The Skeleton Takes a Bow (A Family Skeleton Mystery)

by Leigh Perry

  Since I was the only stranger in the room, it was a meaningless gesture, but I obediently stood. Very few of the teachers even bothered to look at me, and of those who did, the majority shot me hostile glances. I sat down as quickly as I thought polite.

  “As you may know, Dr. Thackery will be taking over the junior SAT English prep classes for the next few weeks while Mr. Chedworth is out of commission. I trust you will offer her a warm PHS welcome.”

  Mr. Neal, a tall, dark man who taught Madison’s algebra class, raised his hand and asked, “Is Dr. Thackery going to be proctoring the SAT in Mr. Chedworth’s place?”

  “We haven’t discussed that, actually,” Mr. Dahlgren said.

  “I just wanted to remind you that I’m next on the proctor list.”

  Okay, I had to quickly decide if Mr. Neal was unhappy about being stuck with SAT duty or worried that I was going to get it. In that the SATs were administered by an outside company, and knowing roughly how much they cost, I was willing to guess that proctors got paid to do the job.

  So I said, “It’s fine with me if you take the proctor job. I probably shouldn’t proctor tests for the kids I’ve been teaching anyway.”

  A scrawny woman with a dark gray cardigan gave me a baleful look. “I’ve always managed to proctor the students I’ve taught in SAT math.”

  Sometimes the only way out of an awkward situation is to just flat-out lie. “Oh, excellent. I’m glad to know that people who know the students proctor here. One of Madison’s previous schools brought in the scruffiest bunch of people you ever saw to proctor their SATs, and one mother said—Well, that’s neither here nor there, but I’m glad to learn that the policy here is more civilized.”

  The SAT math teacher looked mollified, but Mr. Neal said, “So you do expect to proctor the test?”

  “I’m sorry,” I lied again. “I don’t have availability on Saturdays. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

  Dahlgren said, “No problem at all. Mr. Neal, you can certainly take the job if you’re next on the list.”

  With that settled, attention mercifully turned away from me, and I could sit in back looking interested-and-concerned as I jotted notes on my pad, only a fifth of which had anything to do with what was being said. Mostly I was doodling. Since most university staff meetings include only a few agenda items that affect me, I’d long since learned how to hold my pad so it’s not easily visible to prying eyes.

  After about an hour of serious doodling, the meeting broke up, and since I was fairly sure that nobody would want to chat with me, I was ready to beat a hasty retreat, when Ms. Rad came by. “Can you come over to my classroom for a minute? I want to introduce you to Lance.”

  “Sure.” I followed her down the hall, up the stairs, and down a different hall to her classroom. The edges of the room were cluttered with mismatched shelves, all filled with books, and the walls were decorated with posters of authors ranging from Shakespeare to Jane Austen to Poe to J. K. Rowling.

  Ms. Rad put her pad on her desk and picked up a plush lion. “This is Lance,” she said, handing him to me with an expectant look on her face.

  Fortunately, Madison had told me about Ms. Rad’s mascot. “So this is the famous Lance.” I ruffled his mane affectionately. “Looking good. And I love the shirt.” He was wearing a miniature PHS Lions football jersey.

  Ms. Rad seemed satisfied, so I put him down. I saw nothing wrong with talking to a stuffed lion. For one, like all mothers I’d had many a conversation with toys of all description, and for another, my best friend was a skeleton. Most people would have had an easier time accepting a Lance than a Sid.

  “As acting English Department chair while Mr. Chedworth is out, I wanted to welcome you to PHS, even if it is just temporary.” There was a slight edge in her voice when she said, “It is just temporary, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes,” I said firmly. “I don’t have the skill set to teach high school students other than on a limited basis. It’s a different ball game from college.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Teaching is teaching.” But I could tell that she had loosened up.

  “Can I ask you something? Is that why people weren’t happy to see me? Because they thought I was trying to take away somebody’s job? Or was it the proctoring thing?”

  “Well, proctoring is much sought-after because it’s easy and pays over a hundred dollars for just a few hours. Here at PHS, we offer the PSAT once a year, the SAT twice, and some achievement and AP tests, too. So it adds up. I save my proctoring money up for Christmas shopping.”

  “But now that I’ve said flat-out that I won’t be proctoring?”

  “That will help, but the fact is that you’re considerably more academically qualified than some of the other teachers in the English Department. Take Coach Q. Marvelous man, gifted teacher, but he’s only got a master’s, and his degree is in history, not American literature.”

  “Why is he teaching English?”

  She shrugged. “He needed a job, and they needed an English teacher. So he did his homework and he’s doing a wonderful job. Then there’s Ms. Sullivan, who teaches computer science. Her degree is in English, and she’s been promised a chance to move to this department when there’s an opening, but again, she’s only got a master’s.”

  “So they’re afraid of me because I’ve got a doctorate?”

  She nodded. “I’ve got a doctorate myself, and so do a handful of the other teachers, but most of us don’t. So when a real academic comes around, with published papers and such—”

  “I haven’t published anything worthwhile since grad school. Honestly. I’m a teacher just like you guys—I just teach at a different level.”

