Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 6

  Yvonne made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Reminds me of one of the other transfers we had—a boy with a heavy speech impediment. They paired him with a kid who stuttered. To my mind it did nothing but underscore the problem. Not to mention the fact that one of the boys was an all-around athlete and the other a computer nerd. You wonder where the powers that be put their brains when they make these decisions. ”

  The bell rang. Yvonne picked up an armload of books and we headed for the door. “Keep me posted, okay?” There was an urgency in her voice that caught me by surprise. It must have surprised Yvonne, too, because she looked a little nonplussed. “Sorry, I guess this whole thing has hit pretty close to home.”

  Marvin Melville was coming in the door as we went out. He looked like his mind was elsewhere, but he raised a hand in greeting. Then added, “By the way, Kate, condoms aren’t a problem.”

  Yvonne stifled a laugh. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors about Marvin, but I’d never suspected that you were part of it.”

  “I’m not,” I told her as we parted ways, then wished I’d thought to ask what it was.

  Chapter 7

  I was prepared to devote most, if not all, of my first- period class to venting students’ concerns over Julie’s disappearance. But there was surprisingly little interest. Friday night’s football win over the favored rival and plans for the upcoming Halloween Masquerade were the topics of the hour, although there was some speculation in passing on the benefits of running off to live a life free of parents.

  “It wouldn’t be worth doing unless you had lots of money,” said Miranda, who knew better than many of us the advantages of money.

  “Sounds good in theory,” added Charles. “But if you lived alone, you’d have to do your own shopping and laundry and crap.”

  “Presumably you’d do the last yourself, anyway,” said a voice from the back of the room. The male half of the class practically fell out of their seats guffawing.

  Skye waited until the noise died down, then she said, “You’re all forgetting that something terrible might have happened. We’ve got a killer running loose in town, remember.”

  One of the boys grabbed his throat, slid down in his chair, and flailed about dramatically, the vaudeville picture of death.

  The class tittered.

  “Under the circumstances,” I told him, “that’s hardly funny.”

  He sat up, sheepish. “Sorry.”

  The rest of the class exchanged glances and fell into an awkward silence. I sighed and went back to my desk. So much for easing the strain.

  After class, I gathered my things, including the art history books that had caused the Shepherds to blanch, and headed for the office. If a student editorial on condoms passed muster, how could Combs find fault with a Michelangelo nude?

  As I rounded the corner, I passed Mario at his locker.

  “Have you got a minute?” I asked, stepping free of the moving horde.

  He closed the locker door quickly. “Hey, Ms. Austen.” Mario had a marvelous smile, which looked for all the world to be genuine. It was one of the things that made him such a charmer despite his sometimes roguish behavior.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Hey, I know I ain’t been to class the last couple of days, but I got an uncle who’s real sick, see, and first period class is hard—”

  “That’s not why I want to talk to you.”

  “It’s not, huh?” The smile widened in relief. “I’m going to start coming regular though, just as soon as I can.”

  “I wanted to ask you about Julie Harmon.”

  He shifted position. “I heard about her being missing and all.” His eyes darted along the stream of passing students. “Sure hope she turns up okay.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know if she was in some kind of trouble, would you? Or if she was worried about something?”

  Mario ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Me? sorry, I don’t know nothin’.” He started to move away.

  “I saw the two of you together Friday morning, in what looked like ...” Like what? I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if Julie hadn’t approached me earlier that morning, and if Mario hadn’t beckoned her from my classroom just when we were about to have a private chat. “In what seemed to be kind of a tense discussion,” I concluded.

  “Tense?”

  “Serious, maybe a little strained.”

  “Nah, we were just shooting the breeze.”

  “About what?”

  He shrugged. “Stuff. Wasn’t nothin’ worth remembering.”

  “Were you at Friday’s football game?”

  He cocked his head, looked at me. “I worked that night. I work most Friday nights.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I help my uncles clean office buildings.”

  “So you wouldn’t know Julie’s plans for the evening?” “

  “ ‘Fraid not.” Mario raised his hand in greeting to a passing student.

  Surely their conversation had been something more than an idle chat. I could read it in their expressions. “Are you sure Julie wasn’t troubled about something?”

  Mario rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Ms. Austen, do I look like a priest?” He snapped the latch on his locker. “Listen, I gotta go do my English homework. Grammar, it’s a real bear.”

  I checked my watch. “You’ve only got a minute before class.”

  “That’s why I’ve got to get to it.” He gave me another smile and a quirky half-salute, then loped off in the direction of the parking lot, without so much as a book or paper in hand.

  In the office, I checked Brian Walker’s schedule and saw that he had Civics next with Mr. Tanner. I sighed. If I wanted to talk to Brian, I’d have to wait until the end of the period. Leonard Tanner ruled with an iron fist.

  The office secretary, Ruth, looked up. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  I explained, without saying why it was that I wanted to speak to Brian.

  “He’s absent today, anyway.”

  “He’s sick?”

  She smiled. “Of course he’s sick. You think he’d call up and say he was skipping school because he felt like it? Once these kids turn eighteen, they like to flex their muscles a bit. They’ll cut school, then call in an excused absence just for the joy of thumbing their noses at us.”

