She jerks her hand away. “Don’t talk to me about statistics. You found that girl in Virginia. Now find my daughter.”
“Fine.” This is going to be a banner afternoon. “Let’s get started.”
The Wagners and I spend the next half hour discussing their daughter. Everything I learn about her makes me like the girl more, even as the sinking feeling there’s nothing anyone can do grows in my mind. An honor student and captain of the cheerleading squad, Julianna also held the lead in the school play the last two years and even volunteers at a local soup kitchen every other weekend. All that, and somehow she’s managed to pull it all off without the entire school hating her guts. A pang of jealousy stabs at my gut like the tip of a rapier.
Jealousy of a seventeen-year-old girl who is most likely dead in a shallow grave off a back road in rural North Carolina.
That’s great, Mira. Just great.
The Wagners touch briefly on Julianna’s relationship with Jason Faircloth. In an effort to maintain the Faircloths’ confidentiality, I fight the urge to delve further. The image of their daughter’s pale face staring up at me from the dark soil of Hartmann’s farm, however, will not leave my mind. No matter what anyone says or does, it’s only a matter of time till these two mysteries collide.
The discussion turns when we get to the night of the disappearance. As Archer said, the last anyone saw Julianna was during the football game the last Friday of September. She apparently went to fetch something from her car just before the second half and never came back. Detective Sterling assures me they’ve searched the school grounds top to bottom and haven’t recovered anything of interest. Bolger hands me transcripts of Julianna’s incoming and outgoing texts from that night. The reason why they brought Jason Faircloth in a second time practically leaps off the page.
I know it’s been a while, but can you meet me at half time? You know the place. –J
The text, sent from Jason’s number, is answered with a simple “K” and a winky face. Pretty damning evidence, other than the fact Jason claims his phone went missing two days before the game, not to mention his relatively airtight alibi. Not surprisingly, the longer the conversation surrounds the eldest of the Faircloth brood, the more it seems a gasket in Stuart Wagner’s head is about to blow.
“Mr. Wagner, if I may ask, why does talking about Jason Faircloth make you so angry? He was stuck at home with a stomach bug the night your daughter disappeared and according to Detective Sterling, isn’t even under suspicion at this time.”
“I don’t give a shit where that kid says he was or anything about his phone going missing. The evidence is right there in black and white and no one will do a damn thing about it.”
“Calm down, Mr. Wagner,” Sterling says. “We’ve already brought Jason Faircloth in for questioning twice and he was cooperative on both occasions. His story checks out. His mother was with him at his house all the way across town not ten minutes from the time Julianna was last seen. Not to mention the cell tower where that text originated is all the way up in the University area, a good forty minutes from the Faircloth home. I know you’re frustrated, but the boy is no longer a suspect.”
“I know, I know.” Mr. Wagner pounds the table. “My only daughter has been missing for a month and the best we’ve got are some dead end cell phone transcripts and ‘Miss Cleo’ from Virginia here. Pardon me if I’m just a little upset.”
Detective Bolger, who has remained atypically quiet throughout the interview, steps in.
“That’s enough for today.” He sees the Wagners to the door. “We’ll let you know if we develop any new leads.”
Mrs. Wagner flashes me one last desperate look. “Don’t judge us, Ms. Tejedor. Stuart and I are doing the best we can. Please, if there’s anything you can do, help them find our daughter.”
I offer a simple nod. “I’ll do everything I can. Promise.”
Bolger escorts them from the room, leaving me alone with Sterling.
“That went well.” I can tell from Sterling’s half smile he’s trying to be funny.
“Actually, it went very well, aside from the fact Mr. Wagner doesn’t think I could find a cheeseburger at McDonalds.”
“Like Mrs. Wagner said, they’re both under a lot of stress. Since Julianna disappeared, everything’s fallen apart. He can’t keep up with his law practice. His clients are pulling out left and right. His wife won’t stop crying. Bad news all around.”
“I’m not here to cause them more pain.”