  “But with the whole tenure system, they’re afraid you’ll come in here and work for cheap because you can afford to.”

  “If I had tenure, the last thing I’d do would be to take on extra work. I’m an adjunct.” I explained what that meant. “Do you think you could spread the word so people wouldn’t hate me?”

  “I could try,” she said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure it would help. If they knew your job was that shaky, they’d be sure you wanted to come teach here.”

  “So I have a choice of them being jealous because they think I have tenure or being anxious because they think I want my job?”

  “That’s about the size of it!” Then she laughed at the expression on my face. “Don’t worry, they’ll get over it soon enough.”

  We went on to talk a little bit about expectations, and then I patted Lance good-bye and told Ms. Rad I’d see her the next day, when I taught my first couple of classes. Then I drove home and tried not to get depressed.

  It wasn’t concern about doing a decent job—I’d taught SAT prep before, and while it wasn’t my favorite topic, I knew the material. Nor was it that I didn’t feel particularly welcomed at PHS—I’d had that problem at any number of universities in the past. It was more that I didn’t know how I was going to make excuses to talk to people when they were so hostile.

  I just hadn’t expected high school teachers to be so antagonistic of college professors. Then again, it went both ways. I remembered Patty Craft’s funeral, and how that one adjunct had mocked the deceased woman’s ex-boyfriend Bert for teaching high school. If Bert had worked at PHS, he’d probably have been just as suspicious of my motives as the other teachers.

  Come to think of it, hadn’t Charles said that Bert was looking for a job? Just like our missing murder victim.

  I kept walking, but I was no longer paying attention to where I was going.

  The missing teacher was Robert Irwin, and Bert was a nickname for men named Robert.

  Could it possibly be the same man?

  19

  By the time I asked myself that question, I was in the parking lot and standing next to my car, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d arrived there. I also was
n’t sure how I could find out if Bert was the same man as Robert Irwin, but Sid might. Deciding it would be as fast to drive home as to call him, I started the car.

  But halfway home, I decided against telling him right away. His emotions had been so up and down, and I didn’t want to get him all riled up over nothing. As it turned out, it was a good decision. There was more than enough excitement in the house already.

  I heard the raised voices even before I opened the door, and I admit to being tempted to back up, hop in the car, and drive to just about anywhere else. I don’t like arguments.

  But since I was the only parent, I stiffened both my upper lip and my spine and went inside. The cacophony was coming from the living room, where I found Sid’s skull on the couch with Madison standing in front of him, hands on her hips. Meanwhile, Byron was sitting a little too close for my comfort. He hadn’t tried to gnaw on Sid in a while, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

  “This is none of your business!” Madison said to Sid.

  “You knew I was in the bag when you started talking, and you know Georgia will want to hear this.”

  “I thought I could trust you!”

  “You mean you thought you could sweet-talk me into keeping secrets from your mother.”

  “Ahem?” I said before they could continue their verbal blasting. “Can we use our inside voices?”

  They stopped talking, but continued to glare at one another. Byron, at least, seemed glad to see me and even wagged his tail, though he had to realize it meant that his plans for a bony snack had been foiled.

  “Dare I ask what’s going on?” I said.

  “Sid has been eavesdropping. Again. Still!”

  “I’m supposed to eavesdrop. That’s why I’m spending every day shut up in your locker!”

  “You’re supposed to be trying to find out about a murder, not sticking your nose into my business.”

  “I’m not sticking my nose in anywhere—I don’t even have a nose.”

  “Let me extrapolate,” I said. “Sid, you overheard Madison talking to somebody about something you think I should know, right?”

  “She told Samantha that—”

  “Stop. Does what you heard have anything to do with the murder we’re trying to figure out?”

  I think he tried to shrug, but since all he had to work with was his skull, he just wobbled a bit. “I thought we decided at the beginning of the investigation that there was no way to tell what facts and information could be useful.”

  “Okay, then, using your very best judgment—your honest judgment—what are the chances that what you overheard has anything to do with the murder?”

  He mulled it over before finally admitting, “Maybe five out of a hundred.”

  “Not even!” Madison said.

  I said, “If there’s a ninety-five percent chance that the information has no bearing on the case, then I think you could keep it to yourself until such time as it proves to be important.”

  “It is important!” he protested.

  “Until such time as it proves to have something to do with the murder. Okay?”

  Sid’s skull wiggled some more, but he said, “Okay.”

  Madison should have left well enough alone, but she had to add, “Nobody likes a tattletale, Sid.”

  “Now, Madison,” I said, “I’m sure that if you have some information that is important to me, you will tell me yourself. Right?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m sure I can trust you to tell me everything I need to know. That’s how we work, right?”

  The way she wouldn’t meet my eyes told me that it was a bigger deal than she was willing to let on, but I wasn’t going to order her to tell me. After a couple of long minutes, she finally said, “Okay, I blew a biology test.”

  “How badly?”

  “Pretty badly.”

