I held her gaze and sensed a combination of deception, suspicion, and confusion. "I'm not going tell anyone," I said. "I promise. You have no reason to believe me, Gabby, but I give you my word."
She exhaled heavily and glanced over her shoulder. "I really don't know. I bought two papers. If a teacher ever found out—"
"I'm trying to figure out who poisoned Desmond."
Gabby furrowed her brow. "I thought Sinder Gillespie did it."
I shrugged noncommittally.
"You think it was somebody else?" she said. "Like who?"
Who, indeed. "I don't know. That's why I need to find out who wrote those papers."
"But why would that help you?" She opened her mouth, then covered it with a hand. "You think the person who wrote the papers is the killer?"
"Desmond bought at least one, and I think he was going to reveal the identity of the writer."
She ran a hand through her hair. "There is one strange thing that made me wonder."
I didn't want to seem too eager, so I leaned against the wall casually.
"One of the papers I bought was for health class. It's supposed to be an elective, but the kids in the class take it so seriously." She rolled her eyes.
I smirked knowingly, as if to agree that kids shouldn't take an elective health class so seriously.
"Anyway," she said, tossing her hair, "I was supposed to write about emergency life-saving techniques. Something other than CPR. So I e-mailed Private Paper and—"
"Heads together, whispering? What's up?" Gabby and I jumped. Luke brushed a hand against her cheek. "Talking about me?"
I wanted to punch him. "As a matter of fact—"
"Talking about what we did last weekend," Gabby said. "Why don't you go save us a table? I'll be there in a second."
He cocked his head at her, then glanced at me. "Right." Without another word, he walked away.
I watched him disappear around the corner. I knew he figured I'd tell him what Gabby and I talked about later.
"Guinan, don't breath a word to him about this."
I blinked up at her. "Of course, not. Now, what about this paper?"
She glanced around again. "I asked the guy to pick a topic for me, which I paid extra for."
"Okay."
"When Desmond started choking that day...I mean, I'd paid someone to write this paper, and then I see someone performed the same technique."
My stomach lurched. "Gabby, what technique?"
She leaned in. "An emergency tracheotomy."
Chapter Nineteen
"I'm looking at the autopsy report, Miss Jones. Desmond Drake died of asphyxiation brought on by anaphylactic shock, not from a hole in his throat."
I'd cut class to call Detective Czarnecki. I'd walked across the lacrosse field and leaned against a tree. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
I'd filled her in on what I suspected and learned about the term papers. More than once I'd heard that Embry was the smartest guy in the school. He'd won academic awards for the school, and he seemed to know a little about a lot of things. He'd performed the tracheotomy on Desmond as though he knew it well.
"It could be a coincidence," I said. "It's a heck of a coincidence. If he wrote those papers, I don't see why he'd risk it. It's not like he needs the money."
The detective sighed. Papers rattled in the background. "When I asked you to keep your eyes and ears open, you got my meaning, right?"
"You wanted me to use my clairvoyance."
"Yes, I did," she said, her voice low. I pictured her hunched over her phone and looking over her shoulder. "What you found out is good. Don't get me wrong."
"But it's something you could have discovered yourself."
"Bottom line. But you suspect Embry Sullivan wrote the papers?"
I winced. "No. I mean, yes."
"Have you received anything else like the notes and flowers?"
I told her I hadn't. "What are going to do?"
She made a grunting sound that reminded me of Granddad. "Likely call him in for more questioning. The thing is, our case against Sinder is strong enough."
I bit my lip. "You need to know something else." I told her about my dream. "I strongly believe the death I saw is connected to this case and—"
"Miss Jones, I can't do much with dreams." That's what I expected a cop to say. I waited. "Did you see the strangler's face?"
"No."
After we'd hung up, I pulled up the blog, dreading what I'd see.
Psychic Grierdon Smarter Than the Police?
