by Cynthia Raye
“None,” Ronni answered. “The police spent the rest of the time questioning everyone—students and staff. So far as I know, they didn’t find out anything helpful.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. I know this is hard for you. If you need anything… If you feel too bad, give me a call. I’ll be glad to try to help.”
“Thank you, Rose,” Ronni said. She stood up. “I’d like to go upstairs now.”
“Of course, you would,” Rose answered.
Peter stayed with her the rest of the evening.
It took a few moments after Ronni awakened the next morning for her to remember what had happened. Then it hit her hard. She felt like turning over and burrowing down into her blankets and going back to sleep. Instead, she forced herself to get up. She decided she wanted to go to school, largely to be on hand for any students who just needed to talk.
Of course, she wasn’t a certified counselor, she told herself, but maybe she could provide some comfort to those who needed it. Or maybe it was enough to listen to some of them. Let them talk out their feelings. Also, she could try to find clues about the murderer. Tried to find out who had done it. There certainly were plenty of suspects. Anyone who had been the butt of Sylvia’s disdain and bullying.
The campus was quiet when Ronni arrived. It was as if everyone was afraid to make a sound. Instead, of the usual laughter and conversation, it was as if a pall had fallen on the place. Students still gathered in groups outside before the official start of the day, but all appeared subdued. Solemn.
Ronni greeted various students as she passed by to the front entrance. Most simply nodded or murmured something it was difficult to hear. She wondered how long it would take for things to return to normal.
Inside was the same. Already a number of students had gathered in groups of two, three or more, talking quietly among themselves. Hostetler stood among them.
“Good morning, Dalton,” she said. She knew in other schools it was protocol to be more formal, to address other teachers and staff members by title, Mrs. Ms., Mr. But the atmosphere at Watson-Collins was less stilted, more informal. The idea was that teachers here weren’t on a higher plane than students. The philosophy was that this fostered a sense of togetherness; of oneness.
“Morning,” Hostetler replied. “You didn’t need to come in today. Many of our faculty are staying home. Nothing much for them to do.”
“I decided I’d come talk to students. Those who need to talk things out and don’t especially want to talk with counselors they’ll see only for a day, people they don’t know.”
“That’s good of you,” Hostetler answered. “And I’m sure you’re right. Some students will want to be around familiar faces, not someone they’ll talk to today and never see again.”
“I think I’ll spend some time in the cafeteria, make myself readily available to talk.”
“Sounds good to me.”
By now the warning bell rang, the bell that on any normal day would signal that the students had only a few minutes before classes started. Today it didn’t mean much, except that the school was now officially open for those students who needed reassurance or needed to express their feelings.
Ronni walked to the cafeteria and got a cup of coffee. Then she took a seat off to one side. Before long, a few students and faculty members straggled in and sat at various tables.
“Ms. Adams,” someone said.
Ronni turned to see a member of her directing class approaching her table. Her name was Sandra Gibson, and she was a shy girl. Rarely said anything in class but always knew the answer when Ronni called on her.
“Yes, Sandra,” Ronni said.
“I feel like I need to talk to someone. Is that all right?”
“That’s why I’m here. Whatever it is you want to talk about is fine.”
“You’re sure?” She seemed hesitant, nervous.
“Of course.” Ronni smiled. “You want to stay here or would you like to go to my office?”
“This is fine,” the girl answered.
“Have a seat,” Ronni told her.
“Thank you.”
“So what is it you want to talk about?”
“I’m worried,” the girl said, frowning.
“You’re worried?” Ronni said. “What about?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy. Or that I’m overreacting.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“It’s the person who… who killed Sylvia?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if it’s a serial killer?”
Ronni shook her head.
“See, I knew you’d think I was crazy.”
“I’m sorry, Sandra, but I don’t understand.”
“What if we’re all in danger? Like what if the person who killed Sylvia decides to murder someone else? It could happen.”
Ronni nodded. “I suppose it could… though that hadn’t occurred to me.” She glanced into Sandra’s eyes. “But I think the person just had it in for Sylvia.”
“But why?” Sandra looked puzzled.
“Maybe because of some of the things Sylvia did?” Ronni suggested.
“You mean like bullying kids? Making fun of others?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
“But everyone thought she was such a perfect student,” Sandra said. “I didn’t think anyone knew—” She stopped abruptly.
“People who do things they shouldn’t…” Ronni glanced into Sandra’s eyes. “Well, they often don’t get away with it. Maybe for a time, but then they’re found out.”
“You think that’s it?” She sounded relieved. “That the rest of us have nothing to worry about?”
“I do… though, like I said, I suppose there is the remote possibility… And I’d say extremely remote, that you’re right.
“Thanks, Ms. Adams. You’ve really helped.”
“Well, if you feel that’s the case, I’m glad.”
Chapter 13
Sandra was the first of many students Ronni would meet with. Just as she was leaving, a boy Ronni didn’t know came up to the table. “Ms. Adams?”
“Yes,” she answered, puzzled.
“I’m Justin Sears.”
Of course, she told herself, since he was on crutches, she should have known. “Hi, Justin. Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Uh…” His face flushed. “I know we haven’t met before, but I wanted to talk to you.”
She smiled. “Well, now’s your chance,” she kidded. She indicated the chair across the table from her. “Sit down.”
“Uh… okay.” Clearly he was embarrassed.
“What would you like to talk about, Justin? No subject off limits.”
“It’s… It’s concerning Sylvia.”
“I hear she deliberately pushed you down the steps.” She decided to get directly to the point without further embarrassment on Justin’s part. “Is that why you wanted to talk with me?”
He pulled out the chair, learned his crutches against the wall, and sat down. “Miss Lindquist said she and you—you especially, I think—are trying to find out who murdered Sylvia Hawkins.”
