1 Catered to Death (11 page)

“I am overwhelmed, DeeDee, both with grief and work, and I don’t have the time nor do I have the inclination to worry about some measly little check to you for that meal you served the other day. Which, I might add, wasn’t the best lunch I’ve ever had. Someone needs to teach you how to hold back with the salt shaker. I was parched all afternoon and my ankles were quite puffy when I got home. Plus your brownies tasted like they were made from a box. They were a little dry.”

“Everything was made from scratch,” I started to assure her but then stopped. It wasn’t going to do either of us any good to get into a verbal brawl and it wasn’t going to help me get paid any faster either. Besides, I could see that Monica was in no shape to argue with me or anyone else. If Claudine had look wrung out over Frank’s death, Monica looked even worse. Her face was almost grey and her hair was slipping out of the topknot she wore in messy strands that lay on her shoulders like platinum seaweed. Even from across the room I could see a large coffee stain on Monica’s ecru blouse and I wasn’t positive but I thought I was catching a whiff or two of chardonnay floating through the air. Although her voice was still tight and controlled, the rest of Monica was falling apart.

“I really am sorry,” I apologized as I attempted to take the high road. “I didn’t come here to upset you and I certainly didn’t come in to review the meal I catered. Right now I’m only concerned about getting paid.”

“Which you
will
when I’m able to write checks again!”

“But you have no idea of when that will be?” I was astounding myself with how assertive I was being but there was something about Monica’s attitude that was making me stand my ground. Monica was sending my justice meter into overdrive. I didn’t think I was being pushy or aggressive; I was simply right.

The door to the business office opened and Junebug McClellan marched in, bringing our conversation—if you could call it that—to a halt. Junebug was wearing jeans, the red cowboy boots, a dark green turtleneck and a tiny fur vest that made her look like an septuagenarian Sonny Bono. “Howdy,” she said, jerking her head into a nod at me. “Nice grub at that lunch on Friday. Not great but pretty good.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

“You got a card? I could use you sometime. My husband and I entertain quite a bit.”

With an exasperated, exaggerated sigh, Monica swiveled her chair back so that she was facing her computer again instead of us. “Yes, I have a card,” I said, digging a business card out of my purse and handing it to Junebug. I took a second card out and left it on the counter for Monica.

“This is hardly the time or the place to drum up business,” Monica remarked to the air in front of her. “As a matter of fact, since our conversation is over, feel free to leave at any time, DeeDee.”

“I was just about to,” I replied. I understood that Monica was upset but honestly, the woman had the manners of someone who’d spent the last twenty years in solitary confinement or who had been raised by wild boars.

“Hey, Monica,” Junebug chirped.

“What is it, Junebug?” Monica kept her eyes glued on her computer. “I’m very busy at the moment.

“I need a ream of paper. The copier down in the library ran out and since you keep all of the supplies under lock and key, you’re going to have to get off your big butt and get me one.”

I felt my eyes bulge over the way Junebug was barking at Monica. Maybe it was her age or maybe it was her basic personality, but it was clear that Junebug McClellan didn’t kiss up to anyone, not even someone as scary as Monica.

“Junebug, we’ve been over this,” Monica replied, still not looking up. “The copier in the library is not to be used any longer. That means no more paper. If students need to make copies, send them down here.”

“It isn’t for the students; it’s for me. I need to make copies.”

“Of what?”

“Well, some papers for my accountant for starters. Then I have a few articles I want to mail to friends. They’re on Frank.”

Monica finally looked up from her computer and fixed Junebug with an annoyed stare. “You’ve got to be joking. You can’t use the copier for personal use and you know it.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever! Eden Academy isn’t here just to serve you, Junebug. Copiers are for school business only. I know Frank told you that repeatedly. Can’t you remember that?”

Junebug didn’t appear to be offended by Monica’s sharp tone. “I pay my taxes,” she said with a shrug. “Using the copy machine here is one way I get my tax money back.”

