DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (22 page)

“I am so sorry about Maranda,” I told her. “I don’t like what’s going on at the school.
The faculty who received texts don’t want to share the details. I can’t even get a
good answer on the kind of text sent to Maranda that would have caused her to do something
so horrific.”

“Thanks
.
” Olivia’s bright eyes dimmed for a moment. “I was just telling Luke here that Mandy
received a couple texts. Just some bullshit about her sleeping around. I find it real
hard to believe that Mandy would kill herself over that. I told the cops the same
thing.”

I glanced at Luke, but he wore his no-tell cop face.

“Why do you think she killed herself?” I asked Olivia.

She leaned against the bar, cupping a glass of soda. “I just can’t believe she’d do
it at all. Mandy was tough. We grew up in foster care together. She was smart, too.
Really good with numbers. She could have done something more, but never pushed herself.
The school paid pretty well, had good benefits, and easy hours. It was enough, she
said.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, hon’,” I hesitated, “but did she, you know, get around?
With men? She had a reputation.”

Olivia shrugged. “Sure. But it wasn’t a big deal to her and she never cared about
reputation. It was just sex. You know how it is. You don’t necessarily want to deal
with some dude day after day. Most guys turn out to be assholes anyway.”

I caught Luke’s quick flinch from the corner of my eye, but refocused on Olivia. “But
Rick Cleveland wanted more.”

“That was real stupid on Mandy’s part, but yeah. Rick would come to Little Verona’s
often enough, knowing she’d be here. Mandy got drunk one night. He finally got to
take her home, but she kicked him out after she sobered up. Regretted it later.”

“What about Coach Newcomb?”

“Newcomb didn’t want anything from her other than sex. Mandy could handle the one-night
stand much better than something long term.”

Luke leaned forward. “If you don’t think she committed suicide, what happened? They
found a note.”

“I don’t know,” said Olivia. “Hell, how do we even know it’s a suicide note? It’s
not like she signed it or anything.”

A very good point, I thought.

“Did anyone have a reason to push Maranda to suicide? The chorus teacher found her
crying after a particular text about sleeping with a student’s father. I thought maybe
it pushed her over the edge.”

“You think somebody made her want to kill herself? I hadn’t thought about that
. She started getting texts about two weeks before she died.
” Olivia twisted the glass back and forth, creating a pattern of water rings on the
bar. “Rick Cleveland was so obnoxious. Still is. I could see him wanting her to feel
bad about being with other guys, but I don’t think he’d want her to die. He just,
you know, wanted her. Mandy could make men come unglued. Probably because she wasn’t
that interested in them.”

“Thanks, Olivia
.
” I patted her arm. “I am real sorry about your friend. I hope if we figure out who’s
sending these anonymous texts, maybe we’ll know what happened with Maranda.”

“Yeah
.
” Olivia’s face fell, “but it doesn’t do much for Mandy now, does it? She had a shitty
life growing up and it sucks how badly it ended for her.”

“Don’t give up.” A golf ball had lodged in my throat and I struggled to clear it out
without tearing up. “Olivia, you need to find somebody to talk to.”

“I’ve been hearing that all my life
.
” Olivia gave me a half-hearted smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse.”

That did not make me feel better. In fact, I felt more determined than ever to root
out the phantom poisoning the wireless waves with their evil little texts.

T
wenty-Six

Olivia returned to her station and I ordered a fresh beer. “So Coach Newcomb was just
another guy using Maranda Pringle,” I said to Luke. “Principal Cleveland had obsession
issues and Maranda was messed up. But maybe not the type to commit suicide. What do
you think?”

“I think you should let Line Creek police focus on Maranda Pringle’s suicide and you
should focus on the other teachers who also got anonymous texts
.
” Luke sounded grim. “Remember, that’s what Tinsley hired you for. To find the texter,
not the motive for a suicide. Don’t let your feelings about Maranda take you down
the wrong rabbit trail.”

I sucked my beer and pondered his opinion. “Maybe you’re right. I just feel so sorry
for Maranda.”

