by Carolyn Hart
“Oh, I’ve got to get back.” Mrs. Riley started up the pier. “The more I think about it, the more I think Kay was looking at our table. There was a stillness about the way she stood, a reluctance to move. She didn’t want to sit with someone at our table.”
Max frowned at the map. Last night Laurel must have been in the Sound fairly near the inlet where Kay Nevis had lived. There were only the two houses there, the Nevis house and the Muir house. South of that inlet there was a long stretch of undeveloped marshland, part of a nature preserve. To the north, a thin finger of land poked out into the Sound. There was only one house there. It belonged to Eva and Terry Crawford, owners of Smuggler’s Rest, the newest gift shop on the marina. Max picked up the phone. He’d call Ben Parotti, rent a motorboat and be out in the Sound tonight.
Max hesitated, remembering the crisp, imperative tone in his mother’s voice when she had insisted that she had a matter to attend to. Max sighed. That meant—had to mean—Laurel would be abroad tonight. But if he took a boat into the Sound, he might—
The phone rang.
“Hello.” Max pulled the map a little closer.
“Maxwell, dear.” Laurel’s husky voice brimmed with eagerness, goodwill, and affection.
Max felt a huge rush of relief. “Ma! Listen, you’ve got to tell me what you’re up to.” He talked fast, knowing the connection with his mother might be terminated any instant. “Were you near the Nevis house last night? Don’t hang up. You’ve got to tell me. She was shot. What did you see?”
“I’m so glad I called.” Her voice lifted with contentment. “I simply had an inkling you might be disturbed, a roiling of wavelengths when I envisaged you. Usually, dear Max, you exude the most soothing aura of mellow cream. My dear, you must learn to relax.” Her tone was earnest and reassuring. “If you go out to your hammock and stretch out and breathe deeply, you will feel much better.”
It was that old familiar feeling that often occurred when he spoke with his mother, like stepping into a cobweb, little tendrils of obfuscation twining around him. “Ma, stop fooling around. I’m going to get a boat and be in the Sound tonight—”
“Absolutely not.” Her tone was sharp. “To put your mind at rest, let me assure you that I have no information of interest to the authorities except the fact that I was in the Sound around midnight not far from the inlet where Kay Nevis lived. I encountered a motorboat without running lights. To my surprise, the occupant shot at me. So, of course, I departed immediately. I cannot describe either the boat or my attacker. Therefore, we have no obstruction of justice here.” A light tinkling laugh. “However, I do have a matter to which I must attend this evening. I promise that”—a thoughtful pause—“let’s see, tonight is Thursday and tomorrow is Friday, ah yes, I promise that I will be home either Saturday or Sunday. I assure you that I am quite safe and well and that I will be in no danger unless”—now she was crisp and compelling—“there is well-meaning but terribly misguided interference. There is definitely a possibility of terrible danger if you contact the authorities. Please continue, should anyone inquire, to say that I am in Atlanta. It is, Maxwell, a matter of life or death.”
“Ma—” The empty line buzzed in his ear. He clicked off the phone. Terrible danger…Max took a deep breath. All right, he had to do as his mother demanded. But he couldn’t ignore what he knew. Max hurried toward the door. There were some of those flyers at his office. Who among those named could have been on the Sound last night at midnight? Certainly Pete was going to explore the people cited in the fake flyers. He was a careful, thorough and intelligent cop. But nobody was shooting at his mother.
“Class,” Mrs. Thompson, a woman who felt no need to raise her voice, said softly, “we will have a short quiz. Please work the problems on page 89.”
The students flipped open their books and set to work.
Mrs. Thompson held the door for Annie. She looked back to the class. “I shall return in fifteen minutes.”
When they stepped into the hall, the door closing behind them, Lois Thompson fingered a silver filigree brooch in the lapel of her gray suit. Her shiny eyes studied Annie.
Annie decided Mrs. Thompson indeed looked like a dusky mouse, a highly intelligent, thoughtful and curious mouse. “I appreciate your willingness to take a few minutes to speak with me. We are planning the service for Kay and her daughter hopes you will agree to speak.”
The teacher’s shiny eyes blinked in her small, intense face. “Of course I will. Is there a particular aspect of Kay’s life you wish for me to discuss?”
