by Olivia Dade
“It’s not a guess. It’s a fact.” His smile was arrogant, deliberately so. “I solved your murder diorama.”
Despite the continued wariness in her expression, she strode to the table and set her fists on her hips. “Explain your reasoning.”
This victory didn’t feel small. Not in the slightest.
“The brothers came home from work.” Simon had pictured the sequence of events over and over last night, until the progression finally made sense. “Barron fixed them drinks from their bar cart. He sat on the couch, while Kaden sat on the recliner and smoked. They watched television. Eventually, Kaden fell asleep. Deeply asleep, because Barron put a few of those sleeping pills from the bathroom medicine cabinet in his drink.”
Poppy’s lips were pressed together as she tried not to smile. “Go on.”
“Then Barron sprayed the recliner and the living room with lighter fluid, set everything ablaze, and retreated to his bedroom to climb out the window and feign panic and grief.” He lifted his shoulders. “All the other suspects had reasons to dislike Kaden, but they were red herrings. Distractions from the true criminal.”
Her eyes sparkled as she edged closer. “What’s your proof?”
“The discarded bottle of lighter fluid hidden under a bush outside their bedroom window, so well placed you couldn’t see it without a magnifying glass. The papers I found on the bedroom desk, which showed how quickly Kaden was piling up debt and emptying their joint account.” He couldn’t even imagine how long writing the papers had taken, given the tiny, tiny print. “Those bank and credit card statements required tweezers and a magnifying glass to read. Which I employed Wednesday, while you were consulting with Tori about coffins.”
She sank into the seat behind her desk, only a foot away. “Good eye, Sherlock.”
“But that was all circumstantial evidence. Someone else could have placed the bottle there, and lots of families have money issues without resorting to arson and murder.” Unfolding his arms, he tapped his forefinger on the table. “The clinching detail was something entirely different.”
“Really?” She was openly smiling at him now, seemingly delighted by his observations. “Tell me.”
“Barron’s shoes,” he said with satisfaction.
Jesus, she could light the entire fucking school with that beam of hers. “I was wondering if anyone would catch that.”
“All the shoes were stored in the living room, just inside the front door, and they were all unlaced. Without exception.” He leaned forward to rest his weight on his elbows. “So if Barron woke up to a smoke-filled bedroom, saw the living room entirely aflame and realized he couldn’t save his brother, then panicked and fled out the window, how exactly did he manage to retrieve a pair of shoes? Much less have the time and patience to double-knot them once putting them on?”
Instead of answering, she waved him on with a grin.
He stabbed his finger into the table again. “The only possible answer: He wasn’t in a hurry or panicked, because he set the fire himself. He stayed in pajamas to reinforce his story, but didn’t want to go barefoot outside. So before dousing his brother’s recliner with lighter fluid and setting it alight, he put on shoes and double-knotted them out of habit.”
She applauded. “Bravo, Mr. Burnham. You’ve solved the case.”
He gave a little seated bow, his own grin nearly cracking his cheeks. “There was only one thing I couldn’t figure out. Why the hair in the sink? At first, I figured it was another red herring, meant to indicate the ex-girlfriend’s involvement, but it didn’t match her hair color. It was Barron’s, not hers.”
“Ah. The wet hair in the sink.” She plucked at her cardigan, preening a bit herself. “That clue requires a bit of background knowledge or research.”
“Which you’ve done.” All those podcasts and books and television reenactments had taught her well.
“Which I’ve done,” she agreed. “Inexperienced arsonists are often surprised by how quickly accelerants flame up once lit, and they frequently burn themselves. Their fingers, their arms—”
“Or their hair.” Oh, that was a nice touch. “In the process of killing his brother, Barron set his own hair on fire. So he ran to the bathroom and doused his head in the sink, then cut off the burned parts so the police wouldn’t be suspicious. He probably thought the whole house would burn down, concealing the evidence, but it didn’t. The bathroom was almost untouched, so the hair remained.”
