Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (6 page)

As an ex-English teacher, I shifted uncomfortably in my
chair. “He’d been to PTA also, huh?”

“I told you, everyone had to go. The cops just talked to him
because he was in his room downstairs. I suppose they talked
to anyone who was around.”

I jotted a few notations, then scanned my notes. “Just a couple of more questions, Kim. Your pen, the one Holderman gave
you. How did it end up in Jacobs’ room?”

“Beats me. Probably Perry needed a pen and grabbed one off
my desk. I keep a pen and pencil box on my desk in case a student needs one during class. A couple of times, Perry borrowed
some. He might have borrowed that one.”

She made sense. I remembered my teaching days. Pretty much
the way she said it. Pencils on the desk for forgetful kids. I closed
my notebook. “I appreciate your time, Kim. I guess that’s about
it. ” I hesitated, then out of curiosity, commented, “I taught over
at Madison High in Austin a few years back. All of the coaches
had their offices on the first floor of the gym where they could
keep their eyes on the boys. How come yours is on the second?”

“You taught, huh? What’d you teach?”

I grinned. “English.”

Her eyes danced. “So you’re one of those romantics too,
huh? Like Harp?”

“Not really. I guess if I were, I’d still be in the business. But
tell me, why is your office on the second floor?”

A wry grin twisted her lips. “You said it earlier, Tony. Eyes
on the boys. Yeah, the men coaches get on the first floor, and
the ladies have to convert a storeroom on the second for their
office. The way of the world, the school world that is.” Despite
her exaggerated indifference, I sensed a trace of bitterness in
her words.

“I can’t argue that. I guess we’re all just a bunch of male
chauvinist pigs.”

She pushed back from the table. “I couldn’t have said it any
better.” She offered her hand. “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

I followed her out of the small room and headed for some
more of Rita’s coffee. The secretary glanced up as I
approached. I indicated the coffee. “Tastes like Seaport,” I said,
naming the favorite coffee back in Church Point.

Rita beamed at the compliment. “I buy it by the case.” While
I poured another cup, she glanced after Kim Nally who disappeared out the door. “She a nice girl.”

I glanced at Rita, sensing there was something she wanted to
say. “Have you known her long?”

“Long enough. The girl, she a good person. Sometimes, her
head is on crooked, but she a good mother, a good teacher.” In
a very casual, conversational tone, she asked, “She tell you
about the abortion?”

I tried not to choke on my coffee. “Abortion?”

Rita looked up at me with the same sort of pained tolerance on
her face that a mother wears when her child has deliberately
skirted the truth. “No. Me, I think she wouldn’t. Holderman, he
was no good. She get pregnant. Mrs. Holderman, that woman
swear a big scandal, so there is abortion. All is kept hush-hush,
but it do happen.”

Finishing my coffee, I tossed the cup in the trash and
winked at Rita. “Thanks. Us Cajuns got to stick together.”

Her eyes danced. “I say so “

Perry Jacobs was next. The number one suspect as far as I
was concerned despite his alibi. For two reasons; first
Holderman had been murdered in Jacobs’ room, and second,
Jacobs’ contract was not to be renewed at the end of the year.

I glanced at my watch. I had another thirty minutes before
the history teacher was to arrive. Stepping next to a window, I
pulled out my cell and called Stewart. I grimaced. No answer.
Maybe he was still asleep. I left a message on my phone on the
outside chance he might pick it up.

I turned to Rita. “How about pointing me in the direction of
Perry Jacobs’ room. I’d kinda like to wander the halls for a few
minutes.”

Besides, I needed to consider the new information about the
abortion. If Holderman had forced her to abort, Nally had herself a dandy motive. Revenge. Anyone who faced the rigors of
raising an autistic child did not seem like one who would easily accommodate abortion. If she was forced, the anger she harbored could be mighty powerful. No, Kim Nally was not
beyond suspect.

Room 247 was at the northwest end of the school, which was
laid out like a U. The wing in which Holderman was murdered
contained sixty-four rooms, thirty-two on each floor, sixteen on
each side of the hall. Three stairways, one at each end of the
wing and one in the middle, served the second floor. The hall
monitors had been set up at the entrance to the wing the night
of the murder.

From the information Kim Nally gave me, I found the
women coaches’ office just as she had said, a couple of doors
down from Jacobs’ room, which was three doors from the stairway at the end of the hall. Five rooms in the opposite direction
was the middle flight of stairs.

Peering into the empty room, I saw that it was a typical
classroom, a blackboard on the front wall, a teacher’s desk,
thirty-odd student chairs, shelves and a coat closet along the
back wall. I tried to visualize George Holderman facing the
desk with the killer creeping stealthily from the rear, bat
poised. I glanced again at the closet.

Two theories popped into my head. Either the killer was
someone the superintendent knew or the killer had hidden in the
closet. Glancing up and down the empty hall, I slipped into the room and opened the closet door. A jacket, few books, umbrella,
and a tube of rolled-up maps, leaving room for someone to hide.

Back out in the hall, I took the end stairway, at the base of
which was an open classroom door. I glanced inside and spotted a man in a wheelchair at the front of the room. Harper
Weems. One wall of his room was covered with framed photographs, landscape, sports, portraits, an eclectic collection.
Bookcases sat on either side of the blackboard behind the
teacher’s desk. A camera was on the corner of his desk.