“And they know that.” He rises from his seat. “Do you have a few minutes to review some additional information about the case?”
“I wanted to get to the other stuff today, but we’ll have to do it tomorrow afternoon. I have an important appointment across town.” I glance down at my grandmother’s watch and let out a frustrated laugh. “And it looks like I’m going to be late for that one too.”
I arrive at Anthony’s school near the end of the day and navigate a sea of minivans and SUV’s before finding a parking space in the far visitor’s lot. Afraid I’ll miss Anthony’s teacher, I jog up the sidewalk, stopping momentarily to inspect a makeshift memorial by the front door. Several yards in diameter, the mound of notes, mementos, photos, flowers, and half-burned candles surrounds a tripod with a picture of Julianna Wagner in full cheerleader regalia. Half a dozen students stand staring at the photograph, their expressions frozen somewhere between shock and sorrow. A sharp balsamic tang fills my senses and I head for the school before the overpowering wave of teenage grief gives me a headache.
As I enter the school, I’m struck by a quality rarely found in high schools.
The quiet.
I’ve attended livelier funerals.
A clump of students drifts past like extras from a zombie movie. The janitor, a few years past his prime and no doubt a few pounds heavier, mans his mop, the melancholy whistle escaping his pursed lips the soundtrack for the depressing scene. The entire place reeks of mothballs and old scotch, my brain’s weirdo shorthand for mourning.
“Can I help you, miss?” Hunched over his mop and bucket, the janitor stares at me with his one good eye while the other appears to take in a bulletin board on the wall to my right. “You a parent?” He winks at me with the good eye. “Or maybe someone’s older sister?”
I sniff the air. He’s a flirt all right, but nothing more sinister below the surface as best I can tell. “Actually, I’m here on business. I need to speak to one of the teachers. Ms. Veronica Sayles?”
He gestures to the hallway directly behind me. “Office is that way. They can probably help you more than me.”
“Thanks.”
As I turn to leave, a barely audible whisper hits my ears. “Careful turning over rocks. You never know what you might find underneath.”
I spin and catch him staring at me with his lopsided gaze. “Excuse me. What did you say?”
“Nothing worth repeating, ma’am.” And with that, he turns away and resumes mopping the floor outside the cafeteria. I fight the urge to question him further and instead head for the office as he suggested.
I’ve gone three steps down the hall when the bell rings, dismissing school for the day. Children pour from rooms like ants and rush past me. I wait for the river of adolescent hormones to ebb and head for the office.
As I step through the door, a woman in an out-of-season sweater glances up from a heated phone conversation and motions to a spiral bound notebook resting on the counter. “Visitors Sign In Please” is printed across the cover. Grabbing a pen, I flip through the pages until I find an open line and sign in.
“May I help you?” The woman cups her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.
“I’m looking for Ms. Sayles. Ninth grade.”
“Are you a parent or family of a student?”
“Actually, no. I’m here on business.”
“Ms. Sayles might be a while.” She gestures to a complex looking spreadsheet hanging on the wall. “She’s got bus duty every afternoon t
his week.”
“And where is that?”
“Oh, you don’t want to go out there, honey. Those bus fumes could choke an elephant.”
“What would you suggest, then? It’s important I talk to her today.”
“You can wait in her classroom, I suppose. Not sure if she goes to her car straight from the buses or not, though.”
“That will be fine.” Following the woman’s directions, I head back out into the hall and hang a left. The crowd of children has dissipated, leaving but a few stragglers. I wander the hallways, doing my best to remember the series of lefts, rights, and stairs.
Funny how all high schools look the same. The dilapidated lockers. The scuffed floors that never seem to come clean. The ubiquitous water stained ceiling tiles at every turn. Isabella will be navigating halls like this in just a few short years. My heart shrinks with dread.
I come to Sayles’ room and a familiar scent works its way through my mind. It’s the pungent aroma I picked up off Anthony and to a lesser degree, Rachel. It only makes sense. Until three weeks ago, this was Anthony’s classroom.
