April Fool Dead (14 page)

As they stepped out into the office, three strained faces turned toward them. Allensworth cleared his throat. “I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Nevis was shot to death in her house last night. The police are investigating.” He inclined his head toward Annie. “Mrs. Darling is here for Mrs. Nevis's family. They are in the process of arranging the service. Mrs. Jenkins”—he glanced at the pale redhead—“please issue Mrs. Darling a visitor's pass. I would appreciate it if you will show her to Mrs. Riley's room and Mrs. Thompson's. Mrs. Otis”—he nodded at the round-faced woman, whose fingers plucked at the silver chain around her neck—“there will be an assembly at two o'clock. Required attendance. I will announce the assembly during first lunch period.”

“Yes, sir.” She shook her dark hair, cut her eyes toward Annie, large, scared, saddened eyes.

Annie hurried to the redhead's desk.

Mrs. Jenkins picked up a red felt pen. “Your name, please?”

“Annie Darling.”

The redhead printed the name in all capital letters on a small rectangular white card, slipped it into a plastic holder with a clip on the back, handed it to Annie.

Annie took the holder, clipped it to her blouse. “Thank you. Now, perhaps we can go.”

“Mrs. Darling.” Allensworth pulled off his glasses, gestured toward the hall. “We have a substitute in Mrs. Nevis's room. However, I can ask the class to move to the library if you wish to clean out Kay's desk.”

“Her desk?” Annie had a quick memory of the late Cubs baseball broadcaster Harry Carey warning a pitcher against the opposing team's slugger when the bases were loaded, “Be careful here. Be careful here.” She nodded judiciously. “That's a very good idea. But perhaps we'd better leave the desk unchanged until the police have had a chance to check everything. However, I'd be glad to take a quick inventory and give that to the family.” How could Pete Garrett complain? Annie felt suffused with righteousness.

Allensworth nodded his approval. “That's a good idea. Mrs. Jenkins, please ask the substitute to take the class to the library. Mrs. Darling can inventory the desk, then meet with Mrs. Riley and Mrs. Thompson. And I”—he drew a deep breath—“shall prepare for the assembly.”

 

As the students trooped out of Kay Nevis's classroom, a long-legged blonde in a cerise T-shirt and white
shorts leaned close to Annie. “I'll tell Rachel you're here. Everybody's coming to the meeting after school.” She was gone before Annie could answer. Annie decided the girl had to be Christy. The plan to enlist students to seek out the creator of the flyers now seemed like an innocent hope from another world. Annie would have to find Rachel, cancel that gathering. Annie had a gut-deep sense she didn't want any students poking into the mystery of the flyers. As for the flyers found in Kay's house, maybe the police would keep that quiet. It certainly wasn't information Annie intended to provide. Annie felt a flicker of anger. If Henny was right, Kay's murderer wanted to destroy both her life and her reputation. If Henny was right…

As the last student left the classroom, Mrs. Jenkins held the door for Annie. She stepped into the classroom, noting the open windows with a view of the marsh and a long pier that led out to a deeper channel. There was a red boathouse at the end of the pier.

A bell rang.

“Oh, first-period lunch.” Mrs. Jenkins pointed at the golden oak desk. “There's her desk. I brought a master key for the locked drawers. Mrs. Riley's room, 126, is two doors down this hall. Mrs. Thompson is upstairs in room 203. But they both have first-period lunch, so they won't be in their rooms until noon. If you need anything else, you can come to the cafeteria or back to the office.”

As the door closed behind her, Annie walked slowly toward the desk.
Be careful here
. She stopped behind the desk. Oh hell, she was here. She wouldn't touch
anything. She'd tell Pete Garrett all she'd done was look and note the contents of the desk. What could he do about that? Put her in jail? Maybe she didn't want to know the answer to the second question.

Annie glanced around the room and felt for a moment as though she'd stepped into the company of distinguished ghosts. Famous faces from twentieth-century America looked down from the walls: Theodore Roosevelt, Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, Franklin Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Martin Luther King, Jimmy Carter. Real faces, real people, real lives. Had Kay Nevis talked about the good that can be achieved by one life well lived?

