Photo, Snap, Shot (14 page)

I hadn’t heard the “n” word from a white person’s mouth in years. Ever since political correctness became the unofficial law of the land, folks had wised up to the fact there are certain words you just don’t say under any circumstances, unless you are a rap star or a shock radio host. Then people get paid to say horrible, ugly words in combinations most folks would never imagine. How on earth had a white kindergartener added that ugly sobriquet to his vocabulary? I was stunned. “The ‘n’ word?”

“You heard me.”

“What on earth got into him?”

“Other than his mama dying? And his dad and grandparents fighting over him? Hmm?” She gave me a sour grimace that said volumes. I was being stupid.

“Oh. Yeah. Even so, isn’t that an extreme reaction? I mean, okay, kids can feel overwhelmed. Helpless. Out of control. Especially when their lives get, um, in turmoil. But to call someone that …”

Maggie sighed. “Kids are great observers and poor interpreters. Who knows what he was thinking? It’s not like he’s never seen a black person before. Hello? How about our first family? And we have black students and black parents and black instructors here at CALA. I was wondering if he blamed Coach Johnson for his mother’s death? Maybe heard his grandparents blaming the man? That’s both probable and possible.”

I was processing this rather slowly. “So, you think Christopher believes Corey Johnson killed his mother? Or he’s been told as much?”

“That’s what I wondered. See, he kept on yelling. He said black people wanted to kill him. Kill all of us white people. He said he wanted his daddy. Which is totally bizarre because his father is uninvolved. He’s never been to any of our school functions that I know of. I even asked the lead teacher who’s out on maternity leave, and she agreed. It just seemed so odd. I could see him asking for his grandfather because Mr. Gilchrist drops Christopher off regularly and picks him up. They seem very close. Or he could have hollered for his grandmother, she’s a bit of a pill, but she dotes on him and stops in all the time as well. But his dad?”

“My friend Mert told me Sissy’s ex was some kind of racist. I wonder …”

“If his daddy has reinforced his fear of blacks?”

“Makes sense. I doubt it was an amicable divorce—”

“Are they ever? It’s always the child who gets hurt in the fight. Spoils of war. That’s all they are when two people decide to go at it.”

I asked Maggie how they calmed the boy down. I remembered her telling me once how an intense kid can keep on cranking up the emotional volume, even to the point of physically harming himself.

“Patricia carried him out of the classroom. I guess they went for a walk. You could hear his screams as she walked with him down the hall.”

“And the Percys? I guess it’s safe to assume their son won’t be attending here.”

“You would be assuming correctly.” Maggie wadded up the trash from her lunch. A slight odor of pickle scent lingered on her hands. She smashed the cup, the wrapper, and her napkin vigorously, working the paper into a wad the size of a walnut. Her face was strained and tired.

I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to reimburse me for the food.

___

Mrs. Glazer glared when I returned to the alumni office. She stood to face me, her body bristling in a palpable way. “Mrs. Lowenstein, it has been brought to my attention that you have overstepped your bounds.”

My heart dropped. I’d really screwed up. I should have put back all the files. Now word would get around that I was untrustworthy. My actions would reflect poorly on Time in a Bottle, as well as on my daughter and myself. Crapola. I’d ruined our family rep and endangered my livelihood all in one fell swoop.

“I walked into the file room and noticed you’d been rummaging through our folders. As you are well aware, much of that information is strictly confidential.” One of Mrs. Glazer’s fingers pointed at me as if aiming a gun at my chest. “You know, Mrs. Lowenstein, when I accepted your help on the alumni newsletter, I thought I made it perfectly clear that certain areas were off-limits. I trusted your integrity. Now, it seems I might have been mistaken.” Her jowls shook in anger. She was so angry that her nostrils had turned white against the red glow of her cheeks.

I decided to take my lumps. “You are right. I apologize.”

