2 Death Makes the Cut (22 page)

“
Queso paso,
” I called by way of greeting.

She jumped to her feet. “God, I’m glad you’re here!” she said, then did a double take. “Whoa—what happened to you?”

I put a hand to my face. The bruises were fading to yellow and green, which was a good sign, but they were actually getting larger and uglier if that was possible. And apparently my makeup, which I’d practically applied with a spatula, was not doing a very good job of concealment.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “What’s up?”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door. “Come on. You are never going to believe this.”

She hurried down the halls, out the doors, and across the courtyard to Building A, which held the gym, cafeteria, and theater. Her short legs meant she was taking two steps to each one of mine, her high-heeled sandals tapping out an allegro rhythm on the concrete floors. And still I found myself panting to keep up with her.

“You are not going to believe this one. You know how I told you I’d check with Roland about that night Coach Fred died? I came up here yesterday near lunchtime to pick up some homework to grade, and I saw the drama kids were having rehearsal. So I figured, what the heck, it was probably a good time to have a chat with him, right?”

“Well, maybe, but about that, Laura. I don’t want you asking any more questions,” I said, suddenly worried. I should have called her the day I was attacked. I hadn’t anticipated that she might come up to the school over the weekend.

She cut me off. “Never mind about that. You aren’t going to believe what I saw. I still don’t believe it.”

“What was it? And look, Laura, did you talk with Roland? Or anybody?”

“I did, but it wasn’t super helpful. He’s such a douche.”

We had reached the entrance to the theater, and she looked up at me. “Are you ready?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

“For what?”

“For this.” She grinned, and slowly pushed open the heavy door.

I peered around her. We stood at the back of the dark auditorium. Before us, the empty rows of theater chairs sloped downward toward the stage where a single set of soft lights illuminated a couple of kids who were rehearsing lines. It was what shared the stage with them that riveted my attention and had my jaw dropping in shock.

The stage set was spectacular. Glittering gold-sequined curtains covered the back wall, twinkling and sparkling with a thousand colors as they swayed in response to an unseen air current. Large platforms, painted blue and rose and lavender, stood at varying heights, all on wheels, capable of being moved and turned as the scenes required. Lavish furnishings filled the nooks: a plush red chaise longue that looked as though it were a real French period piece, a massive gentleman’s chest carved with cherubs and scrollwork, a delicate claw-foot table with two matching chairs. From the ceiling, a gilded trapeze swing cushioned with scarlet velvet hung suspended above the lights.

It was a set that was about a hundred times grander than the normal high school theater production. But the crowning glory stood just left of center, a fourth platform carved to look like an enameled and bejeweled elephant. On its back perched a flat dais made to look like a maharajah’s howdah, with golden posts supporting a silk awning dripping with tassels and gemstones the size of my fist.

I just stared.

Laura poked me in the ribs. “Come on,” she whispered, and we backed out of the theater, holding the door to keep it from making a noise as it swung shut.

Kids were starting to fill the halls, so we walked back toward our classrooms, keeping our voices low.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“No, really. What was that?”

“Yeah, I know.” Laura was almost beside herself with suppressed excitement. “They’ve done it this time. I’ve always thought they were funneling funds away from somewhere, and now we’ve got proof. I don’t care how many concessions they sell or raffles they hold, you can’t tell me the booster club earned that much.”

“No. There’s no way. That must be fifty thousand dollars worth of stuff.”

“And that’s not even the half of it. They had the costumes on a rack behind the stage when I was here yesterday. We’re talking real costumes, not just stuff the moms have sewn in their spare time. Even if they rented those, they’re still costing a small fortune.”

“And the elephant,” I said in awe.

“Yup. The elephant. It’s something else, right? I’m so excited. That bitch Nancy Wales will never get out of this one. I’m going to get Pat Carver to go over their books with a fine-tooth comb. That money came from somewhere.”

I was thinking hard. “They can’t possibly think that no one is going to notice.”

