Dial Em for Murder (18 page)

“Partner up,” Ms. Helsenberg ordered, and I found myself paired with a large beefy kid with sweaty palms. I tried to smile up at him, but he didn't appear to notice. His eyes were locked on Peyton, whose high cheekbones held a slight flush from exertion.

She looked pristine, delicate, and gorgeously untouchable.

I didn't blame my partner for wanting to trade me. I just wished he could be a little less obvious about it, especially with Ms. Helsenberg wandering the room, correcting postures and snapping out brusque commands.

“Is she always like this?” I asked my partner nervously.

He tightened his hold on my back before answering. “Yes.”

So much for bonding with the guy about to lead me backward in an unknown dance. I found myself wishing that Colin and I were still partnered together. Better yet, I imagined that Ben was there. That he'd ignored the rules and steps of the dance, moving straight toward me, drawing me close into his arms, before slowly—deliberately—pressing his lips against mine.

Ms. Helsenberg would've seen plenty of passion then.

Something hard jabbed my stomach. The swift jolt of pain was followed by the lingering ache of a forming bruise. I wanted to rub the sensitive spot, but my partner refused to release my arms as Ms. Helsenberg hissed, “Tighten your core, Noodle!”

The remaining eight minutes of class were a complete disaster. I wasn't the only person struggling with the dance moves, but she still spent the majority of her time hollering, “Noodle! I said use your left foot! Is that your left? No? Then
don't use it
.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Peyton eating it up.

She didn't attempt to land any barbs of her own. Instead, she floated along with her partner while she happily took in the show.

Ms. Helsenberg clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. “Girls, I want you wearing heels in next week's class. Two to three inches. Make sure you can move in them. Boys, you should all own a nice pair of loafers. Wear them. Class dismissed.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief and moved toward the door.

“Noodle you stay here. I'm not done with you.”

Peyton smiled in unspoken triumph as she tossed her long brown hair over her shoulder and gave me a little finger wave before letting the door snick shut behind her.

Leaving me alone with my least favorite teacher.

“I don't appreciate being saddled with new students midway through the semester.”

I wanted to point out to Ms. Helsenberg that transferring out of McKinley High School hadn't exactly been my first choice either, but I doubted she wanted to hear it.

“Dancing is an art form. It's not to be taken lightly,” Ms. Helsenberg jabbed her finger in the air to underscore the point. “If you don't give me your full dedication, I
will
fail you.”

She didn't exactly look heartbroken at the prospect.

“I understand.” There was nothing else I could say.
I don't give a shit about your class, I have bigger things going on
didn't seem like the best way to get off on the right foot. Then again, apparently I'd been on the wrong foot throughout the class. I doubted even the fanciest footwork could change that now.

“I don't tolerate lateness, sloppiness, or weakness.”

Gee, and here I thought she'd be the most accommodating of teachers.

“I'll be on time next class.”

“See that you are.” She eyed me suspiciously, as if I'd busted out my surliest James Dean impression instead of pledging to be an ideal student. “Emptor Academy isn't for everyone, Noodle. I don't think you fit here.”

The nickname somehow stung more in private than it had in front of the class.

“I can work on that, too.” I didn't wait for her to issue a dismissal. If she had any other warnings to deliver, I certainly didn't want to hear them. There was also no point in obsessing over yet another failed attempt at a good first impression. Not unless I wanted to be late for my Criminal Law class. Unfortunately my locker didn't seem to have gotten the memo that I was not to be messed with, because twenty attempts at the combination later and the damn thing still refused to open. Swearing under my breath, I decided to deal with it later and rushed out of the gymnasium.

Ms. Pierce, aka the brunette woman with the pixie cut I'd seen President Gilcrest wave to in the cafeteria, smiled without comment, as I slid into a vacant seat in her classroom. Instead of making me introduce myself to everyone, or any of that other first day crap, Ms. Pierce turned her attention to my former dance partner Colin and asked him to explain the Ruth Snyder case.

