by Eileen Brady
When the drama teacher noticed me standing in the aisle, she called a fifteen-minute break in the rehearsal. Once her back was turned, the kids began chucking the sombrero around like a Frisbee.
In a few long strides, she joined me, ignoring the chatter behind her.
“Evelyn Vandersmitt?” I held out my hand. “I’m Dr. Kate Turner. We spoke on the phone.”
The hand that shook mine jingled with multiple small bracelets, some metal, others wood, all of them interesting. “Come with me. Let’s make this quick.” The cloud of floral perfume enveloping her spread like fog to engulf me.
Evelyn marched ahead, students scattering in her wake.
I followed close behind. “I have to ask. What’s with the sombrero?”
She kept moving while she explained. Her bracelets clicked like miniature castanets. “Props can’t find our storyteller’s cap, so they gave us a sombrero to practice with.”
Remembering my own high school, it made perfect sense.
We walked together along the hallway until she ducked into a small room marked PRIVATE that smelled like stale coffee.
“Teachers’ lounge,” she explained. “We shouldn’t be interrupted by anyone in here.” Taking advantage of the break, she stopped in front of the automatic coffeemaker and stared for a moment at the half-full carafe before pouring a small mug. I watched her sip it—grimace, but drink it down anyway. “Burnt,” was her comment.
Unsure how to begin, I was struggling for an opening line when she made my job easy.
“Lizette called and told me all about you.” Close up, the forty-something teacher’s Nordic features, broad cheekbones, and deep blue eyes were striking. She wore no makeup, except crimson red lipstick, a slash of unexpected color against her pale skin. “Did you know your veterinary assistant was one of my favorite students? She designed and built most of our sets. Never wanted to be on stage. Quite a breath of fresh air from the rest of the monsters.” Although she punctuated that last remark with a brilliant white smile, I suspected it wasn’t a joke.
“Mrs. Vandersmitt, did Flynn’s mother Lizette explain…?”
“Call me Evelyn, please.” Undaunted by the bitter taste of the first cup, she poured a second mug of coffee. “Yes, we had a lengthy conversation.”
That sounded like a somewhat chilly statement but her face remained composed.
“I know it’s been a few years, but can you tell me a little about Flynn? What kind of student was he? What were his interests?” I took my notebook out to jot down anything important.
At first Evelyn said nothing. I thought she was gathering her thoughts, before I noticed her lips move. Was she praying?
“Please give me a moment.” She turned away, fingertips massaging a spot in the middle of her forehead.
To break the awkward stillness I got up and poured myself some coffee in a disposable cup. It smelled flat, like it had been sitting around all day. I returned to my seat just as Evelyn turned back toward me.
“Forgive me. I was talking to Flynn.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, as though talking to the dead happened all the time.
“Excuse me?” Maybe I hadn’t understood what she meant.
“I asked his spirit for permission to speak about him.” She plucked at one of her bracelets.
Okay. I’d had weirder conversations. “So what did he say?”
“He said yes. Also, he told me he doesn’t care if his murderer is found. It happened a long time ago and all is forgiven.”
Doesn’t care if the murderer is caught? Not sure how to respond to that, I nodded my head.
Evelyn’s eyes glittered. She leaned toward me. “I’m not crazy. I’m channeling the Flynn I knew. It’s an old acting trick.”
Still not sure what was going on, I nodded again.
With no warning, her arms shot high above her head and wiggled around. Catching my eye, she explained. “It’s a body awareness exercise, to help me relax.”
Okay. This was definitely weird. I made an effort to keep a nonjudgmental expression on my face.
“Now, how may I help you?” She lifted her mug to those red lips before realizing it was empty. I was curious if she would drink another cup.
“Can I get your more coffee, Evelyn?”
“No. I’m wired enough as it is.”
Now, that statement I could agree with.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way but are the police positive it’s him?” Evelyn asked. “I find this news so hard to believe.”
Now we were back on track. “Yes, he was identified through dental records and personal effects that were found at the scene.”
“What personal effects? A bracelet?”
This was the second peculiar question from a woman who knew him—a woman who wore a number of wrist bangles. Had she given a special bracelet to her favorite student?
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
Her face deflated, eagerness lost for a moment. “Forgive me. I still can’t believe he’s passed. What a waste for the world.”
I seized my opening. “Did you know that he planned to leave town?”
“I knew he wanted to leave. I’d hoped he would wait until he graduated from college but his mind was made up. Since I couldn’t stop him, I supplied a list of names and numbers of friends I have in L.A. Our small-town life held no interest for him.” She adjusted her vaguely gypsy-looking skirt.
When she spoke, I noticed her bright red lower lip quivered slightly. Something about it mesmerized me.
“I’d also recommended an acting school and told him to call me when he got settled. Of course, he never did.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, followed by laughter as some of the students from the auditorium began to straggle back inside from their break.
Grabbing her attention, I pressed on, “Did you worry when you didn’t hear from him?”