“That’s true.”
“And that’s why you came in today.”
“Partly, yes. But also to talk to any students who don’t feel comfortable talking with counselors.”
“Well, I didn’t do it.”
“That’s great, Justin.”
“If you don’t believe me, just look! I have to use the crutches, which is trouble enough with the broken arm, let alone picking up the statue.”
“I certainly see your point.”
“I shouldn’t say this…” His tone was defiant. “But, okay, I hated her for what she did. I even told my friends I was going to get even, no matter what.”
“I certainly don’t blame you. There’s no reason for anyone to do something like that.”
“I’m glad you understand.” He gave her a tentative smile and reached for his crutches. “And thanks.”
> “You’re certainly welcome, Justin.”
Several other students also came to talk with her. Once the last of them had left, Ronni decided to get a cup of coffee and walk around the school a bit. She had no idea if what she was trying to accomplish—find the murderer, as well as provide a sounding board for anyone who wanted to talk—would do any good. She was surprised at how many students had come in. She expected a sparse crowd, but that wasn’t the case. She thought that somewhere between a third and a half of the kids were there. She wondered why, but then figured that all of them certainly had been affected by the murder.
She thought back to the time she was in sixth grade and one of her classmates died in a house fire. There were no counselors to help back then, no one to talk to at school, except other kids. It was traumatic. And a student being murdered at the school itself had to make the situation much worse.
One of the first people she saw as she walked through the halls was Millie.
“Ms. Adams!” the girl called as they approached each other. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Oh, Millie,” Ronni said, as they met, “I’m glad to see you too. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.” She shook her head. “No, I’m not okay. “I hated Sylvia, but I’d never want her dead. And I’m worried.”
“Would you like to go to the cafeteria or to my office to talk?” Ronni asked.
“Your office, if it’s okay.”
“Come on.” Ronni turned and started down the hall toward the faculty office area. “Have a seat,” she said once they were inside. She sat behind her desk with Millie across from her.
“Now tell me why you’re worried.”
“The girls are blaming me.” She looked down at her clasped hands.
“Sylvia’s followers, you mean?” Ronni asked.
“Yes!” Tears started to run down her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”
“If you need to cry,” Ronni told her, reaching for a box of tissues, which she pushed toward Millie, “go ahead.”
Millie gave her a quick smile as she took one of the tissues and daubed at her eyes, “Thank you.”
Ronni leaned forward. “Now what is this all about?”
“The two girls who saw me crying. You know, when you were there with me.”
“What have they done?”
“They’re telling everyone what happened and that I murdered Sylvia because of that. I didn’t.”
“But they’re spreading rumors.”
“The thing is, Ms. Adams, I didn’t even get to school on time yesterday.”
“You were late?”
“After what happened with Sylvia, I didn’t want to come to school at all. But Mom insisted. I dawdled around for a long time getting ready, trying to delay facing the other kids.” She looked up and daubed at her eyes again. “I didn’t want them to pity me. I was so ashamed.”
“Unfortunately, that’s the goal of most bullies—to make the victim feel he or she is wrong, in some way.”
“But the thing is, I wasn’t even here when Sylvia was… was murdered.”
“Well, if that’s true, I don’t think you have any worries. That is, if you can prove it.”
“Some of the kids saw me arrive late. You know everyone was outside, standing on the lawn.”
“I know they were. No one in and no one out. That’s what the police said.” She reached out a hand to Millie. “If anyone starts asking questions, tell them what you just told me. And have some of those who saw you back you up.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Millie asked, sounding astonished.
“I think it’s that simple. And that you have nothing to worry about.”
Millie stood. “Thank you! You’ve helped me so much.”
“Thank you for trusting me.”
Millie smiled and hurried out the door.
By now it was mid-morning. Ronni decided to call Peter.
“Ronni,” he answered. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve talked to some of the kids,” she told him as she leaned back in her desk chair.
“How are they doing?”
“The problem is that almost no one liked Sylvia. Those I’ve talked with are upset by the murder.” She took a deep breath. “They say they’re sorry she’s dead, but some of them think it should affect them more. That they should be experiencing grief, but they’re not. And they feel guilty about it. It’s as if they feel something is wrong with them emotionally by not reacting more strongly.”
“I don’t envy you. I’d think talking with the kids would be difficult.”
“It’s draining. But I feel they often need someone to be there for them, someone they know and can trust.”
“You’re planning to stay the rest of the day?” Peter asked. “I have no appointments after two.”
“I’ll stay around as long as anyone wants to talk. But I’d guess most kids will have left by then.”
“Good. I’ll stop by your apartment around two. Maybe we can have a late lunch—order pizza or something. Try to take your mind off things.”
“Sounds good,” Ronni told him. “And thanks.”
“You’re welcome, but I’m not sure what for.”
“Just for being there when I need you.” She gently disconnected and put the phone back into her purse. Well, she told herself, it wouldn’t do any good to sit in her office. She’d go walk around some more and then head back to the cafeteria.
One of the first people she saw as she headed down the hall was Robbie Bradford, a student in her directing class.
“Robbie, how are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m feeling really weird.” He was a sophomore, one of the few in the class. Slender, with reddish-blond hair, he stood close to six feet tall, with dimples at the corners of his mouth.
She smiled. “I’ll be more than happy to talk with you about it, if you like.”
“I need to talk to someone,” he said, sounding anxious. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, I don’t mind. That’s why I came in today. So, would you like to go to the cafeteria?”
“That would be fine…just so we can find a table away from anyone else.”
“Okay. I’ll even spring for you for a cup of coffee or a soda or whatever you want.”
“Ms. Adams.” He grinned.