“Would you please shut up about your damn taxes? You’ve been getting your tax money back for years,” Monica snapped. “And I think we both know that you’ve been coming out way ahead of the state and the school on that score.”

Junebug raised sparse eyebrows and gave Monica a look that for some reason reminded me of a dead pigeon. I knew I should leave but I couldn’t seem to force myself out the door. “Meaning what, Monica?”

“Meaning that you have a nasty habit of taking a lot more than you give,” Monica shot back. “Everyone knows how you don’t work with the students unless you’re absolutely forced to and even then you don’t really help them. I can’t tell you how many students have complained that whenever they go to you for assistance, you just babble at them about the good old days when teachers were allowed to hit students or how your stock portfolio is doing instead of helping them with their math homework. Your teaching skills have faded along with your memory, Junebug.”

Junebug bounced up and down indignantly. “They have not! I’m just as good a teacher as I’ve always been.”

Monica laughed nastily. “That’s not saying much, is it? Frank knew what a poor excuse for an educator you’ve become but for some unfathomable reason he felt sorry for you and that’s why he let you stay for as long as he did. Perhaps you reminded him of his grandmother but I’m sure that whoever replaces him will not share that soft spot. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Junebug’s face turned white with fury. “That’s not true. Frank had a great deal of respect for my teaching ability. We talked many times about my degrees and all the different experiences I’ve had in schools around the world.”

“Frank was a very well bred, polite man and he had a great deal of respect for the fact that you’re old but that’s about it. And might I point out that you got those degrees back before the computer had been invented? It’s time for you to move on or at least move away from Eden Academy. What do you have against retirement anyway?”

“I don’t have a thing against retirement. I’m simply not ready to do it.”

“That’s too bad, Junebug, because you’re the only one who thinks you aren’t ready for it.”

“Says you,” Junebug responded. “We all know you were banging Frank anyway, Monica. That’s how you kept your job. Frank didn’t have any more respect for you than he had for any of the other hussies he was porking.”

Monica looked as if steam might start pouring out of her ears and her face turned from ashen to bright red. “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Oh, don’t I? Everyone knows you were having a thing with Frank but what I’ve always wondered is if
you
knew that Frank was doing to the rest of the women on the staff exactly what he was doing to you?”

Monica’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “You do realize that you’re no longer on the payroll, don’t you, Junebug?”

“I don’t realize any such thing.” Junebug stamped her tiny foot loudly.

“You’re retired,” Monica said. “Remember? We had a party for you the day Frank—the day Frank passed away. Hence, you are no longer being paid by Eden Academy. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“That was my birthday party,” Junebug replied.

“It was a retirement party,” Monica argued.

“Birthday party.” Junebug walked to her mailbox and pulled out a few educational catalogs. Thumbing through them before tossing them at a green recycling bin and missing by half a foot, she said, “I’m not retired and I don’t plan on retiring so how the hell could it have been a retirement party, Miss Smartie Pants?” She picked my business card up off the counter and was almost out the door when she turned and looked back at Monica over one fur covered shoulder. “And by the way, I’m all caught up on age discrimination, missy, so don’t even think about letting me go or I’ll have my lawyer breathing fire down your throat faster than greased lightening.” She stuck her tongue out at Monica before leaving the room. One second later the door of the business office slammed behind Junebug’s diminutive figure.

“How I detest that woman,” Monica hissed. “Why couldn’t she have died instead of Frank? How could that…
troll
be alive when a fine man like Frank Ubermann is dead? It’s so unfair!”

“She certainly is spry for her age,” I murmured.

Whirling, Monica pinned me to the wall with her eyes. “Are you still here? You’ll get paid when you get paid. I have no idea when that will be so I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone. As I mentioned, I have
important
work to do.”

“All right,” I responded as pleasantly as I could manage. “If I don’t hear from you in a week or so, I’ll come back.”

