DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (4 page)

“I’m glad to see him enjoying friends like you, Cherry. If Lukey’s happy, I’m happy.
Thank you.”

Damn, Tara was good. I tossed my trash in the red plastic basket and stood up. “Nice
to see you again.”

“See you around, Cherry.” She pulled a hand sanitizer bottle from her purse and began
squirting it on her arms.

“I’m sure you will, Tara.” Like whenever Luke happened to show up in my proximity.

I said goodbye to the kindest, most thoughtful crazy ex-girlfriend of all time. If
Luke decided to file stalking charges, maybe they’d let Tara continue to bake pies
in prison.

Tamara would like that.

F
our

I left Tara to talk the Lickety Pig staff into making her a salad and hurried back
to Peerless Day Academy. With Uncle Will’s warning about the timeliness of work clearance,
I wanted to get my paperwork turned in, speak to the drama teacher in person, and
secure the job before their faculty meeting. I had a roommate now to help with some
bills, but money was tight. My local art patrons had essentially disappeared after
my last few scrapes, but Peerless parents could open a whole new market for me.

Zig-zagging back to the northwestern border of Forks County and Line Creek city limits,
I drove through the stacked stone pillar gate just before the dismissal bell. Parents
paid plenty for Peerless’s acreage and bucolic landscaping that included a stable
and jumping arena, tennis courts, nine-hole golf course, lacrosse fields, and a working
garden with greenhouses.

And judging by the line of vehicles waiting to pull into Peerless Day, the parents
also paid a lot of money burning gas.

I pulled around the car pickup line, passing a Bentley and a hybrid Lexus, and found
one empty slot in the visitor’s section. In a row filled with Porsche Cayennes and
Acura MDXs, my poor Datsun P.O.S. stuck out like a pit bull at a poodle show. I grabbed
my portfolio bag and drawing satchel and slid from the Datsun. As I walked toward
the line of cars waiting before the front doors, the window on a Mercedes-Benz M Class
rolled down.

“You’re back
.
” Pamela Hargraves dangled an arm out the window. A diamond tennis bracelet slid over
her wrist and she shook it up her arm. “They’re going to have a faculty meeting. After-school
activities are suspended.”

“Yes, ma’am
.
” I stopped at her door. “I want to catch the drama teacher, Mr. Tinsley, before the
meeting.”

“Mr. Tinsley is a weasel. Watch out for him.”

Either Pamela Hargraves ate a bowl of negativity for breakfast or she had a finger
on the pulse of gossip in this school. “Why would you say that?”

“He counts on big wins in the state and national drama competitions to get alumni
dollars for his productions. He’s taught Disney kids, you know. If he doesn’t think
you’re up to his standards, he’ll air his grievances publicly. He’s got a blog that
has hundreds of readers. They like his brand of snark.”

Holy shit. Did I really want this job?

“But if he likes you, guess who gets star billing on his blog and in the community?”

“He’s got a voice in Line Creek?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Who cares about Line Creek? He’s a board member on a number
of art and culture committees in Aureate County and Atlanta.”

Aureate’s boundaries stretched into the North Georgia mountains. The mountains meant
tourist towns. Tourist towns meant galleries and community cultural events.

“So if he liked my work, he’d recommend me as an artist in other towns? Maybe Atlanta?”
I ran my hand over my portfolio bag.

Pamela nodded with a smirk. “Or sink your career faster than a solid gold anchor.”

I chewed my lip. “And if he liked my work, folks in Forks County might notice, too.”

“If that matters to you, then yes. But watch your back. And keep an eye on his blog.
He’ll leave a trail of backstabbing bread crumbs before he finishes you off for good.”

“Thanks for the advice, ma’am.”

“Good luck to you. Kadence is trying out for
Romeo and Juliet
. I’m running her to an extra voice lesson today.” She waved and the tinted window
zipped to the top of the door, hiding Pamela and her leather and wood grain interior.

