Dying to Teach

By Cindy Davis

Published by L&L Dreamspell

London, Texas

Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

Copyright 2011 by Cindy Davis

All Rights Reserved

Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

ISBN- 978-1-60318-406-9

* * * *

Published by L & L Dreamspell

Produced in the United States of America

Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

* * * *

My thanks to Margie and Joel, and the staff of the Olde Bay Diner. You give the Angie Deacon series a focus.

* * * *

Steve—you’re in my heart and mind, daily.

ONE

The broadcaster warned that the upcoming scenes might be too graphic for some viewers so Angie Deacon went back to her reading—the latest copy of American Theatre Magazine. Not that she couldn’t take blood and gore, she’d been an ER nurse, after all. And heaven knew she’d seen enough of it over the course of her relationship with Detective Colby Jarvis. But why topple this peaceful moment—there were so few of them in her life.

When the newsman said, “Tonight, the murder of the Carlson South High School’s drama teacher rocked the community,” Angie slapped the magazine shut. On the television was a picture of the woman. She was pretty, maybe of Polynesian descent, with short dark hair and black rimmed glasses over deep brown eyes. She had a tiny blemish on her left cheek.

The scene shifted. Police and ambulance strobes illuminated a pair of EMTs like dancers on a disco floor. The men rolled a gurney through a glass door and eased it down six cement steps. As they loaded it into the back of a waiting ambulance, the broadcaster said, “I’m standing here outside 1606 Maple Avenue where the body of Gwen Forest was discovered in her second floor apartment.”

The camera panned up and across a row of picture windows, then zoomed in on one about midway along the right side of the building. Two small windows flanking the wide one were open. White ruffled curtains fluttered against the screens.

“Apartment manager David Vickers…” The scene switched to a squat balding man with a bulbous nose sandwiched between two uniformed police officers. He clutched tiny wire-rimmed glasses in his left hand and appeared as though he might crumple onto the grass at any moment. A picture of the apartment building splashed back onto the screen. “…was preparing to wax the second floor hallway when he noticed Ms. Forest’s door ajar. Receiving no response to his knock, he went in and discovered the body. At this point authorities will only confirm that Ms. Forest was murdered, and that no suspects are in custody. By our morning broadcast we hope to have further details.” The camera zoomed in on a clear plastic bag dangling from one of the officer’s hands. Angie squinted. It looked like a tube of toothpaste. Murder weapon?

The camera moved to the apartment manager’s myopic face. He spoke to the officer on his left then gestured with his chin toward the building. The officer jotted something in his notebook. A reporter stabbed a microphone in their faces but was shooed away. Two men, one uniformed, one not, joined them. That’s when Angie sat up straighter. The magazine slid to the carpet. She snatched at it but missed.

What the heck was he doing there? She leaned forward, unfolding her legs and setting both feet on the floor. No mistake. The man in plain clothes was none other than Detective Colby Jarvis. He stood half a head taller than everybody else, that ridiculous deerstalker hat prominent in the strobing red and blue lights. Nothing unusual to see him at a crime scene here in Alton Bay, New Hampshire, quite surprising for him to be at one in Carlson, some sixty-five miles to the south. She watched him for a moment—her friend, her lover, her occasional crime-solving partner, but most of all, the man who’d asked her to marry him. Angie didn’t want to think about marriage proposals. That’s what she’d told him again yesterday—that she wasn’t ready to remarry.

She turned off the television and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of pinot noir. Too bad about that drama teacher. In the photo she looked happy and friendly, smiling openly, comfortable facing the camera. Angie took the glass and the magazine to the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. She ruffled past twenty-six pages of advertising and had just begun reading an article about stretching last year’s wardrobe when the phone rang. The caller ID said it was Jarvis on the other end. After seeing him on television she hadn’t expected his call tonight.

“Hi, Jarvis.”

“Hey, love. You see the news?”

That was Jarvis, always to the point.

“What brought you to Carlson?”

“Remember the Johnson kid I arrested last week? We finally got a break in his case. I found his father at a bar there.”

“The case isn’t related to that teacher’s death, is it?”

“No. I was talking to a fellow officer when the call came in.”

“So, what happened?”

“Suffocated. Whether by accident or on purpose, she was knocked unconscious then a tube of stage makeup was shoved down her throat and duct taped in place.”

That explained the tube in the evidence bag: stage makeup, not toothpaste. What a horrible way to die. “Do they know who did it?”

“Nah. Just once would it be too much to find the perp standing over the body with the murder weapon in his hand?” She didn’t remind him how often that actually happened. And how often that person turned out to be innocent.

“So, that was the makeup in the evidence bag?”

“Evidence bag?”

“Yes, the one the cop was carrying outside the building.”

He laughed in the way that never failed to curl her toes, and vowed he had no inside information on the case. That he did not know what was in the bag.

If he’d been here in person, she could’ve coerced the information out of him. Which made her smile. They talked a few more minutes then said good night. For the first time in ages, he didn’t end with the dreaded M word.

Angie leaned back on the fluff of pillows and contemplated going back out to watch television. She didn’t watch very often though Jarvis had gotten her in the habit of turning on the news before bed. Two weeks ago he’d arrived with the new 42” flatscreen and she laughed while he installed it, knowing he bought the thing to replace her ancient 13” he had to strain to see. She’d teased him that he should get glasses rather than a bigger television.

Instead of more TV, she finished the wine, beat the pillows into submission then settled on her left side. But sleep wouldn’t come. The image of drama teacher Gwen Forest wouldn’t leave her head. Not that she had any idea what the woman looked like as of today—that picture could’ve been forty, or a hundred, years old—but they were of a kindred spirit, they shared a love of the theater. Gwen taught acting to kids; Angie owned a community playhouse where everyone acted like kids.

Two teens from Carlson had acted in one of her playhouse’s performances. It wouldn’t be surprising if either were Ms. Forest’s students.

Suffocation. What a terrible way to die.

Early in their semi-professional relationship Jarvis taught Angie a few things. One was, that type of murder usually signified somebody was trying to keep the person from talking. That the murdered person knew something they shouldn’t.

Angie cursed. This was the real reason she hadn’t wanted to watch when the broadcaster recommended turning away. She knew she’d lie here and speculate about the dead person—their life, their death, and most of all, the person or persons who caused it. What was wrong with her? Other women were content puttering in a garden or cooking gourmet meals. Once she’d tried learning to knit. That lasted almost an hour.

Well, this time the mystery could stay a mystery. The authorities could do their jobs. She had no vested interest in the outcome.

Morning arrived bright, sunny and chilly—a traditional New England October morning. The trees’ brilliant colors had faded; leaf peeping tourists had gone home. Now, leaves rained down from the branches with each whisper of breeze. Within a week, all but the oaks and aspens would be bare. Angie jogged up Route 11, toward Gilford. She hugged the guardrail as a semi whooshed past. She ran almost every morning. Running presented three miles of uninterrupted thinking time. The cell phone rested in her pocket in case of an emergency, but it was shut off. With every other step it thumped comfortably against her thigh.

The theater would be a madhouse today. First thing on the agenda, she and partner Tyson Goodwell would select the next play to be performed at their community theater. Statistics said it took most new businesses more than five years to operate in the black but after a year and a half, Prince & Pauper Theater had achieved the goal—in spite of the fact that the leading man had been murdered during the first performance. In spite of the fact that they’d lost a most promising playwright, and their next three scripts. Now, a mere eighteen months later, they had a pool of scripts to choose from.

The latest show, a drama titled Coming Home, was in the second week of production. Unfortunately things weren’t going smoothly. Not going smoothly was a rousing understatement. The leading lady was acting like a diva, the costumer couldn’t locate the right outfit for the hefty-sized leading man, and the music score—well frankly, it sucked.

Angie reached the turnoff, an area where motorists could stop to take pictures of Alton Bay, a small town of five thousand at the southernmost tip of Lake Winnipesaukee. Most mornings she jogged in place for an appreciative glance at the scenery, but thoughts of the upcoming day spurred a quick about-face.

At home, she showered and dressed and was halfway through a second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Angie didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID and, it being an election year, almost didn’t answer.

The voice was male, deep and a bit raspy. A smoker’s voice. “Hi Angie, this is Randy Reynolds.”

It took a moment to put a face to the name: sandy hair that always needed cutting, piercing blue eyes, one of which gazed slightly to the left and took actual concentration not to stare at. He’d tried out for a couple of their productions. So far he hadn’t been right for a part.

Angie was about to chastise him for calling her at home when he said, “I have a huge problem. I wonder if you’ve seen the news. That drama teacher who was killed… She was one of mine.”

One of his? What was he talking about?

He must’ve sensed her hesitation. “Right. Right. I guess you didn’t know. Sorry, I’m very discombobulated this morning. You see, I’m principal of Carlson South High School. Gwen Forest was one of my teachers. My friend. My—”

“Oh Randy, that’s awful. A terrible blow not only to the school but to you personally.”

“The reason I’m calling. Well, I know how busy you are. I just don’t know where else to turn.”

Angie waited for him to get to the point.

“Let me digress a second. Early in the school year the board voted to eliminate a number of our extracurricular activities, first and foremost, our drama club. Economy, finances—you know the drill. Well, the kids decided they weren’t letting go without a battle. Almost single-handedly, they wrote this fabulous play and have been staging the most professional performance I’ve ever seen.”

Angie felt warmth on her leg and realized the cup had slipped in her fingers. She set it safely on the island counter and groped for a handful of napkins.

“I guess you’ve probably guessed our dilemma.”

“You need someone to step into Gwen’s shoes.” Please say I’m wrong. Please ask for money, costumes, or props. Just don’t ask us to come there.

“Right. Right. Believe me, I know what an imposition this is but you’re the only person… I know I have no right to ask. The performance is this Friday night. Everything is in the final stages. I know it sounds melodramatic but if the show doesn’t go off— I’m sure you know how many schools are closing down their extracurricular programs. Carlson’s no different.”

So maybe Prince & Pauper could give money. Right now the company could spare it a lot easier than time.

“I’m asking—no, begging you to come help out.”

“Randy.”

“Could I at least come talk to you about it?” Desperation rang in his voice.

She wanted to scream NO! In deference to his dead teacher, her mouth wouldn’t form the rejection. Angie stood up and held the phone away from her ear for a four-count. Just. Say. No. It worked for Nancy Reagan.

Angie moved the phone back to her ear. “I really sympathize with your problem but Tyson and I couldn’t possibly do it right now. We’re up to our ears in the October production.”

There was a long moment of silence where the guilt didn’t just grow; it multiplied like a flu bug. It was a tactic Jarvis use on suspects, and sometimes on her. He knew if he waited long enough, she’d give the answer he wanted. Well, she would not let herself fall into that trap with Randy Reynolds.

Finally he said, “All right, I understand.”

They uttered a couple of platitudes then hung up. The creepy crawly feeling edging up Angie’s spine indicated two things, guilt plus a sure knowledge that she hadn’t heard the last of the subject.

* * * *

“Marie, please.” Angie urged the woman off the stage and into the wings. Not that she expected their conversation to be private; every sound carried in here—that was why she and Tyson bought the building in the first place. Marie Jason: five foot nine, bushy hair, and blue eyes. Except for her penchant for arguing, always arguing, Marie was perfect for the part of the leading lady. Angie stepped closer. Perhaps a little one-on-one would help. Help what she wasn’t sure because the only problem was this woman’s disagreeability. “Marie. You have been given the leading role in this play. It’s a position of great honor that can—will—make or break the production. We need the character to be convincing.”

The close proximity seemed to make Marie uncomfortable. She backed a half-step. “My character is convincing. The trouble is, your…your…narrow-mindedness won’t let me make her come truly alive.”

Angie slapped the manuscript against the nearest solid object, the wall separating the stage from the rest of the auditorium. The report was like a gunshot. Tyson came running. Which made Angie smile for the first time today. She eased back a step, giving over the floor to her partner.

He moved between them. “Okay, here’s how it’s going to be. Your character is supposed to be assertive and forthright but not bitchy. When you put that tone in it, all we hear—all the audience will hear—is bitchiness. You will—”

“I don’t agree. I think the character, in this particular scene, needs to be even more assertive. And while we’re talking about it, I think the line should be changed from, ‘Look David, I asked you to bring in the groceries,’ to ‘I told you to…’”

The words, “You’re fired,” erupted onto Angie’s tongue. To keep the words from leaving her mouth, she bit down hard enough to draw blood, turned on a heel and walked through the hallway to the green room. Behind her, Tyson must’ve been performing his own stare-down. He had a weakness for pretty women, especially redheads, though Angie had to admit, till now he’d pretty much been able to handle them. Okay, okay, be honest; it wasn’t all Tyson’s fault. Angie had wanted her too. Marie Jason had talent, charisma and, best of all, could project her voice to the upper recesses of the theater.

Marie’s words echoed down the hallway. “It’s because you don’t like me. I know it. They all know it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Then why did you change two lines for one of the others yesterday?”

Tyson’s, “Because, I—” was followed by an I told you so harrumph from Marie, who said, “Because you don’t like me, that’s why.”

“I’m done arguing with you. The line stays the way it is,” Tyson said.

It wasn’t too late to fire the woman. They were only two weeks into the production. Inconvenient, but not too late to replace her; the understudy was friendly and agreeable. The only trouble was, the understudy couldn’t project worth a darn. It would take hours of extra lessons to teach her to propel her voice up and out.

Suddenly, music started. Loud booming music—the Stones’ Moonlight Mile album, one of Tyson’s favorites—rattled the factory-turned-theater walls. Was this to drown out the shouting? Or had he sent everyone home? Whatever. A mountain of paperwork waited on her desk. Tyson could handle the staff. Angie sat at the scarred desk, a relic from the past that had been here when they bought the old factory building. Too heavy to haul out, she’d adopted it for her own in this dark, windowless room. Thankfully she didn’t have to spend much time here. Someday, when they got the second floor finished off, she’d be in a great office—at the back of the building overlooking Alton Bay. Though being on water made Angie seasick, she loved looking at it.

She tapped a pen against the checkbook, reminded of the last time the same music played in this building…the day, to the pounding beat of Wild Horses, Jarvis made love to her for the first time. No. Wrong words. He’d plundered her. Like a pirate boarding a captured ship.

Angie pushed the bills aside, stood up and paced twice around the desk. She made a mental effort to tune out the music, grabbed up a manuscript from the cardboard box on the worn flower patterned sofa against the far wall, and flopped beside it. The box—an identical one sat on Tyson’s desk—contained at least a dozen manuscript submissions, mostly from local authors, though there was one promising script from a man in London. From this collection she and Tyson would select two or three plays for the first quarter of next year.

She’d no sooner drawn the first clipped stack of paper from the wrapper when a curt knock sounded on the door. It wasn’t Tyson. He rarely knocked. In his get-things-done-now manner he always burst into a room.

Diva Marie. Had to be her. Tyson fired her and she’d come to Angie for solace. The knock came again, this time a rapid-fire trio. Probably not Marie. She wouldn’t wait this long for a reply. Either way, Angie would bet her next paycheck that big-time trouble sprouted on the other end of that knock.

The door opened. In stepped Randy Reynolds.

TWO

Monday morning, Kiana Smith set the backpack gently on the locker floor. Even so, the soft bump sounded like thunder in the empty school hallway. She hung her jacket on one of the hooks and pulled a wadded bundle of tissues from the right front pocket. She wiped her nose, blotted at the river of tears, then shoved the tissues in her skirt pocket. How could anybody kill Gwen? Not only was she a fabulous teacher, she was a great person, a mentor, and…well, Gwen was more. Just more. She was the only teacher in the whole school who treated kids like people, not children they were forced to babysit five days a week. This school was Gwen Forest’s whole life. And Gwen Forest was Kiana’s whole life. At least it felt that way.

Kiana forced herself to walk with her usual determined step toward the teachers’ lounge. The idea to infiltrate the off-limits space came in the deepest darkest part of last night, mere hours after learning of Gwen’s death. Kiana’s parents tried insisting she stay home today. But she couldn’t. It would be like abandoning everything Gwen did for Kiana and the school.

She sniffled and swiped the wetness with the back of a hand. Darn, she would’ve thought she’d cried out every H^2O molecule by now. But last night, as the tears flowed, so did ideas on how to uncover the murderer because, sure as the sun would set in the west, the murderer was somebody from this school. Had to be. Ms. Forest spent all her time here, hung out only with people related to the school. The one exception, her best friend, Cilla Philmore, wasn’t much of an exception at all because she was the English teacher’s wife.

The teacher’s lounge lay between the school office and the principal’s office, just steps from the wide, glass front doors—through which twenty-five hundred students would soon rush. It would be hard to explain her presence in school this early in the morning, especially since she was more frequently late than anything else. Kiana tucked the key into the lock. More difficult than explaining her presence though, would be explaining how she came into possession of a key to this particular room.

The door opened on silent hinges. A peek verified that the place was empty. It would be. Teachers didn’t come to school over an hour early. Kiana stepped inside and locked the door.

On the right, two long leather sofas faced each other rather than the wide screen television attached to the far right hand wall. To the left, near the windows, was a small kitchenette. At her far left, beside the door where she’d come in, were spaces for teacher’s personal belongings. The spaces looked like what she had back in nursery school, rectangular wooden cubbyholes with black magic marker names written on tape under each.

Kiana checked first for Gwen’s compartment, but it seemed she didn’t have one. It wasn’t really surprising; she spent very little time mingling with the rest of the staff. Since Kiana had no idea what she was looking for, it would be best to look at everything, though time was of the essence. She reminded herself to be methodical. That way you didn’t miss anything. She would start at the top left, with Mr. Philmore’s compartment and work across the row. His cubicle contained only a Michael Bublé CD.  Michael Bublé?

The oh-so-ordinary looking Mr. Philmore wasn’t a very good teacher; he stuck strictly to curriculum, never veering away to add lessons from real life or take them on field trips. As a person he was an okay guy, a little pushy but maybe teachers had to be that way sometimes. Kids weren’t always on their best behavior in school. She used to be in that group, talking back, playing pranks. But in the summer between junior and senior high, major changes had happened in her life. Discoveries, she guessed they might be called. Things that put the words life and future in better perspective. Kiana had done some big-time soul searching and come out of it determined to apply herself, to make a future her mother would be proud of.

She moved left to right performing a systematic search. Some of the spaces contained bottled water, stacks of microwavable meals, books—gee, the prim and proper sociology teacher read science fiction!

So far, none contained what she sought: something, anything that might lead to Gwen’s killer. Disappointed, Kiana shoved away the chair with the backs of her knees and examined the lowest row of cubicles. The first on the left was Mr. Chalmers’. Though they kept it quiet, he and Gwen had been seeing each other for almost three years. Kiana never saw the attraction. Mr. Chalmers was a slob and Gwen a perfectionist. He was ordinary looking with the thinning hair and thick calves. And those perpetual sweatsuits! Kiana thought Gwen was beautiful. Her cocoa color skin and dark eyes made her look sultry and mysterious. To Kiana’s mind, she and Mr. Chalmers were as unsuited physically as cats and mice. His compartment sat empty.

As Kiana turned to put the chair back where she found it, her foot kicked something. The object shot like a bullet under the microwave table, clanking off one of the casters. She knelt and groped through the awful cobwebs—what did the janitors do with their time anyway? She reached left. Nothing. She probed right. Where was it?

She leaned down, bracing herself on the lowest shelf that held a mishmash of microwavable containers. With her left ear almost touching the floor she squinted underneath. It took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but there it was—about three inches long and two inches wide—almost invisible against the far right side caster. She’d just wrapped her fingers around it when a key rattled in the lock. Kiana shot to her feet trying to jam the thing into her pocket. But it wouldn’t go!

The door opened. Someone came in. She dropped into the chair she’d been standing on. The object stuck part way out but there was nothing to do about it now except hope it didn’t drop out on the floor.

Kiana drew the wad of tissues from the other pocket then leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Someone shut the door. And spotted her. Man, was she in trouble. She kept her head down and faked a sob. A pair of shiny loafers and the bottoms of a pair of gray slacks appeared next to her new Charlotte Russe flats. Fingers touched her shoulder. Kiana’s heart thrummed out a battery of irregular beats. For a second it sounded like the Johnny Cash tune A Boy Named Sue. If she’d been with Evan instead of trapped in this room she would’ve laughed.

“I guess you heard the news.”

She didn’t recognize the low voice though she probably should. Kiana nodded and sniffled, bunching the tissue under her nose.

The hand flattened on her shoulder. “Awful thing. Bad enough to be one of our own. Ms. Forest will be missed. Unfortunately all this will bring undue attention to the school.”

Kiana burst into tears. Real ones. The person knelt beside the chair. Oh man. Surely he’d recognize her now. And he did. “Kiana Smith! What are you doing here?”

She swiped the tissue back and forth a few times, gaining time to think. She looked up to see an angry Mr. Philmore. “I was w-walking down the hall and saw the door open.”

“The door wasn’t open.”

“Yes it was. H-halfway. My n-nose was running something awful. I figured the janitor was in here and I could ask for a tissue. I couldn’t go to class like this. And I couldn’t use that brown stuff in the bathroom. It r-rubs your nose all raw.”

“Where’s the janitor?”

“I don’t know. There was nobody here.”

“No one was here,” he corrected.

“Right.”

Out in the corridor came the shushing sounds of shoes on the freshly polished floor. Kiana rose from the chair, her right hand bracing the thing in her pocket. “I guess I’ll be headed to class.”

Mr. Philmore stood also. His hand dropped from her shoulder. “I think we’d better go see Mr. Reynolds and let him know how lax the janitorial staff has been.”

She lumped the tissue in her other fist. “I was going there anyway, t-to see if I could go home. I should’ve listened to my parents and not come here today. I could let Mr. Reynolds know about the door for you.”

“Good.”

The relief in his voice said he really hadn’t wanted to veer from his original objective. Kiana stepped into the hallway, dodging two boys she didn’t know, in Goth clothing. She waited till the teacher’s lounge door closed then beelined for her locker, holding the found item in her pocket. Moments later, head inside the dark metal cubicle, she took a moment to calm her racing heart and dry two very sweaty palms. Kiana drew the object from her pocket. It looked like an eyeglass case but smaller. She popped open the hinged top. Inside was a plastic case she did recognize as a contact lens holder. She replaced the plastic container and shut the lid. During lunch break, she would take it to lost and found. She reached up to place it on the top shelf. That’s when she spotted the name on a piece of tape on the underside: Evan Harris.

How could Evan’s lens case get in the teacher’s lounge? Two ways only. One was that, for some reason he’d been there and dropped it. The only other way was for somebody to have planted it there. Kiana smiled. The decision to investigate was only hours old and yet she’d already become cynical and suspicious.

The hows and whys of Evan’s contact lenses would have to wait till later. Right now, talking to Mr. Reynolds was most important. Kiana stowed the case in her purse and started for Mr. Reynolds’ office—then realized she’d forgotten the most important item and went back to retrieve the yellow lined notepad. She’d spent the wee hours of the morning and the whole route to school jotting notes. It had been hard writing and walking, and crying, at the same time, but time had been of the essence.

As expected, Mr. Reynolds was in his “thinking room” a private outdoor area behind his regular office. She wished she had a place like this, somewhere to think and write plays, to be alone. Today seemed kind of cold to be sitting outside, but when the state instituted their no-smoking policy, he tried to quit. And failed. Several times. So, the school put in this really cool patio.

Kiana raced down the brick path gripping the yellow lined notepad. Mr. Reynolds had a cell phone on one ear, but he smiled and gestured for her to sit. She spent the time checking out the surroundings so not to look like she was listening in on his call. The air nipped at her fingers; she jammed them under her thighs. Through the school windows, she watched kids settling into classrooms and thought about the one thing that almost kept her home buried under a mountain of blankets—Gwen Forest.

The TV news said only that she was found dead in her apartment. Nothing about the way she died. In the long run Kiana  guessed it didn’t matter. Gwen was dead. Dead. Even the word sounded final.

The whole awful event couldn’t be real. Soon, she’d wake up and find it was all a vicious nightmare. All that mattered—everything Gwen lived for—was helping kids, making their lives better. Okay, okay, don’t think about it. Nothing could be done now, except find out who killed her. Make the killer pay. That thought had sent Kiana scurrying to the principal’s office with what she deemed the best idea she’d ever had.

“I know how much you cared for her.”

She startled back to reality. Mr. Reynolds’ cell phone lay atop a pile of mail near his left hand.

Kiana blinked back the sadness that wanted to gush out. She nodded and set the notebook on the table. No need to read from it—the contents remained indelibly etched in her mind.

“H-how did she die?”

Immediately his eyes left hers and focused on something at the other side of the table.

“Mr. Reynolds. Tell me.”

“Kiana, I…”

“I’ll find out sooner or later.”

Slowly, he nodded. Of course she’d find out. Tonight it would be all over the news. Reporters would be crowding the school doors as the kids left that afternoon. Surprising that the cops weren’t clomping throughout the building.

“You have to promise to keep this to yourself. Don’t let word come out in school. Especially don’t let it be known I told you.” He took in a long breath and let it out with the words, “A tube of makeup was shoved in her mouth. And taped there. She suffocated.”

Kiana gripped the arms of the chair. She would not pass out. She would not throw up. Even though the news warranted doing one, or both.

Mr. Reynolds touched her hand. “I know how close you two were. And I know it won’t do much to make you feel better under the circumstances but Gwen once told me you were like a daughter to her.”

Nice to hear. Very nice. Kiana had felt the same.

“Was that why you came—to find out how she died?”

“No.” How to start the conversation? She wasn’t known for tact. It was more her nature to blurt what crossed her mind. But she had a fabulous idea that needed to be broached with care. “I want to find out who killed Gw— Ms. Forest.”

“We all do, dear. We all do.”

“No. What I mean is, I want to put together a group of us kids—three or four—to find out who did it.” She tapped the notebook. “I made a list of people we should talk to, questions we should ask, clues we could look for. Things like that.”

His brows twitched. That meant he was confused.

“The group can talk to the other students. To teachers. Gather information to give the police. Sort of undercover. You know?”

Mr. Reynolds’ brow smoothed out, but now his forehead wrinkled. That meant he was about to say no. “On the surface it sounds like a good idea, and I applaud your ingenuity. But I’m sure you know I cannot condone it. You’re here to do schoolwork, to learn.”

She’d expected that reaction. Mr. Reynolds was the type who needed to let something simmer a while before he acted on it. A good quality, she guessed. No blurting out of things better left unsaid. No spontaneous actions he might regret later.

“Let the authorities do their jobs.”

“Their jobs?” Kiana kept herself from erupting out of the flower-cushioned seat. She did allow herself to lean forward. “Mr. Reynolds, if they were doing their jobs, they’d be tearing this place apart right now. Can’t you see, that t-tube of makeup had to come from here. Where else? This school—our drama department—was Ms. Forest’s life.” Kiana sat back in the chair and forced herself to calm down. She gripped the chair arms and flattened her feet on the brick walk. “That’s the benefit our investigatory group would have. Kids aren’t gonna talk to police and you know it. I think—no, I know, our group can get information the cops can’t.”

He shook his head. “I can’t give you permission. It’s too dangerous.”

Now she was confused. “Dangerous?”

“Has it dawned on you that, as unrealistic as it sounds, the killer just might be here among us?”

“Of course I’ve thought of it. It’s all I can think about.” She tapped the notebook on the table. “I was up all night making these notes.”

“Do you realize that, if he was willing to kill Gwen, for whatever reason, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you?”

Why would anybody consider kids a threat? Adults rarely deemed kids’ opinions worth listening to. That’s why her plan was perfect, foolproof. That’s what had been so special about Ms. Forest; she listened. She cared. And for that reason alone Kiana would—find out who killed her. Obviously there was no use arguing with him. Good idea to let him think about this and talk more later.

She picked up the notebook and stood, pushing the chair with the backs of her knees.

“Wait,” said Mr. Reynolds, “I do have some good news.”

Though the only good news would be finding Ms. Forest’s murderer, she let herself sink back into the chair.

“I have asked someone to come help out with all this. I can’t say more right now but I’ll have news later. After lunch.”

His blue eyes made direct contact with hers. Was he telling the truth?

Yes. He was. Kiana felt a glimmer of hope.

Just then, those blue orbs flickered away. Almost immediately they returned to rest on hers. But that infinitesimal flicker said one thing: his truth was tinged with some doubt.

“I promise. I’ll send for you later. Now, scoot off to class before you’re—” The final bell rang. He smiled. “Before you’re too late.”

Kiana walked back into the school and through his office. She said good morning to his secretary Miss Shaw and hurried to her locker for books to get through the morning classes. She kept the notebook handy, in case more ideas popped up. Of course she was disappointed Mr. Reynolds hadn’t been more receptive to the plan. What could she expect though, he had a school to run, a couple thousand kids to protect.

Maybe after he had time to think.

No matter. She didn’t really need his blessing. Though it would’ve been nice.

He hadn’t said what he planned, or who was coming. Pressing for information would have been a waste of time. Mr. Reynolds wouldn’t be swayed by cajoling.

Just as Kiana stepped into calculus class, she realized: he hired a detective, somebody to infiltrate the staff, dig out information and suck out secrets. What a great idea! That principal was really on the ball. Who could it be? Was there a modern day Sherlock Holmes or a real-time Jessica Fletcher here in New Hampshire? Kiana couldn’t help feeling excited. What remained confusing was why he’d turn down a teen investigatory group. It could only be an asset.

