4 The Killing Bee

by Matt Witten

  "Don't worry, I'm sure they're all over at Ms. Helquist’s house."

  "Why would they be at Helquist’s house?"

  "She's dead. Please, go."

  Andrea gave me a look. I thought she was going to ask for more explanations, but all she said was, "Better give me your pants, too."

  I looked down. The knees were all red. I must have crawled through blood. "Good point."

  I washed my hands quickly to get a few remaining spots of blood off them, then removed my wallet and key and gave Andrea the pants. She put all the stuff in a big black garbage bag and took off.

  I went to the side door, where I had entered the house, and found a little blood there. I rubbed it off with some toilet paper, then flushed that down the toilet.

  I went upstairs and took a shower. Despite the hot water, I began shuddering uncontrollably at the memory of Ms. Helquist’s body. Finally the tremors subsided, and I got out of the shower. I sat down and picked the thorns out of my feet.

  By the time the police arrived, I was decked out in blue-and-white-striped pajamas and looked fresh as a daisy.

  11

  "To what do I owe the honor?" I asked Foxwell and Balducci, who were standing on my doorstep.

  "You mind if we come in?" said Foxwell.

  "Yes." I quickly stepped outside and closed the door.

  Balducci eyed my wet hair. "You just get out of the shower?"

  "You came here to inquire about my bathing habits?"

  "You always take a shower at night?"

  I nodded. "You should try it. It's a wonderful way to get rid of that workday stress."

  "Where were you tonight?" Foxwell asked.

  "I thought we already established I was in the shower. Come on, guys, what’s this all about?"

  "You were seen leaving your house about forty-five minutes ago," Balducci said. "Where did you go?"

  Oy. Had I really been seen sneaking out my back door? If that was true, I was in major trouble.

  But I gambled that Balducci was talking through his hat. With barely a split second's hesitation, I responded, "I haven't been out of the house all night. What, did somebody break into the school again?"

  Foxwell and Balducci exchanged a quick look. I realized with relief that they were uncertain whether or not to believe me. Then Balducci stepped toward me and put his face about six inches from mine. His acne scars danced before my eyes as he growled, "Look here, Burns—"

  But just at that moment the door behind me opened. Latree and Charizard stood there in the doorway gazing up worriedly at me and the cops.

  My little protectors threw Balducci off his game. He stopped in midgrowl and glared at the kids, then at me. Finally he said, "You better watch yourself," and strode off down the path to the cop car. Foxwell went with him.

  "Is everything okay, Dad?" Latree asked.

  "Sure," I said. And as long as the cops didn't find my fingerprints on Ms. Helquist’s front doorknob, or her bloody floor, or anywhere else in her house, then maybe things would continue to be okay. "Let’s go back inside."

  "How come the cops hate you so much, Daddy?" Charizard asked.

  "They don't hate me, Charizard, they just . . ."

  ". . . hate you," Latree said.

  "I think they're jealous, because they know you're gonna find the murderer and they won't," said Charizard.

  If only I were as all-powerful as Charizard thought.

  And if only I'd gone to Ms. Helquist’s house right at nine o'clock instead of nine twenty-five. Maybe I could have prevented her murder.

  Who did the evil deed, anyhow? Maybe the murderer found out Ms. Helquist knew something, and she was planning to tell me about it. So the murderer decided she had to be silenced before she spilled the beans.

  But what information did Ms. Helquist have?

  I kept coming back to one thing: her claim that Lawrence knew about her computer, and Lawrence's denial. I had gone to see him that morning; Ms. Helquist left me a message that afternoon; and she was killed that night. Was there a connection?

  I sure hoped so. If Scott Lawrence turned out to be involved in the murders, I wouldn't be too broken up.

  Whoever killed Ms. Helquist, one thing seemed certain: her killer wasn't somebody who just grabbed a convenient object and committed murder by accident. I was up against a cold-blooded killer.

  Fun, fun, fun.

  Shortly after the cops left, Andrea came back. She had dumped the bloody clothes in a Dumpster behind Price Chopper.

