by Sara Rosett
“But it was in the middle of a list of names, not just scribbled randomly on the page.” Right under Mrs. Harris’s name, I thought to myself, but didn’t say aloud.
“Weird,” Abby said in a tone of voice that indicated that it was nothing significant. “Got to run,” she said. “Will you be around today?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said, already trying to think of when the best time would be to get a minute alone with Mrs. Harris.
Chapter Nine
It was lunchtime before I saw Mrs. Harris again. I’d hung around in the workroom for about an hour, intermittently cruising up and down the first-grade hallway a few times, but Mrs. Harris was always busy moving from student to student, along with the teacher, so I went back to the teachers’ lounge and cleaned up the breakfast spread, left the campus and ran a few errands, then returned to the school with two Subway sandwiches and surprised Nathan when I joined him for lunch. He was still cool with his mom sitting beside him in the cafeteria. I wasn’t sure Livvy would be too excited about me eating lunch with her, but I’d offer to bring her lunch later in the week and see how she reacted.
As I said good-bye to Nathan when his class left for their after-lunch recess, I spotted Mrs. Harris moving down the hallway toward the workroom. I scooted along and followed her into the empty room. She stood at the copier, one veined hand holding down the lid, while pages whirred out into the bin. She saw me as I walked into the room and she froze again like she had in the teachers’ lounge for a second. The copier ejected the last page with a click, then went silent.
I couldn’t transfer the questions that had been bumping around in my mind into words. Standing there in her plain white cotton top, sensible dark knit pants, and flat-soled loafers, she looked like the last person in the world who would know anything about Alexa Wells.
She cleared her throat and nodded at me as she opened the copier lid and picked up a book. “Mrs. Avery.” The ends of her gray bowl haircut brushed at her cheekbones as she reached down to retrieve the copies from the bin.
“Mrs. Harris, there’s something—”
“Let’s go outside for a moment,” she said, clasping the papers and the book to her flat chest and marching by me.
I turned and followed her through the lobby and out the heavy doors. She glanced around the school’s empty porch, then moved to benches that lined the covered area, taking a seat on the one farthest from the school building.
She sat down and balanced the papers and books carefully on her knees. I’d barely had time to sit down beside her on the metal bench before she said, “You want to know why I reacted so oddly in the teachers’ lounge this morning when you mentioned Alexa Wells.”
I shifted a bit uncomfortably on the bench. “Yes. You seemed to be shocked or startled to hear the name.”
She looked at me for a moment, her dark eyes studying me, reminding me of the sparrow that was hopping around the patch of grass behind her. Finally, she said, “And I assume this list that you saw my name on was at Klea’s house?”
“How did you know about that?” I asked.
She shifted her dark gaze to the side field and pointed. “Klea’s house is just over there. I was on the side field last Friday during recess when I saw Detective Waraday speak to you in the parking lot. Then you walked with him to Klea’s house and were in there for quite a while.”
“He asked me to look around her house because I’d been inside a few weeks ago for an organizing consultation,” I said, figuring that if I shared some information she might return the favor.
“Ah, I see.” She squinted across the parking lot, then nodded her head decisively. She turned to me and tilted her head to one side. “I am Alexa Wells.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
“You half suspected it, didn’t you? From my reaction when you mentioned the name.”
“The thought crossed my mind—fleetingly. You looked so . . . well, guilty, is the word that comes to mind. But then I thought I must be mistaken.”
“Because an old woman like me could never write”—she leaned forward, her eyes twinkling—“erotica?”
I opened my mouth, but she leaned back, a smile on her face, and waved away my response.
“Perfectly logical explanation. Nice old ladies don’t write erotica,” she said in her normal tone of voice. “Usually. Except in my case. You see, years ago, my husband was diagnosed with a degenerative disease. Eventually, he couldn’t work.” She gazed at the field surrounding the school, but I could tell her thoughts were turned inward. After a second, she breathed out a little sigh and said, “We’d been fine with both our incomes, but even with insurance, it was difficult to make ends meet on my salary alone. After he passed away, there was a bit of a pension, but it didn’t amount to much. Being a teacher’s aide doesn’t pay well, so I had to either find a way to supplement my income or find a new job. But I do love working with the children here so much that I hated to leave. And everything else I looked into paid a pittance as well. If I was going to be on my feet all day, I’d rather be here at the school with the children than in a department store or something like that.”
She straightened the edges of the papers stacked in her lap. “So I decided to try my hand at one thing I’ve always loved—books. I wrote a historical novel first. It was one of those sweeping family sagas, an epic that covered three—no, four—generations. I sent it to a few agents and the verdict was that it was well written, but nobody wanted epic family sagas. Too dated.”
Her laugh lines creased the skin around her eyes. “I put it on the top shelf of my closet. I thought that was that. I should move on to something more practical, but then I heard about erotica and how well some authors were doing. I thought, why not? I’d give it a try. I could write under a pen name and no one would know it was me. That’s how things are now. You can be a totally different person on the Internet, and no one has a clue. Well, unless you slip up.”
My mind was reeling. I pushed down the many questions that were crowding to the front of my thoughts and focused instead on her last words. I didn’t think she was talking about me. “So Klea found out?” I asked.