Indeed, the posters in the halls were already proclaiming the musical as “visually stunning” and urging students to get their tickets early for what were sure to be sellout performances. Until now, I’d thought this was the typical hyperbole of advertising.

Laura rubbed her hands together. “I wonder how they got the money,” she mused. “I can’t imagine them slipping anything by Pat. She’s like a pit bull. Last year, she wouldn’t even let the lacrosse team buy Windbreakers.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh, maybe it’s not even paid for. Maybe they charged it all, and the shit’s going to hit the fan after the performances.”

“Why are they doing all this? And why now?” I asked out loud, though I knew Laura had no way of knowing. “Nancy’s been the drama coach since the school opened. In fact, I’m pretty sure mammoths still roamed the earth when she started. Why would she suddenly put on a blowout performance? This isn’t even the normal time of year for the musical—they usually do it in the spring.”

“Who knows? Maybe she’s dying, and she wants to go out with a bang. Do you think she’s dying?” she asked, a little wistfully.

“No. Remember, only the good die young. Which means Nancy is immortal.”

We’d reached my classroom, and I stopped at the door. “One way or another, the money for that stage set will have to be explained. If you want to pursue it with Pat, go ahead, although I don’t think it’s necessary. Something like that is definitely going to come out. But, Laura, please don’t ask any more questions about the night Fred died. Not of Roland, not of anybody.”

She turned to face me. “Why? What’s this about?”

I pointed to my face. “Someone mugged me and trashed my house, and I can’t think of any other reason than because I was poking around about Fred. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s crazy,” she said at last, but without conviction. “You think that whoever killed Fred is still hanging around here?”

She looked up and down the corridors uneasily, as though expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking in some corner like Snidely Whiplash.

“It’s a possibility,” I said. “I definitely think it’s someone connected with the school. Someone who thought that he was safe from suspicion until I started asking questions.”

“So, what did you find out?”

I sighed. “Nothing at all. That’s the weird thing. I haven’t learned one single thing that I thought was important. But I must have. Something I said or heard must have worried someone. I wish I knew what it was. But I don’t want you accidentally doing the same thing.”

She pressed her lips together, looking stubborn. “Are you sure it’s not just a coincidence and doesn’t really have anything to do with Fred?”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore, but please don’t take the risk. Besides,” I added as a distraction, “you have bigger worries now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nancy is never going to move that elephant off the stage so that you can have the FLS recital.”

Her eyes widened, and a dull red flush slowly rose from her neck and suffused her cheeks like a rosy sunset. Her teeth clicked together with a snap.

“We’ll just see about that,” she said, and then tapped off toward her classroom.

*   *   *

At lunchtime, I sat at my desk as the kids filed out, trying to decide what to do. I’d been prying into something that was undoubtedly better left to the police, and I’d had my fingers burned pretty severely. I knew that Colin, if he was still speaking to me at all, would tell me to do my job, keep my head down, and watch my back until the police solved the case. Alan had told me exactly the same thing after I’d refused to take a leave of absence and hide in Dallas until it blew over. My own inner voice of reason told me that my advice to Laura was golden and that I should take it myself. Head down. Eyes lowered. Hear no evil. Stay safe.

With a sigh I rose and went looking for Ed Jones.

He wasn’t in his classroom or the teachers’ lounge. After a prolonged search, I found him standing behind one of the portable buildings at the back of the school, sneaking a cigarette in a furtive manner usually seen only in teenage boys. I looked hard at the cigarette as I approached, suspicious that it might be hand rolled and maybe not even tobacco. He looked up guiltily when he heard my steps and quickly put his hand down to his side, cupping the lit cigarette in the curve of his palm.

“Hi Ed,” I said. “What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, you know. Just taking a break, getting some sun. I’m an outdoor person, hate being cooped up indoors.”

He must use one hell of a sunblock then, I thought, noting the pale skin and buggy blue eyes. Judging by the pile of butts on the ground, either he came here frequently or he smoked more than one at a time. He noticed my glance and scattered a few of them with his foot.

