Relative Danger (8 page)

I wandered around, looking for my grandchild. Some halls I found were labeled Mathematics, Science, English, Business, Computers, and Swimming Pool. Other pathways weren’t named. The scent of fast foods reached my nostrils, my stomach responding with a twitch. It was late morning, much earlier than I normally ate lunch, but my slice of bread had evaporated eons ago. I’d have to feed the gnawing in my belly before worrying more about Kat or getting my information about Sledge to Anne Little. And Abby Jeansonne had said I should question Mrs. Little about the murder.

“Which way is the cafeteria?” I asked a hefty guy cramming a whole folded slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. He gurgled, and I followed to where he pointed, until my nose began leading the way. The aroma of fried chicken and homemade rolls didn’t escape me. A bell clanged, and I wondered what it meant now. Why were some kids withdrawing?

The cafeteria hall had almost emptied, and I was happy to easily make my way through. A young woman who came through an exterior door was so tall she could have eaten her lunch on top of my head. I realized she was the same person with the quiet voice who had initially guided me to the office. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for helping me out yesterday. Today I’m subbing. I’m Cealie Gunther.”

“Hello.” She patted down her fluffy blond waves. “It’s so windy out there. Now I’ve got duty hair.”

“Duty hair?” I grinned, and so did she.

“This is what hair looks like after you’ve had duty outdoors on a windy day. We had an accident a few days ago, and since then, all teachers have to pull duty. We’re monitoring all activities here more closely.” Her shoulder-length hair set off a flawless complexion and eyes the color of copper. She was slender, and the bodice of her knit top lay almost flat, yet little nubs poked up. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

A woman who chose not to put on underwear for work? I admired her for making that choice. “I’m Marisa Hernandez,” she said.

Kat’s mentor! I reached out and pumped her hand. “So nice to meet you,” I said, needing to talk with her about Kat.

“Whose place are you taking? If you’re coming this way, I’ll walk with you.”

“I’m subbing for Jack Burdell, but I’m not sure which direction the room is now.”

“Oh, then we won’t be heading the same way. You’ll go down that corridor to the right, turn right again, and then left.”

“Thanks. I’m going to eat first. How about joining me?”

“That bell meant our final lunch period was over. The cafeteria’s closed.” Marisa Hernandez sauntered off, and facts clicked in my mind. She was Kat’s beloved teacher. And a murder suspect. The hem of her skirt swept muscular calves, her arms swung loosely, and I wondered. Could those dangling arms and long hands have shoved a man off a balcony?

And what did she mean—lunch was over?

Students had disappeared from my hall. I shoved the cafeteria door open, and the fried-chicken smell greeted me. Scores of round tables sat empty. I spied covered food bins but no ladies with hairnets in the area. I could grab a drumstick and gobble it while making my way back to class. But then I’d be greasy and need a drink. It might not be prudent to watch a class taking a test while I gnawed on a leg bone.

I turned, feeling my belly button striving to reach my backbone. Immediately across the hall I faced double doors, the word above them capturing my attention—
Auditorium
. That was where the custodian died.

I scooted to the doors and grabbed a handle. Pulling slowly, I found the first door locked. The second door sucked open.

Darkness and even blacker shadows stretched inside. The room’s absolute quiet engulfed me like a shroud. The balcony was somewhere above. And below it, the space where Grant Labruzzo had lain lifeless.

An icy chill made my arms tremble. I let the door go and scooted away. I needed to release the tension in my jaw and teach a class. Digging orange Tic Tacs out of my purse, I chewed them. Two men stood ahead, both wearing suits and dress shirts without ties. Their commanding stance and take-everything-in demeanor made me decide they were detectives. The tall one looked older. He was hairless, with black-rimmed eyeglasses and a thick waistline. The younger one was brown-skinned. His shoulders were wide, his hair short, his waist trim. I could tell them what Sledge’s buddy mentioned about Sledge and the dead man.

I started toward them, but the older cop stopped me with his stare, his gaze nailing me as though I had done something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened that auditorium door. Police might still be checking out that room. Or classes might have started. Since I wasn’t in my room yet, my students could be rioting.