The Malcontent can't think of anything worse than one of our own committing homicide, and committing it against another Grierdon. Since Sinder Gillespie's '15 arrest, our resident psychic won't rest. It seems that Guinan Jones '15 is out to prove Miss Gillespie is not the culprit. When she graced these ivied halls for the first time, the clairvoyant from the South was almost timid in manner. But give her a death, and her inner Jessica Fletcher emerges fully formed and out for blood, so to speak. If Miss Gillespie didn't pull the figurative trigger, who did? Who had the most to gain from Desmond Drake's death, and who had the most to lose if he were still alive?
Was Embry Sullivan '15 only pretending to have gotten over the humiliations the deceased exacted upon him? Was the deceased after Sully's girlfriend, the alluring Ione Hamilton '14, with whom he had a brief fling? We can't completely strike Luke Chapman '15 from the picture. The blogger wonders. Perhaps it was a crime worthy of Agatha Christie, where each suspect played a part in it. Or—and this is potentially HUGE—someone involved in a term paper-buying scandal got rid of a Grierdon who strove to be honorable and expose the cheating.
My guess? We'll know soon enough.
I looked up from the tablet in time to see Embry enter the building. He held my gaze for a few seconds. He had a wild look in his eyes. I approached him despite my reluctance. "Embry, can we—"
He held up a hand. "Don't tell me about any of the crap on that blog. I'm no longer interested."
"Forget that stupid blog. Do you have a minute?"
"Nope," he said.
"Embry!"
He stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn to face me. I caught up with him and saw his bored expression. "I think the five of us should get together and talk."
"About what?"
"Seriously? Our friend is being charged with killing another friend. Doesn't that concern you?"
He grimaced. "Look, Guinan, all I want to do is keep my head down. I don't know anything about the killing or the investigation, and frankly, I don't care."
I already sensed that, but I feigned shock.
"I'm sorry Desmond's dead, but he and I weren't friends like that. We sat at the same table at lunch."
"Do you think he was trying to get Ione back?"
"Honestly?" he said, glancing around. "I don't think so. At least I didn't suspect it. He and Ione weren't serious, you know. It wasn't like some great love affair. They hung out for a few months in the summer."
"What about Sinder?"
Embry shrugged. "What about her?"
"Don't you care that she's been accused of something she didn't do?"
He stared at me, and I shivered as though standing near a draft. "How do you know she didn't do it? Oh, let me guess. You have a feeling?"
"That's not how it works."
He held up a hand. "I don't mean to be rude, but this thing you do...it's getting on my nerves. You're not a cop. If the police think Sinder did it, they must have the evidence, right?"
I conceded the point. But the police in Ridge Grove had gotten things wrong when they arrested Eric Rodman for Kate Mansfield's murder.
"I'm going to be late for class," Embry said. He turned and headed down the hall. I followed.
"I spoke to Gabby Meyerson."
His stride slowed. "I'm happy for you."
"She mentioned buying a term paper on emergency tracheotomies. I guess the rumors are true."
He gave me a sideways glance but
kept walking. "What rumors?"
"About the cheating going on at this school."
He laughed. "You think that has something to do with Desmond's death?" Before I could reply, he continued. "You know, I think you need to talk to your teachers. You obviously don't have enough studying to do."
"I just thought it was a coincidence, Gabby's paper on the very thing you did to try to save Desmond. How many kids would even think of that?"
He glared at me. "Any kid with half a brain. You saw him. He wasn't getting enough oxygen. The CPR wasn't working."
"Yeah, but cutting a hole in his throat?"
Embry assumed the tone of an adult speaking to an obstinate child. "I want to go to medical school. I read a lot and watch hours of documentaries. It's not that complicated."
"I get it, but—"
"But nothing. Are you accusing me of writing Gabby's paper?"
I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to come up with a non-accusing way of getting the point across. "Embry, if you did write it—"
"Since you're accusing me of that," he said, cutting me off, "then next you'll claim I killed Desmond."
