Murder Is Our Mascot

by Tracy D. Comstock

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  MURDER IS OUR MASCOT

  by

  TRACY D. COMSTOCK

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  Copyright © 2015 by Tracy D. Comstock

  Cover design by Yocola Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is dedicated in loving memory to the woman who was always there for me and never stopped believing in me.

  Without you, this book would not exist. You will always be one of the most vital parts of our hearts and souls. I love you, Gran. Forever.

  Lois ‘Colleen’ Christopher

  January 31, 1930-July 17, 2014

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  PROLOGUE

  She had never thought about how dark and silent the hallways were without the rush of teenage bodies. Only the lights of the emergency exits at each end of the hallway gave out any illumination. She practically had to feel her way past the row of metal lockers to the stairwell. Turning left to take the stairs up to the teachers' lounge, she questioned yet again the urgency and necessity of this meeting. He had been adamant this discussion couldn't wait until tomorrow. Between the desperation in his voice and wanting what was sure to be a painful confrontation over with, she had reluctantly agreed. Hopefully, she would still be home in time to curl up with a cup of tea and her Yorkie pup, Duke, to catch the last hour of late-night Golden Girls reruns before turning in.

  Turning instinctively to the right at the top of the stairs, she moved in the direction of the teachers' lounge, anxious to be done with this encounter. If only the file had not been mixed in with her guidance counseling files accidentally…but "if onlys" never got you anywhere. It would all be behind her soon anyway, one way or another.

  As her hand closed over the doorknob to the teachers' lounge, she noticed a light under a door midway down the opposite side of the hall. That was odd, she thought. That light had to be coming from the copy room. Someone must have had to make some last-minute copies for classes tomorrow and forgotten to turn the light off. She was surprised, though, that the night custodians hadn't taken care of it. Perhaps it had just been overlooked. Oh well, it would only take her a second to turn it off. Always a practical woman, she saw no need to waste electricity. But when she pushed open the copy room door, it became suddenly, chillingly clear to her that electricity hadn't been the only thing wasted that evening. Her last thought, as the floor rushed up to meet her, was that Duke and the Golden Girls would have to wait after all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The clack of Emily Taylor's high heels echoed hollowly in the deserted high school hallway. Normally, she loved the sound her heels made on the tile floor. Her obsession with high heels began when her height topped off at a gargantuan five feet and one inch, and their authoritative tapping sound typically made her feel confident and in charge. But not this morning. The click-clack reverberating off the rows of metal lockers seemed ominous, a warning of some kind.

  Letting herself into her classroom, she decided that the school seemed somewhat sinister because she was unused to being there that early. Her great love affair with her snooze button meant that getting to school before it was filled with a mass of hormone-fueled teenagers was a rarity for her, but she had needed to get in early today in order to prep for a special before-school meeting with a student's mother. Stevie Davis was new to Ellington High and was really struggling in Emily's junior-level English class.

  Something about Stevie tugged at Emily. He usually hid his eyes behind his fringe of bangs, causing Emily to fight the urge to grab her scissors and hack away at his curtain of hair so that she could see what was going on behind it. The few times he had tossed his hair back with the irritated shrug that was his typical answer to any question, his eyes had seemed sad, lost, or…something. Emily wasn't sure what that something was, but she was hoping that this meeting with his mother would shed some light on his issues.

  Her cantankerous old computer whined to life as Emily flipped on her desk light. Dark, swollen clouds crowded the sky, swallowing her early morning classroom in shadows. Emily felt jumpy and spooked, as if those dark clouds were pressing down on her, enshrouding her in their gloom. Must be an allergy medicine-induced hangover making her feel strange this morning. Nothing like fall to get her sinuses going. As soon as she got her notes together for her meeting, she'd grab a cold shot of caffeine from the stash of sodas she kept in the teachers' lounge fridge. That would help clear her head. Or at least it would if Tad, the conference-hour-sharing, next-door math teacher and fellow soda junkie, hadn't depleted her supply.

  As she pulled out samples of Stevie's writing and wrestled her computer into spitting out a copy of his grade report, the lights flickered. Glancing out the back wall of windows, Emily watched the increasing wind whip the trees into a frenzy. Multicolored fall leaves rained down like confetti. She usually loved the electric feel in the air before a good thunderstorm, but a loss of power would ruin her day's plans. Figuring she better make her copies before the ancient, temperamental copy machine went on the fritz, she began sorting through the piles on her desk for the paper she needed. They were organized piles, of course. Oh, who was she kidding? Trying to find the one thing she needed on her messy desk was like trying to isolate a single snowflake during a blizzard. Shuffling papers and files, Emily jumped at the first boom of thunder. The accompanying flash of lightning happened to spotlight the copy of the quiz for which she was searching. Hoping to entice Stevie into becoming more involved in class discussions, she was starting a unit on mythology since he had shown some interest in legends. Today's quiz was over the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus, or it would be if she got her copies made in time.