She slid several bracelets back and forth on her wrist. “No. We’d had an argument. Flynn wanted to cut all his family ties, reinvent himself. His home life was difficult—I’ll let it go at that.”
Evelyn’s advice had been more personal than professional. “Why did you advise him to wait?” I watched that lip quiver again.
She jumped up, suddenly restless in the small, stuffy room. “He was too immature, too idealistic. They would have eaten him alive out there. Eaten him alive.” A sweep of her arm reminded me she taught drama. Was I witnessing a performance?
“Do you remember where you were the day he left?”
She stared at me, a quizzical look on her face. “I’ve been trying to recall that. I’m really not sure. Traveling perhaps?”
So, she had no alibi. Not even an attempt at one.
“And the nature of your relationship? Would you describe it as…intimate in any way?” My face began to flush as I asked this extremely personal question.
It didn’t upset Evelyn a bit. “Of course not. I was his teacher, well, perhaps more of a mentor or muse really. Nothing else—despite what those old biddies in town think.” A thick lock of hair escaped over one shoulder. She pointedly glanced at her watch.
Obviously, I wasn’t going to learn much more. I decided to pull a question out of left field before she went back to work. “Why do you think he was murdered?”
Her red shiny lips parted, then closed.
What was I missing here?
She tapped her watch dial and stood up. “I’m afraid I have to go.”
Disappointed, I poured my untouched coffee into the sink. “Well, thank you for your time. I’ll call if I have any other questions.” No alibi to check and no recollection of the day Flynn disappeared. Our interview hadn’t revealed any motive for murder; instead, only held hints of a complicated relationship.
I stood up to open the door. Evelyn stopped my arm. Her fingers pressed down
hard on my wrist.
“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. “You can’t understand because you never met him. I tried to protect him—the world can be a terrible place.”
“Of course you did.” Strong fingers dug into me. This intense reaction seemed completely out of place for their “student” and “teacher” relationship.
“I used to picture him accepting the Academy Award and thanking me, his high school drama teacher, for inspiring him to become an actor.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
“Evelyn.” I quietly asked. “Who do you think murdered Flynn?”
Red lips quivered once again in her pale compelling face.
“The person who hated him the most.”
“Who is it you’re talking about?” I felt trapped, pushed firmly against the door.
“Bruce.”
I blanked for a moment.
She moved closer and spat out the words. “That pig, Bruce, Flynn’s stepfather. If I could get away with slitting his throat, I would.”
“Why?” Fiona had said Flynn hated his family.
“When Bruce got drunk, he’d hit Lizette, even when she was confined to her wheelchair. Flynn couldn’t stop it when he was younger but once he reached fifteen and was taller than his stepdad, he told the SOB to stop hitting his mother or he’d kill him. To prove it, he knocked him out cold.”
I was horrified. There had been nasty comments but no hint of physical violence when I’d been at their house, but abused women often keep secrets. Had Bruce taken his revenge by offering Flynn a ride out of town and then, in a fit of rage, killed him?
“Did Lizette report the abuse to the police?”
“No. And she begged Flynn not to tell them either.”
Finally I’d found a solid motive for murder. An interview with the wicked stepfather was in order. I also needed to verify where Bruce was the day Flynn had disappeared.
***
Back inside my truck I blasted the defroster and waited for the windshield to clear. I’d learned two things. Flynn’s home life had been worse than I thought, and obviously Evelyn Vandersmitt felt strongly about her handsome student. First, I concentrated on the eccentric drama teacher. Was the quarrel about Flynn’s plans to leave more serious than she let on? Maybe in her wildest dreams she fantasized about joining him in Hollywood, continuing to be his muse. Stranger things had happened.
As far as Bruce, the stepfather, was concerned, I needed to verify Evelyn’s accusations and make sure they weren’t a smokescreen cooked up to divert attention away from her. I also made a note to find out if there was a Mr. Vandersmitt.
Jealousy cut both ways.
And jealousy was a perfect motive for murder.
Chapter Ten
By the following morning the weather had cleared and our appointment calendar started filling up again. After our third client of the morning, Mari and I took a break at the Circle K near the hospital, chomping on potato chips while gassing up the truck.
“How did your interview with Mrs. Vandersmitt go?” Mari’s question came out a little garbled due to chip overload.
I snuck a few mouthfuls of my own chips while figuring out how to diplomatically phrase my answer. Dingy, sleet-streaked windows overlooked the gas pumps where our truck stood. The pewter-colored sky above hid its intentions from us.
“I’m not sure. She’s a little odd.”
“All the teachers are. My class used to say the real Oak Falls High School staff had been replaced by space aliens who were sent to study us and report back to their planet.”
“That would explain it,” I joked. “You kids probably acted like you were from outer space too.”
“Pretty much. But I did enjoy all my drama classes and working on the sets.”
“That’s what Evelyn said. She remembered you very clearly.”
“Nice.” Mari began to peel a banana. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. By the way, I think one of your pieces of fruit is hiding out somewhere in the truck. I smelled a whiff of something funky when I got in this morning.” That said, I fished around in the small yellow bag for the last chip, thereby fulfilling my daily requirement of fat and salt. “At least I have enough willpower to buy the little size. One of these days I’ve got to kick this potato chip habit.”
