Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Read online

  “I think it’s gotten to all of us,” I told Yvonne.

  “Except certain high school seniors.” She gestured toward Harvey.

  The notion of a madman loose on our streets had shaken the town in ways too numerous to name. It wasn’t just that we looked over our shoulders as we left the grocery and jogged only with a friend, even in daylight. There was a subtler, more unnerving change as well, a sense of undefined menace that hovered continually somewhere in the back of our minds.

  The killer shadowed us all.

  I took another look at Harvey and met his ghoulish grin with one of my own. “Maybe the kids have the right approach. Thumb your nose at the dark forces and ward off evil with a little humor.”

  “I’m not sure,” Yvonne said, “that I consider this humor.”

  The warning bell rang and I headed back to my classroom. Julie was once again waiting by the door, along with half a dozen of her classmates. As the others settled into their seats, I took Julie aside.

  “I have some time after class if you want to talk.”

  She shrugged. “It’s nothing important.”

  “It doesn’t have to be important.”

  Julie’s hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression. But she nodded. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

  After I’d taken roll and read the morning’s announcements, I started the class on their self-portraits. With back- to-school night approaching, I thought it would be fun for parents to pick out their own child. I’d stolen the idea from Anna’s kindergarten teacher, I admit, but I thought it would work just as well for older students. It also tied in nicely with last week’s exercise on facial drawing and representational portraits.

  I saw a number of eyes glaze over while I gave instructions. Julie stared out the window, motionless as a statue.

  Once I let them get to work, however, the energy level picked up. I’d learned, early on, that with teenagers, artistic expression is stymied unless accompanied by a certain level of verbal expression. As long as the conversations were good-natured and not too loud, I didn’t mind.

  While they worked, I walked around the room answering questions and offering help when needed. A couple of the female students took the assignment quite literally. They pulled out mirrors to study the planes of their faces, the width of their eyes and, I imagine, the state of their makeup. Others decided to have fun with the assignment. Grant depicted himself on a surfboard atop a giant wave, Michelle behind the wheel of her dream car, and Skye, predictably, shared the page with her horse.

  Julie was back to staring out the window by the time I made it to her seat. Her sketch occupied only a small part of the page. She’d drawn the top half of her body, positioning it in the lower-right-hand corner so that her lower torso disappeared into space. Her front-button blouse, hoop earrings, and wispy, shoulder-length hair were drawn with close attention to detail. She’d begun the nose, but the face was otherwise featureless.

  “Why don’t you finish it,” I suggested. “You’ve done a wonderful job so far.”

  Julie studied the picture a moment. “It is finished,” she said, meeting my eyes with a look of defiance.

  Just then Mr. Combs, the principal, stuck his head into the room.

  “Mrs. Austen,” he said without preamble. “I’d like a word with you after class.”

  “Sure.”

  “My office.” He nodded, without looking at me, and was gone.

  Skye made a face—pantomimed shock—but it was veiled in smugness. “Not to worry you or anything, but Mr. Combs must be pretty upset. He wouldn’t come barging into class like that if he weren’t.”

  “He didn’t exactly come barging in,” I replied, irked by her tone. Skye often used her mother’s position on the faculty to intimate inside knowledge. In much the same way, she liked to flaunt her stepfather’s status as judge. Usually, I ignored it. What bothered me this time was that I had the sinking feeling she just might be right.

  Chapter 2

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked.

  Combs looked up from his impressively neat desk and offered me the briefest of smiles. Not a good sign.

  “Have a seat,” he said solemnly.

  None of the usual chitchat. That wasn’t a good sign either.

  Aaron Combs had once played professional football. I imagine he didn’t play very often, or very well, which was why he had become a physical education teacher, a position he’d left only last year in order to take the helm at Walnut Hills High. He was not a tall man, but he was thickly built and surprisingly solid for a man nearing fifty.

  He folded his hands on his desk, thumb pressing thumb. “I’m afraid I’ve received a complaint.”

  “About me?”

  He nodded. “Well, not you so much as your teaching.”

  I swallowed a gulp of air. So much for the steady paycheck.

  Combs did not look happy. He cleared his throat.

  “Something about presenting pornography to the students.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped open in surprise. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “You deny it?”

  “Of course I deny it. It’s not true.”

  “No full-color slides of nude men and women?”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “No magazines filled with partially clad bodies?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Combs relaxed visibly. “Well, that’s a relief. Not that I ever really thought there was any truth to the accusations. But these days, one never knows.”

  Apparently not. “What’s this about, anyway?”

  “I got a call from the family of one of your students. We have to take these things seriously, of course, but given the source, I must say I wasn’t overly concerned.” There was, I noticed, no mention of my own sterling character and reputation as a mitigating force.

  “They are opinionated, intolerant people,” Combs continued. “Always disgruntled about something. Had a son who was a student here not too long ago. I thought we’d seen the end of them when he graduated.”

  “Which family is it?” I asked.

  Combs leaned back in the chair, arms crossed behind his head. His customary affable mood was restored. “Their name is Shepherd. Julie Harmon is the girl. She’s Mrs. Shepherd’s niece. Julie’s been living with them since last summer when her mother died.”

