by Raven Snow
We took our usual tiny table, squeezing in another chair for Cooper. The waitress didn't even bother looking at me, used to Wyatt saying what the entire table would be eating. I wasn't particularly picky— unless there was a chance for pizza, and then pizza it would be— so I didn't throw too much of a fit.
About halfway through my chocolate waffle, my luck ran out. A curvy woman with Wyatt's hair and none of his height pranced over to us with a big, southern grin on her face. Cooper jumped up to hug her, for which I was grateful, because it gave me a chance to run to the bathroom.
A chance that was shot out of the sky when Wyatt introduced me while I was halfway out of my seat.
"Mom, I've told you about Harper, right?"
I could only imagine what he could have told her about me, and it made my stomach do routines barely seen off a gymnastics floor.
She turned her smile directly to me. It was friendly enough, but more reserved than it'd been for Cooper or Wyatt— she was contemplating and evaluating me. I tried not to shift under it, but that was next to impossible, so I settled for meeting her gaze head on.
After a moment, she stuck out her hand, and I shook it. "Lovely to finally meet you, honey."
"Lovely," I said, numbly. Wyatt seemed to be waiting for me to go on and run my mouth, and he gave me a puzzled look when I fell silent after a single word.
"You just have to come over for dinner at the house, dear," she said to me.
The silence waiting for my answer seemed to stretch on into eternity, and finally, Wyatt answered for me.
"That'd be great, Mom."
She left us to our meal not long after that. Staring at me with open interest, Cooper and Wyatt shoveled food into their mouths without even looking at it. I was done, however, pushing away my still-full plate with an uneasy feeling in my gut.
"That may be the first time I've seen you turn down food," Wyatt said.
Cooper echoed him. "You're always hungry." Then, he looked at his dad. "Is she sick or something?"
Grinning with a mischievous glint in his eye, he said, "Nah, just chicken."
______
A couple of hours later and back in my own car, I was still steaming about that chicken remark. See if I went running to Wyatt's bed for the next week, I thought savagely. I'd faced down death more times than I could even count, and he had the gall to call me a coward?
I'd probably still go running to his bed, if I was being honest.
After a short drive, I found myself back at the mostly deserted school. The front yard was a mess— students who'd been sent home had left empty juice boxes, crumpled homework, and all manner of trash lying about. I accidentally stepped on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a flood of gooey matter splattered all over my one pair of non-groovy shoes.
I cursed, and then tensed, waiting for a teacher to take a ruler to my knuckles or put me in detention. When neither of those things happened, I reminded myself that I was an adult and no one could punish me for my potty mouth anymore. But I held my tongue the whole rest of the trip down the trashed hallway.
Hoping to find a teacher still on the grounds that could answer a few nosey questions for me, I glanced in each classroom thoroughly before moving on. I struck gold about halfway down the fifth grade hallway. Mrs. June, Cooper's teacher, was blowing her nose loudly as she circled around, trying to pick up about a thousand crushed crayons.
"Mrs. June?"
She flinched noticeably, looking up at me with red eyes that quickly recognized me. "Miss Beck— owner of the Funky Wheel, correct?"
"Right." She'd been the teacher who took Cooper's class on a field trip to my disco skate months ago. That'd been when I first met Cooper, when I hadn't known to whom he belonged.
"The school is supposed to be evacuated," she said, giving me a disapproving look that seemed a little hypocritical, given the situation.
Instead of calling her on it, I ignored the comment altogether. "Did you know Ms. Nittleman well?"
A wave of sadness came over her. "She was a lovely girl. So young and such a gifted teacher. This is really a tragedy."
I waited for the sympathy that didn't manifest itself in the way I'd thought it would. All my life, I'd been a sympathetic crier, and now with a suffering woman in front of me, I couldn't even work up a good bout of empathy. Maybe all these murder investigations were making me jaded.
Shaking off that troubling thought, I asked, "Were there any signs that she was depressed?"