  Tucking all of her information for the meeting with Stevie's mother into a stray file folder, Emily grabbed up a fresh legal pad and pen and headed out the door. Halfway there, she turned on her heel to go back for the quiz she needed to copy. Yep, she definitely needed that soda. A glance at her vintage Strawberry Shortcake watch showed she was, as usual, cutting it close on time. But first things first.

  Popping the top on the last soda in the fridge, Emily silently thanked whoever was the God of caffeine for their nectar as she took her first icy sip of the sugar-laden soda. No diet drinks for her, no sir, as the extra ten pounds on her hips could attest. Tad had tried to hide the last can behind a pitcher of green tea, knowing Emily would never touch that, even if it might benefit her hips. She, however, was on to his nefarious ways. Practicing her evil victory laugh, she click-clacked her way to the copy room to get her copies started before the meeting. Another crashing boom of thunder rattled the windows as Emily threw the door wide, propping it open with those cursed hips while she flipped the light switch. Nothing. Scanning the hallway con
firmed her suspicions. The power was out. She took a step backward, thinking she would head downstairs to consult with Principal Matthews. Rain began to lash the windows over the stairwell, making the darkness of the hall seem even more complete. She fumbled her way a few feet down the hallway until the lights flickered back on again. Not wanting to waste a second in case the power decided to blink off again, Emily dashed back to the partially open copy room door. Hitting the light switch again with one hand, she rushed toward the hulking machine on the far wall. That was when papers went flying and sticky, syrupy soda sprayed everything in its path. Emily went airborne. Throwing her hands out in front of her to break her fall, Emily winced as they skidded through sticky wetness. The picture of grace she was not, so finding herself flat on her face was actually not uncommon for Emily. She could trip on a completely flat surface. The lights flickered again as she clambered to her feet, worrying about getting the sticky mess cleaned up before someone else slipped. Glancing down at her hands, she was busy cursing her lost lifeline, her last caffeine hit, when she realized that the sticky substance covering her hands was not soda. It was something thicker, and redder. Finally looking back to see what she had tripped over, Emily saw what appeared to be a head protruding from behind an office chair. Taking a cautious step closer, she could see that the head was surrounded by what looked like a puddle of congealing blood and was, thankfully, attached to a body. Unfortunately, it appeared to be a dead body. And that's when Emily began to scream and scream.

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  "I already told you once. I walked in and tripped over him." Emily couldn't seem to comprehend that she had stumbled over the lifeless body of Coach Layton, the head football coach who had regularly teased her about her clumsiness. She fought back tears and exhaustion as she went over the events of the morning for at least the fifth time with the police detective. She was huddled in the corner of the orange-and-brown flowered couch that took up one wall of the teacher's lounge. The couch was a relic, left behind from long-retired teachers, and still emitted the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Emily was sure it had seen its share of tears, and today her own soaked into the cushions to add to the collection. She hadn't moved from the couch since Mr. Matthews seated her still-hysterical self there after hearing her earlier screams and calling for help.

  Mr. Matthews had put out a carefully worded notice that school was cancelled today due to "unforeseen circumstances." Emily had pulled herself together long enough to call Stevie's mother to cancel their meeting. She hadn't been sure what excuse she would give for the cancellation, but Arlene Davis had sounded oddly relieved not to have to meet with her and rushed off the phone, never asking for any explanation. Emily hadn't had much time to ponder the mother's strange reaction before the gangly-armed detective now sitting across from her, looking awkward with his long limbs scrunched into the hard plastic chair, had started questioning her.

  The hallways certainly weren't deserted now. Emily didn't know, and wasn't sure she wanted to know, who all of the variously uniformed people were who were swarming throughout the school. Through the open door, she saw a gurney with a black body bag secured on it roll past. She quickly scrunched her eyes tightly closed, pretending that if she couldn't see it, it couldn't be real. With her eyes still shut, she slowly became aware that Detective Gangly-Arms was speaking to her.

  "I know this must all have been a shock for you, ma'am, but I need to make sure I have these details down accurately." Gangly-Arms—no, wait—Welks, his name badge read, looked frazzled and exhausted, but Emily was in no mood to be placated.

  "A shock? Yeah, I would say that's putting it mildly," Emily snapped.

  This whole situation was surreal. Things like murder didn't happen here in Ellington, Missouri. This was a small, peaceful community. No, it was even more than that, Emily knew. This was her home, her town, the place where she had grown up and been happy to return to after several years of teaching in a much larger district up north. No, Emily was convinced that there had to be some mistake. This could not be happening. Not here, and not to her, a boring, law-abiding citizen whose only run-in with the police had been over her deplorable number of speeding tickets and her tendency to be slightly accident prone. To Emily, the roads were one big game of bumper cars. But murder? Uh-uh. Couldn't be happening.

  "Detective, I just don't understand," Emily said.

  "I know, Ms. Taylor," Detective Gangly-Arms slash Welks replied, almost apologetically.

