Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  “Sure,” said Lucy, “but there’s cherry pie for dessert.”

  “I don’t want any,” said Toby, shuffling out of the room

  “Me, either,” said Bill, rising and pushing his chair back. “I think I’ll watch the news. I understand they’re bringing back the statutory rape laws.” He glowered at Lance.

  “I’m too full for dessert now,” said Elizabeth. “Lance, do you want to see my CDs?”

  “Sure.”

  Once they had excused themselves, only Lucy and Sara were left at the table, with Zoë in her high chair between them.

  “Pie?” asked Lucy.

  “Maybe later,” said Sara.

  “Help me clear the table?”

  “I’d be happy to,” said Sara.

  “You know you’re my favorite,” said Lucy, rising and stacking plates.

  “I know,” said Sara with a conspiratorial little smile.

  Lucy was driving Lance home when he surprised her by saying she could drop him anywhere near Smith Heights Road.

  “I’d rather take you to your door,” said Lucy. Not only did she want to make sure Lance got home safely, but a peek at his house might answer some of her questions about him. Smith Heights was a very exclusive section of town, where many large summer houses belonging to wealthy summer people were located.

  “That’s all right. You can let me off here.”

  Lucy braked and Lance climbed out of the car. He waited until she drove off before he turned and headed down a long drive, hidden behind a twelve-foot hedge.

  How odd, thought Lucy. It was almost as if Lance was purposefully secretive about his family. Maybe they were just very private people, she rationalized. Maybe they were famous, and didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe they were in the witness protection program.

  Maybe, she thought as she sped along the road to the college, they had a bomb factory in the basement.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lucy left for work very early on Wednesday morning. Wednesday was deadline day and she knew Ted expected her to get in as early as she could. As they drove along, the roads made misty by morning sunlight, Zoë complained about the early hour from her safety seat. Lucy hadn’t had time to give her breakfast, but had packed it instead for her to eat at the center. Zoë was making it quite clear that she did not approve of this change in her routine.

  As she drove along, Lucy’s thoughts returned to last night’s class. Professor Rea had had them all in stitches, reciting one of Tennyson’s lesser efforts.

  Pitching his voice in a high falsetto, and fluttering a yellow silk pocket square, the professor had begun by slowly reciting the first line, “Flower in the crannied wall,” in a posh British accent. Then he paused and, delicately bringing thumb and forefinger together, continued, “I pluck you out of the crannies,” bringing a few giggles from the younger members of the class. Lucy had glanced at the woman next to her and smiled.

  The professor held his hand outstretched before him and leaned forward, gazing into it. “I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, / Little flower,” he crooned. The giggles turned to guffaws.

  Then, he tossed his head back and slowly brought it forward to study the imaginary flower in his hand. “But if I could understand / What you are, root in all, and all in all,” he recited, giving his head a sad little shake.

  Lowering his voice dramatically and giving the handkerchief a little wave, he whispered the final line, “I should know what God and man is.” By this time most of the class was in hysterics, and the woman seated next to Lucy was laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

  It had been fun, and Lucy had laughed along with the rest, but she couldn’t help feeling Professor Rea was being a bit unfair to poor Lord Tennyson. She raised her hand.

  “Yes, Mrs. Stone,” said the professor, leaning against the blackboard.

  “It’s easy to criticize Tennyson,” she began hesitantly. “After all, he was a very popular poet and critics have tended to hold that against him.” Seeing the professor raise his eyebrows, she lost courage and hurried to finish. “But he did write some wonderful poems.”

  “Like ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade?’” asked Professor Rea with a little smirk.

  Lucy smiled. “My son used to love that poem.”

  The professor stared at her in disbelief, and Lucy heard a few giggles coming from the back of the room.

  “It was a way to teach him left and right,” she hurried to explain. “You know…‘Cannon to right of them, / Cannon to left of them.’ It was fun, really,” she ended lamely.

  “You know the entire poem by heart?” asked the professor.

