“So what?” said Bill. “I think old Sophie got what was coming to her. I think it’s about time there were some changes around here. What is it they say—education’s too important to leave to the experts.”
The fisherman who had spoken earlier was stuck in the crowd next to them, as they slowly shuffled across the lobby to the outside door. Hearing Bill’s comment, he turned and slapped him on the back.
“You said it, man. It’s about time we—and I mean us parents—took back our schools.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Lucy found herself dragging after she left Zoë at the day-care center. It was Tuesday, deadline was once again approaching, and she knew it would be busy at the paper. Passing Jake’s Donut Shack, she decided to get a coffee to go, and one for Ted, too. Falling into line at the counter she found herself behind Lydia Volpe.
“Tough meeting last night,” she sympathized.
“Hi, Lucy. You’re not kidding. I’m beginning to feel as if I can’t show my face in town. A mob will gather, shave my head, and stone me.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that bad,” said Lucy. “No one’s accused you of witchcraft.”
“Not yet,” said Lydia. “But it probably won’t be long. Black with Nutrasweet,” she told the counter girl. Taking the little bag, she stood waiting for Lucy to place her order.
“Two large coffees, one black and one regular,” said Lucy. “And two cinnamon crullers.” She turned to Lydia. “I know I shouldn’t, but some days you just need a sugar-caffeine-cholesterol jolt.”
“Tell me about it.” Lydia looked terrible. Her usual vivacity was gone, even her black, usually curly hair had lost its bounce and hung in soft waves.
Lucy paid for the coffee and doughnuts, took the bag, and put her free arm around Lydia, drawing her close. Lowering her voice, she asked, “So what did happen with Tommy?”
Lydia shook her head. “Lucy, I never saw him that morning. He never came to class. I marked him absent, just like Sophie said. Then, when we were all standing outside the school, one of the kids said she had seen him. I panicked.”
“When they put him on the stretcher, he said he was locked in. Where was he?”
“In the supply closet. You know—it has one of those long, narrow windows in the door. Angela said she saw him in there. At first I was skeptical, but some of the other kids said they saw him, too. I was so busy counting heads that I walked right by and never noticed.” She bit her lip. “With the budget cutbacks I have over thirty kids this year—not that that’s any excuse. Believe me, not a night goes by that I don’t dream about him, trapped in there.”
Lydia’s enormous brown eyes were starting to overflow with tears, and Lucy gave her arm a squeeze.
“It’s not your fault—really. How do you think he got in there? I thought those closets were kept locked.”
“It usually is—I don’t know. Maybe he chickened out on the way to class, maybe one of the kids shoved him inside as a joke. The school nurse was supposed to bring him to class—on the elevator—but she says she had an emergency. A kid with an asthma attack. When she was finally free to bring Tommy down, he was gone and she assumed one of the aides had taken care of him. I wish she had thought to check with me, that he was safely in my class, but she didn’t and I’m not going to bring it up. There’s enough finger pointing going on as it is.”
“You can say that again,” said Lucy. “What was all that about a teacher behaving inappropriately?”
“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t believe it. Most of the teachers have been on the job for years. There’s never been a problem like this before. Why is all this stuff coming up now? Frankly, it reeks of politics to me.”
“Politics?”
“Sure. DeWalt Smythe has an agenda and he doesn’t care who he hurts. He’s on the side of the angels, of course, so anybody who doesn’t agree with him is automatically suspect. Oh, gosh, is that the time?” Lydia shook her wrist in frustration. “I’ve got to go. But, Lucy, tell Ted what I told you, okay? People need to know what’s really going on.”
“Do I smell coffee?” Ted lifted his head from the computer screen and sniffed appreciatively. “Bless you. You’re an angel.”
“Not quite—it’s a guilt offering,” said Lucy. “I figured it was the least I could do if I was going to be late the day before deadline.”
She set the bag on the counter and carefully extracted the hot paper cups of coffee. “I got crullers,” she confessed. “I don’t know about you but my energy level is zip.”