She pursed her lips. "You're not poking your nose about, are you, Harper? The girl committed suicide. It's as simple as that."
"How can you be so sure?" How can you be so wrong?
After a brief hesitation, she sighed, sinking into her desk chair. "Ms. Nittleman had always been a cheerful young woman, but lately she'd been a little... Well, I think she was stretched too thin. She was jumpy, always had circles under her eyes, and just last week, I caught her muttering to herself."
"What did she say?"
Shaking her head, she said, "I don't remember— only that it didn't make a lick of sense."
I allowed a doubtful expression to cross my face. “Is that it?”
A rare flash of anger colored the older woman’s face. “Young lady, the woman was paranoid! She told Joel that someone was breaking into her house and following her around, for goodness sake.”
Bingo.
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. June,” I called over my shoulder, heading out of the building. I found it was helpful not to force more information out of people than was strictly necessary. Then, if you needed to come back to them, you wouldn’t find them bitter and unwilling to talk.
Not paying enough attention to where I was going, I charged head-first into a scraggly, middle-aged man with angry eyes and a blue denim jumpsuit. The label above the breast pocket read “Head Janitor,” so I assumed he was the head janitor. I could be crafty—almost detective-like— sometimes.
He grumbled at me, pulling his cleaning cart behind him as he walked slowly down the destroyed hallway, not stopping once to clean up any of the mess.
“My tax dollars at work,” I mused.
Truth be told, he reminded me a little of Stoner Stan— my very own druggy/slacker back at the Funky Wheel. Hired on by my dad in the early nineties, he was the main reason the bathroom smelled like Woodstock and the hot dogs in the concession stand were always overdone. I’d come to associate crunchy dogs with the Wheel, though, so I guess he was there to stay.
My bug was waiting for me— parked illegally, but luckily, there was no ticket on my windshield. I spent the drive over to Wyatt's in quiet contemplation, thinking over everything Mrs. June had told me.
If it was possible, I was surer than when I'd seen the body, that this wasn't a suicide. Normal people didn't just randomly have a psychotic break— which is what we'd be looking at if what Mrs. June said about Ms. Nittleman being fine a month or so ago was true. That left only the possibility that she wasn't just paranoid, someone had been following her and had likely killed her.
The only question now was who.
Cooper was waiting for me in the foyer, his arms crossed over his chest in a very matronly manor. "My dad wanted you to watch me, not leave me alone to go sleuthing."
I raised an eyebrow, walking past him into the cozy, Victorian home. Between the kitchen and the living room were stairs that led to the second level. I left those abandoned and headed to the left, sitting down at the brightly-lit breakfast nook.
Apart from the hideous microwave on the tan counter, the kitchen was a beautiful, and not at all overpoweringly masculine—surprising for a house with only boys in it. Still, I couldn't work up too much shock over the stylish but comfortable state of their house; Wyatt's good at everything. Even decorating, it would seem.
"You're almost eleven," I said, answering his implied earlier question. "I figured you could last half an hour without burning down the house." I brought my arms up, motioning around me with wonder. "Lo and behold
, not even a single singe mark."
He grabbed a bowl of cereal, and I got a good look at the inside of the cupboards. Though it wasn't my first time seeing it, my mind was always boggled at the sheer number of bowls the family possessed. Chocolate cereal was more than the food they ate at every meal, it was a way of life.
"Didn't you just eat?"
He shoved a spoonful of sugar into his mouth with open defiance. "Now you're my babysitter?"
Stealing a few pieces, I kicked my feet up onto the chair on my other side, the one Cooper didn't occupy. "Not getting paid enough to be your babysitter."
"My dad says I can't put my feet up on the furniture."
"That must make sleeping difficult."
He bit back a smile. "So, where'd you go?" A little bit of chocolate milk dribbled down his chin, and I resisted the urge to wipe it off.