Mrs. Harris nodded, her face clouding over. “I was foolish. I’m so careful. I never bring anything to school with that name on it—no manuscripts to proofread or anything like that. I never open any of my accounts with that name on any of the school’s computers. I always tried to keep Alexa separate from my life here, but I do have a Facebook account in my pen name. I forgot my phone in the workroom one day—set it down while I was making copies and walked off and left it.”
Mrs. Harris smoothed back a strand of hair that the breeze had teased across her face. “Klea found it. I’d remembered I’d left the phone and went rushing back to get it, but she’d picked it up and opened the Facebook app, thinking that was the fastest way to see who the phone belonged to.” Mrs. Harris’s voice became practical. “Very smart of her. Our phones have so much information on them, but sometimes the hardest thing to find is the owner’s name.”
She lifted a shoulder. “So Klea knew my secret. She’d heard of the books. I could see it in her face when she looked from the phone to me, but she was kind about it. She handed back my phone and said, ‘Is this yours? I wasn’t sure who it belonged to.’ But of course she knew. My picture was right there at the top where you can choose which profile you want to use to post. Next to my public profile about me as everyone knew me, Mrs. Harris, was the profile . . . with a much racier picture for Alexa Wells.”
My thoughts skipped ahead. I knew that Mrs. Harris wouldn’t want the school to know about her side job. No matter how sweet Mrs. Harris was, there would be some parents who wouldn’t want her working with their children. So Klea had to be a threat to Mrs. Harris—whether or not Klea seemed inclined to keep Mrs. Harris’s secret. But Mrs. Harris, a murderer . . . ? No, I just couldn’t see it.
“Now, I know you’re smart and can put two and two together,” Mrs. Harris said. “I did, without a doubt,
have a reason to silence Klea if I was afraid she’d tell my secret, but I didn’t do that. I didn’t like that she knew, but I wasn’t worried that she’d talk about it. She never mentioned it again, and she wasn’t a gossip, so I felt I had nothing to worry about.”
“When did this happen? Do you remember?”
“I believe it was right after spring break last year. April or May. I have no idea of the exact date.” She waved a hand, brushing away that detail, but I thought it was important.
If Mrs. Harris were worried about keeping Klea quiet, why would she wait nearly a year to kill her? That didn’t make sense at all. I breathed a little easier at the thought.
“I have let you in on my little secret for a reason,” Mrs. Harris said, her voice brisk. “I know you have an aptitude for finding out interesting things. I could tell from your face this morning that I’d given myself away. And I know you, Mrs. Avery. You’re not one to let questions go unanswered, so I decided to take you into my confidence in the hope that you will keep my identity as Alexa hidden.”
She held up a finger as I was about to break into her speech. “I know what you’re going to say—that this is something that can’t be kept from the people investigating Klea’s death, and you’re absolutely right. I will contact the sheriff’s department today and tell the detective in charge the whole story.”
One corner of her mouth quirked down. “I had hoped it wouldn’t have to come out, but I will certainly explain everything and ask for the investigator’s discretion. The detective in charge seemed like a nice young man. I understand that he is interested in the time from seven to nine on Wednesday morning. Fortunately, I have you, Mrs. Dunst, and a whole classroom of six-year-olds who can vouch for me during that time.”
“How do you know the times?” I asked, surprised at her exact knowledge.
“Oh, that tidbit was one of the first details to circulate through the school’s grapevine after the police began interviewing us. The detective talked to all of us, every teacher, asking each of us about our movements during that time. It wasn’t that difficult to deduce when they think Klea was killed.”
I nodded, but didn’t say anything, thinking that Detective Waraday must have widened the window he was asking about so he wouldn’t give away the exact time of death. I knew from talking to Vaughn and being with Gabrielle when she saw the body that it was the time before school started that mattered the most, seven-thirty to eight-thirty. Mrs. Harris had arrived at school Wednesday morning the same time I had. We’d walked into the school together. She didn’t realize it, but I was her most critical alibi.
She picked up the papers and pressed them to her chest. “Mrs. Dunst is probably wondering what happened to me. I have to get back. Can I count on you?”
“As long as you tell Detective Waraday, I won’t say a word.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Avery.” She tensed to stand, then stopped and swiveled toward me on the bench. “I have begun to think about retiring. My knees are not what they used to be. All the time sitting crisscross applesauce with the children is taking its toll, but I would like to be the one to make that decision and not have it made for me.”
“I can understand that,” I said. I hesitated for a second, then said, “Mrs. Harris, can I ask you a question?” She nodded. “Are you doing all right with your writing? No financial worries?” I asked because I’d discovered that some people were really good at hiding their problems. If she needed help, I wanted her to know that she had plenty of friends who would be happy to step in, as well as several resources in the community, like the local food bank, where I sometimes volunteered.
For the first time since we’d begun talking, her shoulders relaxed completely. “I said I was thinking of retiring, didn’t I? I wouldn’t—or couldn’t—do that without my little side business.” She winked as she stood to go back into the school.
After she’d left, I sat on the bench for a few more minutes, my thoughts whirling. I wasn’t sure what was going on at the school, but one thing I knew for sure was that Klea’s list of names did mean something.
