Back To School Murder #4

by Meier, Leslie

  Lucy’s energy level was low, so she was content to lie on the couch with Zoë on top of her stomach and watch cartoons. Occasionally she would flip the channels to something a bit more interesting, like a soap opera or a talk show, but Zoë had no interest whatsoever in Erica Kane’s problems, and she absolutely refused to watch a rerun of Norah’s talk show. Norah might be a household name with millions, but Zoë much preferred Casper.

  Giving up, Lucy flipped back to the cartoon station. Picking up the TV Guide, she discovered Mr. Magoo was next. Things could be worse, she thought, stuffing a pillow behind her head. She stroked Zoë’s silky hair and nuzzled the top of her head with her chin. The medication she had given her seemed to be working; the fever had definitely come down.

  When the kids came home from school, Lucy handed the baby off to Toby and took a long, hot shower. Alone in the bedroom, she took her time dressing and spritzed on some cologne. After nursing four children through assorted childhood ailments, she had learned that she could take better care of them if she took a little extra care of herself.

  She picked up her watch to strap it on, and realized it had stopped. She would have to get a new battery. She opened up her jewelry box and took out her good watch, a delicate gold and diamond affair her mother had given her for Christmas. It was similar to the one Carol Crane wore.

  She checked the gold watch to see that it was still running, and was surprised to see that the time was off. It was an hour behind. She gave it a little shake and adjusted the hands, then went downstairs to see how Zoë was doing.

  The little toddler was just fine, apparently feeling more like herself. By the time they sat down to dinner, she had also regained her appetite and demanded something solid to eat. Lucy gave her some toast fingers and she polished them off, getting quite a bit of grape jelly on her face in the process. When it was time for Lucy to leave for class, she was apparently fully recovered and enjoying a game of patty-cake with her father.

  Lucy started the Subaru and checked her watch; it was running fine. She hadn’t worn it in quite a while, not since New Year’s Eve, she realized. Now they were on daylight saving time, but she hadn’t had any occasion to reset the watch until today. It wasn’t slow; it had just been running on standard time.

  Driving to the college, her thoughts turned to Quentin. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry with her for bailing out the other night. While she was hardly experienced in affairs of the heart, especially illicit ones, she did know that thwarted lovers usually harbor a certain resentment toward uncooperative partners—at least they did when she was in high school. Then she had spurned the affections of a football player and he had refused to speak to her for most of senior year.

  Pulling up at a stop sign, Lucy hoped Quentin would not have a similar reaction. If he was angry with her, he could make things very awkward for her. He could embarrass her in class, he could give her low grades, he could even fail her. The thought made her stomach whirl—she had invested too much money and effort to risk failing. Especially since her newspaper career was going nowhere, and she was thinking even more seriously of getting her teaching credentials. If she failed this course, she might as well give up the idea of getting certified.

  As she parked the car in the student lot, Lucy wished she’d worked a little harder on that Carlyle paper. If it had been a really solid piece of work, she could appeal a low grade, but she knew she had slapped it together at the last minute.

  Lucy mounted the stairs slowly, and walking down the corridor to the classroom, she almost turned around and went home. Why bother, she asked herself. Why expose herself to Quentin’s scorn? She had a perfectly good husband who really didn’t want her to work. There was more than enough at home to keep her occupied—the last few days had shown her that—and Zoë deserved a full-time mother. She had been there for Toby and Elizabeth and Sara, and Zoë should have the same attention.

  Reaching the classroom doorway, Lucy swallowed hard. This was silly. If she was going to give up, she had to have a reason. It was stupid to surrender before the battle had even begun. She squared her shoulders and marched into the room, eyes straight ahead, to her usual seat.

  She sat down without even glancing at Quentin, and began rummaging in her bag for a pen and notebook. Not until she had arranged everything to her satisfaction did she risk taking a quick look his way. To her surprise, he gave her a big smile.

  Reflexively, she smiled back, but she was puzzled. This was not what she had expected.

