A Function of Murder (27 page)

What was the protocol for returning messages to school officials? If midnight was
the cutoff time, I should get on it. Or wait until tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t want
to wake up his entire family for some silly reason. Maybe I had left my sunglasses
outside his office, or a sheet of paper from my stack slipped under his door during
the spill when Superintendent Collins rammed into me.

Uh-oh. Was Superintendent Collins going to call me next and leave a message, from
“Pat,” that he needed to talk to me?

Something nagged at me and pushed me in the direction of returning the call now. I
realized I was concerned that Principal Richardson—Doug—might die before I could talk
to him, as had occurred with Mayor—Ed—Graves.

I had to call back, no matter what the hour. I couldn’t stand it if something happened
to Principal Richardson and I was left with another death on my hands. I played the
message again, this time writing down the telephone number.

Fortified with a long swallow of tea, I dialed his number. At each new ring, I was
tempted to hang up.

Finally, I heard my new friend Doug’s voice. I was so grateful he was still alive,
I almost cheered.

“Dr. Knowles, hello. I appreciate your calling me back.” Spoken in a near whisper.

“Sorry it’s so late. I—”

“No, no this is fine. Will you let me take you to lunch tomorrow? I have a few things
I’d like to talk to you about,”
he said, still whispering. I pictured his wife and family, if he had either, in the
next rooms, sleeping.

I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be glad to meet you,” I answered, needlessly lowering my
own voice.

“Great. I’ll make a reservation for noon at the Inn at Henley. Will that work for
you?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Thank you, Sophie.”

A quick two-minute telephone interaction during which Doug went from Dr. Knowles to
Sophie and snagged my attention with a promise of a classy lunch. No vending machines
for the Doug and Sophie meeting.

I considered telling Principal Richardson on the spot that I had an inside scoop,
that the police had already found evidence of grade inflation fraud and that he was
a wanted man. It would save him the cost of lunch for two at the pricey Inn.

As usual, my head was foggy on the applicable law. Should I give the principal a head
start? Would I then be encouraging a fugitive from justice? It was too late in the
day to be having these challenges, making these decisions.

Before I could come up with an answer, Principal Richardson signed off.

I thought about my day tomorrow. I’d be awakened by police officers at seven or seven
thirty, pummeled by an unhappy student at eight thirty, used by an unstable student
as an escort to a memorial service at ten, and—I guessed—drawn into a charter school
web at noon.

Some kind of summer vacation.

I sent a text to Elysse, telling her to meet me at the Coffee Filter instead of my
Franklin Hall office, counting on the fact that she’d see the message. I could think
of no one Elysse’s age who would neglect to check her cell phone
during waking hours. Nor anyone my age, as I’d proven repeatedly.

I settled in my bed with books and tea. Not that it did much good. Unable to read
or sleep, I envisioned what must have been the catalyst for my lunch with Principal
Richardson.

I envisioned a chagrined Digital Dan Sachs and a distressed Rina Flores going into
the principal’s office this afternoon to confess their indiscretion in essentially
admitting to me that their boss was involved in grade inflation and test score fraud.
Were they all worried now that I’d call the state board of education? Was there a
state board of education? I couldn’t remember much of my research at .edu. If the
principal characters in the upset at Zeeman Academy knew how uneducated I was in the
structure of their organization, they wouldn’t have worried.

Besides, the issue was moot if Virgil was holding all the evidence he needed. Which
didn’t seem to be the case if, one, the police had picked up Chris, and, two, Virgil
wasn’t exactly rushing to take Richardson into custody.

It was about time I saw that there could have been two crimes—fraud by Richardson,
and murder by Sizemore.

I began to drift off, then on again, wishing someone would take me into custody, and
find a way to clear my head and put me to sleep.

Not yet. I heard the low buzz of my cell phone, on vibrate while it was charging.
I looked up at the ceiling to see who could possibly be kidding me.

I checked the screen and saw that it was Monty Sizemore calling. It made sense that
he wouldn’t be able to sleep either, especially if his beloved sister was still being
held at the police station. I wavered on whether to take the call, but I couldn’t
pass on it. Thus showing how desperate I was to get ahead of things in this case.
Maybe Monty had some news that I wouldn’t be the last to know.

“Hey, Monty,” I said, as if it were one in the afternoon and not close to one in the
morning.

“Sophie, I hate to bother you. I know it’s late but I left a message earlier and didn’t
hear back.”

I remembered now that I’d had two messages on my landline answering machine. The first
message, from Doug Richardson, had consumed me and I’d forgotten to go back and listen
to the second one.

“I’m sorry, Monty, it’s been a stressful evening.”

“I’m frantic,” he said, not bothering to ask about my stresses. What happened to the
“routine questioning” line he’d given Courtney, the dean’s secretary? “I’m sure you
heard about Chris.”

“Yeah, I did. Is she okay?” I asked, feeling slightly guilty that I’d helped make
Chris’s pickup the buzz of the day around the campus.

Monty’s strained, anxious voice was enough to soften me, and I really did hope Chris
wasn’t in trouble. Unless she’d murdered Mayor Graves, of course.

“I didn’t know who else to call. They’re keeping her overnight. I didn’t think they
could do that, but our lawyer says they can. They haven’t charged her, but what if
they do?”