"All I care about right now is the truth."
He gave a loud, humorless laugh that made me feel unsettled and exposed. I didn't like arguing with Embry. People in the hall looked in our direction.
"You know what?" he said. "I made a mistake bringing you into our group. I felt sorry for you. I was trying to be nice because our mothers are friends."
I swallowed a lump in my throat, angry with myself for letting him get to me. Defensive people deflected. I tried to keep my expression neutral. "Whether you think it was a mistake or not is your business. I've never been the kind of person to cave to peer pressure, and I certainly won't start now."
He on his heels and disappeared into a classroom. In my own class, I tuned out the teacher and wrote in my journal. If Desmond's death was murder and not manslaughter, who did it and why? Sinder's motive: unrequited love, loss. Ione's motive: Desmond tried to break up her and Embry, or Ione was pregnant with Desmond's child and threatened to tell. Embry's motive: Desmond was ready to rat him out as the term paper writer. Luke's motive: ?
I put down the pen and rubbed my temples. Luke and Desmond were best friends. Why would he murder his best friend? And the dream—a female will be strangled. Who was she? Who was the strangler? I looked at my hands. A person would have to be pretty strong to do it. But if the killer used an object like a sash, the killer could just as well be a female.
Chapter Twenty
Founders Day dawned gray and chilly. Students slogged through morning classes and headed to the dining hall to endure the speeches. I ate the food and daydreamed during the presentations. I looked at the time on my cell and gave a small sigh of relief. Almost over.
"You haven't introduced us to any of your friends," my father said when the program was over. He'd spoken to several parents he knew from work or the neighborhood.
"Because I don't have any friends," I said.
He frowned at me. "Nonsense."
"Let's see," I said, holding up my fingers. "Embry hates me. His girlfriend will soon if she doesn't already. Luke has a girlfriend now, and Sinder, well, you know what's going on with her."
Concerned etched on his face, he gave my shoulder a squeeze. "When one door closes, another opens."
My snarky response caught in my throat when he excused himself to speak to a colleague.
"I haven't seen him this animated in a while," my mother said.
We watched him with a group of parents, laughing and gesturing. She and I tried to look inconspicuous near a wall. I grabbed a small bag of trail mix from a bowl on the table. "I spoke to Zeke the other day."
"Oh?"
"It was good to hear his voice. Made me homesick."
Her lips twitched. "I have a meeting in an hour. I need to corral your father."
Her hard feelings toward Tessa extended to the entire Hicks family. She hadn't even asked about the twins. A big part of me understood, but my own hard feelings focused only on Tessa, and even then, I sometimes wavered.
I finished the trail mix and grabbed another. I leaned against the wall and peered around the room, feeling sorry for myself. I'd alienated people without intending to. It wasn't my fault some twisted student at this school decided to murder another. Was my life going to be like this all the time?
A sudden bray of laughter made me jump. I spotted Embry and his parents speaking to the headmaster. He seemed to be in good spirits. Ione stood nearby with her parents and Asher. The boy wriggled in his father's arms.
My father distracted me and waved me over. I gave a silent groan and painted on a smile. I nodded at several people who said they had no idea Reggie Jones's daughter was a Grierdon. I made small talk, and my gaze drifted back to Ione's brother.
"Mom, I want to go see the baby before we leave."
"A baby?" she said, her eyes widening.
I introduced myself and my mother to the Hamiltons. "He's adorable," my mother said. "How old is he?"
While the adults chatted, I peered into Asher's eyes. As was usually the case with infants and toddlers, his emotions were amorphous. He reached out to me with his tiny arms. I stuffed the trail mix bag into my pocket, brushed my hands on my skirt, and held them out. As his father leaned in to hand him to me, a loud shriek startled me.
Ione appeared between me and her father. Eyes wide, face white, she took the baby from him. "He doesn't like strangers. She cupped the boy's head with a trembling hand.