The woman sagged, her loose jowls flapping as she unclenched her teeth. I guess she’d expected a confrontation. But a soft answer turneth away wrath. What she hadn’t expected was me being agreeable. I took advantage of her shock to continue, “I should have asked your permission. I was trying to keep a secret, and I was wrong. You see, Ella Walden’s forty-fifth birthday is in a few weeks, and I was hoping to find old photos to scan for a special present. I wanted to make her an album of her years at CALA. Her family has such a history here, and the school means so much to her …” I let my voice trail off. When you lie, always mix a large dose of truth along with your falsehood. I don’t remember where I read that. Probably in a mystery novel. I’d heard Ella talking about her upcoming birthday. I had no clue when it was, though.

“Uh. Yes. You’re right. You should have asked me first,” Mrs. Glazer gathered herself. “But I must admit that’s a perfectly wonderful idea.”

I saw my opening and sprinted toward it. From my satchel, I opened one of my more recent album projects. Mrs. Glazer’s face changed from angry to astonished as she flipped through the pages. “You are so creative! Someday if you have time, I’d really, really like to learn how to scrapbook. I bought all these materials and can’t seem to get started.” On and on she went.

It got worse. Seems she had photos. Loads of them. In her desk.

She wanted to share every one of them with me and add commentary. The clock ticked off the seconds very slowly. Finally she said, “My, I’m a bit hungry. I’m heading down to the vending machines. Would you like something?”

I said no, and retreated happily to the alumni office, where I continued to look through the files. Something niggled at me. Something I’d seen. It was like playing that matching game Maggie talked about the kindergarteners playing. The trick was to remember what you’d seen and match it with a card lying face down. Part of the challenge was recalling placement, but even more important was recognition of sameness.

I spread the folders out on the old Formica-topped table. It wasn’t until the third file that a lightbulb went on in my tiny pea-brain.

CALA files on alumni employees were here in this office. I bet these were off-limits to the cops. Heck, Mrs. Glazer had warned me against peeking in them. Was there anything of value there? Only one way to find out. I dove into the files belonging to Sissy Gilchrist and Corey Johnson.

Most of the contents were unremarkable: resumes, posed head shots, grade transcripts, letters of recommendation so mundane that the signers could have been talking about Homer Simpson and Grover Cleveland. But part of the job application process was an essay every teacher had to submit on why he (or she) wanted to teach. Those, I hoped, would give me additional insight into Corey’s and Sissy’s lives. I waded through the desultory details in the files. One item in Corey’s caught my attention—and I jotted that down.

The essay portions were handwritten and would take time to decipher. More than likely, they’d both written stirring stuff on the order of the standard Miss America line, “I want to be a Peace Corps volunteer,” but who knew? I looked at Corey’s date of birth. I did the math.

Twice.

Wow.

I stared at the photo of Corey.

I formulated a theory astonishing and disturbing, but plausible.

Mrs. Glazer stuck her head in the door. “Still at it?”

I nodded and tried not to look guilty as I slid Corey and Sissy’s information under my stack of research papers. “I found great photos of the girls Ella ran around with. But I couldn’t find many images of her, or any good anecdotes. It’ll be hard to create a nice memory album with so few resources.”

“Hm,” said Mrs. Glazer. Her face didn’t betray anything. Then, giving me a “just a minute” hand signal, she disappeared and then reappeared with a pale pink sheet of imprinted paper in her hand. “Why not join us? I’m sure you’ll want to interview people who’ve known Ella since she was a student here.”

The sheet was an invitation to a farewell party for Mrs. Selsner, the school nurse. “Fifty years of service!” read the headline.

I’d forgotten how long she’d been a part of the school. She would have information on the Four Alumnae: Patricia, Ella, Jennifer, and Mahreeya.

The festivities were to be held this coming Saturday night at La Casa, an old family-owned St. Louis restaurant. Mrs. Glazer indicated I could keep the invitation.

A nasty thought presented itself: Mrs. Selsner was getting the bum’s rush. Her goodbye had been instigated by Sissy Gilchrist’s death.

That didn’t seem right.

Wasn’t the nurse a victim here? She—along with my daughter and Tilly—had stumbled over the body. Was this a punishment? If so, for what?

