The Ghosts of Lovely Women (19 page)

He hung up and whistled tunelessly while he looked through his drawer. “You’re safe for Period One. That gives you lots of time.”

“You — you’re a liar!” I said.

“It was crisis management. Your eyes were bugging out. They look prettier like this,” he said, coming to me and smoothing the creases out of my face with his hands. He smelled like toothpaste.

“And you want me to trust you,” I murmured.

“You do trust me.”

He kissed me, softly, and said, “I would love a shower, and I’ll bet you would, too. Any chance we might buddy up and save on water?”

The laughter bubbled out of me, half shock and half relief. “I still need to walk my dog.”

“All the more reason for sharing,” he said, kissing my shoulder.

“I would not wish any companion in the world but you …”

—Miranda,
The Tempest
, Act III

We took Derek’s car in order to support his lie. When we got to the faculty parking lot I assured him that I was not going to walk in with him, and that I intended to keep our relationship discreet.

“Yes, Theodora,” he said.

I heard him laughing at me as I skipped away from the car so that I could pretend I had come on my own. I needn’t have worried. It was second period already, and the lot was empty of people — except for one.

“Hey, Teddy! What’s happening?” asked Andy Bentham, our music director, as he got out of his Toyota a few lanes away. He was extra tall and thin with just a tuft of soft red hair on top of his head. The kids called him The Carrot, but they all loved him.

“Nothing. How are you, Andy?”

“Great. Good job remembering Green Week.”

“What?”

“Green Week. We’re supposed to carpool or take the bus. You and Derek remembered. Now I’m probably going to get a memo from Fred telling me that I’m not Eco-friendly or some shit like that.”

“Oh!” Once again circumstances had potentially saved me from being the subject of gossip. “Yeah, well, it’s easy for us to carpool. We only live two blocks apart.”

“I didn’t realize you guys were free first period. You should come down and have coffee with me sometimes.”

“We’re not, actually… just some car trouble.”

“Oh. Bummer.” He beamed at me. “You and I are in great moods this morning, huh?”

“What — no, I—”

“I saw you smiling as you walked along. What, did you remember a joke?” We reached the building; Andy held the door open for me and I walked in, making an effort not to look behind me.

“No — just smiling, I guess.”

The Fine Arts hallway came up almost immediately. “Have a great day!” said Andy, disappearing down the corridor that led to his office.

“You, too.”

I passed Tom Hendy, who was moving one of the big garbage cans to the cafeteria on his little wheeled dolly. He smiled at me, too, which was not a normal response from Tom. I began to wonder what sort of look I had on my face.

The teacher mailroom, like the parking lot, was sparsely inhabited, but as luck would have it Lucia was there. I remembered, suddenly, that all of the Italian students were on a field trip with Signor Montanini. Lucia had weaseled out of chaperoning so that she could clean her room. She was down here, though, dawdling and drinking coffee.

I went to retrieve my morning mail and she whisked up to me, smelling like a flower garden. “You look lovely today! I guess you got your beauty sleep. Or is it something else that has you glowing?”

Lucia, with her lush and complicated love life, was playing a little game of “It takes one to know one.” I met her gaze with what I hoped was a blank expression. “I took your advice and got some sleep. And I had a nice, vigorous shower.”

Derek appeared at his mailbox, smirking into its depths. Lucia’s gaze swung toward him, but he was suddenly finding something very interesting inside an envelope labeled
Department Chair
. His gaze stayed almost fiercely pinned to the letter he was reading.

“I have to go, Lucia. I want to make a phone call before class. See you at lunch maybe.” I waved and left the room.

I did want to make a phone call, which I dialed from the counseling office. I expected an answering machine, but I heard a real person say, “Detective McCall.”

“Oh — hello. This is Teddy Thurber. I’m the woman who—”

“I remember you, Miss Thurber. Did you have some more information for us?”