The lanky boy who had seemed so sweet when he'd joked with me earlier, grinned wickedly now. “Ruth Snyder convinced her husband to take out a blank life insurance policy so that she could cash in on his murder.”

“And can you explain how the double indemnity clause works, Kayla?”

I whipped my head around, spotting my roommate at the back of the room only when she spoke up. “Mr. Snyder's life insurance policy said that if he died in a certain way they would pay twice the normal amount.”

“Peyton, why don't you list some of those ways for us?”

I hadn't missed the presence of my arch-nemesis in the room. Even silent, she wasn't easily overlooked. Her eyes were also shooting daggers in my direction.

“It has to be an accident. Or at least appear accidental.”

I felt my pulse start pounding. There was a creepy light in her eyes as she continued glaring at me. It began to sink in that there was no escaping Peyton's very real hostility. That Peyton might want me dead almost as much as the baseball cap killer.

Sebastian, as he stretched lazily in his seat next to Peyton, said, “Mrs. Snyder could have pulled it off if she had taken her time.” I searched for some hidden jab underlying his words, only to feel like a total narcissist when I came up empty.

“Would you like to expand on that, Sebastian?” Ms. Pierce asked.

He shrugged indulgently. “She was so focused on killing her husband, she forgot to cover her tracks. The police figured it out fast. Some people can't hold up under interrogation.”

I bet he was
dying
to tell the whole class that yesterday I'd nearly cracked during a police interrogation of my own. I wasn't sure if it would be harder or easier to make friends here if that became public knowledge. At least it would distract them from the fact that our income brackets didn't belong in the same sentence, or the same paragraph, for that matter. There should be an entire set of encyclopedias separating the two.

“So what gave Ruth Snyder away? Why wasn't this a perfect murder?” Ms. Pierce opened the conversation up to the whole class as her gaze slid across her students. “What did she get wrong?”

It was a chilling question. I half hoped that somebody would say that there was no such thing as a perfect murder. That taking a life—no matter the justification—was a brutal, twisted, ugly act. That at the end of the day, regardless of the method, murder was still, well,
murder
.

I kept that to myself, unwilling to let Sebastian and Peyton mock me for it.

“She said her husband died during a break-in, but the room didn't look right.”

“Excellent, Kasdan.” Ms. Pierce walked over to the white board and wrote,
The scene must match the story
in dark red marker. “What else?”

“The cops asked her about a pin with the initials J.G. on them, and she demanded to know why they were dragging Judd Gray into it.”

Ms. Pierce nodded with satisfaction. “And why was that a mistake?”

“Because Judd Gray was her lover and he helped her plan the whole thing.” Peyton didn't bother raising her hand. “You
never
mention an accomplice.”

Ms. Pierce wrote those exact words on the board.

“Anything else, Peyton?”

The popular girl didn't hesitate. “You take your time and do it right. Ruth attempted to kill her husband half a dozen times before she actually succeeded. Clearly, she should have chosen one method and seen it through instead of rushing the job.”

Ms. Pierce began scribbling again.
Don't rush
was soon followed by,
stick with the plan
.

I glanced around the classroom. Nobody seemed remotely surprised that we were being given killer advice—quite literally. Thinking about murder was making my stomach twist, maybe because without my Slate my Potential Hostile could be anywhere. How much space separated us now? Thirty feet? Twenty? Ten?

It could be the girl chewing on the ends of her dirty blond hair when she thought nobody was looking. It could be
anyone
. So the last thing I wanted was for my classmates to become more skilled at masking their own murderous intentions.

“Does anyone want to tell us how this case turned out?” Ms. Pierce asked, letting an expectant pause grow until she filled in the silence herself. “Ruth Snyder and her lover, Judd Gray, were electrocuted minutes apart from each other. Her ten-year-old daughter Lorraine was left an orphan without so much as an insurance check to keep her company.”

