The Case of the Red-Handed Rhesus (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) (33 page)

“You were in my sister Marguerite’s class. I’m so sorry! The Ruby Touch! I can’t remember . . .” But of course I played the Ruby Touch game. I was lying to myself if I thought otherwise. She would have been in second grade the year the whole school passed around “the Ruby touch” like it was leprosy. It became a game of tag, where the “it” kid tagged a victim and shouted, “You’ve got the Ruby Touch, pass it on before you’re gone!”

“It was a long time ago now,” Ruby . . . no . . . Agrima said.

“But it was
horrible
!”

“We cannot change the past, Noel, only learn from it. Do you know, I wanted so badly to fit in that
I
played that silly game? I thought if I made fun of myself, the other children would accept me.”

“Where did you go?” I couldn’t remember a second year of the Ruby Touch game. She must not have returned for third grade.

“My father teaches at the university, in the Religious Studies department. We moved to Columbus and he commuted to work for a long time. My parents only moved back here when Kenny and I got married and I came back myself. I think they expected to be sheltering me again, you know. But things are quite a bit better now. Julie doesn’t face the kind of prejudice I did. And she’s not the only child in the school looking out for bullies. Many of the kids here are quite kind.” She smiled warmly. “I should be getting back to class. The students have reading after art, and I help Mrs. Grisby break them into groups once a week so the slower learners have a prayer. Take care now. I’ll try to keep an eye on your Sara when she gets back.”

She walked away, leaving me rattled. Was her past the future my daughter faced in this school? Or could she help me change Sara’s position? I had such good memories of elementary school. I loved school and my friends. But how could Sara love a place where she was nothing but a victim? No wonder she hated to come.

“What happened back there in the principal’s office?” Lance asked Chandra.

“I said the magic word.”

“ ‘Doctor’?” he guessed. “I thought the magic word was ‘please’.” Nobody had been saying “please” or “thank you” in there.

“In education, the magic word is ‘adequate.’ ”

“Adequate?”

“You have to be careful never to ask for an
equal
education for your child. The state is only required to provide her with an
adequate
education. The school system will instantly fall back to the position that you’ve asked for too much if you want your child’s education to be equal.”

“Is that what Ms. Anderssen was telling the principal?” I asked.

Chandra laughed, a quiet, humorless sound. “Ms. Anderssen was probably reminding him why I share a nickname with Margaret Thatcher.”

“I didn’t know . . .”

“I know what the children call me behind my back, Noel. But to be truthful, I’m rather proud of it. Nearly all of us have nicknames from the kids who have been in the system long enough. Some of them can be quite derogatory.”
Orangutan Lady. Merry, Merry, Quite Contrary.
“Iron Lady suits me perfectly. Going up against me is like beating your head against an anvil.”

“Ah.” We had reached the cars. I hoped I would not be going up against her soon.

“I’ll tell you another thing. Sara needs to be at William’s school. It’s much better geared to give her any kind of education at all. She has the grades.”

“Too bad she lost the lottery.”

“Actually, there’s an appeals process for families of multiple children, when one child is accepted but the other isn’t, as long as GPA isn’t an issue.”

“Shit,” said Lance.

“Most people don’t know about it,” she reassured him. “And those who do often choose not to draw attention to their families by applying. But if you’re willing to complete the necessary paperwork, I can . . .”

“Noel, don’t open your door.”

Too late. My hand was already on the handle, and I was listening more closely to Chandra than to my husband. Moreover, I wasn’t paying attention to the way the car was jiggling. To make matters worse, I had never adjusted to the ease with which the minivan and convertible opened in contrast to the primate-mobile. I didn’t merely open the door, I threw it wide with all my force.

Travis Kendal, in his trademark plaid shirt, spilled into the parking lot, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey and thrashing like a caged animal.

Dear Nora:

I’m failing algebra. I do okay on homework, because my prof’s computer program tells me the right answer when I plug in the wrong one. I just type in the wrong thing for everything so I can turn in the right answers and get a good grade. But the exams don’t tell me whether I’m right or wrong, and the prof grades whatever I submit without giving me a chance to fix the errors. What do I do?

Non-plussed

Dear Non:

Study.

