Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  “Are you taking your medicine?”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “How come you didn’t go to field hockey practice?”

  “The new coach doesn’t know anything about the game.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s true, Mom. She was calling corners when they should have been long shots!”

  “So, she has a lot to learn. You’re the one missing out if you don’t go.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “How’s Lance? You haven’t mentioned him lately.”

  “He hasn’t been in school all week. Probably sick or something.”

  “Did you call?”

  “Yeah. No answer.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “God, you make such a big thing about everything. He doesn’t have to answer the phone if he doesn’t want to. There’s no law or anything.”

  “That’s true,” said Lucy, smiling agreeably. She wasn’t going to let Elizabeth irritate her. Besides, Zoë was beginning to stir.

  Scooping the baby up for a hug, Lucy changed her diapers and carried her downstairs. She was busily exploring the pot cupboard, and Lucy was making the salad, when Bill came home.

  “Hi! How was your day?” she asked brightly.

  “Okay.” He pulled a beer out of the fridge. “How about you?”

  “I’ve had better. Ted told me he doesn’t need me anymore.” It wasn’t any easier to say the second time.

  “Just as well,” said Bill. “There’s plenty for you to do here at home.”

  “I know, but I really liked working.”

  “You knew it was only temporary,” said Bill, belaboring the obvious.

  “It’s still hard to take. I thought that once Ted learned how good I am, he’d want to keep me.”

  “Humph,” snorted Bill. “Nobody’s indispensable.”

  When the whole family was seated at the table, Lucy made her big announcement.

  “Guess what? I have a story in The Pennysaver! With my name and everything!”

  “Cool,” said Toby. “Could I have some more potatoes?”

  “That’s great, honey,” said Bill, handing her an empty salt shaker. “Would you mind filling this?”

  “If you’re getting up, I’d like some more milk, please,” said Toby.

  “Me, too,” said Sara.

  “Me!” exclaimed Zoë, mimicking her.

  “How about you, Elizabeth?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to be fat like Toby.”

  “Elizabeth!” said Bill sharply as Lucy turned and went into the kitchen.

  Alone, she heard the voices of her children, squabbling at the table. She reached up into the cupboard, got the salt, and refilled the shaker. Replacing the package, she closed the cabinet door and leaned her head against it. It was ridiculous to feel so upset. After all, moms were appreciated only on Mother’s Day. That’s why they invented it. So they could treat you like a household appliance the rest of the year.

  Lifting her head, she opened the fridge and reached for the gallon container of milk.

  “You look a little down.”

  Lucy turned and faced Professor Rea. “I guess I am.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No,” said Lucy.

  Quentin began gathering up his lecture notes. “Well, then, let me see if I can’t cheer you up.” He studied her, adopting the attitude of a doctor making a diagnosis. “I have just the thing. How would you like to see my photographs of the Brownings’ flat in Florence? How can you resist a peek at their private life together?”

  “I can’t,” said Lucy, smiling slowly. After all, she told herself, she was only going to his apartment to look at some photos. There was nothing the matter with that, was there?

  Quentin Rea’s apartment was on Main Street, above the Carriage Trade, a rather expensive dress shop. As they climbed the stairs, carpeted with an Oriental runner, Lucy wondered what to expect. Her experience of bachelor apartments was limited—she had met Bill when they were both in college, living in dorms. After graduation they had lived together for a year or two, and then got married. She had never before visited a man alone in his apartment, she realized, thinking it was about time. She was forty years old, after all.

  Smoothly unlocking the paneled door, Quentin opened it with a flourish. “My humble abode,” he said, stepping aside for her to enter.

  Humble was not the word Lucy would have chosen to describe Quentin’s living room. He had left a lamp burning, and Lucy stepped into a generously proportioned room with two large windows overlooking the street. It was filled with gleaming antique furniture, the floors were covered with intricately patterned Persian rugs, and low bookcases lined the walls.

  Lucy studiously avoided meeting his eyes, studying instead his collection of paintings by some of the better local artists. Lucy recognized the distinctive abstract style of Liv Caldecott, and the whimsical primitives of Ric Dreyfus. Tucked away in a corner in a special little cabinet she spotted a Chinese water pipe.

  “Shades of Coleridge,” she exclaimed. “May I see it?”

  “I’d be honored,” said Quentin, gently opening the glass door. He lifted out the pipe and handed it to her, his fingers brushing hers in the process. Her hands shook as she took it, and she concentrated on trying not to tangle the chains that dangled from the mouthpiece.

  “Where did you ever find this?” she asked, making a great show of admiring the cloisonné design of water lilies and the assorted brass fittings. She was beginning to think it was a mistake to come. In such an intimate setting every word seemed heavy with meaning, every gesture sensual.

  “It was my grandfather’s.”

  “Your grandfather smoked opium?” asked Lucy, finally raising her eyes to meet his.

  “No,” said Quentin, smiling and revealing his whiter than white teeth. “He smoked Prince Albert pipe tobacco. My aunt brought it back from India for him. She was in the Army there during the Second World War.”

