Outline for Murder

by Anthony J. Pucci

  “No, it isn’t. The retakes haven’t come back yet. That’s the problem,” she explained.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Hodge jumped in again. “I found this card this morning at Zappala’s house. It was probably used by the intruder to open the lock on the front door. Delaney says that he never received his original ID card in homeroom. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is. I picked up the cards from my mailbox that morning, and when I distributed them, his wasn’t there. It never did turn up.”

  “You’re wrong there, ma’am. It did turn up, as I said, in Zappala’s house. Do you think that Chris Delaney vandalized that property?”

  “No, of course not. He never had that card.”

  “Ah, but you did, didn’t you?”

  “Me? What is he talking about?” Steph had turned her focus from Hodge to Bishop.

  Although it was hard for him to respond, he managed to say, “I think he’s trying to suggest that you intentionally kept Chris’s ID card.”

  Sister Pat suddenly erupted with her finger wagging at Stephanie. “You could have used that card to break into the house and left it there to make Chris look guilty.” She spoke so confidently that Bishop felt obligated to discredit her theory.

  “And exactly why would she want to do that, Sister?”

  “Well, you can’t expect me to know everything!” she snapped, still trying to maintain ownership of her dubious deduction.

  ***

  Bishop left the meeting hurriedly as he wanted to resume his schedule of classes for the remainder of the day. He didn’t see Stephanie in the halls, and in between classes, she had remained in her room. Wild rumors were spreading around school. Chris Delaney had been questioned regarding the murder of the coach. Miss Harris had been questioned about her conversations with Bonnie King, Chris’s girlfriend. Mr. Bishop had threatened to resign if Chris was charged without sufficient evidence. He wondered how all of these falsehoods got started. Most of his students never seemed to be that creative in their written work for class. Sister Pat might have blabbed to Terry who would tell Sarah who never kept a juicy rumor to herself. He doubted that Steph would have said anything to anyone about what had transpired in that meeting. Ron might have said something in confidence to one of the faculty members or even to one of Chris’s friends and his words could have been misunderstood or misstated when they were passed on to another and yet another person. Bishop hoped that, when nothing more came of the meeting, the rumors would fade and someone else would become fodder for the gossip mill.

  ***

  With Pavarotti singing “Nessun Dorma” in the background, Bishop barely heard the vibrating of his phone the next morning. He was hoping to get an early start on his drive to Madison. He wasn’t going to answer until he saw Stephanie’s name on the screen.

  “Am I interrupting anything? I hope I didn’t call too early. I know that you’re an early bird.” She spoke in a friendly tone.

  “No, of course not. I’m glad you called. I’m sorry that I didn’t get to talk to you about that meeting at school yesterday.”

  Stephanie explained that although she was initially upset by Sister Pat’s accusation, given the rest of the day to reflect, she had concluded that Sister Pat was just being Sister Pat.

  “It does seem a bit strange that Hodge has an unsolved murder on his desk, and he’s seemingly more concerned about who vandalized the house.”

  “Maybe he thinks that the two events are connected,” offered Bishop.

  “Right! The murderer returns to the scene of the crime,” she said with fake sarcasm. “That only happens in badly written novels.”

  He agreed with her. He felt that the murder and the breakin had been committed by two different people, although he left open the possibility that the two events were connected in some way.

  “I know Hodge won’t find my fingerprints on that card, and he won’t find Chris Delaney’s prints either because I never gave him the card. It just wasn’t in the stack.”

  Bishop suggested that the Lieutenant had probably already come up empty in checking for prints.

  Stephanie spoke emphatically, “I’m willing to take a lie detector test if that is what he wants. I didn’t have the card, and I didn’t break into that house.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” he replied, conveying his complete confidence in her innocence and suggesting that it was very unlikely that he would even make such a request. “I need to spend more time going through the coach’s papers. Someone killed him for a reason. I still think I’m missing something.”

  “I’m still betting that it was Rocco Santorini, although they may never be able to prove it,” Stephanie theorized. “Some of the most horrible crimes are committed within families.”

  He realized the truth of that last statement. It happened all the time in literature. Hamlet killed his stepfather, Claudius, because Claudius had killed Hamlet’s real father. Othello killed his wife, Desdemona. The list went on.

  Stephanie then explained that there was another reason for her call. She wanted to invite him to celebrate Thanksgiving with her and her parents in Fairmont. Bishop knew that she had already invited Ron, but said, “I appreciate the invitation, but don’t you think you should invite Ron? I know that he’s very fond of you.”

  “I already did invite him, and he’s accepted, but I’d like you to come as well. I don’t want you spending the day alone. You’ve been so good to me. Even standing up to Sister Pat on my behalf in that meeting yesterday. I’ve told my parents so much about you. They’d really like to meet you, so what do you say?”

  He was looking forward to the break from school, but holidays had been difficult for him since he lost Grace. He had planned to volunteer serving meals at the community center that day and then just watch some football on television.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’d be happy to join you. Thank you very much.”

  Bishop knew that unless the murder had been solved by then, he would be taking that burden with him wherever he went.