  “Sure,” said Lucy. “It’s not very long. It’s a great poem to recite. People used to memorize poems for entertainment, you know. My great-aunts used to recite ‘Hiawatha’ and ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’ for fun.”

  “That’s very true,” said Mr. Irving, the senior member of the class, coming to her rescue. “There was a time when all school children were expected to memorize poetry and to recite it.”

  “Well, I suspect most of us are happy those days are over,” said Professor Rea. “Modern critics dismiss Tennyson as overly sentimental and too willing to pander to popular taste with his gooey rewrites of Arthurian legend.”

  “But what about In Memoriam?” exclaimed Lucy, indignantly letting her enthusiasm get the better of her. Deliberately lowering her voice, and speaking slowly, she repeated a few lines from the poet’s tribute to his dead friend. “‘He is not here; but far away / The noise of life begins again, / And ghastly through the drizzling rain / On the bald street breaks the blank day.’”

  “Even bad poets have their moments,” admitted the professor, studying her curiously. “I suppose you think that good shall come to all and every winter change to spring,” he said, sarcastically paraphrasing the poem.

  “I guess I do.” Their eyes met and Lucy felt her face growing warm. “It’s better than the alternative,” she said defensively.

  Today, however, Lucy wondered if she had gone a bit too far. What had gotten into her? She would never have challenged a professor when she was an undergraduate.

  Lucy’s musing was interrupted by the blare of a horn. Quickly coming to her senses, she saw the outraged face of a young man driving a small Japanese pickup truck. She realized she must have gone through a stop sign, and resolved to keep her mind on her driving.

  She couldn’t imagine why she was getting in such a huff over Tennyson. He was long dead, after all. And to give him credit, Professor Rea made the class interesting. The time just flew by. Of course, she’d had the added suspense of wondering if the professor would ask her out again. He hadn’t, and she couldn’t quite make up her mind if she was relieved or disappointed or perhaps a bit of both.

  Leaving Zoë in Sue’s care at the center, Lucy pulled into the Quik-Stop to buy a cup of coffee. It was foul stuff, but it was fast and easy. She filled a paper cup from the carafe and set it on the counter along with a roll of breath mints and two dollar bills. Receiving her change, she turned to go, only to meet Mr. Mopps at the doorway.

  Seeing that her hands were full with the coffee, he held the door for her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I heard about your job—I’m awfully sorry.”

  He shrugged, a gesture that suggested the Mediterranean rather than Tinker’s Cove. “I don’t understand—I always try to do a good job.”

  “My daughter will miss you,” said Lucy.

  “Who is your daughter?”

  “Sara Stone. She’s in second grade, with brown hair and a little chubby.”

  “I know Sara,” he said, breaking into a big smile. “She has a big brother, Toby, no? And a mean older sister, Elizabeth, I think. And a little baby sister she loves very much.”

  “That’s right.” Lucy was impressed; she doubted Sara’s teacher knew that much about her.

  “She likes to talk to me. All the children talk to me. They tell me their little problems. I enjoy th
e children.”

  “Last night, I overheard you and Ms. Crane…” began Lucy.

  “That one—she is evil. I do not like her.”

  “She’s certainly popular…”

  “Bah!” Mr. Mopps made a gesture of spitting on his hand. “She is a big phony. Always after me. Pops this and Pops that. I tell her I am not Pops, I am Peter, I am Mr. Demopoulos, even Mr. Mopps I do not mind. But I am not Pops. Still, always Pops. And now she makes up these stories about me.”

  Lucy nodded sympathetically. “I hope things work out for you.”

  “I can work for my brother—he has a coffee shop in the outlet mall. Better coffee than here.” He winked at her.

  “I’m sure,” agreed Lucy.

  “That one at the school,” he began, looking into the distant sky as if forecasting the future from the mackeral cloud formations that were building up. “I do not see a long and happy life for her.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Lucy. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too, Mrs. Stone. Have a nice day.”

  It was a few minutes past seven when Lucy arrived at the office. George, she knew, had already been working for hours. He came in at three or four in the morning to lay out the pages by press time. Ted was working the phone, updating the stories he had already written, and checking with the police and fire departments for late developments. He hated to be scooped by the Portland daily and did everything he could to make sure the latest news got into The Pennysaver.