Ms. Pierce turned back to the whiteboard and at the bottom of the list she wrote,
There is always fallout
. Then she circled it. The teasing note in her voice disappeared. “Even the best laid plans often involve sacrifice. When confronted by a problem, consider what you have to lose. Your pride? Your finances? Your independence? Your family? Your physical or emotional well-being? Sometimes the reward comes at too heavy a cost.”

It was a good speech, but an unsettling one. I glanced over at Sebastian, wanting to gauge his reaction, but his aristocratic face revealed nothing. His stormy blue eyes remained focused on Ms. Pierce, as if he were intent on discovering any weakness within her.

It was the same expression he'd successfully unnerved me with more than once.

“Your assignment is to write an essay about a crime that you've witnessed.” Ms. Pierce raised one inky black eyebrow to silence the unanimous groan. “You've all seen something. This can mean an item stolen from your dorm room or an illegal financial transaction that was splashed across the front-page news. Describe the event and then,” she smiled as she let the pause build suspense, “suggest refinements.”

I stared at her in disbelief. My classmates didn't need any practice getting away with crime. They could already afford to pay off anyone who got in their way. Peyton's essay would probably read like something out of a femme fatale handbook.
I'd flirt with the security guards, distracting them with my, ahem,
assets
, while my team carried the painting out the side door.

Scratch that. Peyton probably wouldn't consider a measly painting worth the trouble of plotting a heist. She'd want something wearable. Designer dresses, maybe. Better yet, diamonds. That way she could prove to her daddy that she didn't need his support to get her hands on the family merchandise.

“Class dismissed! Emmy, could you please stay after?”

I braced myself for yet another lecture as everyone else filtered out of the room. Kayla shot me a supportive smile that I was coming to realize was her default expression.

This class isn't to be taken lightly. You've a lot of work ahead. I doubt you belong here.

I could've saved Ms. Pierce some time by delivering her speech for her.

“How are you holding up?”

Well, that was unexpected.

“Fine,” I said automatically. It was the only answer I could give in a place like this. Anything else would be seen as a sign of weakness.

“I know this school can be a bit overwhelming.” Ms. Pierce tucked a strand of jet black hair behind one slender ear. “I remember my first week here like it was yesterday. I couldn't bring myself to unpack my suitcase for four days because I was convinced they'd realize their mistake and fire me. I was a mess.”

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who hadn't instantly fallen in love with Emptor Academy. Although it was hard to believe that someone who was so at ease in front of the classroom had ever felt insecure about her position. My shoulders relaxed a fraction, and I was no longer in such a rush for her to let me leave.

“What happened on the fifth day?”

Ms. Pierce pulled on the navy coat I hadn't noticed hanging on the back of her chair. “The dean invited me to lunch. He said that I was in charge of molding the most influential minds of the next generation. That my lessons would create a legacy that would outlive the both of us, as long as I stopped trembling in front of my students.” She laughed self-consciously. “I thought he was full of it. But the next day I looked at the kids—
really
looked at them—and I realized he was right.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I crossed my arms and braced myself for an insult. “It's pretty obvious I don't fit in here. You'll have to advance your legacy with someone else. Try Peyton. She has the trust fund for it.”

Her mouth quirked into an elfish smile. “This place isn't special because the kids are rich. Don't get me wrong; money opens plenty of doors. But the truly successful students don't rely on their bank accounts to get ahead. They find something they can do better than everyone else and they act on it. Does that make sense, Emmy?”

I nodded, even though I didn't follow her logic. I hadn't so much as spoken once during her class. Unless sitting mutely in class counted as a talent, I didn't see why she would consider
me
special.

“I'm sure you'll find your bearings. Give it time, okay? This place is full of opportunities. In the meantime, I'm always here if you need to talk. My office hours are posted on the door.”

Do you know anyone who might want to kill me? Apparently somebody wants me dead, and I'm not sure if Peyton is involved. Wait a sec, can paranoia be considered a special skill? Because I'm getting
good at bracing myself for the worst.