I step into the empty room and flip on the lights. A bulletin board filled with student’s stories and projects catches my eye. Anthony’s all but jumps out at me from across the room and I move closer to examine it further. A good five times thicker than any other project on the board, the cover sports a pencil sketch of the witch who chased me from Anthony’s mind just twenty-four hours ago. Perched atop her ancient mortar, she holds the pestle before her and grins with that pit of iron blades she calls a mouth. Even sketched in No. 2 pencil, those opaque eyes send a shudder through me.
Unable to face even the two-dimensional version of the witch, I turn my gaze away only to find Madame Versailles from the Tuileries garden staring back at me from a frame atop the filing cabinet by the teacher’s desk. Dressed in the dark robes of a graduation ceremony, she appears to be accepting some sort of award. The open smile on her face in sharp contrast to the sardonic grin her dreamscape doppelganger wore in Anthony’s Exhibition, the woman in the photograph is simply beautiful, the last word I would have used to describe Antoine’s teacher in the Tuileries picture.
Washing over me like a balmy wind before a thunderstorm, a wave of frustration approaches from hallway. The clacking of heels echoes in the hallway grows louder with every step till a woman I’ve only met before in a boy’s mind strides past me and into the room. Her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she doesn’t notice me as she grabs an eraser and starts to clear her whiteboard.
“Excuse me,” I ask. “Ms. Sayles?”
She jumps at the sound of my voice and spins to face me. “Can I help you?”
“You’re Veronica Sayles, Anthony Faircloth’s teacher?”
“That’s me.” Her brow furrows. “Is Anthony all right?”
“Depends on your definition of all right.”
“He hasn’t been in school for the last month.” The color runs from her face. “Tell me he hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.”
“No. He’s stable, more or less.” We meet in the middle of the room, her grip firm as she shakes my hand. “My name is Mira Tejedor. I’m here at Caroline Faircloth’s request. I’m a consultant, working with Anthony’s doctors as we get to the bottom of what’s ailing him.”
“You know, his last day in class was one of his best. I’m sure Caroline’s told you Anthony’s not like the other kids.”
“She has, though I didn’t need her to tell me Anthony is special.”
“That Friday was the day the kids presented their short stories. Part of our recent push to reincorporate the arts into our curriculum. I remember Anthony’s well. What it lacked in grammar and structure was more than made up for in sheer imagination.”
My mouth turns up in an undoubtedly knowing grin. “Do tell.”
“As good as any action movie I’ve seen. Knights. Maidens. Dragons. Witches. The requirement was for five pages. What Anthony turned in would qualify as a novella.”
“From what I know about Anthony, that’s not surprising.” A scent like fresh-baked bread drifts through my consciousness, lending a genuine flavor to her concern.
Sayles pulls a tissue from the box on her desk and dabs at the corner of her eye. “You know, for all his oddities, the kid’s kind of a genius. His Asperger’s, or whatever his therapist is calling it this week, is definitely a two-edged sword, though. He placed out of two grades in elementary school, putting him far ahead of others his age, but that’s left him stuck in a class where everyone is two years older than him. From an academic standpoint, he was more than holding his own, but I’ve seen fourth graders that can outmaneuver him in social circles. I used to thank God every day his brother was on the football team. Probably the only thing that’s saved him from his fair share of poundings.”
“One constant in high school.” I raise an eyebrow. “Kids are cruel.”
“Truth.” She sits atop one of the student desks and motions for me to join her. “So, Ms. Tejedor. How can I help you?”
“Honestly, I’m here gathering information. I thought talking to his teacher might shed some light. I assume Caroline told you he’s not talking.”
“Last I heard, he hadn’t said a word since the night when everything went to hell.”
A new scent plays against the pleasant bakery aroma from before. Faint, like the chlorine smell of an indoor swimming pool.
“And what night is that?”
“The night when Julianna Wagner went missing,” she says. “She and Anthony were close, you know.”
