Finding herself beside Josh Cunningham, Lucy greeted him warmly. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she joked.
“Hi, Lucy. Are you here for the meeting?”
“Sure am,” said Lucy. Aware that Bill was eyeing Josh rather suspiciously, she hurried to introduce them.
“Josh, this is my husband, Bill Stone. Bill, Josh Cunningham is Toby’s teacher. He calls him Mr. C.”
“Hi,” said Bill, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Are you coming to the meeting, too?” asked Lucy.
“Not me,” said Josh, grinning and shaking his head. “I try to stay as far away from meetings and politics as I can.”
“Good idea,” agreed Bill.
“No, I just came by to set up a demonstration for my classes tomorrow. It’s a model of the atom. For some reason the electrons keep disappearing.” He shrugged. “I’ve got to find them or think of something to replace them.”
“Well, good luck,” said Lucy.
“You’ll need it more than me,” he said, indicating the already crowded auditorium. “Atoms can’t talk.”
As they took their seats, Lucy thought Josh had made a wise choice. School committee meetings were usually poorly attended and took place in the school library. Tonight it looked as if it would be standing room only. Furthermore, this was clearly an anxious crowd. The usual buzz of premeeting conversation was more like a roar tonight as voices bounced off the painted concrete block walls and the uncurtained stage. As people spoke with each other, they made short, choppy gestures with their hands, and nodded sharply, their expressions grim.
Lucy looked for people she knew. There in the front row, of course, was Ted, notebook in his lap and camera at the ready. Also in the front row were an agonized-looking group of teachers from the elementary school, including kindergarten teacher Lydia Volpe, and Sara’s teacher, Ms. Kinnear. A few rows behind them sat a contingent from the high school. Sitting uncomfortably on the stage, at a small table set to the side of the larger one reserved for the school committee, were the three school principals: Sophie Applebaum, Frank Todd from the middle school, and Walker Mead, who headed the high school. They looked as if they were about to be charged with crimes against humanity, and Lucy sympathized with them.
The noise level subsided momentarily when one of the school committee members made his way to the stage. It was Stan Eubanks, the chairman. Stan was a round, red-faced man who looked as if he ought to sell insurance, and did. He was joined a few moments later by Caroline Hutton, a retired professor of dance from Winchester College. Lucy smiled to see her; a few years ago they had conspired to protect little Melissa Roderick from an abusive situation.*
Caro and Stan greeted each other with warm smiles and chatted as they began looking through the information packets at their places. A third member, local attorney George Witherspoon, soon appeared and sat down between them. The three became deeply absorbed in conversation, and Lucy wished she could hear what they were saying.
Then the fourth member and newest member of the board, DeWalt Smythe, took his seat. None of them greeted him, but turned instead to their packets, which apparently contained fascinating reading material. DeWalt was the minister of the Revelation Congregation and had been narrowly elected last spring, thanks to the votes of his parishioners, who turned out in record numbers.
Even from a distance, it was obvious that the other committee members were giving DeWalt the cold shoulder; he was clearly the odd man out, separated from the rest by an empty seat. Ruth Winters, a rather nervous woman who ran a gift shop, was absent tonight and Lucy didn’t blame her one bit.
Finally, Stan Eubanks banged down his gavel and called the meeting to order. He leaned into the microphone on the table in front of him, and the sound system emitted a piercing screech. Mr. Mopps, the custodian, hurried forward and adjusted the microphone.
When Mr. Eubanks tried again, the shriek was even louder. This was met by the audience with a collective groan.
Mr. Mopps looked anxiously over his shoulder at the crowd, and then bent over the microphone, tapping it hopefully with his fingers but achieving little more than brief pauses in the annoying static it was producing. Then, as everyone watched, Carol Crane pranced up the steps to the stage. Taking the mike from Mr. Mopps, she pointed him in the direction of the backstage control box. Seconds later the cackle subsided, and Carol spoke into the mike.