  “What do you want me to do?” Lucy asked, switching on her computer.

  “We’ve got some last-minute classifieds that need to be typeset—the school is looking for a substitute science teacher and a custodian.”

  “The kids told me Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Mopps were gone. What’s going on?”

  “This is a good one,” began Ted, only to be interrupted by a ringing phone.

  “Thanks for returning my call. Can you tell me exactly what complaints have been brought against Mr. Cunningham? Oh. Suspended until the investigation is complete. I see. Is this the usual procedure? Well, thank you for your time.”

  Exasperated, he hung up the receiver and shrugged. “Why do they bother to call if they’re not going to talk? The superintendent won’t confirm or deny anything. I haven’t been able to contact Mrs. Wilpers, the woman at the meeting, either. But DeWalt Smythe is reeling off the quotable comments faster than I can write them down. As you may have suspected, he is ‘absolutely outraged by Mr. Cunningham’s disgusting and appalling behavior.’”

  “What does Cunningham say?” asked Lucy, tapping away at the keyboard.

  “Poor guy sounds mystified. Says he doesn’t know what it’s all about, but he’s sure the investigation will exonerate him.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Lucy. “What about Mr. Mopps? Why was he fired?”

  “That’s not exactly clear. All they will say is that he was terminated for cause. I have heard that Ms. Crane doesn’t like him, but my source is not terribly reliable.” Ted grinned. “She’s only seven.”

  Lucy laughed. “My source has a similar story, and she’s pretty upset. She really likes Mr. Mopps.”

  Ted smiled sympathetically, and snatched up the phone. “A head-on collision? You’ve got art?” He looked at the clock. “Listen, get over to Capra’s photo, tell them you want one-hour processing, okay? Get it here by ten and I can use it.”

  He began dialing the police station. “George, save some space on page one. Lucy, switch that scanner on. I should have known about this.” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I’m calling about an accident out on Bumps River Road, about an hour ago,” he began. “What do you mean the report’s not filed yet? I’ve got a deadline!” After a pause, he continued, sarcastically, “Well, can you tell me where I can find Officer Truax?”

  Ted slammed down the phone. “Goddamn dispatchers. It wouldn’t kill ’em to cooperate—might get ’em a free subscription. Maybe even a box of candy at Christmas. Listen, I’ve got to track down some cop who is supposedly in a speed trap on Route One. I need you to typeset these.” He handed Lucy a stack of papers. “We can use thirty-five inches, okay? And by the way, I think you’re looking for the one marked POWER.”

  He stomped out of the office. Lucy flipped the switch, and the scanner began producing static, punctuated with voices. She listened for a few minutes, but there was no mention of an accident. Eddie Culpepper, however, had forgotten his lunch and his father, Officer Culpepper, was asked to pick it up at home and take it over to the high school.

  “Is it just me, or is today crazier than usual?” she asked George.

  “About par for the course,” said George, without removing his eyes from his computer screen. “This is a newspaper. We don’t make widgets.”

  Lucy nodded. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that the newspaper business wasn’t anything like Country Cousins, where she had worked before. At the catalog store, which was open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, everybody worked by the clock. You punched in when you arrived, and punched out when you left.

  At The Pennysaver, there was no time clock and the only time that mattered was 10 A.M. Wednesday—deadline. Because of deadline, the weeks tended to fall into a pattern. Monday and Tuesday were increasingly busy as Wednesday approached; activity peaked on Wednesday morning. Ted’s temper also grew shorter, Lucy had noticed, the closer it was to deadline.

  But once the paper was sent to the press, on a computer disk that George hand-delivered, everything calmed down. Ted usually left the office and Lucy tidied up, enjoying the sudden peace and quiet.

  The pace was much slower on Thursday and Friday. Ted didn’t care if she came in late and left early, as long as she got her work done.

