Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (5 page)

He read off their names. “Kim Nally, Perry Jacobs, Dorothy
Saussy, Harper Weems, Jim Hawkins, Henry Bishop, Lionel
Portis and the hall monitors.” When he finished, he looked at
me with a quizzical expression on his face.

I chuckled. “Those were the names on the police report,
Howard. I’d like to see them today, if I can.”

“No problem.” He picked up the telephone and punched a
number. “Mrs. Thomas. Please line up meetings with the following teachers during their conference period with Mr.
Boudreaux in the ARD room.”

He read off the list, nodded as she repeated his instruction,
then replaced the receiver and pushed back from his desk.
“Now, let me show you to the ARD room.”

I stopped him. “Before we go, tell me about Holderman. Did
you know him very well?”

Half raised from his chair, he hesitated, then plopped back
down. “Only at school. He was an ambitious man. I was surprised he stayed as long as he did. From time to time, he
polarized the school board, but he always got his contract
extended.”

I jotted the information on my note cards. “Any enemies?”

The square-jawed principal shook his head. “He was tough,
but he was fair. Oh, he might have had some personality conflicts with various teachers, but I got along with him fine. I’ve
been at a loss as to why he was murdered.”

Nodding to the list I had given him, I asked, “You hear any
talk about those names?”

“Yeah.” He arched an eyebrow. “Just talk though. Nothing
substantive as far as I’m concerned.”

“Oh?”

He leaned forward. “Let me put it this way, Tony. Every
teacher on that list does me an excellent job. None have given
me any reason to believe any of the rumors. Now, some of the
gossip might be true, but if it is, I don’t know of it “

I studied him for a few seconds. His level gaze, his faint
smile reinforced my belief that he was telling me the truth as he
saw it. “One more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why hall monitors? And a sign-in sheet for PTA meetings
at night? I taught English at Madison High over in Austin. We
never had any sign-in sheets. We just showed up when we were
supposed to.”

He gave me a wry grin. “That’s how it used to be here until
George Holderman arrived. George wanted to know everything
that went on in the district. He and I agreed on the monitors to
control the kids running the halls while their parents were at
various meetings in the building. The other, the sign-in sheets,
we disagreed. My teachers are professionals. A sign-in is a slap
in the face.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “I thought it foolish, but
he was my boss. If that’s what he wanted, that’s what I did.”

“You said sheets? More than one sign-in sheet?”

Arching an eyebrow, he grinned sheepishly. “We sign in for
every meeting, and if a teacher wants to go to his classroom
after hours, he has to sign in also.”

I whistled softly, relieved I had left the business when I did.
“What about now?”

The principal grinned. “Guess.”

I chuckled. “Smart man.” I rose and extended my hand.
“Thanks, Howard.”

“You’re welcome.” He hesitated. “You said you taught English at Madison?”

I nodded. “Years ago.”

“Why’d you get out of the business?”

With a crooked grin, I replied, “Politics and parents.”

He chuckled. “I know the feeling. Come on. I’ll show you the
ARD room.”

Following him from his office, I sensed he was probably one
of the few dedicated educators in the system today. I envied the
kids in his school, nose rings and all.

The ARD room was a small cubicle where the counselors,
parents, and diagnosticians for the special needs students regularly met to monitor students’ progress. The only furniture in
the room was a round table and six chairs, a nice, cozy arrangement where everyone had to face everyone and no one could
duck a question.

He introduced me to the counselors, the secretary, and the
registrar, after which he pointed out the unisex bathroom and
the nook housing the coffee. “Help yourself. Usually, it’s
fresh.”

The phone rang. Birnam answered, cut his eyes to me, and
nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Thomas.”

He replaced the receiver. “We have a few minutes before
Kim Nally gets here. Care for some coffee?”

“Sure.”

The coffee was fresh, steaming, and Cajun strong. Gingerly
I sipped at it. “Now, this is what I call good coffee.”

