would have decreased her desire to kill the man. But should I believe her? The woman had depths inside her that I had never suspected. "I don't understand. Why didn't you tell me or Elena or Barry or somebody what was going on with Megan?"

  "Because we're always talking about our gifted kids. I didn't really feel like sharing about my low-achieving kid."

  "That’s a little weird, Susie. I mean, we're friends."

  "I can't help it. It would've felt disloyal to Megan." Susie's voice was pained. "I keep hoping her problems are just temporary, and she'll have an intellectual growth spurt or something. Just get into reading all of a sudden, like some kids do."

  "How long have you been concerned about her?" My question arose partly out of friendship, but mostly out of fishing around to see how distraught she'd been. Distraught enough to bop somebody with a spelling bee trophy?

  "I've known something was wrong since last September. I kept telling her teacher, Ms. Merritt. But she kept saying no, everything's fine, Megan'll catch up."

  A school year's worth of pent-up frustrations were boiling over now. "But I saw what all the other kids in class were doing. They were reading actual books and all Megan could really do was recognize letters. So I told Meckel I wanted to get an assessment. They're required by state law to do it, you know. So he promised he'd have her assessed.

  "But then the reading teacher went on maternity leave. And it took them more than a month to find a new one, and she was only here two days a week, and she was swamped. And things kept getting put off and put off. . . . Until finally I get that goddamn letter from Meckel. Saying the same thing I'd been saying all year, that Megan needed special help. Except I couldn't get anyone to listen to me."

  "That sounds like a horrible experience," I said. "But at least now she's getting help. I'm sure she'll be alright."

  "Yeah.
No thanks to Meckel or Merritt or any of the rest of them."

  I looked at Susie, with her freckled nose, clean white T-shirt, and trendy running shorts.

  She didn't look like a killer.

  That and sixty cents will get you a chocolate bar.

  I drove the old Camry back down Broadway. I really wanted to return to Ms. Helquist’s office. That way I could confront her with Scott Lawrence's denial that he knew anything about the computers.

  I also wanted to ask Ms. Helquist about this supposed agreement between Susie and Meckel. Susie thought no one but Meckel knew about it, but I was hoping that Ms. Helquist knew. Secretaries know everything.

  Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to mine Ms. Helquist for knowledge just yet. Much as my Camry groaned in protest, I had to go back to prison for another rehearsal. Opening night for the inmate-written one-acts was next week, so we had an extra rehearsal today.

  As soon as I walked into class, I knew something was wrong. Brooklyn was cussing and gesticulating and acting generally frenzied. I walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. "What’s up, Brooklyn?"

  "I'll tell you what’s up. Omar can't act in my play anymore. The motherfuckers in administration transferred him to Greene."

  "You're kidding." Greene was another medium-security prison, down below Albany.

  "No, I ain't. Sonufabitch left this morning. And he was just getting good, too."

  I shared Brooklyn's frustration. This business of students getting transferred out in midsemester had been happening way too frequently in the past year or two. I'd start a semester with twenty students, and wind up with eight or nine by the end.

  All the statistics show that giving prisoners an education is the single best way to keep them from going back to a life of crime after they get out. But the powers that be didn't seem to care about that. They treated these guys' education like it didn't matter.

  "I guess we better go to Plan B, Brooklyn. You got the part."

  "Yeah, I know," he grumbled. "I was hoping to sit in the audience and just watch my play."

  Once we made it through that crisis, and a couple of more minor ones, we had a decent rehearsal. Brooklyn was terrific, like I knew he'd be. We had a semi-retarded guy in one part who kept forgetting his cues, but the other guys covered for him so well that his screwups were unnoticeable. The semi-retarded guy's mom was coming up from the Bronx next week to see the show, and his fellow inmates were already focused on making sure he looked good in front of her. It was sweet to see.

  After rehearsal, I did my usual routine of hurrying out of there so I'd be in time to pick up my kids at the bus stop. Working in jail always makes me treasure my kids even more.

  The kids and I went out to the driveway to play a little b-ball. I did better this time, only losing thirty-two to eight.

  Andrea came home during the game, and I was planning to head over to Ms. Helquist’s house as soon as the game was over. But when I went inside to wash up, there turned out to be a message on my machine from the woman herself. "Mr. Bums," her voice said, "this is Hilda Helquist. I need to talk to you about something. I'll be at my bridge club until nine. Could you come over after that? Thanks." Beep.

  Was Ms. Helquist going to confess to the murder? Dubious at best. Maybe she had come up with some kind of evidence against somebody else. I called her at home, but there was nobody there.

  I checked my watch. Nine o'clock was three and a half hours away. How would I while away the time? Maybe I should cook supper. God knows Andrea wouldn't mind if I took care of that for once—

  But my cooking plans were interrupted by the next phone message. "Jacob, this is Gretchen," the voice said. "Just calling to remind you we're announcing the poetry prizes tomorrow. So you need to call me first thing in the morning with the winners. Okay? I really appreciate it."

  Oh phooey, I'd forgotten all about that dam poetry. I erased all my phone messages, but that didn't erase my responsibilities. Maybe I should just pick the winners at random, like I'd threatened to. I could be a Dadaist judge.