Frankly, the need came from out of nowhere. I didn't really touch others before I'd been inducted into Wyatt's family, with a few notable and brief exceptions. And I certainly had never been the motherly type.
Quick as a whip, my hand flashed out and captured the little bit of milk before it stained Cooper's shirt. Fast as it'd started, it was over, and I went back to acting nonchalant. Cooper didn't comment—because he's a smart boy— but he did give me an uncharacteristically shy smile.
"School," I told him truthfully. Lying to friends or children was not one of my many faults. "I talked to your teacher, Mrs. June."
He looked suddenly wary. "What'd she say?"
"That your father and I should probably send you off to military school," I said. "It was all that extra credit work you've done for nothing at all. Almost un-American, if you ask me. But not to worry, the military will beat that Commie-spirit out of you."
"I know what a Communist is, you know."
I inclined my head sagely. "I'm glad they're teaching you about that in school. Far more useful than balancing a checkbook or how a credit card works." Then, just because I was mostly done teasing him, I said, "I was asking her about Ms. Nittleman."
"Oh." He became very interested with his cereal— more than was normal for a Bennett. "She was a nice lady. Nobody else said yes to being director of the play."
Shooting me a glance that was probably supposed to be subtle, Cooper bit his lip. I knew what he was going to ask before the words left his mouth, and the request sped towards me like a freight train. Or a bullet. The outcome was the same, either way.
Instead of outright asking, however, he said, "Volunteers can direct, too, if none of the teachers want to."
He looked so earnest and hopeful that I just wanted to smack him upside the head. Groaning, I said, "Cooper−"
"Please, Harper?"
Not letting his pleading get to me— much, anyway— I narrowed my eyes. "Why do you want me to do it?"
His cheeks turned pink. "Well... there's this girl."
"You don't say."
"She's Juliet."
"Uh-huh."
"I just... but if you were there..."
Avoiding saying yes or no, I switched back to the topic of murder— always a safe bet with myself and the Bennetts. "Do you know a teacher named Joel?"
His father's son to the very end, he didn't miss a beat with the abrupt one eighty. "Mr. Bunson. He's the music teacher."
Joel Bunson. Apparent confidant to the late Kara Nittleman. That would be enough to get a phone number or address.
I stood up, intending to head out to question the man, when Cooper bounced up.
He grabbed my arm. "If you talk to the principal about taking over as director, I won't tell my dad about you leaving me."
"I think your dad expects it of me," I mused, but I was secretly proud of the kid's blackmail. I knew he hadn't learned that from his honest dad.
I told him he had a deal, while I screamed on the inside. Proving I was a good babysitter, however, I called for a pizza before I left to head over to Joel's abode. As luck would have it, he didn't live too far from Wyatt's, and I barely had to drive the temperamental bug for more than a few minutes.
An older man with aggressively fluffy sideburns answered the door. He was a bit older than I expected, especially since Kara had only been twenty-eight. Maybe there was some kind of mentor-tutor relationship here.
"Mr. Bunson?"
"Yes?" he said, not opening the door any farther. Smart man.
I stuck out my hand. "Harper Beck. I'm working with Detective Bennett on Ms. Nittleman's case."
Lie. Lie. Double lie. Hopefully though, it was a lie that Wyatt would back up if it came to it— more out of desire to keep on my good side and in my bed than anything else.
Not taking my hand, he nonetheless opened the door to let me in, a frown creasing his face. "I thought Kara's death was ruled a suicide. Why are the police involved?"
"We're just covering all our bases."
Joel led me into his plush, but cheaply-furnished living room. Declining all offers of drinks or food, I sat on a purple couch that threatened to swallow me whole. I felt very much like Noah in the whale's mouth, but I tried not to let on.
"I've already talked to Mrs. June," I said, trying to add a little credibility to my story. "She told me that Kara was paranoid and on edge these past few weeks?"