What happened when a teacher or sub didn’t show up for class?
Imagining the damage my worst students could inflict on a room or other students, I took off at a trot. My gaze skimmed halls, my breath catching in my throat. Suppose I couldn’t find room 111 from this direction? I angled down another hall, where Abby Jeansonne’s voice greeted me. She stood outside her door, angrily eyeing her room and mine. “I was afraid you had run out on us and were going to leave the afternoon groups all alone,” she said.

A backward sweep of my hand dismissed the idea. “No way.”
Not unless I could get away with it.
Then I could pursue Kat. What was happening with her?

I couldn’t just sneak away. I’d have to come back around these people for graduation. I hoped.

Both of our classrooms were quiet. I glanced in Abby’s room. Colorful physics posters and framed pictures hung on her walls. Sunlight slanted across her quietly seated students. Slits of light fell on Sledge, his mean-eyed gaze freezing against mine.

My returned stare told him “I know what you’re thinking.” At that moment, I really did believe he could kill someone. Me.

“We can get to work now, class,” Abby said, her voice breaking the spell between Sledge and me. I rushed inside my room.

Students looked like they’d been hit with a stun gun. What I surmised were three males and one female had cheeks down on their desks. “Wake up. Wake up,” I said, strolling down rows and tapping my fingers on desktops. A boy with a small mustache drew his head up and fixed his glassy eyes on me. Then like some great magnet pulled it, his head fell. He was snoring by the time I handed out papers.

All but the sleeping boy started their tests. These students must be working on credits for graduation, but if naptime was more important to that fellow, so be it. He was old enough to make his own decisions about his final average.

Just like Kat?

I hated to think she might make an unwise choice now that she was so close to the end. But Kat had agreed to come to school today, and she was attending classes, preparing for finals. Surely she’d decide to take them to keep her grades up. I had planned on checking into what happened to that custodian, but now I didn’t have to. The police would determine what took place. And if Kat’s friend Miss Hernandez was involved, Kat would have to learn to live with that fact.

I headed for the teacher’s chair when a girl waved to call me. I went to her, hoping she wouldn’t ask about building things. A glance at her paper told me her name was Roxy. She’d written no last name. The smell of stale smoke clung to Roxy’s stringy hair. “You called Kat,” she said, and I recognized her as one of girls who’d gone in and out of the restroom.

“Yes,” I said, excited, hoping I’d found an ally, “she’s my grandchild.”

“Your grandchild? Damn, how old are you anyway?”

Faces throughout the room turned up. The sleeping boy let out a snort.

If I’d been a person to get embarrassed, I would have now. A smart retort blasted to mind, but I stuffed it. I was too mature, but not too old, to trade quips with a student.
Age doesn’t matter! Just don’t ask what mine is, or you’ll make me a liar
, I might tell her. And almost as much as I hated depression, I abhorred telling untruths. But sometimes I needed to resort to telling them—with crossed fingers. “Young lady,” I said, ignoring other stares, “I won’t humor you with an answer. But I will tell you it’s not proper to address a person that way, especially an adult.”

Roxy’s cheek tightened, pulling up an edge of her lip. Pencil-thin plucked eyebrows formed teepees above her eyes that appeared navy blue. An offset edge near one iris revealed that she wore colored contacts.

I shared stares with Roxy, my peripheral vision seeing smirks of the teens anticipating the fun of our encounter escalating. How often did teachers today have to go through this?

Roxy opened thin lips that she’d painted brown. She inhaled, and I knew smart words were about to come out. Her lips formed the letter
F
.

“Don’t,” I warned.

She took deep breaths, her expression saying she was trying to decide whether to continue this contest. Her hands spread on her desk, and her palms pressed on its grainy wood. She looked ready to shove herself up.

And then what?

I walked away. If Roxy was going to fight me, she’d have to come over to the next row. But I could certainly imagine her throwing down desks to reach me. “All right, class,” I said, brazenly turning my back to her, “get busy with your tests. You don’t have much time left.”

Gazes swerved from me to Roxy, and then me again. Some teenagers looked disappointed, some reassured. The sleeping boy sat up, appearing wide-awake.