  But my conscience wouldn't allow me to do that. So while Andrea gave the kids a snack I went upstairs, found the stack of poems in the drawer of my night table where I'd stashed them a few days ago, and began reading. The first poem was entitled "Corn."

  Corn, I love you, you're so great.

  For a week, you were all I ate!

  Oh corn, sweet corn, I love you, I do.

  You'll be my favorite food until I'm through.

  Well, nobody could ever argue this poem didn't have a clear, well-thought-out point of view. And it rhymed. I turned to the next poem, "Spring."

  Spring,

  Birds flying everywhere!

  Flowers and beans are growing too.

  The most beautiful season of all,

  Especially for kids named Paul.

  You can probably guess the first name of the kid that wrote this poem. I smiled and picked up another one.

  Bad men walk the earth.

  They're mean from their very birth.

  They yell at kids and they steal their stuff.

  It’s time to say we've had enough,

  And if we have to, we'll get tough.

  Hmm, kind of a change of pace. Not the most rhythmic piece of writing, but it had a nice shit-kicking quality to it. This kid could grow up to be the next Abbie Hoffman, or Che Guevara. I checked the signature at the bottom. Then I did a double take.

  This ode was penned by none other than Mark Robinson.

  "They yell at kids and they steal their stuff. . . ." That must mean Mark's skateboard.

  "It’s time to say we've had enough, / And if we have to, we'll get tough. . . ." Interesting.

  Maybe Ms. Helquist would have some insight into the whole skateboard incident, in addition to whatever else she was planning to tell me. At nine twenty-five, as soon as we put the kids to bed, I took off for her house. I was afraid the cops—or whoever—might be doing surveillance on me again, so I slipped out the back door and cut across some backyards. Then I doubled backward and around to see if anybody was following me. Nobody was. Feeling pretty slick, I went up to Ms. Helquist’s house and knocked on her door.

  No answer. I knocked again, but still no go. Was Ms. Helquist staying late at her bridge club? But it looked like there were a couple of lights on at the back of the house. Maybe she'd had second thoughts about inviting me over, and was hiding from me again. I turned the doorknob, thinking that if it was unlocked I'd step into the hallway and call out Ms. Helquist’s name.

  The knob turned, alright, and I went into the hallway. But before I could call out her name, I tripped over something. Something large and solid. I fell headlong to the floor.

  Right next to Ms. Helquist’s prone body.

  It was a little hard to make out in the dim hallway, but I was pretty sure that’s what it was. I let out a strangled scream. Then I jumped up... and slipped on something wet, and tripped over Ms. Helquist’s left foot. I went down again.

  I crawled far enough away from Ms. Helquist’s body that I felt safe, then got up again. This time I was able to stay up.

  I looked down at the body. I wasn't certain it was Ms. Helquist, or that she was really dead. Carefully avoiding bumping into the body, I eased my way along the wall back to the front door. I closed the door, felt around for a light switch, and finally found one. I turned it on.

  It was Ms. Helquist. And she was dead, no question about that. There was a big red hole in her chest, and a gun nearby on the floor.

  And that wetness I'd stepped in was Ms. Helquist’s fresh blood.

  I was about to give in to the horror of it all and begin puking or fainting or something when I heard a police siren blaring. It was coming closer. Had some neighbor called about the gunshot? Oh, God. Just what I needed—a murder rap. Terror took over from horror, and I ran for the back door. Then I remembered something—the blood I'd slipped on. I went back to the front hall. Sure enough, my shoe prints were in the fresh blood.r />
  No doubt I was one of the usual suspects that Chief Walsh would look at first for this murder. When he matched those prints to my shoes, he'd be in hog heaven.

  I ripped off my old orange polo shirt. I swirled it around in the blood, just enough to obscure my shoe print. As I did this, I silently asked Ms. Helquist for forgiveness. Then I dashed once again to the rear door.

  When I got there, another thought struck me. I looked down at the floor. It was just as I had feared: my bloody shoes were still making prints.

  That cop car must be parked by now. The cops were probably hurrying up the front walk.

  I kicked off my shoes, then raced back toward the body, swabbing shoe prints as I went. Then I swabbed quickly at the light switch, where I'd maybe left fingerprints. It was possible I was swabbing the murderer's fingerprints too, but I couldn't help that.

  There was a knock on the front door. I ran to the back door, reaching down to grab my shoes. Another knock. The door was still unlocked—they'd be coming in any second. I wrapped the bloody shirt around my right hand so I wouldn't leave fingerprints, and opened the back door. Then I slipped out and closed the door behind me.

  Wearing my socks and pants, I ran through Ms. Helquist's backyard. My feet were attacked by thorns from her rosebushes. I vaulted over her back fence.

  Then I made my circuitous way home, once again availing myself of the West Side backyards. I didn't want anybody seeing me running down the street carrying my bloody shirt and shoes. That's the kind of thing that can get misunderstood.

  When I came in the side door to our house, Andrea was at the sink doing dinner dishes. She dropped her sponge when she saw me.

  "Jacob," she said. She was so alarmed she looked comical, but I didn't laugh.

  I spoke rapidly. "Andrea, here's the deal. A, I didn't kill anyone. B, I want you to take this shirt and these shoes, put them in a bag, and get rid of them."

  "Now?"

  "That would be good."

  "What about the cops? If I try to drive out of here, don't they have us under surveillance?"