She settled into her chair behind Evan Harris, one of her writing partners on the upcoming performance. He smiled up from the math book. For two years he’d had a crush a mile wide. So far she’d been able to sidestep his veiled but oh-so-obvious hints at something more. Why, she didn’t know. He was handsome—one of the most sought after guys in school—but she didn’t feel that way about him. Gwen said she was just nervous, that dating other boys would help smooth that over. So she took the advice and let Tommy Jones take her to a dance at the rec center. And let Tyler Brown take her to a pep rally. Both boys ended the dates with an attempt at something more—and that’s where the problem lay. Boys wanted what boys wanted. Kiana wasn’t interested in sex. At this stage, outlets like the drama club and the honor society were more rewarding, would potentially provide a better future.

One of these days, Evan would ask her out. Till then his infatuation could remain in the background. But because of his feelings, he’d jump at joining the investigatory group. He might not be the best at digging for clues because he was more the type who had to be led, but he was great at logic and very organized. Yes, he’d be a good asset to the group. Now, who else to ask?

The math teacher’s sharp, “Miss Smith?” made her sit up straight. From the tone, it was clear the teacher had spoken more than once. Add that to the snickers coming from around the room and Kiana felt herself blushing. Good thing she had dark skin, the flush didn’t show as much.

She spent the class adding to the notes on the yellow pad. Finally the bell rang. As the throng flowed through the hallway, she tugged Evan to the sidelines and broached the idea of the group. At first he balked using the same excuse as Mr. Reynolds—that it might be dangerous. But before she could deluge him with the benefits of such an investigation, that wonderful, toothy grin spread across his face.

“Meetcha at lunch, we’ll talk about it.”

“Can’t, I have something to do. Let’s meet at the coffee shop at three.” Kiana jammed a copy of the page from the notepad into his hand. “See if you can get Todd to come.”

“Are you kidding, Kee? No way. The only thing on his mind lately is Jennifer.”

Kiana laughed at the way he wrinkled his nose and inserted a snooty tone to Jennifer’s name. “You’re right. Try Dawson.”

“Nope, he’s too busy with football practice.”

Frustrated she started to move away. Evan touched her arm and she stopped. “Don’t you think it would be better if just the two of us did this?”

She almost laughed. Evan would do anything to be alone with her.

“Less chance for word to get out. Less danger.” After a couple seconds of hesitation, he added, “Less people for the killer to go after.” Evan said it so matter-of-factly he might’ve been giving a sports score.

Though the logical side of her threatened to spurt out, she nodded. “You’re right. Stupid to put others in danger.” She pointed to the page clutched in his fingers. “See what you think of my ideas. Add more.”

Again she started away. Again she stopped. Something was different about him. As she pondered what it might be, he wrinkled his nose again. Ah yes. “How come you’re wearing glasses?”

“Can’t find my contact lenses. I looked for them Saturday morning, thought I left them in my locker. Trouble is, they weren’t there either.”

“I know how careful you are with them.”

He gave a short laugh. “Took me long enough to convince my parents to let me wear the things. If they find out I lost them, which they’re sure to do when they see the glasses.” He made a slashing motion with his hand near his throat.

Kiana snapped open the clasp on her handbag and reached inside. Evan would be happy to get the lenses back. As her hand touched the case, her mind worked on a way to ask how he’d come to be in the teacher’s lounge. But just then Mr. Reynolds stepped through the crowd of kids.

From an instinct borne of years of being shooed from loitering in the hallways, Evan stepped back. “See you later,” he called over his shoulder.

As Kiana went her own way, she became glad for the diversion. The more she thought about that lens case, the more questions arose. Like: Did Evan really know where he’d lost it and was afraid to admit it? What on earth was he doing in the teacher’s lounge?

If he did remember where he lost the case, and she returned it, he’d know where she got it, which would raise questions in his mind. If—and this was really stretching things—if he was the killer, then his doubts about her would grow and fester and…well, she might just find herself in the same predicament as Gwen.

THREE

At 12:32, Angie pulled into the crowded parking lot of Carlson South High School. Most of the cars were older models probably belonging to first-time drivers. She slipped the Lexus into a vacant spot close to the faculty lot, finished the last of a congealed packet of fries, crumpled the wrapper and stuffed it into the side pocket of her briefcase, then gathered briefcase and iced coffee and got out.

During the drive she had decided this change of schedule might be a good thing, and now even felt a little excited. She’d be working with teens, away from the diva with the overblown ego. Tyson could either handle her or fire her—his choice. That’s how they’d left it as she headed south an hour and a half ago.

The sign over a doorway to the right of the wide entrance said Principal Reynolds. Angie straightened her rayon skirt and ducked inside. A cute, redheaded secretary greeted her with a wide, bleached white smile. A plaque on the desk said Lorraine Shaw, secretary. “Hi. Randy’s in his thinking room. He’s expecting you.”

Thinking room? Angie couldn’t keep from chuckling as she followed Ms. Shaw into a neat, shiny and quite empty office. The secretary shot a curious glance over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” Angie said. “When I was little, my grandmother referred to the bathroom as Grampa’s thinking place.”

Apparently Ms. Shaw didn’t see the humor. She continued toward the far corner of the room, and then outside through a door that looked like it’d been cut as an afterthought in the cinderblock wall. They followed a curving, brick lined path.

Randy’s thinking room turned out to be a small patio area nestled between clusters of small trees, weeping cherry, birch, and a pair of Japanese maples. It was cool and shady even though the October day bordered on sultry. Randy perched on the edge of a chair at a round glass table. A laptop computer sat on the table before him. The homepage of WMUR news was on the screen. He was reading the story about Gwen Forest.

He half-stood and shook hands with Angie. The secretary asked if he needed anything. He noticed Angie’s iced coffee then requested coffee for himself. Once the secretary left, he gestured for her to sit.

She set her cup on the table and briefcase on the bricks, then settled into a chair across from him. He had a pleasant looking face; clean-shaven with striking blue-green eyes. His dark brown hair glinted red highlights in the sun. His suit was nice but not expensive.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I could hardly refuse your impassioned plea.”

“You mean my begging.” He broke eye contact to gaze at something over her left shoulder. She wrestled with herself a moment, considering whether to look at what had captured his attention. After all, he had invited her here. Let her think this was a most important thing. Finally she could resist no longer; she turned to see a chickadee flitting from one birch branch to another. That was it—a bird?

Okay, so he’s nervous. Angie waited and after another minute he tore his attention from the little bird. “I’m sorry to do this to you. I’m just desperate. Gwen was—well, she was a lot of things: my confidant, my friend. As a matter of fact, she got me the job here. I guess I should go back a bit further. We were married…seventeen years ago. It only lasted a year—we were young, over our heads in love. But love can’t survive some of the things we had to deal with that year. We divorced but remained friends. The job of principal came open five years ago.” He waved a hand. “That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that we ended up in the same school. Gwen heads—headed—our drama program. The faculty loved her. What’s more important is that the kids loved her. When the school board announced plans to shut down a number of the school’s extracurricular activities, she and the kids took it upon themselves to stage this fundraiser performance to try and keep the program intact. I’m sure you can see, it’s imperative you find… It’s imperative the show is a success—so Gwen didn’t die in vain.”

“I understand.”

“I hope your hotel room is all right.”

“I haven’t checked in yet. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“They said it was on the fifth floor.”

“Fifth?”

“Fifth’s not good? I can have it changed.”

“The fifth is fine. Actually, it’s perfect. Every morning I go jogging. Not sure I’ll feel safe doing it in the city so I’ll take the stairs.”

“Right. Right.” Randy looked truly perplexed. “Where do you want to begin?” He didn’t wait for her to speak. He reached into a folder beside the computer and came up with a thick sheaf of papers. “You can have my copy of the manuscript.”

The title was Adrift. Not too telling as to the genre. The secretary arrived with the coffee. While she filled Randy in on something happening in the school, Angie started reading.

“What do you think?” Randy asked.

She let the pages snap shut. “Catchy opening. Solid characters. I can’t wait to read more.” And she meant it.

A self-satisfied expression danced across Randy’s face. She wanted to say there was more to all this than a few compelling pages in a script but instead took a couple of sips of the coffee. Then she slid the manuscript into her briefcase and stood up. Time to get to work.

Randy called to the secretary, who was just disappearing along the path. “Lorraine, please summon Kiana.” The secretary waved two fingers in acknowledgement. “You’re going to love Kiana Smith. This whole production was her brainchild. I don’t know how she did it—I suspect Gwen played a big part—but just before school shut down for the summer, Kiana and two other seniors convinced the school board to let the drama program remain open till Christmas. During summer vacation, the three of them wrote the play.” He tapped a finger on the plastic cover of the manuscript. “And…they oversaw the composition of the entire score.”

“They wrote the music?” Angie sat back in her chair and thinking about the horror-show of a score they had for their next production.

Randy shook his head. “Four boys from our school band who, last year, formed a band of their own. I haven’t personally heard them yet but they’ve done several paying gigs already.”

“They must be pretty good.”

“I’m not sure this play will help their musical aspirations since they’re a heavy metal group.”

“Are they part of the orchestra too?”

“They are the orchestra. By the way, I sat in on a rehearsal last week. I was utterly impressed that our small school could turn out such a talented group of students.”

“Quite a coup for your academia.”

“Yes. Which is a great reason not to lose the program. But first and foremost—” A movement to the right had Randy lowering his voice. “Kiana and Gwen were very close. I just want you to know.”

Angie nodded. “Gotcha.” She would tread lightly.

“It’s going to be tough around here without Gwen.”

“The police have any suspects in mind?”

“Not that I’ve been privy to. I was questioned extensively this morning. Apparently I was the last to see Gwen alive. We have—had a standing dinner date every Sunday evening.” He lowered his face but quickly recovered.

“Everything was all right?”

“Between us, you mean? Sure. Like usual.”

“No, I meant, was she acting all right? Did she seem upset about anything?”

He shook his head. “I keep going over all the times I’d been with her lately. All the people I’d seen her with. Trying to discern tiny bits of dialogue that seemed off, mannerisms that weren’t quite right. You know what I mean? But no, she acted the same as usual. No change. We talked about the play, the kids, her car—it needed ball joints. I offered to take her to drop it off,” his voice caught, “after school today.” He heaved a great sigh.

“And…”

“I can only think of one thing out of the ordinary.”

“And…” Angie repeated.

“It’s so farfetched.”

“Sometimes those clues turn out to be the case solvers.”

He laughed. “That’s how it always happens on TV. But I know TV cop shows are nothing like real life.”

“No.”

“It happened a few days before her death. There was a disagreement—well, it was more like a loud discussion. Between Gwen and Evan Harris. It’s just that—”

“That he’s a nice boy and you can’t see him committing murder.”

“Exactly.”

“Evan is one of the authors of the play. He wrote most of the musical score.”

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t—”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” He pulled in a couple of breaths then changed the subject. “She and Ted Chalmers—he’s our boys’ gym teacher and coach of the basketball team—have been seeing each other for quite some time. Everybody kept expecting them to announce their engagement.” He shrugged.

“How would you have felt about that?”

The question seemed to stymie him. Then he smiled. “Oh, you mean because Gwen and I were married. That was a long time ago. We got over it. She and Ted are—were a good match. You’ll like him. He’s tough but fair with the kids. Wants to make sure he gets all they’re worth. Gwen’s best friend was—”

Movement along the path signaled Kiana’s arrival. The girl was tall, at least two inches taller than Angie’s 5’7”, and carried herself like a princess, practically gliding toward them. She was dark skinned, maybe of Indian descent, with a tiny mole on her left cheek. Angie couldn’t help imagining this elegant girl in a flowing silk gown and turban.

He stood up. “Angie Deacon, I’d like to introduce Kiana Smith.”

The girl stepped closer, holding out her hand. Angie shook the clammy palm and said, “Nice to meet you.”

Kiana nodded, those dark searching eyes never leaving her face.

“Kiana,” said Randy, “this is the woman I mentioned. She’s taking over for Ms. Forest.”

A glimmer of confusion twitched at in the girl’s eyes. She opened her mouth as though to ask a question. To the side, Angie saw Randy give a discreet shake to his head.

Kiana closed her mouth and re-smiled. “It’ll be an honor to work with you.”

“Thank you. Shall we get started?” Angie stood.

“Thank you again for coming,” Randy said. “Please come see me before you leave. I’ll be anxious to hear what you come up with.”

What on earth was that supposed to mean?

Kiana waited for Angie to precede her along the path and back through Randy’s office.

The secretary looked up from a phone call and nodded at them. “Have a great day.”

Once the office door eased shut and they stepped into the empty hallway, Kiana’s pace picked up. Her heels, invisible beneath the hems of the acid-washed jeans, clicked on the checkerboard-tiled floor. Angie followed past classrooms with voices murmuring behind the closed doors, still wondering about Randy’s last words: I’ll be anxious to hear what you come up with.

Obviously he wanted her opinion about something. Must be she’d been thinking about Prince & Pauper’s diva and missed part of her job description. Probably he wanted to know what she thought about the production itself. Were things going smoothly? Was it professional? Would the first night sellout crowd guarantee a second and third sellout?

Still, the way he worded things—what she came up with—didn’t gel with that. Try as she might, she couldn’t connect his comments to producing a play. She decided to take a chance and appear dumb. “Kiana.”

The girl stopped walking. Her waist length black hair pendulumed around her as she turned to face Angie.

“Do you have any idea what Mr. Reynolds meant?”

“Excuse me?”

“He said he’d be anxious to hear what I come up with. I feel like I’ve missed something.”

A puzzled expression appeared on the mature-for-her-age face. “I am a little in the dark also. Mr. Reynolds said he’d mentioned you but the only thing he’d said was that he was bringing in someone to help solve Ms. Forest’s murder.”

Angie asked “What?” but it was more a knee-jerk reaction than surprise. She spun on a heel, leaving Kiana standing there opened-mouthed, and hurried as fast as she could on two-inch heels back to Randy’s office.

FOUR

Angie ran past Miss Shaw’s empty desk, through Randy’s office, and along the path to his thinking room. He was on the phone. He frowned seeing her rapid arrival, but quickly ended the call and laid the phone on the table.

She got her emotions under control with a few deep breaths, then said, “I want it made perfectly clear, I’m not here to perform a murder investigation.”

He shoved the phone away with his elbow. “But I thought—”

“You asked me to help see that the play went off smoothly. That’s all you asked.”

“But—”

“No buts, Randy. I am not investigating Gwen’s murder. That’s the job of the police.”

“But—”

“Wait just one cotton-picking minute! That’s why every time Tyson offered to come instead of me, you made an excuse: the mostly female cast, the trouble with fitting certain costumes, the—” Gosh, she felt like a fool…for letting her ego overshadow logical analysis of his words. “I think it would be best if I return to Alton and send Tyson in my place.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Randy, I’m not working on this case.”

“I can’t believe you can sit back knowing a fellow drama lover was murdered and not do anything about it.”

“The police are trained to detect. They will solve this. That’s my final word—er, words. Now, do I trade places with Tyson or will you let this drop?”

He sighed. And nodded. “I think you should know something though. Kiana is determined to investigate this on her own.”

Angie couldn’t hold in a grunt of frustration. “You did tell her how dangerous it could be—not only for her but for the school?”

“Of course. But she won’t listen. She was really close to Gwen. And, she’s very headstrong.”

Apparently she wasn’t the only one. Angie moved slowly along the path, but the searing of his eyes on her spine had her pace increasing. Was he telling the truth about Kiana? Yes. In those few minutes with the girl, Angie had determined her to be exactly that—headstrong, and then some.

A serious Kiana met her at the outer door of Randy’s office. “Everything all right?”

“I hope so.”

“So you are not here to solve Ms. Forest’s murder?”

“That’s right.” Angie stopped and regrouped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound hard-hearted. I just need you to understand that I’m not a detective. And neither are you.”

A flicker of hesitation raced across Kiana’s features. “I saw you on television last month.”

“My name got mentioned in a couple of murders because I’m seeing a police detective. He did the work, not me. Understand?”

Kiana gave a grim nod and opened the door to the dark auditorium. The only light filtered in from the hallway where they stood. Angie hadn’t felt uncomfortable telling Randy off, but did feel bad alienating this innocent girl who only cared about finding who’d killed her mentor. Angie wanted to lecture about the pitfalls of private citizens investigating but the words would fall unheeded into the air. Teens thought themselves indestructible, infallible. It would be years before the reality of life’s situations intruded on the girl.

Kiana entered the arena without turning on a light. She stopped a few feet down the long aisle and gazed out over the rows of silhouetted chairs and the massive stage, hulking like a monster. Angie inhaled the scent that seemed prevalent in all theaters: furniture polish, stale air, and fabric. Not a pleasant scent to most people but it was part of what made up Angie Deacon, and obviously Kiana Smith.

Usually Angie found it calming. Not today. The weight of her words to the girl hung like a solid mass.

“I do understand,” Kiana said, apparently having the same thoughts. “It’s just that…”

“I know exactly where you’re coming from. I just don’t want you expecting things that cannot happen.” Change the subject. “So, tell me about the play. The title’s Adrift, right?”

“It seemed an appropriate title for my character.” Kiana slid into a seat in the next to last row. Angie sat across the aisle. “I tried to embody as many aspects of a teen’s life as I could. The story opens with geeky Jennifer having an argument with her football player boyfriend. He’s not the star of the team but he wants to be. Always seems to be second, know what I mean? Jennifer tried out a dozen times for the cheerleading squad but they wouldn’t have her. Anyway, Jennifer gets pregnant. I know, I know, it’s ordinary, but too many teens get pregnant. I felt the audience could relate. Next, the boyfriend is arrested for possession of drugs. Long story short, Jennifer bends under the pressure and leaves town—to live with a relative till the baby’s born. She ends up losing the baby but doesn’t come back to town. By that time, she can’t face the opinionated people who she feels chased her away.”

In the dim light, Angie saw Kiana sigh. “I guess I made it sound sad and sort of morbid, but it’s basically an upbeat story because everyone finds happiness in the end. We have a great musical score.” Without missing a beat, Kiana said, “Is your theater like this?”

“We have more seating and red curtains instead of emerald, but otherwise it’s the same,” Angie whispered back.

“Could I see your place sometime?”

“Of course.”

The uneasiness waned. Angie followed the girl down the aisle, then up the stairs onto the stage’s apron. Kiana led the way into the wings but Angie moved to the right instead. She stepped under the proscenium arch and onto the stage. Suddenly the stage lights came on. And the auditorium filled with people, most all wearing police uniforms. A woman midway along one aisle waved a plastic banner of crime scene tape. Someone up back shouted, “I’ve found a clue! It’s Evan, it’s Evan!” A tall man in the front row held up a giant magnifying glass that reflected light back into her face, making her flinch. The man stood up. He took off a gargantuan deerstalker hat and pushed his fingers through thinning hair. When he lowered his hand, Jarvis’s face grinned up at her. Angie whirled around and moved briskly off the stage.

Kiana waited in the wings. “Is something wrong?”

Angie threw a peek over her shoulder. The stage lights were out, the house quiet. “No.” Angie chose to believe the ghostly apparitions had appeared as reassurance that they were on the job solving Gwen Forest’s death. To let Angie know she could relax and work on this production without reservation or interruption. “Actually, everything is quite well.”

Angie followed Kiana down a short hallway and around the back of the stage. She dropped her briefcase on a long table in the green room, the place where actors gathered to await their entrance. In smaller venues, like this and Prince & Pauper, it was also used as a meeting place for cast and crew. It was where they celebrated successes and lamented bad performances.

The place was a mess. Obviously the cops had been here already. Kiana groaned but went along anyway. She gave Angie the grand tour, stepping over the mess, and occasionally picking up something to put away. She described each character and the personality of the student they’d selected to play him or her. By the time the final bell of the day rang, Angie felt like the proverbial fifth wheel. No way was she needed here. No way in the world.

“Of course you are,” yelled a female voice from out in the auditorium. “You’re needed to solve the murder.”

No more detecting.

After last month’s vacation where she was nearly thrown in jail, suspected of murdering her neighbor, and after she and Jarvis were almost killed—Angie swore off crime solving. The professionals could deal with the aggravation and the danger.

“Are you all right?” asked Kiana.

“I think a better question would be, how are you? Are you up to this today?”

Kiana said, “I’m fine,” but Angie knew this had to be extremely hard for the girl. Randy said she and Gwen had been close. To the left, a door squeaked open. As footsteps and rustling clothing and teenage voices came in Angie gave Kiana’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

The somber faced cast gathered around the long table in the green room, dumping backpacks and stacks of books in a multi-colored heap on top of Angie’s briefcase. They left the seat at the head of the table open and stood waiting, their questioning gazes flicking back and forth between Kiana and Angie and the mess in the room.

Kiana stepped up to the open space and remained standing behind the hardback chair. A sandy haired boy with bright green eyes moved up beside her. Tall and wiry, he seemed more suited to a basketball team. He wore his hair a bit on the long side and seemed quite at home in chinos and sport shirt rather than the accepted attire of jeans and tees. The group’s attention focused on he and Kiana, who pulled in a breath and made a joke about cops being slobs. She went on to murmur a teary-eyed eulogy for their leader, then gave the floor to the sandy haired teen so he could do the same. By now the entire cast and crew, including a half-dozen boys, were in tears. Kiana introduced Angie, who likewise expressed her sorrow over the great loss of Gwen Forest. Angie suggested they postpone rehearsal till the following day but the group unanimously opted to remain. For Ms. Forest.

Everyone shuffled off to clean up the mess left by the cops, and to prepare for rehearsal amid great discussion as to who might’ve killed their teacher. Kiana’s attention followed them. As the others rounded the corner out of sight, she dragged herself back to the moment and introduced her wiry sidekick as one of her writing partners: Evan Harris. He stretched a hand to Angie. The skin was soft, uncalloused—definitely not that of a basketball player. This was the person Randy suspected of murder? Not that someone as down to earth as this boy couldn’t do such a thing. Hadn’t she said the same to Randy a short time ago? But this man-child certainly didn’t give off that sort of vibe.

“Nice t’meetcha,” he said in a soft voice.

“The idea for Adrift’s plot was all Evan’s,” Kiana said proudly.

“No it wasn’t. You said you wanted to do something that embodied the ups and downs of a teen’s life in high school.” He faced Angie. “We came up with it together.”

“Kiana has outlined the story for me. I look forward to seeing it performed.” Angie gestured with one arm. “Shall we get to work?”

Angie fell naturally into the job of directing the show. If she were to be honest, the kids were easier than dealing with the prima donna at P&P. On top of that, the play was a winner, alternating between tears and hold-your-belly laughter.

Rehearsal wound down. Everyone gathered in the now-neat green room. Angie stood near the middle of the table. The spot at the head remained open. “I have to say, I’m very impressed, not only with the quality of your play,” Angie nodded at Kiana and Evan, standing side by side in the doorway, “but your professionalism. Ms. Forest would’ve been very proud.”

Again all eyes welled up with tears. Angie envied that Gwen had been so well liked. She hoped the kids had similar feelings toward her when they were through. “This was my first introduction to your play. You’ve all done a fabulous job and I look forward to working with you. Together we’ll make this production all you’ve dreamed.” The group broke into spontaneous applause. “See you all tomorrow.”

Randy expected her in his office to recap her first day. Well, that’s what he’d said earlier but she knew that, in spite of his words, he still expected her to be gathering clues. The ‘recap’ would consist of discussing the clues. Best to avoid it.

FIVE

Angie’s heels clicked down the empty corridor and onto the tar sidewalk. Carlson South High School was three stories of glass and cinder block. The landscaping was mature. The grass could use mowing. Only one other vehicle, a red pickup, remained in the lot on this side of the building.

Angie set her purse and briefcase on the passenger seat. She shut the door and moved around the front of the car when a bulky looking man in a bright blue sweatsuit stepped in the way. He had dark hair and thick black-rimmed glasses. He smiled. It was a friendly, hello-type smile. Even so, her first thought was to run, or scream, or push that silly red panic button on the car’s remote control. But a sadness tinged his demeanor, a level of uncertainty that didn’t send I’m dangerous vibes. The sweatsuit had no visible pockets—Colonel Mustard probably wasn’t concealing a Glock or a lead pipe in the school parking lot. Both his hands were in sight. One shot toward her and she jumped back.

“Ooh,” he said in a voice that didn’t match his unassuming appearance. The voice was deep and silky, like melted chocolate. Like one you’d hear on those late night radio shows her mother listened to after her father moved out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Ted Chalmers, the gym teacher.”

The one Gwen was dating, or marrying, if you believed the rumor. Even so, Angie poised her left finger on the remote control’s red button as she shook hands with her right hand—after all he just might be a murderer. Angie wouldn’t let those thoughts intrude on a very nice day.

“Angie Deacon. I’m filling in for Gwen Forest.”

“Yes.”

Of course he knew. Everybody did. All day long, she’d been pointed at as the one who took over for Ms. Forest.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” was all she could think of saying. How many times as an ER nurse, had she said that? She had the sinking feeling that by the end of the week she might be wishing she worked back at the hospital.

Ted blinked several times. His lips compressed as he held in the emotion. Again Angie felt a sense of loss, regret that she hadn’t known this woman whom everyone loved. Well, not everybody. Someone disliked Gwen Forest enough to commit murder.

Suddenly Angie realized their meeting wasn’t coincidence. Ted Chalmers deliberately sought her out. What could the gym teacher want from the substitute drama teacher? Whatever it was, Angie expected it wouldn’t take long to find out.

But it did. Silent seconds stretched into a minute.

Angie decided to help his hesitation along. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Perhaps I’ll see you around the school.” She edged left, stepping toward the car.

The gym teacher’s hand shot out and touched her sleeve. Her finger made contact again, with the red button.

“Could I maybe buy you a cup of coffee?”

Angie had been craving a cup all afternoon. And if she were going to talk to this oddly silent stranger, it was best to do so in a public place. So she agreed to meet him at McDonalds—a place with bright lighting and bustling with people.

* * * *

They met on the sidewalk in front of the building and walked in together. Ted ordered two coffees and settled into a booth at the back, near the bathrooms. Angie waited for him to voice his thoughts. Unfortunately another wait seemed in order. At least she had coffee; freshly brewed Newman’s Own made waiting easier.

He busied himself working the cream and sugar into the steaming liquid, then spent time boring a hole in the table with an increasingly tattered napkin. Angie passed time watching a girl in tattered jeans and a black tank top duck into the ladies room, chattering on a cell phone. A mother rattled a stroller in through the glass doors. At a nearby table, two men in utility company uniforms discussed a woman one of them had met at a club.

Finally Ted spoke. “Gwen and I were…seeing each other.”

She nodded.

“Oh yes, Randy would’ve told you.”

He bowed his head into his cupped hands on the table. She knew the power of the emotions swirling inside him. There was nothing she could say to make things better. Only time could do that.

His hands dropped to the table with a thunk. His eyes were bloodshot. “I was glad when Randy told me you were looking into this because—”

Not again. “Ted…”

“I have no doubt that when I get home tonight, the police will be waiting on my doorstep. Frankly, I’m surprised they weren’t all over the school like locusts today.”

“Why would authorities focus on you?” she asked, not mentioning that they’d been in the auditorium area.

“Isn’t the spouse, or the significant other, always the main suspect?”

“I suppose so, but still, you shouldn’t worry so much about something that hasn’t happened. Besides, it’ll only mean you’re the prime focus. If they don’t find any reason to look at you, then they won’t.”

“Tomorrow my face will be splashed all over the news. I’ll lose my job, my career, my life. Gwen and I… We—” Again he covered his face with cupped hands.

“Look Ted, I’m really sorry about all this. But I have to tell you, Randy misled you. He misled us both. I’m not here to solve Gwen’s murder. I was asked to make sure the production goes off smoothly. To save the drama program. I am not a detective.”

Ted looked up. His whole face was red. The color subsided a bit as he took several deeps breaths and a sip of the coffee. “Gwen and I went to a movie last night.”

Okay, so the man needed to talk. To get things off his chest. Angie drank more coffee.

“We walked back to her place. I left about—”

“You don’t live together?” she asked.

“No, Gwen’s very…proper. She likes—liked—her space. We saw the movie then stopped for an ice cream in the park. I walked her to the front door. Didn’t go inside. It was around eleven.” His voice broke on the last words.

Wait just a minute, hadn’t Randy said he had dinner with her? So, he wasn’t the last to see her alive.

“If only I’d insisted on going up.”

“If you had, you might’ve been killed too.”

He shook his head. “My being there would’ve scared him off.”

Angie didn’t remind him that if someone were determined to kill Gwen, they wouldn’t be deterred so easily.

Next she did something rare, she brought up an indelicate topic. “You and Gwen aren’t sleeping together?”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Well, yes, but we keep things low key…because of school, you know? They frown on teacher relationships.” Ted heaved a long sigh. “I asked Gwen to marry me.”

“She turned you down.”

“No. No, nothing like that. She said I’d sprung it on her. She asked for time.”

A woman who asked for time had no intention of saying yes. Was only thinking up the proper words with which to turn him down. He must know that.

Of course he knew! It was the reason he sought Angie out. The reason he assumed cops would be waiting on his doorstep. Gwen’s reason for turning down the marriage proposal would ultimately be his motive for murder.

“God, what am I going to do without her?” His eyes pleaded with Angie. She patted his clenched fist on the table inches away.

“You have to help.”

“I’m so sorry, Ted. You’ve got to trust the authorities to do their jobs. It’s what they’re trained to do.”

“Randy promised you’d help.”

“Randy misled us both. I made it clear to him that I’m only at the school in the form of drama instructor. I am not a detective.”

“You have to help.”