“Precisely.” She swiveled back and forth in her chair, eyeing him with open approval. “You’re a quick study. What do you want as your reward?”
“I have some ideas.” They involved privacy. A quiet bedroom. A soft mattress. Her plump thighs cradling his hips and his name gasped through her parted, swollen lips. “But first, I want to earn another.”
“Another reward?” Her brow crinkled. “I don’t understand.”
“I think I’ve explained Mildred Krackel’s disappearance as well.” He held up two fingers. “Two cases, two rewards.”
She only looked more confused. “But that’s not a mystery.”
“It was to me.”
“Simon…” Her snort made her breasts jiggle in an entirely distracting way. “You need to gossip more.”
Well, that was somewhat dampening. Still, he persevered. “Okay, so here’s what I think happened: Mildred didn’t simply retire due to old age. There was foul play involved.”
“Foul play?” Poppy made a sort of choking sound. “In—in a sense, I suppose that’s true.”
“Let me explain the likely sequence of events.” He glanced at his notes, then nodded to himself. “Mildred made enemies. Lots of them.”
“Also true.” Fingers interlaced, Poppy rested her chin on her hands. “Go on.”
“Students resented her lack of care. Other teachers resented her lack of hard work and lesson plans. Candy Albright, as I discovered after speaking with her yesterday, resented Mrs. Krackel’s insistence on having students make a Frankenstein collage every Halloween. Complete with green skin and bolts in the neck.”
Poppy cringed. “Mildred specified Frankenstein? Not Frankenstein’s monster?”
“Even after the English Department’s Frankenstein Is Not the Monster puppet show. The assignment was a deliberate taunt, according to Ms. Albright.”
After the very strong, very loud case Candy had made in defense of that accusation, Simon had to agree. Mrs. Krackel had been mocking her colleague, which was a dangerous game indeed.
“But Ms. Albright wasn’t Mrs. Krackel’s most devoted enemy.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “No, that would be…”
He paused, because apparently he harbored a heretofore unknown love for the dramatic.
Poppy’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Denham,” he announced.
Her eyebrows beetled, and her smile faded. “Mrs. Denham? Our custodian? Simon, what in the world—”
“Hear me out.” For confidence, he consulted his notes one last time. “Please.”
Pinching her mouth shut, Poppy waved him on.
“Mrs. Krackel left a horrible mess for Mrs. Denham and the other custodians to clean every day. From what I understand, Mildred refused to either clean it herself or allot sufficient class time so students could do it instead.”
Poppy inclined her head. “I’ve heard the same.”
“The rest is sheer speculation, but it would explain everything.” He tapped his forefinger on the table. “I think Mrs. Denham finally decided she’d had enough. So she confronted Mrs. Krackel one afternoon and threatened to stop cleaning the classroom unless Mildred or her students did some of the work themselves.”
Poppy’s brows were now arching toward her hairline, but she didn’t interrupt.
“Mildred refused. Laughed her off, or pulled rank. And then—” He spread his hands. “Mrs. Denham made her stand.”
Her lips twitched again, possibly at the portentous note in his voice. “Go on.”
This final twist in the story, he’d considered for the first time last night. However improbable, it would explain everything. The whispered comments, the horror-filled half-glances toward the table, the unceremonious nature of Mildred’s departure. All of it.
“One evening, after Mildred left for the day, Mrs. Denham left a warning. Right here.” He dipped his chin to indicate the table where he’d sat every day, the table all the students seemed to avoid so assiduously. “The custodial equivalent of a horse’s head.”
“Wow,” Poppy murmured. “Hadn’t expected a Godfather reference.”
He barreled on, ignoring her. “Maybe a pool of red paint, splattered to resemble blood. Maybe a clay figure stabbed with a carving tool. Something so egregious, so horrifying, Mrs. Krackel had to take action. So she went to Principal Dunn.”
“Who said…what?” Poppy’s head was tilted as she considered his theory. “Since Mrs. Denham still works here, and Mildred doesn’t, I assume Mildred didn’t receive the response she anticipated?”