“Testing…one, two, three.” Hearing her voice come through clearly, she smiled and handed the mike to Stan. The audience, recognizing the heroine who had saved Tommy, applauded enthusiastically. Carol gave a little wave and returned to her seat, and Stan called for the first matter of business, an update from the police chief on the status of the bombing investigation.
Chief Crowley got to his feet from his seat in the front row and lumbered toward the microphone set up near the foot of the stairs leading to the stage. He adjusted the metal stand, rocked back on his heels, and began speaking.
“As most of you know if you watch TV or listen to the radio or read the papers, the investigation is continuing.” He adjusted the blue tie that matched his uniform with thick, callused fingers. “If you have any questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Do you have any suspects?” called out a voice from the audience.
“We got a whole bunch of suspects,” said the chief, coolly scanning the crowd.
Stan banged the table with his gavel. “Please don’t speak until you are recognized by the chair. And when you are recognized, please identify yourself. You, in the red,” he said, pointing to a young mother with an earnest expression.
“I’m Susan Winslow,” she said in a voice that could barely be heard. “I understood you were going to question the children—what happened?”
“I think I’ll pass that question along to Mrs. Applebaum,” said the chief, grinning smugly. “She went to court and got an injunction.”
There was an angry buzz from some of the audience members as Mrs. Applebaum approached a second microphone, located on the opposite side of the auditorium.
“Chief Crowley is correct. As part of the investigation, he requested permission to question all the children and I refused for two reasons. One, the role of the school is to educate the children and I believe the questioning would disrupt the educational process, and two, I believe the children have a right not to be questioned unless there are specific grounds to suspect they are involved. Chief Crowley went to the superintendent of schools.” Mrs. Applebaum nodded in the direction of Michael Gaffney, a rather heavy, balding man in a gray suit who was sitting with the committee. “Dr. Gaffney overruled my decision, so I went to Superior Court where I requested, and received, the injunction.”
Hands shot up all over the room. Mr. Eubanks recognized Vicki Hughes. Lucy remembered how they had stood together, waiting anxiously, on the day of the explosion.
“I can’t believe you would behave so irresponsibly,” said Vicki. “Our children’s safety is at stake here. I would feel a lot more comfortable if this investigation is allowed to proceed. I certainly don’t mind if my child is questioned, if it will help find the person responsible for the bombing.”
There was a hum of approval from the crowd as she sat down in her seat. Not everyone joined in, however. A few parents were shaking their heads and looking uneasy. Sophie Applebaum remained placidly in place at the microphone.
“Mrs. Spitzer,” said Mr. Eubanks, recognizing little Tommy’s mother.
“I just want to say that Tommy is doing fine, thanks to this wonderful woman.” With her hand, Mrs. Spitzer indicated Carol Crane, who bobbed up from her seat behind Lydia Volpe. She was answered with a roar of applause from the crowd. Mrs. Spitzer waited for the clapping to subside, and then resumed speaking.
“I am grateful that Tommy suffered no adverse affects, but I do have a question for Mrs. Applebaum and Mrs. Volpe. What happened? Why didn’t anyone notice he was missing? It seems to me there was some negligenc
e involved here. I dread to think what could have happened.” She sniffed, and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue.
“I understand how upsetting this has been for you and your family,” said Mrs. Applebaum.
Everyone was silent, waiting for an explanation.
“Mrs. Volpe is an experienced and capable teacher,” Mrs. Applebaum continued.
Lucy nodded in agreement; she knew and liked Lydia.
“I would like to remind you all that this was the first day of school. It takes a few days for the teachers to get to know all their students. I have spoken with Mrs. Volpe and she has told me she did not see Tommy at all that morning. In fact, she marked him absent when she took the roll.”
“I brought him to the nurses’ office that morning, just as I was instructed,” said Mrs. Spitzer with a challenging stare.