Organizing Tips for PTA Moms
Timeline for Planning an Event
• Get permission from school/principal
• Decide on date
• Coordinate with room moms to recruit volunteers
• Announce event: —PA announcements
—Flyers posted around school
—Banner for hallways/drop-off area
—Social media
• Send reminders to volunteers one week before
• Send reminders to volunteers one day before
• Thank volunteers after the event
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Tuesday, I drove up to the school drop-off line, and Mrs. Kirk slid the van door back. “Bye, kids,” I called as they scrambled out.
Mrs. Harris was on car line duty today, standing between the two lanes of one-way traffic, waving cars through or motioning for them to stop to let kids walk through the crosswalk to the building. I waved to her as I went by, and she sent me a cheery smile. Mrs. Harris was Alexa Wells. I still had trouble taking that news in.
I spun the steering wheel and accelerated slowly, mentally shifting my thoughts to the rest of my day. I had an appointment with Margo Wilkins, a mom I knew through the school. She was remodeling her kitchen and wanted me to help her plan the cabinet and pantry layout of her new kitchen so she’d get the most storage out of the space, but before I went to her house, I exited the car circle, then parked on the grassy verge by the side field and walked back into the school.
I stopped by the office to sign in and said hello to Marie and Peg. Marie had walked into the office a few steps ahead of me, and as she stowed her purse beneath her desk and reached over to flip the calendar blocks to the new date, she raised her eyebrows and asked, “So . . . any news? Heard anything?”
“Nope,” I said, mentally adding, not that I can talk about.
She sat down and tilted her head, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “You’re not holding out on us, are you?”
“Of course not,” I said quickly.
She turned on her computer, then flicked open a file on her desk. “I only ask because you always seem to find out things,” she said with a smile. “You’re always in the know.”
“Not really. I usually feel like I’m in the dark,” I said lightly. “Sometimes people just tell me things,” I added, thinking of Mrs. Harris and how she’d spilled the whole story of her secret pen name without me hardly having to ask her anything. She must have been longing to talk about it with someone. It would be hard to have a whole separate life and not be able to share it with anyone. It was only because I’d seen her face at a critical moment when she’d given herself away that I had discovered her secret . . . well, that and the fact that she’d wanted to head me off at the pass, so to speak. She’d taken the direct approach and volunteered her secret in the hopes that I would keep quiet. If she’d kept up her end of the bargain with Detective Waraday, then I certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Marie about it.
“People trust you,” Marie said with a nod. “And I bet you’re a good listener.” She dropped the file into a metal bin and looked up at me, her face serious. “Don’t keep everything to yourself. That could be dangerous.”
Peg, who hadn’t said a word, let out a snort, and both Marie and I looked toward her. She turned from the cubbyholes, where she had been depositing papers. “Like a mom is going to uncover some deep, dark secret in the school that could endanger her life.”
It was the first time Peg had said anything to me that wasn’t directly related to school business.
“Peg!” Marie said, her tone scandalized. She shot a quick glance at the door that opened into the lobby, but none of the students were near the door at the moment. “A staff member has been killed,” she said in a whisper. “Someone did it.”
“I thought you were sure it was her husband,” Peg said as she banged a sta
ck of papers on the counter to align the edges.
Gabrielle, attired in casual work clothes, an oxford shirt, and khaki pants, came through the door from the lobby as Peg finished her sentence. Gabrielle sang out, “Morning, ladies.”
Peg and Marie ignored Gabrielle.
“How did you—?” Marie shifted her glance toward me. I gave a tiny shake of my head to indicate that I hadn’t said anything to Peg about what Marie had told me about Klea’s husband. Marie spun her chair so that she faced Peg directly. “You were listening at the door to the teachers’ lounge.” Her voice was accusatory. “I can’t believe you would do something so low as eavesdrop.”
“I did not eavesdrop.” Peg said. “If you don’t want people to hear what you have to say, you shouldn’t talk about it in a public place where people come and go constantly.” She tucked the papers into the crook of her arm and strode out the door of the office, causing Gabrielle to have to sidestep around her.
“Well, I never,” Marie said.
Gabrielle watched Peg walk out the door, then swiveled back to face Marie and me. “What’s going on?”
Marie waved a hand dismissively at Peg’s desk. “Just ignore her. She’s having one of her snits. She does that. No big deal.”
“What’s this about a husband?” Gabrielle asked, her face eager as she looked from Marie to me. “You’re not talking about Klea’s husband, are you?”
“Why would we be talking about Klea’s husband?” Marie said quickly.
Gabrielle dropped her expensive leather purse with heavy gold embellishments onto the tall counter with a thunk. “Because Klea is all anyone is talking about.” She looked over her shoulder and amended, “Well, when the kids aren’t around. But it is the main topic of conversation.” She stepped closer and hunched her shoulders over the counter. “Come on, give. What do you know?”
Marie said, reluctantly, “I don’t know anything for sure, except that Klea’s soon-to-be-ex-husband, Ace Burris, was a first-class louse. He’s got to be the prime suspect. It’s always the spouse, right?”