I sighed and gazed at Peerless’s castle-like facade, wondering if this venture was
worth it.

A carillon rang from the stacked stone bell tower. As if cued to the Peerless schedule,
my phone erupted with its own musical preference. The Spice Girls
“
Wannabe,
”
my best friend Leah’s ring tone. That song always made me smile. I still remembered
the girl power dance moves Leah and I performed in the Halo Middle School cafeteria.

Strolling to the sidewalk, I jerked the phone from my satchel and plugged my free
ear from the noise of cars and bells. “Hey, friend
.
” I backed toward the side of the building as an avalanche of kids poured through
the front doors. “What’s going on?”

“Cherry, honey
.
” Leah’s sultry drawl could race drying paint and lose. “I’ve got some bad news about
Peerless.”

“If it’s about the secretary dying, you’re too late. I got that news after I sat in
her office for twenty minutes without her appearing.”

“I’m so sorry. My cousin, Faith, just called to tell me, and I remembered you had
an interview today. It’s so upsetting. Are you coming back to Halo, then?”

“Actually, I had to get my background check done and I’m going to drop it off before
the faculty meeting.”

“Faith is pretty upset.”

“She’s the chorus teacher, right? Must be hitting the faculty pretty hard.” I sidestepped
three young girls, their eyes and thumbs on their phones. “Can’t say the parent I
met was too upset over Maranda Pringle’s death, though.”

“I’m not sure Faith liked Miss Maranda much either, but a suicide does rock your world
a bit.”

“Suicide?” I jumped behind a trashcan as another group of teens glued to iPads threatened
to barrel into me.

How could they run, read, talk, and type at the same time? That was serious multi-tasking.

“You didn’t know? I guess they wouldn’t spread that news around
.
” Leah paused. “Faith said Miss Pringle had been drinking and took a bunch of pills.”

“Was she depressed?”

“I don’t know. I met her last week when I went to help Faith set up for her fall choral
concert. Miss Pringle seemed distracted, but what school secretary wouldn’t be? The
office was crowded. I couldn’t get anybody to show me the way to the chorus room,
so I wandered lost in the maze of hallways until a sweet child finally pointed the
way.”

“Sounds like something was going on that day.”

“Everyone was worked up,” Leah agreed. “Faith was too busy with her concert to notice,
though.”

“I hope this drama teacher isn’t going to be a pain. I just got word that he loves
to make and break careers on his blog.”

“Merciful heavens. Maybe you should rethink working for him.”

“Don’t worry, Leah,” I said, more for my sake than hers. “I’m sure I’ve faced tougher
critics than Terry Tinsley. Shawna Branson will make him look like banana pudding.”

We said our goodbyes and I slid my phone back in my satchel. I looked up and locked
eyes with a boy of about sixteen. With a mohawk of curly blond hair and his Peerless
blazer inside out and backwards, he stood with his hands shoved in his Peerless gray
trouser pockets. Which looked difficult as they hung off his nonexistent hips at a
precariously low angle.

“Who are you?”
H
e squinte
d
behind red Wayfarer sunglasses.

“Who are you?” I countered. He looked familiar in a deja vu
-
ish way.

“I don’t give out my name to strangers.” He slid his glasses down, peered at me with
brilliant blue eyes, then shoved them back up his nose.

“Me neither.”

He nodded and ambled off with the back of his trouser cuffs dragging on the cement.

Mesmerized, I watched him before turning back toward the door. The tide of exiting
teens had slowed to a trickle, and I decided to brave the gauntlet into the building.
The sidewalk opened onto slate tiles surrounded by an inlaid stone mosaic making up
the crest of the school. Passing through the open front doors, I waved to the security
guard and headed across the wide foyer to the front office.

