by Sara Rosett
“Of course.” I’d forgotten about the half-day kindergarten students. They would be dismissed now that Field Day was over. I shivered, thinking that at least it had been an adult, not a student, who had discovered the body. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Karen nodded, and I trotted away. It didn’t take long to cover the short distance under the trees. I emerged from the woods and surveyed the almost empty field. Abby waved to me. She’d collapsed both our chairs and had packed up all our extraneous stuff. “What happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I called as I spotted Mrs. Kirk at the refreshment station. She and Ms. McCormick were stacking unused water bottles on a cart. I hurried in their direction, and reached the table just as Ms. McCormick left, pushing the full cart over the bumpy grass.
“There’s been a death, in the woods,” I said.
Mrs. Kirk had gripped the edge of the table to tilt it on its side and fold in the legs, but she stopped, arms braced on the tabletop. “What?”
Ms. McCormick stopped wheeling the cart away and turned back to us.
I motioned toward the school building. “You’ve got to stop the parents who are leaving,” I said to Mrs. Kirk. “The police will want to talk to them.”
“So it’s an accident?” Her face was concerned and a little frightened.
“No. It’s . . . well . . . you better see for yourself.”
She nodded and walked swiftly across the grass with me. “It’s along the trail.” We turned into the shadow of the tall pines, and I shuddered. The buzzing of the flies seemed louder, but maybe I was just aware of it now.
Mrs. Kirk hurried along the trail and stopped beside Karen, who was still sitting on the ice chest, her face pale and scared. “Mrs. Hopkins—” Mrs. Kirk began, her voice concerned, but then her gaze was drawn to the trash can a few feet away as Karen pointed at it.
Mrs. Kirk darted through the trees, circling around so that she could see the face. She stopped abruptly, sucked in a breath, and put her hand to her mouth. “That’s Klea,” she said in a high-pitched, breathless tone that I’d never heard her use. Her voice was tinged with surprise and disbelief.
“Not Klea,” I said, thinking of the way she always smiled at me in the hall. And when I’d entered her jumbled house for a consultation, she’d shrugged and laughingly said, “It’s a mess, I know, but I have the excuse that I just moved.” Of course, anyone dying out here alone in the woods was awful, but to think it was someone I knew and had chatted with at the school and even met in their home . . .
“I’m surprised it’s not Peg,” muttered a voice behind me. Startled, I jerked around. I hadn’t realized anyone else had followed us into the woods, but Ms. McCormick stood beside me, her face almost perplexed, and behind her, Abby was just making her way up the path.
Ms. McCormick saw my sharp look and waved a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s the hair. . . . They both have short brown hair.” I heard the wail of a siren in the distance.
Abby reached Ms. McCormick’s side and halted as she took in the scene. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “How awful. Is it . . . anyone we know?”
“Klea,” I said, and because she looked puzzled, I added, “One of the school’s janitors.”
“Oh, Klea,” Abby said as realization dawned. “I thought it might be a parent . . . you know, with so many visitors on campus.” She looked toward the trash can and the crumpled body. “How terrible. But how did she get out here? What happened? I mean, it can’t have been an accident or something like that.... Someone put her there. So that means . . . but why would someone kill a janitor?”
Abby had a tendency to chatter when she was upset or nervous. I sent her a warning glance. “We don’t know anything yet.”
“Mrs. Avery is correct,” Mrs. Kirk said. She seemed to have braced herself and spoke in her normal tones as she walked back through the trees to the trail. “I suggest everyone return to the school. I will stay here until the police arrive.” She removed a cell phone from her pocket, but Karen held up her phone.
“I already called,” she said to Mrs. Kirk, then looked at me. “When you left to get Mrs. Kirk . . . I realized we should do that first. I’m a little muddled”—she gave a brief smile—“but I did think of that.”
“Good. Then they are on the way—”
A siren had grown louder and seemed to be coming from the front of the school. “I wish we could have caught them and told them to come here instead of the main entrance to the school. It will upset the students.” Mrs. Kirk unclipped a walkie-talkie from the waistband of her jeans. “Peg, send the police to the back field as discreetly as possible.” Mrs. Kirk nodded at Ms. McCormick. “Go meet them at the back door and bring them here.”
Ms. McCormick licked her lips and tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Couldn’t someone else do that? I have to get those water bottles. . . .” She quailed under Mrs. Kirk’s disapproving gaze. “Yes. All right,” she said, and hurried down the trail.
“At this point, I think we should all wait here,” Mrs. Kirk said. “Since the police are on the scene now, I’m sure they will want to speak to each of us.”
* * *
The investigators did want to speak to us, but it took a long time to get around to it. It was actually the sheriff’s office that responded to Karen’s 911 call because the school was in an unincorporated area of Dawkins County. The uniformed deputy who arrived first took one look at the scene in the woods and called for a detective and the forensic team.
