Are You Nuts? Read online

  “Who was it?”

  “Beorn Quigley. He teaches a few classes part-time in the industrial arts department. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by my presence.”

  “He’s obviously not worried about keeping his job.”

  “Meg had already made a statement, but after Quigley spoke, Meg elbowed her way to the speaker’s podium. She barely controlled her fury as she spoke against everything he’d just said. She was nasty and vicious, but witty and clever as well. She was doing fine until she attacked Belutha by name. I don’t think she should have done that. It caused a huge uproar.”

  “Agnes told me how Belutha charged Meg.”

  “I’m not sure Meg was all that innocent. However, I think even Belutha’s most rabid supporters were appalled by Quigley. Meg dared Belutha or Lydia to refute what he’d said. Meg was practically challenging Belutha to start something.”

  “People have to take a stand at some point.”

  “Meg did that in spades. After I managed to reassert control, Jerome Blenkinsop, who had not said a word all night, stood up and defended Belutha and attacked Meg. I could see Meg was a little startled with an attack from that quarter. I called a halt to that—some employees still worry that a superintendent might get angry. Eventually, the two of them went off to some corner.”

  “Agnes said the fight continued.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Do you remember who left the room after Belutha was helped out?”

  “No. People were in and out and moving around. Throughout the meeting each side was trying to line up speakers. A few were making notes as others talked. Some huddled together in corners of the gym preparing their next statement. At the end everyone was sort of milling around as the voting took place and as we waited for the results to be announced. It would be nearly impossible to tell who was where when. I certainly don’t remember Jerome walking out.”

  “Did you see Meg leave?”

  “No.”

  “Who escorted Belutha out?”

  Carolyn thought several moments. “I’m not sure. I was trying to get everyone else to settle down again. Sorry, that’s all I remember.”

  As I got up to go, she said, “Last night you were defended vigorously. You have a lot of good friends and supporters in the community.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t the only topic of discussion.”

  “Belutha might have had a prepared diatribe against you, but she was escorted out before she could deliver it. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a teacher in this district as long as you want to be.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. Right now I’m going to concentrate on finding the killer. Whatever happened at the meeting isn’t important anymore. Getting Meg out is.”

  “But what happened earlier was important. Someone who was at that meeting is probably the killer. Good luck talking to people.”

  Before I left, she gave me a copy of the list she’d made of the people she remembered being at the meeting last night. She’d already given a copy to the police.

  I returned to the high school complex to see who among the faculty was in the building. Georgette Constantine, the school secretary, met me at the office door. “This is awful about Meg,” she began. “You’re going to do something about it, aren’t you?”

  I like Georgette. She lives to fuss and fume. For years I bought her act as a major ditz, always befuddled, but willing to bend over backward to help you. It took a while, but I realized very little got past her at any time. She knew what and who to watch out for. Over the years, we’d become good friends, especially after I helped her organize the custodians and secretaries into their union.

  I said, “I’m going to do everything I can to prove she didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Even if she’s found not guilty, they won’t keep her on, will they? I’d miss having her around. She’s so wonderful to work with. We’ve been friends for ages.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to insure her continued employment here. Carolyn Blackburn didn’t sound like she was ready to fire anybody.”

  “Good.” She glanced around and then leaned closer. “I shouldn’t be telling you this or showing you these.” She held out some pink telephone message sheets. “These are for Edwina. There have been calls coming in this morning about you. They’re saying they don’t want their child in your classroom.”

  I riffled through them. There were six. I didn’t recognize any of the names. “I haven’t begun to memorize the names of the kids in my classes, but these don’t sound familiar.”

  “I checked. Only one has a kid scheduled to be in one of your classes. Why would they call if they don’t have students in your classes?”

  “Fear? Ignorance? Outright stupidity? I don’t know. How many more of these came in over the summer?”

  She thought a moment. “Less than twenty-five here. I don’t know about the district office.”

  “Carolyn didn’t say anything about this.”

  “I talked to her secretary this morning. Parents are calling the district office as well.”

  It is always good to be in with the secretaries. They can tell you real information and be more truly helpful than anyone else in the school.

  “There’s something else,” Georgette said. “There were two other calls besides these. These people were hateful. Before I could disconnect them, they became obscene and abusive. The second one started out more reasonable, but as soon as he started making threats, I hung up.”

  “Same person each time?”

  “No.”

  “Male or female voice?”

  “Male both times. Each sounded young. Not little kids, but at least teenagers. I’m certain they were not adults.”

  “If they were teens, their parents might have put them up to it.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “I hope not.” I’d been with Scott in rural Georgia earlier in the summer helping him with his father. The antigay prejudice there ran deep. I’d hoped for a little better in the Chicago area, but I knew there were crazies everywhere. “They didn’t say anything specific?”