“I can hardly wait,” Monica sarcastically responded. “We can have tea together and you can tell me about your latest catering fiasco. Just don’t bring any food with you. My stomach is still upset from Friday’s meal.”

I left the office, allowing the door to slam behind me just as Junebug had done. I stood for a moment in the hallway, uncertain about what to do next. I had really hoped to get paid that morning, although realistically I’d known that was somewhat unlikely. It was Monday morning and even though the students had the day off because of what had happened, Monica was right; the school was in turmoil over Frank’s untimely demise. Monica was also right that my timing left something to be desire but still, how could any place of business operate with just one person holding all the purse strings? It didn’t seem smart or even legal.

I sighed. My only hope was that the police would figure out who killed Frank Ubermann quickly and then everything at Eden Academy would get back to normal and Monica would finally be able to cut my check and I’d be able to pay off the credit card I’d used to buy the ingredients for Friday’s luncheon.

Well, maybe Junebug would call and I’d get another catering job. Junebug would probably pay on time and maybe I’d meet some other people at her party who needed a caterer. Everything would work out.

“Hello, Deidre.”

Chapter Ten

Looking up, I saw the pudgy frame of Simpson Ingalls standing a few feet away from me. He was staring with an odd expression on his face, something that looked like a smirk tangled up with true curiosity and a small dash of what seemed like it might be kindness. “Oh, hello, Simpson. Actually, my name is DeeDee.”

“My bad. That’s right—Steve and DeeDee. So cute. How are you, DeeDee? Are you here to cater another meal?” Simpson chuckled. “Let’s hope this one isn’t quite so fatal.”

“No, not today,” I said.

“Too bad. You’re quite a cook, you know. I was very impressed with lunch. It lacked a little in originality but that was all right. One does get tired of eating trendy meals all the time—you know what I mean, the current food
du jour
.”

 
“Actually, I came in to see about getting paid. I was just asking Monica about that.”

Simpson’s semi-smirk grew broader and he arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess: Frank’s bimbo cut you off at the knees. Am I right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Monica told you to forget about it. Told you to get in line and not to bother to hold your breath, right?”

“Pretty much,” I agreed.

Lowering his voice, Simpson gestured toward the lounge next to the business office. “Want to join me for a cup of coffee? I’ll fill you in on the secrets of how to get paid around this dump. No charge, either, because I love your croissants.” He looked hopefully down at my handbag. “You don’t happen to have any on you, do you?”

“Croissants? Not at the moment, no.”

“Damn,” Simpson said with a smile. “Well, that’s OK. I’ll tell you what I know anyway. You seem like a nice person.”

“All right,” I said. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do and maybe Simpson could give me a hint or two on ways to prod Monica along. I really wanted that paycheck.

 
I waited while Simpson unlocked the lounge and then followed him inside. It looked exactly as it had on the day that Frank had been murdered. The chairs were still pushed back from the table just as they’d been when all the teachers had left after the meal. The balloons someone had put up in honor of Junebug’s retirement were still bobbing although somewhat droopily in a corner. There were even remnants of the brownies I’d served still on the tablecloth. Apparently no one at Eden Academy believed in cleaning up after a party. Then again maybe the police had sealed the room and it had just been opened up. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for awhile.”

“Oh, we’ve been in here but not for long. Ruth makes a pot of coffee in the morning and the rest of us scurry in and out like itinerant squirrels. We spend as little time as possible with each other.”

“Why is that?”

“I believe I already mentioned to you that none of us like each other.” Simpson shrugged. “Besides, I’d guess that there are some lingering bad vibes in here. You know—almost the scene of the crime and all that.” Simpson sighed. “Poor Frank.” He handed me a cup of coffee in a white Styrofoam cup and poured himself a cup into a mug with the logo
What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas
printed on the side.

I took a sip of the strong brew and instantly wrinkled my nose. The coffee had obviously been sitting on the hot plate all morning long and had a bitter, overcooked taste that was closer to battery acid than coffee. Not wanting to be rude, I took another sip. Sometimes bitter coffee tasted better after it cooled off.