“Look. I have helped out in a few cases near my hometown, and there’s something I’ve learned. People who think you suspect them have a tendency to defend themselves, sometimes with violence. I will not bring that sort of thing to your school. I will not endanger the lives of staff, or especially the students whose care I’ve been entrusted with.” It sounded corny, and it was very bad grammar, but she hoped the comments would remind him of his love of kids, the reason he’d become a teacher in the first place. Angie patted his hand again, and slid out of the booth. “I wish you all the best. I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

“I guess I’ll have to investigate on my own then.”

“If that’s what you feel you have to do. I wish you good luck.” Angie walked away feeling his gaze willing her to come back. No way. She’d fallen for that exact line once before—when her friend Val tried to go it alone and had been murdered. It was a tough reality to live with.

Angie checked into the hotel and took the stairs to the fifth floor room.

The neutrally decorated space was clean, with a nice view of the city skyline. She unpacked her things and considered phoning Jarvis. 6:37. He’d be at work. Best to wait till later when he was home and not as likely to be disturbed by police duties.

Though it was clear her presence wasn’t needed here in Carlson, she descended four flights to one of the hotel restaurants, the packet of play information tucked under one arm. She would be prepared regardless. Angie ordered shrimp salad and a chocolate martini.

What a great group of kids in the drama class. So responsible and talented. Especially Kiana and Evan. She wondered if they were dating. They’d stood side by side in the green room, arms touching, finishing each other’s thoughts, so in tune to each other. From the way the other girls looked at him, it wouldn’t be surprising to learn he was the heartthrob of the senior class. Regardless, the blond-haired boy only had eyes for the pretty, dark-skinned girl. Kiana obviously liked and trusted Evan, but didn’t exude the same single-minded devotion.

The martini arrived. It was good, a perfect blend. She opened the first folder titled Advertising. There were copies of all ads sent to newspapers and local calendars. There was a rough draft of the tri-fold, of which they had handed out thousands around town.

She read the list of musical scores. Wonderful stuff, especially the song titled Adrift, the same as the play.

The phone rang. “Hi Jarvis.”

“How was your first day at school?”

“Fine.”

“Just, fine? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t believe all the tones that came through in that one word.”

“Tones?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Angelina.”

Jarvis never called her Angie like everyone else. He always referred to her as Angelina. She got a tingle inside every time he said the word.

“So, spill it. What happened?”

“I had a discussion with the principal.” Irritation at Randy swelled once again. She stood up and went to the window.

“Man, what did you do already?”

“What makes you think I was to blame?” Below, parallel arrows of vehicles shot past.

“I was kidding. What happened?”

Angie gave a rundown of the day’s events. All Jarvis did was laugh. “You didn’t know that was why they called you?”

“Well, no.”

“Honey, why would they call you when they could’ve found a licensed substitute teacher at half the price?”

“He said he needed my expertise.”

“Exactly my point.”

Damn. Why was she so gullible? “He did ask Tyson too, you know.” So anxious was she to dispel feelings of guilt, she neglected to mention how many times Randy steered the conversation away from Tyson’s possible participation. “That’s why we had the disagreement. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not working on Gwen’s murder.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’m not!”

SIX

From the school parking lot Tuesday morning, Angie phoned Tyson to see how things were going, but he didn’t answer. This was nothing unusual since the lady’s man tended to party late and turn off his phone. So she dropped the cell phone in her handbag and headed inside, butterflies crowding her insides.

She bypassed Randy’s office and beelined for the auditorium. The auditorium, otherwise known as an arena, looked a little dingy but all right. The green room was a different story. Everything was upside-down. Yes, the cops had been here. Again? Why?

She set a couple of things back in their places then gave up and went to her office, which remained locked. Was it possible Randy didn’t have a key to it? Wouldn’t the police break in—or would they wait for Angie to bring her key? She’d have to ask Jarvis. Angie dropped her jacket on the arm of the couch.

There was a note on the desk from Kiana.

Mrs. Deacon, We need the pants for Bobbie Jo’s costume. Have a test this a.m., can’t leave. Could you go to Thrifty Lady on Bond St. and get it from Cilla? TX Kee

Most of the costumes were regular street clothes: jeans and tees, but several flashbacks required special outfits. So, Angie followed the GPS directions to Bond Street. The Thrifty Lady was the middle shop in a strip mall set back from the street. A tall woman with reddish-blonde hair, and wearing a brightly flowered skirt was just turning a key in the front door. She pocketed the key, then noticed Angie approaching. “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice so soft Angie struggled to hear, “the shop is closed today. A dear friend died over the weekend.” She adjusted an enormous canvas bag on her forearm. “I came to pick up a few things. Sorry if this is an inconvenience.”

“Was your friend Gwen Forest?”

The woman, who must be Cilla, nodded. She removed a pair of large-lensed sunglasses. The pale blue eyes were red rimmed. “She was my best friend.”

“I was sorry to hear what happened.” Angie introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit.

“Oh, you’re the woman they called in to find out who killed Gwen.”

Angie shook her head, hard. Who was spreading this rumor? “I was brought in to help with the production. That’s all.”

Cilla nodded slowly, as if Angie might be lying and somehow standing in for the real Angelina Deacon who would lift them all from this nightmare. Cilla drew the key from her pocket and pushed it into the lock. “Come on in, I’ll get what you need. My name’s Cilla Philmore.”

Cilla laid her belongings on the counter, then went about collecting the appropriate items. Angie followed her around the shop. Apparently, the place didn’t only sell clothing. A shelf of new looking books sat beside a rack of brand new shoes. Inventory must come from more than just walk-in donations.

A wall of small paintings graced a back corner. As Cilla selected the slacks Kiana requested, Angie examined a few of them. Unless she missed her guess, this picture of a NE winter scene, most likely Mount Okemo in Vermont had been done by artist Theodore Clement. Angie brought Cilla’s attention to it. “You know who painted this, right? It’s worth four times what you’re asking for it.”

Cilla’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow. Would you mind putting it behind the counter? I’ll do a bit of research and re-price it. Thanks for pointing that out.”

Cilla went back to what she’d been doing. She selected a tie from a small rack. “Sad that nobody wears ties anymore.” She changed her mind, took a different tie, and laid it on the counter. “Gwen and I met at a school dance last year. The men were late, stuck at a faculty meeting. Gwen and I,” Cilla laughed, “didn’t have a thing in common. In spite of that we became best friends.”

At the last words, Cilla stopped her meandering around the racks and leaned against a counter. Before Angie could get to her and say some comforting words, Cilla was on the move again, as if she might escape the sadness dogging her.

“Your husband is a teacher?”

“Kiana forgot this one.” Gwen removed the hanger from a long skirted brown and orange print dress, laid the hanger on the counter, and gave a sad smile. “Yes, Josh is just finishing up his student teaching at Carlson—he majored in English. He’s been hoping they’ll offer him a permanent job. There are two openings coming available.”

“Isn’t October a funny time to be filling teaching positions?”

“Yes. Ordinarily it’s done during the summer. One teacher is leaving because she’s pregnant. The other, I’m not sure why he’s going.”

“He’s probably not pregnant.”

Cilla forced a grin at Angie’s joke. It was an awkward grin, posed, Angie thought, to hide bad teeth. Cilla deposited the hanger back on a rack, then folded the dress and fitted it into a shopping bag along with the slacks. “I wonder if she needs a slip to go under this.” Cilla made her way to a table holding a jumble of lingerie.

“I understand Gwen was seeing Ted Chalmers.”

“Ted. Yes.”

Funny way to say it. “Is something wrong with him?”

“No. No, I suppose he’s all right. He’s just a bit…I guess I’d use the word weird. The four of us spent some time together though mostly I think the men went along to please us girls. While Gwen and I found commonality in our differences, the men couldn’t seem to. They were stiff and formal with each other.” Cilla selected a slip and held it up to estimate the size. It was pretty with a three-inch trim of lace around the bottom.

“My opinion is that men are black and white creatures,” Angie said. “Things have to be right there for them to see that connection you mentioned.”

“I think you’re right.” Cilla folded the slip and added it to the bag. She walked to a tall rack on the farthest counter and spun it around slowly. After two rotations she chose a few pieces of costume jewelry and put them into a small zipper bag, then put that in the bag with the dress. “I imagine she can wear her own shoes. What do you think?”

A pendant on the jewelry rack twinkled, begging to be inspected. She dangled the silver chain up to the bulb. The sapphire color stone and the surrounding rhinestones bounced shards of light at her. “Yes, I think she can wear her own shoes. How much is this?”

“You can have it if you want.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

“Really, I’d like you to have it.”

“Well, thank you.” Cilla slipped it into a small bag and handed it to Angie who deposited it in her purse, then asked, “You said your husband is a student teacher?”

“Yes. He…I think he had some sort of midlife crisis. One day he came home from work—he was a car salesman—and he said to me, ‘Cilla, I enrolled in teacher’s college today.’ You see, when we first met, his goal was to become a teacher. He loved working with kids.” She laughed. That’s when Angie saw that Cilla did in fact have crooked teeth. Now that they would qualify under school’s insurance program, she could get them fixed. “Josh sort of got his wish, within four years we had three children so, by then we couldn’t afford tuition. Now that the kids are older, we have a bit more time, which gave me the opportunity to open the shop. It doesn’t make much but helped pay his tuition. You know?”

Angie said she did.

“Things are finally coming together for us. Do you have children?”

“No,” was all Angie said. The topic had been up for discussion many times during the first ten years of her marriage to Will. He had wanted kids. She had been against the idea—for reasons too selfish to think about.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cilla said, obviously mistaking Angie’s one-word reply for sorrow rather than guilt.

“No, it was my choice, though if my mother had any say…”

“Oh yes, grandmothers. My mother wanted us to have a dozen babies.”

Angie thanked Cilla for the jewelry, picked up the costume bag, and wished the slim lady good luck. As they walked toward the door together, a tall, nondescript man approached. He raised his hand to pull on the handle. From the way Cilla’s eyes lit up Angie knew this to be Josh Philmore. He had café au lait colored hair, the same color slacks, tie, and sport jacket. He even wore glasses with the same brown color rims. The only thing not cocoa colored was his shirt, which was ecru. The brown color said boring. He leaned down and gave Cilla a quick kiss on one temple.

When he turned to nod acknowledgement to Angie, she knew right away this man was in no way boring. Though she wasn’t surprised to see that color-wise his eyes matched the rest of him, his features practically glowed with energy, with life. This was a person who got things done and loved every moment of it.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said in an accent Angie couldn’t place. It sounded like a cross between Australian and Welsh.

“I had to pick up a few things. Angie—you two have met, haven’t you—came to get a costume for the school play.”

“No, we haven’t met,” Josh said.

“Angie is Gwen’s replacement.”

“Temporary,” Angie said. “Just till the show is over.”

They shook hands. Thankfully he didn’t say what everyone else had said—glad to hear you’ve come to find Gwen’s killer. He said something perfectly normal, “Good to meet you.”

Cilla locked the door, calling over her shoulder, “What are you doing here?”

“I told Randy how rough you were taking Gwen’s death and he sent me home to be with you.”

“That was nice of him,” Angie said.

Cilla laughed. “You must’ve caught him at a weak moment.”

“I did. When I went into his office I had to plow through a battery of cops in the secretary’s office.”

Angie and Cilla said “Uh-oh” at the same time.

“They were waving a warrant to search Ted Chalmers’ office.”

“Oh no,” Cilla said. “He wouldn’t—he couldn’t have killed Gwen. They were getting married. Angie, what’s wrong?”

“Excuse me?”

“You looked surprised at the announcement.”

“Not surprised that it’s happening. Surprised because I thought they’d been in sometime last night.” She explained how the auditorium had been a disaster twice already.

“Perhaps they ran out of time last night,” Josh offered.

“Maybe.” It wasn’t her problem. She and the kids would clean up the mess again, and go on with the show. “The search is routine anyway. And the school is big. It’ll probably take a few days to get through the whole thing.”

“Wh-who?” asked Cilla.

She didn’t finish the question and Angie wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Possibly she wondered if her home and shop would be put under tight scrutiny also. More likely she worried what that scrutiny would do to her business.

“You should’ve seen Randy’s face when he saw the warrant,” Josh said. “You would’ve thought they served it on him personally.”

“In a way they did. That’s his school.”

Josh set an arm around his wife’s shoulder. Cilla flinched away, then relaxed. What was up with that?

“Come on, let’s go home.” Josh stuck out a hand again to Angie, who took it. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you around the school,” she said though she doubted it. The English department was at the other end of the building from the auditorium.

As she walked away she wondered, who had searched the auditorium.

SEVEN

Angie drove around the back of the school, passing two police cruisers parked against the curb outside the doors. Had they, in reality, executed the search of Gwen’s office last night and were now finishing up? If so, they’d be sitting in the green room, probably around the long table, toe-tapping and thumb-twiddling as they waited for her to return with a key. Second thought: they were searching Ted’s domain. Ted was head of the boys athletic program. He had control, or at least access to, the gym, locker rooms and an office, not to mention the teachers’ lounge. Third thought: something else had gone wrong.

She shoved away the myriad of questions and found a space as far from the vehicles as possible. Nobody guarded the double doors. Nobody in the corridor that led to the auditorium. Her heels clicked like castanets on the floor. Nobody came to see what caused the noise.

She found the auditorium empty, the green room also. She fitted the costumes on hangers in the dressing room and the costume jewelry in the special box on a shelf with other small props. For now her schedule was free. The rest of the week she had classes just like a regular teacher.

School let out in an hour. At that time, the place would teem with actors and stagehands. She slid the key into the office doorknob. A sound from the dressing room made her spin around only to find she was alone, yet as she turned the key, the noise came again, soft, just a rustle, like a mouse moving inside a wall. Cops coming through the auditorium? Didn’t sound like cops. Their equipment clinked and squeaked. She rubbed the hairs on her arms. Prince & Pauper had the occasional mouse also. Rodents were one thing Tyson tended to.

Angie retreated into the office where it dawned on her that she might be trapped with one of the furry critters. She rubbed her arms again and sat at the desk to read scripts. Three Can be Deadly started out with suspense that brought the hairs on her arms back to attention. On page four the suspense took a nosedive. Angie looked for a pen to make notations. No pen. She pulled open the top drawer and groped inside. Snap!

Angie jerked her hand from the drawer, a mousetrap clamped around two fingers. She eased it off, heaved it in the wastebasket, and rubbed the injured fingers. Who ever heard of mice in a desk? The only thing that would draw them was food. She slid the drawer open all the way. No food. Just ordinary desk items. She selected a pen and shut the drawer. Then something struck her. There was no bait in that trap. Angie leaned down to inspect it in the wastebasket. No bait. Odd.

Angie went back to reading and making comments on the manuscript, and occasionally rubbing her sore fingers. At 2:30 the final school bell rattled the walls. Angie fitted the script back in the envelope. Though it needed work, it looked like Three Can be Deadly was a definite possibility as an upcoming Prince & Pauper production.

Angie stepped into the green room as the students clattered in and gathered around the long table.

“What happened in here?” somebody asked.

“The cops were here again.”

“Why would they come back?”

“No idea.”

“We can all pitch in and clean up later.”

“Sure, but what are they looking for?”

How much to tell them? She could talk about routine police procedure in murder cases. She could say how it was normal to search all suspects’ homes and work places—though not usually twice. The kids would know that from television anyway. They’d also know the spouse, or intended spouse, was always the first suspect. Chances were that the kids didn’t know of Ted and Gwen’s relationship. Ted had said they kept things low key because of the school.

Before Angie could formulate a reply, Evan said, “I believe it’s a routine search. Since Ms. Forest worked here, they’d look for suspects among her friends and people she worked with.”

Kiana nodded agreement, but one of the crewmembers said, “I can’t believe anybody here would want to kill Ms. Forest. She was always so nice.”

Everyone chimed in with something to say about Gwen’s popularity and bubbling personality.

“I watch a lot of mystery movies,” a girl said. A blush crept over her face and she shrugged. “I love those forensics shows. But what I wanted to say was that, on them, people always hide hate under a smiling face.”

Unusual way to say it, but Angie had to agree. People were rarely what they seemed on the surface. That diva she’d left Tyson to deal with was a prime example. At the outset, Marie appeared meek and mild, a perfect person to play their leading lady. But as rehearsals progressed, her true personality poked through.

* * * *

Neither Kiana nor Evan were here yet, so Angie moved to the head of the table and took a seat. A sharp snap and pain in her behind had her leaping up. The chair clattered to the floor. The nearest teens exploded in laughter seeing the mousetrap attached to her backside. The rayon skirt did nothing to deflect the spring-loaded mechanism. Her flesh was securely caught. Angie winced but managed not to squeal while one of the girls dislodged the thing and heaved it in the trash.

Okay, somebody had a morbid sense of humor. But she laughed along with the giggling group. Kiana and Evan arrived and Angie had to relive the moment as the kids described what happened. But neither Kiana nor Evan was amused. They were even less amused when Angie mentioned another police search of the place.

Kiana dropped her belongings on the floor near the long table. Instead of coming toward the group, she headed for a closet at the end of the room. All eyes watched her duck inside and reach high up on a shelf.

“What’re you doing?” asked one of the girls.

Kiana’s voice was muffled. Angie thought she said, “Be right there. Start without me.”

But everyone’s eyes remained on the sounds coming from the closet. After a moment, Kiana stood on tiptoe and re-deposited whatever she’d taken from the shelf. Then she bowed back out wearing a look of satisfaction. Then she realized everyone had been watching. She grinned. “Sorry for the delay, I had to check something.” Kiana shut the door and walked toward them.

What was on that shelf? Angie hadn’t gone exploring. Hadn’t thought it necessary, or appropriate. But she’d recognized the sounds coming from the closet. Kiana had been looking in a box of makeup tubes. They came twelve to a pack and were separated by cardboard partitions. What had she been doing? Couldn’t be anything nefarious, not with everyone watching. No—nothing underhanded, the girl was investigating. She’d probably just learned about the makeup tube taped into Gwen’s mouth.

“Did you see that weird janitor on TV?” somebody said. “The one who works in her apartment building.”

“You think he’s the killer?” someone else asked.

“But he’s the one who found the body,” Kiana said.

“Perfect alibi, don’t you think?” Evan said. “When the cops ask where he was at the time of the murder, he can say, ‘Waxing the hallway—the floor above Ms. Forest’s apartment.’”

“I suppose it makes sense,” Kiana said with a shrug. “Everybody here loved her. Gw—Ms. Forest didn’t have any family, and not very many friends. She spent most of her time here.”

The kids didn’t seem to notice Kiana’s slip with Gwen’s first name. Had they really been that close? Angie remembered from school—there was this one teacher she had a crush on. In private, she always referred to him by his first name. Occasionally she slipped up when saying his name.

“Something funny?” Evan asked.

Angie caught her breath and smiled. “No. Sorry for the distraction.”

“So,” said a dark haired boy in a blue windbreaker, “the killer had to be one of her neighbors.”

“She had to have some friends,” one of the others said.

“She was good friends with Mr. Philmore’s wife,” ventured Kiana, then seemed to regret her words, probably feeling like she’d drawn attention to Mrs. Philmore as a suspect.

“I know Mrs. Philmore!” a dark haired girl said. “Our family shops in her store all the time. She’s wicked nice. No way she’d kill Ms. Forest.”

“Of course not,” agreed a relieved Kiana. “Friends don’t kill each other.”

Man, did she have a lot to learn.

“Besides,” added Evan, “she’s too small to overpower somebody Ms. Forest’s size.”

“Ms. Forest wasn’t very big,” said the dark haired boy.

“No, but she was strong. You get that way working around the theater. There’s things to lift and fix. Besides, she was active in lots of outdoor sports.”

“She and Mr. Philmore’s wife did a bunch of outdoor things together,” Kiana said. “They went canoeing and hiking and—oh yes, Mrs. Deacon, did you have any trouble getting the costumes?”

“No,” Angie said. “Cilla remembered a brown dress too.”

Kiana slapped a palm to her forehead. “I forgot all about that one. Good thing somebody’s on the ball.”

Good thing, indeed. Poor Kiana really should be at home, not supervising a major school production. Amazing that she remembered anything. But one thing was clear, Kiana Smith knew a lot about her teacher’s private life.

“Look guys, we could discuss this all day,” Kiana said, “but the truth is, we need a professional to sort out the clues.” She didn’t actually look at Angie, though one of her dark eyes did flicker in Angie’s direction.

“Trouble is, there aren’t any clues. None we know about anyway.” Evan wasn’t as gentile as Kiana in his guilt-flinging; he gazed right at Angie. “I tried to talk to one of the cops doing the search. Wouldn’t hardly speak to me. Ms. Deacon, we really need you to help with this.”

“Guys. I don’t think you realize how dangerous investigating can be,” Angie said. “I got involved, inadvertently, in a case recently. My home was blown up. My boyfriend and I barely got out alive.”

Several oohs followed this information.

“You can bet that someone willing to murder Ms. Forest would be willing to kill anybody who threatened to expose them.” Angie made eye contact with each teen around the room. “Now please, let the authorities do their jobs. It’s what they’re trained for.”

“We really want to help.”

“You can.”

“You’re gonna say we can help by staying out of the way.”

Angie couldn’t help smiling. “That would be one way. But there is another.” Now she had everyone’s attention. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I’m not telling you to snoop or follow people around but you, as a group, are in a perfect position to watch and listen. Report what you see to the police or to Mr. Reynolds.” As an afterthought she added, “Or to me.”

There were several nods of agreement, and two faces full of disappointment.

Angie shook off two things. First, guilt. They all knew she was in an even better position to look and listen. She had access to Gwen’s associates and the inner workings of the school. Second, Angie shook off the explosion of energy that made what Hercule Poirot called ‘zee little gray cells’ surge into overdrive. Something she’d seen today was wrong. How? What?

No. Stop. It was probably the stupid mousetraps that put her on alert. Angie flexed her sore fingers. It was not a clue—just mousetraps.

That so-called explosion of energy was a physical reaction she could no more control than a reflexive knee-jerk. She would not succumb to its demand for attention. She would perform Gwen’s job to the best of her abilities and then go home to Alton. “Now can we get to work—we have a performance to prepare for.”

After that, except for two more mousetrap incidents—one on a tall table in the wings that got her in the elbow and one in the pocket of the costume she’d brought back from Cilla’s shop—things went smoothly. Being more familiar with the play and the kids, Angie was able to give more guidance, feel more useful.

She straightened the manuscripts the kids had left and picked up some wadded candy wrappers. As she passed the closet door, curiosity kicked in. What had Kiana been looking at? Angie opened the door to shelves packed with odds and ends: packages of needles and threads, rolls of duct tape, safety pins, chalk, a plastic box of costume jewelry, a small tool box. On the top shelf, as expected, were four boxes of makeup. Someone had probably ordered several to save money. One was still sealed. One was open but full. Another had three empty compartments. A fourth held one partially used tube. Angie shut the door and went to her office feeling a little sick. She had no doubt Kiana had discovered a clue in one of those cartons. There was also no doubt the discovery would get somebody hurt.

Angie was packing her things to head back to the hotel when her cell phone rang. Tyson’s name glowed on the caller ID screen. “Hey partner,” she said.

“Hey yourself. You missing us yet?”

“Yes and no.” She didn’t miss the diva. She refrained from saying so because the hiring mistake could just as easily have been hers. “What’s up there—everything running smoothly?”

“Mostly.” He was silent a moment and Angie waited for him to dump his problem over the airwaves. “Promise the next time I insist on a particular actor you’ll whack me up-side the head with a baseball bat.”

“I promise.” Then she couldn’t help asking playfully, “Are we speaking of any specific actor?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. That’s why I called. I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything.”

“No. Your timing was good.”

“I needed to blow off steam. To keep myself from firing her. Or worse.”

“We decided to talk to her first. To give her one last chance.”

“I know. I was hoping you could do it.”

Angie smiled. Tyson was great with the women, so long as things moved forward in a positive manner. He shied away when something bad had to be done. “I can take care of it. Want me to drive back now?”

“No. No. It can wait till you get back.”

She laughed inwardly at the pain in his voice. Then she laughed out loud. “Really Tyson, I can come tonight.”

“No. I appreciate you doing the school gig. I wouldn’t have the patience with the kids.”

“If you have this amount of patience with Ms. I-think-I’m-better-than-everybody-else, you’d be a shoo-in with the kids. They’re great.”

“I have one diva, you have what—twenty?”

“Eighteen.”

Tyson groaned.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you pretend Ms. I’m-better-than-everybody-else is Sally?” Sally was a playwright, and Tyson’s ex girlfriend. He’d found the courage to speak out to her. Granted it was after she tried to kill Angie. But still…

“I might just do that. Have you talked to Jarvis?”

“Not today. Why?”

“He came here. Pretended he was on his rounds. I’m sure he just wanted to know if I’d heard from you. I think he was dying to call but afraid to interrupt a class or something.”

A scuffling sound came from out in the hallway. She held the phone away from her ear to listen. The green room door opened. She didn’t hear it per se, only felt the change in air pressure. Maybe the mousetrap fiend was coming to collect the evidence. Good, she’d lined them up on the front of the desk, like horizontal wooden soldiers. She wondered if she and the kids had found them all, then realized something a bit unnerving: the person who’d placed them had to be backstage when she arrived because one of the traps ended up in the dress just brought from Cilla’s shop. As a matter of fact, that was probably the noise she’d attributed to mice in the first place. The bothersome part was this person had gotten into the locked office. Of course, any one of a dozen people might have a key, but was there a specific meaning to the mousetraps? Which led to a sobering realization: the prank couldn’t have been directed at Gwen Forest.

Tyson’s voice shouting through the phone made her put the cell back to her ear. “Yes, I’m here. I was listening to a noise in the hallway.”

“Angie, when you hear noises it’s usually danger with a capital D. I’ll hang on while you check.”

She almost told him things were fine, that there could be no danger because she was not involved in this murder. But a footstep in the green room on the other side of the office door had her hesitating. The knob rattled. Angie’s hand clenched around the tiny cell phone that would only make a weapon if you could redirect the microwaves it sent into your brain.

No knock came on the door. Angie picked up her briefcase—a much better weapon—and waited.

“Angie, is everything all right?” Tyson asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, not adding, “I hope,” though her lips formed the words.

The door opened. Principal Randy Reynolds stepped in.

“Tyson, I have to go. Randy’s here.”

“You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes. Let me know how things work out with our diva. Or if you decide you want me to come back and talk to her sooner than later.”

“Will do. Enjoy your evening.”

“You too. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Angie closed the phone and replaced it in her purse. And she faced the school principal.

“Everything okay back home?” Randy asked.

“Pretty much. We’ve been having trouble with one of the actors. Tyson needed to blow off steam.”

“Sorry again to take you away.”

“Did you need something?”

“Two things. I wanted to let you know the police have finished their search of the school.”

Angie set the briefcase/weapon on the desk and buttoned her jacket. Perhaps an action aimed toward departure would shorten his guilt-filled speech—one undoubtedly intended to make her ask what the detectives had found. So she said, “I’m glad they’re finished. They were a distraction to the kids.”

“Yes. I wish they would’ve done it after school hours. Or, better yet, before school. That way I could’ve called off school for the day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Nothing to do with me. It was the school superintendent’s decision. He thought it would be best for the kids to get out, talk, seek out the counselors we provided.” He was quiet a moment. She felt a tiny nudge of gladness knowing her lack of predicted response ruined his prepared speech. “I also wanted to tell you that Ted’s been put on administrative leave, effective immediately.”

She lifted one eyebrow. And would not give him an opening to launch another guilt-poke.

“The school board again. They insisted, saying he’s, quote ‘drawn undue and adverse attention to the school.’”

“You realize because of this the public will assume he’s guilty. This will ruin his career.”

“You don’t think he’s guilty?”

“Randy, stop trying to drag me into the investigation. I was making a simple statement for you to consider. Your hasty move may be ending a man’s career.”

“I know. I argued in his favor, really I did, but the board was adamant. Parents will not want the kids near a man so closely related to a murder.”

“You said you were here for two things.”

“I just wanted to see if you’ve come up with anything yet.”

She shot him a barbed scowl.

“Did you hear anything? Learn anything?”

Angie deepened the scowl.

His eyebrows did a quick up and down thing. Doubt probably, and maybe a bit of anger. Then he said exactly what she’d told the kids, “Well, keep your eyes and ears open.” And then, thankfully, he was gone. For a moment, she wished she were back in Alton with Tyson and Diva Marie.

EIGHT

Tuesday afternoon Kiana slid onto the tall stool in the front window of the coffee shop. She took out the yellow notebook she’d carried all day long and spread it on the round table. The top six pages, in four colors of ink and an assortment of scribbles, represented her entire day. Not a lick of schoolwork had been done. None of that mattered. There were times when other things took precedence over schoolwork. In spite of Mr. Reynolds denial of her request to form a detective group, and Evan’s less than excited response to the same idea, the day had gone well. Only a few hours into the case and, without anyone else’s help, she’d uncovered two clues. Maybe she should rethink the idea of a group and go this on her own.

No. Bad idea. She needed Evan.

Two clues so far. The first had come from Mr. Reynolds that morning: the fact that a makeup tube was used as the murder weapon. No doubt it came from the drama department closet, though it didn’t seem as though the authorities had figured that out yet. Kiana had to admit, as she’d stood in the closet staring down at the empty spaces in the makeup box, she’d been unable to stop the shiver of apprehension. The image of a stranger lurking in the back rooms of the auditorium, their private sanctuary, so to speak, was definitely unnerving.

