A Function of Murder (32 page)

I noticed the value added by W. Thomas, which Kira had mentioned, offering an extra
pickup the day after a major holiday, at little additional cost. Was that feature
enough of a reason for the mayor not only to choose them, but to fire Monty when he
disagreed with the choice?

I skipped over to the Stewart Brothers site and skimmed through the text and images.
Now that I was fluent in waste vocabulary, I saw a slightly more obvious approach
to green solutions for waste disposal, but nothing so significant that Monty Sizemore
would be willing to lose his job over it. Both companies hauled away, bought, and
sold anything the citizens of Henley no longer wanted.

I sat back. What had I expected to find in this search? A clue to the conflict between
the mayor and Monty? I figured it had to be about money. I glanced once more at the
Stewart Brothers page, open on my screen, as if I might spot a FAQ section listing
the opportunities for kickbacks from the company who landed the contract for handling
of the city’s refuse. I envisioned a table, with the names of the waste companies
at the top and the short list of two
advocates, Mayor Graves and Monty, along the side. The boxes would be filled with
dollar amounts indicating how much payoff money was involved in each choice.

When had I starting using mathematics to support a pessimistic worldview?

As usual when I was in front of my computer, I thought of one more thing to look up.
I searched on Google for the superintendent of schools to see what I could find out
about Patrick Collins. I wondered if his website had been updated to include his current
custodial state.

After learning that I was the 1253911th visitor to the site, I clicked on the home
page of the school district. The most prominent text was a long letter from Collins,
inviting the six thousand students now ending their school year to have a safe, happy
summer. I read through data on the improvement in literacy rate over last year’s classes,
the decrease in dropout rate, and the superintendent’s renewed commitment to the children
of the community.

A thumbnail of Collins showed him at a desk with the American flag behind him; he
was sitting straight, smiling formally. I tried to imagine him in an orange jumpsuit.

Collins’s bio read like a prose version of the standard resume of an educator’s career.
He’d held many leadership positions in urban education, special education, and professional
development organizations. The only personal note was that Collins spends his time
between Henley and Chatham—a more affluent town on the Cape than I’d have thought
a government employee could afford.

I was tempted to click around and read about the district’s student health services,
the school calendar, the yearbook office, and the policy on bullying, but I couldn’t
see any advantage as far as gaining insight into what might have gotten the superintendent
picked up by the HPD.

I made one side trip to my favorite Internet news site and saw nothing yet about a
possible arrest in the Graves murder case. It was always hard for me to leave the
Internet, but it was time to go. At least I hadn’t bought a useless home storage product
or an unneeded pair of sandals.

The quarter-hour chimes rang out from the clock tower. If I didn’t hurry I’d be late
for my lunch date. I shut down my computer and dashed down the empty hallway and out
to the parking lot, noticing every wastebasket and trash container inside and outside
of Franklin Hall.

The Inn at Henley was no less elegant at lunchtime. I thought of the lunchroom at
Zeeman Academy, with its Formica tables and old-model microwave, and wondered if two
of its teachers, Rina Flores and Digital Dan Sachs, were responsible for my date today.
I’d soon find out if the loyal employees, formerly also my friends, had rushed to
warn their principal that they’d essentially incriminated him and themselves, admitting
to the crime of fraud.

Doug Richardson was waiting for me at a table against the wall and perilously close
to the large tropical fish tank. I questioned the Inn decorator’s choice to display
the tiny striped and patterned fish at a venue that served up their larger, plainer
cousins on steaming platters.

The principal stood as I approached. He gave me a hesitant, uneasy smile and ran his
hand over his full head of white hair, smoothing it. He checked his tie and dropped
his napkin, as nervous as if we were on a blind date and he was worried I wouldn’t
like him.

“Sophie,” he said, extending his hand.

I greeted him, noticing that today’s suit, a navy pinstripe, fit much better across
his middle. Had I rated a new outfit? It felt strange to be in a situation where the
principal of a school seemed to be trying to make a good impression on me. I, on the
other hand, made no attempt to apologize for my lackluster mourning outfit. I had
to admit I was enjoying the dynamic. I had too many memories of being on the
opposite end of the principal-student scenario as I’d made my way from K through 12.
I had to keep reminding myself that I was now the same age as a school principal,
probably within a year or two of the one sitting opposite me.

We went through the small-talk ritual of traffic (heavy with the lunchtime crowd),
weather (
Beautiful, isn’t it?
), and ordering (crab salad for both of us, iced coffee for me, merlot for him).

One sip of wine later, Doug was ready to jump in.

“I’d like to explain a little about why I called you.” I flashed an agreeable, expectant
smile. “I realized in retrospect that you might have wanted something from me yesterday,
and I rudely rushed by you.”

Another first. A school principal was apologizing for not paying attention to me.
I was sure Doug wasn’t springing for a four-star meal so I’d forgive him for not hanging
around to tend to my needs yesterday. I smiled again, sipped my refreshing iced coffee,
and waited him out.

“This is a little awkward,” he said.

The better part of me won out and I decided to help him through the ordeal. “You mentioned
that you needed to talk to me about something,” I said. Then the worst part of me
took over. I wasn’t perfect. “Was it about the argument between you and Superintendent
Collins that I overheard?”

Doug blanched, apparently buying into my suggestion that I knew what the fight was
about. I realized I had no idea if Doug knew the superintendent was in custody. I
wished I could call Kira or Bruce, the most informed friends I had, to find out if
Collins had been charged or released or neither.

