The Skeleton Takes a Bow

by Leigh Perry

  “Okay, Georgia, go ahead and say it,” he said.

  “Say what?”

  “Say ‘I told you so.’ You know you want to.”

  “Nope. You were looking out for my welfare and drawing my attention to a blind spot I had about Charles. I can’t tease you about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Unless you want me to say it—”

  “No, thanks. I’m good. So why didn’t you tell Charles about the Sechrest Foundation?”

  “I was afraid to. If Charles knew they were the ones Patty was working for, and that they were recruiting here at McQuaid, he’d go all Don Quixote and go after them. I don’t want him to end up dead, too.”

  32

  I spent a couple of hours revising lecture notes and catching up on journal reading, then drove by Wendy’s to grab a chicken sandwich for lunch before I had to be at PHS for my SAT prep class. Sid insisted on coming along for that, too, but not to protect me this time. He just didn’t want to get bored sitting in the car. To avoid student questions about the suitcase, I stuck him in the storage closet that had been emptied for me and cracked open the door and unzipped the case enough so he could hear what was going on.

  While I was eating, Sid had asked how much I knew about security for the SAT, thinking that it might help to figure out how the Sechrest people could circumvent their procedures. In fact, I didn’t know a whole lot. It had been a long time since I’d taken the test myself, and the textbook I was using in the class didn’t go into the details. But since Ms. Rad was a regular testing proctor, I hoped she’d be willing to fill me in.

  I’d planned to scoot over to her classroom right after the last class of the day, but a few minutes before the bell rang, an older man hobbled in on crutches.

  “Mr. Chedworth!” one of my students said.

  “Dr. Thackery?” he said in a voice so rough he could have used it as sandpaper. “Sorry to interrupt your class, but I was passing by on my way home from physical therapy, and I thought I’d drop by.”

  “No problem at all. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” I rolled my desk chair over to where he was standing, and he sank into it gratefully. Then I quickly wrapped up the class and let the kids visit with their teacher. You can tell a lot about a teacher by how kids react to a visit from him or her. About half the class seemed happy to see Chedworth, while the other half couldn’t care less, which I took to mean that he was liked by those who respected a tough teacher and disliked by those who wanted an easier road. It was a balance of which I approved.

  When the bell rang, there were kids who still wanted to chat, so I said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Chedworth, I need to speak to Ms. Rad about something. I’ll be back in a few minutes to lock up the classroom.”

  “Take your time,” he said. “I may as well get some journals from the cabinet while I’m here so I can get caught up on my reading while I’m stuck at home.”

  “Sure thing.” I went downstairs to Ms. Rad’s room, glad to see that she hadn’t left.

  “Ms. Thackery,” the other teacher said with a welcoming smile. “Everything going well?”

  “So far, so good. Have you got a minute?”

  “You mean you’re giving me an excuse to take a break from grading tests? Twist my arm!”

  I pulled one of the aqua blue plastic student chairs closer to the desk and did so. “I’ve got a question about the way the SAT is administered.”

  She instantly flipped from friendly to wary. “I thought you said you didn’t want the proctoring job.”

  “I don’t—I promise.” I’d weighed several different approaches for getting the information I wanted because I figured that if I asked her directly, she’d be suspicious, and what she’d just said confirmed that. Then I thought about bringing up the idea of parents trying to skew tests in favor of their kids, but I was worried that she’d think I wanted to help Madison cheat. So I was just going to go with a simple, plausible lie. “Some of the kids are a little confused about the procedure for the day of the SAT. It’s been a long time since I took mine, and I gather it’s a trickier setup now.”

  “It hasn’t changed since they took the PSAT,” Ms. Rad said, sounding baffled. “And it’s on the Web site and the registration materials.”

  “That’s what I told them, but they’re anxious.”

  “Well, that’s the last thing we want. Okay, they should remember that when they registered online, they had to send a picture of themselves—just a head shot. That picture will be printed on the entry ticket each one will need to get into the test.”

  “The ticket will be e-mailed to them?”

  “Right. So when they come to the testing location they have to bring the entry ticket and a photo ID to present to the proctor at the door. And of course the photo ticket and the photo on the ID will have to match their actual face—not a big deal, because most students take the test at their own school, and we don’t have such a big student body that we wouldn’t recognize them. If they are using a different location for some reason, you might warn them not to do anything radical with makeup or jewelry.”

  “Good idea. I wonder if anybody was ever kept out because of a recent nose job.”

  “It’s an interesting question, but fortunately one that hasn’t come up on my watch. Let’s see, what else? They have to keep their phones turned off and put away, and it’s probably better if they just leave them home, if they can stand to be apart from them that long. And remind them to bring their two sharpened number two pencils. Of course all the proctors have spares, just in case, but you’d think they’d have that part down pat.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anything else that has our scholars worried?”

  “One of them said something about the picture being on the test results or something like that?”