  “The Victorians invented the houseplant—true or false?” he asked the class, opening the discussion.

  “I never thought about it before, but I think it’s probably true,” said Mr. Irving. “Every Victorian parlor had an aspidistra, I know my Aunt Edith was tremendously proud of hers.”

  “You’re right,” said the professor, once again beaming a big smile toward Lucy. “They collected plants from all over the world and built greenhouses and conservatories to house them. Why?”

  Lucy didn’t have the faintest idea and she was too distracted to give the question much thought. In fact, after Elizabeth’s excursion to see the century plant last week, Lucy didn’t want to think about vegetative themes in Victorian literature at all. More interesting to her was the professor’s unexpected friendliness. Puzzled, she furrowed the forehead she had carefully applied alpha-hydroxy lotion to just an hour before, and chewed her pen.

  “You’re looking very thoughtful, Mrs. Stone,” said Quentin. “Any ideas?”

  Lucy started. “Not really—I guess their houses must have been, uh, heated enough that the plants wouldn’t die,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too stupid.

  “Very true…” he said, smiling broadly and nodding encouragingly to her. “Thanks to technology, such as the replacement of open fireplaces with more efficient stoves, houses were warmer than they had ever been.”

  What’s going on here, she wondered. Instead of being angry with her, Quentin seemed to be going out of his way to be friendly. This wasn’t what she had expected. When she was in college, it was assumed that a girl who got more than she’d bargained for had simply given the wrong signals. And even at Country Cousins, the women who had worked there for a while warned new employees never to go to the storeroom alone. George, the night-shift supervisor, was always leaning over their shoulders to adjust their computer screens, and often his hands would stray from the brightness knob.

  The women at Country Cousins never made an issue of George’s behavior—they needed the jobs. But things had changed, Lucy realized, especially on college campuses. The student newspaper accounts of the accusations against Quentin were proof of that.

  Of course, thought Lucy. No wonder he was being so nice. He was probably terrified that she would complain to the dean. After all, even though he had been acquitted, he had lost his job, and it had taken him a long time to climb back onto the tenure track. A second accusation would mean the end of his teaching career. She remembered her suspicions on the bus yesterday, when she had realized the danger Carol Crane posed to him. Carol’s presence in Tinker’s Cove had threatened him and Carol had died.

  The pen slipped from Lucy’s fingers, and she stooped to retrieve it. Lifting her head, her eyes met Quentin’s. He paused midsentence, losing his train of thought, but quickly recovered. He was terrified, she realized. He was terrified of her, and that was why he was being so nice.

  The class was over and the students were filing past the professor’s desk, picking up their Carlyle papers. From their disappointed expressions, it looked as if few had gotten the grade they were hoping for.

  Lucy got to her feet, picked up her bag, and walked woodenly to the front of the room. If he can smile, she told herself, I can smile.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, his voice tight. “You look a little pale.”

  “Something’s going around,” she said. Her face felt as if it would crack, she was smiling so hard. Her heart was racing, and her hand trembled as she reached for h
er paper.

  “You’re shaking,” he said, his lips twisting into a crooked smile. “I hope you’re not worried about your grade. I understand how difficult it is for you, with all your other obligations.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, not quite knowing what he meant. Was he being sarcastic? Was he telling her it was all right with him, that there were no hard feelings?

  She walked out of the room and down the hall, flipping through the paper. Finally she got to the last page. A big “A” was scrawled in red ink. She was so surprised that she stopped in her tracks.

  “How’d you do?” came a friendly voice from behind. She recognized a fellow student, a man she had seen working on the fish pier.

  “Much better than I expected,” she said. “I got an A.”