“We are continuing to look into it,” said Mrs. Applebaum.
“I hope you do,” said Mrs. Spitzer angrily. “I think I am entitled to some answers.”
The crowd buzzed angrily, and a number of people raised their hands.
“We all want answers,” said DeWalt Smythe, rising to his feet from his seat at the table on the stage. He was tall, and his suit with a lapel pin in the shape of a cross was a reminder of his calling. “I promise you, Mrs. Spitzer, that I will make this my personal mission. No stone shall remain unturned, I shall cast light into the darkest corners. Those who are innocent need have no fear; but those who are guilty should be afraid.”
He looked directly at Mrs. Applebaum, but she was equally firm in her convictions and did not flinch from his accusatory stare. Caroline Hutton glanced at her fellow board members, who shook their heads in disapproval.
Stan Eubanks banged down his gavel, and Lucy jumped. The tension in the room was terrible; she could not imagine how Sophie could remain so calm in the face of so much hostility.
“I will allow a few more questions,” said Stan, “but then I must return the meeting to the committee. We have a heavy agenda tonight.”
“This is more important than the agenda,” came a voice from the rear, but Stan ignored it and recognized a tall man dressed in a grubby sweatshirt and a pair of yellow fisherman’s overalls. The unshaven stubble on his chin indicated he had come to the meeting straight from his boat—he had probably been pulling lobster traps.
“I’m no education expert,” he said, “but I do know how to spell…” Here he paused and then added, “Pretty much” which got him a laugh from the crowd. “And I got to tell you, I don’t understand what they’re doing in this school. I know we’re all worried about the bombing, but I’ve been plenty worried about what’s been going on here for a long time. My kids come home with papers, they get check-plusses which they tell me means they did very well, and not a word is spelled right. It doesn’t seem to me that they’re learning English, it looks like some foreign language to me, and what the hell is the matter with a grade you can understand, like an A or a B? That’s what I want to know!”
The man remained standing, receiving an enthusiastic round of applause, and waited for his answer.
“I hear this quite often from parents,” began Mrs. Applebaum, waiting for the crowd to quiet down. “First of all, I want to assure you that whole language does work. It allows children to learn language by using it, and encourages them to express themselves…”
She got no further; quite a few people began booing as soon as she uttered the words “express themselves.”
Sensing he was losing control of the meeting, Stan pounded on the table with his gavel. “One more question,” he said, pointing at a rather prim-looking woman.
She got to her feet hesitantly. “I’d rather not say my name, and I’m not sure this is the right place, and I don’t want to get into specifics, but what is the procedure a parent should follow when a teacher has behaved inappropriately?”
For the first time that evening the room was absolutely quiet.
Stan appealed to Mike Gaffney, the superintendent of schools, who reluctantly got to his feet.
“The usual thing, ahem, is to schedule a meeting with the teacher,” he began. Pausing to clear his voice again, he continued. “Uh, to discuss whatever the, uh, problem is. If you’re not satisfied after that, you should contact the principal.” He sat down.
“I don’t think I’d be comfortable doing that,” said the woman.
“Well, then, ma’am,” said DeWalt Smythe, “the proper procedure is for you to arrange a meeting with me. You can talk to me after the meeting, or you can call me at the Revelation Congregation—the number is in the phone book. And I promise you, together, we will get to the bottom of this!”
Once again the crowd erupted, and Eubanks banged away with his gavel to no avail. It was only when Carol Crane rose and approached a microphone that an expectant hush came over the audience.
“There has been a lot of concern expressed here tonight,” she began, speaking in a smooth, professional manner. “I thank you for coming. We all know that our children are our most important resource. It has been said that it takes a village to raise a child—and I think the children of Tinker’s Cove are fortunate indeed to live in a village where adults are determined to do what’s right for them.”
It was amazing, thought Lucy. The woman’s voice was magical; already the anger and anxiety that had filled the room was beginning to dissipate.