After the first deputy took our names and the bare facts about the discovery of the body, we were told to wait on the field. More police arrived and moved in and out of the woods; then plainclothes officers began to arrive. We were moved to the school office when a deputy began to unroll the crime scene tape to cordon off the woods. As we walked to the building, I saw Detective Dave Waraday striding across the field from the school to the woods. He didn’t see me, and I was relieved.
There had been a little misunderstanding between Detective Waraday and me in the past. He’d thought I was an excellent suspect in a murder investigation. If he was assigned to this case, then I knew I would have to talk to him, but later was certainly fine with me.
Unfortunately, it was sooner rather than later. I sat on the hard wooden bench in the school office for only a few minutes before a deputy entered and asked me to come with him. He escorted me to one of the pre-K classrooms. The classroom must only be used in the morning, because there were no backpacks hanging on the hooks and the cubbyholes for lunch boxes and take-home folders were empty.
Detective Waraday sat at the teacher’s desk, looking a little out of place surrounded by kids’ artwork and posters illustrating the letters of the alphabet. He wore a black polo shirt embroidered with the words DAWKINS COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. He stood when I entered, and his badge, which was clipped to the waistband of his khaki pants, caught the light as he moved.
He gestured for me to have a seat in a chair that had been pulled up across from the desk. Detective Waraday had one of those baby faces that made him look far younger than his actual years. As I sat down across from him in the folding chair, I noticed a couple of fine lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes, but that was the only thing that made him look slightly older. His short hair was still brown and thick and he was as trim as ever. I’d known him for several years, so I supposed he must be in his thirties by now, but he looked younger than that.
“So, Mrs. Avery,” he said as he sat down. “Why don’t you tell me why your phone number is in the victim’s incoming call log?”
“Oh.” I blinked. It wasn’t the question I expected. I’d thought he’d want to know about this morning on the field, but I switched gears mentally. “I’d forgotten about that. I called her yesterday. I had an organizing consultation with her two weeks ago. I was following up to see if she wanted to hire me.”
“So you called and left her a message?” Detective Waraday a
sked.
I relaxed my shoulders a bit. His tone wasn’t accusing, and he wasn’t nearly as hostile as the last time we’d interacted.
“Yes. I didn’t hear back.”
“Because she was already dead by then,” Detective Waraday muttered more to himself than to me as he made a note. “The organizing consultation,” he said, giving the words a special emphasis. “What does that involve?”
“It depends on what the client is interested in. That’s what the appointment is for, actually. Some people just want help with one specific thing, and other people wave a hand at their garage or a bedroom or a closet, and say, ‘Take care of this.’”
“And what did Mrs. Burris want?”
“Mrs. Burris—? Oh, Klea, you mean. I think of her as Klea,” I said, realizing that it was sort of odd that all the other adults at the school, the teachers and the parents, were addressed by their surnames, but not the janitors or the office staff. Now that I thought about it, it made me slightly uncomfortable. It was a bit patronizing. I gave myself a mental shake and focused on answering Detective Waraday’s question. “She had moved to a smaller house—on Maple—right across from the school,” I said. “She wanted some help downsizing. She had too much stuff.”
“So it would have been a big job?”
“Yes, if she decided to hire me, but I hadn’t heard back from her. That’s why I called.”
“And is that normal?” Detective Waraday looked up from his notepad. “For potential clients to not make a decision?”
“Oh, yes. All the time. I’d love it if all my consultations turned into actual jobs, but that doesn’t happen. People decide they can do it themselves, or they don’t want to pay my fee, or they put it off until later. Some people, I just never hear from again,” I said with a shrug of one shoulder. “That’s why I like to follow up at least once. If I haven’t heard from someone after a week or two, I contact them once to see if they’re interested. If they’re not, I leave it at that.”
“And how did Mrs. Burris seem when you met with her for the appointment?”
“Um . . . fine. She wasn’t self-conscious about the state of her house. Some people are embarrassed about their clutter, but she wasn’t.”
“Did she seem worried or nervous?” Detective Waraday asked as he wrote.
“No.”
“She didn’t say anything to indicate she was frightened?”
I shook my head, then stopped. “There was one thing, but . . .” I shrugged. “It was probably nothing.”
Detective Waraday looked up. “What is it, Mrs. Avery? Everything is important at this point.”
“Okay. Right. Well, I asked her if the traffic bothered her—you know, from the school. It can get pretty hectic during drop-off and pickup times. Klea laughed and said train tracks could run right through her backyard, and she wouldn’t care. Then she said, ‘Anywhere away from Ace is peaceful, no matter how much traffic there is.’ She didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t ask, but I assumed Ace was a relative.”
I expected him to wave off the comment as unimportant, but he only nodded and made a note. Then he said, “Now tell me about today, finding the body.”
“I think I better tell you about yesterday first.” No one else from the little group who had found the body had been called for an interview, so I didn’t think he would have heard the story from anyone else.
He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because Gabrielle Matheson—you remember her from. . . that other case a while back?”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t think anyone forgets Gabrielle Matheson after they meet her,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“That’s probably true. She’s working here at the school as a consultant. Yesterday, she thought she saw a body in a storage closet.”