“That’s why they invented coffee,” said Ted, taking a long slurpy drink.
“So, what did you think of the meeting last night?”
Ted read from his computer screen. “The bomb that detonated in the elementary school last week may not have done much damage to the school building, but the explosion has shattered trust in the school system.”
“I think you got that right,” said Lucy. “I just saw Lydia in the doughnut shop—she feels there’s a witch hunt going on, and she’s the witch.” Lucy took a bite of cruller. “She says DeWalt Smythe has an agenda.”
“Good old DeWalt. You gotta love the guy. He’s convinced he’s on a mission from God. He wants to pack the school committee with members of the Revelation Congregation. Then they can toss evolution out the window and bring back creationism.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Am not,” said Ted with a wry little smile. “DeWalt doesn’t believe there’s a hole in the ozone—thinks that’s a liberal plot to undermine faith in God. He doesn’t believe women’s brains are as big as men’s—somehow their female parts take up the space. And he wants to know why, if all these smarty-pants scientists are so convinced that Darwin was right, well, why are they so worried about a teensy little bit of competition from Holy Scripture?”
“Well,” said Lucy, crumpling up the wax paper doughnut wrapping and dusting off her hands, “my brain may be smaller than DeWalt’s, but I’m pretty sure it’s more efficient.”
Ted snorted. “I don’t doubt it. But DeWalt has a lot of people convinced he’s right. The Revelation Congregation is one of the fastest-growing churches in the state.”
“Heaven help us,” said Lucy, flicking on her computer.
As she typed, her thoughts inevitably returned to the meeting. She’d never seen anything like it. The bombing had unleashed a tidal wave of parental anger and distrust that had apparently been building for quite a while.
She hadn’t realized that so many people were dissatisfied with the schools. She didn’t have any complaints herself, but then, she frequently volunteered and was in the classrooms fairly often. She knew firsthand how hard the teachers worked, and how much they cared about the children.
A lot of people didn’t have the time or the inclination to volunteer, and they only knew what they heard from others and read in the newspapers. It was true, Lucy admitted, that the Tinker’s Cove students had not performed well on standardized tests. And come to think of it, Bill had hired a high school kid to help him this summer but decided to let him go. “He can’t seem to use a ruler,” Bill had complained.
Maybe there were some problems, thought Lucy, but they could surely be solved if people talked and worked together. That, in effect, was what Carol Crane had proposed. DeWalt Smythe, on the other hand, seemed intent on fanning the flames of discontent for his own purposes.
Lucy’s fingers stopped on the keyboard. Could DeWalt have set the bomb, she wondered. He certainly seemed to be gaining the most from it—people who would normally have regarded him skeptically were applauding him enthusiastically last night.
She picked up a pen and chewed on the cap as she considered this new possibility. Could he have done it? As a school committee member, he certainly had access to the school anytime he wanted. If he needed help with the technicalities, he had any number of devoted followers to choose from.
Lucy shook her head. Maybe she didn’t agree with DeWalt�
��s ideas, but he was a man of the cloth. Sunday after Sunday he led his congregation in prayer and exhorted them to follow the Ten Commandments. She might not like his style, but she had no reason to doubt his sincerity or his faith.
Leaning back in her chair, Lucy stretched. She realized she had a headache, and got up to get some aspirin. That’s what you get for thinking too hard, she told herself.
That afternoon, Ted let Lucy go a couple of hours early. She was caught up with her work and he was going to be in the office anyway, working on an editorial. She was grateful for the gift of free time—she hadn’t finished her reading assignment for class, and it was an opportunity to cook a nice dinner.
Zoë was napping, and she was mixing up Bill’s favorite meatloaf, when she heard the school bus brake at the end of the driveway. Minutes later Sarah, Elizabeth, and Toby burst into the kitchen, followed by Lance.
“Elizabeth,” protested Lucy. “You’re supposed to be at field hockey—and Lance isn’t supposed to be here at all.”
“He’s with me, Mom,” said Toby. “We’re working on something for the talent show.”
