April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  A bell rang.

  “Oh, first-period lunch.” Mrs. Jenkins pointed at the golden oak desk. “There’s her desk. I brought a master key for the locked drawers. Mrs. Riley’s room, 126, is two doors down this hall. Mrs. Thompson is upstairs in room 203. But they both have first-period lunch, so they won’t be in their rooms until noon. If you need anything else, you can come to the cafeteria or back to the office.”

  As the door closed behind her, Annie walked slowly toward the desk. Be careful here. She stopped behind the desk. Oh hell, she was here. She wouldn’t touch anything. She’d tell Pete Garrett all she’d done was look and note the contents of the desk. What could he do about that? Put her in jail? Maybe she didn’t want to know the answer to the second question.

  Annie glanced around the room and felt for a moment as though she’d stepped into the company of distinguished ghosts. Famous faces from twentieth-century America looked down from the walls: Theodore Roosevelt, Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Franklin Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Martin Luther King, Jimmy Carter. Real faces, real people, real lives. Had Kay Nevis talked about the good that can be achieved by one life well lived?

  Annie’s gaze returned to the desk. A single pink carnation poked from a bud vase. A yellow porcelain frame held an eight-by-ten snapshot of a family on horseback: a dark-haired woman in her thirties, a chunky balding man with a ready grin and three teenage girls. A green leather appointment book lay next to an onyx pen set. An in-box brimmed with sheets of written-upon notebook paper. Annie bent to look at the title emblazoned in green ink on the top sheet: “Contrast the characters of Douglas MacArthur and George C. Marshall.”

  Annie reached into her purse for a pen. She used the pen to flip open the appointment book. She scanned the pages, noting the usual appointments—dentist, bridge games, Saturday lunch dates—but there was no hint of anything odd or unusual. Annie unlocked the center drawer: grade books, pencils, note cards, reading lists, a vial of prescription medicine. The side drawers held thick files, the tabs indicating subjects. Annie glanced at a few of the tabs: “The Civil War Experience for Women in South Carolina,” “The Influence of Yellow Journalism on American Political Decisions in the Early 1900s,” “Roosevelt’s New Deal and Huey Long,” “Isolationism and the Beginning of World War II.”

  Annie pushed shut the last drawer. If there was anything here that pertained to murder, Annie had missed it. She dropped the desk key in her purse, glanced at her watch. Kay’s best friends on the faculty were in the lunchroom. Rachel had first-period lunch. Maybe Annie could find her and Rachel could point out Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley.

  Max clicked off the portable phone, placed it on the countertop. He bent down, nuzzled thick white fur. Dorothy L.’s blue eyes looked at him curiously. Max picked up the plump cat, who ducked her head beneath his chin and began to purr. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m your favorite guy and where’s the chopped liver.” Max carried Dorothy L. with him to a cupboard. He plucked out a can of cat food—salmon, Dorothy L.’s favorite—opened it. He put the cat down by her bowl, emptied the can, gave her a final pat. He frowned as he glanced across the kitchen at the silent phone. Nobody—not a single one of his mother’s friends—had heard from Laurel or knew where she was. Laurel, of course, could be ensconced at a friend’s house and have sworn that person to secrecy. But Max didn’t think so.

  Absentmindedly, he made a sandwich—watercress, whipped cream cheese, lox, capers on a bagel. He held fast to one fact: Laurel had called, told him she was all right. Where was she now? The empty slip at the marina told him she had docked the motorboat elsewhere, quite likely tying it up to a remote dock on one of the curling waterways that meandered through the marshes. That must mean she intended another foray in the boat. But why and where? And what the hell had she been doing near the inlet where Kay Nevis died? Max took a bite of the sandwich, hurried into the terrace room. They had a map of the island in the desk. Maybe if he studied it…

  The hum of voices was even louder than the bang of trays and the scrape of chairs. Rachel said loudly, “Do you want a hot dog or hamburger or pizza?” Her hand swept toward the food islands. Rachel didn’t even bother to suggest the salad bar.

  Annie felt chagrined. After all, she should be a role model. Rachel would certainly have pointed out the salad bar to Max. “Hmm, how about a salad?” After all, there would be olives and cheese and maybe even bacon bits to add a little substance. She was suddenly ravenous.