  I knew the drill. Because many Walnut Hills parents held off a year before enrolling their young sons in kindergarten, hoping to give them the competitive edge of relative maturity, we already had more than a few eighteen-year-old seniors.

  “Of course Brian was an emancipated minor all of his junior year,” she continued, “so it’s not such new stuff to him. His attendance record is actually pretty good.”

  “Emancipated minor?” I knew the term, but that was about all. “What does it mean exactly?”

  “I don’t understand all the legal implications. As far as the school’s concerned, it means the student can live on his own, assume responsibility for himself as though he were eighteen. We don’t need a parent’s signature for absences, permission slips, detention notices, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds like every student’s dream come true.”

  “In theory. The home situation has to be pretty bad, though, before the court will declare someone an emancipated minor.”

  A little light went on in my head, just like in the comics. Was that Julie’s secret plan, to have herself declared an emancipated minor? “Is there a minimum age requirement?”

  Ruth shook her head. “I don’t know. In my experience the kids have all been juniors and seniors.” She paused with an expression of concern. “Have you been having trouble with Libby?”

  “No, Libby’s not a problem. In fact, most of the time she’s a real joy. I was thinking of Julie Harmon. From what I’ve gathered, she hasn’t been happy living with the Shepherds.”

  “Can’t say as I blame her,” Ruth muttered.

  “She told Libby she was expect
ing things to change soon, for the better. And she knows Brian. I’m thinking maybe she’s been looking into the idea of having herself declared an emancipated minor.”

  “The family situation certainly fits.” Ruth’s brows furrowed in thought. “If she was expecting a court ruling, though, it hardly seems like she’d run away.”

  “Maybe there was a better solution.”

  That’s what I was hoping would turn out to be the case at any rate. The other alternative was too frightening to dwell on. I took a piece of scratch paper from Ruth’s desk and copied down Brian Walker’s address and phone number. I could at least find out from him if he and Julie had talked about the subject.

  “What’s Brian like?” I asked, slipping the scrap of paper into my purse.

  “Smooth,” Ruth said. “He’s always polite, does reasonably well in school, but I’ve never quite trusted him.”

  “How come?”

  She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No reason, really. Maybe I’m just jealous of boys who have longer lashes than I do.”

  “It does seem too bad to waste those eyes on a male.”

  Ruth clicked her pen. “By the way, you got a couple of calls. I stuck the message slips in your box.”

  I retrieved them. Michael and Sharon had both called. With a wave to Ruth, I headed for the faculty room and the only phone available to teachers.

  Sharon answered on the first ring.

  “Were you sitting by the phone?” I asked.

  “Actually, I was washing it.”

  “Washing the phone?” That didn’t sound like Sharon.

  “It’s kind of a necessity now that Kyle has started calling his friends. This time it was grape jam, but we’ve had chocolate syrup, peanut butter, purple ink, and Elmer’s glue, all in the last week.”

  Kyle is Anna’s age, but since he’s a boy, our experiences are often quite different. I’d certainly never thought of washing the phone.

  “I called to invite you for lunch today,” Sharon said.

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “I’ve invited Faye, too.”

  “What?” My enthusiasm began to fade.

  “I told her you’d pick her up around noon. I hope that works for you. If it doesn’t, I’ll run over and get her myself.”

  I groaned. “Why did you invite Faye?”

  “I’m trying to be helpful, Kate. I know you’re not thrilled about spending a lot of time alone with her—”

  “I’m not thrilled about spending a lot of time with her, period.”

  “But you can’t simply ignore her.”

  “Why not?”

  Sharon wasn’t interested in a protracted discussion. She brushed aside my question with a click of her tongue. “I know you don’t mean that. And we’ll have a chance to go over plans for the Fall Festival, as well.”

  “What plans?”

  “That’s what we have to decide. As you know, Mary Nell had agreed to chair the event. But her mother’s sick and Mary Nell had to fly home to Kansas. I said we’d take over for her with the festival.”

  “We?” Sharon had a way of volunteering me for jobs I’d have run from if given the chance.

  “I don’t want to do it alone,” she explained.

  “You might have asked me first.”

  Sharon laughed. “You might have said no. See you a little after noon.”

  I tried Michael next, but he wasn’t available. I left a message that I’d called and that I’d be at Sharon’s. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Brian Walker’s number. No answer. When the machine clicked on, I hung up.

  Chapter 8

  Sharon isn’t much of a housekeeper, but her home is airy and tastefully furnished so one tends to overlook the clutter and ever-present patina of dust. Where my house is messy, hers is simply imbued with casual elegance. Even Faye was taken with its charm.

  “What a lovely home you have,” she murmured, settling herself in a comfortable down-cushioned chair. She said nothing about the fact that she’d first had to remove a foam football and plastic bin of Legos. “It was so kind of you to invite me.”

  “My pleasure. Kate’s been talking about your visit for weeks.”

  I cleared my throat, hoping to cut her off before she tried to elaborate. Although Sharon usually operates from the best of intentions, she often stumbles in the delivery.