  “How much is it going to affect your grade this quarter?”

  “I’ll still get a B. I think.”

  “Make sure of it.” I didn’t insist on her getting straight As, but Bs were the minimum I would accept. “If you need extra help, I expect you to stay after school and get it.”

  “But Mrs. Hanson’s only time for helping is during rehearsal, and Becca will drop me from Hamlet if I miss too many rehearsals!”

  “Then you better make sure you learn the material during class.”

  “What do I need biology for anyway? I mean, have you used any today? This week? This year?”

  “Do you have a career path already lined up?”

  She looked blank. “No.”

  “Then how can you possibly know what you’re going to need?” I thought it was a reasonable question, but I’m not a teenager and clearly she didn’t follow my logic.

  She said, “Whatever.”

  “Try that again.”

  She visibly swallowed what she wanted to say. “I’ll do better.”

  “Okay, then. I trust you to take care of it.”

  “I should go get started on my homework.”

  “I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  She took her backpack and dog upstairs, and I know she was working hard to keep from stomping.

  “Um, Georgia,” Sid said, “can I have a lift to the armoire?”

  “Sure.” I opened up the armoire and got Sid close enough to pull himself together. “So did you hear anything today that might fit into the whole murder plot?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “Just gossip, and some really raunchy jokes that are in terribly bad taste.” He shared one, and I was appalled for a microsecond before we started laughing.

  We were still laughing as we headed to Sid’s attic, and in retrospect, I wish we hadn’t been, because the dirty look we got from Madison as we passed her door meant that she probably thought we were laughing about her.

  I was thinking of that look when I sat down on Sid’s couch and said, “Sid, you can’t keep listening in on Madison’s private conversations.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose—she was holding my bag when she told Samantha about that test.”

  “Yeah, okay, maybe this time you didn’t mean to. What about the other times you’ve snuck around the house hearing things?”

  He gave a full skeleton shrug this time. “It’s an old habit. Besides, I kind of thought I could finally do something useful by letting you know.”

  “But I don’t need you to keep tabs on Madison. She’s extremely trustworthy. Besides which, you’re not an employee, and you don’t have to do anything. You’re family. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Of course I could tell from his tone of voice and the precariously loose connections between his bones that it wasn’t okay, but I patted his femur and went on downstairs. Sid closed the attic door firmly behind me, and Madison had her bedroom door closed, too. She’d even taken the dog with her, which left me by my lonesome.

  I’d thought I’d had Sid and Madison all squared away the night before, but the peace hadn’t even lasted a whole day. I would have loved to have somebody to talk to about the situation, but there wasn’t anyone I could call to grouse with. The only ones who knew about Sid were my parents, who weren’t in the right time zone, and Deborah, who I didn’t think would be sympathetic or supportive. There is no Facebook group for blended families like mine.

  20

  As soon as my eight o’clock class was over the next day, I headed for the adjunct office. I didn’t have to be at PHS until noon, and I wanted to talk to Charles first. When I didn’t see him around, I went to my mother’s office and tapped on the adjoining door to my father’s office. A minute later, Charles answered.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he said cheerily. “I’ve just brewed some fresh coffee, if you’d care to join me.”

  “Coffee sounds grea
t.”

  I waited for him to stop fussing with the cups and a selection of honest-to-God digestive biscuits before I said, “I have an odd question for you.”

  “I would be honored to answer if I can.”

  “At Patty Craft’s funeral, somebody mentioned her ex-boyfriend. A man named Bert something?”

  “Yes, Robert Irwin.”

  I managed not to spill my coffee, but it was a close thing. Just to make sure I’d heard it right, I said, “Patty Craft used to date Robert Irwin?”

  “For some time, actually. I didn’t realize you knew him.”

  “I don’t—I’ve just heard the name.”

  “Ah. I thought perhaps you had worked with him.”

  “Isn’t he a high school teacher?”

  “He is currently, but he started out as adjunct faculty. That’s how I met him, actually. Patty, Robert, and I were all together at Tufts for a fall and spring semester.”

  I was so going to have to smack Sid for having missed that when he was compiling his Irwin dossier. “Have you heard about what happened to him?”

  “Has he finally turned up? I really was surprised he didn’t attend the services for Patty.”

  “According to the paper, he’s missing, Charles, and has been since right around the time Patty died.”

  “Really? That’s rather shocking, isn’t it?” He took a swallow of coffee.

  I waited for him to express sympathy for the man, but there was nothing. “Do you know him well?”

  “I’m acquainted with him,” he said shortly.

  “You don’t like him, do you?” Charles was so scrupulously polite that for him to say no more than he had almost certainly meant that he hadn’t approved of the man.

  “I’m afraid I never warmed to him—I felt he’d led Patty down an unsavory path, and my feelings about him were forever cemented after she was diagnosed with cancer and he immediately cut her from his life. He said he couldn’t handle it.”

  “What a selfish sleaze! I know it’s hard to be with somebody going through cancer treatment, but how could he live with himself knowing that he’d abandoned her?”