Chapter 18
Where Were You?
The next morning was gray and drizzling, yet Nathan was in a wonderful mood, in contrast to his sister and mother. He sniffed the air at the bus stop and said with a big smile, “I love the smell of rain.”
“So do I,” I told him, and walked back home after the bus arrived thinking how much joy my children brought me. My life would be so diminished were they not here to remind me to stop and smell the rain.
It was all I could do to let Karen and Nathan out of my sight, but the police were aware of the threat I’d received yesterday, and Tommy promised he’d keep them and the school under protective surveillance for the next several days. I’d even asked Tommy about bodyguards, but he convinced me that would do more harm than good. Also, he agreed with me that the thrust of the threat was that the sender wanted me out of the picture, not to harm my children. It made me all the more determined not to leave, but to solve this mystery.
I had misplaced my drawing pad and finally found it upstairs next to my bed. Searching for my pad reminded me how annoying it is to be looking for something in the presence of someone else, who invariably asks, “Where were you when you last had it?”
I emphasized that question’s uselessness in a new card design. Two men are stranded on a tiny island. One is looking around at the sand by his feet. The compass is plainly visible next to the other man, yet he says, “Lost your compass again, huh? Where were you when you last had it?”
It occurred to me that I’d missed an opportunity to drum up some repeat business from the woman who’d ordered the faxable advertisement for her office equipment store. Though self-promotion is neither something I’m good at nor enjoy, I decided to take a trip into the city and show her my wares. I grabbed my stack of recent greetings and placed them in a manila folder, which brought my absent husband to mind. Why couldn’t he have been stationed in Europe? We’d all have been thrilled to spend several months there. All of us except Nathan, that is, but he would have adjusted eventually.
It was still drizzling. Knowing the sweatshirt I’d worn while walking the kids to the bus wouldn’t make a good impression, I grabbed a waterproof jacket from the closet, an olive-colored Gore-Tex. Stephanie would’ve said it sucked the color from my skin. No doubt by the time I reached the store in Albany, people would wonder who the vampire in the coat was.
As I started out the door, I caught sight of the ceramic bowl on my refrigerator. I could return that bowl to Denise on a single trip from the house. Such efficiency.
The drive was long, slowed by traffic overreacting to the rain. I gave myself a pep talk to boost my confidence, and by the time I finally arrived, I was fired up.
The parking lot was empty, business apparently being adversely affected by the weather. I strode into the store, found a salesman, and asked to speak to the manager. He directed me to a woman at the counter. I gave her the prerequisite self-introduction and launched into my rehearsed spiel about how she could use my faxable greetings for demos in her store, as a gimmick to help sell fax machines.
Unlike when I rehearsed my speeches in the car, halfway through I ran smack into a basic coordination problem of mine. I can’t talk and breathe at the same time when I’m nervous. I caught my breath before passing out and handed her my eCard designs.
My nervousness grew, because the otherwise-unoccupied salesmen chose to come over and check out my presentation to their manager. The manager grinned at my cards. She laughed and said, “I love the one with the mice and the whispering breeze.”
“That’s my favorite, too,” I lied.
A salesman tapped me on the shoulder. “You have Rice Krispies stuck to the back of your raincoat”
This roused the curiosity of all three of the other salesmen. They also peered behind me. One said, “Yep. Those’re Rice Krispies, all right. How’d that happen?”
The last time I’d worn this jacket must’ve been the time we were running late and I’d stupidly given Nathan cereal to eat in the car. A useful parenting tip those radio-talk-show counselors never give: When you’ve got to feed your children on the run, don’t arm them with anything that’ll stick to your backside.
I eyed the salesman who’d asked the question. He was in his early twenties, a definite nonparent. “I was at a wedding earlier this morning, and we threw rice cereal instead of rice at the bride and groom.”
He nodded, not sure if he should take me seriously or not. Then the store manager thanked me for coming in and said she’d consider my suggestion, and I left with as much dignity as I could muster with breakfast food stuck to my derriere.
Denise lived near Stephanie. Judging from the outside, Denise’s house appeared to be one or two steps down from Stephanie’s; nice, though not nearly as well appointed.
To my surprise Sam opened the door. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. For once, his brown hair wasn’t greased back and hung down on his forehead in boyish-looking bangs. It was quite an improvement.
“Hi, Molly. I’m so glad to see you. Come on in.”
His friendly attitude made me leery. Last time someone greeted me with such open arms, Stephanie had made me PTA secretary/treasurer. “Thank you. I’m just returning your bowl and wanted to thank Denise once again for the Jell-O salad.”
Denise rounded the corner, smiling broadly. Her hair was in wild curls. With her petite frame and current care-free demeanor, she looked like a teenager. “Molly! You’re here. How appropriate!”
“Appropriate?”
“Sam just quit his job.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he grinned, resting his arm on her shoulders.
“It looks as though you’re both happy about that, so congratulations.”
“Yes, we’re very happy,” Denise said. “Thank you.”
“And it’s partly your doing.”
“My doing?”