  I was in the middle of telling her all about my adventures at Ms. Helquist's when we got a frantic call from Laura. The police had arrived at her house, and they were taking her in to the police station for questioning about the new murder.

  So Andrea left the house again, this time to take care of Adam while Laura went off with the cops. I called Malcolm and woke him up, and he went off to the police station to head the cops off at the pass.

  As for myself, I went to bed. I never expected to get to sleep, but I surprised myself.

  I was beat.

  The next morning Laura made it back home, thanks to Malcolm's intervention and the cops' lack of evidence. Andrea made it back to our house in time for a quick change of clothes before she headed off to teach. Meanwhile I dropped the kids at school and then took off to see Patty Nichols, my friend who was a colleague of Lawrence's on the school board. Patty kept office space at a place on Broadway called the Creative Bloc. The Bloc was a second-story four-room office shared by eight or nine local artists and writers. Combined rent was only $800 per month, so the Blocheads were able to get by pretty cheaply.

  When I entered the Bloc, I was greeted warmly by Joe, a nationally known cartoonist, and Bonnie, a choreographer /writer/amateur boxer whom I once stabbed in the arm with a pitchfork—for good reason, I might add. But that little episode was forgotten now. Bonnie gave me a big hug that almost crushed three vertebrae. She'd been off the steroids for over a year, but she still didn't know her own strength. Joe gave me a handshake, which I vastly preferred. I find social hugging and kissing too complicated—how tight do you hug, do you just kiss the air, if not, which cheek do you kiss, etc.

  Joe and Bonnie sprayed me with questions about Meckel and Ms. Helquist. Word of the secretary's murder had spread through town, and Joe and Bonnie seemed to think I'd know something about it. I did, of course, but I was in no mood to let on.

  Eventually they gave up on pumping me for homicide info. "So, Jake, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?" Joe said.

  "You ready to join the Bloc yet?" Bonnie asked.

  "Not quite," I replied. I liked Joe and the other Blocheads, and I liked the idea of being part of this little community here. It would be nice to have a definite place to go to each morning. But since I wasn't doing any writing these days, there didn't seem to be any real point to it.

  Bonnie laid an earnest hand on my arm and gave me what she no doubt thought was a gentle squeeze. It would probably leave a welt. "You really should join," she said. "Just being around all this wonderful energy will inspire you."

  "I'm looking for Patty," I said in a not-too-subtle change of subject.

  "She's in there," Joe said, pointing to one of the inner offices. I broke away from Bonnie and went in.

  Patty looked up from her drawing. "Jake, hi, sit down. Did you hear about Hilda Helquist?"

  "Actually, that's why I'm here. But first, what can you tell me about Scott Lawrence?"

  She groaned. "Scott Lawrence? Why do you want to know about him?"

  "Humor me."

  "He's a picayune twerp. Our meetings have been twice as long ever since he joined the board."

  "How come?"

  "He's always bringing up inane side issues and obscure rules of procedure and points of order. He has a persecution complex or something. We can't even make it through the daily minutes without him raising his hand five times and complaining he was misquoted. But what's this about?"

  I proceeded to tell Pat
ty the whole story about the computer. She frowned in thought. With her prematurely gray hair and permanently worried expression, she looked like she took life far too seriously. Fortunately her art was much less dour than she was. "But why would Lawrence lie about this? And how could it have anything to do with the murder?"

  "You got me. But Ms. Helquist seemed sure that Lawrence knew. So what I'm wondering is, would a school board member have access to information about computer purchases?"

  "Not ordinarily."

  "Does H and R Block do any work for the school, helping them fill out tax forms or whatever?"

  She shook her head no. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because that's where Lawrence works."

  "I didn't know that. He must've switched jobs."

  I got a premonition. "Where'd he used to work?" I asked.

  "Staples." My face split into a mile-wide grin. "What’s so funny?"

  I stood up. "If this guy feels persecuted," I said, "he ain't seen nothing yet."

