2 Death Makes the Cut (4 page)

“McKenzie, when you went in the shed, did you move anything?” I asked her. I don’t know why I asked. Mostly just to get her to talk rather than cry.

She looked scared. “I…”

I hastened to reassured her. “It’s not a big deal. I just wondered if the tennis balls were already spilled or maybe if you dropped them. Wouldn’t blame you if you had,” I added quickly. “I would have dropped anything I’d been carrying if I’d walked in there unprepared.”

But she was shaking her head. “No, those were already there. I almost stepped on one when I went in to leave my racquet. I was just picking them up when I saw him.”

I nodded. Fred must have kicked the bucket when he fell, I thought, then wished I hadn’t. God, the brain came up with horrible things under stress.

I thought about the way he’d fallen and wondered if he’d had a heart attack. Despite the white hair, and despite my teasing words to him, he really wasn’t that old. Maybe sixty, give or take a year or two either way. And in pretty good shape, except for the smoking, of course. Still, heart attacks could hit you at any age, and he definitely hadn’t looked good yesterday after the encounter with Mr. Richards.

“I picked up the racquet stand,” Brittany was saying.

“What?”

“The racquet stand. It was knocked over. The racquets were on the ground.”

That was a little odd. The racquets weren’t anywhere near where Fred had fallen. In fact, they were on the opposite side of the bookshelves that had initially screened his body. And not at all in a direct line from the door, so it wasn’t as though he would have bumped into them by accident. Of course, maybe he’d been standing beside them and then had started feeling faint. Maybe he’d been trying to get to his desk to sit down or possibly call for help. I looked at the wires stretching to the tennis shed. There was electricity, but was there a phone line? And wouldn’t he just have used his cell phone? I hated the thought of him dying all alone like that, unable to summon help.

In the distance a police siren began to wail, faint at first, then louder. A couple of minutes later, a black and white Crown Victoria rolled up, blue and red lights flashing, followed closely by a yellow and blue EMS truck. The medics pulled a medical case from the back, then hastened after the police officer into the shed, only to emerge a moment later shaking their heads. They spoke briefly together, then said something to the police officer and began repacking their equipment. Nothing could have said more clearly that Fred was beyond their help. The police officer joined the kids and me just as Larry Gonzales sailed in, head up, the light of battle in his eye. Behind him, long-legged Eric was trotting to keep up. A variation of the Brush-off walk, I thought critically, guessing that Larry probably hadn’t moved this quickly since the chem lab exploded three years ago.

Larry spoke to the police officer first, interrupting him as he was asking us his first question. The officer politely and firmly refused to allow Larry to go anywhere near the shed. Thwarted, Larry turned on me.

“You should have called me right away,” he said under his breath, as though the kids and policeman standing three feet away couldn’t hear him.

“I sent Eric,” I pointed out.

Larry gave the officer and kids a brittle smile over my shoulder and pulled me a few paces away. I could smell his cologne, a strong musky scent, probably marketed as being manly.

“You should have called me before you called the police,” he said. His eyes were darting back and forth like Ping-Pong balls at the state finals.

“I don’t have your number on speed dial, Larry. And it seemed a little more important to call for help first.” I didn’t see any point in mentioning that Fred had been way beyond needing help.

“Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat, then raised his voice slightly. “Well, certainly these children don’t need to be standing around here. I suggest you accompany them to the office, Ms. Shore, and see about calling their parents.”

I can’t think of anything that he could have said that would have made those kids want to stay around more. You’d think a high school principal would know better than to refer to the students as children. Kids yes, children no. They began to protest, but luckily for them, the policeman had other ideas.

“These folks are witnesses, sir. I’m going to need some information from all of them.”

He asked our names first, which we provided one after another. After ascertaining who had been the first inside, he was just beginning to go over the details with McKenzie, who, I’m sorry to say, looked like she was beginning to enjoy the attention, when another car drove up.

The man who stepped out was dressed in neat khaki pants and a pressed shirt. Dark hair, dark sunglasses, a ruddy tan that spoke of some serious time in the sun. He wasn’t old enough to be a dad arriving for a kid, and although he could have been an older brother or an uncle, I somehow didn’t think so. He had an indefinable air of authority. Larry followed my gaze and then hurried forward to intercept.