Kiki’s Tips for Using Punches

Punches are one of my favorite tools because they are incredibly versatile, plus you can use them over and over again!

1. Punch through a sheet of tinfoil when your punches get dull. If they get sticky, punch through a piece of wax paper.

2. Think of your punches as shapes. Trying making new art by combining various shapes. For example, three circle punches of increasing sizes could be stacked on top of each other to create a snowman. Add a rectangle for the body of stovepipe hat. Cut a thin slice from an oval to create the brim.

3. Buy a set of punches in the same shape, but in increasing sizes, and layer them together. This is particularly effective with circle punches. Secure them through the center with a brad. Rough up and curl the edges to make a cool flower.

4. Use a punch to create a cool border of negative spaces (holes!). Start by punching a piece of waste paper. Use this as a pattern and mark lightly with a pencil where you want your holes to go along your border. Turning your punch upside down so you can see the mechanism, align up your punch with the penciled marks to create a perfect border.

5. Take a punch to your extra family photos and create a stockpile of mug shots. Carefully position the punches so you can frame the faces. Keep these extra portraits in an envelope marked with each person’s name. Use them on pages of small albums!

6. Create dimension and interest by combining punches. For example, to green holly leaves, you can add small red circles to make the holly berries. Or put a punch art bow on top of a punched out square to make a gift wrapped package!

7. Use a foam adhesive dot or square under parts of your punch art. This will raise the art off your page. It’s a cool effect.

Poking around in the
alumni office had given me a motive for the murder. And I didn’t feel good about my hunch. In fact, all I could feel was depressed.

That weight pressed on me as I walked through the polished marble hall of the administrative building, stopping to enjoy the stately architecture, the statuary, the art, and the displays. Inside its hallowed halls, the school looked more like an art museum than an educational institution. My own school days took place in a sad concrete building with low ceilings, dark halls, and tired, worn equipment such as wooden desks studded with clods of chewing gum like cloves in an orange.

This school was rich with culture, from the poems framed on the walls, to autographs of important visitors, and cases lined with valuable gifts, such as personal memorabilia of famous alums. I always lingered here, because the ambience fed my soul. How I envied my daughter the chance to go to a place teaming with such inspiration, rich with resources, and overflowing with opportunities.

I moved through the archways outside, taking in the old trees, the fountain, and the benches. I walked into another building, noting the name on the plaque “Barlett Building,” which signified a gift from the Barlett family, whoever they were. I remembered a conversation Anya and I had about a third-grader who was acting out. “Gee,” I’d mused. “If he doesn’t quit that, he might not get invited back.” (You didn’t just “go” to CALA. You were invited to be a student there, and the invitations were considered and reissued on a yearly basis.)

Anya gave me one of those looks only a kid can give her clueless parent. “Duh, Mom, his name’s on a building. I don’t think he’s worried about getting an invitation to return.” And she chuckled.

Remembering how stupid I’d felt, I stepped outside and headed toward the parking lot. My old Beemer with the crumpled right fender sat in the very farthest edge.

“Howdo, Mrs. Lowenstein.”

I turned to see Mr. Beacon, the security guard, driving a golf cart emblazoned with the seal of CALA. One hand on the wheel, he waved a red clipboard from his other.

“How are you, sir, on this lovely day?”

A slight dipping gesture of his head preceded a “fine, fine.”

I noticed the papers on his clipboard were covered with writing.

“You get assigned homework?” I teased.

“No, ma’am. My job is homework. I take all type of notes. Jot down who all’s in the parking lot. Who I ask to move their car. Who works late. Who loads anything and what they are loading.” He tapped the papers. “It’s all in here.”

“That’s good news about Coach Johnson being released, isn’t it?” I dug around in my handbag for my keys.

“Yes, ma’am. It sure is. Guess that means they know he didn’t do it.”

I hated to burst his bubble, but I had to correct his assumption. His job was security, and he needed to know the truth if he were to protect our children. “Sorry, Mr. Beacon, but it only means they don’t have enough evidence to charge him. They don’t have another suspect. At least not that I’ve heard.”