  “That’s right. The test results that are sent back to the student’s school have the same picture as on the entry ticket. So if I were to get blonde, blue-eyed Suzie’s test scores with a photo of a brunette with black eyes, I’d know a mistake had been made. That’s not anything they have to worry about.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said. “I’m not sure what her issue was.”

  “Who knows? Anyway, you can tell them not to worry just because their whole future depends on this one test.”

  “I’m sure that will make them feel so much better—just remember that you’re going to be the one proctoring if anybody has a meltdown in the middle of the test.”

  “It has happened,” she said, “but most of the time, it’s just me sitting at a desk with a stopwatch, trying to stay awake.”

  I thanked her for her time and headed back up to my classroom. Mr. Chedworth was gone, so I got Sid from the closet and left. The second I shut my car door, Sid yelled, “Georgia, let me out!”

  “Okay, okay!” I unzipped the bag, and Sid’s skull popped halfway out. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I know who the murderer is! It’s Mr. Chedworth!”

  33

  “Are you sure? You recognized Mr. Chedworth from his voice?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. He sounded different today than he did at the murder, but—”

  “But what? Was he the killer or not?”

  “Okay, I’m not absolutely sure he was the killer, but I know something’s not right with the guy.”

  “Like what? Did he say something suspicious to one of the kids?”

  “No, just the usual things. He asked them how they’re doing, and they caught him up on what’s been happening here at school. It was what happened after they left that got my attention.” He paused dramatically. “I heard him walking around.”

  “Okay. So what?”

  “I heard him walking around.”

  “Yes?”

  “As in, without his crutches.”

  �
�You mean he’s faking his injury?”

  Sid nodded vigorously enough to rattle his jaw. “After the kids left, I heard the classroom door shut and lock. Then Chedworth came over to the cabinets in the back of the room, clump-clump-clump from the crutches, and started rummaging around. But I heard him grunting like he couldn’t quite reach something, and he muttered, ‘The hell with it.’ And he leaned his crutches against a desk.”

  “He can probably limp for a few steps, or hop, or whatever.”

  “Not like that. Take it from a champion eavesdropper—the man was walking normally. Maybe with a little bit of a limp, but he was walking.”

  “I can’t believe that guy! He’s getting paid for disability leave when he’s not disabled!”

  “Who cares about that?” Sid said. “What I’m thinking is that if he’s lying about his foot, then he’s staying away from PHS for another reason.”

  “Getting paid for doing nothing seems like a pretty good reason to me.”

  “At any other time, maybe, but the timing of this ‘fall’ looks kind of suggestive.”

  “I don’t know, Sid. Chedworth’s accident—”

  “You mean his alleged accident.”

  “Okay, then, his alleged accident was over a week after the murder.”

  “Then perhaps I should remind you that Chedworth was part of the group that met with Irwin,” he said.

  “You’re right! And he was a regular proctor for the SAT and other tests here at PHS.” That reminded me that I was still at PHS—I hadn’t started the car yet. I did so. “You’re right, Sid. You definitely have something.” I didn’t know what, but I was awfully interested in finding out.

  Sid spent the rest of the evening concocting theories for why Chedworth was staying away from PHS, most of which involved increasingly elaborate ways of hiding and/or disposing of Irwin’s body. I let him natter on without paying much attention because I was doing my own concocting. I wanted a reason to go to Chedworth’s house. Sid was so disappointed when what I came up with was entirely prosaic.

  34

  “I still don’t like you going in there alone,” Sid grumbled the next afternoon. I’d kept him home from school again, and after I taught my classes at McQuaid, I’d canceled office hours and run home to grab him for backup while I went to see Mr. Chedworth at his home.

  “Sid, there is no costume on earth we could use to hide your bony physique, and no matter what else Chedworth is, he’s old. I don’t want seeing you to give him a heart attack.”

  “What if I—”

  “Besides,” I said, talking over him, “it will be safer for me if you’re out here in the car, listening in on the phone. If I give the word, I want you to tell him you’re watching the house and will call the police if I don’t come out immediately. Okay?”

  “Don’t turn your back on him!”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t eat any food or drink he offers.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If he picks up an ax, run!”

  “You bet.”

  “And . . . And . . . And don’t get hurt!”

  “I’ll do my best not to.” I leaned over to pat his shoulder blade.

  Given the circumstances, all of Sid had come along with me rather than just his skull and hand. I’d carried him out to the car in a clothes basket with a blanket on top, and he was currently crumpled on the floor of the front passenger seat, with the blanket hiding him.

  “Okay, I’m going in.” As my last precaution, I dialed Sid’s cell phone number before I got out of the car.

  “Georgia? Can you hear me?” he asked from under the blanket.

  “I haven’t gotten out of the car yet. Of course I can hear you.”

  “Sorry.”

  I carefully put my phone in a side pocket of my purse, making sure not to accidentally hang up on Sid. “I’m leaving the keys in here with you, just in case.” I wasn’t sure if Sid could drive, or what kind of panic he’d cause if he did, but I wanted him to have some sort of exit strategy. “Lock up as soon as I get out, okay?”

