The Skeleton Takes a Bow

by Leigh Perry

  “If nothing else,” Madison said, “it would be a great column for the school paper.”

  From there, the conversation evolved into a discussion of the ethics of spreading gossip, even gossip confirmed by an impeccable source. By the time that was done, dinner was over, so after cleaning up, we headed for our respective computers: Madison to do homework, Sid to write up notes, and me to grade another couple of late homework papers and answer e-mail about the current week’s assignment. On the whole, I thought Sid had more fun than either Madison or I did.

  11

  Monday set the pattern for the next couple of days. Each night at dinner Sid would regale us with the latest goings-on at PHS: shy flirtations, torrid romances, and dramatic breakups; tests failed, papers aced, and memes shared; teachers who blamed all their problems on the administration, administrators who blamed the students’ parents, parents who blamed teachers, and students who either blamed everybody else for everything or were sure everything was their own fault. It was entertaining, to be sure, but wasn’t really moving our investigation along.

  Thursday morning I was considerably better dressed than my usual combo of slacks and a decent top or sweater because as soon as my class was over, Charles and I were going to head to the funeral of that adjunct who’d died. I’d tried to rise to the occasion by wearing a navy dress with a charcoal blazer and a pair of heels. Charles met me outside my classroom, and he took me up on my offer to drive.

  Though he was perfectly polite on the way, and of course impeccably dressed for the funeral, Charles was not his usual buoyant self. I even wondered if Sara had gotten something right for a change. Maybe Charles and Patty Craft had been an item. Of course it wasn’t really my business, any more than it was Sara’s, but sadly I was just as curious as my office neighbor. I managed to restrain my curiosity until I’d had to ask Charles three times how many were expected at the services.

  “Please forgive me, dear lady,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m preoccupied.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know this is hard for you.” I hesitated, but then asked, “Were you and Patty very close?”

  “In all honesty, not close at all until she became ill. We’d worked together, and were collegial, but I never spent that much time with her until her distressing diagnosis. It was then that I saw that many of her friends were drifting away, as happens when times are difficult. So I offered as much support as I could.”

  “Charles, you are such a sweetie.”

  “No, Georgia, it was not from sweetness or anything so noble. It was guilt. I’d known that Patty was starting to . . . Let us say that I saw that she was heading down the wrong path in her life, and I did nothing to stop her. Though her poor choices had nothing to do with her illness, I know she had regrets later, and she carried those regrets to her grave. My own regret is knowing that I failed to act.”

  “Poor choices?” I prompted.

  But he shook his head. “These are not my secrets to share. All I can tell you is that I hope that the next time I have an opportunity to intervene and prevent a friend or colleague from making a mistake, I shall do so immediately.”

  I patted his hand in a way which I knew Sara would misinterpret, but which I knew Charles would understand. With most of my friends, I’d have followed up with a hug once we arrived at the funeral home, but Charles just wasn’t the hugging kind.

  Given what he’d said about Craft’s family and circle of friends, I wasn’t surprised that the services were being held at the smallest chapel of the Spadina Funeral Home. Charles excused himself to go find his friend’s sister Phoebe as soon as we came in, but after I signed the guest book, I spotted several other adjuncts from McQuaid and we found an empty pew to sit in together.

  None of us talked much—I gathered none of the others had known Patty Craft that well, and of course I’d never even met her. Soon enough the music started playing and the funeral director asked us to stand.

  Charles was one of the pallbearers, and the coffin was followed by the saddest funeral party I’d ever seen: one lone woman, looking frazzled and confused in a dress that I guessed had been bought specifically for the funeral. She had to be the dead woman’s sister Phoebe, though as far as I could tell, she looked nothing like her sister. There was a blown-up photo of Patty Craft on a stand by the coffin, and the late adjunct’s features had been so delicate that, especially with her short, asymmetric haircut, she looked almost elfin.

  The service was given by a pastor who clearly hadn’t known the deceased and who either hadn’t bothered or been able to find out enough about her. His words sounded as if they’d been cribbed from a rack of sympathy cards.

  At least Charles was able to do his friend proud with his eulogy, speaking about her devotion to academia, her gifts as a teacher, and the courage with which she faced death. Probably everybody in that room knew that there was a good chance that the woman had killed herself, but she still sounded heroic when Charles pointed out how hard she’d worked to keep her job and to stay current with research in her field. Since I hadn’t really known her, I hadn’t expected to need the package of tissues in my purse, but I ended up using several and sharing the rest with my colleagues.

  At the end of the services, the funeral director announced that there would be no graveside service, because the remains were being cremated according to the wishes of the deceased, and invited us to join the family for refreshments in the room next door.

  The receiving line was just the sister Phoebe with Charles staying by her side to introduce those people he knew. I offered my condolences without explaining that I hadn’t even met the deceased. I’d have left after that, but I was Charles’s ride and he didn’t look as if he was going to be leaving anytime soon.