  I nodded. Julie’s mother, well-known newscaster Leslie Harmon, had been killed in a boating accident last July. Julie had come to Walnut Hills to live with the Shepherds, her only blood relatives. According to Libby, it was not a good match.

  “Why would they accuse me of something like that?” I asked. “I can’t believe it came from Julie. She’s a talented artist and she seems to enjoy the class.”

  Combs shrugged, clearly happy to have the crisis averted. “As I said, they’re difficult people. The kind who are easily outraged. Who knows why they decided to vent their irritation on you?” He stood and smiled apologetically. “Anyway, I’m glad I can assure them you weren’t corrupting our youth with pictures of bodies in the altogether.”

  I reached for my purse and stood, also. Then I had a horrible thought. “Wait a minute. Maybe I was.”

  Combs raised a bushy brow. The lines in his face deepened. “What do you mean, ‘maybe I was’?”

  “Not corrupting them, I don’t mean that.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “My art history lectures. On Wednesdays, instead of using the whole period for studio work, I give the class kind of a thumbnail survey of Western art.”

  I could tell from his puzzled expression that physical education majors didn’t delve much into either history or art.

  “Greek statues ...” I explained. “Bosch, El Greco, Michelangelo.” I pulled up names of artists I thought might have sparked the Shepherds’ indignation. “The bodies are often unclothed.”

  Combs sank back into his chair. His face was glum. “So there are bared breasts and, uh . . . genit
alia on display?”

  “Sometimes. Other times it’s fig leaves.”

  Not a flicker of a smile.

  “It’s not like that’s all we deal with, though. And these are classic works of art we’re talking about.”

  Combs gave me that look again, pressed his fingers to his temples. “Oh my.”

  “There’s nothing degenerate or lewd about them. Macy’s lingerie ads are more suggestive than any of the stuff I’ve shown.”

  “Why don’t you bring me some examples so I can see what we’re talking about. I suppose I’ll have to have a conference with the Shepherds and explain.” He sighed. “There are times I wish I’d never moved into administration.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I certainly knew about the clarity of hindsight.

  As I left Combs’s office, I almost collided with Marvin Melville, who was getting ready to knock on the door. Marvy Marvin, as he was sometimes referred to by the younger female members of the faculty, was the other teacher new to the school that year. He taught English and was advisor for the school newspaper.

  Marvin looked at me in surprise. “Hi, Kate. What kind of mood is His Highness in?”

  “Not the best. Why?”

  He groaned, hunched his shoulders. Despite an athletic build and a disarming smile, Marvin often seemed unsure of himself. “I’ve got to check with Combs about this editorial the kids want to run. Condoms at school, of all things. Why can’t they stick to the simple stuff like too much homework and lousy food service?”

  “They’re trying to put out a newspaper that’s relevant.”

  He jangled the change in his pocket. “Relevant,” he grumbled. “The word does not have to be synonymous with controversial.”

  <><><>

  During passing period, I looked for Julie Harmon. In my panic at being summoned to Combs’s office, I’d neglected to touch base with her after class. When I couldn’t find her, I headed for the teachers’ lounge. I’d offer my apologies tomorrow, and make sure we found time to talk.

  Officially, I was free for the day. I would have gone home except for the fact that Faye was there. Instead, I called Michael.

  He answered with unusual abruptness. “Lieutenant Stone here.”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  The tone softened, but his manner was still formal. “Hello, Kate.” He was obviously not alone.

  “Do you have time for lunch?”

  He hesitated. “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  In the early stages of our togetherness, lunch often had less to do with food than passion. Those short midday breaks at Michael’s apartment were too precious to be squandered on meals. Since Michael had moved in last spring, the need to carve out time wasn’t as pressing. Still, we’d been known to sneak home in the middle of the day because it was the only time we could count on having the house to ourselves.

  “Just food,” I said with a twinge of regret. Faye’s presence prevented anything else.

  “Good. I’m kind of pressed for time.”

  “What a romantic response.”

  “You want romance, you shouldn’t have invited your mother-in-law.” But his tone was teasing. Altogether different than it had been when we’d first had this conversation.

  “Thanks,” I said softly.

  “For what? Agreeing to have lunch with you?”

  “For not staying mad.”

  I stopped by the deli to pick up soft drinks and sandwiches, then drove to the station house. The early- morning chill had vanished, but the sky was still gray. A cool wind scattered the fallen leaves and whipped my hair into my eyes.

  Michael was on the phone when I arrived at the station. I knocked on the open door and held up the deli bag. He nodded and gestured to the metal frame chair across from his desk. I slipped in and took a seat.

  The sight of him still brought a tingle to my skin, just as it had the first time I laid eyes on him. His dark hair was a little grayer now, though still longer than regulation dictated. And while he claimed to have put on a few pounds, you couldn’t tell it to look at him.

  Michael frowned into the phone. “Hmm, I see.” He spoke without a lot of enthusiasm. “And what is it, exactly, that you see in these visions?”