  “Okay. But don’t get hurt!”

  “Words to live by.” I climbed out of the car quickly, before he could point out that he wasn’t technically living by those or any other words. The door locked behind me.

  Mr. Chedworth had a small but neat house in the older part of Pennycross. The yard was nicely tended, and there was a gravel path to the front door. I rang the bell and waited.

  I’d gone back and forth between showing up unexpectedly and warning him I was coming and had finally decided it would be better to set it up ahead of time. Otherwise, I ran the risk of him being away from home or just refusing to let me in. So I’d asked Mrs. Lynch at PHS to call to arrange a meeting to discuss the topic Sid had found so hopelessly mundane: student progress for the classes I was teaching in his place. Since the parent-teacher conferences were scheduled for the following week, it was a solid excuse.

  Chedworth was slow to answer the bell, but that fit his role of old-man-with-an-injury. When he opened the door, I had to admit I was impressed by his devotion to the character of invalid. He wasn’t using the crutches, but he was leaning heavily on a sturdy-looking cane, and he was wearing a blue zipper cardigan Mr. Rogers would have loved. “Dr. Thackery, good to see you again. Come on in,” he said. He gestured for me to go ahead of him and he closed the door firmly behind me.

  Great. Two seconds in, and I was already breaking my promise to Sid by turning my back on Chedworth. Despite the imminent peril, I made it down the hall and into the living room unscathed.

  It was a cozy room, heavy on upholstery in warm colors. An ottoman was ostentatiously placed in front of a comfy-looking armchair, and while I took a seat on the couch, Chedworth made a production of settling himself in the chair and putting his foot up.

  “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the students yesterday, but you’re Madison’s mother, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So which hat are you wearing for this visit? Mother or teacher?”

  “Teacher. Unless you have something you need to tell me about Madison . . .”

  “She’s doing fine. Smart girl.”

  “Okay, then. You know Monday is parent-teacher conference night, and I’ve never dealt with one from the teacher side of the desk. It’s not really an issue in college.”

  “That’s a relief. There’s so much talk about helicopter parents that I assumed they were worrying instructors at your level as much as they are at ours.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” I said. “I don’t know how many of the parents are going to want to talk to me since I’m so new to the class, but I thought I better be prepared.”

  “The first thing you need to know is that the parents who are most likely to come are those whose children are doing poorly or particularly well. The parents whose kids have problems are split down the middle—either they want to know what the problem is so they can fix it or they want to make excuses for their little darlings, which will likely include blaming you. The parents whose kids are doing well are mostly there to hear their kids praised, though you get a few of the helicopter variety who want to know how to raise their kid’s grade from a ninety-nine to a hundred. You want to know how to treat the different types?”

  “Sure.”

  “Treat them all the same, that’s my advice. Start by introducing yourself and shaking hands. Then say something nice about the kid, even if it’s a stretch to think of anything. He’s a hard worker; she always pays attention; he’s always prepared for class; she’s got a great sense of humor. Then review the test scores, so they’ll know exactly what grade their kid earned. Point out attendance or behavior problems if there are any. End with something else nice about the kid. Shake hands again, and usher them out. You’re not supposed to spend more than five minutes per me
eting, so keep it short and sweet.

  “You’ve got their test scores, of course, but those only show how the kid is doing, not why, so let me fill in the gaps. You may want to take notes.”

  I took the hint and got out my laptop. He was good—off the top of his head, he gave me a quick rundown on every single student in the two classes I was teaching. In fact, he was so fast I had to ask him to slow down a few times because I couldn’t keep up with him, and I’m not a slow typist. I got so caught up that I almost forgot why I’d come in the first place, but eventually I remembered I was supposed to get him to somehow reveal that his foot wasn’t really injured.

  Sid had suggested all kinds of gambits: spilling a hot drink on him so Chedworth would jump up screaming; knocking something valuable off a shelf so he’d hop up to save it; leaving the room while music was playing so I could run in and catch him twerking. Only Chedworth hadn’t offered me anything to drink, he didn’t have anything on his shelf worth throwing oneself on the floor to rescue, and he just didn’t seem like the twerking type. Soon we were on the last student, and I was running out of time.

  Chedworth finished his rundown on that final student, and once I’d finished typing up the information, he said, “So is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Just one question,” I said, putting my laptop into my bag in case I had to run. “Why are you pretending that you’re hurt when you don’t even limp anymore?”

  He stared at me, mouth open, for a solid minute before he started to chuckle. Then he broke into a full-throated laugh that grew into a roar of hilarity.

  To say that I was nonplussed would be putting it mildly.

  He actually had to pull a handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe his eyes before he could speak again. “I sure didn’t expect that,” he said. “I can’t believe you held it in for all this time. I knew I shouldn’t have put the crutches down at PHS yesterday, but they’re such a pain to use all the time. My underarms are never going to be the same.”