  Compared to Country Cousins, Lucy preferred the newspaper. It was too bad the job was only temporary—she was really enjoying it. Closing out the ads, she shipped the file to George and began leafing through the stack of letters. They were all prompted by Carol Crane’s heroism, and they were all remarkably similar. She picked one at random and began typing it.

  By the time she had finished, Lucy was heartily sick of Ms. Carol Crane, who apparently embodied the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Gandhi, and the charity of Mother Teresa. She didn’t know why she didn’t like the woman; everyone else seemed to adore her. Maybe she just seems too good to be true, Lucy decided, tapping the Alt and Y keys that sent the file to George.

  She sat for a minute, ear cocked to the scanner, trying to remember if she had forgotten anything, when the door flew open.

  “Hi! I’m Jewel Hendricks—Jewel the Ghoul,” said a large, fat, red-faced woman with her hair drawn tightly back into a ponytail. Jewel didn’t fuss over her appearance, Lucy noticed. She was dressed in a man’s shirt and denim overalls.

  “Ted calls me that ’cause I take pictures of accidents. I’ve got some here. Big crash out on Bumps River Road. You’re new, aren’t you? He said if I got ’em in by ten he could use ’em, and I did. Just. So you can write me a check. I usually get twenty-five dollars.”

  “I’m Lucy, filling in for Phyllis.” She shook her head apologetically. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait for Ted to pay you. So, who was in the accident? Anybody from town?”

  “Nah. Nobody from here. It was just one guy. He flipped over on that curve—you know the one I mean?”

  “I do,” said Lucy. “Was he hurt?”

  “Nope.” Jewel seemed disappointed. “Had his seatbelt on. Got a good one of him hanging upside down.” She snorted. “Hell of a fix, if you know what I mean. Darned idiot must’ve been doing seventy or eighty to end up like that.” She looked up as Ted came hurrying in. “I got your pictures.”

  “Good. Did you get any info about the accident?” he asked.

  “Actually, I did,” said Jewel.

  “You’re the best! Give it to Lucy and she can write up a caption. So George, where do we stand?”

  “Lookin’ good, boss. Got an editorial?�
�

  “Yup,” said Ted, tossing his notebook on his desk and sitting down. “It’s almost finished. Give me a minute.” He opened the file and studied it, his hands poised over the keyboard. Then, slowly and tentatively, he began pecking away, his fingers moving more rapidly as he became absorbed in his subject.

  Lucy smiled at Jewel. “I don’t know how he does it. So, what have you got about the accident?”

  Jewel pulled out a grubby, wrinkled envelope. “Driver was Mel Costas of Quivet Neck. Wouldn’t tell me his age. Actually, he wasn’t too cooperative. I think he was pissed off I wouldn’t help him out. Hey, I told him, I’m not risking a lawsuit. Made him wait for the cops. Truck was a Dodge Dakota. You can do something with that, right?”

  Lucy studied the photo, and began typing.

  “Mel Costas of Quivet Neck found himself in an unusual position on Wednesday, when he lost control of his Dodge Dakota on Bumps River Road. Mr. Costas was not hurt in the accident, but the rescue squad was called to extricate him from his vehicle,” she read the caption aloud to Jewel. “That’ll have to do.”

  “The picture really speaks for itself,” said Jewel, striding over to Ted’s desk. She planted her feet, and put her hands on her hips. “Ted, I want my money.”

  He didn’t look up but continued typing. “Lucy, petty cash is in the top left-hand drawer.”

  Lucy opened the drawer, found the cash box, and counted it out.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see ya next week,” said Jewel, heading for the door.

  “Boss, I’ve got to get going,” said George. “If I don’t get it in by eleven, they won’t print it until tonight.”

  “I know, I know,” said Ted. “I’m almost done.” He stopped typing and read what he had written so far then, in a final burst of inspiration, pounded out a concluding paragraph. “There,” he said. “It’s awful and we’re printing it.”

  “Got it,” said George, moving the mouse around. He quickly flipped through the pages on his screen, making sure he hadn’t missed anything, and ejected the disk. “I’m outta here. See you next week, Lucy.”