“Exactly.” He smiled at her, pleased by her quick understanding. “Tess backed Mrs. Denham, not Mrs. Krackel. At which point, Mildred quit and left the school in a huff, never to return. Mystery solved.”
He sat back in smug satisfaction, waiting for praise of his investigative prowess.
It didn’t come.
“Um, Simon.” Poppy’s voice was cautious, its tone familiar. Not quite pitying, but not quite not pitying either. “One small problem with your theory. Well, several rather large problems, actually.”
Oh, God. He was going to feel like a fool again. He could already tell. “Yes?”
Poppy held up a finger. “First of all, if Mrs. Denham had made that kind of violent threat with Mildred’s art supplies, she would no longer be employed at our school. No matter how much our principal might sympathize with the custodial staff or loathe Mrs. Krackel.”
Dammit. He’d hoped she wouldn’t pinpoint the weakest link in his chain of events so quickly. But the woman made murder dioramas, for heaven’s sake. Of course she’d immediately spotted the glaring flaw in his theory.
Another finger. “Second, Mildred did make lots of enemies here. But Mrs. Denham wouldn’t have done anything to threaten or sabotage—”
“Mr. Burnham is right. At least to a certain extent.” The familiar voice came from the open doorway. “I loathed that woman. So did the rest of the custodial staff.”
Mrs. Denham stood by her cart, unbowed and unapologetic.
At the sight of their visitor, Poppy turned a shade of red he’d never witnessed in person before. “Mrs. Denham, I’m so sorry. Simon doesn’t know the circumstances of Mildred’s departure, so he suspects—”
“Oh, there was definitely foul play involved, just like he said.” A slow, evil smile emphasized the wrinkles on the older woman’s face. “I know that for a fact.”
Poppy stared openmouthed at Mrs. Denham. “But—but she was caught screwing the head of security in her classroom after hours! By the superintendent! Who was leading VIPs on a tour of the school! How can that possibly be the result of anything but her own bad judgment?”
Simon’s own eyebrows flew to his hairline.
Oh. Oh, my.
That, he hadn’t expected. But now that he considered the matter, it still made sense. Mrs. Denham didn’t have to threaten Mildred to get rid of her.
No, she could simply—
Mrs. Denham shook her huge ring of keys. “The classroom was locked. I opened it for the group, knowing exactly what they’d find inside.” Her mouth pursed. “For her age, Mildred was surprisingly limber. I’m sorry I didn’t ask her about joint supplements before she left.”
Simon cringed.
“You mean, before she and Harvey were both forced to retire, due to their indiscretions.” Poppy’s jaw was still slightly agape, and she was shaking her head in disbelief. “When the tour came to this wing…did you—”
“Oh, I definitely encouraged the group to visit this classroom. I told them to expect an eye-popping display inside.” Mrs. Denham’s cackle echoed in the room. “And they got one.”
So much for his theory. Still, he’d chosen the correct suspect, which had to count for something.
“Remind me not to piss you off,” Poppy whispered, wide-eyed.
“So far, so good.” Mrs. Denham winked at her. “No tours scheduled tonight. Just FYI.”
Even after the custodian closed the door, the sound of her whistling floated through the classroom, getting fainter as she pushed her cart down the hallway.
Then it was silent once more, and he and Poppy were staring at one another, and he couldn’t seem to breathe properly. His palms grew damp where they rested on the—
Wait.
I’ll never be able to use that table again, Stacey had said. Not without picturing what happened…there.
He looked down at the wooden surface under his hands, and a few other clues fell into place. With a muttered and heartfelt fuck, he leapt to his feet and ran to the sink.
Poppy groaned. “What now?”
“Is that—where I’ve been sitting—” There wasn’t enough soap in the world. “Is that Mrs. Krackel’s, uh…”
“Sex table?” Poppy’s giggle was infectious, much like the germs he’d probably encountered while using that damn table all week. “Why, yes. Yes, it is.”
“Dammit, Poppy.” He stopped scrubbing and glared in her direction. “You could have said something.”