Behind that set of glass doors, faculty members and students huddled in clumps, heads
bent and whispering. I strode to the counter and flagged a nearby student to call
Mr. Tinsley. A row of chairs lined the two glass walls near the door. I dropped into
a chair near a group of girls, their school jackets and ties tossed into a pile on
the chair next to me. The girls all wore the same gray and blue plaid pleated skirt
hiked to mid-thigh and white blouse unbuttoned to expose their clavicle. All had straight
hair falling midway down their backs. All spoke in chirps and squeals. I counted thirteen
OMGs in the first thirty second interval.

Gradually my hearing tuned to their teen girl decibel and I gathered they were talking
about a message that had gone around the school.

“I couldn’t believe it. How did they know about Preston? You think someone, like,
ratted him out?” said a dark haired teen.

“I know, right? Probably the drama department,” said a blonde. “It’s so uncool.”

I eyed the third girl, only differentiated by a slight wave in her dark hair and beautiful
mocha skin.

“You think Preston knows?” she asked.

“Of course he knows,” said the brunette.

“Everybody knows now,” said the blonde.

“Not everyone knew about Ellis,” said the girl with the wave.

“True,” said Brunette.

As I watched the girls, the name Ellis clicked into place. The sophomore who had committed
suicide from cyberbullying the previous year. Curiosity got the better of me. I leaned
into their group.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Did y’all know Ellis?”

I received three eyebrow raises and crossed arm hip pops, which I took as a why-are-you-talking-to-us
move.

“Just curious,” I said. “I understand last year they shut down your Internet and didn’t
allow phones.”

“That was so uncool,” said the blonde. “And stupid. You don’t need
Wi-Fi
if you have 4G or whatever. And we don’t need phones if we have tablets or whatever.
And PeerNotes is a joke anyway.”

“So Miss Pringle’s plan didn’t work?”

The brunette lifted her lip. “Of course not. But it made the parents feel like the
school was doing something.”

“They better not do it again,” said the ebony haired beauty. “I mean it’s not like
the school secretary would kill herself over some stupid texts like Ellis.”

“You think they’ll take away our phones?” The brunette dropped her cool stance and
twisted a lock of hair around her finger.

“Was Miss Pringle cyberbullied?” I guessed the news of Pringle committing suicide
had already made it into the Peerless grapevine. Probably by electronic memo, judging
by all the devices.
“I heard she was kind of mean.”

“Yeah, really mean,” said the brunette.

“Miss Pringle got a ghost text, too,” said the third girl.

“What’s a ghost text?” This conversation made my head spin.

“You know, when you get a text and it’s not from a phone and like a random name. Ghost
text,” said the blonde. “You can tell someone what you really think of them and it’s
totally anonymous.”

How do you get a text that’s not from a phone?

I jumped, hearing my name.

“The artist Cherry Tucker,” the droning voice called.

I turned and witnessed a balding, goateed man with glasses sweep into the room in
a long, black cape. With one arm held out and the other drawing the cape to his chin,
he called my name again, this time adding a long, mocking laugh.

What in the hell was going on at this school?

Five

“Mr. Tinsley?” I guessed, figuring the whole dramatic bit fit the stereotype.

“‘Seal my fate tonight.’” He moved forward, the velvet cape billowing as his hands
swept toward me and retreated to cover his face. “‘I hate to have to cut the fun short,
but the joke’s wearing thin.’”

My eyebrows landed somewhere near my hairline. I glanced around the office. The groups
had stopped chatting to watch the performance. No one looked particularly shocked
or confused. I didn’t even detect any eyeball rolls, whereas this little stunt deemed
eyeball-rolling worthy material. However, I was from a less genteel background. My
brother probably gave wedgies to a Mr. Tinsley-type in high school.

“‘Let the audience in.’” He extended his arm to acknowledge the faculty and students
glued to his performance.

I had dealt with some divas in art school, but I felt a bit lost among this theater
crowd.

“‘Let my opera begin!’” Holding the cape out, he stopped in front of me and finished
with a round of maniacal laughter. Followed by an enthusiastic applause by the office
audience.

I waited for the producer of the reality show to walk out with the camera crew.

No producer or camera crew appeared.