  He listened with studied silence.

  “A human figure, uh-huh. In the shadows. Something small and dark in his hand. I see. Anything more?”

  Michael looked at me and smiled. “No, that won’t be necessary. Yes, do let us know if more details come to you. And yes, I have your number.”

  He hung up and grabbed his coat. “Let’s get out of here.”

  With his hand on the small of my back, he guided me through the tight maze of desks out front.

  “What was that about?” I asked, once we were outside.

  “A psychic, or so she says. The woman had a dream about the murder. Claims the dead sometimes reach out to her in her sleep, tell her things they want passed on to the world of the living.”

  “You’re not a believer?”

  Michael opened the door of his standard-issue Ford and tossed an empty McDonald’s box into the back. “What she saw in this vision of hers was a shadowy male figure strangle a slender young blond woman and bury her body under a pile of leaves. Anyone who’d watched the news or read a paper in the last couple of weeks could have done as much.”

  We drove out to Reservoir Park and pulled into a spot overlooking the lake. Because of an early frost, the foliage had already begun to turn. Among the evergreen oaks and pines were clusters of yellow and scarlet, dotting the hillside like bonfires. To our right, in the reeds along the lake, a lone fisherman sat patiently waiting for a bite. A flock of geese flew overhead.

  “Is this a working lunch?” I asked.

  “Sorry. You want to go someplace else?”

  I shook my head. “It’s beautiful here. Especially this time of year. Before the murder, I started a sketch from that spot over there by the boathouse. But I haven’t been back to finish it.”

  I wasn’t the only one who’d stayed away. The place seemed oddly deserted, even for an overcast autumn day.

  Michael unwrapped the sandwich I handed him, then gazed out over the smooth, dark surface of the water to the marsh on the western shore. “I keep thinking if I come here often enough maybe some key piece of the puzzle will fall into place, some small detail that I’ve overlooked. Every day that goes by, our chance of breaking this thing grows less.”

  “I take it there’ve been no new developments?”

  “Nada. We know Cindy was killed here, not elsewhere. But whether she came with her killer or alone, or was brought here against her will, is anybody’s guess. No sign of a struggle, though. According to Cindy’s roommate she was cautious, especially at night. She doesn’t think it likely Cindy came here alone.”

  “But her car was here.”

  He nodded. “The roommate says this wasn’t a place Cindy frequented. In fact, she’d never heard Cindy mention the park.”

  I let him talk, even though I’d heard it all before. I liked the fact that Michael shared his work, let me listen in on his thoughts. There was an intimacy about these lopsided discussions I found touching.

  “Cindy was last seen leaving the video store in Berkeley where she worked,” he continued, as if I hadn’t heard the story many times. “That was about five-thirty. It wouldn’t have been dark yet, but this time of year the sky is gray by then, the temperature chilly. And she didn’t have a jacket with her. I don’t think she was planning to spend much time outdoors.”

  Yet she’d wound up thirty miles away in a Walnut Hills park that was closed to cars after sunset. “Would she have offered a ride to a stranger?” I asked.

  Michael shrugged. “Not according to her roommate. But they’d only known each other for a couple of months. Cindy was from Philadelphia, found her roommate through an ad in the paper. Philadelphia detectives have been talking to friends and family back there. Unfortunately, they haven’t turned up much that’s usefu
l.”

  “Did you ever reach her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. He’s an engineering student at Cal. Pulled an all-nighter with a couple of friends studying for an exam. I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “How about other friends?”

  “Mostly from the drama and production department. That was her major. They say the same things as the roommate. Cindy Purcell was easy-going and well liked.”

  Michael finished off his sandwich and took a swig of Coke. I offered him the untouched half of my own turkey on whole wheat.

  “You really don’t want it?”

  I shook my head. Murder-talk had untested potential as an appetite suppressant.

  “It’s the weird stuff, though,” Michael said, “that makes me think there’s got to be some angle we’re missing.”

  The weird stuff. It gave Michael hope, the thread by which he might unravel the crime. It gave me the creeps.

  The picture of Cindy Purcell that had run in the paper was her high school graduation photo. She was attractive, without being actually pretty. Square face, full cheeks, a thin, straight mouth that made her expression appear somewhat stiff, despite the smile.

  The pictures from the crime scene were of a different nature. Cindy’s face had been blackened with dirt. Her shoes had been removed, her toenails painted a garish blood-red, her feet encased in plastic wrap. And on one side of her head the blond, shoulder-length hair had been cropped close to her scalp. She lay in a bed of leaves, arms outstretched, feet together, like Jesus on the cross. A small, plastic skeleton was at her side.

  “Of course, her purse was taken,” Michael continued, “so robbery might have been the motive, and this other stuff just an afterthought.”

  “Seems like an awful lot of work for someone who could just as easily snatch a purse and run off.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s my take on it, too.” He crumpled the paper wrap from the sandwich and dropped it into the deli bag, then tossed the whole thing onto the backseat.

  “How are you making out with the senior Mrs. Austen?” he asked, after a moment.