  "Good to see you again," Scott Lawrence greeted me when I walked in. There was anxiety in his eyes, which he tried to hide with an ingratiating smile. "So you decided you need tax help after all?"

  "How long have you been at H and R Block?" I asked.

  "Long enough," he promised. His short, compact frame was encased in a shiny brown polyester suit. He looked like an undercooked hot dog. "I'm fully dedicated to serving my clients' needs."

  "Three months? Four months?"

  "Something like that," he admitted. "But that’s to your advantage. You want a lean, hungry, aggressive accountant who will work overtime to save you money."

  "And on January twenty-nine of this year, you were working where?" I said.

  Lawrence's face clouded over.

  "You worked at Staples, didn't you? In fact, you filled out this invoice, right?" I said, showing it to him.

  He scratched his ear, perhaps hoping that would stimulate some ideas. But I guess it didn't help, because he remained silent.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He gave me that sickly looking ingratiating smile again. "Because I didn't want to speak ill of a dead man. Whatever Meckel did, it’s over now."

  "How did you figure out something fishy was going on?"

  He shrugged modestly. "It was easy. Hilda Helquist called up and ordered those four computers. Then I was in the library a couple weeks later for the school open house, and I noticed there were only three computers there. So I asked Meckel about it."

  "And what did he say?"

  "He hemmed and hawed for a while, then finally he explained his reasons for giving his secretary a home computer. Personally, I thought he was wrong, but I decided not to make an issue out of it."

  "That's hard to believe," I said.

  Lawrence stared at me.

  "From what I hear, you'd make a federal case out of it if somebody borrowed a pencil from the school and forgot to bring it back."

  "Hey, you can believe whatever you want—"

  "If you exposed a school principal for misusing funds, your little taxpayers' group would turn you into an instant local hero. You'd be so famous around here your tax business would double."

  "Maybe you should leave—"

  "Maybe you should tell me the truth."

  "I already did." He lifted his palms and attempted an innocent, pleading look. "Mr. Burns, you gotta remember, I have a fourth-grade kid in that school. I don't want to make waves, give anybody a reason to treat my kid badly."

  Horse manure. This guy loved to make waves. But how could I break him? "Who's your kid's teacher?" I asked.

  "Elena Aguilera."

  Good—maybe Elena could give me some dirt on this guy. I stood up. "One last thing."

  He gripped the edge of the table nervously. "Yeah?"

  "What did Hilda Helquist have on you?"

  "Nothing," he squeaked.

  "Then why'd you kill her?"

  Lawrence just sat there and stared at me, his eyes popping. Then I walked out of the room.

  I told myself I'd asked him that last question so I could gauge his reaction. But to be totally honest, maybe I just enjoyed terrorizing the guy.

  Sometimes I wonder what kind of person this sleuthing business is turning me into.

  I had the tables turned on me about five minutes later when Dave Mackerel cocked his head and asked me, "So why did you kill Hilda Helquist?"

  The bad news was, Dave Mackerel was a cop. The good news was, he was my friend and he was just razzing me.

  We were sitting in the cozy back room of Madeline's Espresso Bar, sipping cappuccinos. I wasn't surprised to run into Dave there, because he was engaged to Madeline herself. He spent a lot of time in that back room.

  Dave was the one cop in Saratoga I really liked. He was also the only black cop in the department. I think his outsider status gave him a healthy perspective and a dollop of extra sympathy for people.

  In addition to introducing Dave to Madeline, I'd also solved a murder for him once or twice. Unlike Chief Walsh and the others, he had actually acknowledged my help. I figured that gave me the right to ask him stuff, so I said, "What’s the thinking at HQ? Strictly on the QT, of course."

  "Sorry, I can't divulge that information."

  "Come on, Dave, is this any way to treat the man who introduced you to your future bride?"

  Dave sighed. "You always say that. How long are you going to keep using that line on me?"

  "As long as it works."

  "Well, I gotta tell you, the primary suspect in this new murder is Laura Braithwaite. We find anything at all tying her to Helquist, she's gonna get her bail revoked. Even if we don't find anything, Walsh is gonna try to stick her back in jail, make sure she doesn't go for victim number three."