Birnam blew across the surface. “This is my singular journey
into the Cajun culture, Mr. Boudreaux.” He nodded to the smiling secretary. “Rita Viator is our resident Cajun, straight from
Lafayette. She’s bound and determined to create a sense of
appreciation in our taste buds for Cajun cuisine.”

She shot us a mischievous smile. “Oh mon no, Mr. Birnam.
The coffee, she is supposed to be strong.” Rita Viator appeared
to be in her fifties, reminding me of my good-natured grandmere who laughed constantly and related anecdotes with the
best of the yarn spinners.

He laughed. “Well, you succeeded again, Rita.”

I inhaled the rich fragrance of the coffee and grinned at her.
“Delicious. Like back home. I’m from Church Point, northwest
of Lafayette.” At the mention of Church Point, I couldn’t help
thinking about Stewart and wondering how his hangover was
treating him. I needed to call him at the first opportunity.

“Oh mon no. My family, the old ones, they be from Lawtell.”

For the next few minutes, we exchanged stories and recollections of back home, from the swamps of Atchafalaya to the
boudain of Eunice, to the cockfights of Cankton. It had been
several months since I had heard the lilting patois of Cajun
country. Made me homesick.

I glanced around as the glass doors of the counselors’ office
opened and a slender, dark-complexioned woman in blue
sweats with Safford High School emblazoned across the front
entered. She paused, surveyed the room, focused on Birnam,
and strode toward us. She gave me a wary glance, then directed her words to Birnam. “You wanted to see me, Howard?”

“Yeah, Kim. This is Tony Boudreaux. He’s here looking into
the George Holderman thing.”

She rolled her eyes as if to say, not again.

Sensing her impatience, I spoke up. “Look, Mrs. Nally. I’m
just a private investigator working for Mrs. Holderman who
retained us to clear the case. The Safford police have given us
permission to talk to everyone. I don’t want to impose or
dredge up bad memories, so I promise I’ll be as brief as I can.”
I gave her my best little boy, come hither smile.

She studied me a moment, then shook her head and gave
Birnam a frustrated look. “Might as well, Howard. They’re
going to keep coming back until the thing is beat to death.”

“Great.” I offered my hand. “The name’s Tony.”

She gave me a bright smile that contrasted attractively with
her tanned skin. “Mine’s Kim.”

Birnam gave a brief nod. “You can use the ARD room.”

I poured another cup of Rita’s coffee and offered some to
Kim. She declined with a knowing grin. “Rita’s brew is a little
too strong for me ” She winked at the grinning secretary and
added with a mischievous curl on her lips, “But sometimes I do
use it for liniment for my girls’ sore muscles.”

I studied her as she walked ahead of me, remembering the
police report. Kim Nally, 34-year-old PE teacher who had an
affair with the superintendent, and whose personalized pen Holderman had given her was found beside the dead man on
Perry Jacobs’ desk. Her alibi was Dorothy Saussy, an algebra
teacher, who had been visiting in Nally’s office around the time
of the murder.

We sat at the table, and I pulled out my notebook, opened it
to a blank page, and handed it to her. “If you don’t mind, I’d
like your name and telephone in case I have to get in touch with
you again concerning the case.”

For a moment, she hesitated, an eyebrow arched. With a
shrug, she put down the information and slid the notepad and
pen back to me, all with her right hand.

That answered one of my questions. “I read the reports. If
you don’t mind, just tell me what you told the police.”

“Why not?” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the
table. Her eyes fixed on mine. “The reason the police talked to
me was that George and I had an affair, one I broke off two
years ago.” She stressed I. “You see, I’m a single mother with
a seven-year-old autistic daughter. I might not be a rocket scientist, Mr. Boudreaux, but I am smart enough to realize that
messing around with the superintendent of the school district
was a shortcut to disaster.” She lifted both eyebrows in a gesture of resignation. “So, I broke it off.”

I glanced at my notes. “You stated that you were in your room
from about eight-forty-five P.M. until the body was discovered.”