Annie's gaze returned to the desk. A single pink carnation poked from a bud vase. A yellow porcelain frame held an eight-by-ten snapshot of a family on horseback: a dark-haired woman in her thirties, a chunky balding man with a ready grin and three teenage girls. A green leather appointment book lay next to an onyx pen set. An in-box brimmed with sheets of written-upon notebook paper. Annie bent to look at the title emblazoned in green ink on the top sheet: “Contrast the characters of Douglas MacArthur and George C. Marshall.”

Annie reached into her purse for a pen. She used the pen to flip open the appointment book. She scanned the pages, noting the usual appointments—dentist, bridge games, Saturday lunch dates—but there was no hint of anything odd or unusual. Annie unlocked the center drawer: grade books, pencils, note cards, reading lists, a vial of prescription medicine. The side
drawers held thick files, the tabs indicating subjects. Annie glanced at a few of the tabs: “The Civil War Experience for Women in South Carolina,” “The Influence of Yellow Journalism on American Political Decisions in the Early 1900s,” “Roosevelt's New Deal and Huey Long,” “Isolationism and the Beginning of World War II.”

Annie pushed shut the last drawer. If there was anything here that pertained to murder, Annie had missed it. She dropped the desk key in her purse, glanced at her watch. Kay's best friends on the faculty were in the lunchroom. Rachel had first-period lunch. Maybe Annie could find her and Rachel could point out Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley.

 

Max clicked off the portable phone, placed it on the countertop. He bent down, nuzzled thick white fur. Dorothy L.'s blue eyes looked at him curiously. Max picked up the plump cat, who ducked her head beneath his chin and began to purr. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm your favorite guy and where's the chopped liver.” Max carried Dorothy L. with him to a cupboard. He plucked out a can of cat food—salmon, Dorothy L.'s favorite—opened it. He put the cat down by her bowl, emptied the can, gave her a final pat. He frowned as he glanced across the kitchen at the silent phone. Nobody—not a single one of his mother's friends—had heard from Laurel or knew where she was. Laurel, of course, could be ensconced at a friend's house and have sworn that person to secrecy. But Max didn't think so.

Absentmindedly, he made a sandwich—watercress, whipped cream cheese, lox, capers on a bagel. He held
fast to one fact: Laurel had called, told him she was all right. Where was she now? The empty slip at the marina told him she had docked the motorboat elsewhere, quite likely tying it up to a remote dock on one of the curling waterways that meandered through the marshes. That must mean she intended another foray in the boat. But why and where? And what the hell had she been doing near the inlet where Kay Nevis died? Max took a bite of the sandwich, hurried into the terrace room. They had a map of the island in the desk. Maybe if he studied it…

 

The hum of voices was even louder than the bang of trays and the scrape of chairs. Rachel said loudly, “Do you want a hot dog or hamburger or pizza?” Her hand swept toward the food islands. Rachel didn't even bother to suggest the salad bar.

Annie felt chagrined. After all, she should be a role model. Rachel would certainly have pointed out the salad bar to Max. “Hmm, how about a salad?” After all, there would be olives and cheese and maybe even bacon bits to add a little substance. She was suddenly ravenous.

“Sure. The honey-mustard dressing's great.” Rachel, her thin face eager and cheerful, waved hello to friends as she and Annie pushed their trays, filled plastic bowls with spinach leaves, endive, shaved carrots, celery, cherry tomatoes, radishes and pecans. Annie almost added bacon bits, decided that was overkill and certainly not worthy of a role model. She did pick up a poppy-seed muffin. So hey, she wasn't perfect.

Rachel leaned close. “Do you want to eat out on the terrace?”

Annie glanced around the red-walled cafeteria, which smelled like food, disinfectant and varnish. A long table near the hot-food line was filled with teachers. Annie jerked her head in that direction. “I see a table up front.”

When they were settled, not more than fifteen feet from the teachers, Annie glanced at the table. Three women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties sat on one side, two men and an uncommonly pretty young woman on the other. “Do you know Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley?”

Rachel snapped the tab from her can of Pepsi. “Mrs. Thompson looks like a mouse. We call her Minnie. Mrs. Riley's the one with orange hair piled on top of her head and long dangly earrings.”