Slowly, Annie nodded. “The family wishes to remember especially her devotion to duty and her commitment to high moral principles. I understand she was presently engaged in a dispute here at school about some matter she found distressing.”
Perfectly formed eyebrows rose a fraction. “Really? I was not aware of a specific problem.” Mrs. Thompson clasped her smooth hands together, the nails shiny with colorless polish.
Annie almost left it at that. Obviously, Kay Nevis hadn’t told her best friends on the faculty about any difficulty at school. If she hadn’t told either Mrs. Riley or Mrs. Thompson, it was unlikely she’d told anyone else. Told them what? Mrs. Riley suggested Kay didn’t want to sit at the lunch table. Why? What could Kay know about a teacher that would distress her enough that even a brief lunch period seemed intolerable? It would have to be a matter of great seriousness, something that could lead to the loss of a job, perhaps even criminal charges…not aware of a specific problem…Annie looked into bright, shiny, intelligent brown eyes. “Specific?”
Mrs. Thompson’s small nose wrinkled. Annie had a quick vision of a mouse sniffing. A quick smile revealed even white teeth. “Kay was a forward-looking woman, but she was not comfortable with today’s lax standards. Last week in the lounge, we were drinking tea and discussing the difficulties teachers face today—students who are overscheduled, undisciplined, exposed to endless corrupting influences, most especially senseless violence and promiscuous sex in every aspect of their entertainment—when Kay said, and I can only describe her tone as bitter, ‘Parents have a responsibility. When they don’t oversee a child, there will be trouble.’” Mrs. Thompson turned to look through the glass panes in the door.
Annie looked, too. It did not surprise her that Mrs. Thompson’s students, heads bent, were writing industriously.
Mrs. Thompson gave an almost imperceptible approving nod, returned her calm gaze to Annie. “At the time, I noted Kay’s tone was more exercised than usual. But now I believe—though it is perhaps easy to invest a momentousness to the event because of Kay’s death and your question to me—that she might have been grappling with a decision regarding a student. She took a last sip of tea and gathered up her papers. Her manner was abstracted, as if she was deep in thought. That was the last conversation we had.”
A student! Annie was jarred. Mrs. Riley insisted Kay wished to avoid sitting at the usual table with the other teachers. Mrs. Thompson suspected Kay was disturbed by some situation involving a student. Which was correct? Possibly neither. After all, Chief Garrett was at the moment trying to link one of the people impugned in the flyers to Kay’s murder. Maybe that still made sense.
“I don’t suppose”—Mrs. Thompson’s voice was contemplative—“that we’ll ever know. Kay was a very discreet woman.”
Discreet and dead.
Annie was ready to give up, consign the search for Kay’s murderer to the police, whose responsibility it was. Responsibility. Laurel. If Pete Garrett was wrong, if Henny was right, Laurel remained in danger. Dammit, why had Laurel been out in the Sound in the middle of the night anyway?
“Discreet.” Annie studied the trim, competent-looking teacher, not a woman who missed much, not a woman who exaggerated or misstated. “I would think you are very discreet, too.”
There was a flash of surprise in Mrs. Thompson’s dark eyes. “I suppose that’s true. But in this instance, if I had any idea what Kay meant, if indeed she meant anything at all, I would cert
ainly tell you and the authorities as well.”
“Mrs. Thompson, there has been a suggestion that Kay may have written those flyers that have been scattered around the island, the ones accusing some people on the island of crimes.”
“Those scurrilous things?” The teacher stared at Annie in dismay. “That’s absurd. Impossible. No, I’m quite certain Kay had nothing to do with them.”
Annie said stubbornly, “Everyone has emphasized how morally upright she was.”
“Morally upright, yes. But Kay was not a vigilante.” Mrs. Thompson was adamant, her voice firm and determined. “I saw those flyers. If Kay had information about any of those incidents, she would have approached the authorities. I’ve no doubt of that. But to fling accusations about anonymously, to tarnish people’s reputations publicly, no. Never. That would not be honorable and Kay was most emphatically an honorable woman.”