“That’s right,” Sam said. “If you hadn’t forced Preston to rehash that whole business of Cherokee’s report, I’d have probably gone along with the status quo for Lord knows how long. Now you’ve got him so anxious, it reminded me how bad things were last year when the investigation started. Everyone walking on eggshells around Preston, him carping at me constantly. I nearly quit then, and should have.”
I played dumb. “So Cherokee’s report had upset Preston?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “The guy’s willing to live his life one step ahead of prosecution. I’m not. I gladly sold him my half of the business. I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do all my life.” He grinned. “I want to work at a grocery store.”
“Really. So you’re applying for managerial jobs?”
“Nah. I’m starting at the bottom, like everyone else: Bag boy.”
It felt odd to be congratulating a man older than me for achieving the position of bag boy. “That’ll be quite a switch from business owner, but if that’s what you want to do, I’m happy for you.”
Denise smiled at me and said, “And guess what else? I’ve joined Gamblers Anonymous.”
“That’s wonderful, Denise. If there’s anything I can do to help, moral support or anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
She thanked me. It was wonderful to see those two so happy. This was something we needed more of in Carlton and everywhere: happily married couples.
Five minutes or so after I’d reached my home, someone was leaning on my doorbell. The noise was so obnoxious I threw the door open without first looking through the window, intending to yell, “WHAT!”
Stephanie, looking deathly ill, lunged inside and mumbled, “Gotta use your bathroom.”
She held her hand over her mouth and barely made it to the toilet.
“Can I get you anything?” I called after her.
“Just close the door and leave. I want to die alone,” she cried between groans.
I obliged, wondering exactly what had led her to this point. Our houses weren’t even a five-minute drive from each other. Perhaps she’d awakened this morning an
d thought, I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach. Better drive to Molly’s house and throw up there.
Then I chastised myself for not being more charitable to the poor woman. I glanced out my window. Her Mercedes was parked at a haphazard angle in my driveway. She must have been suddenly overcome as she neared my neighborhood. As soon as the bathroom noises ceased I knocked and asked if she was all right.
“That’s a stupid question, Molly,” came the answer through the closed door. She slowly emerged from the bathroom, my dampened washcloth covering most of her face. “If there’s one thing I appreciate about you it’s that you rarely ask stupid questions.”
“Would you like to lie down on the couch?”
She kicked her shoes off, made her way to the couch, and lay down, spreading the washcloth to cover all of her face. “What I’d like is someone to serve as a surrogate mother for this baby. I’m pregnant. And by the way, that bathroom of yours could use some air freshener.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yes, and you’re the first to know. Not counting me.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Call my husband and tell him I’m too sick to drive. You can reach him on his car phone. He’s got to come get me.”
And say what when he asks me what’s wrong? “Oh, she’s perfectly fine for a pregnant woman.” That hardly seemed romantic. “How about I just hand you the phone?”
Stephanie sighed, but accepted the portable phone. She dialed, waited a moment, then said, “Where are you?” Pause. “Good. Turn around and pick me up at Molly’s house. I’m pregnant and puking my guts out.” She hung up. “That ought to get him here in a hurry.”
“Can I get you a glass of water or anything? Soda cracker? Pickle?”
She dropped the cloth back on her face and moaned. Then she said, “So how long have you known about Preston’s affair with Lauren?”
Fortunately her eyes were covered, so I didn’t have to mask my shock. “Um, about a week ago, Lauren told me.”
“At least I’ve known longer than you. I found out at that damned party of yours.”
Perhaps she’d taken my knife intending to use it on Lauren. “Did you take my carving knife?”
“Your knife? No. And if I had, Preston would’ve been the dead body, not Steve. As soon as Rachel said, ‘Oh, hi, Preston,’ and Lauren blushed, and Steve acted as if he’d just been goosed by a grenade, I knew. I restrained myself till we got home, of course.” She snatched the cloth off her face and eyed ’me. “Tell you what, Molly, I missed my calling. I was born for the stage. Maybe there’s some part for a pregnant actress on Broadway.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I think I’ll start small. Local productions, that sort of thing.”
“I meant, what are you going to do about Preston and Lauren, and your baby.”
“Oh, that. I’ve told him he’s on probation. One more screw up, literally, and he can kiss everything he’s got goodbye.”
“How did you know I knew about it?”
She frowned, refolded the cloth, and draped it on her forehead. “I didn’t. But now that I do know you knew, thank you for not lording it over me.”
That was a tough one to respond to, so I simply said, “You’re welcome.”
Just then there was a tremendous squeal of rubber on pavement. Before I could get to the window, the door flew open and Preston burst into the room. He was wild-eyed, panting. “Molly. I’m sorry. I was going too fast and had to swerve to miss Stephanie’s car. I drove into your front garden.”
“Well, I hope you ran over some rabbits.”
My remark was ignored. He rushed over to Stephanie, who had managed to position herself with one arm over her forehead.
“Stephie, darling. My car phone isn’t as clear as it should be. Did you say you were pregnant?”
“That’s right.”
Preston paled, then crumbled to the floor. For a moment, I thought he was overacting.
“Damn,” Stephanie said, knitting her eyebrows. “He fainted. He did the same thing in the delivery room. Am I supposed to drive myself home now? God, how annoying.”