“And there wasn’t any field hockey,” said Elizabeth, self-righteously. “Mr. Cunningham was suspended.” She wrinkled her face up in disbelief. “I didn’t know they could do that to teachers.”
Lucy stopped kneading the meatloaf mixture and rested her gooey hands on the edge of the bowl. “Are you sure?”
“It’s true,” said Toby, in a serious tone of voice. “We had a substitute for science. I heard it’s because of a joke he made about one of the girls on the field hockey team.”
“That’s not true. He would never do that,” said Elizabeth.
“It doesn’t seem like his style,” agreed Lucy. “There was a woman at the meeting last night who accused a teacher—no name—of inappropriate behavior. Do you think she was talking about Mr. Cunningham?”
“That’s crazy, Mom,” said Toby. “He’s really nice. He treats everybody the same. He doesn’t make cracks about the dumb kids like Mr. Swazey does or anything.”
“What about at practice, Elizabeth? Does he joke around? Could somebody have misunderstood?”
“Not that I ever heard,” said Elizabeth. “Do you think he’ll be back tomorrow? We have a game on Friday and we need the practice.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Lucy. “When a teacher’s suspended, there’s quite a lengthy process. Do you have much homework?”
“I’ll do it later,” said Elizabeth. “Come on, Sara. You can drive balls to me so I can practice my stops. You can even use my old field hockey stick if you want.”
“No! I don’t want to!” Sara was sitting at the table with her arms crossed across her chest. She stuck out her bottom lip.
Lucy couldn’t believe her ears. Sara adored Elizabeth and would normally never turn down an opportunity to get some attention from her big sister.
“What’s the matter, honey? Don’t you feel good?” asked Lucy.
“Come on, Sara. It’ll be fun, I promise,” coaxed Elizabeth.
“No!”
Elizabeth shrugged, grabbed her field hockey stick and went on outside. Lucy sat down at the table opposite Sara. From the family room she heard the frantic drumbeats of alternative rock.
“Okay, honey pie. What’s going on? I can tell that something is really bothering you.”
“Mr. Mopps.” Sara kicked her feet.
“What about Mr. Mopps?”
“He’s gone.”
“That’s too bad. Is he sick?”
Sara shook her head. “Ms. Crane told him to get out.”
“Really?” said Lucy. “When was this?”
“I went to the bathroom and they were in the hall outside. Ms. Crane was real mad. Mr. Mopps was sad.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Lucy. “Maybe he broke a rule. Ms. Crane must have had a good reason.”
“She doesn’t like him. She doesn’t like Ms. Kinnear or Mrs. Applebaum either. Will she make them leave?”
“No. She can’t do that.” Lucy picked up Sara and put her on her knee. “Why do you think she doesn’t like Ms. Kinnear and Mrs. Applebaum?”
“It’s the way she looks at them.” Sara pulled her head back and narrowed her eyes into slits.
Lucy laughed and gave her a squeeze.
“It’s not funny, Mom.” Sara was solemn. “I’m scared of her. She’s mean. She yells.”
“Just follow the rules and she won’t yell at you. Go on out and play now, okay?”
Lucy could hear Zoë babbling to herself in her crib so she went upstairs and brought her down to the kitchen. She toddled about, pushing her toy lawn mower in circles while Lucy patted the meatloaf into shape and slid it into the oven. She tucked some potatoes in beside it, adding one for Lance. Then, while Zoë investigated the pot cupboard, she finished reading the last few pages of Sartor Resartus.
She was just closing the book when the boys appeared, looking for something to eat. Lucy distributed ice cream sandwiches from the freezer.
“Lance, if you’d like to stay for dinner, I can give you a ride home on my way to class tonight.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Stone.”
“Shouldn’t you call your parents and see if it’s okay?”
“Oh, that’s all right.” He punched Toby in the arm and they ran outside. Lucy watched from the window as they joined the girls in an improvised game. The boys practiced their soccer moves, passing the ball with their feet, and Elizabeth and Sara chased them across the yard, trying to regain control of the little white ball with their sticks.