“Hmm. That’s so?” With a gnarled hand, he reached up slowly to pull off his cap. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, his face tired and sad, in testimony to all the troubles he’d seen.

I continued, “Coach Johnson doesn’t have an alibi. Sissy was killed roughly between nine-thirty and ten a.m.”

Mr. Beacon’s brow furrowed and he blinked thoughtfully. “From when to when?”

“From nine-thirty to ten. Staff saw her before that. Time of death is always approximate, but she dropped Christopher off in kindergarten at nine-thirty.”

“I thought they knew how he couldn’t have done it.”

I very nearly discounted his remark. I expected to hear Mr. Beacon expand on Corey’s devotion to Sissy Gilchrist. Because my mind was made up as to what I was going to hear, I nearly missed what he did say. But, thank goodness, I didn’t miss it. “Come again?” I asked in embarrassment.

“Coach Johnson couldn’t have killed Ms. Gilchrist because he was clear at the opposite end of the campus. I know that for a fact. See, I had to ask him to move his car that morning. He’d been unloading soccer balls from the intramural league tryouts, and he was blocking the fire lane. He was fine about that, always is, whatever I ask of him. Matter of fact, he offered me a ride up here to the north lot, ’cause the golf cart was broke, and I got arthritis. Makes that uphill climb painful. I took him up on it, and we walked into the building together. I smelled coffee coming from his office, and Coach laughed and offered me a cup—now wait—”

Mr. Beacon unclipped his papers, shuffled through the stack and began a search. He gestured with the clipboard to a paper completely filled with neat handwriting. “See here? Right here?”

I skimmed the script, but he came to my rescue, using a finger to point out the pertinent line.

“Right here, I got down that he and I ate a Krispy Kreme donut—mine was plain cake with no topping—and had coffee—mine was black and I used Splenda—over in his office.” Mr. Beacon’s finger pointed to a neatly written scribble on the paper.

“You sure?” My heart was going from zero to sixty. This was too good to be true. The police might think so, too. “Why would you be writing about a snack you had? Isn’t this a security log?”

His eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am, yes, it is indeed a security log. But you see, first I write it here and then I copy it neat-like before I hand it in. And since I’ve got to copy it anyways, I write everything down. Just everything.”

“Donuts? Coffee?”

A solemn expression pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. ’Cause you know what they’re teaching me over at Weight Watchers. You bite it; you gotta write it, and that nice lady over at the Weight Watchers office gets real fussy with me if I don’t get down every little dinky bite I take, so’s I just got in the habit of putting everything down loose-like here, before re-copying the security part in my official work notebook. Sure takes a lot of the fun outta eating, I tell you. I think this diet works because you get tuckered out doing all this writing stuff. Most time, it just ain’t worth eating it because you got to find your notepad and write it down.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. I clapped the man on the shoulder and told him, “You are a genius. How come the police don’t know this? Or do they?”

He straightened up and stared at me. “I expect they don’t know because they don’t ask. Some police don’t think much of us security folks. I guess they didn’t think about talking to me. I figured they knew what they were doing and all, so I didn’t go mess in their business. Besides, I didn’t know exactly when Ms. Gilchrist was on her way to glory.”

I told Mr. Beacon to hang on, and I flipped open my cell phone and called Detweiler. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I started. I was right; he thought my news amazing.

After introducing the detective to Mr. Beacon via the phone and letting them work out the details of sharing Mr. Beacon’s revelation, I exited the parking lot and drove through the nearby residential area.

The city of St. Louis proper was considering a referendum allowing city police to live outside the city limits. Proponents explained that keeping good police was tough enough without mandating where they rested their heads at night. Opponents explained that police needed to understand the community, that having a policeman living next door helped stabilize a neighborhood, and that the city needed all the good citizen taxpayers it could get. This situation, overlooking Mr. Beacon as a witness, happened in part because the police were not products of the prep school system. They’d probably ridden buses to school and attended public institutions. So the cops had no idea exactly what Mr. Beacon did, or how seriously he took his mission.