“You can’t park there,” he said, waving his hands.

The man gave him a cool gaze and produced a badge from his pocket. It silenced Larry far more effectively than anything else could have. He consulted briefly with the officer, then approached me.

“Detective Gallagher, ma’am,” he said, flashing his badge again.

I didn’t even glance at it. He’d removed his sunglasses, revealing blue eyes under thick black lashes and brows, the same color as the hair that fell across his wide, high forehead. His long jaw was clean-shaven, though it showed the faintest trace of a blue shadow. Despite the Irish name, his voice was pure west Texas.

He paused as though waiting for something, but I just stared at him like an idiot. He blinked, then went on. “You were the one who found the body?”

“No, that was McKenzie,” I said, gesturing to the girl, who obediently moved to my side.

He gave her a single glance, scrawling something in a small notebook. “But you went into the shed?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

“And your name?”

“Jocelyn Shore. I’m a teacher here,” I added.

“Okay, very good. Look, if you could stay for a few minutes, I think we can let everyone else get in out of the heat.”

He glanced at the first officer, who took the hint and began herding the kids and Larry toward the school, Larry protesting the whole way. Another officer arrived and began diverting traffic away from the tennis shed. By now the school buses were beginning to arrive, interspersed by a stream of cars rolling into the school driveway. Lots of parents drove their kids to school on their way to work, but never more than on the first day of the school year. Parents of freshmen could be counted on to drop their kids off with quivering farewells and sometimes a photograph or two. When they drove away, their eyes were too full of tears to notice their embarrassed offspring scurrying away with eyes averted, hoping none of their friends had seen the display.

Now the stream of cars was moving more slowly than ever as their occupants craned to see what was going on. Some actually parked, and a crowd of kids and parents were gathering on the sidewalk in the front of the school, staring our way. Larry broke away from the police officer and went to deal with them, probably thinking that this at least was something he could control. He began waving his arms and shooing the gawkers away like a farmer protecting new seeds from a flock of crows. And like any self-respecting crows, they drew back while the arms were flapping, and then crept forward the instant they stopped.

The air was already beginning to heat up, not yet unpleasantly hot but warm and dry. A little breeze stirred across the sere yellow grass that covered the field and the drainage ditch that ran along the back of the tennis courts. I looked at the sagging, frayed nets on the nearest three courts and again felt a tightness in my throat. Poor Fred. He’d spent much of the last year campaigning for new nets. He’d never get them now. My eyes pricked, and I blinked hard, trying to force the tears back where they belonged. A single drop escaped anyway, and I hurriedly wiped it away.

To my surprise Detective Gallagher touched my arm briefly. “You all right, ma’am? Would you like to sit down?”

I would like to sit down, I thought, but there wasn’t anywhere to sit. And what was with the “ma’am” stuff? He was surely older than I was, even if only by a couple of years, and coming from him it made me feel as though I was one step away from support hose and puffy blue hair.

“I’m fine,” I said more sharply than I intended.

He ignored this and led me to his car. Opening the passenger door, he gestured for me to sit. “Here you go. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll be back in a second,” he said.

I did mind, and I didn’t want to wait. But I wasn’t sure what else I did want to do. Should I go into my classroom? Should I go help with the tennis kids, maybe call their parents? Should I pace up and down and howl at the unfairness of it all? The last one seemed the most appealing, but I didn’t think it would do my self-image any good. Plus this bossy detective seemed to assume that I would be cooperative, and I figured I probably ought to be. So I sat.

Detective Gallagher returned to the shed, said something to the officer standing guard at the door, and slipped inside. As more people gathered by the school, another police car arrived, and the second officer began directing traffic. At least I wasn’t sitting in the marked car, which would have convinced everyone that I was under arrest. Feeling impatient, I glanced at my watch and then back toward the shed wondering when Detective Gallagher was going to return.

“What’s going on?” asked a voice behind me.

I jumped. Turning, I saw a face peering in the open driver’s side window, the face of Roland Wilding, the assistant drama coach. I suppressed a groan.