  So I made a beeline for the refreshment table. There’s something about awkward social situations that makes me crave salty snacks and sweets. At least eating chips and dip and fudge brownies gave me something to do with my hands.

  I joined a couple of McQuaid adjuncts, who introduced me to a trio of adjuncts from other New England colleges. We all nodded cordially. There was no secret handshake for adjuncts, but we generally tried to play nice because chances were that sometime over the course of our careers, we’d be sharing the adjunct lifestyle at the same college.

  We talked a little shop, and eventually Charles finished with his self-appointed duties and joined us. He knew all the adjuncts present—he’d been making the rounds even longer than I had and was better at maintaining networks.

  After he made sure everybody had been introduced, a sharp-nosed brunette named Dolores said, “Did Bert not even show up? I know he and Patty broke up, but they lived together for, what, three years? The least he could do was show up at her funeral. Or did he not know she’d died?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Charles said, “but I did my best to inform him. I left a voice-mail message for him and sent an e-mail, but he never responded. I understand he’s been job hunting, and he may have relocated, so perhaps my contact information is out of date. I haven’t attempted to stay in touch with him.”

  I was surprised by that last comment. Charles stayed in touch with everybody—he’d probably keep in touch with Sara if they ever worked for different universities. For him to drop a colleague told me that the guy must be a real loser. Or maybe he was one of the fair-weather friends who’d deserted Patty Craft when she became ill.

  “That’s right—I forgot that his career had nose-dived,” the brunette said with a smirk. “He’s teaching high school. Can you imagine? Reading ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ and ‘My Favorite Character in Romeo and Juliet’ essays?” She actually tittered.

  I shouldn’t have, but I’ve met a lot of Madison’s teachers over the years, and I had a lot of respect for the vast majority of them. So I said, “I know, right? I mean, why would anybody give up the halls of academe to take a job with sick days and health insuran
ce? Where you get your own permanent classroom instead of a shared office? And you know his brain will just rot without having to write all those research grant proposals and rushing articles out the door so he can make quota. Who wants all summer off anyway?”

  The brunette blinked, and I saw a couple of the others hide grins.

  After that, the conversation wandered a bit, mostly stories about how annoying college administrators could be, which was always a good topic for adjuncts. The room started to clear out, and finally Charles said, “I think it is time for us to take our leave. If you don’t mind, Georgia, I’d like to have another word with Patty’s sister.”

  The woman was standing by herself with a cup of coffee in one hand, looking more awkward than mournful.

  “We must be going,” Charles said. “Please do let me know if there’s any assistance I can offer in your time of need.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” she said, “but I couldn’t ask you for anything else.”

  “Then there is something else?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I was going to go to Patty’s place today to pack up her things, but I won’t be able to take much back with me on the plane, and I’m not sure what to do with the rest. I’d like to ship things to my house, but my flight leaves tomorrow before the post office opens.”

  “I would be honored to help with both packing and any necessary shipping.”

  She made a token attempt to refuse, but I could see how relieved she was—apparently there was nobody else she could ask. They made arrangements to meet at the dead woman’s apartment that afternoon.

  She did make one last protest, saying, “Are you sure you don’t mind? You’ve done so much already! I mean, helping with the funeral and all. I couldn’t have afforded to do things nice like this.”

  “Think nothing of it. We took up a collection at the university to raise funds, so it’s really all of Patty’s friends and colleagues who have helped.”

  “Really?” she said. “That’s so nice. I know adjuncts don’t make much money and—”

  The funeral director approached discreetly, and we said our good-byes and let them finish their business.

  “Jeez, Charles,” I said, “you didn’t tell me you were passing the hat. Is it too late for me to add to the pool?”

  “It’s all covered,” he said.

  “What about the flowers and—”

  “All covered.”

  I looked at him. “Charles, did you pay for this out of your own pocket?”

  He held the door open for me. “It’s turning out to be a lovely day, don’t you think?”

  That was all the answer I needed, and I resolved to have him over for dinner as often as I could manage for the foreseeable future. It wouldn’t make up for paying for a funeral, but I figured it was as much repayment as he’d accept. I did offer to help him over at his friend’s apartment, but was just as glad when he turned me down. Rifling through a dead stranger’s belongings didn’t sound like a good way to spend the day.

  Instead I treated myself when I got back home and out of my good clothes. The house was empty except for me and Byron, so after I’d graded a couple of essays that had actually been turned in ahead of the next day’s due date, he and I curled up together on the couch and took a nice, long nap. It was terribly self-indulgent, but I would have been happy to nap longer if Madison and Sid hadn’t come bursting in.

  Something had broken at last!

  12

  “Mom! We’ve got news!” Madison said. She dropped her backpack onto the floor with a loud thump and ran into the living room with Sid’s bowling bag. As she unzipped it and put Sid’s skull on the coffee table, he added, “Big news! There were police at school this afternoon!”

  “They found the body?” I asked.

  “We don’t know—nobody told us anything,” Madison said indignantly. “All we know is that a police car showed up right after lunch, and the cops were still there when school let out.”