  Chapter 20

  It was still dark that Saturday morning when Bishop went to take his shower. The hot water was relaxing, and it always seemed to help him sort things out. He had called an old friend, John Harrington, the week before. He and John had gone to Boston University together. John had retired from teaching English at Madison about five years ago. He had seen him briefly at Zappala’s funeral, but there hadn’t been much time to talk. John had invited him to come up for lunch some day. Bishop hoped that John knew Al Zappala better than he had. He hoped to return to Groveland that night having uncovered some detail that would help him fit the pieces together. The longer the killer remained unknown, the more likely that person’s identity would never be known. As he rinsed off, he thought of Tennyson’s Ulysses who inspired generations “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” He didn’t know what he would find, but he was convinced that he was headed in the right direction.

  Shortly after the coach had moved up to Pleasant Hill Road, he had sold his house in Madison for $122,500. Bishop had stumbled on those papers in one of his searches through the boxes. There was a folder that contained documents from the two closings. He took the cash from the sale of his home at 6560 Imperial Road, added the rest from his savings, and paid all cash for his place in Groveland. A visit to his old neighborhood seemed in order. Maybe he could get some of the neighbors to talk about the coach.

  Driving within the speed limits, he still managed to reach Madison by 9:00 a.m. With his GPS, he had no problem finding Imperial Road. He passed by 6560 and parked a bit farther down the street. It was a middle class neighborhood with nicely kept single-family homes. There was a man in his thirties raking leaves at the place that Zappala once owned. He was wearing a flannel shirt that was open down the front, a pair of faded jeans, and sneakers. Two chubby little tikes were gleefully jumping into the piles of leaves that their father had just created. Bishop couldn’t help but smile
to himself at the Norman Rockwell scene. The property had landed in good hands. After hesitating a bit, Bishop walked onto the lawn and introduced himself to the man. Joel Lindstrom gave his hand a firm shake and introduced him to his two-year-old twins, Jessie and Jenna.

  “I understand that this house once belonged to a colleague of mine,” observed Bishop, not wanting to sound too inquisitive.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Al Zappala”

  “Oh, yes. You’ve got the right house. My wife, Libby, and I bought this place from him a couple of years ago. It was shortly after we closed on the house that we found out we were expecting these two,” as he gestured to the twins who were too entertained by tossing leaves in the air to pay any attention to Bishop.

  They had only met Zappala at the closing. Joel said that everyone thought that he had been a heck of a coach. Madison had three state titles in football to prove it. Yes, his murder was a real shame. He did admit that the coach must not have had much time for upkeep and maintenance as the place needed a lot of work. That must have explained why Zappala had accepted his lowball offer without even bothering to counter. Bishop shook Joel’s hand again, said that it was nice meeting him, and waved at the twins as he walked back to his car. He hadn’t learned much.

  ***

  He followed Imperial Road into town. He passed Madison High on his right. It was a three-story brick building that had obviously been upgraded with energy-efficient windows that reflected the morning sun. He noticed a few cars in the parking lot and a team out on one of the practice fields. When he saw a sign for Betty’s Café, he decided to stop for a cup of tea and a pastry. It was mid-morning and business was slow. He struck up a conversation with a waitress named Lily. She was about forty-five, bleached blonde, and heavy on the makeup.

  “I suppose a lot of teachers come in here. I’m a teacher myself.”

  If she thought he looked too old to still be teaching, she kept that to herself. No sense insulting someone and then expecting a good tip. Instead, she asked, “Married?”

  “Widower. We were married for thirty-seven years,” he said as he stirred some sugar into his tea.

  “Sorry about your wife, but thirty-seven years is a lot more than most couples these days. Me, I’m divorced. Three times. Seems every one I thought was Mr. Right was Mr. Wrong.” When she smiled, she revealed a mouthful of large, stained, crooked teeth.

  They chatted pleasantly for a while. He had a second cup of tea. They talked about the restaurant business. There was no Betty; Lily bought the place from her years ago and never bothered to change the name. She claimed to know most of the teachers at Madison. They knew her breakfast special was the best deal in town. She had dated a few teachers over the years, as if to suggest that if Bishop were thinking of asking her out, the chances that the answer would be a “yes” were pretty good. He took the opportunity to ask a different question than the one she thought might be coming.

  “Did Coach Zappala ever come in here?”

  “That creep? Yeah, I knew him. Can’t say as I feel too bad somebody nailed him.”

  He tried to draw her out on the topic by suggesting that he had only a cursory knowledge of Zappala. Lily was more than willing to talk about the dead. She had dated him for a while several years before he moved away. All he ever talked about was sports, but she didn’t mind going out with him because he bought her expensive gifts. He was an odd guy according to Lily because he never wanted to go over to her place, and he never invited her over to his. Every month or so, he’d asked her if she wanted to take off for the weekend. They’d drive up north for a couple of hours, find a cheap hotel, and they didn’t leave the room until it was time to drive back.

  “If you get my drift,” was the way Lily put it. Bishop certainly did. Still, he didn’t understand what had happened between them to leave her so bitter. He worked his way around the question for a while hoping that Lily would answer the question without having to ask her directly. She didn’t disappoint.