Roland was the acknowledged school heartthrob, the focus of schoolgirl crushes, the apple of the senior drama coach’s eye. He was almost ridiculously good-looking, and he had something that I could only call presence. When he walked into a room, or, I should say, when he made his entrance into a room, every eye turned his way. The fact that half those eyes turned away again to avoid dry heaves somehow didn’t seem to register.

“What are the police doing here? Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement at the thought.

Much as I tried, I couldn’t think of a reason not to tell him. After all, it was hardly something that could remain a secret.

“Coach Fred is dead,” I said, then winced at the unintended rhyme.

He gave a low whistle, then walked around the car so he could lean against the back door beside me. “What happened?”

I shrugged, willing him to go away. He chose not to notice.

“Who found him? You?”

“No, one of the kids was dropping off her racquet. What difference does it make?”

“None. I was just curious. Must have upset the poor kid,” he added as an afterthought, probably because he thought he should, not because he really cared. “Heart attack?”

“How would I know?” I said.

At that moment Detective Gallagher returned. He looked Roland Wilding up and down, then glanced at me. I’m not sure what he saw in my face, but his lips twitched.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked. His tone was dismissive, but I could have told him that subtlety wouldn’t work on Roland.

“I was just trying to find out what was happening, officer,” said Roland. “Such a tragedy. How did he die?”

“We haven’t been able to determine that yet, sir. Did you know the deceased?”

“Well, of course. I know everyone around here. I’m a teacher. Although I know I don’t look the part,” he added with a self-deprecating laugh and ran a hand through his already artfully tousled hair.

I closed my eyes so he wouldn’t see me roll them.

“And your name, sir?”

“Ah, I am Roland Wilding.” He gave a ridiculous little flourish with one hand. “I’m the drama teacher here.”

“Assistant drama teacher,” I corrected.

“Well, yes. Assistant drama teacher,” he admitted, throwing me a cool look. “Only my second year, have to work my way up the ladder, you know, while I’m building my reputation as a screenwriter,” he added with a flash of white teeth.

“Hmm. And when did you last see Mr. Argus?”

I liked that Detective Gallagher knew Coach Fred’s name without having to consult his notes.

“Yesterday,” said Roland brightly. “He was here on the courts, and I was just over there with the drama club. We were cleaning the stage area, painting props, that sort of thing. Preparing for the new season. The play we have planned is going to be something extraordinary. I’ve written the adaptation myself.” He drew breath, apparently to expound on the glories of the Bonham theater season and his own scriptwriting skills.

Detective Gallagher headed him off just in time. “And did you notice anything unusual? Did he appear to feel well?”

Roland shrugged. This was far less interesting than the theater. “As far as I could tell. He was working with the kids. Seemed fine.”

“Other than the tennis players, did you see anyone else in the area?”

“Not exactly, but people were coming and going all day yesterday. Most of the clubs had practices or work days. Why are you asking? Is something wrong?”

Other than a dead teacher? I stared at him with distaste, but Detective Gallagher took it in stride.

“Not at all. It’s just policy to try to find out who might have seen him last.”

“We were here until about ten o’clock last night, but I left through the front door.” He gestured. “I didn’t notice anything over on this side of the building, but then it was dark and I wasn’t looking. Want me to ask Nancy if she saw anything?” He glanced toward the school where a small crowd had gathered.

Nancy Wales, the head drama teacher, was instantly recognizable. For one thing she was a huge woman, well over six feet tall, and built like a linebacker. Then, too, she favored bright colors and loose-fitting clothing, which would have made her stand out even if she’d been petite. Today, she wore a turquoise and cobalt silk caftan that billowed gently in a breeze of her own making. Her blue-black hair was thick and long, and today she had it swept up into a twist and fastened with a claw clip, which made her seem even taller. When she was in a good mood, she glided through the halls like a barracuda, silent and watchful. In a bad mood, which was her default, she was more like a shark preparing for a really good feeding frenzy, sniffing for the first sign of blood in the water. Freshmen scattered like minnows when they saw her coming. Now, though, she looked concerned, even a little frightened. Was it possible that she actually felt something because of Fred’s death? Or was she—and this I considered to be much more likely—worried that the police had discovered that she was actually an escaped convict who’d had an only partially successful sex change and had arrived to haul her back to prison?