Luke rubbed my shoulder. “I know you do. What took you so long getting back from the
restroom? Are you okay?”

“I ran into Tara and your cousin, Shawna. They’re eating minestrone in the dining
room.”

Luke tipped his stool in his scramble off. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Shit,
how the hell did Tara know to come here?”

“Maybe you need to swap vehicles for something less obviously you.” I hopped from
my stool. “Listen, Shawna’s still encouraging Tara to be with you. You need to go
in there and tell Shawna to quit. It’s making Tara feel even worse.”

He froze, one hand reaching for his wallet, the other held up in protest.

“You want to prove something to me?” I crossed my arms over my orange fuzz. “This
is how you do it.”

He pursed his lips, then relaxed them. Tossing some bills on the bar, he strode into
the restaurant.

Luke was putting me before his cousin. I sucked in a deep breath. A Tucker before
a Branson. Somewhere a pig had grown wings. Or had been shot out of a cannon.

I followed at a safe distance, peering around the corner of the bar. His long legs
made a quick crossing of the crowded restaurant. Stopping in front of their booth,
he nodded to each woman, exchanged some quick pleasantries, then jerked his thumb
toward the hall leading to the bathrooms and kitchen. Shawna rose, smoothing her python
dress with practiced grace, and snagged his arm before he could march away. They strolled
to the small hallway while Tara watched, her eyes dappled with curiosity and heartache.

I longed to console Tara, but felt it inappropriate considering the circumstances.
After all, hadn’t I stolen the Luke prize from Tara? My stomach cramped and I felt
the result of my recent beer bubbling into heartburn.

Crap, I didn’t reckon this well enough. Was I asking Luke to act the knight for me
or for Tara? Someone needed to stop Shawna from nudging Tara toward Luke, for both
their sakes. But what if Luke tells Shawna he wants to see me? After all our sneaking
around, she would whip off my Miss Understood Snuggie and brand my backside with a
hot iron A.

And don’t tell me that A won’t sizzle scarlet for a good long while.

I sprinted through the tables, bumping into chairs and sloshing soups. In the entrance
to the hall, I stumble-halted my mad dash, yanked Shawna’s hand off Luke’s arm, and
whipped around to face him. Thereby shoving Shawna into a potted palm.

By accident, of course.

Not that her holler would make anyone think so.

“What are you doing?” Luke leapt toward Shawna to help her out of the palm. “Are you
nuts?”

“I’ve known you to be jealous, Cherry, but making another public spectacle?” Shawna’s
voice rose, causing the diners at neighboring tables to stop slurping their minestrone
to watch. She grasped Luke’s hand and leaned against him for support. “I think you
broke my heel.”

I grabbed Luke’s free elbow, yanking him toward me. “Forget what I said. I don’t want
Shawna to know anything about me.”

“Anything about you doing what?” Shawna clutched Luke’s free arm, pulling him from
my grasp, and leaned over to grab the offending shoe. Gifting him with a fair view
of her snakeskin-stretched backside.

Talk about a spectacle.

“Making some pitiful attempt to win my cousin back in front of poor Tara?” She spoke
from her bent-over position, like a center ready to hike a peep toe stiletto.

“No
.
” I floundered, my eyes searching Luke’s. This was worse than puking. What was I thinking?
I turned to Shawna. “I’ll pay for your shoe. I’m sorry about that.”

“You can’t afford to pay for these shoes,” she sneered, rising with Luke’s aid. “You
probably don’t even know the designer.”

The kitchen doors swung open, and Olivia pushed through. “What’s going on? Does somebody
need help?” She glanced from me to Shawna’s cling on Luke’s arm.

Shawna held the broken heel out, exposing the red sole to the restaurant crowd. “This
girl is causing a ruckus. She saw me with her ex-boyfriend, got jealous, and tried
to start a fight. Look what she did to my shoe.”

Olivia scanned Shawna then looked toward me. “Maybe we should get you out of here.”

“Maybe
.
” I agreed and cast my reddened face toward Luke. “I’m sorry.”