I looked up and down the hall. My morning coffee was
catching up with me. A couple of doors down was the boys’
restroom, a typical, forty-year-old facility. Urinals lined one
wall, and commodes separated by tiled walls lined the other.
Despite its age, it was spotlessly clean and fragrant.

The bell rang while I was washing my hands. I dried on the
paper towels, then sauntered into the hallway, watching the tide
of laughing, shouting students sweep past.

Harper Weems rolled into the hall, expertly backing his chair
next to the wall so he could monitor the hallway, a duty I had
enjoyed for it always provided informal bantering with the students. He ran his fingers through his long blond hair.

Most of the passing students chattered or waved to him,
gestures he returned with a warm smile and a wave. A slender
man around forty, he appeared to have a strong upper body,
with little of the physical deterioration sometimes evident in
the physically challenged.

I eased along the wall to him. “Mr. Weems?” I had to talk
over the hubbub of the students.

He smiled up at me. “One and the same.”

“Tony Boudreaux.” I extended my hand.

“Ah, Mr. Boudreaux. Nice to meet you. Unless I read it
wrong, I got a note last period to meet with you down in the
counselors’ office near the end of this period.” His grip was
firm. And like most teachers, his hand was smooth and soft. I
noticed he wasn’t wearing a watch.

“I was just wandering the building before I met with Perry
Jacobs.” I nodded to the students streaming past. “Well
behaved.”

He laughed. “They’re good kids. Mischievous, but basically
good, intelligent youngsters. It’s a thrill to work with them.”

His room was empty. I nodded inside. “Look, if you want, we
can take care of business now. Jacobs isn’t due for another fifteen minutes.”

His smile faded. “Just what business are you talking about,
Mr. Boudreaux?”

I handed him a card and brought him quickly up to date on
Frances Holderman’s request. “All I’m doing is going over
what you told the police.”

He arched an eyebrow and shrugged. “Sure. Where do I
start?”

I cleared my throat. “At the beginning. PTA.”

He had to lean forward to hear above the noise of the passing students. He indicated to his room. “Let’s go inside. We can
hear better.” He rolled ahead of me. The right wheel of his chair
squeaked.

He closed the door, leaving the noise out in the hall. By contrast, his room was as silent as a sepulcher. He motioned me to
a student desk, but I declined. With a shrug, he began. “I don’t
know much of anything about what happened. Like I told the
police, after the PTA meeting, I came down here to do some
grading. I went into the boys’ restroom, and when I came out,
Perry was running down the stairs. He asked if I’d seen anyone
in the hall. I hadn’t. And that was it. “

I frowned. “He just went back upstairs then?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go up there?” I glanced at his legs. My ears burned.
“I mean, elevator or something.”

He shook his head. “No. This is an old wing. No elevators.
That’s why they keep me on the first floor.”

I sensed a touch of wry sarcasm in his last remark. “That
night, did Perry Jacobs tell you what happened?”

“Yeah. Well, he told me about the superintendent and that
Kim Nally was calling the law.”

“I met her this morning. She seems like a good teacher.” I
glanced around the room, trying to appear nonchalant, hoping
to generate an honest appraisal of her from him.

“She is. Single mother. Her youngster is autistic.” He
shrugged and wheeled over to his desk where he pushed aside
a 35mm Minolta camera and retrieved a pen and pencil can
decorated as a scarecrow. “The girl’s name is Alicia. She made
this for me last Halloween.” He turned it over in his hands gently, as if the straw and burlap might bruise. He looked up, his
eyes bright. “Kim was proud as punch. She works awful hard
for that girl.”

“Only child, huh?”

Harper replaced the scarecrow. “Yeah.” He spun the chair
back to face me and rolled forward. He grimaced when the
wheel squeaked. “Gotta get some new bearings.” He grinned
up at me. “Anyway, that’s all I know about that night. I wish I
could help you more.”

“How well did you know George Holderman?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “As well as anyone who taught
for the guy for five or six years.”

“Teachers and staff like him?”

“Some did. Some didn’t. Like most superintendents. I never
had any dealings with him other than `hi’ or `bye.”’

His responses smacked of deliberate disinterest. Switching
to another subject, I nodded to the bookcase at the end of the
blackboard. “How long have you been teaching English?”

“Fifteen-sixteen years. I was out a couple after the accident.”
He grinned sheepishly and patted his legs. “That’s where I got
these.”

His answer made me slightly uncomfortable. I studied the books on the shelves. “Hey, here’s one of my favorites.” I
pulled a copy of A Separate Peace from the bookrack. “I taught
English for a few years at Madison High. Tenth grade. This
book I thoroughly enjoyed. One of the few I’ve read where the
first person narrator deliberately lies to the readers.”

“A favorite of mine too,” he said. “Holden Caulfield is one
of my favorite characters.”

I frowned, puzzled at his mistake. I started to correct him,
but decided against it.

Harper shook his head and gave me a rueful grin. “I’m sorry.
I meant Finney. Holden Caulfield is Catcher in the Rye. Finney
is A Separate Peace.” He touched his finger to a three-inch scar
above his left eye. “Sometimes I forget. I had another accident
four years ago on the way to Denver, Colorado. Wrecked my
van. I had a fairly long period of retrograde amnesia followed by
a year or so of post-traumatic amnesia. I’ve only been back a
couple years.” He chuckled. “Even now, I sometimes go blank in
the middle of a lecture, but the kids understand.”

“Must be tough.” I frowned. One accident that paralyzed
him, and another from which he suffered amnesia. The guy was
an accident waiting to happen.