Organizing Tips for PTA Moms
Room Mom Tips
Send a welcome message to the parents in the classroom, introducing yourself and highlighting the upcoming volunteer opportunities.
Contact parents early in the school year and set up a tentative event calendar for the whole year so that the events at the end of the year are covered.
Be specific when asking for volunteers. Outline the time commitment (a volunteer for carnival night will have a “one-hour shift manning the ring-toss booth”) and clarify any additional requirements. A field trip chaperone may need to complete additional forms for background checks before being cleared to participate.
Ask about food allergies and plan accordingly.
Coordinate with the teacher for party planning, asking what has worked well in the past and what hasn’t.
For Teacher Appreciation Week, make a list of the teacher’s favorite foods and activities, which you can either share with other parents or use to coordinate for a classroom gift.
Give parents a variety of ways to help. Some parents can donate their time while others can provide a monetary donation for campaigns and events, while still other parents may be able to prep crafts or send snacks or supplies.
Chapter Five
Detective Waraday raised his eyebrows. “A body? As in a dead body?”
I nodded and described what had happened from the moment Gabrielle backed out of the closet to the informal search of the school that Gabrielle and I had conducted.
Detective Waraday put his pen down and rubbed his forehead for a moment, muttering something that I couldn’t hear. He looked up. “You know, I promised myself I wouldn’t make any comments about you being in the thick of another murder investigation, but I’m very tempted to break that promise. The law of averages . . .” He shrugged and seemed to be speechless for a moment, then finally said, “Statistically, you’re a menace to the community. Wherever you go, dead bodies pop up.”
“That’s not true.” I shifted in my seat. Well, it was sort of true. I had gotten involved in quite a few investigations, but it’s not like I went looking for trouble. But trouble did seem to cross my path frequently. “I didn’t find the body this time,” I said a bit defensively.
“No, but you managed to be on hand at the scene of the crime—both times, in fact. You were there at the initial discovery and also later when the body was found in the woods.” Detective Waraday again massaged his forehead, then dropped his hand and refocused on me. “And no one thought to call the police or the sheriff’s office yesterday?”
“Gabrielle wanted to, but Mrs. Kirk talked her out of it. There wasn’t a body in the storage closet or anywhere on campus after the fire drill, and no one was missing. All the teachers and staff were accounted for.” I sat up straighter. “Oh, I just remembered, Peg said she got a text from Klea that morning that said Klea wasn’t feeling well and had gone home. Gabrielle insisted Mrs. Kirk check on all the adults.”
Detective Waraday nodded. “Yes, that text is in Mrs. Burris’s phone.”
“But then—that means Klea was fine after the fire drill?” I asked, perplexed. “Gabrielle saw the body before the fire drill. It was after the drill when Peg said she’d received a text from Klea that she was going home.” I got that same sick feeling that I’d had earlier. “You don’t think . . . there couldn’t be two dead bodies, could there?”
“No,” Detective Waraday said decisively. “I think that, after Mrs. Burris was killed, the murderer used Mrs. Burris’s phone to send the text so no one would realize she was missing. Apparently, the victim kept the phone in her pocket, not in her locker with her other belongings, so it would have been on her body.”
“Oh.” I fell back against the chair, not liking the word “victim” and its ramifications. I didn’t like how it depersonalized Klea. She had become a tag, a descriptor, but it also meant something else, something that scared me. “Then it was murder?”
Detective Waraday pressed his lips together and sighed. “I’m afraid so. She was strangled.”
“Poor Klea. That’s . . . awful,” I said. “I keep saying that—that it’s awful and terrible—but it doesn’t do the situation justice.�
�� I noticed Detective Waraday looking at me very closely, and I had the feeling that he had told me how she died to watch my reaction to his words.
“There never are words for something like this,” he said quietly. After a few seconds of silence, he picked up his pen and beat out a quick tap on the paper. “Getting back to yesterday, what did you do after you and Mrs. Matheson looked around the school?”
“I went to the Comm,” I said. “That’s the grocery store on base,” I added, not sure how familiar Detective Waraday was with military jargon. The full name of the store was actually the Commissary, but Mitch and I always used the shorthand name of “the Comm” when we talked about it. “I was supposed to have an appointment with a client, but when I had to reschedule the appointment, I went to the store instead. I went directly there from the school.” I reached for my phone. “I remember the checkout line I went through. It was Janelle. She’s there all the time and it seems like I always get her line for some reason. She might remember I was in—the computers had a glitch and she couldn’t get my paper towels to ring up and she had to call for a price check. Do you want her information?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
I put my phone away, realizing that if Detective Waraday wasn’t concerned with my movements during the late morning, he—or the medical examiner or whoever had examined Klea’s body this morning—must be pretty sure Klea had died before early afternoon. And Gabrielle was sure she had seen a dead body, and that had happened in the morning, before the announcements, which had occurred right after the eight-twenty-five bell.
Detective Waraday opened his mouth to ask another question, but stopped and said, “You’re frowning, Mrs. Avery. Is something wrong?”