“Ugh,” Roxy sighed. Her elbows crooked out, and her cheek struck her desk. Roxy’s arm shoved her test to the floor. She readjusted her head against her bent arms.

This was school? Where was the anticipation of learning? Where was school spirit? What in the hell had happened to kids? Of course someone in this school could badly harm another person. The anger broiling inside me let me know I could smack someone’s hind side for sure.

I turned away from Roxy, reeled in animosity, and decided to look for pleasant youths. I meandered around desks, pausing near some and drawing stares. I offered smiles and was warmed at receiving a few. Every test except one had been turned in when the bell rang. “Hey Roxy,” a boy called, slapping her back on his way out, “class is over.”

Roxy’s arm whipped around to punch whoever hit her. She saw the room vacated except for me and uttered, “Shit.”

I decided now wasn’t the time to teach her alternate terms. As she stood, I said, “Don’t forget your test.” Roxy stared at me, and my gaze shifted to the floor, to that piece of paper, which was about to earn her an F. She muttered a word starting with the same letter and grabbed the test. Flinging it on Mr. Burdell’s desk, she stormed out.

The release of my breath felt extra peaceful. But Kat was friends with that girl? I yearned to curl up in a bed. I’d lose myself in a novel, one that would make me smile, for this day seemed barren of humor. In a classroom was not where I wanted to remain. How could today’s teachers cope with these potentially violent kids day after day? These teenagers were certainly not, as I’d hoped, vacuums waiting to be filled with knowledge.

One recollection made me grateful. I wasn’t expected to fill their hungry minds with how to use hammers and drills. Mr. Burdell had done that. Bless Mr. Burdell. The next class came, and without incident, took their tests. They left, and I awaited my final group of students.

“Hey,” a big fellow shifting into the room said, “aren’t you the woman who came here in that old mail truck?”

I stood straight, awaiting his jeer. “I am.”

While other teens hustled in behind, the fellow raised his massive hand. It went for mine. “Neat wheels!” He slapped my palm. With a broad grin, he announced, “Hey everybody, this lady’s cool. She’s got that goofy green mail truck.”

Teens commented with smiles. I smiled in return, getting ready to end the day on a positive note. This was a great group. They knew distinction when they saw it. I introduced myself and gave out papers. Sledge was coming in the door. I blocked him and said, “You were already in here today.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pocket, and my heart skipped a beat. Would he pull out a weapon? He lifted thick shoulders and dropped them. “Stupid teacher kicked me out of class. She told me to come sit in old man Burdell’s room.” Sledge nudged past me and slunk to a desk in the rear.

My comfort had left. I dropped into the teacher’s chair. I wanted out of here. If I ever considered being in a classroom again, I would kick myself silly. I’d never even drive near a school.

But then there was Kat. She was here. And although I hadn’t really spoken to her—because she’d avoided me, which especially hurt—she was attending classes. Her grades should improve. But she had come into that restroom with Roxy.

My fingers tap-danced on the desk. Two people involved with this school had died this week. Could the deaths be connected? If the custodian was murdered, I could already give a list of suspects. Sledge, now giving me dark-eyed stares, topped my list. Roxy could hurt someone. That ferocious-looking coach and his tiny sidekick in the office always looked like they might kill. But who had a motive? Or an opportunity?

Did anyone here know a man died? Did anybody care?

Kat did. The death occurred after school, she’d told me. I kept a watchful eye on Sledge and wondered who else might have been here at that time. The police were still questioning people. They’d find out. Same for the substitute lady, who’d been shot near her home.

I pulled out keys for the classroom, restroom, and whatever the third was for. I would be ready to leave.

My eyes swerved back to the keys I held. Would the school have been locked when the custodian died? If so, then who else had access to this building? Some of the people in charge. The principal. Vice-principal Anne Little, whose mouth had done that nervous twitch; anyone whose main duty entailed hiring people to sub with these students must have a violent streak. Band directors usually had keys to get into buildings. So did coaches. Probably other teachers.

I peered at my three keys, each a different size and shape. I hadn’t been given a key for the main building, but what about regular teachers? Other custodians? Anything was possible, I determined, glad I didn’t have to prove who, if anyone, had done the killing.