What if the killer wasn’t a stranger? What if it was one of the students—certainly not a drama student, but someone else, someone she rubbed elbows with at the locker, or passed a towel to in the locker room, or shared a smile with in the too-slow cafeteria line? Try as she might, Kiana couldn’t imagine a student, any student, wanting Gwen out of the way. Supposedly, never had a bad word been spoken against her.

The murderer wasn’t likely to be somebody off the street because no killer-to-be would come all the way to the school for the murder weapon. They would use the closest thing at hand. Because of the choice of murder weapon, this couldn’t be a totally random crime by a random person. So that meant the killer had to be someone Gwen knew well. Someone who worked at the school. In classes during the day she had imagined each teacher in the position of killer. As Mrs. McFee spouted equations, as Mrs. Ball recited music theory, and Mr. Philmore parsed sentences, she couldn’t stop thinking that one of them might be a cold-blooded killer. Not a comforting thought. She was beginning to understand why Ms. Deacon refused to get involved.

There were a lot of teachers in Carlson High School, but the ones who came in contact with Ms. Forest, ones who might have a grudge against her, had to be few. When Evan arrived, they would discuss the possibilities.

Of course, there was the off chance the killer hadn’t taken the tube from the drama department and that Gwen had some at home—to help with a Halloween costume or something. And the murderer had in fact used the first thing at hand. That could explain why the cops hadn’t marked any importance to the ones at school. Still. A tube of makeup was an unusual thing to just pick up and use as a murder weapon.

The premise that Gwen might have the makeup at home opened up a whole new group of potential killers. What if this was a totally random homicide? Not really likely, was it? But Kiana guessed you had to look at every possibility. Sure, maybe that person was in Gwen’s apartment, maybe selling magazines, and saw the tube sitting on a counter. No, that didn’t ring right at all. Gwen was a fastidious housekeeper. She wouldn’t leave it sitting out like that.

Which brought her to the second clue: Evan’s contact lens case—if it even was a clue. She’d spent quite some time mulling over possible complications in telling him she’d found it. Not that she thought he was the murderer, no way. Chances were better that somebody was trying to frame him. And if she told Evan where she found it, he might be forward enough to confront people. Which would put him in danger. In spite of the urgency to find Gwen’s killer, Kiana would never knowingly do that.

In spite of Principal Reynolds’ admonition, and in spite of the possible danger, she would form this group. She—they—would bring Ms. Forest’s killer to justice. Kiana spent a few minutes rereading her notes and eating a muffin. A throat clearing sound had her looking up to see that Evan had arrived. He removed his glasses, plucked a napkin from the holder on the table and cleaned them.

“Is that the list you gave me earlier?” At her nod he added, “It’s grown a lot.”

“I can’t stop thinking about all this.”

“Great, where do we start?”

She tapped the notebook with the tip of her pencil. “We have to go through Ms. Forest’s things. First, her office because that’s easier to get into. Afterward, her car, and then her apartment. I think the most important thing is to figure out why somebody wanted her dead.”

“You mean if it wasn’t totally arbitrary.”

Exactly what she’d been thinking. Funny how that happened so often between them.

“Want anything else to eat?”

“No thanks.”

He went to the counter and placed an order. He returned with a tall Styrofoam cup, sat and sipped through the small hole in the top.

“How come you got a to-go cup?” Kiana asked.

“Because, Kee, you said you wanted to search Ms. Forest’s office. I was being prepared.”

“The perfect Eagle scout.”

“I’m not a— Oh, you’re joking.” He didn’t grin. “Before we go, I have a couple of questions. First, if you planned to search Ms. Forest’s office, why didn’t we do it while we were in school?”

“I went there twice. First time, Mrs. Deacon was in the office. I heard the rustle of paper so I figured she was reading scripts and would be there a while. The second time, she was in the green room, rummaging in the storage closet.” Evan put down his cup and reached a finger to lift a lock of Kiana’s hair that had fallen toward her cup. She’d leaned back in the seat with a nervous laugh. “This has me really wired.”

“Ya think?” They both laughed. “The second question,” he went on, “is, how do you plan on getting into Ms. Forest’s car and apartment? And, are we doing all this tonight or spreading it out?”

“Right now, we’re going back to the school. The janitors are still in the building. There’s got to be a door open somewhere.”

“With alarms going off all over the place.”

She wouldn’t think about that right now. “C’mon, let’s go.” Kiana slid off the stool. And slipped right back on, almost in one motion.

“What’s—” Evan started to say then realized the cause of her hesitation: Ms. Deacon had come in. “Did she see us?”

“I don’t think so. But so what if she does? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Yet.”

They waited till their substitute teacher left then did likewise.

* * * *

At school, it wasn’t hard finding an unlocked door. They walked quietly along the freshly polished tile floor, listening for the location of the pair of janitors who worked all hours of the night. Kiana and Evan made it to the auditorium without meeting, or hearing anyone.

“Any idea how we’re going to get into the office?” Evan asked.

Kiana took a small string of keys from her pocket. “One day, a long time ago, Ms. Forest was out sick. She asked me to bring something from her office and gave me the key. I realized yesterday that I’d forgotten to give it back.”

“Did you forget on purpose?”

“’Course not,” she lied. She had kept that key on purpose. Possession of it would keep her closer to the one person in her life who treated her like an adult.

They shut the office door and locked it, then stood there taking in the small spartanly finished room.

“Where do we start?” Evan asked.

“You check the closet, I’ll look in the desk. Make sure you check everything: coat pockets and things like that.”

“You want me to tear out seams and dig into makeup containers for microdots?”

“Don’t be a wise guy.”

Kiana walked around the beat-up desk, with the lineup of mousetraps across the front. She grinned recalling how Mrs. Deacon had discovered one of them on a chair—the chair she or Evan usually used. “Wonder why Mrs. Deacon put the traps like this.”

Evan turned from his search of the closet. “Maybe as a message to the person who put them here. You know, ‘Don’t mess with me.’”

“Yes, but why in here? The office is locked all the time. She’s the only person who’ll see them.”

“Dunno.”

The only other things on the desk were what she’d expect: a stapler, a coffee mug holding pens and pencils, and a blotter decorated with notes in Ms. Forest’s precise handwriting in the small calendar squares. Funny that there was nothing personal—no dentist appointments, no secret late-night dates, just stuff like the date all costumes had to be ready, the date of the final dress rehearsal.

Only one thing marred the blotter’s perfect appearance: Friday and Saturday nights, the dates of their performance. The dates they hoped to save the school’s drama program. Three days from today. The days were circled so many times in red ink that the pen had worn through the page. Kiana smiled. Nice to see the date was as important to Ms. Forest as it was to them. Just then, she realized that no matter what happened this weekend, Ms. Forest’s death would most certainly signal the end of the drama program. She had been the glue that held the whole thing together; she was the connection between the kids and the school board. Kiana swallowed the sadness and wondered whether to change high schools. Rumor had it that Nashua had a good drama program. Maybe she could transfer there. She’d need the credits and the experience to qualify for Greensboro College’s advanced program.

“Hey, should we coordinate our stories in case somebody comes in?” Evan asked.

“They won’t care; we’re here after hours all the time.”

“With Ms. Forest.”

“Yes, but we’re still preparing for a performance.”

“Right.” The single word was spoken a little hoarsely. Evan ducked back into the closet. His top half disappeared inside. Kiana wondered if he was hiding tears.

“Nothing in here,” came the soft words, “except that yellow jacket Ms. Forest always wore.”

Gwen wore that jacket all the time. Kiana swallowed a lump and went back to business. She’d worry about the program and her education later. Probably thinking about school was a waste of time anyway. The only place her parents could afford to send her was right here in the state. None of the colleges had any accredited drama courses. Which might solidify her parents’ desire to keep her out of the theater altogether.

Kiana pulled open the middle drawer. Nothing important here, just office and theater stuff: push pins, highlighters, a bag of rubber bands, a box of staples. The top left drawer held a half a ream of paper, though there was no printer or computer in the room. The next drawer held a coffee mug, really out of place since Ms. Forest didn’t drink coffee or tea. Was it a clue? Kiana nearly laughed. Probably not.

The drawers on the other side yielded no clues either.

Every teacher she knew kept personal things around their classrooms. Things like pictures of their families, a book to read during breaks, a spare pair of shoes. But there was nothing here to indicate Ms. Forest even had a personal life. Kiana circled away from the desk. Her hip caught on the corner of the blotter and dragged it part way off the desk. A rectangular piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Just then Evan came out of the closet. He spotted the paper and scurried to retrieve it for Kiana. A real gentleman. He handed it to her but remained peering over her shoulder at a photograph. It was in color but obviously not taken recently. The couple, probably in their late teens, stood in front of a stately brick building under a pair of spreading maple trees.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Ms. Forest. Her hair’s longer, and she’s wearing bangs that cover her eyes, but it looks like her.”

“Gotta be, look at that mole near her left ear.”

“That’s her all right. But who’s the guy?” Kiana leaned in closer. The man was about six feet tall with thick-rimmed glasses, long hair and a beard. Their arms were companionably around each other.

“He looks familiar,” Evan said.

“Wish we had one of those computer programs that can remove hair.”

“He sure has a lot of it.” Evan laughed. “In the movies, guys dressed like that are hiding their identity.”

“Looks like they’re in front of a school.”

“A college maybe. Where did Ms. Forest go to school?”

“Two places. Bridgewater State. It’s in Massachusetts. After that she went to the University of California.”

“This doesn’t look like California. You think it’s Massachusetts? What kind of trees are those?”

“Duh. They’re maples.” Kiana slid the photo into her back jeans pocket. “Did you find anything in the closet?”

“Nothing much. A change of clothes, a sweatsuit, an umbrella, and a pair of running shoes. Before you ask, there was nothing in any of the pockets. And I didn’t find any microfilm.”

Kiana crossed to the old sofa against the far wall. Ms. Forest had bought it at a yard sale for ten dollars. She’d borrowed Mr. Chalmers’ pickup truck then asked Kiana and Evan to help haul it in here. It was an ugly piece of furniture, but Ms. Forest said it filled up the space and provided a good place to read manuscripts and things like that. Kiana knelt on the floor and looked under the couch. Nothing but a warren of dust bunnies.

With no place else to look, the teens left the office. They searched the costume room, poking into pockets and shaking shoes. They did a more thorough search of the storage closet though there was really no point to any of it, the cops had been here already. From the mess she and the others had cleaned up that morning, they hadn’t missed anything.

Again, Evan voiced Kiana’s thoughts. “Darn, I really hoped we’d find something.”

“Maybe we did with the photo.”

“You sure we should’ve taken it? Maybe we should just make a—”

“What photo?”

The teens spun at the sound of an intruder’s voice. There stood one of the janitors—the skinny one with the silly mustache. Kiana couldn’t recall ever hearing his name. Not that it mattered. He held a mop in one hand and a look on his face like he might consider using it as a weapon.

“Hi,” said Evan, always the master of dialogue. “We were getting the costumes ready.”

“Were you now?”

Kiana jumped in to help Evan. “You know, for the performance this weekend.”

“Yes,” said Evan, “the one to save the drama program.”

The termination of the program was obviously news to the man so Kiana used it to bolster their case. She launched into a long-winded monologue about the death of the program because of waning funds. “Now that Ms. Forest is…gone,” she said with true sadness, “I—we don’t know what’ll happen regardless of how things turn out this weekend.”

“Happening all over the place,” the man said.

“That’s right,” Evan said. “My dad’s hours got cut at work. You’re probably worried about your job too. I have an idea, why don’t I tell all the kids to mess things up before we go home every day. Give you some job security.”

“You kids couldn’t leave it worse than you do. Between graffiti on the bathroom walls and trash in the classrooms, my job is secure.”

Kiana bit her tongue to keep from mentioning the dirt under the office couch and the microwave table in the teachers’ lounge.

“Well,” Evan said, clearly not ready to give up the topic, “you hear all the time about job cuts and people forced to do the work of two people.”

The janitor nodded solemnly.

“What do you think Kiana,” said Evan, “do the costumes seem okay to you?”

“All except Dan’s. We’ve got to get his slacks mended.”

Not missing a beat, Evan added, “Yeah. And don’t forget your—did you know Kiana was the leading lady?” to which the janitor shook his head. “Don’t forget that necklace you were going to borrow from your aunt.”

“Gosh, I should write that down.” She found a pad of paper on the table and scribbled NECKLACE in large letters. “Okay, I guess we’re through here. Ready Evan?”

He nodded. Kiana stepped around the janitor keeping one eye on that mop.

“Before you go,” said the janitor, “tell me about that photograph you stole.”

NINE

Angie had been surprised to see Kiana and Evan in the coffee shop. Kiana had said they weren’t dating, yet there they were. Should she go say hello? Was there an out-of-school protocol regarding teacher/student interaction? She didn’t know, but one thing was clear, they were engrossed in something. Angie hoped, but didn’t believe, it had nothing to do with schoolwork, even though there was a notebook on the table between them.

Back in her car, she’d set the coffee in the holder and the bag holding tomorrow morning’s muffin on the passenger seat. As she waited for a break in traffic Evan and Kiana had come out of the shop, climbed on a copper colored motorcycle and motored away—toward the school. Possible that either or both of them lived that way but instinct told Angie they were doing what they were explicitly told not to do—investigate.

Her plan had been to pick up Chinese take-out and spend the evening reading Prince & Pauper manuscripts. And talking to Jarvis on the phone. Last month, except for four days he was gone to a conference, they’d spent every second together. That was another reason she was glad for this side job; she’d thought she needed some space. But two days away had her missing his infectious smile and comradic elbow nudges. She even missed that silly deerstalker hat.

Angie wound the steering wheel to the right and followed Evan’s motorcycle. Two blocks later, she lost it in traffic. For a few blocks she searched up and down, then wondered if they’d gone back to school.

No bike in the main parking lot, which brought a bit of relief…until the insistent little voice—a veritable nuisance during investigations—chimed in, they wouldn’t park out in the open. Angie drove around the school. The teen’s vehicle wasn’t in the east lot.

But it was tucked in a corner near the gymnasium. Nobody in sight.

Angie parked too and went to the closest heavy metal door. Locked.

By the time she found an unlocked entry, more than a half hour had passed since she’d seen them in the coffee shop. She tiptoed along the corridors toward the auditorium. As soon as she stepped inside she heard voices. Strange because she’d expect the kids to be as quiet as possible. Well, they were novices, weren’t they? Exactly the reason she’d warned them to let authorities handle things.

She eased down the aisle, up onto the apron, then along the small hallway leading to the backstage rooms. Ahead, the hallway widened into the green room. Three shadows showed on the left hand wall.

Three?

Perhaps Kiana and Evan had met somebody—Kiana had mentioned forming a group of teens to investigate.

The third shadow, a male, loomed taller. Probably he stood closer to the doorway. He held something long and narrow in his right hand. He wasn’t brandishing it like a weapon, but the clench of his hand on it left no doubt he considered using it as such.

An unfamiliar male voice said, “Before you go, tell me about that photograph you stole.”

Two voices—those of Evan and Kiana—claimed to know nothing about a picture.

Angie had no idea what photograph they referred to but it was clear the man wanted to take it. She tiptoed back to the stage apron, then retraced the route with deliberate hope they hear me footsteps along the hallway and into the green room.

“Sorry I’m late. Got caught in traffic.” She pretended to notice the man dressed like a janitor. He was of average height with short-cropped dark hair and a pencil thin mustache. She papered on a smile. “Hello. Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name, I’m Gwen Forest’s replacement.” Angie stretched a hand toward him.

He transferred what she now saw was a mop, to his left hand, and shook hers. “Linc. Lincoln Underwood.”

“Nice to meet you, Linc. Don’t tell me,” she acted surprised, “are you here to try out for a part in our play?”

He shook his head. “I’m no actor. I’m the janitor. B-but I—”

Angie reached into her handbag and came out with the sapphire necklace Cilla had given her. She handed it to Kiana. “I got that jewelry we needed. Check it out. I think it’ll go perfectly with that costume. Evan, your mother called my cell a few minutes ago. I told her you were on the way home.” Now Angie turned to the janitor. “Sorry if we disturbed your cleaning. We’ll get out of the way.”

Angie spun on a heel and started along the hallway, hearing the rushed footsteps of the kids following. She ignored the janitor’s, “But wait. Those kids—”

Nobody spoke till they were in the parking lot beside Angie’s car.

“Phew! That was close,” Evan said.

Angie snatched the bag from Kiana’s fingers. “I will not lecture you about what just happened.” She pressed the button to unlock the driver’s door. “Go home. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

“But Mrs. Deacon, we found a clue.”

“I know. I assume it’s something to do with a photo.”

Kiana removed it from her back pocket and checked the school door. When no mop-wielding janitor peered out, she handed it to Angie, who gazed at the young couple in the picture. She couldn’t keep her eyes from widening in recognition.

“What is it?” asked Evan. “Who is it?”

“We know the girl is Ms. Forest,” said Kiana. “We were trying to figure out the guy’s identity when the janitor walked in on us.”

“I almost jumped out of my shoes,” Evan said. “Thank goodness you showed up.”

Angie shot him a this-wouldn’t-have-happened-if-you-listened-to-me look.

“You know the man in the picture,” Kiana accused.

Angie waggled the photo in the air. “Where did you find this?”

“Under the blotter on Ms. Forest’s desk. What should we do with it?”

Against every logical molecule in her body, Angie said, “I’ll handle it.”

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“Take it to the police.”

Kiana broke into a wide grin.

“That doesn’t mean I’m investigating. It only means I don’t want you kids involved any more than you are. I will tell the police where I found it. Now scoot, both of you.”

“But who—”

Evan cut her off with a jerk on the elbow.

Angie remained standing beside the car. No, not standing, leaning because suddenly all muscular control deserted her body. Regardless of her repeated denials, those teens, and seemingly everyone else in the school, thought Angie was hot on the case. She sighed and waited till the copper colored motorcycle disappeared around the corner.

In the car she laid the picture upside down on the passenger seat beside the muffin and necklace bags. The coffee had grown cold but she drank two large swallows anyway. Thus fortified, Angie drove to the Chinese restaurant two blocks from the hotel and ordered dinner.

At the hotel she bypassed the elevator and took the stairs to her room, set the bags and folders on the table near the window, toed off her shoes, hung her jacket in the closet and flopped on the bed. Where was Jarvis now? The bedside clock said he was probably kicked back on his beat-up sofa, Red’s head in his lap, watching the Six O’clock News and eating dinner from a can. As soon as the news was over he would phone.

Part of Angie dreaded the call because by the time she said hello, he’d know something was up. He’d laugh and taunt her for getting involved in the murder case. What was wrong with her? Yes, that would be his first question. How could she say that, despite her best resolve, despite her finest effort, she’d found herself buried in Gwen Forest’s murder? Why couldn’t she stay out of trouble? That would be his second question.

A query to herself would be, why did these things keep finding her? It seemed like Trouble—with a capital T—deliberately sought her out.

Jarvis would berate her and, no matter how hard she protested, he would never believe the finding of a clue was a total and complete accident. A mere attempt to keep the kids out of their own Trouble with a capital T.

Right now, she had a bigger problem—Kiana and Evan. How could she convince them to leave the investigating to the professionals? Especially once they realized the man standing beside their beloved teacher was none other than their principal Randy Reynolds.

TEN

“You’ve done it again, haven’t you? Couldn’t keep from leaping headfirst into someone else’s problems.” Jarvis popped open another can of beer and went to stand in the back door. Dusk was falling but he could still see that two fence posts needed replacement. Perhaps this weekend—if he didn’t have to bail Angelina out of jail. Or identify her body in the morgue. He sucked down a long swallow and listened as she defended her actions in taking the photograph from the kids.

“I agree you did the right thing. But why not just take it to the police? The problem would be out of your hands.”

“I thought I should talk to Randy first. He admitted they’d been married for a short time back in college. I can’t imagine that picture being anything more than a sentimental way for Gwen to stay attached to the man she once loved.”

“Or still loved. What was your feeling about their relationship?”

“That the marriage was mutually dissolved and, at least on his part, there was no animosity.”

“You think he told the truth?”

“He seemed genuine. And he was genuinely terrified about attention being focused on the school. If I take the picture to the cops, it will bring them down hard. Maybe it would be unjustified.”

He heard her sigh and wished he were there to hold her and ease the frown lines that etched across her forehead during times like this. He moved away from the door and dropped into a kitchen chair, wincing at the sharp pain in what he referred to as his ass crater—a wound acquired a month ago when a suspect tried to murder both he and Angelina. Because of the ass crater, and incidents like it, he knew well that decisions came hard when you tried to protect people. In his line of work he saw it all the time, 99% of the time it created more trouble than it solved. Angelina knew this too.

“You’re right,” he said, “the picture is probably not related to the murder, but it isn’t your decision to make.” Something nudged his right foot and he reached down to pat Irish Red, the puppy Angelina had given him—a big step for a person who hated any kind of mess. The puppy, already fifteen pounds, sat on his foot and leaned her head against his knee. He fondled the silky fur.

“Look,” he told Angelina, “use your camera and take a picture of the photo. Send it to me. Maybe I can figure out what college they’re at.”

“I can save you all that time and ask Randy in the morning.”

“No need to alert him.”

“I know but something keeps ringing in my head…that he might’ve already told me. I’ve been trying to recall our conversation from this morning. I didn’t realize at the time that our dialogues were in two different time zones. I was taking in information to help work with the kids and—”

“And probably feeling very nervous.”

“That’s an understatement! While I sat there thinking he was making conversation to help ease my nerves, he was actually feeding me information to help solve Gwen’s murder. I wish I could remember it all. I’ll feel stupid asking when he already told me.”

“Remember the interrogation tactics I taught you. Keep him talking. The information might come out without a direct question.”

“Good idea.”

Soon, the phone pinged letting him know the picture had arrived. The tiny screen reminded him he needed to see an eye doctor. In the photo, a young couple, probably in their late teens, wore medium quality jeans and identical Nike shoes. They stood on a dirt path in front of a brick building, smiling lovers’ smiles. Jarvis recalled a photo album he came across recently on the top shelf of his closet. One of the first pictures was he and Liz; they’d worn those same nothing-can-change-our-feelings expressions too.

Jarvis had to agree with Angelina, the backdrop was at a college, probably one in New England if the architecture and setting were any indication. The path wound between six fully leafed maple trees, which meant the season was probably late spring or summer. Considering school schedules, it probably wasn’t summertime.

He sat at the computer and uploaded the photo from the phone. On the large, flat computer screen, the details were fuzzy but easier to see. Wait. What’s that? He peered closer at the monitor. Were those wedding bands? Yes, narrow bands—he couldn’t tell whether they were silver or gold—decorated each left ring finger. Okay, that much of Randy’s story was true. Jarvis wished he were at the office where he could search for marriage records. Chances were good they had been married near the school.

First, he searched for colleges in the northeast. If that didn’t pan out, he would spread the search down the eastern seaboard, and then west if need be. Two hours—man, there were a lot of schools in New England—and another can of beer later, he found it: Bridgewater State College in Massachusetts. The path was now paved and the trees were many years older, but no doubt about the location. What did the information mean? In the long run, probably not one thing. Most police research—the long, long hours chasing clues—turned out a waste of time.

Even though it neared midnight and Angelina was probably still awake—she sometimes lay awake for hours—he went to bed. He’d phone from the office in the morning, hopefully he’d have a second piece of news, about the marriage license. With any luck he’d find a record of the marriage’s dissolution too.

He considered phoning the detective on the case. Since Carlson was a small town, they had no functioning detective squad, so José Rodriguez, a full time detective in the neighboring town of Nashua, had been assigned to the case. Rodriguez had been unusually forthcoming with information. PDs were usually willing to share but mostly when the departments were working the same case. Jarvis had no case, only fell into this one because of Angelina. He had no official right to anything. The first night they met, Rodriguez mentioned their department being short of detectives, so Jarvis figured he would welcome somebody to run things past, a senior advisor, so to speak. Even so, it was late. Since the information probably had no bearing on the case, he’d save it till morning.

Jarvis spent a half hour pressing the big barbells in his living room. Then he took the puppy outside. As always, they walked the perimeter of his in-town property to teach her limits. She did her business and they went inside.

Jarvis showered and climbed into bed, arms under his head. Irish Red’s toenails clicked along the hallway, then silenced as they met the bedroom carpet. She came to the side of the bed. He reached down, as he did every night, to pat her. He watched her black shadow turn and go to her bed in the corner. Then he laid back staring at the ceiling.

Usually exercise and a hot shower brought on sleep. Not tonight. For a long time he stared at the recently painted ceiling—one of the benefits of his relationship with the very-particular Angelina Deacon was that, to impress her, he’d redecorated most of the house he’d shared with Liz for so many years. He squashed thoughts of Liz and her premature death. He’d wallowed in sadness for far too long. Life was too short, as Liz had frequently reminded. She would be angry knowing he’d waited ten years to begin dating again. She probably wouldn’t approve of Angelina; the pretty blonde was kind of high maintenance. But Angelina was independent, a self-starter, and perfectly able to care for herself. Besides, she was hot as a summer BBQ grill.

Jarvis’ colleagues continually reminded him that Angelina was way out of his league. What she saw in him, even he couldn’t imagine. But he’d fallen like a boulder for her. Over the past year he’d proposed time and again. She kept turning him down saying she wasn’t ready to jump into that fire again so soon after her divorce. Most men would be disheartened, but like a puppy who’d gobbled down one treat, he continued to putter along, hopeful for a bigger, tastier one.

ELEVEN

Angie hung up the phone feeling relieved. Sending that photo to Jarvis released her from responsibility of delivering it to the cops, of being further involved. He would stay up all night figuring out the photo’s clues. Then he’d send it the whole business to the authorities. No further need to worry about it. Sleep could be restful and plentiful tonight.

She reheated the Chinese food in the microwave and settled at the small table, with the heavy drapes open. She dumped the necklace out of the bag. It had an excellent quality gold chain with intricately woven links, but the most remarkable feature was the sapphire colored stone. She held it up and watched the light bounce around inside. And frowned. She’d never before noticed light reflected inside a fake stone. Angie held it closer to the bulb. It looked to be good quality, the setting was tight, the stones well set. She shrugged, put the pendant in the container with her other jewelry then returned to her dinner.

Below, and across the quiet street, shadow-people ambled about in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. Directly across from her fifth floor room, a man stood in an office window on the same floor as Angie. He was balding and tallish, wearing dark slacks and a light color shirt. Nothing out of the ordinary except he stared at her. A tiny part of Angie considered slamming the curtains shut. A larger and bolder part of her remained there, sometimes looking right at him, sometimes breaking the contact and looking at elongated clouds on the navy blue and slate gray skyline. The man obviously tried to rattle her. Stupid man to think he could.

The guy looked a little like Josh Philmore—the English teacher. The kids seemed to like him though Angie didn’t know how she herself felt about him. Her first impression that morning had been one of a quiet, self-effacing man who adored his wife. One who went all the way to her shop to make sure she felt okay after the death of her best friend. All day, something about that meeting didn’t feel right. The scene in front of the shop played in her mind. Loving husband arrives, surprises wife. Angie used to love it when Will did that. It provided a nice break in the day. But there had been something off-kilter about their exchange. Josh had been valiant in disguising it, but the more Angie thought on the topic, the more an underlying tension became evident. The way Cilla leaned against him, the way he resisted slightly before putting his arm around her. Question was, if he felt a reluctance to touch her, what brought him to the shop? Only one thing Angie could think of—he was checking up on her. Possibly Cilla had been unfaithful. Possibly he had. In Angie’s experience, the man’s cheating usually made him insecure enough to start checking to see how the wife utilized her time. With nothing more than a simple body movement forming the theory, Angie looked again for the man in the office building. But he had gone.

She tugged on the rod to shut the drapes and sat to read one of the plays from the heavy manila envelope. Dead Restraint’s cover letter proclaimed it as a suspense—one of her favorite genres. Angie loved standing in the wings and watching the audience’s reaction to suspense plots, edge of the seat, hands gripped on armrests. And leaping out of those chairs when the ‘aha’ moment happened. Yes, suspense definitely sold tickets. She made notes to talk with Tyson about this one. She also wanted to discuss producing Adrift, the kids’ play. They might be able to use the cast—hopefully the kids would be excited about another set of performances. Prince & Pauper would make part of the proceeds available for the school’s drama program. She could already envision the advertising possibilities.

She stood and stretched out the kinks. She groped between the panels of the drapes and looked outside. It was almost dark, just a hint of light still oozing between the buildings. No stars, which probably meant the warmth of the day still remained. Making sure the guy from the window across the street was still gone, she slipped into a sweater, tucked the room key into a pocket, and left the room.

Moments later, Angie stepped into the cool, fresh air where just a hint of exhaust fumes remained. By the time she went for her morning jog they’d be all blown away. For a couple of hours the air would be the cleanest and freshest of the day.

She stood on the sidewalk taking in the mood of the neighborhood. This area was mostly businesses and offices and, because of the late hour, quiet. Only the whoosh of the occasional car on the cooling pavement broke the sound of night dropping over the town. Angie drew out her phone and dialed Tyson’s cell number. He answered on the second ring, which meant he was alone at home.

“Hey partner,” he said. “How’re things in school?”

“Good. Really good.”

“You aren’t thinking of ditching me for the educational scene, are you?”

“Not a chance. How’re things there?”

He said, “Okay,” way too fast. Things weren’t okay at all.

“We have to do it, you know,” she said.

“Let her go?”

“Yes Tyson. We have to fire her.”

He heaved a giant sigh. “I know.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and do it. I don’t have my schedule here, I’ll call you in the morning and let you know when I can get there.”

“You don’t have to. I can do it.”