Lucy couldn’t quite place Lance. Usually, kids in Tinker’s Cove fell into two groups: the kids from nice families, and the ones from not-so-nice families. Although she would never admit it, Lucy tried to make sure her kids only associated with the nice children. The ones they first met at story hour at the library, the ones whose dads coached youth soccer and whose mothers baked for the PTA bake sale and volunteered as class mothers.
Usually it was not difficult to tell which category a new friend belonged to. The nice kids were clean, their clothes might be hand-me-downs but they fit and were appropriate, they had eyeglasses and braces if they needed them. They had nice manners, and they always called home if they came to visit after school. Usually, it was the visitor’s parents’ responsibility to provide transportation home, but sometimes the host mother would oblige, especially if she happened to need milk, or was transporting another child to Scouts or ballet or swimming lessons. There were rules about these things, unwritten, but understood by everyone.
As she watched Lance race across the grassy yard, Lucy decided she could not place him in either category. His hair and nose ring were not-nice, but his clothes were clean and bore exclusive brand-name logos. His teeth were straight, but Lucy couldn’t tell whether they were just naturally that way or had been expensively straightened. He had nice manners, but he hadn’t called home. Who were his parents, she wondered, and where did they live? What did they do?
She was tearing up lettuce for a salad when Bill came home.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his hands resting on his hips and his elbows cocked.
“Hi, to you, too,” said Lucy, raising her eyebrows at his abrupt question.
“I thought that kid, Lance or Vance or whatever his name is, isn’t supposed to be here. I thought we had a family policy.”
“He’s here on a technicality,” said Lucy. “He isn’t supposed to visit Elizabeth, but he came home with Toby.”
“That’s not acceptable.” Bill paced back and forth across the kitchen. “What is he, some kind of wise guy? I don’t like that.”
“Well, he hasn’t paid any attention to Elizabeth all day. He and Toby have been working on a rap song for the talent show. I’ve been home all afternoon, keeping an eye on things.”
“Just look at that, will ya?” Bill snapped.
Lucy looked out the window and saw Lance prancing in front of Elizabeth, agilely bo
uncing the ball from one knee to the other. Elizabeth was laughing. Toby was watching from a distance. It all seemed pretty innocent.
“I think you’re overreacting,” said Lucy. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. It’s meatloaf, your favorite.”
“Thanks,” Bill grunted, and pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. He twisted off the cap and sat down at the kitchen table. He rolled the bottle in his hand, but didn’t take a drink.
“Is something else bothering you?”
“Didn’t get a job I bid for.”
“There’ll be other jobs.”
“I thought this was a sure thing. I didn’t bother to bid on some other work.”
“Like I said, something will come along.”
“I wish I had your confidence.” Bill tilted his head back and took a long swallow of beer.
Despite the fact that meatloaf was usually a family favorite, nobody seemed to enjoy dinner much. Bill kept casting suspicious glances at Lance. Lance and Elizabeth kept making eyes at each other. Toby was morose.
“So, Lance, what does your dad do?” asked Bill.
“I live with my mom. Could I please have more salad?”
“Sure, but you didn’t eat your meatloaf. Don’t you like it?” asked Lucy.
“I’m sure it’s very good,” he said politely, “but I’m a vegetarian.”
“I didn’t know,” exclaimed Lucy. “You should have said something. I could have made something else for you.”
“This is fine. I mostly eat salad anyway.”
“Well, good for you,” said Lucy. “Toby and Elizabeth could learn from your example. They never eat their salad, and will probably develop scurvy any minute now.”
“Mom!” Elizabeth protested, rolling her eyes.
“Gee, Mom, I’m surprised you’re not warning Lance about kwashiorkor,” wisecracked Toby. “You get that if you don’t get enough protein.”
“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” barked Bill. “Apologize, right now.”
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Toby. “Could I please be excused?”
Back To School Murder #4 Page 8