Chapter 19
Catch You at a Bad Time?
When Preston’s Mercedes had left my dirt bed, I managed just barely to get my Corolla past the other, diagonally deserted Mercedes. I glanced at the license plate. STEFFY. No telling how long STEFFY would block my driveway. I’d decided to drop into the children’s classes. Mostly to reassure myself that they were safe there. Maybe Nathan would even deign to accept a ride home from me.
I tried the outside door to the kindergarten rooms and was glad to find it locked. A new sign said all visitors must enter through the main lobby and get a visitor’s pass from the office. I dropped in on Karen’s class first, but stayed only long enough to get a hug from her. Nathan’s class was involved in a coin-sorting activity when I entered The teacher passed a magnifying glass and a penny to her students and said if they looked carefully at-the tail side, they would see the statue of Lincoln inside his memorial.
Nathan seemed reasonably happy to see me, though we were both more concerned with keeping our spots in line for the magnifying glass than with greeting one another. Impatient, I took advantage of my status as a money making citizen and found my own penny. Sure enough, there was our tiny dead president. marginally visible with the naked eye. All that time I’d spent during childhood folding dollar bills so that George Washington’s portrait looked like a green mushroom. To think there were a hundred little Lincolns to each mushroom, and I’d never even noticed.
At the bell, I led Nathan toward the office to return my pass. Ms. Barracuda was still there. She peered down her spectacles at us and said, “Mr. Vance wishes to speak to you, but he’s stepped out.”
Before I could reply, Jack Vance came around the corner, smoothing his ponytailed hair as if he’d just emerged from checking his looks in the men’s room mirror. He said to me, “Just the person I need to see. You know quite a bit about computers. I found something interesting in our computer logs. Come on back.”
I started to follow him into the office, but Nathan stopped so suddenly his sneakers squeaked.
“What did I do wrong?” Nathan asked.
“Nothing. I just need to talk to Mr. Vance.”
“Every time someone goes to the principal’s office it’s ‘cause they’re bad.” His little downturned face was frozen with fear of punishment.
“That’s not true, Nathan. Not this time. Neither of us did anything wrong. Did you know I used to go to school with Mr. Vance?”
Jack doubled back and knelt in front of Nathan. “Would you feel more comfortable in the nurse’s office next door? There are some books and games in there you can use.”
Nathan nodded, still too scared to look up from the floor. We led him into the nurse’s office, which was currently empty.
“My office is right next door,” Jack said. “If you want your mommy before we’re through talking, just knock on this wall.”
After ensuring that Nathan felt reasonably happy, I followed Jack into his office. I took a chair in front of his desk while Jack remained standing behind his desk, flipping through some papers. “Do you have any children, Jack?”
He sighed. “Five hundred and eighty-three in this building alone. That’s, of course, not counting the ones in high school and middle school the other two principals are in charge of.” He gave a little shrug. “But to answer your question, no, though that hasn’t left a crater in my life, considering my line of work.” He lifted a short stack of computer paper and waved the top sheet past my face. It appeared to be a list of names with one entry that had been highlighted in yellow.
“See this?”
Instead of actually showing me what it was I was supposed to see, he held it up so he could read it.
“One of the first things Steve Wilkins did was set up the computer to print out records of which users have logged on to the system
each day. He said he was going to use the printout to help him analyze our needs. He had the master report set so that he could print a daily and a weekly record of all users.”
“So did anyone print the master report on the day Steve was killed?”
“No, unfortunately. And since then, the data got overlaid. That was a Saturday, so if we had thought of it on Monday we could have printed it. But Steve had only just started his work here, and it took me a few days to figure out what he’d done so far and how to get the reports I wanted.”
“Back when they arrested Lauren, Tommy told me about some report that showed that Steve hadn’t been logged on.to your system that day.”
“Right. I didn’t know about the master report of all users then. All I knew about was the monthly reports Steve had set up for each user.”
“Oh,” I cried, excited. “So you’re saying you gave Tommy the printout of Steve Wilkins’s log-on, and he hadn’t used the system that day under his own user ID. So whose unexpected user ID did the reports show?”
Not to be rushed, Jack held the papers against his chest. As if he hadn’t heard my last statement, he said, “I naturally assumed that Steve always signed on to the system using his own ID.”
“Right, right, but the day he died he didn’t. He used someone else’s. Whose? Yours? Mrs. Kravett’s?”
“You see, Molly, we didn’t have a policy concerning what to do with the user reports, since Steve died prematurely. Just today, I asked my secretary to sort through them all and stick each user report in the corresponding teacher’s box.”
He paused. At this point, I was ready to sock him. What was he doing? Trying to drag this out to the commercial break? What in blazes did the report show?
“My secretary gave me this report a few minutes ago. She didn’t know where to file it, for obvious reasons.”
At last, be lowered the report and I snatched it from him. The report was for the user ID KRAVETT. It showed her logged on to the computer for two minutes. The date was a week ago Saturday, the day Steve died, almost a week after Mrs. Kravett had died.
Death Comes eCalling Page 18