  “I’d faint if I got an A,” he joked. “Listen, you don’t look so good. Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, grateful for his companionship. “It’s a pretty interesting class…” she began, intending to keep up a steady stream of chatter. She didn’t want to think about Quentin anymore, and she certainly didn’t want to think about how afraid she suddenly felt. She just wanted to go home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning, Lucy attempted to catch up on the housework she had neglected while she was working at the newspaper. Zoë followed along behind her as she cleaned, pretending her popcorn popper push-toy was a vacuum cleaner. The flu had taken a toll, however; the little toddler soon ran out of energy, and Lucy put her down for an unusual morning nap.

  While Zoë slept, Lucy spread the notes and papers she had accumulated about Carol Crane out on the kitchen table. As she went through her notes, carefully checking and cross-checking her sources, a picture began to emerge.

  Lucy imagined Carol as a bright, pretty little girl who had grown up poor in rural Maine. Lucy had driven through impoverished towns like Quivet Neck, where people lived in dilapidated mobile homes and decaying farmhouses. Miles from anywhere, without even an IGA, their diet consisted of overpriced white bread and canned goods from the general store. The winter was long and cold, and the motherless Carol would have been stuck at home, alone with her father.

  It was certainly a less than ideal situation for a teenage girl, thought Lucy. Nowadays there was a growing awareness of incest and sexual abuse, but that wasn’t the case when Carol was left alone in the care of her father.

  Recalling that Quentin had told her what Carol’s father did, Lucy rummaged through her notes. Flipping through the pages, she finally found it. He was a school janitor.

  Lucy smacked her head. No wonder Carol had hated Mr. Mopps. She had even called him Pops, remembered Lucy, and had accused him of spending too much time in the girls’ room. What had Lucy heard her say? I know all about you. That was it. Mr. Mopps had the misfortune of reminding Carol of her father, so he had to go.

  For the first time since she’d started investigating Carol’s past, Lucy found herself feeling sorry for her. Carol had always seemed to be the manipulator, tricking and maneuvering others, but now Lucy suspected she was driven by powerful emotions and memories she couldn’t control.

  Working at the country club, Carol must have learned of a different way of life. Lucy could picture her sitting in her lifeguard’s chair, carefully observing everything that went on. She heard how upper-class people talked; she saw how the girls dressed and did their hair. She might even have copied them, but there was little point. There wasn’t anybody to impress in Quivet Neck and the locals would just make fun of her for putting on airs. The best she could hope for was to marry young and get out of her father’s house and into a place of her own. Her husband might scratch out a living lobstering, or repairing cars. She could work for the summer people, but there wasn’t much employment for women in the winter.

  Then, when she saved that little boy, a brief window of opportunity opened for her. She was recognized as a hero, probably lavished with attention for the first time in her life. It must have been a heady experience, and one that made an indelible impression on her. She accepted the grateful parents’ offer of a college education, and never looked back.

  Lucy thought of Carol’s apartment—the light-colored fabrics, the blatantly feminine Georgia O’Keeffe flowers, the immaculate kitchen and bathroom. Nothing could be farther from the grubby, crowded, makeshift houses inhabited by poor folks in rural Maine. It was Carol’s way of reminding herself how far she had come, and Lucy was convinced that Carol would have done anything to avoid going back to Quivet Neck.

  Hungry for respectability, she must have loved working as an assistant principal. She had discovered that it didn’t matter that she lacked the credentials as long as she could convincingly play the part. Besides, once she had staged one of her heroic stunts, nobody was likely to ask any questions.

  Being in a role of authority must have been the icing on the cake. Lucy bet Carol had derived a great deal of satisfaction from making others suffer, as she had suffered as a child. Poor Mr. Mopps had gotten the treatment Carol would have liked to deliver to her own father.

  Was her father still alive, Lucy wondered. If he was, Carol had successfully broken all ties with him. He hadn’t claimed her body or arranged for a funeral; he hadn’t even collected her furniture and belongings.

  Hearing Zoë stirring, Lucy brought her downstairs. They had a quick lunch, and then Lucy planned to go into town to do some errands. But first, there was something she wanted to check out.