“Pat and I, we have our differences. He was never on the front lines. He’s been a
bureaucrat all his life, with no idea what it’s like to wrestle with the day-to-day
operation of a school.” Doug leaned toward me. “Sophie, may I tell you a little about
charter schools?”

“Certainly,” I said, in spite of feeling I knew enough
about them already. It was only fair to let Richardson have his day in my court. I
could definitely say that charter schools were more important to me than waste handling,
although I might not stick to that position if disposal services were suspended for
any length of time.

Understandably, Doug began with all the positives about the charter school model—more
hands-on learning, students on all levels working together on ungraded projects, internships
for older children in the business track.

“Did you know that our students manage small businesses right at Zeeman Academy? They
run the snack bar at the back of the cafeteria, buying and selling the cookies and
drinks and handling the money. Another group runs a car wash in the parking lot on
Saturdays. Our drama group puts on plays for the community and donates proceeds to
emergency relief all over the world. How many regular schools”—here Doug made quote
marks in the air—“even know what’s going on in the world outside their little soccer
teams?”

“But that’s not what you and Superintendent Collins were arguing about, is it?” I
tried not to sound too smug, lest Doug call my bluff.

“We’re always arguing. It’s not a new battle. Do you know how Zeeman is funded?”

“I got a taste of it from a couple of teachers,” I said. “I know it comes from everywhere
and nowhere.”

Doug shot me with his index finger. I took it as confirmation of my assessment. “Most
of our teachers buy supplies with money out of their own pockets. They’ll do anything
to help improve the performance of our students. Theoretically, federal grant money
is available to charters to implement turnaround plans for underperforming schools.
But good luck getting the funds unless your school qualifies with good test scores.”

I nodded at a familiar catch-22. “You have to be performing well to get money to improve
your performance.”

Doug slapped the table, lightly, in deference to those
around us, I surmised. The Inn was much less crowded than it had been on graduation
night, the music more mellow and suited to the office crowd I picked out. “You got
it. Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it? The state can close the school if we don’t reach
certain grade levels. They could do something to help, but they don’t; they just keep
making recommendations. And threats. Lots of threats.”

“So you have to make the numbers look good,” I coached.

Doug nodded, seeming pleased that I was following his winding argument toward exoneration.
“Take the student-teacher ratio. You’re going to read that Zeeman has a ratio of twelve
to one. That’s what I submitted. But that’s because we include every teaching assistant,
every college intern, and every parent who spends time with our students.”

“And me?” I asked.

Doug blushed. “And you.”

“What’s the real number?”

“More like twenty-three to one, and with cuts next year, it will be up to twenty-six
to one.”

I wouldn’t have guessed that more than grade inflation was involved in the fraud.
There was the teacher-student ratio, and probably a host of other line items on the
school’s report card.

By now, I could write my own blog on the perils of charter schools. Time to dig deeper.
I waited until the servers departed, leaving behind overflowing salad bowls, a new
basket of warm bread and butter, and a refill of drinks. It was hard to concentrate
amid such luxury.

“Neither Superintendent Collins nor Mayor Graves saw your predicament, did they?”
I asked, counting on the fact that Kira was right about her
Edward
.

Doug inhaled deeply and let out a long breath. “I won’t belabor the issue of whether
tweaking the grades is the answer to the problem. I never saw it as a long-term solution,
but at the moment I see no other way to save the
school and I don’t regret my decision. I know you talked to Dan and Rina, and…uh…well,
that’s that, and I don’t know what your plans are for spreading the word, but…” He
threw up his hands, a gesture I took as both a question and a plea not to turn him
in.

I gave Doug points for creativity in describing his crime as
tweaking the grades
. I did what I always do when I’m unsure of how to respond. I stalled.

“I didn’t mean to upset Rina and Dan, or pry into school matters,” I said. “I’m simply
eager to see Mayor Graves’s murderer behind bars.”

Doug dropped his fork and sat back, seeming genuinely surprised. “And you think we
have something to do with Ed’s murder? Me? My teachers?”

I gave him a look, neither
yes
nor
no
. “What did the mayor think of your tweaking?”

“He was no more sympathetic than Pat.” Doug leaned in toward me. “What do you know
about the mayor, Sophie?”

The truth? Not much while he was alive.

Had he been worthy of Kira’s admiration and affection? That had to be put in perspective,
given Kira’s personality and nearly cloistered upbringing. I knew what Monty told
me—that the mayor, who was a husband and a father, was seeing Monty’s sister and had
just dumped her, taking a large sum of her money with him. But, again, that was someone
else’s—Monty’s—perspective. The only other thing I knew was that he’d wanted the W.
Thomas Company to take out his trash for the next ten years.

“Why don’t you tell me about him?” I asked Doug.

“Ed Graves is dead, and in a very violent, ugly way. So, it’s tough to talk about
him objectively. You know how we canonize people once they’re gone.” I nodded agreement.
“He wanted truth and honesty when it came to some things, but he had his hand out
when it came to his own pockets.”

“His hand out, as in, he could be bought off? Can you be more specific?”

Doug used another bite of bread and butter as cover for preparing his answer. I was
familiar with the trick.

“You’ve read about the waste management contract dispute?”

I nodded, feeling confident since my Internet search.

“There’s a reason Graves wanted the work to go to Thomas, and it wasn’t because their
containers are prettier.”

“Your only beef with Mayor Graves was that he might have been taking a payoff for
a contract award?” I asked.