The police had been blissfully unaware of the information Mr. Beacon could provide. Observing the CALA community from the outside wasn’t the same as having an intimate knowledge of its inner workings. And if they had questioned Mr. Beacon in his role as parking czar, I’d just bet they’d stuck to a script which didn’t include asking about his diet habits.

How lucky we’d all been that Mr. Beacon was on Weight Watchers!

___

I took a look at my watch and panicked. No way could I pick up Anya and get ready for our homecoming crop. If Dodie had been well, I could have asked her to help me with the setup. But Bama? Hadn’t she already railed at me about the hours she’d worked in my stead?

I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. Come on, come on, pick up, I mumbled to myself. “Sheila? I need to ask a big favor. Can you pick up Anya? She’s over at Bellerive.”

Silence greeted me. Bellerive was a golf course my late husband George had loved to play. Sheila had avoided it since her son’s death. But I was in a bind. I started begging. “I know it’s last minute, and I know you are uncomfortable with that place, but I really, really need your help. I’ve been working on the alumni newsletter, and I lost track of time, and I have that homecoming crop to do. Dodie had her biopsy yesterday, so she can’t help me. Please? Please, could you go get Anya?”

I shut up.

Finally she said, “I suppose you need me to keep her overnight, too?”

“That would be nice.”

She hung up on me. I took that as a “yes.”

My phone rang.

“Don’t forget we’re having dinner on Friday night here with the Novaks. I suggest you dress appropriately.” And for the second time in less than five minutes, my mother-in-law hung up on me.

I closed my phone and set it next to me carefully. Sheila had made it abundantly clear she thought Ben Novak was a suitable second husband for me. She was right. Ben was sweet-tempered, well-mannered, and his family owned a local alternative newspaper,
The Muddy Waters Review.
When I’d been hurt last summer, Ben had sat by me and read to me for hours. We’d gone out to dinner many times, and I blushed to remember how compatible we’d been. I mean, I hadn’t let him go very far, but he’d already impressed me as a generous and gentle man.

You’d think I’d be head over heels over Ben. Dodie had said, “He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. Good Jewish boy, too. I remember his bar mitzvah.”

Mert seconded that. “Whoa. If I weren’t so fond of gospel singing, I’d be first in line for a hunk like him.”

But I never daydreamed about Ben. Never.

I wanted to. I tried to. But it just didn’t happen.

Cut it out, Kiki, I told myself. This isn’t the time.

I couldn’t let myself get all moony. Not when I had such an important meeting ahead. Instead, I switched my thoughts to what I’d learned examining the files in the alumni office. I had a theory. And if I was right, there might be another reason Sissy Gilchrist was murdered. Excited as I was that I might have stumbled over a clue, my elation was tinged with regret. Surely this person wouldn’t have hurt Sissy.

Could I possibly be right? If I was, could this information help solve the murder? The person I had in mind had motive and opportunity. Heck, everyone within spitting distance of the school and its ton of bricks had means.

What should I do next?

I did what I always do when I need help. I dialed Detweiler.

His phone rolled immediately to voice mail.

I left a garbled message which barely made sense to me. Finally, after being cut off, I squeaked out, “Call me. Hurry, please.”

I ran into my house and let the dogs out to piddle. Anya was taken care of, but I hadn’t planned to run so late. Part of my responsibility was to provide treats for the crops, and I didn’t have time to stop at the grocery store.

I would have to sacrifice the Bread Co. bagels and cream cheese in my trunk. That would cover the gastronomical demands of the crop.

The dogs gave me sour looks and lollygagged until I shooed them into their crates. A wave of guilt rolled over me, but I couldn’t do much more than fill a Kong with a slice of cheese for each pooch, as I sped out the kitchen door.

At the store, Bama shouted at me. “Where have you been? The crop starts in less than a half an hour!”

I mumbled something and tossed the pre-made kits onto the table. I knew from experience that at least one if not two or three women would show up early. In fact, I could put Las Vegas odds on who would sail in through our front door ahead of the listed time, and who would then monopolize my precious pre-crop minutes.