Monty fell silent, as if he was expecting me to answer the question. “What can I do
for you, Monty?” I asked.

“You know a lot of these small-town cops we have, right? Through your boyfriend?”

There was a time when people buttered you up if they were in desperate need of a favor.
Apparently not anymore.

“What’s your point, Monty?” I asked.

Monty didn’t flinch, though I felt my response was on the edge of rudeness once I
determined that Monty was singing the same old song. “I thought maybe you could find
out why they’re keeping her down there. Did they find something? They won’t tell me
a thing.”

I almost felt bad for Monty, but no way near enough to
call Virgil or any other cop at this hour. If and when I called Virgil, we’d work
through my own agenda, not the Sizemores’. Did Monty think that Virgil and the rest
of the Henley PD—the “small-town cops”—were sitting around in the wee hours of the
morning hoping I’d call them with a question about one of their suspects? I avoided
the whole friends-with-cops issue and queried Monty back.

“Can you think of anything the police might have found? Any reason they might suspect
Chris?”

Neither of us had explicitly mentioned what they might suspect her of or what the
charge would be, should one be filed. The matter of the murder of Henley’s mayor hung
in the air.

“Chrissy wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even though the idiot mayor led her on for a year and—never
mind. Chrissy is simply not capable of hurting anyone.”

I wished I had the gumption to quiz Monty on the relationship between the mayor and
Chrissy
. It was the season of nicknames. I wished I had one, other than
Soph
, which only Bruce and close friends were allowed to use.

It would have been nice to know that Mayor Graves and Ms. Sizemore had a full-blown
affair, which would mean the deceased mayor wouldn’t have had time for Kira.

I groaned at my own petty focus, as if the only important repercussions of such an
affair were those that affected me and mine. I needed some sleep. Which meant getting
Monty off the line. I felt like a hostage negotiator.

“If Chrissy is innocent as you say, then I’m sure she’ll be on her way home soon,”
I told Monty, with an air of finality, as if I was convinced of the infallibility
of our justice system.

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” I asked. “Chris is not in jail; she’s simply being questioned.
If she tells the truth, that will be the end of it.”

“You know, Sophie, this was a mistake. I don’t know
what I was thinking. You’ve had your own stressful evening, as you said, and I shouldn’t
have called. Have a good night.”

With that, Monty hung up.

Strange. In a period of much strangeness. I wondered if Monty was making the rounds
of faculty, or calling just those of us who were known to hang around cops. I doubted
I’d heard the last of him, though his “Have a good night” had sounded close to “Have
a good life.”

I switched my phone to
nothing
. Off. No ringing, no beeping, no vibrating.

I lay down and looked across the room at my new patio door. Not that I could see it,
since my lavender drapes were drawn. But I knew the doorframe now held glass that
was shatterproof, like the newest house on the block. It was cleaner than any glass
since Margaret bought the house decades ago. I also knew a cop was on alert on the
other side of the drapes.

Those facts alone seemed to be enough to put me to sleep.

Unlike Virgil, the two patrol officers who rang my buzzer at seven thirty on Tuesday
morning did not bring donuts. I was sorry I’d tossed out the old ones. I knew for
a fact that microwaving did wonders for stale junk food.

On the other hand, these officers looked like they ate only healthy salads and yogurt
and started every day with a rigorous workout with a personal trainer. The new breed
of patrolman?

“Morning, ma’am,” said officer number one and officer number two in quick succession,
making me feel very old. I wondered if their combined ages added up to mine.

Too bad I’d had to abandon my usual very chic look today and dress for a memorial
service. A black skirt, closed black flats, and a dark paisley top didn’t have much
to recommend them other than a mourning look. The brightest part of my outfit was
a string of brown and gold beads created for me by Ariana.

I could hardly wait till my friend and beading tutor
returned. If Ariana had been home, I’d have shared every last detail of the downer
events of the weekend and beyond. I also would have had fresh home-baked treats to
offer my uniformed guests, which seemed to be the only kind of guests I’d entertained
lately.

Fortunately for the young officers, I remembered that I had one of Ariana’s delicious
blueberry loaves in the freezer and could serve it now.

The officers accepted my suggestion of a coffee break and my apology for not having
more choices of snack. I emphasized that the bread had only the freshest organic ingredients,
which was true, with 90 percent certainty.

“That’s okay, we just had donuts, ma’am,” officer one said.

Officer two punched him in the well-muscled arm and laughed. I followed suit, with
the laughing, skipping the punching.

“I’m Officer Nolan and this is Officer Coyne,” I heard, as the guys remembered the
protocol.

Officer Nolan, who filled out his short-sleeved uniform shirt nicely, handed me two
flyers from two different glass companies. “These were in your driveway, ma’am,” he
said.

I took the damp papers from him and scanned the full-color ads, one with a screaming
red background, the other a dull blue. I’d never seen the flyers or heard of the companies
or needed glass before. I wasn’t a big believer in coincidence.

“I don’t understand how these flyers got here,” I said.

Officer Coyne shook his head. “Vultures,” he said. “They know you had a problem with
a window or door and they’re knocking one another over to get your business.”