She laughed, garnering the attention of a couple walking past. Angie realized she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and backed out of their path. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

She didn’t miss the relief in his tone when he said, “I hate to have you drive all the way back for that.”

“Get a good night’s sleep. Bye.” As she dropped the phone in her pocket, a cab slid to a stop in front of the hotel. A man stepped out. Angie thought she recognized him, but as he turned to pay the driver she lost sight of his face.

She continued on her way, past shops shuttered and locked tight for the night. Crime was one thing she didn’t miss about living in the city. Born a small town girl in a Cape Cod suburb, Angie had lived in the city only once, in Providence, Rhode Island, while she attended nursing school. One thing she loved about city life, always something to do, nice for a girl who didn’t sleep well.

Angie thought about the man she’d seen getting out of the cab and realized who it was—Ted Chalmers. She should go back. He’d obviously come to see her. No way he’d come to shoot the breeze. No way he’d come to discuss the play. Angie kept walking. As a matter of fact, she picked up her pace. Not that she wanted to ignore the sad Ted Chalmers, but he’d established himself as a leaner-on, somebody who liked to cry out his troubles on somebody else’s shoulder—even a stranger’s. She hoped that by avoiding him he’d find a friend or family member to talk to.

She walked for five blocks. The air turned cool; she was glad for the sweater. A few people were out enjoying the last of the evening. She nodded to a teenage boy carrying a football and a helmet, said hello to a woman walking a standard poodle, and felt a moment’s homesickness thinking of the beautiful Irish setter puppy probably cuddled up with Jarvis in bed. A very appealing place to be right now.

Rather than retrace her steps, Angie walked east one block then a block south to explore the parallel street. Not much different. Another chain bookstore, another chain coffee shop, another bar, a restaurant—this one Hindu instead of Indian. The aromas coming from the Hindu restaurant nearly drew her inside. Maybe tomorrow night she’d take herself out for dinner. Or, better yet, maybe Jarvis would drive down for a visit.

At a quarter to ten Angie arrived back at the hotel. The lobby was empty. This time she pushed the elevator button. Experience had proven that so much stair climbing just before bed was not conducive to sleep. The elevator door whooshed open. Out stepped Ted Chalmers. He seemed tired but quite glad to see her. Had he spent all that time hanging around the hallway near her room? A better question would be, how had he gotten her room number? Angie would have hoped things like that were confidential.

Ted stood about five foot ten and was maybe forty-five years old. The hooded sweatshirt hung loose on his upper body, but the jeans outlined thick thighs and calves. The sweatshirt’s zipper was down about six inches, displaying a thick tangle of black curls. His demeanor seemed like that of a lost child. Why not? In the last few days his fiancée had been murdered and the school he worked for had virtually accused him of the deed. Nice to work at a place for a long time then find your co-workers believed you could commit such an act.

“Hi Angie.”

“Hi.” She made sure her voice didn’t convey too much welcome. At this late hour he should be home in bed. She should be in bed.

“I, er, wanted to talk to you.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“Can we go upstairs?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s sit in the bar.”

They sat at a corner in a darkish area of the nearly empty hotel bar. A huge widescreen TV playing a football game kept most of the customers occupied.

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked. He didn’t apologize for his late visit, which took him down a notch in her opinion. “Randy told me about your suspension. I’m sorry.”

“I already started looking for another job—not in teaching—because even after I’m found innocent, they’ll never take me back. No school will ever hire me.”

Angie nodded. She’d already told Randy this. In Randy’s defense, suspending Ted was really all he could do.

The bartender arrived at the table. She ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc; Ted asked for a light beer and an order of buffalo wings.

“I can’t believe Randy could hang me out to dry like that.”

“I understand it was the school board. Randy went to bat for you.” She plucked a napkin from the holder on the table. “You realize the suspension doesn’t mean anybody—even the school board—thinks you’re guilty of anything. They’re protecting the school and the students.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. It’s just that—I went to see Josh and Cilla…and they wouldn’t open the door.”

“Are you sure they were home?” Damn. Even to her ears the excuse sounded empty. How could she defend perfect strangers? “All I mean is, maybe they need time to come to terms with this—the same as you.”

“I know. It’s just been such a… You know we were getting married?”

Angie nodded. Had he forgotten about their meeting at McDonalds?

“I didn’t kill her.”

She gave another nod.

“You doubt me also?”

“No Ted. It’s just that I’m not the person you should be telling this to. I’m a stranger come only to help the kids out of a tough situation.”

The server delivered the beer and wine to the table. Angie sipped hers right away, wishing she’d ordered something stronger. “Did you and Gwen meet at school?”

A smile pushed away the sad face for a moment. “Yes. Her first day there. She was getting the orientation from Randy. I went to his office to—well, that doesn’t matter, does it? We hit it off right away. Not as lovers, just as friends. We hung out during breaks, things like that.”

“When did you start dating?”

He raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Not till the end of school year. She finally said yes to a Fisher Cats ballgame. After the game we went to the Sam Adams Pub at the park.” His expression was more animated now as he recalled their early days. “On our second date we went bowling.” He laughed as he plucked a stray hair from between long fingers. “She was a terrible bowler. She only knocked down three pins all afternoon. After that we went for hotdogs in the park.” Now his face took on a nostalgic look. “We laughed the whole time about her bowling.”

Maybe Angie’s instincts were all wrong, but in her two short conversations with Ted, she noticed a pattern. That Gwen only went out with Ted in public, no strings. Why? Was she embarrassed to be with him? The sweatshirt was a bit too casual for Angie’s taste, but he appeared clean, and decent looking. His manners were all right; so far he hadn’t picked his nose or anything like that. “How long before things heated up between you?”

“That’s a gentle way of asking how long before we slept together, right? I don’t mind you asking anyway. About a year. No, it was exactly a year. We were—”

Angie waved a hand. “I don’t want details. Please.”

He laughed. It was a pleasant laugh. Nice that he had a sense of humor. Did it extend to leaving mousetraps for the new drama teacher?

He tipped his beer to drain the last from the heavy glass. The sweatshirt slid sideways. Through the zipper opening she saw a glimpse of white. What the heck was that—lace? Angie stared; she couldn’t help herself.

When she looked up, Ted gazed at her with dark-eyed curiosity.

The bartender appeared just then, saving a potentially clumsy situation. He asked if they wanted another drink. When Ted hesitated, Angie quickly said no, that she had to get upstairs.

Ted shot a glance toward the lobby door. “I guess I’m good.”

Angie used the moment while he busied himself paying for the drinks to stand and step away from the table. As the bartender left, she faked a yawn.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” a disappointed Ted said.

What had he expected anyway? Angie didn’t want to mull over the possibilities. She took his hand and shook it, said, “Take care of yourself,” and left him standing there.

As she entered the elevator, Angie wished she’d taken the stairs earlier then she would’ve missed him altogether. Lying in bed wide-awake from the adrenaline surge would’ve been a much more desirable way to spend the last hour.

TWELVE

In the wee hours of Wednesday morning, Kiana scrawled the word Mom across the note and propped it against the teapot where she’d find it when she got up. The note said she had to leave early to do something for the play, and for her not to worry.

She picked up the bag containing things they might possibly need: flashlight, penlight, miscellaneous keys, two pairs of rubber gloves, and a black toque. She eased the back door open—the back door because the front one sometimes squeaked—and then shut. For the first time she was glad they didn’t have a dog; he might’ve wakened her mother. She skirted the edge of the house to the front yard, staying in shadows all the way to the sidewalk. It was harder here to stay out of sight; a streetlight stood sentry at the end of their driveway. Where was Evan? He said he’d park under the elm tree next door. Its low, spreading branches would be great cover. Those branches kept out the hot summer sun too. It was always much cooler on that part of the sidewalk. She’d managed to talk her parents into getting an elm, and now a mega-smaller version grew in their backyard. An owl hooted, once, twice. She grinned. Evan often used that signal to get her attention in school.

She turned left and headed toward the sound. There he was, sitting on his motorcycle in the deepest shadows. Kiana stayed close to the neighbor’s front picket fence, about a foot of the tree’s shadow touched the sidewalk here. A porch light came on across the street. Kiana froze. The neighbor’s door opened and a small white poodle bounded outside. If she moved Sparky would see her. And bark. He barked at everything. How long would it take him to do his duty? She could be standing here half the day. The dog sniffed every bush and blade of grass in its front yard, turned and started over. Enough was enough.

Kiana took a step. The dog moved to another bush. While his nose was buried in the branches, she took another. And another. She’d lifted her foot for another step when the front door opened. Sparky glanced up, wagged his tail. The neighbor came outside. And stood on the stoop—looking in her direction. Could Mr. Thomas see her? She was tall. Perhaps her upper body was visible in the pre-dawn light. Then her neighbor started down the steps and moved along the front walk toward Kiana. What to do? What to say?

But, rather than cross the street, Mr. Thomas went toward his car. He got in and started the engine. Kiana took two steps toward Evan, keeping one eye on Mr. Thomas, the other on the dog. She stopped moving when he got out of the car and went back to his walk. And stood looking at the spot where she’d been standing. He bent forward a little, as if squinting, then shrugged, called the dog and went back inside. Kiana exhaled and hurried toward Evan.

There was no need for words; they’d gone over the plan several times last night. She hung her bag on the back of the seat and strapped on the helmet. She lifted her leg and slid it behind Evan. They used their feet to turn the bike and propel it to the corner where Evan started the motor and they scooted away without a backward glance.

As expected, they found the school parking lots empty. These early hours were the only time the school was empty, the janitors having finished their shifts at 11 p.m., the secretarial staff not yet arrived. Evan cruised around to the back, careful to keep the sound of the bike to a minimum. Though this parking lot was far from the entrance they intended to use, this area was the least likely to be patrolled by local police or kids looking for a place to hang out.

Like soldiers on a mission, they removed helmets and slipped the straps over the seat rest. Kiana slung her bag over one shoulder. The first search on the agenda was Mr. Chalmers’ office. Since he had been suspended from school—he must be the authorities’ main suspect. Therefore, she and Evan would focus their initial investigation on him.

Before leaving school Evan had taped the lock on the door leading to Mr. Reynolds’ outdoor office. About a week ago, he noticed that nobody had gotten around to installing the security system around the new construction. At that time he never expected the information to come in handy. Yet, here they were.

The brick wall was cool. They clung close all the way to the outdoor office. Evan twisted the doorknob and they slipped inside. The only light came through the glass front of the outer office, a red glow given off by the security system mounted in most of the hallways.

They hurried from the office and ran on rubber-soled feet to the gym two right hand turns and three long corridors away. Mr. Chalmers’ cubbyhole-sized office was tucked between the two locker rooms. Not locked. When they opened the door, Kiana realized why nobody bothered locking it. The place was a mess. Both his desk and a counter that stretched the length of the room were stacked a mile high with books, sports equipment and crumpled uniforms. Kiana even spotted a power saw. She was afraid to breathe for fear the mountain would come tumbling down, burying her and Evan forever. He pushed the door shut and turned on the light.

“Yuk, what’s that smell?”

Evan pointed at a mound of takeout containers in one corner.

Had the police inspection caused this catastrophe? No. This clutter was here already. Man, she would’ve hated being the cops assigned to look for evidence in this room. She also didn’t want to think what his house—where they would go later—looked like.

“So. Where do we start?” she asked.

“I’d say his desk. That’s a more private area, a more logical place to hide something.”

“You could hide an elephant anywhere in here.”

Evan nudged her arm. “You take the left side, I’ll take the right.”

He didn’t waste any time digging into the bottom drawer. Kiana knelt, first checking to make sure she wouldn’t put her hands in anything disgusting. Maggots crawling everywhere wouldn’t have surprised her.

“I wonder if he’ll notice we’ve been here,” Evan said.

“He’s banned from coming near the school till this is solved.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. I guess that means we’re—woo-wee, what’s this?”

Glad for the delay, she looked over her shoulder to see Evan dangling a lacy neon green thong from his index finger.

Several images went through her mind right then—none of them good. First, she couldn’t believe Gwen would wear a thong, especially one in lime green. Kiana had pegged her mentor as the cotton brief type of person. The second image was one of Gwen and Mr. Chalmers in the process of removing that thong. The third image nearly made her barf. Gwen, a most fastidious housekeeper, and Mr. Chalmers had been doing it here—amongst this pigsty.

Evan twirled the underwear on his finger for several revolutions then let it fly. It landed atop a pair of sweat pants bearing the school’s panther logo. Evan laughed and disappeared back into the drawer.

“Glad you can find something amusing about all this.” Kiana sighed and pulled the top drawer open. She pawed through several handfuls of paper clips and pushpins, a box of staples, an unopened bottle of brandy, and a brand new box of condoms. “Eeuw.”

“What?”

She showed the two jock straps hanging from her fingers. She heaved them on top of the thong.

“Gimme the flashlight, please.”

Kiana dug it from her bag and handed it over. “Did you find something?”

“No, but it’s dark under here.” Evan, on all fours, shined the light under the desk.

She reluctantly went on to the second drawer. A jingling from Evan’s side of the desk delayed her search once again. This time, dangling from his finger was a trio of keys. One bore the Ford logo, obviously it went to Mr. Chalmers’ hatchback. Kiana recognized the keychain itself, a small silver panther. The kids sold them as a fundraiser last year. The other keys looked familiar. She drew her set from the chain around her neck. A comparison proved her suspicions: the keys matched the ones to Gwen’s office and apartment. Evan dropped them in his shirt pocket.

So far he’d done all the discovering. He was also the one who found a most distressing clue, a small container of lighter fluid and one of those long-stemmed fire starters Kiana’s father used to start their BBQ grill. Evan flicked the button. A small flame leaped from the end. Why would anyone in school need something like this?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Evan said, touching her arm. “Anybody could’ve put this stuff in here.”

He was right. “Should we give this to the cops?”

Evan shrugged. “Probably just our fingerprints on here now. Besides, haven’t the cops been here already? If they thought it was worth anything…”

“Come on, let’s go.” She moved to stow the lighter and fluid in her bag, but Evan stopped her.

“We don’t want to be caught carrying this.” He smudged at the fingerprints with the tail of his shirt then set the stuff back on the shelf where he’d found it.

They stepped out of the room and shut the door. A muffled sound came from the end of the hallway, in the auditorium.

“Mrs. Deacon’s here already,” Kiana whispered to Evan.

“Probably. Let’s get out of here. We can come back tomorrow.”

They hurried out to the motorbike and sped toward Mr. Chalmers’ house. The plan was—if he were home, they’d try to search his car. If not, they’d try to find a way inside. He lived in a sparsely populated area. Chances were the neighbors would be hyper-vigilant. Evan stopped the bike two blocks away, and they walked to the small cottage-style house. Kiana stifled her disappointment seeing the blue Ford in the driveway.

The grass was all bent over and brown on the tips. A rusty lawnmower sat abandoned in the center of the postage stamp sized yard. No way could Kiana picture Gwen coming here, but she had, frequently.

They tiptoed to the side of the car nearest an overgrown hedge. All the doors were unlocked. Kiana stood watch while Evan pawed through the multitude of to-go containers.

“Guess he doesn’t believe in cooking.”

He stood and shook his head. They eased the doors closed. Evan motioned for her to duck into the shrubbery. He had his cellphone in his hand and was dialing. “Mr. Chalmers, it’s Dawson—Dawson Young. I’m sorry if I woke you but there’s kind of an emergency at school…I know you’ve been suspended, and I know Mr. Todd has taken over coaching the team, but…can you just come? I’ll explain when you get here.”

Evan shoved the phone in his pocket. He urged Kiana deeper into the bushes and further back on the property. They didn’t have to wait long before the gym teacher raced from the house and sped away.

“Now, all we have to worry about is whether he locked the place.”

“Or if he has a Rottweiler.”

They tiptoed to the backyard and up to the door. The unlocked back door. Evan went in first, peering in all directions for a huge dog amidst the mess. No dog launched himself out of the rubble, but two kittens mewed from under the kitchen table. Kiana started to pick one up but Evan rushed her along. “He won’t be gone long.”

They performed a cursory search of the kitchen, bathroom and living room, finding nothing. Evan opened Mr. Chalmers’ bedroom door. The bed was unmade; the sheets and spread were heaped in the center. Evan searched the dresser. Kiana went for the closet. “Sheesh.”

“What’s wrong?”

When she didn’t reply, Evan appeared at her side. “Wow. There’s more of Ms. Forest’s clothes in here than his.”

Kiana fingered a lavender dress with a short flowing shirt. “This doesn’t look like anything I ever saw her wear.”

“Kee, we never saw her outside of school.”

Kiana had. Not in a dress-up sort of situation like this dress would go with—but she had been in Gwen’s apartment and never seen any indication her mentor wore thongs or frilly dresses. Gwen was a jeans and T-shirt kind of person most all the time. She slammed the door shut, not at all liking what her brain was saying—that Gwen might’ve been the kind of woman who played dress-up sex games.

She forced herself to ask, “Find anything in the dresser?”

Evan reached into a top drawer and came up with a handful of fancy underwear. “Just more of this. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“There’s one more room.”

“Waste of time.”

Kiana took the initiative and pushed open the door to what was probably a spare bedroom. And nearly fainted. This room was perfect in every way, spotlessly clean. The pink canopy bed was covered in a frilly pink spread.

“Wow,” Evan said. “I didn’t know Mr. Chalmers had a daughter.”

“He must be divorced.”

“Well, at least one member of the family is neat. Let’s get out of here.” His words were calm but held a measure of trepidation, as though he’d learned something about his teacher that he hadn’t wanted to know. As they drove away, Evan’s voice came over the headphones, “I bet those underwear belonged to his wife.”

Kiana almost said the words that squeezed into her throat. His dead wife. And he killed her just like he killed my Gwen.

THIRTEEN

Jarvis and Irish Red arrived at the police department by 7 a.m. Jarvis carried a steaming jumbo-sized cup of coffee bought moments ago at the local drive-thru. He had printed the photo Angelina sent. It rested in the pocket of his flannel shirt. Red had finally reached the stage where she didn’t need a leash to go from the car to the station. She pranced along beside him.

They spent a moment in the inner lobby where the dispatcher made cooing sounds at the puppy and presented her with a St. Bernard sized treat. Finally Jarvis was able to extricate the pup from the dispatcher and they made their way to his office, the treat almost knocking Red over as she dragged it down the hallway.

He sat at the computer terminal, coffee in one hand, photo in the other, and Irish Red wedged between his feet. He laughed at how she just fit in the space under his desk. What would she do when she reached her full weight of sixty pounds? No—a better question would be, what would he do? Not that it was a question at all. No doubt he’d scrunch up his legs and go home all bowed up and arthritic looking, which would make Angelina laugh. She couldn’t understand his compulsion to keep the dog comfortable in spite of his own discomfort. Someday maybe she’d understand how dog owners acted around their children.

He set the coffee on the corner of the desk and punched keys to bring up marriage records. He knew the general year and probable location so it wasn’t long before the records appeared. Gwendoline Marcia Forest and Randall Jacob Reynolds were married by a Justice of the Peace in East Bridgewater, Massachusetts on December 14th, 1993. A few more keystrokes turned up their annulment on November 2nd of 1994. Eleven months was all it lasted. Sounded right. Eleven months was just long enough to become comfortable enough to desert your best behavior in favor for your normal personality.

Still not sure of the compulsion driving him to do this Jarvis telephoned the records office at Bridgewater State College. After a mere three minutes, he located a woman named Vicki Fredette who not only was willing to help but also remembered Gwen.

“Gwen worked with me here in the office for two years. A lovely girl, kind and polite. She stood out from the others in that way. Kids these days have forgotten about manners.”

“Do you remember her being with Randy Reynolds?”

“Heavens yes. Gwen was head over heels for him. I think he was a year older, so that’d make him a junior. I tried to warn them about jumping too quickly; these things never last, but you know how hearts can be at that age. They think nothing’s going to change that initial flood of passion.”

“What was Gwen’s major, can you remember?”

She was quiet a moment, then said, “I’ll have to check.” Jarvis waited while computer keys tapped in the background. “Oh yes, here it is. She entered as a major in business administration. Then in September of her sophomore year, she switched to childhood education. I have a note here that she worked part time in a local kindergarten.”

“Was switching like that anything unusual?”

“Definitely not. Students frequently ‘discover themselves’ after a year or so.”

“Did she work in the kindergarten to earn money?”

“I’d expect she was planning using it as part of her thesis for graduation.”

“What do you remember about Randy?”

“I always thought he was a little weird. A nice guy but a little weird. In spite of that, he and Gwen complemented each other pretty well. He wasn’t freaky weird or anything, just different. You know, like if all the other guys were wearing blue shirts, he’d be wearing a pink one.”

Jarvis made notes.

“I’ve always wondered if there was something physically wrong with him.”

“Care to elaborate on that?”

“Well, since I worked with Gwen I saw them a lot. They still held hands, but after say, around Christmas, they seemed different, like there was something wrong. No, not wrong in the sense of not getting along. I just had the idea something wasn’t right. You know what I mean?”

He did, sort of. “No idea what it could have been?”

“No. He still came and walked her home every day. And, like I said, they still held hands, still laughed together. There was just something different.” She sighed.

“So, you never asked.”

“No. It wasn’t my place. I figured if she wanted to tell me, she would.”

There was a moment of silence that Jarvis didn’t break. Good to let her arrange some thoughts. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, I guess all that gibberish wasn’t much help, was it?”

“Linda, you never know what’ll turn out to be helpful. When did they graduate?”

“Oh, Gwen never did, at least not from here. One day in early September of, let me see, it had to be ’94, Gwen and Randy came into the office and she gave her notice. She said she and Randy were getting an annulment and she was transferring out. She wouldn’t say where she was transferring but she wrote a few times after that. She never gave an address so I could write back, but the postmarks were from different towns in California.”

“Seems funny she didn’t want you to write back. If you were friends, that is.”

“Detective, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Gwen and I weren’t friends, just co-workers. She and Randy spent all their time together. I don’t think either of them took time to make friends with anybody else. While we worked we talked. You know?”

“I don’t suppose you kept any of those letters.”

“No, sorry.”

“You say they came to the office together when Gwen gave her notice?”

“Stood not two feet in front of my desk, holding hands like always. She said they were getting an annulment and she was transferring out west.”

“How did each of them act at this time?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Did you get the idea Gwen’s announcement was in any way coerced?”

“Heavens no.”

“So, Randy’s demeanor was exactly as usual? He wasn’t nervous, angry, excited?”

“Oh, I see what you’re saying. No, he seemed like always, except serious, of course, since this was a serious announcement.”

“Randy wasn’t usually serious?”

Linda laughed. “He could be quite the comedian sometimes. Loved telling jokes. You know, just enjoying life.”

“Did either of them have roommates? Can you think of anybody else I might talk to?”

“Gwen’s freshman roommate was Deb somebody. Let me think a second…” And she did. Jarvis watched six seconds tick off the big wall clock. “Yes, I’ve got it. Her last name was Fingerman. But she’s married now. Last thing I heard she had a couple of sons. She stayed right here in town after graduation. She married someone who didn’t go to school here—Jason Ellis. I hear he’s a stockbroker. As far as Randy’s roommates…I didn’t know any of them. And of course, he and Gwen moved in together after they were married.”

“Did Gwen write anything specific in her letters? Anything that might give an idea of how she was doing? What I’m wondering is if she moved in with family or something like that.”

“Well, she said she was moving to be with family but she never said anything like you should see what my sister did today. You know what I mean?”

“Sure. What was your general opinion of her situation?”

“If it’d been the forties or fifties I’d thought she was pregnant and ran away to have the child. But, she was happily married, so if there was a problem they would’ve worked it out together, right?”

“Right.”

“Even so, my general impression said it was nothing like that.”

Jarvis felt the conversation winding down and searched his brain for more questions. It wasn’t often you got such a cooperative witness. “I assume Randy graduated.”

“Yes, the following spring. That would make it 1995, with a degree in elementary education.”

He scribbled information on a notepad. “Did he get a job right away?”

“Yes, in upstate Calif—ooh, I wonder if he and Gwen got together after that.”

“Be good if you could recall some of the towns Gwen’s letters came from.”

She thought a while longer but came up with nothing.

Jarvis could think of nothing else to ask. “I thank you immensely for all your help.”

“I hope it helps find her killer.”

So do I, Jarvis thought as he hung up.

The office door opened and the captain stepped into the small windowless room that was resembled a closet. Irish Red launched herself from under the desk and ran over to wiggle around the tall man. Jarvis smiled. She really knew who to kiss up to.

“Didn’t think you were coming in today.”

“Change of plans.”

“What’re you working on?”

“That murder case down in Carlson. And before you remind me it’s not our jurisdiction, I’ll remind you that—”

“I know, that’s where Angie is.” He leaned on the edge of Jarvis’ desk, one hand fondling the pup who’d put her front paws up on his knee. The captain laughed. “She’s been in that school for two days and hasn’t solved the case yet? You’d better call the doctor and get her a checkup. There’s got to be something seriously wrong.”

“Very funny. Actually, she’s determined not to work on this one.”

Jarvis laughed along with his captain but knew the real reason Angelina hesitated to build the clue puzzle. Though she hadn’t been physically injured in the accident a month ago, her mental scarring was more severe than his two-inch ass crater. He wasn’t a psychologist but knew there was some mega-conflict going on in her head. Solving puzzles wasn’t something she did to pass time or to gain notoriety. An uncontrollable force inside her pushed her to assemble pieces. It was as natural as eating and sleeping. Angelina Deacon had to fix things.

She laughed recently saying how weird it was that this affliction hadn’t hit till she was in her fifties, but he pointed out that she’d always been that way. That was why she’d become a nurse. It just wasn’t till her fifties when that her need transferred to crime solving.

What would happen now? Would she continue to stifle this urge? Maybe she’d go back to work in the hospital. All he knew for sure was, she couldn’t continue holding things inside.

FOURTEEN

“Evan, will you take me home?”

“It’s almost time for school.”

“I don’t think I’m going today.”

“You have to, we have a test in calculus.”

He was right. She had to go to school, but the reason had nothing to do with calculus. Anyway, she needed to go home a while first. Needed a quiet place to think. “We still have an hour.”

Evan did as she asked, pulling up in front of her house. “I’ll pick you up at 7:15.”

Kiana’s mother was in the kitchen. She waved the note as Kiana came in. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were up to something sneaky.”

With a sigh, Kiana dropped into a chair. “It’s nothing like you’re thinking. Evan and I are trying to find out who killed Gw—Ms. Forest.” Seeing her mother’s shocked expression she hurried to add, “I know it’s dangerous but…there’s nothing you can do to talk me out of it.”

Now it was her mother’s turn to sigh. She pulled out a neighboring chair and sat. She took Kiana’s hands in hers. “I know what a determined young girl you are. Usually I applaud that. I also know the drive you feel to avenge your teacher’s senseless death.” She gave a small laugh. “I’ve never in your life been able to talk you out of something you’ve resolved to do. So, I won’t try. I’ll pray I taught you to be careful and sensible and then I’ll ask you to promise one thing, to keep me apprised of what you do, where you go.”

In light of all the things she could’ve said, it seemed a fair request. Kiana told her mother about going to the school, leaving out the part about luring Mr. Chalmers from his home. They shared a laugh over the neon green thong.

“Mom, do you know if Mr. Chalmers was ever married?”

“No. I don’t know anything about him except what they printed in this morning’s paper.” She pushed the paper across the table for Kiana to read. Nothing interesting about him at all. But she could imagine the uproar it would create at school now that the news was out. She stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Kiana’s mother stood too, took her head between her hands and kissed her forehead. “Be careful, daughter.”

Kiana stood under the sharp needles of the hot water. For the first time in her life she considered staying home from school. The image of Mr. Chalmers as a murderer was hard to digest. Worse than that at the moment…she couldn’t face Mrs. Deacon. Not after the embarrassment of last night in the green room. Mrs. Deacon had specifically warned them to stay out of the case or they might get hurt. They had deliberately ignored her. And almost gotten hurt, or maybe even kidnapped. Or worse.

What might’ve happened if Mrs. Deacon hadn’t shown up? How far would the janitor have gone to get hold of that picture? A better question, why did he want it? He didn’t know who was in it. He only knew they’d found a picture.

How long had he been standing there, listening to she and Evan talking? What did either of them say that made him suspicious? She replayed the conversation in her head. The only thing she could recall talking about was that they were in school after hours. And then they’d discussed the identity of the man in the photo.

So, why would a janitor be interested in that picture?

Because he was the man with his arm around Ms. Forest! Come to think of it, he did look like the guy. Kiana laughed. That would mean he and Ms. Forest were…

Not possible. Simply not possible. Mr. Chalmers had asked Gwen to marry him.

Maybe the janitor was her brother or cousin. No. If he were family, he wouldn’t care if there were a picture of them together. But…if they had a bad relationship and the cops found the picture, then he might be suspected of killing her. No—wrong track. News about Gwen’s relatives and their relationships would come out no matter what. Besides, that janitor acted more like a blackmailer than a brother.

Okay, think about the picture. It was old. Maybe twenty years old. So, probably he and Gwen weren’t seeing each other right then. It could mean Mr. Chalmers found out and—well, so what if she and the janitor knew each other twenty years ago? What could it mean to anybody now? There had to be more.

What if the janitor found out Ms. Forest and Mr. Chalmers were seeing each other? Their relationship was supposed to be a secret, but secrets had a way of squeezing out. Maybe he found out and 1-was jealous, 2-wanted her back, 3-threatened to tell the school board. Would they care? What was the worst that could happen? Maybe, to keep their jobs, Mr. Chalmers and Ms. Forest would have to get married. Big deal since they probably would’ve anyway.