“Me, too.”
Reluctantly, I rose, cleaned my fingers with a napkin, and tossed everything in the recycle bin. “Ready?”
“Nope.” Her hand dove back inside her extra-large bag. “Maybe I should cut this junk food and lose a few pounds in case I run into some of the kids coming back for the reunion.”
“You look fine. It’s going to be the same people you see in town all the time, so what’s the big deal?” Despite her diet, Mari’s athletic body never seemed to gain an ounce.
“Not true. I’d say fifty or sixty percent of my class moved away from here.”
“That many?”
Before she could reply, the door behind me opened, shepherding in a blast of chilly air.
I heard someone say my name.
A massive bundled-up mound of black leather stood directly behind me. The only human parts showing were two eyes behind round goggles and slices of wind-chapped cheeks. Luckily, I recognized my client’s voice. “Henry James? Are you in there?”
Oak Fall’s famous baking biker pulled off his knitted skullcap to reveal a shiny bald head. “Haven’t seen you guys in a while. Hey, Mari.”
Mari waved to him, a half a banana in her mouth.
“You must be freezing, Henry. Isn’t it about time to retire the bike for the winter?” I couldn’t imagine how cold it must feel to tool around on a motorcycle in this weather.
He put down his helmet then smacked his hands together trying to warm them up before pouring a big takeout cup of coffee. “Yeah, it’s been a bad fall for riding.”
“Hey, did you have Mrs. Vandersmitt for English when you were in school back in the Stone Age?” Mari asked him.
Henry laughed. “I think all us boys wanted to have some Vandersmitt—if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, come on. Stop exaggerating.” One thing I’d learned about Henry was he embellished his stories a bit, like the one about a spaceship landing on the roof of the CVS drugstore one night looking for toilet paper.
“Okay. There were rumors floating around. Guys used to say ‘red lips—take a sip.’” He turned to Mari and made kissing noises.
“You are such a pig.” She pretended to throw her snack at him but reconsidered. Instead, she crumpled up her garbage and tossed it in the pail. “Two points.”
“Anybody know if there is a Mr. Vandersmitt?”
Mari shook her head but Henry cleared his throat and answered me. “There was a Mr. Vandersmitt. Legend says he had a heart attack and died after a night of energetic passion.”
That did it. Both Mari and Henry collapsed into a fit of giggles.
“Can we be serious for a second?” I faced the two of them and held up my hands. “Is there any chance that Evelyn Vandersmitt was romantically involved with Flynn?”
That quieted them down.
“Why do you want to know? Are you doing the murder investigation thing again?” Henry’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“Not really. Just curious.” I gave Mari a warning sign to stay quiet.
Henry shook a few drops of water off his skullcap before he slipped it back on his head.
“Listen. When Flynn was in high school I was involved with the Hells Angels. Anything I heard you’ve got to take with a grain of salt cause my memories are kinda warped. But rumor was that kid didn’t have any problems getting…some action, if you ladies know what I mean.”
“What?”
“Faculty, students, moms, even a biker’s chick. But, hey, maybe that was only a rumor
.” He picked up his helmet and slipped it on. After lobbing this ambiguous statement at us, he hurried over to the cashier, paid for six dollars’ worth of gas and a candy bar and vanished into a cold rain.
His memories sounded like a movie of the week fantasy. Separating fact from fiction where Henry was concerned was no simple matter. I put what he said on the back burner and got ready to go back to work.
***
Our last client that day turned out to be a real hoot.
We’d been asked for advice about an injured barn owl found by one of our good clients. Since Mari and I were close by, I told her we would swing over and take the owl to the local wildlife rehabilitator.
Many people don’t know that they aren’t supposed to keep injured wildlife that they find. First, it can be dangerous, and second, it isn’t in the best interests of the animal. A licensed wildlife rehabilitator is trained to treat and hopefully release most injured animals back into their habitats.
Which reminded me about something Mari had mentioned a while ago. “Hey, did you hear any more about that captured bear?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Well, if you do, let me or Cindy know. If there’s a rogue bear loose in a residential area, I want our clients to be warned.”
“Sure thing.” She put her head down and concentrated on updating our schedule. I drove, thinking about Flynn—his kooky drama teacher, his toxic stepfather, and all the other people who floated in and out of his short life.
***
Luke Gianetti’s cousin, who was also my favorite waitress at the Oak Falls diner, stood waiting for us in her driveway along with her standard poodles, Jazz and Jewel. The sky had cleared up and pale sunshine shown through the trees.
“Hi, Rosie,” I said after rolling down my window.
In her hands she held a large cardboard box. “Thanks so much for coming over so quickly. The dogs found the poor thing when I took them for a walk.”
I wasn’t surprised, since poodles were bred to be bird dogs, although this beautifully groomed pair of black and white poodles looked like they’d be more at home lounging on a velvet sofa than half-submerged in a rush-filled lake.