  Emily didn't recognize this detective so he must be relatively new to town, and she would bet her favorite collectable Smurfs lunchbox that this was his own first brush with murder. He looked about as green as she felt.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she could still envision how Jim Layton had looked lying on the copy room floor less than an hour before. An hour? Could it really have been only an hour ago that she had been worrying about grading and lesson plans? She knew the sight of the football coach's lifeless body would haunt her in the days to come. She suppressed a shudder as she turned back to face the detective.

  "It had to have happened after our night custodians left for the evening," Principal Matthews was saying to Detective Welks. Emily hadn't been aware Mr. Matthews had entered the room again, but she did notice that even he, a solid, sensible man who had spent the past twenty years at the helm of the school and witnessed a myriad of strange events, shied away from the word murder. This was a novel concept for all of them.

  "Otherwise, someone surely would have heard a struggle, don't you think?" Mr. Matthews continued, addressing both Emily and the detective.

  "I do," Emily answered, nodding emphatically. "Jim Layton wasn't a quiet or passive man. If he had been arguing or struggling with someone, he definitely would have been overheard. Something like this couldn't have happened to Jim without him fighting back."

  "I agree, Ms. Taylor." Detective Welks seemed to be debating on whether or not to say anything else. He must have decided there was no harm in Emily or Mr. Matthews knowing as he continued. "Mr. Layton had several lacerations on his hands and wrists. Looks like he probably died from blunt-force trauma to the back of his head, but it would appear that Mr. Layton did, in fact, struggle with his attacker."

  Emily felt tears welling up again. What a tragic waste of life. Who would have wanted to hurt Jim? Granted, Emily hadn't known Jim Layton that well on a personal level, but he had never struck her as an especially violent or despicable man. He had appeared to be what he was—the typical football coach focused on obtaining a winning season. But unlike other coaches Emily had worked with, Jim never acted like he was above the rules followed by the rest of the teaching staff. He had seemed to genuinely care about not only the athletic but the academic success of his players as well. Emily had admired the interest Jim took in his athletes. His players and their parents seemed to respect him, and he was the guy who was always ready with a joke, making everyone laugh at faculty meetings and such. Emily couldn't fathom what reason anyone could possibly have to hate Jim Layton enough to end his life this way.

  Emily tuned back in to hear Mr. Matthews saying, "Emily? You look like you're about ready to drop. Why don't you go on home and get some rest? It's okay for her to leave now, isn't it, Detective?"

  "Of course. We have all the information we need from Ms. Taylor for now. If you would, though, come by the station and sign your statement later this afternoon, okay?"

  "Yes, I will," Emily mumbled, then headed for her classroom to retrieve her things, grateful to be leaving the gruesome events of the morning behind her, if only for a little while.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Ick!" Goose bumps pebbled Emily's flesh as she peeled out of the red turtleneck and wide-legged black pants she had worn to school that day. She stuffed them into a large black trash bag she had hauled into the bathroom. Steam billowed out of the waiting shower. As soon as she took a turn under the scalding water, she planned to throw the entire outfit in the dumpster, even if she had picked up her shoes on sale at Macy's on
ly the week before. Said red patent leather pumps had been left by the door, since she didn't want to risk tracking sticky soda and goodness knows what else across her floors. Now that she was home and surrounded by her own familiar and comforting things, she was anxious to divest herself of any remains of this awful day.

  Twenty minutes later, feeling somewhat better after scrubbing herself raw, she shrugged into a pair of well-worn jeans and an Ellington High sweatshirt. She ran a brush through her still-wet chestnut bob, then headed to the kitchen in search of another soda. Hey, no judging. It had been a long morning and, in her defense, she had spilled her first one of the day.

  Staring out the small window over her sink, she noticed that the storm showed no signs of abating. Emily switched on a few lamps to push back the gloom as she headed to her bedroom for a pair of warm socks. She was tugging on her shoes, preparing to make a mad dash to the dumpster, when she heard a sharp yip. It had to be Duke, Helen's dog, barking next door. Helen Burning, the high school counselor and Emily's neighbor in the duplex next door, had become fast friends with Emily's mom when they had bonded at a pottery-making class. Emily's mom was notorious for exploring new creative outlets.

  Emily had found out the hard way that she was allergic to Duke when she had offered to "dog sit" him one weekend while Helen went to visit some friends in the city. Since then, she had kept her distance, but she rarely heard a peep out of him. He was a well-behaved dog. Emily wondered what was bothering him. Maybe he was glad to have Helen home early. Emily hadn't seen Helen at the school this morning, but maybe they had missed each other amid all the confusion. Emily wanted to offer her services in any way she could, knowing the students would be upset and confused when they heard the news of the coach's death. Especially Stevie. Jim had been the one person who had been able to forge a connection with the withdrawn new student. She would give Helen a call later, she thought as she sprinted through the pelting rain, slamming the dumpster lid on her discarded clothes.