So, where did that leave things? No place at all.

What if, that janitor didn’t come to the office intending to clean it—the place sure didn’t look like it was cleaned very often. Maybe he’d come to destroy clues. Which made Kiana’s decision easy: she would go to school and tell what happened last night. Who to tell? The police maybe. Although Mr. Reynolds said they should come to him. Then there was Mrs. Deacon, famous for solving crimes… If not for the fiasco of last night, and the resulting embarrassment, she’d be the perfect one to speak to.

Kiana had just stepped off her front walk when Evan’s motorcycle putted around the corner. She smiled, knowing he deliberately appeared each morning to drive her to school. She unclipped the helmet from the rear of the seat, settled her backpack firmly on the seat rest, then climbed up behind him.

Usually some sort of music blared in the helmet headphones. The genre differed every day, from classical to rap, but it was always there, and loud. Today, no music. And Evan didn’t shout his usual greeting. Something was wrong. Had another teacher died? Kiana never watched the news, but if something like that had happened, surely her mother would’ve said something. When Gwen died, she begged Kiana to remain home from school. Another death would surely have resulted in her being physically forced to stay home.

Could his mood be mimicking her fear of facing Mrs. Deacon? She was about to ask when he spoke for the first time. Kiana had to struggle to hear the words through the helmet microphone.

“We need to talk. There’s something I need to tell you.”

He flicked on the turn signal and leaned left into the park, where the town held gatherings and kids came to play on the enormous slides and swings. He got off the bike, removed his helmet and placed it on the seat. He waited for her to climb off, set the kickstand then walked away. The stuff on his mind must be important. He forgot to take the key from the ignition. And he forgot to wait for her. He always waited.

Kiana dropped the keychain in her pocket, then hung the helmet on the backrest and followed. By now, Evan sat sideways on a red plastic rocking horse. Kiana selected a yellow dinosaur nearby and sat sideways too, her rear end squished into the small, curved area.

“You okay?” Evan asked.

She nodded.

“You’re thinking Mr. Chalmers killed Ms. Forest.”

Kiana shrugged. Not an I-don’t-care gesture, it was one that said he was right.

“I was thinking the same thing. All the way to the coffeeshop. That’s where I went for the last hour. But you know, Kee, I don’t think he did it. He really cared about her.”

She gave a weary nod.

“I think we have to tell the police about the lighter fluid.” When she didn’t respond he added, “Or at least tell Mrs. Deacon.” Seeing Kiana’s hesitation he added, “Something I just thought of, maybe somebody’s storing it there—to use at a later time.”

Kiana rocked on the too-small dinosaur. Nobody else visited the park but a lot of people hurried along the sidewalk. Traffic would soon grow so heavy it would bog down at the intersection. No doubt they would be late for school.

“I told my mother we were investigating.”

“You sure that was a good idea?”

“Yes. She asked that we let her know where we’ll be from now on. Best somebody knows where to find us if something goes wrong.”

Evan watched the traffic too, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. When he finally spoke, his words were hard to understand since he pretty much faced the other way. “About a month ago, I saw something.” When Kiana didn’t react, Evan seemed disappointed. But he went on, “What I saw… It might have something to do with Ms. Forest’s murder.”

Now he had her full attention. Though she said nothing. Evan didn’t need the platitudes. If he had something to say, he would, even if she asked him not to. To hear better when he did speak, she swung a bit more in his direction on the plastic dinosaur.

“I went to the auditorium. I was early to meet the band to work on the music score. Nobody else was there. I mean the guys; none of the guys were there. Ms. Forest was though. I heard her in her office. She was yelling.”

Kiana couldn’t keep her brows from lifting at this news. Ms. Forest was one of the calmest, most under control people she knew. Nothing, not even a battle between two bullies, brought a reaction.

“At first I only heard her voice,” Evan went on. “I listened. I couldn’t help myself from being worried—because of the shouting. I could only understand a few words now and then. Things like: ‘do that to you’ and ‘think like that’. At first I couldn’t hear the other person answer. I imagined them as shocked as me that she was yelling. I pictured them cowering against the wall.”

Kiana smiled. That was exactly how she’d pictured things going too.

“Then Ms. Forest said, ‘why did you have to do this here—at school?’” Evan gave a nervous laugh. “I guess I kept going closer because all at once I realized I was standing near the office door.” He gave a rueful smile. “That explained how I could suddenly hear whole sentences.”

“I would’ve peeked through the keyhole to see who was in there.”

Evan grinned. “I tried. The door doesn’t have one. She had to be talking to an adult—I figured it was a teacher because those aren’t the kind of things you say to a student. It had to be a teacher, right? Few other adults would be in school right then.”

“Didn’t you say the final bell had rung?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I was early for meeting the guys. But yes, the final bell rang about twenty minutes before that.”

“Then it’s possible it was somebody from the outside. It’s not like the school is in lockdown. Anyone could walk in the door near the gym without being seen. You don’t have to go past the office.”

He said, “I don’t think—” but Kiana kept talking. “You are right though. Odds are, it was a teacher.” She leaned forward on the dinosaur. This was exhilarating and frightening all at the same time. “What did you do?”

“I—” now he actually blushed, “ducked into that closet near the office. I had to see who was fighting with Ms. Forest. I no sooner pulled the closet door shut—well, almost shut—when something smashed against the wall. Sounded like glass and it shook the closet wall.”

“Someone threw something.”

“Probably that paperweight—you know, the one with the Rocky Mountain snow scene in it—from her desk.”

Kiana nodded. She’d wondered where that paperweight had gone. Just a week ago, she asked Gwen about it. Gwen said she took it home.

“Then what happened?”

“That’s when the other person finally spoke, but the voice was low I couldn’t understand what they were saying.”

“Could you tell the person’s sex?”

The word sex seemed to throw him a minute and he faltered. Kiana held in a smile.

“I had the idea the person was trying to calm her down,” Evan said. “But she wasn’t about to let it go. She said, ‘This is the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me.’ The other person seemed again like they tried to talk. Their words got cut off by something else smashing against the wall.”

Kiana was shocked. This was so not like Gwen she had to ask, “Are you sure it was Ms. Forest you heard?”

Evan gave a dismal nod. This had to be hard for him. He held the teacher in such high esteem he had to have battled with this information for weeks.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?” As soon as the words left her mouth she knew the answer. She wouldn’t believe such behavior came from her beloved Ms. Forest. “Never mind. Finish the story.”

“Well, all at once the office door opened. I had left the closet door open a couple of inches so I could hear. I tried shutting it but first I couldn’t get hold of the doorknob and it jiggled. I thought—”

“Evan! Who came out of the office?”

“Ms. Forest. I was so surprised I almost fell out of the closet. I guess I thought the other person would run out first. Anyway, she was crying. See, that’s part of the reason I couldn’t tell you. Besides you, Ms. Forest is the strongest person I know.”

Kiana disagreed with the first part of his statement—about she, herself, being strong—but Gwen Forest definitely was the strongest person Kiana knew.

“I thought about following. You know, to make sure she was all right. But there wasn’t any blood or anything that said she’d been hurt, so I waited in the closet—to see who else came out. Seemed like forever. My feet started to fall asleep, and my left arm felt like—”

“Evan!”

He sucked in a breath. “Sorry. Anyway, I waited. And waited. Twelve minutes—I checked it on my watch—passed and no one came out of the office. I got scared thinking… Well, I hate to say it but I thought maybe Ms. Forest k-killed the other person. Not that she would. Especially in her own office. I just…” He raked the fingers of his right hand through his hair leaving cowlicks in the spaces between his fingers. “Anyway, the guys had arrived. I could hear them out in the auditorium, setting up. So, I had this bright idea to come out of the closet and pretend I was looking for Ms. Forest, to ask a question, you know? I was just opening the door when the one to the office opened.”

“Kiana! Evan! Hey, you two, what’re you doing?”

The new voice made Evan slide off the rocking horse. Kiana groaned and jerked her head around.

Dalton, one of the guys from Evan’s band, stood three feet away. “You guys’re gonna be late for school,” he said.

Evan pretended to be surprised. “Man, we lost track of time. Come on, Kee, let’s go.” He pulled himself erect, straightened his shirtsleeves and grabbed her hand.

Back at the cars, Dalton asked, “Kiana, would you mind driving Evan’s bike? He can ride with me, there’s something important I have to tell him before we get to school.”

“Can’t it wait till we get there?” Evan asked. “Kee and I were in the middle of a discussion.”

“Ev, this is really important. Almost life or death.”

Kiana doubted it but wordlessly turned and got on the motorcycle.

FIFTEEN

Angie spent the morning helping a class of freshmen write dialogue for a show they would put on in spring. Then she worked with a class of young actors preparing for a performance of A Christmas Carol they’d perform for the Christmas program.

After that she strolled to the teacher’s lounge for lunch. The room was bright and sunny, a nice break from the windowless office at the other end of the building. Four teachers were just leaving. Angie introduced herself then handed them tickets to the Saturday show. Friday night, much of the crowd would consist of parents and relatives, so it would be nice to have the support of a familiar group for the second night’s show.

Left alone, she made a fresh pot of coffee. While it brewed she wandered around the room. It was the first time she’d been in a teacher’s lounge. In school she always wondered what teachers did here. The place wasn’t anything more than a glorified studio apartment with sofas, a television, and a kitchenette, which took up most of the space.

On one wall were labeled cubbyholes. Surprisingly, the lower right box had her name on it. There were two notes inside. The first message was written on a yellow lined sheet of notepaper and folded in half.

Angie,

Cilla and I would love to have you for dinner tonight. Six?

We’re having pasta, that’s all I know. No need to bring anything.

Just yourself. 555-6579 and I’ll give you directions.

Josh

How long had this been here? Why would Josh think she’d have occasion to come to this place when she had a perfectly good office at the other end of the school? She hadn’t been invited here, not even by Randy. Or course, he was so wrapped up in convincing her to investigate he probably forgot.

Should she go? Sure, might be fun; she’d liked Josh’s wife. Trouble was, she’d told Tyson this morning that she’d be there right after rehearsal. Maybe firing Marie could be put off another day. Angie grinned, imagining Tyson’s reaction.

The other note was from Randy. So, he either expected she’d find this place by osmosis or thought he’d told her about it. Didn’t matter. His note said simply: Coffee in my office at noon? Unless you can squeeze it in directly after school…

Did he mean today? Or was this from yesterday? Either way, it was past noon. She could go now; she’d only be a half-hour late. But no. She didn’t want to see Randy. And deal with questions and more questions about her perspective on the case. Best to pretend she hadn’t received the note. She started to place it back in her box.

No. Deceit wasn’t a way to build a relationship. Angie tucked the two notes into her skirt pocket. She sat and finished coffee and the sandwich she’d bought at the deli on the way to school.

Two days till the first of the two performances. Three days and she could go home. To Jarvis, to Tyson, to her theater. Thankfully, by then, one way or another, Diva Marie would be gone. Thoughts of the upcoming firing had cannonballs assaulting her stomach. Don’t think about her right now. Think about the last two rehearsals. Two rehearsals to get out the last of the kinks in the script, to make sure costumes were perfect, to put a final push on ticket sales. When Angie was in school, they often made announcements over the intercom. She found paper and a pen and scribbled a note to give to the secretary in the office when she went to meet Randy. If she went.

Angie checked the wording on the note she wanted the secretary to read over the intercom, then walked out of the lounge and around the corner to deliver it. She was assured the message would be delivered over the next two days, and that it would be posted in the online newsletter.

At quarter past one, Angie walked the length of the school, back to her—and Gwen’s—domain. She moved along the narrow auditorium aisle, her footsteps a whisper on the thin carpet. Not a whole lot of natural light got in here. Mostly it was a fluorescent glow from the corridor outside, but it was enough to see that the whole place looked shabby. Dust on the chair arms, white specks of lint on the floor and a grey sheen to the stage. It was clear the janitor hadn’t cleaned in a while, just as he hadn’t cleaned the green room last night. If he’d come here planning to clean and stumbled upon the kids doing something untoward, once they left, why hadn’t he tended to business? After all, they had a show in two days, that whole place should be gleaming from catwalk to carpet. Angie wondered if she should report it. Yes, she’d mention it to Randy later. If the job wasn’t done by tomorrow, she and the kids would do it. Great idea! She’d gather everyone, from freshmen to senior and put them to work. After all, it was in their interest if they wanted to protect their drama program.

She pictured the janitor stumbling upon Kiana and Evan last night. She imagined him coming through the hallway and into the green room to see the kids huddled over the picture. A supposedly innocent picture. If the kids correctly recalled the conversation they had before the discovery, nothing much had been said about the identity of the people in the photo. So, what raised the janitor’s suspicions? Why confront the kids about something so mundane? If Evan and Kiana had been doing something wrong, if they weren’t supposed to be in the school, why not report them to Randy instead of creating a confrontation?

Suddenly she knew. He had reported things. A complaint, or whatever, that the kids had been in an area without adult supervision. The result was her invitation to coffee.

The school bell blared through the building. She backed up to the stage and heaved herself on the apron to wait for the kids. One more forty-five minute period—a beginners acting class—and the day would be over. Her notes said the class consisted of all ages and that Gwen had most recently been teaching them to project. Should be fun. Through the pair of double doors at either side of the room, fluorescent lighting reflected heads passing, mostly boys, moving toward the gym.

She took a moment to call the number on Josh’s note, and tell Cilla that yes, she would definitely love to come to dinner. Then she left a message for Tyson that her trip would be delayed. Her thoughts wandered to Jarvis and Irish Red. What were they up to? Jarvis didn’t have to work today, so they’d probably gone fishing. Or maybe he mowed the lawn while Red stood at the screen door whining to go outside with him.

Was there time to call Jarvis? No, kids would be here—

No sooner had the thought entered her brain when the kids gushed through the doors and tumbled down the aisles like floodwater. The chatter of conversation—Angie heard talk of cool boyfriends and extra homework, text messages, and unfair parents—ceased when they spotted her sitting on the stage. She motioned for them to come forward. Fifteen teens, mostly girls, dropped backpacks, handbags and belongings on the front row seats, then stood in the elongated area that would normally be the orchestra pit, and waited. Amid a flutter of inexplicable nerves, Angie introduced herself. As with each other class, she gave a short eulogy for their teacher. After a moment of silence, class proceeded. A couple of the kids demonstrated a natural projection—just like Diva Marie, whom Angie definitely didn’t want to think about.

When the final bell rang and the kids were collecting their belongings, Angie reminded them about the upcoming performances over the weekend and expressed a request that they “support your fellow classmates” because in a year or so, they’d be the ones up here. “The more support this program receives now, the better the chance of it being around for many years in the future.”

After they left, the final swarm of kids arrived—for the next to last dress rehearsal. Angie waited for them and as they gathered in the orchestra pit. Together they walked to the green room, and stopped in their tracks.

The place was a shambles. The supply closet had been completely emptied. The box of scripts looked like it’d been tossed in the air—white paper covered every inch of floor space. The same mess had occurred in the costume room; the clothes racks were empty. Every bit of clothing and shoes had been dumped on the floor.

The cast and crew crowded the doorway. All were looking at her. For what? She had no more answers than any of them.

“What the hell—excuse my language, Mrs. Deacon—is going on around here?” asked Evan. “Why did the cops come back?”

For quite some time, the only sound was the in and out breathing of people rooted in shock. Nobody had an answer to his question.

Everyone eased back into the green room. As one they stopped again as they noticed that her office door, which she’d carefully locked before heading to the teacher’s lounge, was ajar. Confused gazes shifted from kids to teacher and back. She motioned for them to stand back near the wall. With growing terror, Angie realized the police weren’t responsible.

With two fingertips she pushed the door open hard. It slammed off the wall. When nobody burst out. When no gunfire erupted, Angie reached around the doorframe and flipped on the light. Her office was in the same condition as the green room. Everything had been swept from the desktop to the floor. Clothing, both the jacket she’d hung in the closet that morning, and the yellow one Gwen had left, was strewn there too.

Evan bent to clean up some manuscript sheets. He straightened and heaved them on the desk. Most sailed across the slick surface and landed on the floor. Nobody went to pick them up.

As they stepped back into the green room, Kiana said, “I don’t think this was done by any cops.”

“Obviously somebody wants to stop our show,” Evan said.

“It ain’t happenin’,” somebody called. The rest of the group chorused that.

Just then the band arrived, clanking and thunking equipment. The crew helped carry it out front.

She shut the door and followed the kids to the arena where she sat in the very last row to watch rehearsal. Occasionally she called out for someone to “Project, project!” Now and then she helped with lines or with set arrangement on-stage. All in all, things went well. But her stomach remained in upheaval. Why had someone trashed the place? Angie didn’t believe they were trying to stop the production. If so, they would’ve done more than throw things around. They were looking for something. But what? Better question, had they found it? Angie hoped so. That way they’d go about their business and leave her kids and her show alone.

Suddenly it was 4:15. The kids had gone to get something to eat; they were coming right back to clean up the mess in the green room. Their own idea.

Should she seek out Randy? Yes, it would be the responsible thing to do. Besides, she had to ask about the cleaning of the auditorium. She walked—though not too quickly—to his office, dodging kids in front of lockers, loading books into enormous backpacks. No such things as backpacks when she went to school. It was uncool to carry books inside anything. Actually, it had been uncool to carry books of any kind.

Angie prepared for her meeting with Randy. He would say “Uh…I had a complaint about…well, about your kids. Then he would ask what they were doing in the green room without adult supervision. She didn’t know the specific reason they were there, but surely it related to finding Gwen’s killer—which no way could she tell Randy. Then he’d want to know why they treated the janitor with disrespect. There was no answer to this question either, since she hadn’t been there and didn’t know the gist of the conversation—which cycled back to the original question about why they were there without supervision.

Most of all, Randy would want that photograph. This she could produce. She supposed there was no harm in him knowing the photo existed. It was nothing unusual for people to keep photos of past relationships. Probably he had a copy of the same one at home. He could wonder all he wanted why Gwen would hide it under her blotter—there would never be an answer for that.

What would bother him was having Kiana and Evan know of his marriage to Gwen.

Why hadn’t Jarvis called? Must be he hadn’t learned anything about the picture. Wouldn’t he have called either way? Then again, since she’d refused to work on the case, probably he wouldn’t bother. Did she want him to? Yes, she wanted him to call, just to talk. And no, she really didn’t want to know what he’d learned. The more she learned about the case, the more the information would churn in her head, the more chance it would have of getting her into danger and the better chance there’d be of her getting involved. Wrong! She was already involved. The overturned office proved that. She amended the thought to—a better chance of her working on the case. This made her feel sicker than that virus she and her brother came down with when she was in sixth grade.

Angie found Randy in his indoor office kicked back in a comfortable looking chair with his feet on the desk. He dropped them to the floor and sat up straight when she rapped on the doorframe. He stood and walked to a leather sofa along the right hand wall and gestured for Angie to sit also.

“Sorry I’m late. I didn’t get your note until after noontime.”

“I figured as much. It also dawned on me that I never gave you the tour of the school, that you probably had no idea where the lounge was.”

“I found it.”

“Coffee?”

“No thanks.” He wouldn’t know how unusual it was for her to turn down coffee, but she was pretty certain the acid would carve holes from stem to stern.

“How was your day?” he asked.

Okay…if he wanted to talk fluff, she could talk fluff. “Great. The kids are wonderful. I especially loved the ninth graders. I see why Gwen loved this job so much. A few of the kids show real talent. They all have tremendous enthusiasm. It would certainly be a shame to eliminate this program.”

He laced his fingers in his lap, not falling for her dodge one bit. “I agree wholeheartedly. I have no doubt that this weekend’s show will be a rousing success. I’m not sure Kiana told you but she’s got her fingers into a couple of businesses whose owners have shown interest in financially supporting the program. Apparently both have front row seats for Saturday night’s performance.”

“Really?” The girl showed incredible foresight.

“She hasn’t mentioned it?”

“No. The only topic of conversation with the group is finding Gwen’s killer. I’m not sure that’s entirely healthy. I did want to ask if you’ve set up a grief counselor for the kids.”

“Of course. He’s been made available during all school hours though he just told me, very few kids have come.”

Would kids seek out a stranger at a time like this? Probably not. Kids didn’t tell their problems to anybody but each other.

She repeated the thought to Randy. “I thought I would propose they go as a group.”

“If you specifically see a need for them to talk, I could set up a whole-school thing in the auditorium tomorrow morning.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” She was surprised this hadn’t been done already but really wasn’t familiar with the protocol for school/student relationships.

“I guess you’re wondering why I really asked you here.” Finally the bomb was about to drop. Angie held her breath. “Don’t get angry now,” Randy added.

Angry?

“I need to know if you’ve learned anything. You know, gathered any clues. I need to know if—”

Angie leaped to her feet. Without a word she propelled herself toward the door.

“Angie, please.”

She stopped and spun around, almost losing her balance when a heel caught in his low-pile carpet. She stumbled against the doorframe.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just—”

He stopped. So she said: “Do you know if the janitorial staff will be cleaning the auditorium?”

His expression registered mild surprise. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The place is filthy.” No, too abrupt. Too forceful. She lowered her voice. “I just wondered, is all.”

Randy stood from the sofa and stepped toward her. “The place will be spit-shined to your satisfaction.”

She smiled. “Thanks, though from the way you said that it was almost as though you were trying to strike a deal. ‘I will have the auditorium cleaned in exchange for you finding Gwen’s killer.’”

“It wasn’t intended to sound that way. I just want you to realize my desperation.”

“Believe me, I understand exactly the position you’re in. I know exactly how you’re feeling. But I cannot help you. I cannot put the kids in danger.” Before he could say anything else, Angie took a step toward the doorway. “I’ve got to get back. For…for rehearsal,” she lied. She couldn’t exactly tell him about the mess. Or could she? Perhaps he could post somebody to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. So she told him, watching his eyes widen and his cheeks suffuse with anger. He dropped his face in his hands.

She waited till he looked up. When he folded his hands on the desk and raised his chin, she knew the next news would not be good.

“I’m afraid it would be in everyone’s best interests if I call a halt to the whole production.”

Angie dropped back into the chair. “I don’t think the person who made the mess is trying to stop the performance. I think they’re looking for something.”

“What?” He didn’t mean, what are you talking about? His question meant what are they looking for?

“No idea.” He gazed at her without expression. She could only imagine the thoughts going through his mind. “Really. I don’t know anything. Please don’t cancel the performance.” She turned and left.

The school stood nearly empty. One single thunk of a metal locker around a corner all that spoiled the silence. She told herself to hurry because any second Randy would remember the real reason he invited her there—the janitor’s complaint. And he would call her back.

Besides, it wouldn’t be good to leave the kids unsupervised for a second time. She stepped up her pace.

With only two days to the performance, surely they’d be suffering some jitters. She laughed to herself. More likely they’ll be churning with anger, ready to pummel the first person who looked guilty.

How to handle hyperactivity—or overblown anger? Could she make them run around the building to burn off energy? Probably not. Maybe she could line them up on stage to execute some primal screams… That sure would bring Randy running. Probably cops too.

Angie stepped through the auditorium door and walked down the aisle listening for voices so she could mentally prepare ways to neutralize behaviors. Funny, she heard no voices, no shuffling feet, no backpacks thumping on the long green room table. It was as though the kids had all left with the final bell. The stage was dark, the curtains open. It would be a good idea to examine their condition this afternoon. It wouldn’t pay to close them for the first time during the show and find the curtains riddled with moth holes.

She moved up the trio of uncarpeted steps and past the stage. The light was on in the green room. The same yellow glow she’d seen last night when the janitor’s shadow nearly gave her a heart attack filtered down the short hallway. Only now the yellow outlined a lot of silhouettes in a circle around what was probably the green room table. Not one silhouette moved.

Something was wrong, and with all that was inside her, Angie Deacon did not want to know what it was. But she was the grownup, the one who had to take charge if something were wrong. Angie stepped into the green room. Nobody seemed to notice. She inhaled her lungs full of stale air, and pushed between two shoulders, that moved so she could fit.

That’s when Angie turned into a statue also—struck dumb by the sight in the middle of the long table. Black smoldering ashes. Wisps of smoke meandering upward.

That’s when the school’s smoke detectors blared. A split second later, the sprinkler system deluged them with water.

SIXTEEN

Though gallons of water sprayed on their heads, not a person moved. The smoke subsided. The ashes turned to mud. Water snaked off the table in black streams. What on earth had burned here?

Be the grownup.

Angie stepped forward, pushing hair out of her eyes—God, she must look a sight—and lifted one of the less burned pieces of ash from the table. It looked like fabric of some sort: brown and orange print. Where had she seen it before?

Kiana moved now too, and two-fingered one of the bits. “I know what this is!” Her accusatory words galvanized everyone else to action and the place became a flurry of activity, but Angie only had eyes for the mess on the table because she too recognized the pile on the table.

“It’s our costumes!” someone cried.

Someone else raced for the costume room—and returned holding an armload of empty hangers. “They’re all gone. Only the shoes are left. And they’re full of water.”

Angie dropped the brown material, wiped her fingers on her saturated slacks and yanked out her phone. “Anyone know the school’s phone number?” Someone supplied it. Angie dialed and spoke to the secretary. “You can have them shut off the water; the fire is out. Please send Mr. Reynolds here ASAP.”

“Is everything all right?”

“No, but the emergency is past. Please send the police also, to the backstage area.”

Angie put the phone away, knuckled water from her eyes and decided she needed to take control of the situation which would be a whole lot easier if the water weren’t still pouring down on them. She laughed and tried to lighten the moment. “Well, I guess we’ve seen each other at our worst.”

Everyone laughed but exploded with a new volley of comments about the show being ruined.

She planted her feet on the slippery floor and crossed her arms, wondering suddenly if her shirt had become transparent. “I’m surprised at all of you. Are you gonna let a little water drown your hopes for this program?”

A chorus of laughter at the words “a little water” was followed by louder shouts of “No!” and “What do you want us to do?”

Then, the water stopped. Everyone literally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay, that’s better.” Angie leaned sideways to wring out her hair. “Donna, are you here?” A blonde girl came forward, black mascara etching Rorschach blots under her eyes. “Can you find a dry sheet of paper—” which made everyone laugh again— “and make a list of every character and their wardrobes in every scene? If you use a copy of the manuscript you won’t leave any scenes out. At this late date, we can’t afford to miss anyone. Kiana? Evan?”

The disheveled teens sloshed to Angie’s side. “Wouldn’t it be better if I made that list?” Kiana said. “I probably know the scenes that need special costuming better than anyone.”

“I’m sure you do but I need you for something else. Evan, please organize everyone and see what you can do to get this place dried out and cleaned up. We can’t depend on the school staff to do it.”

“Tell me about it!” came from Kiana and Evan at the same time.

“What I meant was,” Angie clarified, “I don’t know how big an area got rained on; the janitors might be busy cleaning up other spots in the school. Actually, that’s a place to start. Can somebody go check the auditorium? See if it’s wet too.”

A boy separated himself and ran down the hallway. He returned in a moment. “It’s wet.”

“Okay. Everyone…” Angie waited till the faces focused on her. “Can you help Evan get this place cleaned up? Maybe raid the closest janitor’s closet for supplies. Kiana and Chantal, please come to my office.”

The girls followed her into the also-dripping room. “I suspect this place isn’t going to be usable for our show. Chantal, could you run down and see if either the cafeteria or the gymnasium is dry? We can use them for storage.”

“Good idea,” Kiana said. “But where can we have the performance?”

“That’s why I wanted to pick your brain. Do you know of another school whose stage we might be able to use? Or maybe there’s another place in town that has one—an opera house, a theater, a rec hall. Usually this would be done in a more organized manner but we have very little time. Another thing, do you know the phone number of the thrift shop?”

“Yes, it’s—”

Angie got out her phone again and jammed it into Kiana’s hand. “Let Cilla know what happened. Tell her Donna will call soon with a complete list of what we’ll need though I’m sure Cilla will remember quite a lot on her own.”

* * * *

The sprinklers continued to drip, sounding like a forest after a shower, but at least it the worst was over. Randy burst into the office in a flurry of red cheeks and huffing breath. A long strand of hair, which this morning had been combed over a bald spot, dangled onto his nose. One thing that stood out about him—he was dry.

He raked the hair back in place, shot her a look that said I thought you said there was no danger and asked, “What the hell happened here?”

“We haven’t had time to figure it out. I came in as the sprinklers went off, but what it looks like is somebody piled all the costumes on the table and set them on fire.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

Angie gave a small shrug because that question had no answer. Probably he didn’t expect one. He peered around at the kids swarming the area.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re working to keep the show going.”

“Keep the—” He waved a hand around the room. “This place is a disaster area, how do you intend— Besides…”

Evan rushed down the hallway, his face lit with excitement. “I just had a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.” Anyone within hearing stopped what they were doing. “Why don’t we do the show outdoors?”

“Oh I don’t see how that can work,” Randy said. “The weather…”

“Last year we did a nativity show on the common,” Evan continued, undaunted, “so we already have the staging.”

“Yes, but that show was only a few minutes long.”

“It’s only October. The weather should be fine,” somebody said.

“All we’d have to do is rig up a pulley for the curtains,” added someone else.

The room was silent—except for the still-dripping sprinklers—but the change in the mood was palpable. Randy fingered the hair back in place again and shrugged. “You guys are amazing. If this were me, I’d be crying in my soup over the show being ruined. Then I’d be furious at the person who did this to you.”

“Oh, we are, Mr. Reynolds, we are,” Angie said, “but we will let you and the police worry about that. The first priority for us has to be the show. These amazing people know that.”