“I know she used to date Anthony’s brother, but I hadn’t heard anything about her relationship with Anthony.”
“Caroline never wanted to hear it, but I suspect a lot of what Anthony’s going through has to do with Julianna’s disappearance. She may have been Jason’s girlfriend, but I can tell you which of the Faircloth boys was the most smitten with the beautiful Miss Wagner.”
Sayles retrieves the ream of paper covered with Baba Yaga’s menacing grimace from the bulletin board. She flips through what looks like a hundred pages of single space type broken up occasionally by one of Anthony’s intricate pencil sketches and finds what she’s looking for about halfway through the manuscript. A hand-written scrawl appears beneath the expertly rendered drawing of the girl pictured on the memorial in front of the school.
“The Fair Juliet.” A pang goes through my chest. “Do I even have to ask who the Romeo of this little fairy tale might be?”
Sayles lets out a quiet chuckle. “Would you believe, a diminutive and underappreciated knight named Antonio?”
I take Anthony’s fantasy manifesto and flip through the pages. It’s like a sketched tour of the boy’s mind.
I would know.
“Poor kid.”
“I’ve been teaching for six years now,” she says. “Seen a lot of hopeless crushes between students. This one was the most hopeless by far.”
“Did she ever see this?”
“I never showed it to her, though it wouldn’t surprise me if Anthony let her read it. Like I said before, his social boundaries were never too concrete. Can’t say I blame him, though. Everybody loved Julianna.”
“You don’t think they’ll find her?”
“You’ve seen the news. The girl’s been missing over three weeks. You know how these things turn out.”
The hint of chlorine from before swells. The whole school reeks of it. Julianna Wagner’s disappearance has left the whole place a big pit of anxiety.
“They don’t always end badly.” Sarah Goode’s face flashes across my memory, as vivid and sharp as if I pulled her out of that attic an hour ago instead of a year. “You can’t lose hope.”
“That’s all that’s holding this place together,” she says. “Hope.” Her eyes drop. “If she was taken, it was right off the school grounds with people everywhere, surrounded by all her friends. I used to feel safe here at the school. Now I sprint to my car if I have to leave
after normal hours.”
“I’m sure the police are doing everything they can. I saw a patrol car out front as I pulled into the parking lot.”
The roll of her eyes speaks volumes. “I feel safer already.”
“Mind if I borrow Anthony’s story? And anything else he’s written?”
“Anything to help my favorite little guy.” She hands me the fifty or so stapled pages. “Just curious, you don’t strike me as medical. Are you some kind of P.I.?”
“More or less.” I hand her my card.
“Mira Tejedor, Paranormal investigator.” She glances up at me, her eyebrows arched into a sideways question mark. “Should I ask?”
“Maybe next time.” I head for the door. “My number is on the card. Give me a call if you think of any information that might help.”
As I walk up the hall toward the office, I contrast Veronica Sayles with her counterpart in the Exhibition.
How did the kind woman I just met get translated into the stern schoolmarm from Anthony’s Tuileries?
Hmm. I suppose I haven’t seen her teach.
I’m nearly out the front door of the school when the wall-eyed janitor catches my gaze one last time. His eccentric stare and crooked smile send a shiver up my spine.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks.
I hold up Anthony’s story. “Time will tell.”
“In that case, good luck.” The janitor chuckles. “You know what they say. Yesterday’s answers are often tomorrow’s questions.”
“I suppose they do.” And with that, I turn and walk as briskly as I can for my car. I feel the janitor’s eye on me the entire way, but don’t dare look back.
Once I’ve rounded the corner, my mind downshifts out of fight or flight mode and returns instead to the strange symmetry developing between Anthony’s case and the circumstances surrounding Julianna’s disappearance. As I sat with the girl’s parents earlier, it seemed I was agreeing to a second case. After my talk with Sayles, it’s clearer than ever the two cases are merely two sides of the same coin.
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 13