“How’s the tennis team doing?” he said, his voice an odd mixture of scorn and eagerness.

He probably hoped that I was here for his help.

“They are doing great. We have our first tournament this week in fact.”

“Well, you really need someone who knows the ins and outs of the game. It’s not enough to know how to play, you have to strategize, pick and choose your battles, motivate the players. Maybe you don’t know it, but I was an assistant coach this past summer at a tennis camp in Wimberley. I have a lot of experience.”

I ignored this, watching him carefully. Petulant, yes, and maybe bitter. But was there anything more dangerous than that lurking in Ed Jones? I still didn’t see it.

“I was chatting with some folks last week, Ed. One of them mentioned that you’d been talking with Coach Fred about the team recently.”

After a moment of silence in which he was obviously trying to decide whether or not to lie, Ed answered, “Maybe. Yeah, I supposed I talked with him sometimes.”

“I was sure this person had misunderstood, but they seemed to think you had quite the argument with Coach Fred.”

He paled visibly, which I wouldn’t have thought possible considering how pasty he was already. His eyes darted to my face, then to the ground, then off to the horizon as if he were looking for an escape route. He half raised the hand holding his cigarette as though he wanted to take a drag, then seemed to remember he was hiding it from me and lowered it again.

“They misunderstood. I never argued with Coach.”

“I didn’t think so,” I said promptly. He looked relieved, and his shoulders relaxed somewhat. I waited a long moment, aware of the sun beating down on the baked earth at our feet. Then I asked, “Why do you think someone might have thought you were arguing?”

“I just said we weren’t arguing,” he protested.

“Of course. But you must have been discussing something. What was it?”

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped, his resemblance to a bad-tempered Chihuahua becoming more pronounced.

I raised one eyebrow and stared coldly. It was as effective with him as it was with my students. He shifted from one foot to another, an awkward move that made the too-thin fabric of his shirt slide over his man-boobs.

“It didn’t have anything to do with his death,” he blurted finally, as though succumbing to a last twist of the thumbscrews.

“Did you get mad enough to hit him, Ed?”

“No!” He looked appalled at the thought.

I pressed on, using my most reasonable voice. “Maybe it was an accident. He was an old man, maybe frailer than we knew. You lost your temper and punched him. You didn’t mean for him to die.”

“No!” he said again, his voice rising a full octave. “I never touched him. Yes, we had words, but I never hit him. I’d never hit anyone,” he added, aggrieved.

Looking at the sweat rolling off his forehead, it was hard not to believe this.

When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “Look, we argued about my taking over as tennis coach. I want that job,” he said defiantly, glaring at me, “and I told him so. So what? He’d been doing it too long, he was soft. The team wasn’t going anywhere, and they weren’t winning. He let anyone play, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, he did. It was the best thing about the team. Any kid could participate.”

“You’re never going to win with that attitude!” he said with sudden venom. “I could have turned things around, shaped those kids into champions. I even offered to take on a select few of the players and make them an elite squad. The old man could have kept his hobby team going.” Ed’s eyes filled with sudden angry tears, and his voice broke as he added, “He laughed at me.”

Ah, there it was. Coach Fred had laughed and poor, ambitious, vulnerable Ed had exploded. A small man in every way, and no match for a man of Fred’s experience and confidence. Ed had no way of knowing that Fred’s laughter only showed how bad a day Fred had been having. The argument with Gary Richards, the infighting with Nancy Wales, the pressure that he must have felt regarding whatever that mysterious key was about. Being confronted by Ed Jones at the end of a long miserable day must have been just about the final straw, because Coach Fred would never have intentionally humiliated another human being. On any other day, he would have tried to convert Ed to his way of thinking about teaching and about life.

But could Ed have struck Coach Fred? And hard enough to kill? That didn’t seem likely, I thought, looking at the spindly arms protruding like knobby sticks from the sleeves of his shirt. Now, if it had been a death by slap fight, Ed would have been my number one candidate.