“In that case, we’ll make it happen. I’ll call a carpenter. He’ll make it all work for you.” He shook hands with Evan. “Nice job, son.” And then he left.

“Wow,” someone said. “Can’t believe he’s going along with this.”

“I thought for sure he was gonna cancel everything,” somebody else added.

“Let’s get to work before he thinks about that,” Angie said.

Evan laughed. “He knows the school’s insurance will pay for it.” He clapped his hands. “Okay, gang, let’s get back to work.” He pulled a tall redheaded boy aside. “Can you take over here? Just keep everyone focused. I’m going to locate that staging and see if it’s usable.”

“You mean it might not be?” Angie asked.

He raised his eyebrows and quirked a corner of his mouth. “Um, I may have spoken too soon.”

She slapped her forehead with a palm.

He laughed. “Not a problem. We have a carpenter coming. Right?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “Just keep me posted.”

She hurried to her office where Kiana was just ending her call. “Mrs. Philmore is getting stuff together right now. She said she’ll stay there all night if she has to.”

“Great.” Angie told Kiana the news about the outdoor show.

“Mr. Reynolds went along with it?”

“He did.” Angie had an idea Randy would agree to anything if it meant she might stumble upon some clues.

“What should I do now?” Kiana asked.

“Maybe it would be best if you follow Mr. Reynolds and make sure he doesn’t get sidetracked hiring that carpenter.”

“I have an uncle who’s a carpenter, I’ll use that as an excuse to badger him.”

“Good girl.”

Kiana and Angie stepped out of the office. Two police officers were standing in front of the ash-laden table. The women spent the next half hour giving a report to the police.

Three hours later, Angie and the group of actors and stagehands stood at the head of the auditorium. The dripping had finally stopped. All doors stood open. Unbelievably, one of the janitorial staff was using a huge vacuum to suck water from the waterlogged chairs. Another janitor had set up enormous fans at either end of the room. Randy said his hope was that the place could still be made ready for the performance, but Angie’s juices were excited about the prospect of an outdoor show.

“Man, he’s got his work cut out for him,” Kiana shouted over the roar of the fans. Her eyes locked on the janitor—the one who’d confronted them last night—maneuvering the large vacuum. As he moved from one chair to another, he flashed Kiana a vicious scowl.

So the janitor, Lincoln Underwood, wasn’t ready to leave last night behind. What was the big deal? The kids had merely infiltrated the school after hours. And they’d found a picture. Why should he make such a fuss? If he thought they did anything wrong all he had to do was report it to Randy.

So, why hadn’t he?

A worse thought was—did he have anything to do with setting the fire?

Seemed a stretch of the imagination but could he know something about that picture? That might account for his attitude. Angie shook off the question for now. Too much going on to worry about something so small. Her “Anybody hungry?” was met with a chorus of yeses. “Let’s head to the cafeteria. Mr. Reynolds ordered pizza for all of you.”

The kids collected their wet belongings and clomped out. Though they were obviously exhausted, an air of excitement and fulfillment swelled among them. Angie trailed the kids down the hall. Now that the emergency passed and things were getting back on track, she had time for some questions. Who hated this show so much they were willing to chance burning down the school? Was it the same person who’d tossed the place earlier? Could it have anything to do with that photograph? If so, the janitor couldn’t be involved. He knew the picture had left the building.

On a personal level, Angie wondered why Jarvis hadn’t been in touch. More than twenty-four hours had passed since she’d sent that photo. It was so unusual for him not to call.

Kiana’s, “Is something wrong, Ms. Deacon?” made her jump. Kiana touched her arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Just wondering…I’ve been expecting a phone call.”

“From Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes, why?”

Kiana drew Angie’s phone from her pocket and handed it over. “He called while we were at the Common scoping out a place for the stage. We had a nice chat. I can’t wait to meet your puppy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your puppy, Irish Red. He’s bringing her.”

“He’s coming?”

She checked her watch. “They should be here in about an hour. When are you two getting married?”

Angie kept walking even though her feet wanted to stop. “Married?” Was there anything about their relationship he hadn’t told this child?

“Yes, he said he asked you.”

“I didn’t say yes—yet.”

Angie escaped further questions because they’d entered the cafeteria. The others had already dumped their things in a heap on the floor and helped themselves to the mountain of pizzas set on a long table. Angie’s stomach growled. She realized she hadn’t eaten since the muffin at breakfast. Evan appeared at her side with a paper plate laden with two slices, one cheese, one bacon. He set it at the end of a table then slid onto the bench seat across from her.

“Thanks.” Angie melted onto the seat, suddenly very tired.

A half hour later, most everyone had gone. Kiana and Evan rounded up the empty boxes and delivered them to the kitchen. Angie stood, prepared to leave.

“Mrs. Deacon, I know it’s late, but can we talk to you for a few minutes?” Evan asked.

“Sure.” Angie sat again and took a sip from her can of diet soda. More than likely this discussion had nothing to do with the show.

The teens took seats across the table. They looked at each other. As usual, a silent message passed between them. Evan spoke first. “We think that janitor set the fire.”

She took a moment to process the news, not willing yet to admit the thought had crossed her mind also. “What makes you think so?”

“It just makes sense,” Kiana said. “He came in while we were talking about who was in the picture with Ms. Forest. He demanded we give it to him.”

“That’s when you came in,” Evan said.

“We’ve been talking—wondering why he would care. If he thought we stole something he would’ve told Mr. Reynolds. That’s what he always did before.”

“This time he didn’t,” Angie said, more to herself than the kids. “But why would he resort to setting the fire? He knew you’d taken the picture from the building.”

“Because he knows how important this is to us.”

“And he was paying us back because we got the better of him.”

“I don’t know,” Angie said, but she had to admit, the kids might be right. “I think we should tell the police. That way if anything else happens…”

“Will you do it?”

She gave a tired nod and started to rise.

“There’s one more thing,” Evan said. “Well actually, there are three things.”

SEVENTEEN

Jarvis raced down the painted cinderblock hallway following the sound of voices. What was it that brought danger to Angelina’s doorstep all the time? Time after time, it found her. She was like a magnet. No, he told himself, whoever set the fire would’ve done it anyway. Nothing to do with her.

He hadn’t been in a school for years, but most were constructed in a similar way, and the voices seemed to be coming from the cafeteria. Conversational voices. Now and then he picked out the murmur of Angelina’s replies. Which meant she was on the receiving end of a serious discussion. So what else was new?

He burst into a cavernous lunchroom in time to hear a tall, thin teenage boy say, “Three more things.”

The boy sat at a long cafeteria table beside a very beautiful dark-skinned girl. Angelina, who’d been standing, sank onto the bench seat across from them. They all noticed Jarvis’ arrival.

The boy jumped to his feet and approached. He was good-looking, probably what the girls would call a hunk. He had on Dockers and a button-down shirt, not the standard teenage garb. His hair was neatly chopped, his eyes bright and alert. Right now, the boy was in protection mode.

“It’s okay Evan,” Angelina called, “this is Detective Jarvis.”

Evan stretched out an arm and shook Jarvis’ hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Over Evan’s shoulder, Jarvis saw the girl lean forward, tap Angelina on the arm and say something that made them both smile.

Angelina gestured for him to come sit, which he did, making sure their thighs touched. It’d been far too long since he touched her. What the hell—he also leaned forward and kissed her under the right ear. “Missed you,” he whispered.

Evan seemed convinced all was well and settled beside the girl, close enough, Jarvis thought, for their thighs to touch also. The girl had sort of a mystical aura about her with that flowing dark hair and almost-black eyes. He pictured her wearing a sari, and a bindi in the middle of her forehead. She could be plopped in the middle of New Delhi and fit right in.

Angelina made introductions all around.

“I thought you were bringing Irish Red,” Kiana said.

“Changed my mind. I realized I might be here overnight. Sorry.”

“Kiana and Evan were just about to tell me something that happened,” Angie said. “Go ahead, guys.”

Evan, with animated interjections by Kiana, told a fantastic story of eavesdropping on an argument between Gwen Forest and some unknown person at whom she’d thrown breakable things.

“So, hurry up and tell us—who came out of the office?” Kiana’s haunting eyes were alight with curiosity.

Jarvis didn’t see the look Angelina shot Kiana but whatever it was it made Kiana laugh. “He told me all this before school but we were interrupted before he could say who. He was going to finish this afternoon before rehearsal—”

“And then there was the fire,” Evan said.

“Today is turning into a soap opera.”

“Right. Stay tuned tomorrow for the next suspenseful event.”

What was it about those two that they kept finishing each other’s thoughts?

“So, who came out of the office?” Angelina asked.

“Mr. Chalmers,” Evan said.

“No way,” Kiana said.

Why had the person’s identity surprised Kiana? She knew about the teachers’ relationship. Even so, she would only be aware of the couples’ in-school personas, the façades they presented in public. So an argument such as that would come as a surprise. Jarvis thought back to his school days. When he was younger, he’d thought teachers lived here, that this was their only life. But these kids were old enough to know the difference. They would know about sex. That all couples had disagreements. And sometimes they turned violent.

“You knew they were seeing each other?”

Kiana nodded.

“What happened after that?” Jarvis asked.

“Nothing. He stood in the hallway—the one that connects the green room to the wings—looking one way and another like he was deciding what to do. I got the idea he didn’t want to go past the kids—my band, who were on the stage setting up their equipment.”

“Where were you?”

“When he went by, I came out of the closet—the one next to the office.”

“If he’d come back into the green room, would he have seen you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Why would you take that chance?”

Evan shrugged. “I got away from there fast, to make it look like I’d come from the costume room. Besides, I didn’t do anything wrong. I had every right to be there.”

“What happened next?”

“I started for the stage. I walked quietly.” Seeing everyone’s eyes on him, Evan shrugged. “I thought it would save embarrassment if he didn’t know I was there. A couple of the kids said hi to him but he didn’t answer. They were giving him this look like—” Evan broke off to demonstrate their perplexed expression. “It was so not like him to not speak. By the time I got on stage, he was gone.”

“The kids say anything?”

Evan thought a second. “No, but Sean was looking up the aisle, watching the doors still swinging.”

“When exactly did all this take place?”

“Three weeks and four days ago.” Jarvis shot him questioning look. He added, “It’s been on my mind a lot.”

Jarvis could think of nothing else to ask, so he said, “All right. Why don’t you guys go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning—”

“No,” said the kids at the same time.

Kiana said, “We have mega stuff to do.”

Angelina reached across and patted both their hands, lying side by side on the table. “I love the idea of having the performance outside. We can do it on the football field.”

“We already have the bleachers for seats,” Kiana said.

“Yes, good idea,” said Evan. “We can use the locker rooms to change in.”

“It’s right near the auditorium so it’ll be easy to move things over.”

“I guess that’s all settled,” Angelina said.

She stood up and Jarvis followed.

“Do you know if Donna phoned Mrs. Philmore?” she asked.

“She did,” Kiana replied. “She double-checked the list with me first.”

Angelina picked up her briefcase, which he hadn’t noticed on the table beside her. She put an arm around Kiana’s shoulders. The two women walked toward the door talking like old friends. Jarvis shrugged at Evan and they followed.

“I wanted to say… You guys are amazing,” Jarvis said softly.

“Sir?”

“In my line of work I mostly meet kids who’re jerk-offs always looking for the easy way out. When I spoke to Kiana on the phone, she was so clear-headed and mature. She told me what you kids—the cast and crew, and you in particular—were doing to make sure the show went on. I just wanted to tell you how impressed I was.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate you saying so.”

Jarvis pulled his business card from his pocket. “I want you to call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Shall we go?”

“Wait,” Angelina said, making Jarvis cringe. He so wanted this to be over. “Earlier you said there were three things you wanted to tell me.”

Alternating as narrator, the kids told how they’d searched Ted Chalmers’ office and home. Jarvis held in the reprimanding headshake. There would be no guilting these two into quitting; warnings about their well-being would go unheeded.

“We found a lighter and a can of fluid,” Evan said and waited while Jarvis formed his own conclusion.

“Where is it now?”

“We left it in Mr. Chalmer’s office, on the counter where we found it.”

Kiana giggled. Jarvis turned his attention on her. “We also found some sexy underwear.”

“Do you know if Mr. Chalmers was married before?”

“And does he have a daughter?” Kiana added.

Jarvis told them, “I will check,” though he’d already resolved to call Rodriguez as soon as he left here.

Kiana and Angelina left the cafeteria. Evan lagged behind to say, “Thank you, sir for not giving us hell for investigating on our own.”

“Don’t think I didn’t want to. One thing, though. Stop calling me sir. Just call me Jarvis, or, if that makes you uncomfortable, call me Detective. Though, that makes me uncomfortable.”

Evan gave a toothy grin. “Works for me, s— er, Jarvis.”

Angelina and Kiana had stopped to wait for them on the sidewalk outside the building. The men caught up and the two couples walked around the building to their vehicles. Then Angelina stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and they waved as the kids drove away.

“Aren’t they great?” Angelina said.

“I told Evan that. I told him most of the kids I meet are troublemakers who’re always looking for the easy way out. That most kids would’ve said ‘oh well, the show’s off, let’s go home.’”

“I can see why Gwen was so close to them. They’re awesome kids.” She hesitated as he started to walk toward her car. “I was just wondering if they really will go home. Last night after rehearsal they went out detecting.”

“I think they’ll go home. They’ll feel secure knowing cops’re involved.”

“You mean, the Carlson cops or Jarvis the cop?”

“Both. They’ll be in school early though. Probably at the crack of dawn.”

“Argh. That means I should be here too.”

“Of course you will. And you won’t sleep a wink all night thinking about this.” He walked her to the Lexus and waited while she climbed inside.

“I assume you’re coming back to the hotel?” she asked.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Duh.”

“Where’s Red?”

“Wilson’s got her. When I left their house the kids and the dog were chasing each other around the backyard.”

“Make sure Ambrose doesn’t try to keep her.”

He fake-punched her on the arm. “I knew she’d grow on you. Hey, by the way…when I walked into the cafeteria Kiana said something that made you laugh. What was it?”

She pushed the button and her car started. She gave an exaggerated oh it’s nothing shrug. “She said you were a hunk…in spite of that hat.” Angelina backed the car from the space.

He touched his hat—his trademark. He wasn’t so concerned about what Kiana thought of it, but the way Angelina said “in spite of it” had him thinking. She’d never mentioned the hat. The Lexus disappeared around the side of the brick building. He hurried to his Jeep and sped after her, not sure she’d wait—and he didn’t know the location of the hotel.

Two hours later they sat, she in a robe, he in his briefs, at the table in her room. He poured more wine into her glass and opened himself the second of the two beers he’d grabbed upon leaving home. “Okay. So, now we can talk about the case?”

“What case? I told you I’m not investigating. Did you give the photo to the authorities?”

“Yeah, called them first thing this morning then dropped it with them on my way here. They weren’t impressed.”

“Didn’t think they would be.”

“Want to know what else I found out?”

“I assume you’re going to tell me no matter what I say.”

“I am, because I know you’re dying to hear.”

“Not.”

He set the can of beer on the table and peered closely at her. Darned if she didn’t look disinterested. Could she mean what she said? No way. The talent for sorting out clues was in her blood. She couldn’t not put the pieces together.

So why was she giving off such definite I-don’t-care vibes?

“You already know the couple in the pic was Gwen and Randy. The college was in fact Bridgewater State.”

“I’ve heard of that. It’s in Massachusetts.”

“Right. Randy and Gwen were married in a civil ceremony on December 14th of ’93. It was annulled the following November.”

“Which means…”

“I have no idea. I thought if I gave you the ingredients, you could bake the cake.”

“You know I hate to cook.”

Angelina got up from her chair and went to flop on the bed. The robe fell open revealing those long sleek legs that still held their summer tan. God, he loved everything about her, the way she moved, the way she flung her hair back so it didn’t get caught under her arms, the way she laughed—even when she was laughing at him.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You insist I’m doing this.”

He rose from the chair and went to sit beside her on the bed. “It was bad enough when they set the school on fire. I thank goodness nobody got hurt. I was willing to let the locals handle things; they’re totally competent. But after meeting those kids… I’m going to do what I can to bring the killer to justice. I’d think you would want that too.”

Angelina sat up and tucked the robe around her legs. “If you think I don’t want that, you’re quite dense. I just—” She tucked her hair behind one ear. “I just—”

He edged closer and pulled her against him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“For some reason Fate has involved you in this,” he said into her flowery smelling hair.

“No, Randy involved me.” After a couple of minutes she got up and went to sit at the table. “You have a story to tell me. It would be rude not to listen.”

He refilled her wine and went back to sit on the edge of the bed. “I found a woman Gwen worked with in the office at the college. She was surprised when one day Gwen came in and announced she was leaving school.”

“Because of the breakup with Randy?”

“That’s what’s weird. They came in together, holding hands, looking perfectly normal. They announced they were getting an annulment, an amicable one, and Gwen was transferring out west. This woman got a couple of letters from Gwen in California but none had return addresses. The postmarks were from different towns but she couldn’t recall any of them. I got the name of Gwen’s roommate. I’m following up on that.”

He let Angelina process the information for a moment, then added, “I did a records check; neither Gwen nor Randy has a past.”

“I assume she transferred to a school in California?”

“Local cops are having trouble finding which one.”

“Check her job application here at Carlson. It’ll say where she earned her degree.”

“Duh, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You hadn’t narrowed things down that far. Besides, it might have no bearing on the case.”

“Right.”

“And then it might,” she added with a wink.

He grinned across at her. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’ll let you know.” She untied the belt on the robe. “Before you head home…”

EIGHTEEN

“Feel like some hot cocoa?” Kiana asked. She was tired, but the exhilaration of the last half hour with Mrs. Deacon and Detective Jarvis had her raring to go back on the case.

“I’m beat,” Evan said into the helmet microphone. But he turned the motorcycle in the direction of Farina’s.

A few minutes later they were seated on tall stools with mugs of hot chocolate heaped with mountains of whipped cream. Kiana spooned cream into her mouth while Evan sucked his through pursed lips. She handed him a napkin to wipe his upper lip.

Kiana unfolded a second napkin and dug for a pen in her bag. A few more ideas for clue-searching had been running through her head and she wrote them down. She looked up as somebody slid onto the stool beside Evan.

“Hi Dawson.” Evan sounded none too happy to have a visitor.

Dawson was a burly kid, the star running back on the football team. He wore his dark brown hair down to his shoulders and was growing a silly looking mustache. His expression always serious, Kiana didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile. Oh yes, except for that night the team won the championship.

Kiana folded her napkin and set her cup on top of it.

“What are you guys doing out so late?” Dawson asked, pointedly looking at the napkin.

“Just got done with rehearsal,” Evan replied. “We’ll be heading home in a minute.”

“Rehearsal?”

“Yes, Dawson,” Kiana said. “This weekend. Show. Auditorium. Lots of people.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I heard something about that.”

Evan laughed. “There is more to life than football, you know.”

The gibe didn’t bother him at all. “I’m going pro. No time for other things.”

Kiana had never really liked Dawson. Way too full of himself. But maybe if she played into that ego, she could squeeze out some information. “Mr. Chalmers seems like a good coach. How’re you gonna do without him?”

Dawson’s face screwed into a scowl. “Can’t believe they suspended him! Even if he did do what they’re saying, how can it affect the football team? What do they think, he’s gonna kill all of us too?”

Kiana had been looking at the napkin under her mug; an idea had come to her but she didn’t want to write it down with Dawson here. But with his last comment, her gaze shot up to his face. Did he say what she thought he said?

Evan was instantly angry at their schoolmate. “That was really insensitive.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Have you seen anybody in Mr. Chalmers’ office in the past few days?” Kiana asked before Evan’s anger could grow out of control.

Dawson’s brows wrinkled as if the change of topic confused him. “You mean like, the cops?”

“No. Kids or teachers.”

Now Dawson laughed. “Mr. Todd—that’s the one taking over for Chalmers—went in there and came right out holding his nose. His office is at one end of the bleachers. Why’re you asking anyway? Oh yeah, you guys’re investigators now.” He said this with a sneer that upset Kiana all over again.

“Look Dawson,” she spit out before Evan could stop her, “just because all you care about is football—and yourself—doesn’t mean everybody else is like that. Some people care what happens to others.”

“I care.”

“Then prove it. Tell us who else has been in Mr. Chalmers’ office.”

“Shit.” He thought a moment, looking at something over her left shoulder. “Todd and Jennifer. Well, Todd went in. Jen stayed out in the hall holding her nose. Todd only went in to get some shoulder pads though.”

“Anybody else?”

“A coupla guys. The same as Todd…went in and came out with equipment.”

“Did they bring anything in with them?”

He shook his shaggy head. “Why d’you want to know anyway? Miss Forest was already—sorry Kiana. She was already dead.”

“Humor us,” Evan said.

“I didn’t see anybody else.”

“What about Mr. Reynolds?”

Dawson scrunched his nose, thinking. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him around the gym. Not even for games.”

“What about janitors—did you see any of them there?” Evan asked.

Dawson laughed. “Not to clean the place, if that’s what you mean!”

“We know. Did you see them near there at all?”

He shook his head then stopped. “Yeah. The goofy looking one. Don’t know his name.”

“The one with the mustache?”

“Yeah.”

So Lincoln Underwood had been there.

“Do you know if Mr. Chalmers was ever married?” Kiana asked.

“Don’t think so. Should I ask what that’s got to do with anything?”

“Probably nothing,” Evan said.

With that Dawson was gone.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I guess I can’t blame Mr. Todd for being angry Mr. Chalmers was suspended. I’d feel the same way if it was him who died and Gwen got suspended.”

Funny Evan didn’t mention anything about the fire to Dawson. Seemed like the kind of subject a kid would talk about. It sure was on her mind. Maybe he deliberately didn’t say anything. Maybe he thought Dawson knew something about it. Kiana couldn’t imagine him anywhere near the auditorium.

“Bummer that we didn’t have time to search any further at school,” Evan said.

“I know. I really wanted to get into Mr. Reynolds’ office.”

“Mr. Reynolds now? I thought you only wanted to do Chalmers’ and Philmore’s classrooms. Mind if I ask, why Reynolds?”

“I have a feeling he knows more than he’s saying. The day Mrs. Deacon arrived—Monday—I overheard him saying he overheard a disagreement between Gwen and somebody.”

“Somebody?”

“Yes, I was on the way to meet Mrs. Deacon when Miss Shaw called me back to talk about the performance and I missed the rest of the conversation. But he definitely said he overheard Gwen having a disagreement.”

“You don’t think it could be the same one I overheard?”

“I don’t think so. It wasn’t possible for him to be there without you or the band seeing him.”

“You think searching his office will turn up the answer to who it was?”

“No. I just think it would be good to look, you know? Did you ever hear whether the cops searched in there?”

Evan shook his head. “And I can’t see how us searching there can help anything.”

Kiana could actually pinpoint the moment his expression closed. He wasn’t into the discussion any more.

Evan drained half the cocoa and pushed the mug away. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Kiana took a long sip from the cup. This place served the best hot chocolate in town and she wouldn’t be able to finish it, unless she wanted to walk home. Which she didn’t. She drew the napkin from under the mug. It now had a brown circle that had seeped through and blurred the ink. She folded it in quarters so the dampness was on the outside and pushed the thing into her pocket.

Evan stood there waiting, zipping and unzipping his jacket. Something was going on with him. His face had that glazed look he got when he’d grown disinterested with a subject. He was probably just tired; she herself felt she’d been crushed by a steamroller.

Kiana followed him from the shop and got on the bike. In a few minutes they pulled up in front of her house. The porch light was on, and so was the one over the kitchen stove—she could see it glowing out on the lawn. That light being on meant her mother had gone to bed. Kiana’s father was on the road again—a salesman for a pharmaceutical company.

“I’ll see you about five, right?” Kiana said as she slid off the seat.

“Uh…Kee.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

He didn’t have to say it. He was quitting the investigation. Ditching her.

She slipped the helmet strap down over the seat rest, even though her emotions were screaming out of control. “I understand. See you at school then.”

“I’ll pick you up here at the regular time. Okay?”

“Sure. I guess.”

Kiana let herself carefully into the house. She hung her jacket in the hall closet and turned to see her mother standing at the foot of the stairs. “Hi.”

“Hi. Everything all right? Rehearsal seems to have gone late.”

“Everything’s fine,” Kiana lied. Then she added a measure of truth, “After rehearsal Mrs. Deacon ordered pizza. Her boyfriend came and we sat around talking about the case.”

“Come up with any answers?”

Wearily, she shook her head. “I’m going to bed.” She bent and kissed her mother on the temple.

“You going out early again?”

“Yes.”

“Leave me a note.”

“I will.”

Kiana plodded up the stairs, knowing that tomorrow morning she’d be in Mr. Reynolds’ office but had no idea how she’d manage without Evan.

NINETEEN

Jarvis left Angelina’s hotel at 5:30 a.m. feeling both rejuvenated and exhausted. He located his car in the parking garage and sat in it a moment, letting the engine warm up. While speeding to Carlson after the conversation with Kiana yesterday afternoon, he’d received a call from Detective Rodriguez—head investigator on the Gwen Forest case.

“I got something from that photograph,” Rodriguez had said in his slight Mexican accent. “Don’t know how it fits into the case, though.”

“Want to meet someplace?” Jarvis had offered.

“Yeah. Trouble is, I’m at a family thing right now. The wife would squash me with her father’s tractor if I left a minute early. I’m working midnight to seven. What if we meet about six?”

“Works for me. I’m on my way to the school anyway,” he said. “Surprised you’re not already there.”

“What’s up?”

“Somebody set the school’s green room on fire.”

“What!”

Jarvis had heard exclaiming voices in the background, then a woman telling Rodriguez that if anybody from work was on the phone, he should hang up. Jarvis grinned and said, “The fire’s out. All is well, but I figured you would’ve been called in. No way it was an accident.”

Rodriguez muttered something to which Jarvis didn’t ask for clarification.

“I’ll find out more and probably see you there,” Rodriguez said.

“Otherwise, I’ll see you at six.”

* * * *

They settled into a corner booth with coffees and hearty breakfasts. Detective Rodriguez worked under cover for the Nashua PD so, like Jarvis, he dressed in street clothes—blue jeans and a black long sleeved shirt. He wore his dark, shoulder length hair tied in a ponytail with a leather strap at the base of his neck, which negated any resemblance he might have to a police officer.

Rodriguez took a long drag on the coffee, grimaced and added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Jarvis did likewise. “I guess I missed you at the school,” he said with a smirk.

“Wiseass.”

“Did they find out anything?”

Rodriguez shook his head. “Fingerprint crew took samples but you know where that’ll go. Didn’t look like the janitors spent any time at that end of the building, ever.”

“They’re there now. Sucking water from the seats. Blow drying the place with fans.”

Rodriguez selected some pages from the seat beside him. “I got the arrest histories on the main suspects. Some interesting stuff.” He ate in silence, his attention more on Jarvis’ reaction to the paperwork than the food.

Jarvis thumbed through the pages. “Where’s Josh Philmore? The kids—Evan and Kiana.”

Rodriguez shook his head. “No records. We’re still collecting info on some of the others. This isn’t CSI, you know.”

Jarvis read, taking an occasional bite of the eggs. “Wow,” he finally said.

“Which one?”

“Most. For example, how did Randall Reynolds get the principal’s job with an arrest for marijuana possession on his record?”

“Knew somebody in high places?”

“Maybe.” Jarvis checked the dates on the paperwork. “He and Gwen were arrested at the same time. Granted, it was way back.”

“For Gwen, as a teacher, would one arrest be a deal breaker?”

“Dunno. Maybe not. But for a principal’s position…”

“Right.” Rodriguez leaned back so the waitress could refill his coffee. “Remember that she got him the job? You think she somehow hid the information from the school board?”

Jarvis leaned back so the waitress could fill his cup. Her eyes were on the stack of papers before him. She straightened up but didn’t leave. “Terrible thing that happened to that teacher.”

“Did you know her?” Rodriguez asked, reverting to cop mode.

“She came in a few times. Being so close to the school, everybody hangs out here.”

“Can you recall anyone she came in with?”

She set the pot on the edge of the table. “Most of the time with this guy who wore sweatsuits all the time. I think he was the football coach.”

“Did she come in with anybody else?” Jarvis asked.

“Sometimes with a bunch of teachers. Sometimes with a girl. A pretty girl. Matter of fact, she was just in here. With her boyfriend. At least I think it’s her boyfriend, they’re together all the time.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Not that I recall, but she has long black hair and dark skin.”

“You say they were just here?”

“A couple of hours ago. They were making plans to go…I think they said back to school.”

“Okay, thanks.” Rodriguez fished out a business card and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else…”

Once the waitress left, Rodriguez identified Kiana as the one who’d met with Gwen.

“Odd a student and teacher meeting, don’t you think?” Rodriguez asked.

“Not in this case. They were working on that play, trying to save the drama program. Besides, they were close.”

“Who told you that?”

“All you gotta do is listen to her talk.” Jarvis shoved the plate away. He told Rodriguez about the kids going through Ted Chalmers’ things and that they were investigating this case on their own. “I tried to talk them out of it but you know how kids are.”

“Did they find anything interesting?”

“To them or to us?” Jarvis grinned. “They found a pair of girly underwear in his desk.”

“In his office? Hot damn—getting a piece at work.”

“Your wife would really squash you with the tractor then!”

Rodriguez gave a deep belly laugh. “What were we talking about?”

“Changing the subject, huh?”

“I thought that was the subject.”