  “Sure. The honey-mustard dressing’s great.” Rachel, her thin face eager and cheerful, waved hello to friends as she and Annie pushed their trays, filled plastic bowls with spinach leaves, endive, shaved carrots, celery, cherry tomatoes, radishes and pecans. Annie almost added bacon bits, decided that was overkill and certainly not worthy of a role model. She did pick up a poppy-seed muffin. So hey, she wasn’t perfect.

  Rachel leaned close. “Do you want to eat out on the terrace?”

  Annie glanced around the red-walled cafeteria, which smelled like food, disinfectant and varnish. A long table near the hot-food line was filled with teachers. Annie jerked her head in that direction. “I see a table up front.”

  When they were settled, not more than fifteen feet from the teachers, Annie glanced at the table. Three women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties sat on one side, two men and an uncommonly pretty young woman on the other. “Do you know Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley?”

  Rachel snapped the tab from her can of Pepsi. “Mrs. Thompson looks like a mouse. We call her Minnie. Mrs. Riley’s the one with orange hair piled on top of her head and long dangly earrings.”

  Annie smiled. A small black woman ate with quick, dainty—mouselike?—bites. Her gray hair was drawn into a bun, emphasizing her sharp features. She wore a plain white blouse with her gray suit. Her jewelry was simple, a pair of small silver earrings and a silver brooch. She was absorbed in a paperback book. Two chairs down, Mrs. Riley gestured dramatically, long red fingernails flashing in the air. Her face beneath the mound of bright hair was large and amiable. Her fringed eyelashes were heavy with mascara. Bright spots of red decorated plump cheeks. An orange pattern—leaping fish?—spangled her purple silk dress.

  Annie made her decision on the spot. There was an air of reserve to Mrs. Thompson. She would talk to Mrs. Riley first. “I understand Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley were good friends of Mrs. Nevis’s.”

  Rachel didn’t note the tense. She nodded as she stirred the dressing into her salad. “Yeah. I guess so. Anyway, Annie, we’ve got everybody excited about the flyers. Everybody’s really mad that the police would suspect Diane.”

  Annie hated to tell her, but knew she must. “Rachel, listen…” She explained that Kay had been murdered.

  Rachel pushed her salad away. Tears welled in her eyes. “Mrs. Nevis—Annie, that’s awful. She was really nice.”

  “There’s one thing more. And Rachel, you mustn’t tell anyone about this.” Annie glanced around, spoke so only Rachel could hear. “There were boxes of the flyers in her house.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Nevis! I don’t believe it.”

  Annie took a bite of salad. “I know. Henny insists she would never have done anything like that. Henny says someone else must have put out the flyers. Henny’s convinced it has to be someone connected to the school. Anyway, you’ve got to cancel the meeting this afternoon.” The salad was fresh and crisp. Annie ate quickly.

  Ignoring her lunch, Rachel hitched her chair closer to the table, planted her elbows. “Wait a minute, Annie, wait a minute. No, we’ll tell everybody that Mrs. Nevis’s been framed—”

  Annie put down her fork and reached across the table to grab Rachel’s arm. “Definitely not. We don’t want anyone to know about the flyers in her house. If that gets out, her reputation’s smeared even if we ultimately figure out who did it.” Annie scrambled for a plan to deflect Rachel. No way could she tell Rachel there might be danger for anyone nosing into th
e history of the flyers. Annie remembered that age well enough to know the possibility of danger would simply be an attraction. “No, we need to get everybody’s attention away from those damn flyers. Say that you’ve received information and you can’t reveal your source…”

  That always added a cachet to any announcement.

  “…but it has been learned that the flyers are a complete hoax and that the authorities will be making an announcement shortly.” Annie pushed away the cold little thought that Pete Garrett might not be thrilled to hear this. But that was going to be Pete’s problem. If ever she was in a position to explain to him why she had come to the school, surely he would be pleased that she’d made an effort to keep the students from getting involved. Whatever happened, Annie didn’t want Rachel or any of her friends pursuing the hand that wrote the flyers, because that same hand might very well have held the gun that killed Kay Nevis.