  “It’s very lovely. Is it valuable?”

  “Not really. A couple of hundred dollars, maybe. It’s precious to me,” he said, replacing it in the cabinet. “My grandfather was very proud of it—he even made this little case for it.”

  “Where you close to him?”

  “He taught me to love books—he started me off on Dickens and Sir Walter Scott.”

  “You know, they don’t teach those books in school anymore. Not even Ivanhoe.” This was a topic close to Lucy’s heart, and a safe detour from the one-way road to intimacy they seemed to be following.

  “Your expression just then…” began Quentin.

  “What about it?” Lucy was suddenly self-conscious.

  “You looked so, oh, I don’t know. Engaged, I guess. Interested. Alive. You don’t know how rare that is. I’ve been teaching for a long time now, and most of my students look like cows. You’re different. I enjoy watching you—you react to everything.”

  “It’s a curse,” said Lucy, warming to his flattery and beginning to relax. “I can never keep a secret.”

  “Do you have secrets?” He tossed off the question as he squatted in front of one of the bookcases, looking for a volume.

  “No,” said Lucy, standing beside him and resting her hips on the top shelf. She sighed, and added, “And even if I did, I don’t think anybody would bother to try to find them out.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Quentin, pulling a book and turning to casually settle himself beside her.

  “I started out as a person,” said Lucy, putting her growing sense of discontent into words. “But that all ended when I became Mom. I stopped being a person and became a role.”

  “You have your job at the paper. Isn’t that fulfilling?” His voice was gentle, concerned.

  “I was only filling in for someone. They don’t need me anymore.” This time, with him, she couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

  He drew her to him and she sobbed into his sh
oulder. He folded his arms around her and patted her back. “There, there,” he murmured.

  All the tension and anxiety of the last few weeks, all the fears she had resolutely pushed deep into her subconscious, came welling to the surface and overflowed. She indulged her emotions and abandoned herself to her tears. Finally, she drew a deep, shuddering breath and he pressed a fresh handkerchief into her hand. She wiped her eyes, and then looked up at him.

  He bent down and kissed her. She knew she should resist, but she didn’t. Feeling his tongue brush her lips, she parted them. He held her more tightly, pressing her to him and she felt herself melting against him.

  At that moment, she wanted to stay in the comfort of his arms forever. She wanted to taste him and smell him, and feel his warmth deep within her. He slipped his tongue deeper into her mouth and she wrapped her fingers in his soft, springy hair. She felt his hand on her breast and she leaned into it, feeling a surge of desire run through her body.

  “Oh, Lucy,” he moaned, grasping her hips and pressing himself against her.

  This is insane, she thought, kissing him so hard that their teeth struck. Summoning every bit of willpower she possessed, she pulled away.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t think I’m doing this for the right reason. I’m just feeling particularly unappreciated today. My mother used to tell me I had an unpleasant habit of feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Does there have to be a reason?” he asked, lightly stroking her chin.

  “There’s always a reason,” she said as his fingers slipped down to her neck. They remained there, gently but persistently massaging her. As much as she wanted to stay, she knew she could never go home if she did. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

  “If you’re afraid that you might be taking advantage of me, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m perfectly willing to be abused in this manner.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t live with myself if I did that,” said Lucy, attempting to make a joke of it as she started for the door.

  “You must have really loved that job,” he said, causing her to break her stride.

  “I really did.”

  “Lucy Stone, Investigative Reporter,” he teased.

  “You can laugh,” she said. “I deserve it. I wasn’t very good at the investigating part. My editor said I was too gullible.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, smoothing his hair. Casually, he added, “How did that piece about Carol Crane come out?”

  “I didn’t get very far,” admitted Lucy, wondering what he was after.

  “Oh, well,” he said, “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Not anymore,” agreed Lucy, cautiously deciding it might not be wise to tell him she was planning on pursuing the story on her own. “I really have to go. Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder.”

  “Anytime,” he said, opening the door for her.

  Hurrying along the dark and empty streets to her car, Lucy was suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of what she had almost done. A shoulder to cry on, a kiss or two, and she was ready to toss her whole family away.

  She thought of Zoë, who still depended on her for so much. Not quite a baby, but always ready for a cuddle. Zoë still thought the world began and ended with Mommy—how could she ever have considered putting her little one’s security in jeopardy?

  And Sara. Sweet, dependable, helpful Sara. Once Sara made a friend, she had a friend for life. Look how she had stuck up for Mr. Mopps. Lucy thought sadly how she had almost let little Sara down.

  And then there were Elizabeth and Toby. Oh, sure, they were difficult teenagers, but that just made them more vulnerable. They were engaged in the difficult task of finding themselves and their places in the world and they needed the security of their mother’s love more than ever, even if they didn’t know it.

  Worst of all, how could she have even considered hurting Bill like this? Maybe he wasn’t the most sensitive man in the world, but he had never let her down. He had given her a house, he put food on the table, he had been there by her side when their children were born. He was reliable and steady and she could always depend on him. He would never do a thing like this to her.