Not this time.

“Is there any creamer?” I asked.

“On the table.” Simpson gestured toward a table where there was a jar of generic coffee creamer along with a wicker basket of plastic spoons and another basket of napkins that had been filched from a fast food restaurant. I poured a generous amount of creamer into my coffee and tried it again. It was better, although not by much. With no regrets at all, I gave up.

“So what are the secrets for getting paid?” I asked, trying to look like I was still sipping my coffee instead of taking micro tastes with my tongue. As soon as I got out of Eden Academy, I was going to head for the nearest Starbucks and a decent cup of coffee.

Simpson crooked a finger and gestured for me to follow him to the far end of the room where a navy blue overstuffed sofa sat across from two arm chairs covered in matching tangerine and white prints. “It’s safer to talk down here,” he said, pointing toward the heating vents. “The Dragon Lady can hear a pin drop in Stockholm and it’s her specialty to eavesdrop on conversations that don’t include her. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

I assumed that Simpson was referring to Monica. “Oh?” I asked after taking another tiny sip of coffee and trying not to grimace.

“Yes, indeedy. There’s nothing our Miss Monica enjoys more than finding something out about someone and holding it over his or her head like a sadistic trainer holding a pork chop over the head of a starving puppy. She thought she had something on me but it blew up in her face.”

“Really.” So far Simpson hadn’t told me anything that would help me get paid but it was still pretty interesting. “What was that?”

“She thought no one here knew I was gay. She heard me setting up a weekend with a friend of mine at a gay spa in Houston and she was planning on forcing me to pay her off to keep my ‘secret.’ Of course, the dummy didn’t realize that I didn’t care if the entire world knew I was gay. It’s hardly a crime these days.”

“That’s blackmail,” I protested. “How did she think she could get away with that?”

“When one has been getting away with blackmail for most of one’s life, it only makes sense that one would think they could get away with it forever,” Simpson responded somewhat pompously. “Little bitch thinks she craps cupcakes anyway,” he added. “Just because she was boinking Frank.”

Simpson was the second person within ten minutes to make that statement so I guessed that it was most likely the truth. “Um, wasn’t Frank married?”

“What difference does that make? Monica’s married too. This isn’t Oz, sweetie. Extramarital affairs happen all the time.”

I preferred not to think about that. “Still, it isn’t right.”

Simpson rolled his eyes. “Neither is depleting the ozone layer but that happens every single day.”

“Simpson, you said that you could tell me how I could get paid,” I reminded him.

“What? Oh, right. It’s really very simple: just tell Monica that you’ll sue the school if you don’t get paid by the end of the month.” Simpson looked pleased with himself. “I guarantee it will work.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little drastic? It would cost me more to hire a lawyer than what I made on the luncheon.”

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t actually have to go through with suing Eden Academy; just tell Monica that you’re going to. She has an avid fear of legal entanglements and the very words
I’ll sue
usually make her run away like a dog with her tail between her legs. I should know; I’ve had to threaten her repeatedly with lawsuits. My last partner was a lawyer with a very hoity toity firm. Well, he wasn’t exactly a lawyer—he worked in the mail room—but Monica never figured that out. All I had to do was mention that Axel worked for Grisham Brothers and Monica did what I wanted. You wouldn’t believe how often I used that gambit. It sometimes makes me wonder if she doesn’t have something unsavory lurking in her own background that she doesn’t want to let see the light of day the way she avoids any entanglements of the legal variety so desperately.” Simpson looked pleased. “Now wouldn’t that be interesting if Miss Perfect Monica had a rap sheet? I’m going to have to look into that.” Pulling a tiny leather covered notebook out of his pants pocket, Simpson wrote something down. “I always keep a list of things to do,” he said as he shut the notebook. “My mind is like Swiss cheese these days.
Très
foggy. Too much Ambien, I think.”