  Rachel gripped her soda can. “Oh, but everybody’s coming and they all want to help Diane.”

  “It will be great,” Annie said brightly. “Everybody will be relieved that the flyers are phony and that Diane has been falsely accused. What you can do is even more important. Ask the kids to write tributes to Mrs. Nevis and bring them to their first hour tomorrow and turn them in. They will be a wonderful present to her family.”

  “Annie, that’s a super idea.” Rachel’s face brightened. “Sure. Christy and I will handle it.”

  A shrill buzz sounded three times.

  Rachel glanced toward a loudspeaker mounted above a small stage at the end of the room. “Some kind of announcement.”

  “Students and faculty, may I have your attention”—the sound was tinny—“for an important announcement.”

  Rachel’s eyes darkened. “That’s Dr. Allensworth. I’ll bet he’s going to tell everybody about Mrs. Nevis.”

  Allensworth cleared his throat. The room slowly quieted. “There will be a special assembly today at two o’clock. I regret to inform you that one of our own—Mrs. Nevis—has died.” There was the sound of indrawn breaths, exclamations. “I further regret to inform you that she was shot to death at her home last night. At the assembly, I will report to you the facts as we know them and will issue a special plea to all students and faculty to contact the police if they feel they have any information that might be useful in the investigation. Thank you.”

  Annie was only dimly aware of the shocked silence in the long room. She studied the table of teachers. The book had slid from Mrs. Thompson’s hand. She stared at the loudspeaker, her face stricken. Mrs. Riley clapped her hands to her cheeks, let out a shrill cry.

  Annie pushed back her chair. “I need to talk to Mrs. Riley. Now don’t forget what we decided about the meeting, Rachel.”

  Thirteen

  MRS. RILEY’S HANDS trembled as she smoothed her hair against the breeze. “Of course I’ll help. Will the service be on Saturday?” Her molasses-thick accent stretched each word.

  “The time hasn’t been announced yet. Mrs. Nevis’s daughter and her family arrive tomorrow. I’m sure someone will call you. I know you were a very close friend.” They stood at the end of the pier, the green water bright in the sun.

  The teacher shaded eyes that glistened with sudden tears. “We often walked out here after lunch. I love the kids, but sometimes you feel like you’re smothering!” She lifted her arms as if pushing away a burden. “Kay used to scold me, tell me I took everything too hard and that I shouldn’t get so personally involved. Just last week, she said, ‘Maureen, tell that boy’—one of my favorites, oh, it breaks my heart, he’s so bright, so good, and he sees colors like jewels—‘that he can do drugs or he can have a life. Tell him to talk to a counselor, but you let it go. If he doesn’t listen, it’s not your problem.’” Maureen Riley flung out her hands, gave a huge sigh. “How can I not care? Of course, Kay cared, too. But she was a bear for personal responsibility. Hard choices, that’s how she saw the world—for herself, for everybody around her.”

  Hard choices.

  Annie touched the weathered railing. Had Kay rested her fingers against this warm wood, welcomed the gentle sweep of wind off the water and thought about hard choices? “I know she was upset lately.”

  Red nails gripped Annie’s arm. “What was that about? She wouldn’t tell me. I knew something was wrong. She hadn’t been herself for a week or more, so quiet and—well, almost grim.”

  Annie’s flare of hope withered. “I thought you could tell us. All we know”—Annie doubted the editorial “we” had ever been used so loosely—“is that she was worried about something at school. We even wondered if it could have something to do with her murder.”

  Maureen Riley’s grip eased. She lifted her hand, smoothed her hair. Her heavy face creased in thought. “Here? At school?”

  In the silence, Annie heard the chug of a motorboat, the slap of water against the pilings, the cackling call of a clapper rail.