  The realization stung. How could she have been so selfish? Reaching the car, she jumped in and started the engine. She couldn’t wait to get home. But as she sped along the deserted nighttime roads, she wasn’t sure whether she was rushing to the safety of Bill’s arms, or away from something she didn’t want to face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In the wee hours of the morning, Lucy woke and heard one of the children moving around. She got out of bed and met Toby in the hallway. His hair was mussed from sleep and he was pale and shaky.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, feeling his forehead.

  “I threw up,” he said.

  “Maybe you’ve got a touch of flu,” she said, taking him back to bed. He let her tuck him in, and didn’t brush her hand away when she smoothed his tousled hair.

  “Can I get you some ginger ale?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Well, call me if you need anything. I’ll hear you.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Lucy visited the bathroom and returned to bed. Lying beside Bill, who was snoring gently, she was unable to go back to sleep but remained alert, listening for sounds of distress from Toby’s room. Sometimes she wished she could be more like Bill, who could sleep through an earthquake. Instead, she knew she would worry and fret for the rest of the night, watching the minutes pass on the digital clock.

  Toby didn’t get up again. After about an hour, she went to check on him and found him sleeping peacefully. She went back to bed, but doubted she would sleep. Back in the security of her home, surrounded by husband and family, her visit to Quentin’s apartment seemed like madness.

  If she were DeWalt Smythe, she thought, she would blame it all on the devil. She had been tempted. It would be nice to be able to shift the blame, but Lucy believed that evil and goodness came from within people themselves, not from external forces. If she had been tempted by the devil, it was a devil of her own making.

  Finally, a minute before the alarm was set to go off, she reached out and switched it off. Then she padded downstairs to start the coffee.

  An hour later, she woke the rest of the family, except for Toby, and got them started on their day. She planned to keep Toby home from school, but when he woke, around nine-thirty, he was quite upset with her.

  “Mom, you should have woke me,” he said as she fixed him a cup of tea.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You were sick last night.”

  “I feel fine now.”

  “That’s because I let you sleep,” she said, setting his meager breakfast on the table. “Drink this and we’ll see what happens.”

  “I don’t like tea.”

  “How about some ginger ale?” she asked.

  “I told you—I’m not sick. Could you drive me to school?”

  “Not until you’ve taken something and kept it down,” she said. “Why do you want to go to school so much? Are you afraid you’ll miss a test or something?”

  “I don’t have any tests today.”

  “Well, what is it?” she demanded, exasperated. “You’re behaving very oddly.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, and went back upstairs.

  Picking up Zoë, who had been industriously emptying the pot cupboard, Lucy followed him. She found him in his room, sitting on the side of his bed, holding a pile of handwritten letters and notes.

  “What are those?” she asked, sitting down beside him with Zoë on her lap.

  “They’re letters of support for Mr. C. Eddie said his dad could deliver them.”

  “The kids did this?” asked Lucy, unfolding one of the notes. Written in a round script it read, “Dear Mr. Cunningham, we really, really miss you. I hope jail’s not too bad and you get out soon. The substitute thinks the periodic table is in the cafeteria!”

  �
��Yeah. Everybody thinks it’s real unfair, the way they’re keeping him in jail. Especially since he didn’t do it.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “Everybody does. There’s a demonstration today and everything.”

  “A demonstration?”

  “Yeah. We were all going to bring signs and parade in front of the school during lunch.”

  “So that’s why you wanted to go to school.”

  Toby nodded.

  “I’ll make a deal with you. If you stay in bed and rest, I’ll take those letters over to the jail myself.”

  “You will?” Toby’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yeah. I’ll go after lunch, when Zoë takes her nap. You have to promise to keep an eye on her, though.”

  “You’re the greatest, Mom.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t do this for just anybody, but you’re kind of special. You’re my favorite, you know.”

  “I bet you say that to all the kids,” said Toby with a flash of humor.

  “Maybe I do,” she said, putting an arm around his shoulders and giving him a hug. “You’re still one terrific kid. Now, how about that ginger ale?”

  “Okay,” he said, settling himself under the covers and opening up a comic book.

  Lucy checked in on Toby periodically, and decided that he seemed to be on the road to recovery. He napped for an hour or so around eleven, but woke up refreshed at noon and announced that he was hungry. He grimaced when she offered dry toast and chicken broth, but ate it all.

  Zoë spent a busy morning rediscovering her toys, after spending so much time at the day-care center. She didn’t show any signs of coming down with Toby’s illness and polished off her lunch of leftover beef stew. Lucy snuggled beside her and read Blueberries for Sal to her and she settled down happily for her nap.

  When it was time to go, Lucy gave Toby detailed instructions of what to do in case of any conceivable emergency, and set out in the Subaru. The county jail was located in Gilead, about twenty miles away, but it was a pleasant drive along windy roads over rolling hills. Lucy rolled down the window and sped along; the wind felt good as it ruffled her hair, and she sang along with the radio.