  “One time I went out into the parking lot after I closed up at 1:00 a.m., and I noticed Al’s car. I thought he was waiting for me or something. When I got up to the car, I saw he had some broad with spiked hair in the front seat. That’s when I broke it off with that bastard.”

  Bishop had to admit to himself that he wasn’t very surprised by anything that Lily had said. Clearly, she hated the man. Was it possible that she had come to Groveland years later to get even? Why would she have waited so long? How would she have obtained the poison? And if she had done it, would be she be talking about her hatred for Zappala with a perfect stranger?

  Still looking for that elusive detail, he got in his car and headed for John Harrington’s house. It was pleasantly warm for early November, and he had left the windows open. He hadn’t driven more than a mile, when he noticed a bee darting around inside the car. He instinctively swatted at it, and as he did, he felt a sharp pinch on his right hand. “Damn!” he shouted to himself. Bishop, who was severely allergic to bees, had been stung. Quickly, he pulled over to inspect the area of the sting. He found the stinger lodged in the fleshy part of his palm and carefully pulled it out. He then reached into the glove compartment for the epinephrine that he always kept with him. He administered the shot right through his pants into his leg. Within seconds, his hand started to itch and swell and within a few more seconds, he started to break out in hives on his arms and upper body. Knowing that he needed to get to an emergency room, he got out of his car, and started walking toward a group of teenagers who had just come out of a Dunkin’ Donuts. The venom was quickly taking over his body. He had time to say, “Bee sting. Please call 911” before he crumpled to the ground.

  Bishop woke up startled by the dose of adrenaline that he was given through an IV in his arm. He was in a hospital emergency room surrounded by a doctor and several nurses. His clothes had been removed, and he was hooked up to a machine monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure. His heart was racing, and he felt cold despite the blankets covering him. One of the nurses held his hand and looked into his eyes as he awoke. He wasn’t sure if the adrenaline the doctors had given him was causing hallucinations.

  “Cheryl?”

  ***

  “Cheryl … Khoury?”

  “Yes! But it’s Cheryl Bates now. I wasn’t sure that you would recognize me,” she said in amazement. “It’s been over twenty years,” she laughed. “How are you feeling, Mr. Bishop? Looks as if you arrived here just in time. You were in the early stages of anaphylactic shock.”

  He felt woozy. The injections of adrenaline had reversed the effects of the sting, but they had their own side effects.

  “A bit shaky, but I’ll be all right in a few minutes.” Then he added, “This has happened to me before. That’s why I carry the pen. I gave myself a shot in the leg. That bought me enough time to get to a hospital. There was a group of kids outside the Dunkin’ Donuts. They really saved my life. I remember asking them for help before I passed out.”

  “That must be such a helpless feeling. We’re getting some antihistamines and fluids into your system, so you should be getting back to normal very soon. I’ve got to check on another patient, but I’ll be back. Just to try to rest.” She gave his hand a squeeze and left the room.

  A short time later, a dark-haired nurse with heavy eye makeup came in, checked the monitor, and removed the IV. She told him that he could get dressed, but that he should call if he felt dizzy. She pulled the curtain around his station as she left. “My name is Joanne. I’ll be right out here if you need me,” she reminded him.

  Bishop was feeling quite a bit better, cheered by the prospect of putting this incident behind him. He was worried about his car which he left hurriedly near the Dunkin’ Donuts. He was fairly certain that he had locked the car before he approached those kids for help. He wished he knew who they were so that he could thank them.

  Cheryl called from the other side of the curtain, “Mr. Bishop, how are you doing?”

&nb
sp; “All dressed. You can come in.”

  As she pulled the curtain back, she looked at him and smiled, “I still can’t believe that you remembered me!”

  “Well, I guess I have a knack for remembering names and faces. It helps that you haven’t changed at all!”

  “Neither have you! I would recognize you anywhere. Are you sure you are feeling okay? Would like something to drink? How about some crackers?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine for now.”

  Her curiosity got the best of her as she asked, “What are you doing these days?”

  Bishop got that question quite often. “I’m still teaching at Trinity,” he replied.

  “Wow! That’s remarkable!”

  Bishop got that response quite often as well. She asked him about a few of the teachers she remembered from her days at Trinity. Bishop was struck by the fact that not one of the teachers she mentioned was “still there.” A few had passed away; others had retired. He decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So tell me about yourself. I know that you’re married and that you’re a nurse,” he said with a grin.

  “After Trinity, I went to Nazareth and got my degree in nursing. My husband, Allen, was already in med school at the University of Rochester at the time. He’s a cardiologist. We lived in Baltimore for a while when he was doing his residency. We’ve been in Madison for about eight years. We have two adorable little girls, Laurel and Ivy, who are 6 and 4. That’s my story,” she said with obvious pride in what she had achieved in her life.

  After a few more moments of catching up, Bishop asked, “Do you know when I will be able to leave? I’m really feeling much better.”

  Cheryl explained that the attending physician would have to officially release him. They would probably restrict him from driving for twenty-four hours until the effects of the injections and other medications wore off. If he needed a place to stay, she would be glad to let him use her guest room.