His cop-cool face gave me no indication of how he felt, but he slipped an arm around
Shawna’s waist and began to help her limp back to the table. Always the gentleman.
And once again leaving me to stare at him from my across-the-tracks point of view.

I cast a quick glance at Tara, who hadn’t bothered to close her mouth during the spectacle.
That poor girl. I jerked my eyes back to Olivia. “Can I sneak out through the kitchen?”

She gave me a half-smile. “Yeah, sure.”

We bumped through the doors together and she pointed toward the delivery exit. “What
was that about anyway? Crazy ex-girlfriend moment? Don’t worry, we’ve all had them.”

“Something like that
.
” I shook my head. “You know, I try to rise above it all, but I always seem to get
kicked back into the dirt.”

“Mandy used to say things like that, too,” said Olivia. “That woman with the shoe
sounded like a real bitch. Don’t let her get to you.”

“Did Maranda have crazy ex-girlfriends after her, too?”

“Just one. An art teacher at that school. I’m not sure if she was an ex-girlfriend,
though. She got mad at Mandy for seeing this businessman. Another bad choice on Mandy’s
part. He had a kid who went to
the
school.”

“A child who was bullied and committed suicide. Very poor choice on Maranda’s part.”
I grabbed Olivia’s arm. “The art teacher who bothered Maranda. Camille Vail, right?”

“The name sounds familiar
.
” Olivia stared at me through dark rimmed eyes. “Did the student find out about Mandy
and her dad?”

“I don’t know, but the school bully might think so.”

I stopped in an all-night laundromat and found Dr. Vail’s home address listed in the
Line Creek phone directory. She owned one of the historic, turn-of-the-century homes
that populated the blocks around the town square in Line Creek, one I recognized from
a popular tour of homes during the holidays. In the dark, with only the moon and street
lights to light the turreted house, the deep veranda appeared gloomy and the asymmetrical
gables and eaves menacing. However, in the daylight, the Queen Anne house was a gorgeous
deep violet with cadmium red-purple, blue, and green trim work. Hand-painted indigo
rockers and flower boxes filled with yellow mums decorated the porch. Carefully tended
flower beds mixed with annuals and perennials covered her tiny front lawn and side
yards.

My dream house.

Wishing I could have met Dr. Vail under different circumstances, I opened the wooden
screen and turned the antique door chime centered in the wooden door. The bell jangled
on the other side of the door with a mechanical thrumming like my old bike bell, but
louder. The effect fit the eerie mood, causing a prickle of goosebumps to rush up
my spine. Inside the house, all remained quiet.

I waited a moment, then walked the porch, my boots clattering on the wood planking.
The curtained windows gave no indication whether Camille Vail was still away on her
weekend jaunt. However, it was a school night and a light gleamed somewhere within.
I doubled back to the porch steps and glanced at the other houses lining her street.
Most had television lights flickering through the shades and curtains. The damp smell
of a doused wood fire hung in the air. The street was still except for the incessant
barking of a nearby dog.

I proceeded to hop down the steps and follow the inset stone path that sprang from
the sidewalk, through Dr. Vail’s front garden, and toward the back fence. The dog’s
barking grew louder, and as I approached the fence, a large shape slammed against
the gate.

“Hey boy,” I crooned. “It’s okay.”

Maybe the boy was a girl, for she growled with a fierceness I reckoned came with sharp
teeth and a large body.

Perhaps Dr. Vail had turned werewolf.

“I’m not perpetrating a break-in,” I told the dog. “I just want to know if your momma
is home.”

The dog snarled and snapped, then began howling.

“Okay, I’m backing off.” I gave up on sneaking in through the back door, unsure what
I hoped to find anyway.

I followed the path around the side of the house and paused. Between the dog’s barks,
a creaking sounded from the veranda. I dropped behind a large azalea and squinted
up into the murky porch. Some shadow wrapped in a long coat stood before the front
door.

A Sunday night booty call?

I held my breath, waiting to see if they attempted to enter or had just exited. The
figure crept from the front door to the far side of the porch, hugging the shadows.
The cape billowed as a breeze shook the dark leaves of a nearby sweetgum.