  “Last Friday”—Mrs. Riley’s sweet soft voice was thoughtful—“Kay and I were in the cafeteria. We were running a little later than usual. I’d had to stop and leave some papers in the office and she waited for me. At the end of the line, she picked up her tray and looked toward our table. She just stood there, frowning. I guess I was a little impatient. I said, ‘Kay, get a move on.’ She didn’t budge. She took a deep breath and finally said, ‘Yes. I suppose I must.’ When we got to the table, she said hello to everyone, but after we sat down, I swear she didn’t talk at all.” Mrs. Riley lifted her plump shoulders in a shrug. “Of course, I have to admit I always have lots to say. But there’s so much to talk about. We’re all going to have to take more computer instruction. I swear we just learn how to do it one way and they make us learn another and now they want us to take roll on the computer and we have to click on a student’s picture if they’re absent and I don’t see why we can’t just send a slip to the office like we always have. But Kay was always up-to-the-minute. She liked learning more about computers. We were talking about the new software that day and everybody chimed in, everybody but her. I thought maybe she didn’t feel well. Anyway, she ate real fast—her usual lunch, vegetable soup and two packages of crackers and lime Jell-O. But now I wonder.” Big brown eyes looked earnestly at Annie.

  Annie wasn’t sure what she was supposed to take from Mrs. Riley’s breathless report. “Wonder?”

  “Yes. You see, when we were in the cafeteria line, she was looking at our table. I think she didn’t want to go and sit down there. You see what that means!” She gripped her long amber necklace, held it tightly.

  Annie imagined Kay Nevis in the cafeteria line looking toward the usual table. “Were the others already there?”

  “Yes. Just like today.” Maureen Riley spoke the names slowly. “Lois Thompson. Algebra. She’s the tiny little black woman who has such bright eyes, shiny as polished chrome. Amy Mendoza. Biology. Masses of dark hair and an elegant carriage. She models on the weekends. And on the other side of the table…”

  Annie nodded, recognizing the same-pew-every-Sunday syndrome, that human penchant for returning always to a particular spot.

  “…Jack Quinn. Chemistry and track. As you might expect, he’s the tall skinny guy. He wears his hair longer than Dr. Allensworth likes, but”—a quick smile—“Jack pretty well does what he likes. Three state championships in a row for boys’ quarter mile. And some of his top students always AP out of ChemOne. And next to him, you may have noticed the chunky guy with a carrot top and a big grin. George Wilson. Counselor.” Her lips curved in a smile. “Everybody loves George. He could make Silas Marner laugh. Loudest man I’ve ever known. Talks a mile a minute and he knows something about everything—the latest quiz shows, the average high temperature in Manila in December, Clare of Assisi is the patron saint of television, a gross is twelve dozen—” She paused for breath, peered at Annie. “Really, you’d love him.”

  Annie’s idea of male perfection was summed up in her tall, blond, agreeable, good-humored, sexy husband, who def
initely didn’t talk nonstop. “Hmm,” she replied pleasantly.

  Mrs. Riley plucked at her amber beads. “The kids adore George. And he’s awfully good at getting them to really look at what they’re doing. And next to him”—her tone was suddenly dry—“that terribly pretty girl, Nita Harris. Spanish.”

  Annie remembered the young teacher sitting with the men, a tangle of blond curls, a hairdo that looks windblown and casual but is the result of art and care, a fresh open face with a merry smile, an aura of exuberance and enthusiasm.

  “If anyone else wore a skirt that short…” Mrs. Riley lifted an eyebrow. “The men all go right to her, just like lemmings. It is lemmings, isn’t it, that get all caught up in a swarm and try to cross the sea and drown? You know, propelled by a force they can’t resist. Men will be men. They simply can’t help themselves. And I swear, I don’t think she does a thing. All she has to do is walk into a faculty meeting and there’s a mass migration. But I have to say she’s a nice girl.” Her eyes squinted in thought. “If only I could remember exactly where Kay was staring. She might have been looking at that side of the table. But really, Kay liked Nita, said she was just one of those women men can’t resist and it didn’t matter whether a man was married or not. Jack and George are both married. Jack’s wife is a very successful lawyer and George’s wife is a pharmaceutical rep and makes a lot of money. And Nita has a boyfriend, so it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Annie tried to sort everyone out in her mind: the precise teacher the students had nicknamed Minnie, the model, the lanky track coach, the ebullient counselor and the femme fatale. Had Kay quarreled with one of them? Was there some reason for her to avoid sitting at the lunch table? But the dead woman had taken her usual place on Friday, though she’d had little to say. Mrs. Riley had wondered if she was sick.

  A bell rang.