“Well, no — I was hoping you’d have some for me. I was thinking about that note in Kathy Olchen’s briefcase — the one saying that I knew something. And I can only think it might be linked to the book — the one that Jessica gave me. I wondered if you found anything inside. Any sort of message or paper or something?”

“Hang on. Let me pull that file.”

I waited, listening to
Killing Me Softly
on Muzac. Didn’t the homicide department find that ironic? Her voice came back. “Miss Thurber, I have the notes here. Our people have finished processing the book; I can probably return it to you now. There were no fingerprints on the book other than yours and Jessica’s. There were no papers or bookmarks within. Regarding notations inside, several of the page numbers were circled. They were: page 14 and 15, and also page 101. She also circled the word “amulet” on page 147 and wrote “Cindy” in the margin. And on the back flyleaf she wrote the sentence “Numbers can be significant.”

“14 and 15—that’s the number of the customer that Jessica had on the website. 1415—she pulled the page out of the pile, did Mitch Menteith tell you that?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice surprised.

I was glad to hear she’d spoken with Menteith. Maybe she could figure out what sort of “paper” Kathy had been seeking, as well as what cash Jessica might have been fretting about. “Have you found him, then — this man?”

“Not yet. We’ve encountered some… complications. Computers are not always the most reliable evidence.” Her voice grew brisk then. “If you’re willing to stop by the station, you can pick up your book at any time.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you. Detective — there’s one more thing.” I told her what Danny had said about Jessica’s father — how they had argued and he had called her a slut. McCall seemed to need a moment to process that idea. “When was this?” she asked.

“A night or two before she died, I think.”

“I don’t recall Washburn telling us that. I may have to chat with him again.”

Oops. I hadn’t meant to force Danny into another interrogation; I had wanted to share what I considered an inappropriate attitude in Mr. Halliday. I said goodbye and rang off, feeling troubled.

I went to my second period class, the members of which seemed to be gauging my mood. I think word of my weeping in front of first period seniors had trickled down to second period sophomores. The hesitation of some of the students who looked my way suggested that they feared I would burst into stormy tears once again. Obviously reassured by my expression, they proceeded to complain about
Macbeth
.

I sighed, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous students.

“Are you going to Miss Olchen’s wake?” asked one girl, apropos of nothing.

“Yes,” I said, then held my finger up to my mouth as a voice crackled on the p.a. “Please excuse this interruption. Would the following students please come to the main office?” said Fred’s voice. While he read the list in his blah voice, I thought about Jessica’s little notations in the book she’d given me. Were they meant for her, or someone else? If they were meant for me, how would she possibly expect me to make connections between randomly circled numbers and anything else? It was too vague, and Jessica wasn’t a fool. It seemed to me that it wasn’t a message at all. Yet how could I ignore the coincidence? 14 and 15, and the number 1415 which had been on the page of perpetrators pulled from the rest?

And what about the “amulet?” Had she planned to give that necklace to Cindy all along? If so, why? Or did she just want to share it with someone who was like-minded — a girl who was young, pretty, ambitious? A girl who enjoyed reading the same sort of self-help books?

That gave me another idea. While Fred apologized for one last announcement and then droned about upcoming senior events (graduation was just around the corner), I went to my computer, clicked on the internet icon, and typed the name “Dr. Janice Foster” in the search bar. Several links immediately popped up, the first of which seemed to be Dr. Foster’s website. I clicked on this and there she was: slim, elegant, fiftyish, with hair so youthfully red that it had to be an artistic creation of her stylist, and a cream-colored suit that probably cost a thousand dollars. She sat, in the fancy visual, in what seemed to be a room full of clouds. She held her latest book, cover out, so that everyone could see it, and her smile suggested that the money was worth the annoying task of posing. In the corner of the site some technically created doves flew around and around her search menu. One of the choices there was “Contact Dr. Janice.”