"I'm sorry," I said, taken aback. "I held him before, and he seemed—"
"Dad, I think we should go." Ione's father gave her a questioning look and walked away before he could respond.
The man's face spread into a smile. "Nice to me you both. If you'll excuse me."
Too stunned to speak, my mother and I watched the family retreat.
"What was that all about?"
"I don't know," I said.
My mother shrugged. "Let's grab your father and make a polite exit."
***
"What do you mean the site is gone?"
"Disappeared," Detective Czarnecki said. "The URL resolves to a blank web page. It looks like Embry Sullivan got spooked by your questions and closed down operations."
I tried to pull up the page on my tablet. A white wall. Disappointment and regret clashed with a sense of purpose. I knew the detective was right. Embry most likely was the term paper writer, but I regretted how things had gone, that I was the one asking questions and alienating the few friends I had at Thomas Grier. Desmond Drake's death meant that things would never be the same between any of us.
"Are you going to question him?"
The detective sighed. "Probably not, since my basis for questioning him is gone. Guinan, I want you to back off now."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Visions of a terrified Sinder Gillespie in prison competed in my brain with images of a murderer walking the streets, gloating over getting away with it.
"Miss Jones?"
I blinked. "Yeah, okay. I'll back off."
I didn't have to read the detective's emotions to know she didn't believe me. I'm sure she regretted ever asking for my "special insight." It's her fault I'm caught up in this. No, it isn't. It's the murderer's fault.
Before she hung up, I asked if she'd found fingerprints on the note or envelope.
"Nothing," she said. That was the answer I expected, but I was still disappointed.
I asked myself over and over, Who is the strangled girl? If she was Sinder, she likely knows the boy—or the man—in the dream. I texted Sinder and asked if I could come over. She sent a terse "Sure" reply. When I arrived at her house, her mother met me at the door. The change in her was dramatic. Her previously fuzzy hair was smooth and styled. She wore a pair of black slacks and a blue cardigan. She had tears in her eyes when she spoke to me.
"So sweet of you to still be her friend. She didn't
have many to begin with. No girls, at least. Now that she's been charged with killing a boy she cared so much about, well, you can imagine how hard this is for her." Sinder's mother raised a hand to her mouth and swallowed.
"Yes, ma'am. I can only imagine."
"Not that I believe for one minute that she did it," the woman said, her eyes widening.
"I don't believe she did it, either."
Her face relaxed. She squeezed my hand and went into the kitchen. I entered Sinder's room and noted more stark differences. The late afternoon sunlight flooded through windows with open curtains. Her bed was made, her desk was decluttered, and the scent of roses floated on the air.
"My mom and I got back from my lawyer this morning," Sinder said. "His investigator is all over this case. He's doing background on Mr. Howard. My lawyer wants him to reveal what Desmond told him."
"About what?"
She held up her hands and spaced them widely apart. "Everything. Whatever he told Mr. Howard about his problems, about making amends."
"Is your lawyer's theory that someone thought Desmond might get them into trouble with his new lease on life?"
Sinder nodded.
"And Desmond didn't tell you anything specific?"
"I went over everything I could think of," she said. "He was real vague, you know?" Sinder stared into space. "Something aside from making up for bullying was on his mind."
"I think I know one of his confessions," I said. "It's just a hunch, but..." I trailed off when I realized what I was about to do. I had no proof Embry wrote those papers and couldn't allow Sinder's lawyer to run with it.
She stared. "A hunch about what?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "I have to work it out in my head first."
"Okay," she said, her expression bordering on irritated. "Anyway, I've called Luke, Embry, and Ione, and left messages. They don't call me back."
Embry and Ione, I understood. But Luke? I was ninety-percent sure he didn't believe Sinder tampered with that canola oil or used peanut oil in a spell. He didn't seem like someone vulnerable to peer pressure, either.
Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) Page 12