A wave of grief overtook his face for a moment— probably brought on by my use of past tense. Then, with a true teacher like fashion, he was all business. "Yes, she felt like someone was following her. She heard strange noises in her house at night. Kept receiving flowers and chocolate, too— no card."
"And you think it was real?" In that moment, I wished I had one of those little notepads to write on. It would've been very 1920’s detective of me.
He frowned. "I saw the gifts myself."
Double bingo. In one day, too. I was getting speedier at this whole mystery solving business.
"Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her or had any issues with her?" I asked.
Pausing, Mr. Bunson seemed to struggle with himself. "No."
"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Remember, I already talked to Mrs. June."
That was a shot in the dark, pure and simple. I was mainly relying on the gossiping tendency of grade school teachers. I just hoped they didn't let me down.
"Alright," he sighed. "There was this one man. They dated a couple times, but she wasn't really interested. Kara said he didn't take it very well when she broke it off."
I perked right up. Like they say, it's always the lover. "Name?"
When he told me, my good mood evaporated like someone had used the power of the sun on it. A tiny seed of excitement unfurled in my gut, but I didn’t let it affect me. Just because I wanted someone to be guilty— so I could stick it to the bad guy once and for all— didn’t mean they were.
But man, a girl could dream.
I called Wyatt on the way back to Cooper’s school— really, I was spending too much time there lately for someone who’d graduated a long time ago. And I hadn’t exactly had perfect attendance even then.
He answered with a curt "Bennett" that was so cop-like of him, I almost giggled.
"Don't you use your caller ID?"
Pausing for a moment, he no doubt heard the sounds of cars and semi-busy roads outside the bug. "Shouldn't you be watching my son?"
"Don't worry, I left him with a box of matches and called all the convicts on parole that you helped put away to let them know he was home alone."
"Considerate of you."
"Equal opportunity," I told him wisely. I hadn't called for chit chat, but I hadn't successfully worded what I wanted to say in my head yet. "Your son has a crush."
There was the clang of something being knocked over, and Wyatt cursed— likely about the object falling, not his son's affection. "What?" A pause. "On who?"
"He didn't say."
"But you know."
Grinning, I tried not to derive too much enjoyment over how well Wyatt had come to know me in such a short amount of time. For someone who was
used to being a little off-kilter, on the fringes of society, it was an addictive kind of feeling— belonging. Getting too attached and then losing it...
"I'm headed over to the school," I told him.
"Third time today," he said dryly. "Considering a job change?"
I shuddered at the thought. "Your son convinced me to play director, so I can help him woo his woman."
"He's always my son when he's in trouble, and your favorite kid when he's slipping you information." He sighed. "His argument must have been pretty good if it's getting you to spend time with children."
"Not particularly," I said, pulling into the same illegal spot as before. I was pretty sure everyone in town could recognize my bright orange bug and connect it to Wyatt by now— the likelihood for ticketing was low. "He just looked at me with his big, sad eyes and told me he needed me."
"That's my boy." There was something strange is his voice, though. "Why didn't he tell me?"
Ah. Jealousy.
Pulling out the big guns, I did my best Cooper impression. "My dad never has any trouble with the ladies. He looks at them and they always fall for him." That last part was probably more me than Cooper— at least I hoped.
The tension was gone from Wyatt's voice when he laughed. "So, if I were to head over to the school and stare you down..."
"Probably best not to test it in a family-friendly environment." Then, because I was tired of trying to think of a tactful way to speak my mind, I said, "I think Officer Kosher killed Ms. Nittleman."
To his credit, he didn't miss a beat. "Of course you do. You don't like him."
In all fairness, it was a mutual dislike. When people had been poisoned by a magic potion, I'd been Kosher's first suspect. He'd also arrested me for breaking into a fellow witch’s house— the fact that I did it had no bearing— and he was a regular jerk to me whenever our paths met.
That wasn't why I thought he did it, however, just why I hoped he did.
"He and the victim went on a couple dates, and word is that he didn't take it well when she broke it off. Surprising."