“So you believe Kay would definitely have taken action if she were aware of…” Annie’s voice trailed away. Aware of what? Annie turned her hands palms up. “What could Kay have known—especially about a student—that might end in murder?”
Mrs. Thompson rested her fingertips lightly on one smooth cheek. “It seems absurd when put like that. But the fact is, Kay was shot to death last night. If she had known perhaps that a student possessed a gun, brought it to school…No, she would have taken immediate steps. It can’t be anything like that. What else could be involved? Drugs? Sexual abuse or misbehavior of some kind? Theft? Intimidation? Oh, we can spin ideas forever. The difficulty is that I don’t see how Kay could gain information detrimental to a student unless the student in question informed her or perhaps”—her eyes narrowed—“perhaps another student came to Kay, told her of something dangerous, something illegal…. But we come up against the fact that Kay did not go to the authorities. I assume you asked Dr. Allensworth if he was aware of any problem?”
Annie nodded. “He was very emphatic that he knew of nothing at school that could be connected to her death.”
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes narrowed. “Kay always followed procedure. Dr. Allensworth would be the first person to be informed if there were a matter that posed danger to anyone.” The teacher lifted her slender shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. She may have been concerned about a particular student that day. If so, I’ve no idea who that student may be. Kay never spoke of students unless she could speak well.” A sudden smile. “It was a dear trait. She was”—and her bright eyes glistened with tears—“a dear and kind woman.”
Annie looked at the index card in her hand. Mrs. Thompson’s printing was as precise as her speech, the small letters perfectly formed:
Amy Mendoza. Room 216.
Jack Quinn. Room 111.
George Wilson. Main office, room 101, office D.
Nita Harris. Room 202.
Annie glanced across the hall at room 202. First come…
Henny Brawley slipped the soft gray plastic dust shroud from the computer. A smile tugged at her lips even as she blinked away tears. Kay was the only person she’d ever known who kept her computer covered. All right, all right. No time to grieve now. The police were finally gone and she had permission to clean the foyer where Kay had died in a pool of blood. That would be hideous, but someone must do it. Tomorrow, she’d bring over a grass mat from her own living room to hide the stains that she would not be able to remove. There was much to do before the arrival of the family. Of course, the guild would bring food. Pamela Potts had already called twice. The house, beyond the crime scene, was immaculate. Kay had kept a clean house. But it would take only a minute to check…
Henny perched on the edge of the straight chair, booted up, called up the list of files. Lesson plans, research, letters, saved travel pieces—but nothing, not a single scrap of information to link this computer to those awful flyers. Of course, Pete Garrett wouldn’t be impressed. He’d simply cite Henny’s own discovery of unauthorized entry into the library and use of a computer. But Henny felt better anyway. Dammit, Kay hadn’t written those flyers. Henny shut down the program, took a deep breath. She’d put off this moment as long as possible. She walked into the foyer, glanced at her supplies, a bucket with sudsy ammonia, steel wool, rubber gloves…
Amy Mendoza beamed at the class, dark eyes glowing, white teeth bright. “Pop quiz.”
The class groaned.
“Now, now.” Her voice was good-humored. “Answer the questions at the end of Chapter Thirteen. Peter”—she nodded toward a blond boy in the first seat—“please take up the papers in fifteen minutes. Thank you.”
The students rustled and squirmed behind long, scarred wooden tables. The classroom smelled of a combination of disinfectant and must. At least, Annie hoped it was must.
Amy Mendoza beckoned to Annie. “We’ll visit over here by the door. I can’t leave students unsupervised in a lab.” Her royal-blue silk skirt swirling, she swept gracefully past Annie to a corner of the room just past the entrance. A matching silk tank top emphasized her willowy figure. She turned so that her back was to the students. She looked somberly at Annie, her face abruptly bleak and sad. She spoke in a tone too low for anyone other than Annie to hear. “This is awful. The kids are upset. We’re all upset. I can’t believe anything like this could happen to someone I know.” Long slender fingers touched her throat. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the assembly?” Before Annie could answer, she chattered on. “Oh no, of course you don’t. You’re here for the family. That’s what someone told me. Well, I’ll be glad to do anything I can to help.”