Had Tinsley called on Vail in his opera cape? More importantly, was this house call
made to further their argument? Maybe their departmental fight was an illicit romantic
cover-up.

Preferring to picture a different scenario than Tinsley and Vail getting it on, I
scrambled through the flower beds toward the front of the house. At the sidewalk,
I flashed a look around the quiet street, then ran up the steps. I cut left toward
the far side of the veranda where I had seen Tinsley disappear. Rounding the corner,
the porch ended at another screened door, most likely the kitchen entrance, with a
set of wooden stairs dropping to the garden below.

I peered over the porch rails into the yard, but didn’t see Tinsley. The stone path
from the steps led through Vail’s well-tended side garden back toward the front sidewalk.
The dog hadn’t sounded off, so it wasn’t likely Tinsley went round back. Evidently,
he had cut through the neighboring yard, divided from Vail’s by a small stand of ornamental
trees. His vehicle must have been parked on another street.

But why? To keep the neighbors from talking when nary one peeped from a window? Or
had he gone into the house through the kitchen? Maybe he had tried the front door
and also found it bolted.

The screen door had been well oiled, for it swung out without a sound. I tried the
brass knob on the kitchen door and it turned. Vail would get my compliments for a
well maintained home. I hesitated before pushing the door open, wondering if probable
cause could keep me from breaking and entering charges.

“Hello, Dr. Vail?” I called before stepping a boot over the threshold. “Anybody home?”

Behind the house, the dog stirred into a barking frenzy.

“Tinsley? I thought I saw you. I don’t care about your hanky-panky. I need to talk
to you both,” I shouted into the still house. Faint light ringed the door on the other
side of the kitchen.

“Beautiful cherry cabinets, Dr. Vail.” I hoped my compliments would deter Dr. Vail
from calling the police when she kicked me out of her house. I moved through the kitchen
and pushed open the door to the dim hall. “Love this wainscoting. Nice color choice
with the red walls and cinnabar green trim. I would have chosen it myself.”

The hall led left toward what I guessed was a powder room and closets and right toward
the front entryway. I found a wooden staircase with a different floral motif painted
on each riser. Overhead light glowed from the second story and filtered down the stairs
and into the hall.

“Boy, do I love what you did to these stairs
.
” I eyeballed the staircase, following the flowers up to the empty second floor landing.
“You up there, Dr. Vail? Did I wake you?”

I tread past the stairs and into the parlor, then rushed past the camelback couch
to the marble fireplace. I gazed up at a work lit with a tiny brass lamp clipped to
the top of the heavy gold frame. “Oh my Lord, is that an authentic Miro print?”

A bump against the outside wall startled me into turning away from the Miro. A part
of my brain told my inner artist to stop appreciating the decorating and focus on
the bumps in the night. Why in the hell did I enter this house in the first place?
What kind of an idiot creeps into dark houses to view the artistic details? And what
if I caught Tinsley and Vail doing the hot and heavy? What then, braniac?

That side of my brain probably needed to grow larger. I tiptoed from the piano back
toward the hallway. As I crept past the staircase, my eyes cut right, following the
hall as it circled the side of the stairs. On the other side of a small table, a curtained,
French door stood open. Behind the table and in the open doorway lay a long bundle
of cloth that I almost mistook for a partially rolled rug.

Except the rug had bare feet. One pointed up. The other had fallen to the side. Dark
toenail paint stood out against the pale skin.

I shuddered and stopped my tiptoe walk, reaching for my cell phone shoved in the back
pocket of my denim skirt. Dialing 9-1-1, I brought the phone to my ear and stepped
around the tole table. Camille Vail’s long, thin body lay sprawled on the floor, her
loose tunic wound around her torso and arms, like she had twisted and fallen backward.
Her head had rolled to one side. The piercing eyes were closed and her mouth hung
open, but something seemed odd about the up facing ear. I shoved the phone between
my shoulder and chin and dropped to my knees beside her.