I clicked on this and got an e-mail page, ready to go. I typed in my information and then wrote,

“Dear Dr. Janice,

I wonder if you might remember a fan of yours named Jessica Halliday. She was eighteen or so when she came to your signing in Chicago last year, and I know she spoke with you afterward, possibly even contacted you. She attended the event with another young woman named Cindy Jonas. I have a particular reason for asking, if you’re at all able to give me that information. I am Jessica’s English teacher; Jessica herself passed away just recently.

Thanks for your response.”

I signed my name and clicked SEND. I don’t know why I thought Dr. Janice Foster could shed some light on things for me, but to quote one of my father’s favorite philosophies: “You don’t ask, you don’t get.”

Fred was finishing up, reminding students about Green Week, sponsored by the student council. That was what The Carrot had been talking to me about in the parking lot. Starting on Monday we were all being encouraged to take the bus or carpool. A memo in our faculty mailbox, I recalled, had strongly suggested that we let students see us taking the bus. I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect, although I admired the idea in principle.

We finished
Macbeth
; some students, after our final dramatic reading, admitted that it had been “pretty cool” after all. “Their psychology is what gets them — him and his wife both,” said Shanika. “She’s worse than him in some ways, but they both get destroyed by guilt.”

“That would make a great research paper topic!”

Shanika gave me an Elvis sneer and clammed up.

* * *

After homeroom, in which I gave two different dress code detentions to students who couldn’t believe I was being that uncool, I went to the small lounge to make a call I was dreading, and therefore didn’t want to put off any longer. I dug out my old student directory and found the listing for “Halliday,” then dialed.

A boy’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Miss Thurber from St. James High School. May I speak to Mrs. Halliday?”

“Um — she’s busy right now. Oh, okay, she says she’ll take the call,” he said.

Then there was some murmuring, obviously with the phone covered. Finally, “Hello? This is Janet Halliday.”

“Mrs. Halliday, this is Theodora Thurber, from St. James?”

“Oh, hello, Miss Thurber! How are you?” she asked. Her voice seemed less dulled by pain than it had at the wake, but it had a certain desolate tinge, even while she was making an effort to be friendly.

“I am well. I hope you’re all doing okay — as okay as can be expected.”

“We’re hanging in there, thank you. I have a boy home sick today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was a pause; I thought she might be about to say more, but she didn’t, so I said, “The reason I called is that I found out a friend of mine knew Jessica.”

“Is that so?”

“And apparently they had become good friends, and Jessica had even given her a gift — or at least a loan of something — and my friend now wonders if you might want it back.”

“What was it?” she asked.

“It’s a necklace. One that you had made for her after your trip to Dover Beach—”

She laughed. “Oh, that thing. You know, I think she found it kind of clunky. I mean, I had it made for her, my intention — it was made with such love.” Her voice cracked.

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” I said. “But if it’s all right I’ll drop by your house after school today and bring it to you.”

“Thanks, Miss Thurber.”

“I’ll come by around 3:30.”

I poked my nose into Derek’s American history class during my afternoon free period. He had written a brief syllabus on the board, which looked like this:

This week: Jeffersonian and Jacksonian Democracy

Next week: Expansion, Slavery, and a Troubled Decade

Final weeks: The Civil War

In one corner he’d written TODAY’S THOUGHT QUESTION (worth 10 extra credit points): “Culture influences the way that we date time. The Christian calendar begins time with the birth of Jesus, but the Muslim calendar starts with Mohammad’s flight to Medina in the Christian year 622, and the Hebrew calendar begins at the supposed beginning of creation. Reflect upon this information. What insights occur to you about the notion of time itself? Make your first journal a philosophical discussion about the concepts of time and history.”

He stood in the back of the room, reading a notebook that a student was holding out for his inspection. The other students were talking quietly among themselves. Derek was nodding and smiling, and the young man offering up his work for inspection was obviously pleased with the response. Derek handed it back and said, “Mr. Andersen, if you continue with responses like that I may have to encourage you to become a historian.” The boy reddened with pleasure, though he pretended not to care in the time-honored way.