She appeared blithely unbothered by his disfavor, as usual. “It’s been disinfected multiple times since Mildred’s adventures there. Trust me. I took care of that personally, once I heard the story.”
He supposed that was a reasonable response. Besides, his plans for the afternoon didn’t involve scowling at Poppy or reenacting Lady Macbeth’s endless, frantic hand-washing.
No, he had other priorities. Business first, and then…
And then.
After rinsing and drying his hands, he crossed the room, bent down to open his briefcase, produced a neatly stapled document, and placed it on her desk. “Here’s your evaluation. You can read it later. In case you’re worried, it’s positive. In fact, it’s so glowing, it may give you a sunburn.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his, not even when the paper hit the desk.
“Why, Mr. Burnham.” She was grinning at him again, delighted. “What a poetical turn of phrase. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You earned every word.” Now, onto the scary part of this conversation. “We need to, um…”
He rolled his shoulders. Widened his stance slightly. Closed his eyes and swallowed.
“Simon?”
Decades of avoiding vulnerability and risk ended today. Now.
The possibility of Poppy, of entirely illogical transformation, of more—it was worth the risk. He had to trust her, and he had to trust his own heart.
When he blinked his eyes open, she was waiting for him, forehead puckered in that endearing, familiar way. Her hazel eyes were cautious, concerned, but so very soft.
She could wreck him. Maybe she already had.
“You may need to find another mentor.” He wanted to draw a soothing rectangular prism on his legal pad, but instead he held her gaze. “I’m not familiar with the rules governing the mentor-mentee relationship, at least not the ones that apply to our particular situation.”
Quickly, he corrected himself. “I mean, the ones I want to apply.”
Her brows drew together in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
However embarrassingly inept, his picture would literally tell her more than a thousand words. With a tremor in his hands, he flipped over his drawing and slid it across the table, until she could see it clearly.
He understood his artistic limits, and he hadn’t tried to achieve realism.
The stick figures boasted neat labels above their circular heads: POPPY and SIMON. Her figure stood by a table, whose very straight edges he’d achieved with a ruler. The
re was a little house atop the table. Another tiny stick figure lay beside the house, each of its eyes indicated with an X. A corpse, as best Simon could indicate one.
His stick figure was sitting—awkwardly, with limbs of an odd length—in a chair. The small table next to the chair had a paper on it, marked with an A+.
Poppy’s figure leaned toward his. Simon’s figure leaned toward hers. Their eyes were hearts. Between them, he’d drawn more hearts.
In his vision, in his dreams, Poppy crafted her dioramas and sang at her workroom desk while he graded nearby, and they—
Well, he’d known his drawing abilities couldn’t convey a passionate kiss.
“Simon.” The word was a sigh. A caress. “Dearest.”
He dared to look up from the drawing, and she was still studying it. Her finger traced one of the hearts that hung in the air between their stick figures, and she was biting her lower lip, eyes glassy with tears.
Dearest was good. He knew that much. But the tears?
“Poppy, is this…” He gulped a breath. Another. “Is this okay? Is this—is this what you want too?”
She touched her forefinger to her puckered lips, then set it gently on his stick figure. A kiss, offered to his penciled counterpart as she blinked back those gut-wrenching tears.
Before he could reach for her, she was speaking, and he listened with every ounce of his being. Every atom.
“If you left my classroom today without kissing me,” she said, “I was going to make a diorama of myself, dead of a broken heart, with you as the culprit. It was going to be overly dramatic and much too blunt, but…”
Her eyes lifted to his, and her smile trembled. “I can’t be blamed. I make murder dioramas. Overly dramatic is kind of my thing.”
On the table, her capable hand was shaking too. He covered it with his own, and she immediately parted her fingers so he could slide his in between, and it felt like a buoy to a man lost at sea for years.
“I understand now.” He stepped to her side, so close the scent of turpentine and soap filled his lungs. “The importance of process over result. The relief of expression. If you hadn’t already taught me, this drawing would have.”