  Lucy dropped Zoë at the day-care center, where she was enthusiastically greeted by Sue. “It’s nice to see you’re feeling better, Miss Zoë,” she exclaimed, taking the toddler’s hand and leading her to the Play-Doh table. “Let’s make some cookies for the dolls to eat.”

  With Zoë happily occupied, Lucy headed straight for Carol Crane’s apartment complex. She was just climbing out of her car when she noticed DeWalt Smythe hurrying toward his own car. There was something slightly furtive about his movements and Lucy wondered if he was coming from one of the prolonged prayer sessions Miss Tilley had told her about.

  “Hi!” yelled Lucy, giving him a big wave.

  DeWalt stopped suddenly, and something fell from his pocket. Recognizing Lucy, he waved back.

  “Visiting a parishioner?” asked Lucy, walking toward him.

  “Ah, yes. It’s one of the most rewarding parts of my work,” he said, opening the door to his big black sedan. “I wish I had time to chat, but I’m late for a Bible Circle meeting.”

  “Wait a second,” said Lucy, bending down to retrieve a white envelope. “You dropped this.”

  In his haste to snatch the envelope, DeWalt clumsily dropped it once again. This time the contents, which appeared to be photographs, were caught by the wind and scattered.

  DeWalt raced around, frantically trying to gather them before they were carried away. Lucy watched him for a moment until she realized the wind was getting the better of him and she joined in to help, chasing down the photos that skittered just beyond her reach.

  As she waited for him to return to the car, Lucy began straightening the handful of photos she had managed to catch. Glimpsing the top one, she gasped. It was a naked man.

  Looking more closely, she realized it was a picture of DeWalt. He was smiling coyly, stretched out on Carol’s bed beneath her Georgia O’Keeffe flowers.

  Lucy tried to pretend she hadn’t seen the photo, even though she was pretty sure DeWalt had observed her reaction.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing them to him face down.

  “It’s not what you think,” said DeWalt, whose face was very red. Lucy wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or the exertion of catching the windblown photos.

  “It’s none of my business,” said Lucy, backing away.

  “She tricked me,” insisted DeWalt, pulling himself up to his full height and adopting his ministerial voice. “Like Delilah tricked Samson.”

  This was too much for Lucy. “I suppose s
he promised you a modeling contract,” she snapped.

  “Let me explain,” he begged, reaching for her arm. “Please. I don’t want you to think I killed her.”

  “I don’t think anything,” said Lucy, putting up her hands in denial. “I have to go.”

  “Lord knows I sinned,” he said, abjectly bowing his massive head. “I’ve been carrying this around for so long—I have to tell someone.”

  “I don’t think I’m the one…” objected Lucy, but DeWalt ignored her. She began to understand how enormous his ego really was and his need for instant gratification.

  “Lord knows I never intended to sin, but one thing led to another and we became intimate. Next thing I knew, she was snapping photos. I didn’t mind—I was flattered. I thought she wanted to have something to remember me by, but that wasn’t it at all. A couple of weeks later she told me she would show them to the congregation’s executive committee unless I…” He sputtered and stalled; the urge to confess seemed to be weakening. “Well, unless I did what she told me to do.”

  “What was that?” asked Lucy.

  He heaved a big sigh, and forced the words out in a rush.

  “She wanted me to plant a bomb in the school.”

  “You did it?” Lucy was stunned.

  “I had to,” explained DeWalt, matter-of-factly. “I would have been ruined if these pictures got out. Think of Zephirah.”

  “But what about the children?” she asked, outraged. “You decided your reputation was worth the lives of innocent children! Didn’t you even think about them?”

  “Of course I did. I begged and pleaded with her not to do it, but she was determined. Said it would give her the leverage she needed, since I wouldn’t fire Sophie like she wanted me to. She told me it was a very small explosive, and it wouldn’t do much damage, and she promised nobody would be hurt. She told me exactly what to do, how to hook it into the wiring. Black to black, red to red and all that.”

  “Did she make the bomb herself?” asked Lucy.