“I would like to suggest to the school committee that one solution that has worked well in many communities is the establishment of school councils.” She paused. “The councils are not like the parent organizations you are familiar with, like the PTA that primarily raises money, but give parents and other concerned citizens a real voice in decisions affecting the school. I would urge the committee to look into this.
“In the meantime…I think it’s important to let parents know the investigation into the bombing is continuing, engineers have determined that the building is sound, and on behalf of the staff, I want to assure you that we are doing everything we can to ensure that your children are safe and are getting a quality education.”
Once again the crowd erupted into enthusiastic applause. Stan Eubanks and the members of the school committee beamed at her in approval. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Sophie stumping heavily up the side aisle to the nearest door. The principal looked sick, and Lucy jumped to her feet to follow her in case she needed assistance. It took quite a while to make her way out of the crowded row of seats, however, and when Lucy finally reached the lobby, there was no sign of Sophie.
She wandered a little way down the empty hallway, peeking into classrooms and checking the ladies’ room, but the principal seemed to have vanished. Lucy turned to go back to the auditorium, but hearing voices as she passed a side corridor leading to the band room and auditorium stage, she decided to investigate.
Lucy didn’t exactly tiptoe down the corridor, but she was careful not to make too much noise either. Approaching the band room, she saw the door was ajar, allowing her a clear view of Carol Crane and Mr. Mopps.
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” scolded Carol. “You have to check the sound system before the meeting. You can’t wait until all the people are here to see if the microphone works. Do you understand me?”
“I did check it.” Mr. Mopps spoke quietly. “It worked fine this afternoon.”
“Don’t give me that, Pops,” snarled Carol. Lucy was shocked at the venom in her voice. “I know all about people like you. You don’t do any more than you have to. You’re lazy. You better watch it because I’m keeping my eye on you.”
“You can do whatever you want,” answered Mr. Mopps. “You’re the boss.”
“You’re damned right I am. And I’m going to make sure you don’t get out of line—you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he insisted. “I just do my job.”
“Right.” Carol’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “And you make sure the little girls’ room is
especially clean, don’t you?”
“Of course. The girls’ room, the boys’ room, the teachers’ room—I haven’t had any complaints.”
“Play innocent if you want,” sneered Carol. “Just remember, I know what you’re up to.”
Caught up in the little drama she was witnessing, Lucy didn’t notice when her purse slipped off her shoulder and landed on the floor with a thud.
The sound caused Carol to whirl around. The anger on her face instantly melted away as she caught sight of Lucy.
“Yes, can I help you?” asked Carol brightly.
“I seem to be lost,” said Lucy. “I was looking for the ladies’ room.”
“Come this way,” said Carol, stepping forward and sticking out her hand for a handshake. “I’m Carol Crane, the assistant principal.”
“I’m Lucy Stone. My daughter, Sara, is in the second grade.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Carol gave her a dazzling smile. “I know Sara—she’s a little peach.”
“Well, we think so,” said Lucy, following Carol down the corridor. She wondered if Carol really knew who Sara was and tried to think of a question she could ask that would prove it one way or the other, but she couldn’t think of anything.
Carol stopped in front of the ladies’ room door. “Here it is,” she said.
“I don’t know how I could have missed it,” said Lucy. “Thanks so much.”
Pushing the door open, she went inside. Standing in front of the sink, she washed her hands and face and patted them dry with a rough, brown school paper towel. What was that all about, she wondered, as she left to rejoin Bill. She had never seen anyone change character so completely. In the wink of an eye Carol had switched from nasty to nice.
The crowd was already leaving the meeting, so she waited by the auditorium doorway until she saw him.
“What happened after I left?” she asked, taking his arm.
“Not much. The chairman pretty much told us to get out so they could get on with their business.”
“I feel sorry for Sophie,” said Lucy. “I think Carol upstaged her on purpose.”
Back To School Murder #4 Page 7