  “No. Just threats, but I hung up before they could go very far.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “The police are interviewing everyone down in the science office in the old section. The secretaries in each building have lists of people to call. We’re helping the police find out who was at the meeting. Carolyn told the detectives we would cooperate any way we could. If you’re careful, you’ll be able to talk to any teachers right after they’re done.”

  “I don’t want to get the police irritated. Maybe I’ll try that discreetly later on.” I asked her about Beorn Quigley.

  She frowned. “He’s only part-time, so I don’t see him much. I don’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s rude to me.”

  I knew this was enough to consign him to Georgette’s seventh circle of hell. She promised to get me his phone number and home address and any other information she could. I thanked her and left.

  I grabbed a stack of material from my mailbox. I glanced through it. Near the bottom was a flyer from Seth. It was a page dense with print. On the top was the slogan “Solidarity Forever.” Kurt’s and my names were in bold print in the text. I stood in the office and read it. Basically what was written accused both of us of incompetence, and if he was elected, Seth would put an end to rule by the high school teachers. I was seething before I was halfway to the corridor. This hadn’t been in my mailbox late yesterday. I guessed this was a reaction to my refusal to back him. He must have written it quickly and placed copies in everyone’s mailbox last night before he attended the PTA meeting. I didn’t picture him doing it after he heard about the murder. What was the point?

  I saw Trevor Thompson walk in the front door of the building. I swallowed my anger for the moment and hurried after him.

  Today Trevor wore tight, white jeans, a blue T-shirt cut off at the midriff, and black r
unning shoes. You’ve got to be fairly young and very slender to carry off white jeans and midriff shirts. Trevor was both. He looked decidedly sexy.

  “I’ve got practice,” he said before I could say anything. “I don’t have time to talk.”

  “You were at the meeting last night.”

  “Listen, I’m really busy. I can’t talk to you.” He rushed off as if a group of rabid homophobes were after him.

  His eagerness to talk to me had obviously been replaced by sheer terror. I wondered why and vowed to get an answer.

  Celia Cosenza, the learning-disabilities teacher, came down the corridor. She looked as if she’d been crying. I worked a lot with Celia preparing for the difficult kids I would have in my classes each year.

  “You okay?” I asked her.

  “Jerome Blenkinsop was a good friend.” She held a tissue to her nose and sniffed. “I can’t believe he’s dead, and I know Meg didn’t kill him.”

  “Maybe you should be at home,” I suggested.

  “No. It’s better that I come to work. I want to involve myself in something. I don’t want to think about him being gone.” She dabbed at her eyes. “How is Meg?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I gave her a brief outline of my visit to the police station.

  She said, “I don’t know how anyone could think Meg did it. She is one of the nicest people around here. They’ve got the wrong person.”

  “I agree. How well did you know Jerome?”

  “Each year, as with you, we talked about kids in his classes. We worked closely together for years.” She sniffed again. “I can’t think about him. I need to immerse myself in work. Do you have a few minutes? We’ve got to discuss these seniors that are going to be in your remedial reading class.”

  We did a student analysis every year before school started. These kids would have needs starting the first day of school, but I was anxious to do everything I could to help Meg. I told Celia this as gently as I knew how.

  But she was persistent. “I have the class lists,” she said. “If not now, when?”

  Celia was a good person, and if a few minutes of rational work would help her, I could spare it. As we walked to her room, I told her about parents asking for kids to be taken out of my classes.

  “You’re so good with these kids. It would be a shame for these children not to have you for a teacher.”

  “I guess some of their parents don’t see it that way.”

  “It’s their loss. Let’s presume the best. You’re going to teach and have kids in class.”

  We spent thirty minutes examining the list of kids. When we finished, I asked, “Were you at the PTA meeting last night?”

  “No. I had no business with the PTA last night. I’ve got a million kids to get ready for. I have to have daily plans for all of them. They’ve got to be in order for when school starts.” She dabbed a tissue on her eyes again. “You know, I talked to Jerome as he was leaving school yesterday.”

  “Do you remember if he said anything significant?”

  “He said he had a lot of people to see and that he felt obligated to attend the meeting. I thought about going. Maybe if I’d gone, Jerome would still be alive.”

  “Do you know his wife?”

  “She’s a good woman. They loved each other.”

  “Did you ever meet his kids?”

  “No.” She started to sniffle again. I tried to say some comforting words. When I left, she was pulling out a stack of forms.