Nora

“I’m a scout mom.” Norma Anderssen followed Chandra back outside. “I always have a lighter, a knife, and a corkscrew handy.”

While I called for emergency services, Lance grabbed several times at the cloth grocery bag knotted over Travis’s head, but Travis wouldn’t be still. Lance finally got Travis’s attention as Chandra returned from reporting the emergency to the school. “Travis, it’s Lance Lakeland. Cool down and let me get this off of you.”

Travis said something incomprehensible as the bag ripped free.

“And in case you’re wondering,” Norma continued, “you can use a corkscrew for lots of things besides opening wine.
Lots.
” From her car, she had retrieved a giant pocket knife, the sort of thing a school would never have allowed indoors. It took a few yanks for her to pry it open, making me doubt its efficacy in an emergency, but it served its purpose now. Travis grew still and let Lance saw away at the ropes binding his body.

“The school guidance counselor . . . uh . . . found something to cut him free,” I reported to the emergency dispatcher. “But his face is going to be harder. He’s got a goose egg on the back of his head and duct tape wound around his mouth and scalp.”

Travis kept trying to talk, urgently grunting the whole time Lance released his bonds. When he was finally free, he rubbed his wrists then clawed at the duct tape, and Lance set down the knife to help him.

After the tape was dislodged and jammed under his chin, he took two deep breaths. “Noel, I caught you in time,” he babbled in a hoarse voice. “The chair is trying to tank your interview. I
saw him
putting rotten fish in the conference room this morning. I wanted to text, but he’s suspicious I know, and . . .” Suddenly, he stopped, breathing heavily. He touched the swollen knot above the duct tape in his hair and flinched away from his own fingers. “Ow,” he said.

“Head between the knees, don’t pass out on me, Buddy.” Lance prodded Travis into a semblance of the appropriate posture.

Travis shook him off. “It’s not today anymore, is it? No, that’s stupid. Of course, today is always today, and tomorrow is . . . never mind. The point I’m after . . . I guess I’ve forgotten.” He brooded a few seconds, with his chin on his knees. “Lost track of time, I think. That’s what I meant. I haven’t been able to see much. How long ago
was
today? Damn . . . I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean.” Lance hunkered beside our colleague. “Yesterday. Noel’s interview was yesterday. You should try to relax.”

“What happened to you?”

Lance shot Chandra a glower that suggested she shouldn’t have inquired. The dispatcher and I weren’t talking now, but the woman remained on the line, holding my hand across the miles until emergency services arrived.

“I don’t know. I smelled something heinous and looked out in the corridor. The chair was carrying a picnic-sized cooler into the conference room. I almost offered to help him with it, but . . . you know how many stupid chores I do for him already. I hid at my desk. But something still stank to high heaven. I followed the smell to the conference room and found that cooler under the table with the lid half off. It was full of dead fish. Raw dead fish. Disgusting. I dumped the whole thing in the trash and put the trash in the hall. I know he saw me do it, because he came along to ask about the odor not a whole minute later. Ha! As if he didn’t know where it came from.

“I said I was cleaning out the fridge for Noel’s interview. As if he didn’t know! But he couldn’t exactly call me on it, could he? He told me to take it to the Dumpster. I did, and I was standing down in front of the Dumpster. I had my phone out to text you, but then, nothing. Then, I was tied up and screaming. I don’t know.”

As soon as the ambulance arrived, I hung up with the dispatcher and texted Bryan. “Travis found. Doing okay. Head bump. Talking. Meet him at Ironweed General.” Then Lance and I rode down to see Drew and spent a long time answering questions and signing reports. We finished long past lunchtime, and only after several flurries of texting with Natasha and my mother.

Mama is even more of a texting neophyte than I am. For the first six months of owning a cell phone, she only took pictures. Answering the machine was a catastrophic adventure, and nobody ever knew if she’d pick up or forward the call through mystic means to another relative. Texting required her to use her phone’s tiny keyboard, pay attention to its autocorrect,
and
be concise, none of which were easy for her. I could sympathize with the first two, at least.

Lenore Rue:
Do you ever forgive this child?

Noel Rue:
What? What happened? Do you mean Sara or Nasturtium?