  "You guys are wasting your time with Laura," I said. "She's more likely to fly to the moon than shoot somebody in the head."

  "Her alibi is nonexistent."

  "So's her motive. Look, Dave, while you guys screw around and ignore other suspects and threaten to put her in jail, her kid is going through major trauma. His dad died of a drug overdose a while back. I wish you guys would think about that when you make these accusations."

  "Fact is, Chief Walsh and all the rest of them would love to bust you for the murder. They just can't seem to think of a motive for you, either."

  "How about, Meckel and Ms. Helquist and I were involved in a particularly sordid love triangle?"

  "Sounds good. I'll run it by them."

  "Tell me, have the cops been doing surveillance on me?" Dave hesitated, so I said, "I just want to know if some crazed killer has been on my tail."

  "Don't ever tell anyone I told you," Dave said, "but yes, we've been tailing you off and on. Manpower permitting."

  So I'd been right about my late-night pal who accompanied me to the Spa City Diner. I shifted gears. "They find any fingerprints on the gun, or other exciting stuff?" I wanted to ask if they'd found any shoe prints, but I refrained. My trust for Dave went only so far.

  "All we have on the gun is smudges, like somebody wiped it off on their shirt or something."

  "Hmm," I pondered. "I wonder if the killer also wiped prints off the trophy, after killing Meckel."

  "We can't be sure the same person killed both of them."

  "True. Have you traced the gun?"

  "Sure did. It belonged to Helquist herself."

  "You're kidding. Somehow I can't picture old Hilda as a pistol-packing mama."

  "Hey, a single woman living alone. . . ."

  "So what do you figure happened?" I pictured the scene in my head. "Somebody knocks on her door, and she answers it with a gun in her hand. Then whoever it is grabs the gun, shoots her, and leaves her for dead in the front hall."

  Dave brought his cup down from his lips, spilling some cappuccino on the table. "How'd you know she died in the front hall?"

  Whoops. "You must’ve told me."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Then I must have read it
in the Saratogian," I said with feigned casualness.

  "That little detail wasn't in the Saratogian. We kept it back."

  "Then Foxwell or Balducci must’ve mentioned it last night when they were interrogating me."

  Dave's nose narrowed a little, like he had just encountered an unpleasant smell. He didn't believe me for a second, and he was still trying to decide whether to press me on it when Gretchen Lang walked up. We had made a date to meet at Madeline's so I could give her the winning poems.

  I excused myself from Dave's table and walked off with Gretchen. Dave watched me from underneath quizzical eyebrows.

  "So was I right or was I wrong?" Gretchen was saying as we sat down at a corner table. "Weren't the poems marvelous?"

  "I got a tad weary of reading about how pretty flowers and butterflies are."

  "You're just saying that. Admit it, you loved the poems."

  Actually it was true, I did enjoy them. I opened up my folder full of prize-winning literature. "And the grand winner for Grade 1 is . . . drum roll, please . . . Gabe Carlson!"

  I handed the poem to Gretchen. She read aloud,

  If all the snowflakes

  Were cookies and lemon cakes,

  I wouldn't care about freezing and sneezing,

  I'd lay outside

  With my mouth open wide.

  "That is fabulous," Gretchen said happily. "Great choice. I knew I could count on you."

  I gave her the rest of the winners, and she chirped with pleasure. The way she acted, you'd have thought Saratoga Springs was a veritable hotbed of young T. S. Eliots.

  Then she checked her watch and got up to go. "I have to run down to the Saratogian and tell them who the winners are, so they can put it in tomorrow's paper."

  I glanced over at Dave's table. He was still dawdling there, and I had a feeling that as soon as Gretchen left he'd come over and talk to me some more about Ms. Helquist’s death. Not that Dave would be trying to bust me exactly, but he might get a little too curious.

  So I said to Gretchen, "I'll walk you over there," and left the espresso bar with her. We headed down Broadway toward the newspaper office.