  I trudged down to my classroom. I wanted a few minutes to think and then begin my plan of attack. When I opened my classroom door, I stopped. Something was different. I walked farther into the room. Papers from yesterday still littered the desks and tables. They seemed to be in the same order I had left them. It was remotely possible that the janitors had been in to sweep up. I checked the floor. Stray bits of packing material still clung to the tiles. Even with the marginally competent crew we had, they would have gotten these scraps with the most perfunctory cleaning. The custodians hadn’t been in.

  I sat in the chair behind my desk and carefully looked at each item in my view. Then it struck me. Yesterday, all the textbooks resting flat on their sides on the shelves had had the open end facing toward the door. Now they all faced the window. What earthly purpose did it serve to change the books? I took several off each shelf and looked behind them. Nothing.

  I shrugged off the feeling of uneasiness. Before I left, I checked everything else carefully. The computer was intact and undisturbed. I was most concerned about my union files. I take notes at every meeting I have as union building representative. As grievance person, I’d kept a file on every complaint I’d received. The originals of all these were at home, but I kept copies of everything in school. I’d lost several years’ worth of originals in my fire. None of the cabinets in this old section had locks that locked securely. My classroom doors, like the library’s, were easy enough to break into with any kind of hard edge.

  I systematically checked all the files. I thought several might have been tampered with. I don’t memorize every piece of paper that goes into each folder, but I do have a system. I always save my notes from each time I talk to a teacher or administrator in chronological order. In several folders these were slightly out of order. One of these was Beatrix’s. Another a first-year teacher who couldn’t control her classes. I couldn’t swear in court that the problem wasn’t simply that I had misfiled these.

  I wasn’t sure what the new placement of the textbooks or the disturbed files meant, but I was determined to get to the bottom of both problems. I also needed to find out if they were connected to the missing plan book yesterday.

  6

  I drove to Zachary Taylor Elementary School to find Seth O’Brien, author of the nasty diatribe. I found him sitting at his desk, writing on a sheet of legal-size paper. He wore baggy shorts and a T-shirt that reached to midthigh. His room was decorated with cheery, bright posters of cuddly animals, and the alphabet marched across the top of the front of the room—white letters on a green background. One bulletin board had a smiling Mr. and Ms. Times-Tables. He looked up as I walked in.

  I said, “I saw your flyer about the election.” I held it up in my hand. “What did you do, talk to me then run to your computer? You might have waited. I hadn’t talked to your opponent yet.”

  “I knew you weren’t going to support me. I saw no reason to wait. I put the notes in the high school mailboxes last night, before the meeting, and in the elementary schools early this morning. I thought of taking them out of the mailboxes after I heard about last night’s unfortunate incident, but it was too late by then. People had started to read them. Anyway, they aren’t about Jerome.”

  “You don’t think it was a little harsh?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t like your tone. You don’t sound very professional. Why are you taking this so personally?”

  “You print and distribute a personal attack on me, and you accuse me of being unprofessional? You don’t expect me to take a personal attack personally? Are you nuts?”

  “This is just the kind of thing I was talking about. You’re being much too confrontational. So has Kurt and the union.”

  “You mean, you get to say something outrageous, untrue, and totally stupid, but if I say anything, I’m confrontational? Do you have the slightest logic circuit in your brain?”

  “Why should I bother to fight with you? I’m going to win the election now.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “How dare you? The police are at the high school. They’re trying to get everyone who was at last night’s meeting rounded up to interrogate. If I hadn’t been running for union president, I wouldn’t have been involved in any of this. I wish I hadn’t gone to the meeting last night. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “You don’t sound heartbroken about Jerome’s death.”

  “It’s a horrible thing. How can you presume I’m not upset about his death? I taught in t
he same district as he.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to the meeting.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Where were you after the meeting last night?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What time did you leave? Did anybody see you go?”

  “Did I miss something? Are you on the River’s Edge Police Department?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Nor will you ever be.”

  “My friend is accused of murder.”

  “You want to be an amateur sleuth? Please, leave that Jessica Fletcher crap alone. I’m not answering any of your questions.”

  An unpleasant impasse if I ever heard one.

  He got up from his desk and walked toward the door.

  “You’re just walking out?”

  “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “In the middle of a conversation?”

  He simply left.

  I hunted down the new head custodian in the district, Robert Tusher. He was a short, roly-poly man. All the custodians wore brown uniform pants with a brown work shirt. Probably from the same company that made Frank Murphy’s suits. I asked if anybody had been in my room this morning.

  “You’re the guy from TV talk shows with the baseball player?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your room in the west wing of the old high school?”

  “Yes.”

  He thought a minute. “Wasn’t supposed to be anybody in there. Except for a couple community service kids, we were all over at the new school getting it ready for the big meeting Friday. We’re setting up tables and chairs in all kinds of different places. Those community service kids don’t do the slightest thing more than what they are told. You’ve got to watch them every minute.”