“Yes.” She leaned back, keeping her eyes fixed on mine.
There was a gleam of defiance in her dark eyes, as if she was
daring me to accuse her of the murder. “I was visiting with
Dorothy Saussy. She teaches algebra. She’s a single mother
also, and we were discussing sitters. She left around ninethirty when Linda May and Iona Flores stopped by to pick her
up. The three of them then went to Dorothy’s room to work on
curriculum.”

I jotted the last two names in my notebook. “I don’t remember seeing their names on the police report.”

With a shrug, she replied. “That’s the cops’ problem. I told
the officer.”

“What were you doing in your room so late anyway?”

She uttered a soft groan. “PTA. The superintendent insisted
all teachers attend all PTA meetings. He even demanded we
sign in and out at the table outside the auditorium.”

“In and out?”

“Yes. Something, huh?”

“Must have been an unpleasant joker to work for.”

“Yes and no ”” She glanced at the table, then lifted her eyes,
still defiant. “He wasn’t a bad man. He just wanted what he
wanted too badly. He tried to run over people, and obviously,
someone stopped him.”

“Obviously.”

She chuckled. “It was strictly physical between me and
George. He was powerful. I liked that. I think I was probably
somewhat infatuated at first, but after a while, real life sort of
elbowed infatuation aside, and I realized he was nowhere near
the icon I first thought. But the truth of the matter was I enjoyed
being with him.” Her gaze swept over me, and a wicked smile
curled her lips. “Nothing special, but he was okay.”

I felt my ears burn. The naughty little grin playing across her
Sunday School teacher’s lips broadened, as if enjoying my discomfort. “George tried to do more than he was capable.”

Momentarily confused, I couldn’t decide if she were talking
about his prowess or his business ambitions. “According to my
notes,” I mumbled, flipping through the pages and changing the
subject, “there was a reception after the meeting. Were you
there?”

She shrugged. “No. I went up to my room to get some work
taken care of. I hate wasting time standing around and visiting
with others. Then Dorothy showed up ””

“And she left at nine-thirty.”

“A little after, with the other teachers.”

“The Medical Examiner figures Holderman died somewhere
between nine and nine-thirty. I think that’s when a teacher
named Perry Jacobs found him.”

“Yeah.” She dropped her gaze. “I was working on basketball
plays when I heard Perry shout. I ran out into the hall. He was
standing in his doorway a couple rooms down, staring into his
room. “

“Then what?”

“When he saw me, he ran for the stairs.”

Whoa. Someone running down the stairs? Here was a small
item that had not been covered in the initial interrogation. I
played dumb, which really wasn’t all that difficult. “I don’t
think I remember seeing anything about that in the police
report.”

“Probably not. Perry figured it was just his imagination. I
don’t guess he saw any sense in mentioning it “

“Then what?”

“Then I ran into Perry’s room and saw George draped over
the desk.”

“Over the desk?”

Her tanned face crumpled into a grimace. “Yeah. On his
back. And”-she hesitated, closed her eyes, swallowed hard,
and blurted out-“a knife in his chest.”

“What about Perry Jacobs?”

“I ran after him, and met him coming back up the stairs.”

“Where had he gone?”

She raised an eyebrow. “He said he thought he saw someone run around the corner and down the stairs. When he got
down there, all he found was Harper Weems. Harp hadn’t seen
anyone. “

“Who is Harper Weems?”

“Harp? He teaches English and is the school photographer.
Nice guy. Physically challenged. He has to use a wheelchair.
He’s paralyzed from the waist down. But he’s always trying to
help the kids. Very conscientious teacher.”

I arched an eyebrow.

She continued. “Not just with school business, but with their
other problems also.” She shook her head. “He’s a good man.
And a good man is hard to find nowadays. I asked him once why
he didn’t request a room in the new wing designed for the handicapped, but he’d been in that old room ever since he began
teaching and didn’t want to leave.” She arched an eyebrow skeptically. “He claimed he liked the ambiance of the older wing.
Said it helped bring literature to life. He’s sort of romantic that
way. You know, like a lot of English teachers.”