Lenore Rue:
Lunch! She acts like she never saw food in her entire life. I found her half a pound of spaghetti noodles, then she still wanted desert!

Natasha Oeschle:
She means feed, Noel, not forgive. She’s asking because Sara’s all the sudden way hungry.

Noel Rue:
She’s usually picky.

Natasha Oeshchle:
I said so, too. But she’s eating broccoli so your Mom will make cookies. I think she skipped breakfast to play dress up.

Noel Rue:
Broccoli?! You got her to eat bronchitis, Mama?

Lenore Rue:
All it needs is cheese.

Lenore Rue:
Relax. It’s organic. And none of the cookie ingredients concern palm oil. I know how you furl about that. And Tuba is eating some, too.

Natasha Oeschle:
Hey, I want the cookies! It’s not a bad deal.

Noel Rue:
Carry on, then. It sounds like you have everything under control.

Lenore Rue:
Well u see hours understudy project.

Noel Rue:
What? Mama, I can’t make that one out.

Natasha Oeschle:
I think it’s supposed to be wait until you see our upstairs project. But she’s in the cabinets now. Do you want me to ask?

Noel Rue:
Don’t. If it’s upstairs, it’s seamstress stuff, and I don’t want to find out she has Sara running her Sergei.

Natasha Oeschle:
The serger? That’s
my
job. Sara’s in charge of the sewing machine.

Noel Rue:
WHAT?

Natasha Oeschle:
j/k

Noel Rue:
WHAT?

Natasha Oeschle:
Just kidding. Okay, she’s got a bunch of stuff out. I think we’re on to baking.

“It’s like one of those word substitution games,” said Lance, reading over my shoulder.

“Only harder to understand.” I tucked the phone away, but it buzzed immediately. The conversation I exchanged with Trudy was more concise.

Trudy Jackson:
All’s well here. Don’t leave the police station without Darnell.

Noel Rue:
As if he’d let us.

“And to think I’d never even sent a line of text before June,” I grumbled, stowing the phone for a second time. Once more, it buzzed. “Seriously?” I ignored it.

Drew was still talking on the phone to Darnell, who was en route. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to see if the vending machines have anything edible,” Lance said.

“Did you check in on William?”

“He’s fine. Nothing unusual at all about his day, unless you count crabbiness.”

“That’s something.” Now the phone didn’t buzz, it outright rang. “For pity’s sake! What?”

“Noel, is this a bad time?” It was Christian.

“It’s as good as any, I guess.”

“Did you get my text?”

Did you get my text?
I mouthed the words back at him, glad he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes. “No, Christian. I didn’t. What did you need?”

“Hang up and look at it.” He clicked off, precluding me from a reply, because he knew both that I was irked and that I didn’t know how to talk and text simultaneously.

“Lance, Lance, look at this!”

My husband was halfway down the hall in his quest for edibles, but he came back at a run. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothing,
look
!”

Someone had rigged up a tablet computer, and Lucy was pressed against the mesh of her enclosure, fingers poking for it, every bit the excited kid.

“Who gave her a computer to pull apart?” I called Christian back after giving Lance the barest of glimpses. He had, after all, been copied on the message.

“The machine never goes all the way in, and it comes out of reach when she’s through with it, but it’s helped her feel less isolated from the rest of the group. Today’s the first time with the baby, but . . .”

“The baby?”

“Didn’t you see what she was looking at?”

“I saw the top of her head, the side of her face, and a screen, Christian.”

“She’s chatting with Sabine about her baby.” Sabine was the orangutan who had become caretaker to Lucy’s infant, since the hand-reared Lucy had no idea how to parent. “We weren’t even sure she knew it existed. But they’re talking about the baby!”

“What are they saying?”

“I don’t know. There’s mostly pointing and waving, but they’ve both signed ‘baby’ a couple of times.” Until now, Lucy’s socialization had been going slowly, much as Chuck’s would have been doing if we had been housing him in appropriate social conditions. Without company, he was lonely and bored, probably a large part of the reason he kept getting out. (If, indeed, he
was
getting out. Did the people who tied up the deputies have orangutan boots?) Looking at Lucy with the computer reminded me how much we needed to remedy Chuck’s situation.