Pulling off the cape, Tinsley folded it over one arm, then bowed. “Pardon me, Miss
Tucker. A parent just handed me this to add to our costume collection, and I found
myself carried away by this vehicle of creativity disguised as a cloak.”

I suppressed my confusion. “Mr. Tinsley, I came by hoping to catch you before the
faculty meeting. I have already turned in my background check.”

“Your ‘can do’ spirit is duly noted and appreciated.” Tinsley pulled a folded envelope
from his pocket, handed it to me, and pointed toward the doors. “Shall we walk?”

Glancing at the envelope, I noted that it was check sized and peeked. With a gasp
at the zeros, my mercenary heart blessed the Disney parents of Peerless for their
generosity and shoved the check into my satchel. We left the office, walked through
the half-moon shaped foyer and toward the first of a series of long halls spoking
off the main lobby.

“This is the arts hall.” Tinsley pointed toward the first sets of double doors that
lined both sides of the corridor. “The chorus and band rooms. They both feature state-of-the-art
recording studios.”

“Nice.” I wondered how these students handled the depravity of university life after
leaving Peerless. College must feel like a mission trip to some impoverished nation.

We proceeded at a fast clip down the football field length hall.

“The dance studios.” He waved at another set of doors, then to the double doors on
the opposite side. “The art classrooms.”

“Wait,” I said. “Can I see the art studios?”

“If we must,” he sighed, plodding toward the entrance. We entered an anteroom lined
with more doors. “The sculpture lab is on the far right. Computer animation and graphic
design over there. Drawing and painting in the middle. I believe there’s also some
kind of press in one. And something for textiles.”

I peered through each of the narrow windows set inside the doors. “These are nicer
than some of my classrooms at SCAD.”

“Did you attend college in Savannah or Atlanta? I know a few faculty members in Atlanta.”

“Savannah
.
” I backed away from the last window as a tall, thin woman with a short crop of salt
and pepper spied my gawk.

The door swung open. The tall woman stepped into the vestibule, crossed her arms over
her chambray tunic, and fixed a cold, death-ray glare on Tinsley. “I told you to stay
out of the art wing.”

Tinsley shrugged. “Calm down, Camille. I was just showing your facilities to the
art director for the new production.”

She set her cool, hazel eyes on me. “The art rooms are not available for outsiders.
Don’t even think about using my supplies.”

“I hadn’t thought about it, ma’am,” I said, disappointed to start on the wrong foot
with a fellow artist. “I figured the theater department had their own stuff.”

“They have plenty of ‘stuff.’” She whirled around, slamming the door behind her.

“Well,” said Tinsley, ushering me back into the arts hall. “I certainly lose to Dr.
Vail on dramatic outbursts today.”

I reminded myself of the zeros on the check and kept my mouth shut.

At the end of the hall, the double doors had been draped with red satin swag. A gold,
sparkling lettered sign, entitled “Tinsley Town,” hung next to the door. Like the
art wing, these double doors led to a room with more doors. This area had been painted
green and crammed with a table and beanbag chairs. Students were draped across and
over the seating, all with various devices in hand. One mop-topped boy lay on the
long table, viewing an electronic tablet held above his face while he popped goldfish
crackers into his mouth.

“Ignore the denizens,” said Tinsley, readopting his grandiose voice that included
the wide arm sweep.

I did my best to ignore as I tripped over gangly teens, making our way to his office
entrance, complete with another gold, sparkly sign.

The office had the wood and leather vibe that reminded me of my friend Max Avtaikin’s
office. I wandered behind a full length mirror standing before floor to ceiling bookshelves.
With my back to Tinsley, I scanned the shelves holding stacks of both bound paper
and hard cover scripts, various knickknacks that I took to be props, and framed theater
programs. I felt surprised to find no personal photos of him, his family, or the students.
The room appeared as staged as his gimmicky caped character.