  She took the hint. “What can I get you to drink?” Sharon asked. “Coffee? Wine? I have gin and scotch, too, if you’d prefer something stronger.”

  “Coffee will be fine.” Faye set her handbag on the floor next to the chair. She’d washed and curled her hair, and dressed in the turquoise pantsuit she saved for special occasions.

  “What would you like, Kate?”

  I debated for a moment, wondering if a glass of wine was worth Faye’s disapproval. I opted for prudence. “The same,” I said.

  Sharon set out a platter of sandwiches—cucumber, avocado, and alfalfa sprouts on whole wheat. Faye eyed them suspiciously. Sharon returned to the kitchen for coffee, then poured herself a glass of wine, which she deems a health food.

  “So, are you enjoying your trip to California?” she asked Faye as she took a seat.

  “Goodness, yes. I hadn’t seen Anna in over a year. She’s become quite the little sophisticate.”

  Sharon nodded. “Of course, she has a live-in tutor in Libby.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Faye did not sound particularly pleased. She took a tentative bite of sandwich. “Interesting,” she said through a stiff smile.

  “Those are sprouts,” I explained.

  “I’m not a total simpleton, Kate.”

  But I could tell she’d been uncertain.

  She took another nibble, still tentative. “Well, it’s certainly not egg salad. Just wait until I tell the girls back home.”

  Sharon sipped her wine. “We ran into the Burtons last night,” she said, looking in my direction. “Yvonne told me you’re working for them now.”

  I nodded, then explained to Faye, “My art consultant business.”

  Sharon grinned. “The Burtons are well connected. Steve is respected professionally, and with this election coming up he’s been out mingling with the powers that be. He knows a lot of important people. You work this right, you’ll get some great referrals.” She gave me the thumbs-up sign. “Movin’ into the big time.”

  “Hardly that. Anyway, I have to wow the Burtons first. Yvonne’s been less than thrilled with what I’ve shown her so far. And Steve, sweet as he is, doesn’t really care one way or the other.”

  “Maybe not directly, but if Yvonne’s happy, he will be too.” Sharon turned to Faye. “Steve is a widower. He was sort of a lost soul before Yvonne and Skye came into his life.”

  “Skye?”

  “Yvonne’s daughter.”

  Faye lifted a brow. “Yvonne must have been a latter- day hippie to come up with a name like that.”

  “Skye chose it herself, actually,” Sharon said.

  This I hadn’t known. “You mean it’s not her real name?”

  “It’s real now. She had it changed legally.”

  “Surely her mother could have stopped her,” Faye snipped.

  Sharon shrugged. “If she’d wanted to. Yvonne’s first husband ran off and left them when Skye was six. Couldn’t handle the responsibility. Always looking out for number one, sort of like Andy—” Sharon had been in the midst of an empathetic nod in my direction when she remembered how Faye and I were related. She stopped mid-sentence with an expression of chagrin.

  Faye pushed her plate to the side, sandwich largely untouched. “Andy came back, however,” she said in a tight voice. “There’s a difference.”

  Not as big a difference as she thought, but I let it ride. Faye considered the divorce my fault. Her son had erred by leaving, certainly. She never implied that he was perfect. But I’d committed the greater sin in not forgiving him.

  “Anyway,” Sharon continued after a moment of heavy silence, “Skye to
ok it pretty hard. She felt rejected, guilty, the whole trip. It’s only been the last couple of years that she’s gotten her act together. Changing her name was part of it.”

  Faye straightened. “Skye must have been an emotionally unstable child to begin with, if she reacted so poorly. Anna is doing just fine. I’ve never seen a happier, more well-adjusted child.”

  This was not the line I’d heard over the weekend when Faye had been concerned about Anna’s language, her tastes in movies and music, her worldliness, to use Faye’s term. But we’d been talking then about my loose standards and Michael’s “outside” influence.

  “Anna’s a doll,” Sharon concurred, and quickly stood to clear the table.

  Faye folded her napkin, then excused herself to use the “powder room.”

  “Geez,” Sharon said, slapping herself on the cheek. “Foot-in-mouth disease. I thought I was over that. And we’d been having such a nice time, too.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

  The phone rang and Sharon answered it. “For you,” she said, handing me the receiver. In a whisper, she added, “It’s Michael.”

  “What are you and Sharon up to?” he asked. “You concocting some wild scheme, or is this an afternoon of pure girlish pleasure?”

  “Neither. Sharon was doing her civic duty by having me and Faye to lunch.”

  “Ah.”

  “Exactly.”

  Michael made a throaty sound that passed for sympathy. “I was hoping I could see you this afternoon,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “What’s up? Maybe I just miss you.”

  I smiled into the phone. “I miss you, too. We all do, even Max.”

  A chuckle, and then a beat of silence. “There’s also something I’d like you to look at.”

  “Will we need privacy?”

  The chuckle erupted into a laugh. “Don’t I wish. Unfortunately, it’s work related. Patricia Shepherd found a list of names among the homework files on Julie’s computer. I wanted to see if you recognized any of them.”