Remembering how Junebug had just threatened to scream ageism if the school tried to make her retire and how her threat had seemed to shut Monica up, I believed Simpson was telling me the truth. “And that really works?”

“What, Ambien? Works like a dream.”

“No, threatening to sue the school.”

“Every single time. Monica has an overwhelming fear of lawyers. She’s probably a felon on the lam for all any of us know. I can certainly picture her behind bars in one of those dreadful orange jumpsuits.”

“That seems so extreme to me. I don’t want to have to threaten Monica to get what’s owed me,” I stated.

Simpson waved my concerns away. “Nonsense. With a woman like Monica, you’re going to have to threaten her. She really believes that Frank owned the school and that she’s the heir apparent. I know that we’re a private school but we do get some public funding and we
are
required to adhere to certain guidelines that the department of education puts out. Monica has never seemed to believe that. Instead she acted like this was the Frank Ubermann Academy and she was his princess. I know, gag.”

I wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear what I’d have to do if Monica continued to refuse to pay me. I have always been lousy at confrontation, especially with a bulldog like Monica. It had taken all the backbone I possessed to ask Monica politely for my paycheck. It was beyond the power of my imagination to picture myself marching back into Monica’s office and announcing that I was going to sue the school if I didn’t get paid immediately. “Well,” I finally said, “thank you for the advice. Hopefully I won’t have to use it but I appreciate it just the same.”

“No problem. However, I wouldn’t count on not having to use it. This place is going to be an unholy mess without Frank around to keep order in the ranks and I strongly suspect that Miss Monica is going to try and take over. If that’s the case, you can pretty much forget seeing so much as one penny of the fifty bucks or whatever they owe you for that lunch you made.”

It was well over two hundred dollars but I didn’t feel like telling Simpson that. “How could Monica take over? Doesn’t the principal need a superintendent’s license to run a school?”

Simpson shook his head. “Frank had a BA in something like outdoor sports or philosophy, some useless degree, and
he
ran the school. Truthfully, Monica is pretty smart and probably could be Eden Academy’s director. The only thing holding her back is her personality. The woman simply can’t get along with anyone.” He grinned somewhat nastily. “Well, there was one person she could get along with but he’s dead now.”

I noted that Simpson seemed to have gotten over Frank’s demise in record time and that he wasn’t nearly as broken up as the women who worked at the school seemed to be. He wasn’t coming across as overjoyed but he also wasn’t on the verge of falling apart either. Casually I asked, “Simpson, who do you think murdered Frank?”

Simpson’s hand holding his coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth and his left eye suddenly twitched wildly. “What?”

“I was just wondering if you have any theories on who might have killed Frank—since you work here.”

“Why would you care?” Simpson snapped.

A little taken aback by the obvious change in Simpson’s tone of voice, I replied. “I care because I was here when it happened and also because someone was murdered. We all need to care about that.”

Simpson looked at me doubtfully. “Are you sure you aren’t just being nosy?”

“Maybe a little,” I admitted. “So do you have any idea who might have done it?”

“None,” he said briskly, perhaps a touch too briskly. “All I know for certain is that
I
didn’t do it—although there were plenty of times when I would have liked to see that old bastard die.”

Now it was my turn to arch her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a disapproving nun. Frank could be a real jerk to work for, always questioning teaching techniques and never giving raises to anyone but himself and a few other chosen few. He excelled at focusing on the minutiae of all of our jobs but he never seemed to grasp the fact that the purpose of a school is to educate a student or two along the way. I’m sure that some of us raised a glass to his memory Friday night with a smile instead of a tear.” Simpson caught himself. “Forget I just said that. That sounds terrible. I don’t know why I’m saying these things to you—probably because I don’t know you. But I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry Frank died. We have—had a history together. Frank and I go way back—I think I mentioned to you on Friday that he was my Boy Scout leader and I used to think he was the greatest thing since Ding Dongs.”

“Used to think?” I gently pressed.