“Thank you. We especially hoped you’d be able to come to the house after the service…”
Amy Mendoza was startled. She immediately smoothed out her face, managed a smile. “Oh yes, of course.”
“…since we wanted to honor her friends whom she saw every day. You always lunched together. Kay enjoyed that very much.”
“Oh. Certainly. Lunch. Yes.” Amy nodded energetically, though her eyes were puzzled. “I mean, we all had the same lunch hour.”
Annie ignored the hint that lunchtime companions were a result of the fortuity of scheduling, not choice. “Since you saw her every day, I suppose you noticed that she was upset this past week?”
Amy folded her long thin arms. “Upset? Honestly, I didn’t notice. She never had much to say.” A quick smile. “Maureen and George and I are the ones who talk. Lois always has a book. Kay would make an occasional comment. Jack shrugs and looks sleepy. Except when Nita says something.” Her voice was dry. “But this past week?” Her dark brows drew down. “Kay was quiet. What else was new?”
Annie ignored the curious stare of the skinny boy in the nearest seat. “Was Kay worried about Jud Hamilton coming up to school?”
Amy shivered. “I don’t know. But I’m scared. I used to spend a lot of time with Colleen. Jud’s mean and they say he’s out to get the guy who sent him to jail. We all hope Dr. Allensworth gets some added security for a while.”
“Everybody agreed?” So the topic had been explored at the lunch table. Here was more proof that Kay had the information to write the accusatory flyers, but proof as well that everyone at the table knew about Jud Hamilton.
“Oh yes. Nobody wants to tangle with Jud.” Her eyes were wide.
Everyone at the table…“So you weren’t aware of anything that upset Kay this past week?”
“I don’t know if something was wrong.” Amy’s tone was uncertain. “She was awfully quiet. Even quieter than usual. But I don’t know why.”
Max paced in his office, head down, face intent.
Barb sat on a straight chair, hand poised above a legal pad.
“Here’s what we need to find out.” Max flipped out his fingers one by one, “Do the Littlefields own a motorboat? Where were the members of the Littlefield family last night at midnight?” He glanced at his notes. Ah yes, Least Tern Lane. “Ditto Paul Marlow, Teresa Caldwell, Frank Saulter and Emma Clyde. If no alibi, who had access to a motorboat? Ditto
everyone connected with the Leisure Moment. Okay, we’ll divvy it up….”
Square face determined, Emma Clyde stared at the computer screen. All right. She needed to introduce two more characters. Now, why would Marigold need to talk to the druggist? Have to be a good reason. A prescription refill? No, no, that was contrived. All right, how about Marigold sees the pill bottle on the victim’s nightstand, writes down the pharmacy name and phone number? Hmm, that might work. Okay, Marigold goes to the pharmacy. It’s the old-fashioned kind, has a soda fountain. She decides to get a chocolate soda, definitely with a maraschino cherry, and she asks the kid behind the fountain if he knows Mr. Woolery, the guy who was knifed in his bedroom the night before. Turns out the kid delivers prescriptions. Oh hey, this is good. Emma hitched her chair closer to the keyboard. The kid—make him a skinny blond with a nose ring and a snake tattoo on his forearm—tells Marigold…
Emma stared at the screen where she’d typed: Smoke screen.
Dammit, smoke screen had nothing to do with Marigold Rembrandt and The Case of the Curious Catbird. Smoke screen, an effort to hide the true facts. Annie might be right. What if someone else did the flyers, left them at Kay’s house? What if the objective of the flyers was to provide a convenient list of suspects in Kay’s murder? Damn clever, if so. Had anyone thought to check and see whether Kay kept a diary?
Emma blinked irritably. Dammit, she didn’t have time to worry about flyers and smoke screens. She had to get Chapter 17 finished. Pronto. But what if…
She whirled her chair around, reached for the phone.
Nita Harris fluffed her golden curls with a casual swipe. She exuded energy and restlessness, one foot tapping as she listened to Annie. “Oh, look, I don’t do funerals. Sorry. Nice woman and all that, but I just knew her because we both had first-period lunch. Thanks, I’ll give it a bye.” A decided nod. “I’ll donate to whatever, flowers or a charity. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.” She backed toward her classroom door.