“Have a seat.” Tinsley pointed toward a chair before his mahogany desk. “Would you
like some coffee? I always need a stimulant this time of day.”

I thanked him, glad he had dropped his booming affectation and wild gesturing. Dropping
into the chair, I watched as he gathered coffee materials from a credenza. Without
his audience, his posture slumped and his facial features relaxed, exposing a fine
network of lines around his eyes. Doling out ground coffee into a press, he added
hot water from an electric tea kettle, then massaged his
goatee
, waiting for the coffee to steep.

Four minutes later, I held a delicate china cup and no fix on the real Mr. Tinsley.
“Good cup of joe. Thank you.”

He gave a small bow. “The extra effort is worth it
,
don’t you think? I feel the same way about my little theater projects.”

I had a feeling his theater projects weren’t little.

Circling the desk, he sank into a leather office chair cranked to its fullest height.
Either that or someone had sawed the legs off my chair and his desk.

He beamed at me from his perch. “Let me explain why I want to take you on as art director,
even with your limited qualifications.”

I masked the gust of air I blew out as a cough.

“I do nothing halfway and I always do my research
.
”
H
e leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers on the desk. “You, Cherry Tucker,
have been in the local press several times in the past six months. Stories reporting
you consorting with malefactors and pursuing criminals.”

“Those reports are highly exaggerated. The
Halo Herald
lacks real news, so anything printed leans toward sensationalism.”

“No matter
.
”
H
e waved his pinky ring. “My point is this. Your combination of visionary artworks
and courage under fire has piqued my interest. Your friendship with Max Avtaikin as
well. I suppose you have heard of these references on
Tinsley Talks
?”

“
Tinsley Talks
?”

“My small blog where I have referred to the surprisingly fresh talent emerging from
the murky depths of the humble burg called Halo. But now you understand why I called
on your assistance?”

“Not really.”

“It’s simple
.
”
H
e sighed. “First, my production of
Romeo and Juliet
will not be of the gauche amateurish melodrama usually portrayed in high schools.
I’m thinking a musical comedy version. Like a
Glee
meets
Avatar
. Except underwater. The Capulets are blue humanoid sea creatures and the Montagues
are the aquanauts. In retro-scuba dress.”

I tried to remember to blink. “Retro-scuba dress?”

He stroked his goatee. “You are right, of course. Difficult for dance numbers. I may
have to rethink that. Anyway, you
can
see why I need an unconventional artist for the groundbreaking scenery. I can’t rent
what I want for this production. It needs to be original. I want the Tiny Tony.”

“Tiny Tony?”

“High school theater version of the Tony. The pinnacle of awards.”

My intelligence seemed to diminish the more time I spent in this school. Maybe I needed
to get out of my humble burg more often.

“Second,” he said, “your name is often linked to Max Avtaikin. I would like his support.”

“If you mean you want him to help fund your theater, I’m telling you up front, I can’t
persuade Mr. Max to do anything. He’s got a foreign view of things that I don’t understand.”

“You can introduce us. Invite him to the production. He’ll be impressed.” Tinsley
left his chair and began to pace. “Tell him the contribution is tax deductible.”

I couldn’t promise anything on Max’s behalf, so I figured it safe to keep my mouth
shut.

Tinsley stood facing the bookshelves with his hands clasped behind him, head bowed.
“The third reason has to do with your vigilante spirit. Your willingness to disregard
rational thought and safety in the face of danger.”

“Excuse me for saying so, sir, but I use rational thought. And I’ve been schooled
in safety by my uncle, the sheriff. I’m not a vigilante. I just have the wrong place
,
wrong time kind of luck and a strong sense of justice.”

“Call it what you will.”

“I’ll call it stepping up to the plate and doing the right thing.”

Tinsley turned to face me, his dark eyes somber. “Then I need you to do the right
thing by me.”

“By painting your alien underwater scenery?”

“By protecting me. I think someone’s going to kill me.”

Were all art patrons this crazy or just the ones who wanted to hire me?