Annie smiled. A small black woman ate with quick, dainty—mouselike?—bites. Her gray hair was drawn into a bun, emphasizing her sharp features. She wore a plain white blouse with her gray suit. Her jewelry was simple, a pair of small silver earrings and a silver brooch. She was absorbed in a paperback book. Two chairs down, Mrs. Riley gestured dramatically, long red fingernails flashing in the air. Her face beneath the mound of bright hair was large and amiable. Her fringed eyelashes were heavy with mascara. Bright spots of red decorated plump cheeks. An orange pattern—leaping fish?—spangled her purple silk dress.

Annie made her decision on the spot. There was an air of reserve to Mrs. Thompson. She would talk to
Mrs. Riley first. “I understand Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Riley were good friends of Mrs. Nevis's.”

Rachel didn't note the tense. She nodded as she stirred the dressing into her salad. “Yeah. I guess so. Anyway, Annie, we've got everybody excited about the flyers. Everybody's really mad that the police would suspect Diane.”

Annie hated to tell her, but knew she must. “Rachel, listen…” She explained that Kay had been murdered.

Rachel pushed her salad away. Tears welled in her eyes. “Mrs. Nevis—Annie, that's awful. She was really nice.”

“There's one thing more. And Rachel, you mustn't tell anyone about this.” Annie glanced around, spoke so only Rachel could hear. “There were boxes of the flyers in her house.”

Rachel's eyes widened. “Mrs. Nevis! I don't believe it.”

Annie took a bite of salad. “I know. Henny insists she would never have done anything like that. Henny says someone else must have put out the flyers. Henny's convinced it has to be someone connected to the school. Anyway, you've got to cancel the meeting this afternoon.” The salad was fresh and crisp. Annie ate quickly.

Ignoring her lunch, Rachel hitched her chair closer to the table, planted her elbows. “Wait a minute, Annie, wait a minute. No, we'll tell everybody that Mrs. Nevis's been framed—”

Annie put down her fork and reached across the table to grab Rachel's arm. “Definitely not. We don't want anyone to know about the flyers in her house. If
that gets out, her reputation's smeared even if we ultimately figure out who did it.” Annie scrambled for a plan to deflect Rachel. No way could she tell Rachel there might be danger for anyone nosing into the history of the flyers. Annie remembered that age well enough to know the possibility of danger would simply be an attraction. “No, we need to get everybody's attention away from those damn flyers. Say that you've received information and you can't reveal your source…”

That always added a cachet to any announcement.

“…but it has been learned that the flyers are a complete hoax and that the authorities will be making an announcement shortly.” Annie pushed away the cold little thought that Pete Garrett might not be thrilled to hear this. But that was going to be Pete's problem. If ever she was in a position to explain to him why she had come to the school, surely he would be pleased that she'd made an effort to keep the students from getting involved. Whatever happened, Annie didn't want Rachel or any of her friends pursuing the hand that wrote the flyers, because that same hand might very well have held the gun that killed Kay Nevis.

Rachel gripped her soda can. “Oh, but everybody's coming and they all want to help Diane.”

“It will be great,” Annie said brightly. “Everybody will be relieved that the flyers are phony and that
Diane has been falsely accused. What you can do is even more important. Ask the kids to write tributes to Mrs. Nevis and bring them to their first hour tomorrow and turn them in. They will be a wonderful present to her family.”

“Annie, that's a super idea.” Rachel's face brightened. “Sure. Christy and I will handle it.”

A shrill buzz sounded three times.

Rachel glanced toward a loudspeaker mounted above a small stage at the end of the room. “Some kind of announcement.”

“Students and faculty, may I have your attention”—the sound was tinny—“for an important announcement.”

Rachel's eyes darkened. “That's Dr. Allensworth. I'll bet he's going to tell everybody about Mrs. Nevis.”

Allensworth cleared his throat. The room slowly quieted. “There will be a special assembly today at two o'clock. I regret to inform you that one of our own—Mrs. Nevis—has died.” There was the sound of indrawn breaths, exclamations. “I further regret to inform you that she was shot to death at her home last night. At the assembly, I will report to you the facts as we know them and will issue a special plea to all students and faculty to contact the police if they feel they have any information that might be useful in the investigation. Thank you.”