  “I wanted Madison to leave me out somewhere,” Sid groused. “Then when a student turned me in to lost-and-found, I’d have been in a prime location for listening.”

  “And I told him it was a terrible idea!” Madison said. “What if the kid who found you decided to keep you?”

  “But—”

  “Madison’s right, Sid,” I said. “It would have been too risky.”

  “Anyway,” Madison said, “the cops were in Mr. Dahlgren’s office, and lost-and-found is kept in the secretary’s office, so you wouldn’t have heard anything anyway.”

  “They were just in the principal’s office? Didn’t they seal off the auditorium to examine the crime scene?” I asked.

  Madison shook her head. “I heard the jazz band rehearsing in the auditorium, so it definitely wasn’t sealed off.”

  “So what were they doing?”

  “We don’t know. There was nothing about it in the afternoon announcements. But I did see a couple of teachers heading into the office as soon as the afternoon bell rang.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Mr. Chedworth and Ms. Rad. And that’s all we know. I guess we should have stayed at school to see what else we could find out.”

  “No, no, this is fine. The body must have been found and now that the police are on the job, it’s not our problem. There’s no reason to draw their attention to you. We can wait until the story goes public.”

  Sid looked aggravated. “Well, I can’t—I’m dying of curiosity. Or I would be if I weren’t, you know, already dead. Madison, can you take me upstairs so I can get onto my computer? Maybe the news has hit the Web!”

  She hastily obliged and I was right behind them. We were most of the way up when Sid noticed that Byron was behind me.

  “Don’t let that dog into my attic!” he said.

  “Sorry, fellow,” I said, giving him a couple of good pats before closing the attic door with him on the other side.

  Before long Sid had pulled himself together and was tapping enthusiastically away while Madison and I watched from either shoulder. I considered pointing out that Madison sure seemed to be sold on Sid’s story of overheard murder, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment.

  “No body,” Sid said.

  “Just like you,” I couldn’t help saying.

  “Mom!” Madison objected.

  “What? It was funny, wasn’t it, Sid?”

  “Not your best effort, but not your worst.” Tap, tap, tap. “I’m still not finding any mention of any bodies being found in the area.”

  “But the police were at the school!” Madison said.

  I said, “Sid, search for recent mentions of Pennycross High School or the principal: Mr. Dahlgren.”

  “Good idea.” Tap, tap, tap. “And I have a hit for PHS!”

  He pulled up a news story, but it wasn’t about a murder. It wasn’t even a Pennycross listing—it was from the Medford Transcript, the paper in Medford, Massachusetts. “‘Medford man missing,’” I read over his shoulder.

  “Gotta give ’em points for alliteration,” Sid said.

  I read the rest of the article. “‘Medford resident Robert Irwin, twenty-nine, has been missing since last week when he failed to pick up Melissa Laplante, his girlfriend, when she flew into Logan Airport Friday evening after a business trip. When Laplante was still unable to reach Irwin by phone the next day, she went to his High Street apartment. Not only was Irwin not there, but accumulated mail led her to believe that he had been gone for several days. She notified the police, and after investigation they found that the last confirmed sighting of Irwin was in Pennycross, Massachusetts, this past Thursday. He had driven to Pennycross to meet with officials at Pennycross High School about a job opportunity, but witnesses report that he dined at the River Inn in town several hours after the interview. Irwin was last seen wearing a dark gray pin-striped suit and was d
riving a dark blue Honda Accord with Massachusetts plates. The Pennycross Police Department has been assisting with inquiries, and anyone with information about the missing man is asked to contact either the Medford or Pennycross police.’”

  Sid rummaged around the Web a little more, but the Transcript article seemed to include all the available details.

  “Do you think this Robert Irwin was the man Sid heard being murdered?” Madison asked.

  “Either he was, or he’s somehow connected. What are the odds that a disappearance and a murder linked to the same location, on the same night, aren’t connected?”

  “I wish we knew what his voice sounded like,” Sid said. “Wait, maybe we can find out.” His metatarsals flew across his keyboard, and a minute later he said, “I’ve got his home phone number.”

  “He’s missing, Sid. I don’t think he’s going to answer.”

  “But he probably has an answering machine, and he might have recorded his own answering machine message.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Madison said, and I couldn’t argue with her.

  Sid used his own cell phone to call the man’s number, but put it on speakerphone so we could all hear. After only three rings we heard, “Hi, this is Robert Irwin. I’m not at home now, but if you’ll leave your name, phone number, and a brief message after the beep, I’ll get back to you.”

  Sid hung up without waiting for the beep and said, “What was he doing, reading from a script? No creativity, not even any personality.”

  “It sounds like most people’s messages,” I said, thinking of my own exceedingly bland one. “But artistic critique aside, do you think it was him?”

  He hesitated. “Let me listen again.” He repeated the process and sat thinking so hard I could almost see the wheels turning. If, of course, he’d had wheels in his skull. “One more time.” He repeated the procedure.