“We were talking about Gwen Forest getting the principal’s position for Reynolds.”

“And possibly covering up his arrest record.”

“Even if she did, I can’t see how something as trivial as one situation so far back can explode into a motive for murder.”

Rodriguez pointed his half-full fork at Jarvis. “They got in a fight. She threatened to blow the whistle on him.”

“That would get her in just as much hot water as him.” Jarvis crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the empty plate. “So, where does that leave us?”

Rodriguez swallowed and didn’t speak.

“What’s that smirk for?” Jarvis asked.

“Keep reading.”

Jarvis shifted Gwen and Josh’s information to the bottom of the pile and read on. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

Rodriguez read the page upside down. “You got Priscilla Philmore there?”

“Yeah. How the hell did she avoid jail time?” Jarvis read further. “Oh, I see. She agreed to big-time counseling. She still going?”

Rodriguez made a note in his notebook. “We’re checking. Still, where’s a motive for murder? She and Forest were best friends.”

“Same as with the husband.” Jarvis shrugged. “If they argued… People do strange things when pissed off.”

“You got that right.”

“You’re still wearing that smirk. I assume it’s got something to do with the last sheet here.” Jarvis moved the pages around. “Ted Chalmers. He still the main suspect?”

“Like I said the other day I like Kiana Smith a lot—especially after what the waitress just said. With her and Forest knowing each other…but I have to admit with two charges for lewd and lascivious, our Mr. Chalmers is looking better by the minute.”

“There’s no guarantee Forest knew about the charges.”

“No guarantee she knew about Priscilla either,” Rodriguez said. “This is stuff people keep scrupulously protected.”

Jarvis held up a finger for Rodriguez to wait. He scanned Ted Chalmers’ page and couldn’t find what he wanted. “Do you know if this guy has ever been married? Does he have a kid?”

“Nothing on there so probably not. Why?”

“Because of the underwear the kids found. The kids seemed to think it would be out of character for Gwen Forest to wear them.”

Rodriguez gave a bark of laughter that had the waitress glancing up from scrubbing the counter. “The kids think he was cheating on her?”

Jarvis shrugged.

Rodriguez gave his plate a frustrated shove then caught it before it slid off the table. “I always thought that as you interviewed people, the suspect pool was supposed to shrink.”

“Doesn’t always.” Jarvis tasted the home fries then added a generous shaking of pepper. “So, what happened to grow your list?”

“Did you know the principal is gay?”

The information was indeed a surprise, but it did explain at least one thing. Jarvis tapped the empty fork on his plate. “Maybe that’s why he and Forest got an annulment.”

Rodriguez’s eyes lit up and he said, “He was unable to perform,” the exact same time Jarvis said it.

“It also explains why they remained friends. Gwen understood the situation.”

“Explains why she was helpful and not bitter.”

“But why would she leave town?” Rodriguez asked.

Good question. That part didn’t make sense. If she and Randy were friends but just not compatible why not get the annulment and go their separate ways? In the old days there was a stigma to that sort of thing but in the 90s it was, as they say, everything goes.

“I haven’t been able to find anyone who knows why she left. Can’t help wondering if it was just a coincidence of timing: she’d decided to move along and the annulment provided the perfect excuse. Maybe a school in California offered a better major. Or maybe she wasn’t as agreeable to his situation as she pretended.”

“Possible.” Jarvis drew his notebook from a breast pocket. He’d already copied the information for Rodriguez. He tore out the page and waited for the friendly-faced man to read it. “Try talking to her old roommate. Name’s Debbie Fingerman.”

Rodriguez pointed at the paper. “Where’d you get this name? I kept hitting dead ends. You been able to interview her?”

“Got her name from the other woman on the list, Vicki Fredette, who works in the college office. Worked with Gwen back then too. And no, there was no time to talk to Fingerman. Apparently she’s married to the third name on the list—a Jason Ellis.”

“Great. Appreciate it.” He folded the paper and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“I think the Fredette woman’s got a lot more to tell. Some judicious memory-jogging would probably help. Deeper questions than can be done over the phone. Got it in the budget to go down there?”

Rodriguez’s laugh was cut short by the arrival of the waitress. Jarvis leaned back while she poured more coffee. As she walked away, he watched her rear end, wishing he’d stayed at the hotel with Angelina. When he looked back Rodriguez’s eyebrows were raised. He rolled his eyes and grinned.

“I checked out that photograph your lady friend found.” Rodriguez doctored his coffee. “I was able to learn through a check of some very skimpy financial records—and believe me, they were skimpy since it was twenty-some years ago—that the deceased transferred to the University of California where she got a degree in childhood education.”

Jarvis nodded.

“You knew?”

“No, but last night, my lady friend, as you call her, suggested we check the résumé Gwen provided to Carlson High School. This would also tell us if she hid the arrest information. Angelina planned to check with the principal today but she got sidetracked with all the crap going on.”

“Angelina?” Rodriguez leaned forward as if about to share a secret. “Angelina Deacon?”

“Yeah, why?”

“She was in the paper recently for solving a murder in your area.”

“She’s solved several.”

“She working on this one?”

Jarvis shook his head. “Last month, during that case you read about, we were both almost killed—twice. Because of it, she’s sworn off investigating.” Jarvis smeared jelly on a wedge of white toast. If Angelina saw him eating what she called “that white goop” he’d hear about it. He took a bite and chewed. Maybe she was right, since switching to the whole-grain stuff, this really didn’t taste very good. Or maybe it was just guilt. He swallowed and set down the rest of the slice. “I asked her to go see the principal, to ask about the résumé. Seemed easy enough.”

Rodriguez laughed. “I know what you’re doing—you’re keeping her involved.” Jarvis shot him a sly smirk, to which Rodriguez replied, “You’re different than most cops I know. They’re very territorial about their cases but you don’t mind her poking her nose into things.”

He said, “She doesn’t poke,” but knew that wasn’t true. When Angelina got her hooks into a case, she was like a rabid raccoon. “I only care that the cases are solved before anybody else gets hurt.”

“Your lady is good at putting clues together?”

“She’s amazing.”

“And best of all she’s right there on-scene.” Rodriguez drained his cup. “Hey, do you think I should talk to her? Maybe I could convince her to help.”

Who knew—she might have a soft spot for a stranger’s request. “Give it a try; maybe you’ll have better luck. She’s staying at the Marriot on Tara Boulevard.”

“I’ll catch her at the school in a couple hours. I sure hope she’ll help. Having this involved with school kids scares the crap out of me.”

“I think it’s part of the reason she’s holding back. Afraid of putting them in danger.”

“Makes sense, but if somebody’s setting fires, they’re in danger anyway.”

Jarvis set down his fork. “She probably doesn’t realize it but way in the back of her brain, she’s working this thing out. I keep feeding her information.” He grinned. “Whatever I can do to help the cause. So, what else you got?”

Rodriguez shifted back into official mode. “The deceased got her degree from UC in ‘96. From there she moved back east. We lost track of her for a while, but she turned up again here in Carlson about five years ago. Can’t find any family here that she would’ve moved to be near.”

“Maybe she liked the weather.”

“Better than California? Yeah, sure. Anyway, I’m still working on it.”

Jarvis placed his fork and knife across the empty plate and pushed it toward the edge of the table. Rodriguez did likewise, setting his atop Jarvis’s.

“You looking seriously at the boyfriend Chalmers for this?”

“No.” Rodriguez slapped both palms on the table. “Right now, like I said, I’m zoned in on that kid—what’s her name—Kiana Smith.”

TWENTY

Kiana should be sleeping. She’d lost three hours last night and would lose more tonight. She needed to rest. But she could do nothing but lay there thinking about what Evan overheard between Mr. Chalmers and Gwen. What exactly was the wording? “Do that to you” and “think like that.” Kiana expanded the words into complete sentences. “Why would I do that to you?” and “How could you think like that?”

Obviously Mr. Chalmers accused Ms. Forest of something. Even with her limited love experience, Kiana knew those words often related to people cheating on each other. It couldn’t be in this case. Ms. Forest wasn’t like that. She hated people who cheated—she’d said so herself when one of the other kids mentioned the reason her parents were separating.

Of course, many more meanings could be construed into the words. Simple things like why had she made hamburger for dinner when she knew he hated it. How could you think I’d do something like that? The thought made Kiana grin. She’d have to tell Evan. Maybe it’d help him stop worrying. Not! He’d said if it was something silly like that, they wouldn’t be throwing things.

Well, she’d say it if she ever spoke to him again after he ditched her like that. She’d thought she had one loyal friend in the world. Still, it was odd; if Mr. Chalmers started the argument by making accusations of any kind, whether about cheating or hamburger, why was Ms. Forest the one who got angry? Maybe because the accusations were so ludicrous, so off the wall, they pissed her off. Or they were things they’d rehashed a dozen times before. That could piss off even the most laid-back person.

Did the fact that this happened almost a month ago negate it from being related to her murder? Why would Evan worry the argument was related to Ms. Forest’s death—unless he suspected Mr. Chalmers of killing her?

Which was just as dumb as thinking Ms. Forest would cheat on him.

That line of thinking gave Kiana a headache so she switched to wondering about the fire. If the janitor started it, the first question would be, why? Seemed stupid to take a chance of destroying an entire school, and maybe hurting someone, in order to pay back a couple of kids for not handing over a picture taken so many years ago. Which made Kiana wonder about the photo itself—and whether the janitor really could be the man with his arm around Ms. Forest. Might be time to find out exactly who this guy was. Maybe they should be searching his belongings instead of the teachers’.

What did he say his name was? Lincoln somebody. For the life of her she couldn’t remember. But she would. She just needed to put her mind to work for a while.

From the bedside table, the alarm on Kiana’s cell phone rang. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, unsure when she’d fallen asleep but grateful she finally had. The LED display on the clock showed 4:31. She got dressed as quietly as possible, then tiptoed downstairs, skipping the squeaky fourth step from the top, and scribbled a note for Mom while she munched on a toaster pastry. The thermometer said it was 43º so she grabbed gloves and a headband from the top shelf in the closet.

Outside, the brisk air filled her lungs and woke them with a start. Kiana turned right and started along the sidewalk toward school. Searching Mr. Reynolds’ home would have to wait till she got to his office and found the address. Added to the list—at the top—was to get that janitor’s home address also. Stupid not to have thought of it sooner. Were the cops looking at him as a suspect too?

Kiana had just made the turn onto the main street when a familiar sound chugged up behind. Evan came to a stop beside her. She was very glad he’d changed his mind about coming. Last night she’d been so hurt that he quit, she wouldn’t think about the possibility of his return. She didn’t waste a second squeezing into the helmet and climbing aboard the motorcycle. He looked in the mirror to check for traffic, then whipped the small bike into the lane and drove to the school. They parked in the same place as the day before and made their way to the same entrance.

In a whisper, she told him her thoughts regarding the janitor. Evan slapped himself on the side of the helmet. “Man, why didn’t we think of him before?” They stowed the helmets and backpacks, then skulked along the walk to Mr. Reynolds’ office door.

Again it was unlocked. Again the red security lights lit the secretary’s chamber. They went right to work with Evan in Mr. Reynolds’ office, Kiana in Miss Shaw’s.

Kiana found the personnel folder. Lincoln Underwood’s information was last. First on the top of the page: his home address. He lived only three blocks from—

“Oh. My. God.”

Evan’s hoarsely uttered words had Kiana scrambling to jam the folder back in place. With two sheets of paper in-hand, she ran to the other office. Evan stood in the far corner, a tin wastebasket with a picture of the Grand Canyon in one hand, something small in the other. It was the small object that caused his exclamation.

“Oh. My. God,” he said again.

Kiana took the object from his fingers. It was a simple rainbow arch decal, the vinyl kind that magnetically adhered to bumpers or back car windows. She turned it over a couple of times then put it in her pocket, unsure what upset Evan so badly. Yes, she knew the significance of it, and obviously so did Evan. But big deal if Mr. Reynolds was gay. Homosexuality was nothing remarkable these days…unless Justin Bieber said he was, or something like that.

She took the two sheets of paper purloined from the personnel file and ran them through the copier. The rainbow decal did explain a few things. Well, more than a few things. Like, maybe Gwen had been killed because she found out about Mr. Reynolds and threatened to tell people. It didn’t sound like something Gwen would do. She usually wasn’t vindictive, and she wasn’t anti-gay but sometimes people did unexpected things.

Evan stood stiffly in the corner, dismay oozing from every pore. Kiana poked him in the arm. He followed robot-like, to the small janitor’s room tucked under a stairway at the back of the school. The room was locked. How could they get in? Wait for one of them to arrive, of course—then Evan could distract him while she searched. He might insist on doing it the other way around but right now he was in no shape to do anything more than act as a decoy. She would’ve liked to look in Mr. Philmore’s class but time had gotten away from them once again. She led Evan back to the bike.

He stood beside it without moving. It was time to get to the root of the problem. “What is wrong with you? Scratch that, I know you’re about to say nothing’s the matter so I’ll reword the question: what is wrong with Mr. Reynolds being gay?”

Evan sucked in a long breath and let the words out on the exhale. “It’s gross. It’s disgusting. It’s against everything the bible teaches.”

“I know, but it’s his choice. It’s none of our bus—”

“It is! If he’s coming in contact with kids every day.”

“Evan, being gay only means he doesn’t like women. It has nothing at all to do with kids.”

His objection raised an interesting point. Would the school board be so lenient? Would they too worry it would somehow reflect on the student body?

“One thing you should consider before getting all down on him. It is possible he confiscated that decal from a student.” She said this even though she didn’t believe it. Kiana put on the helmet and nudged him to do the same. “Come on, let’s go to his house.”

“What!”

“That was the original plan. Let’s stick with it and get this over with.”

“He’s probably there.”

“I’m sure he is.” She swung her leg over the seat and spread them wide so he could settle himself between. “We were going to wait till he leaves.”

“What if—”

“Evan…”

“Okay, okay.”

What was it about men? One little bump in the road and they got all weirded out. Mr. Reynolds lived on the first floor of a three-family apartment building. Lights glowed behind the drawn shades. His car sat in the driveway beside three others.

“What now, Sherlock?” Evan asked.

He didn’t have to be rude. She shot him a look then went to see if Mr. Reynolds’ car doors were locked. As she checked the driver’s side, the front door of the apartment house burst open. A movement to her left said Evan had thrown himself into the bushes at the property boundary.

Kiana jumped away from the car. No time to heave herself into the greenery beside Evan. A round woman approached. She wore a blue NY Giants jacket that made her look even bigger. Now probably wasn’t the time to say so.

“What are you doing in Randy’s car?” Her hand reached into one of the enormous pockets and groped around.

Reaching for a gun? Cell phone?

TWENTY-ONE

Kiana put up a palm. “Wait. Wait. I’m not a thief. I’m not in his car.” Kiana pulled in a breath and prepared to tell the biggest whopper of her burgeoning crime-fighting career. She lowered her voice and ducked her head close to the woman. Get shot up close or from a few feet away—not much difference as far as she was concerned.

“Last night.” Kiana nodded toward the house. “Randy and I…”

When a smirky grin appeared on the woman’s face, Kiana grew her story. “I… Well, things didn’t go too well.” Kiana shrugged.

“Not surprised. He is gay, you know.”

Kiana threw her hands in the air. “That sure explains why. Oh, I’m so embarrassed. Do you know, I practically threw myself at him. Anyway, I was so humiliated I ended up leaving my purse in his car. I thought I’d try to find it before he,” she nodded toward the first floor apartment again, “before he left for work.”

The woman shot her own glance toward the building. “Come on, I’ll help you look.” The doors were all locked, but cupped hands around faces against windows didn’t turn up a purse of any kind.

“Now what?” Kiana moaned. “Where else could I have left it?”

“Maybe he took it inside so nobody would break in and steal it.”

“Good idea. Gosh, I really don’t want to face him right now.”

“He’s a nice guy. I don’t think he’ll hold anything against you.” Suddenly the woman giggled. “No pun intended. Come on, I’ll go in with you. He and I are friends.” She took hold of Kiana’s sleeve and started moving toward the house.

Kiana held back. “If it’s all the same to you, I think it would be best if I wait a few days. I feel so humiliated, I just can’t face him.”

The woman shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Have a great day.”

Kiana began walking along the sidewalk.

“Hey, where’s your car?” the woman called.

“I don’t have one,” Kiana shot back.

“I can give you a ride.”

Kiana kept walking. About a block along, Evan caught up. They made sure the woman had driven away, turned, and hurried to where they’d left the bike. Evan didn’t say a word. Her anger at him for not coming to her rescue in the face of potential danger, simmered.

“Take me home.”

Wordless, he dropped her off in front of her house. Kiana left without speaking. Usually he waited till she was safely inside. Today he drove off as soon as she dropped the helmet strap over the backrest. She let herself in through the kitchen door. The coffeemaker timer hadn’t started a pot. That meant her mother wasn’t downstairs yet, though she did hear movement in her parents’ bathroom just overhead. Kiana tiptoed upstairs and into her room. She undressed quickly and threw on a robe. Just in time because her mother popped her head in the door. Kiana turned from tying the belt.

“Just making sure you’re up.”

“I am.” No lie there. It seemed like she never slept any more. She picked up the discarded jacket and drew the rainbow decal from her pocket. What would Evan say if he knew an identical one of these was adhered to Mr. Reynolds’ dashboard? No way would she be the one to tell him. She returned the decal to her jacket

Re-dressed and still damp, Kiana made her way downstairs at 6:10. The smell of coffee wafted through the house. The dryer chugged in the room off the kitchen. Life went on.

She dropped her backpack and shoes on the floor at the foot of the stairs and padded barefoot to the kitchen, blinking at the intrusion of fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture. Her mother stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand, and wearing Dad’s silly apron with the big-belly guy on it. Why was she cooking? She knew Kiana didn’t eat in the morning. Neither did Mom, so it wasn’t for her. And it couldn’t be for Dad; he wouldn’t return  till just before Friday’s show.

Mom turned and wiggled two fingers at her. Kiana wiggled two fingers back—their standard good morning routine.

A soft foot shuffle at the end of the table explained why Mom was doing the Mom-thing. Evan had arrived. While Kiana stood in the doorway frowning at Evan, Mom dumped scrambled eggs onto a plate, dropped toast beside them and slid the plate in front of Evan, who already held a fork.

Mom patted Evan on top of the head, which made him grimace, then she came around and kissed Kiana on the forehead. “You kids be careful today.” She started for the door. “Thanks for driving Kee to school, Evan.”

“De nada, Mrs. Smith.” When the upstairs bedroom door shut, Evan went back to eating.

Kiana returned to the hallway and sat on the bottom step to put on her shoes. The clinking of things dropping into the dishwasher said Evan had wolfed down his breakfast.

“Kee.”

She drew his contact lens case from her pocket and slapped it in his hand.

He peered at it in confusion a second, then smiled. “Where did you find this?”

“On the floor in the teacher’s lounge.”

His happy expression sagged.

“We’ll talk about it later. I want to get to school before Mrs. Deacon.”

“So, you’re liking the new teacher,” came her mother’s voice from the den.

Kiana dropped the other shoe on the floor. “I thought you went upstairs.”

“I did. Then I came down.”

“So, she’s nice?”

“She’s great,” Evan said.

Kiana put on her jacket, sliding away from Evan’s attempt to help. She slipped the backpack over one shoulder, plopped a kiss on her mother’s cheek, and pulled open the front door.

Evan followed her down the walk. “Your mom is really nice.”

“Overprotective.”

“And she’s pretty.”

“I guess.” She stopped at the end of the walk.

“You don’t look like her.”

“That your way of saying I’m not pretty?”

“You’re gorgeous. I tell you that all the time. What I was saying is that you don’t look like either of your parents.”

Where was this leading? Was it his back-ended way of making up for the near-fiasco at Mr. Reynolds’ house? She wanted to stay angry a little long. And she sure didn’t want to talk about this. “Dad’s mother was born in Peru. I guess I got her coloring.”

“Peru, huh?”

She hefted the backpack onto both shoulders, turned and started along the sidewalk.

“Kee?”

“Leave me alone for a while.”

He raced up beside her. “Why are you mad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Evan didn’t catch up again till she stood in front of her locker, switching books around for her first class. By now she was feeling bad for the way she treated him. So what if he didn’t come to her rescue? Maybe he hadn’t realized there was any danger. He was who he was. She had to accept that.

He took the math book from her fingers and held it against him. For the first time that morning, she looked him in the eyes.

“Are we okay now?” he asked.

She nodded. “So, tell me how your lens case got in the teacher’s lounge.”

He heaved his coat on top of a pile of junk in the bottom of the locker and slammed the door before things could fall out. He turned with a grin. “Simple. Mr. Reynolds sent me to get Mr. Philmore. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket.”

She shot him a doubtful look. Evan might look like a goody-goody, but he had a spunky side that loved challenges. If somebody dared him to go there…

Kiana let it drop for now. He stepped in place beside her as they headed for their first class. “Kee, do you think the janitor did it?”

“You mean, set the fire or kill Gwen?”

“Right now, just the fire.”

“The whole fire-thing doesn’t make sense. Why would anybody do that?”

The question received a shrug from Evan.

“The only way I can figure he would care about that picture,” Kiana continued, “is if he’s in it. We need to find out more about him. Can you remember his last name?”

Evan’s gave drifted to the ceiling and after a moment, back to her face. “Underwood.”

“I was thinking we could ask Mrs. Deacon’s boyfriend to check him out.”

“Boyfriend seems a funny way to describe him.”

“Okay, let’s ask her man-friend.”

Evan laughed. “That just sounds weird.”

* * * *

As Kiana entered the classroom, the teacher wiggled a yellow piece of paper toward her. Kiana read the note: Mrs. Philmore called. The costumes are ready. Want to go with me? Meet me in my office when it’s convenient. Mrs. Deacon.

“I have to leave,” Kiana said.

The teacher nodded. She already knew. That meant Mrs. Deacon had delivered the note in person. Kiana liked that. Most teachers sent a go-fer.

She found Mrs. Deacon, who wore a gorgeous handkerchief skirt in Kiana’s favorite color, teal. The material flowed around her legs as she moved near the green room table, that had been cleaned off and—no, it was a whole other table. This was smaller and less beat-up. Kiana’s “good morning” made Mrs. Deacon spin around.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right.”

Kiana didn’t miss the fact that the teacher’s eyes flickered over her left shoulder, toward the stage hallway. Something had spooked her. Funny, Kiana wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Deacon to be easily frightened. “Everything okay?”

There. She did it again—that little eye-flicker toward the hall. Something was definitely wrong.

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Smells awful in here, like somebody cooked an animal.”

“The janitor was just here. He went for more fans to air the place out.”

Could that be what had her on edge—the janitor? “Which janitor was it, the one from the other night?”

The way Mrs. Deacon nodded told Kiana the janitor wasn’t the problem this morning. Somebody, or something, else had her watching the exits.

“You ready to go?”

“Can I leave my backpack in your office?”

“It’s open, help yourself.”

When Kiana returned, Mrs. Deacon had her jacket on. It was a darker teal than the skirt, made of some soft looking fabric, wide at the shoulders and tapered to make her already-slim waist look slimmer. They walked out together.

It was a beautiful autumn morning with just a touch of chill in the air. Most of the trees had dropped their leaves and were stretching their black branch-fingers to the brilliant blue and white sky. The scene needed to be put on canvas. Kiana wished she could paint. Mrs. Deacon punched the button on her remote and the headlights of a dark blue car blinked. Was that a Lexus? Man, the theater business in Alton must pay well. Kiana climbed in the passenger seat and buckled up. But they never made it out of the parking lot.

TWENTY-TWO

The thumping rear tire made them both groan. She added a curse under her breath and slapped the steering wheel with both palms, which made Kiana laugh. “My mother swears like a sailor when we have car trouble.”

“I held it in for your benefit.” She got out and went to see how bad it was. It didn’t take a mechanic to see the tire had been slashed. Now she did curse.

“That’s more like it,” Kiana laughed.

Angie jumped. “I didn’t know you got out of the car.”

“Obviously. This couldn’t have happened in a better spot. I bet there are a dozen guys in the shop who’d be more than happy to change it. I’ll go ask.”

“Ask nice.”

“Bet on it.”

“I guess I’ll call the police.”

“You should also call Mr. Reynolds. I think the school has security cameras.”

A half hour later the tire was changed and the police report given. Angie and Kiana left Randy searching through the security tapes from that morning and headed for Cilla’s shop, stopping first at the coffee shop for well deserved fortification.

Back in the car, Kiana dropped a bomb. “I guess I should tell you what happened this morning.”

Angie bent forward and adjusted the heater knob, buying a moment to steel her features into nonchalance. Then she sat back in the seat and waited.

“Evan and I found something in Mr. Reynolds’ office.” She drew an object from her pocket and laid it in Angie’s hand.

Angie knew the significance of the rainbow. “I’m sorry, Kiana, I don’t get the importance of this.”

“This is a gay insignia.”

“I know what it is.” She laid it on the seat between them. “Where did you get it?”

“In a trashcan in Mr. Reynolds’ office. I know you’re going to say he could’ve taken it from somebody—I’ve already considered that. But I also found one in Mr. Reynolds’ car. It was stuck on the dashboard.”

“I assume you’re reading some sort of importance into it,” Angie asked. Didn’t someone mention Randy was gay?

“What if Gw—Ms. Forest found out and threatened to tell on him?”

“You think she’d do that to him?”

“Not under normal circumstances.”

“Have you uncovered any abnormal circumstances that make you think she’d change her mind?”

“No.” Kiana sipped her hot chocolate. “So, do you think we should discount the information?”

“Never discount anything.”

The unusual conversation ended as they got out of the car in front of Cilla’s shop.

Kiana held the door for Angie. “I love the smell in here. It’s like stepping into a giant dressing room.”

Cilla was just finishing up with a customer. She handed a large paper bag across the counter and came toward them, tan rayon slacks and a tan and pink striped blouse. Her reddish-blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail that swished with equal measure rhythm her shoulders.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” Angie said as the heat of embarrassment erupted into her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” both Cilla and Kiana said at once.

“I just remembered you and Josh invited me to dinner last night.”

Cilla laughed. “I heard you had something a lot more pressing going on.”

“You won’t even believe it!” Kiana said.

“I was going back to my office to get my things when all hell—excuse me Kiana—broke loose.”

“I heard you had quite the mess.” Cilla was gracious. She didn’t seem to harbor any animosity for Angie’s forgotten appointment.

Kiana and Angie alternated—much the way Kiana and Evan always did—providing a detailed story about the previous night.

“After the girls called, I rushed back over here to start putting things together for you.” Cilla walked toward a folding table set in an open space. It was covered in piles of clothing. Cilla pointed to each one in turn, naming the character for which it was intended. “I was sure glad Donna provided a list because I’d totally forgotten two of the minor characters.” She slapped the nearest piles with her palms.

Kiana checked the selection with the precision of an architect. Angie and Cilla stood to the side, giving occasional knowing glances at each other. They remained quiet until Kiana stepped away, satisfied.

“I really appreciate you going to all this trouble.”

“Definitely,” Angie said. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”

Cilla drew a roll from the pocket of her slacks and held it up. “Wintergreen. My favorite,” she added with a grin, then offered Kiana and Angie each one.

“Kiana, feel free to walk around and see if you find anything else that works better for you. What I put out was only to help speed things along.”

While Cilla went to help a customer check out, Angie tongued the hole in the lifesaver and ambled about the store. Along one wall were three shelves of knickknacks and statuary. Being a thrift store where all the items were donated, there was no pattern or connection to the styles. There was a cute brass zebra. Its surface glimmered in the fluorescent lighting. Beside the zebra, a pair of Mickey Mouse figurines. Angie picked up a china teacup and saucer etched with small blue flowers. The piece was delicate, so thin it was almost like paper. The hand painted design was perfect.

“Angie,” Cilla called, “check this out.”

Angie set down the cup and turned to see Cilla holding up a beautiful silk dress in one of her favorite colors, a pale green, in a strapless style and a long flowing skirt. During performances at the theater, Angie and Tyson dressed in formal attire. She could never have enough evening wear.

“It’s beautiful,” Kiana said as she selected a blue sport jacket. She went to the counter to exchange it with a brown one but seemed otherwise satisfied with the choices Cilla had made.

Angie touched the fabric of the green dress. Very nice. The label said Diane Von Furstenberg. Over the top of the coat hanger, Angie raised her eyebrows at Cilla who smiled. “If it was my size I would’ve taken it for myself. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it fits you.”

“Try it on,” Kiana encouraged, which Angie did. It fit perfectly. She twirled in the full-length mirror in the dressing room.

“Gorgeous,” Kiana and Cilla said at the same time.

Angie again gave Cilla a raised eyebrow glance seeing the price tag at $30. Cilla laughed. “Most of my clientele wouldn’t know who Diane Von Furstenberg is.”

The three women bagged the purchases, including Angie’s new dress.

“That pendant you got the other day will go perfectly with this. Too bad there aren’t any earrings to match.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Angie said, then added, “I’m not sure how to handle payment for the school’s items.”

“No charge,” Cilla said.

“No way,” Kiana said. “None of this was your fault.”

“All right then, half—and I won’t take any arguing. The fire wasn’t any of your doing either.” Cilla wrote up a bill and shoved it into one of the bags. “So, are you free for dinner tonight?”

“Barring any more catastrophes, I’d love to.”

Cilla scribbled directions on the back of a business card.

Angie put it in the side pocket of her handbag. “I have a pot roast in the crockpot, if that’s all right.”

“It’s perfect.”

They made their good-byes. On the way out, Angie passed the lovely cup and saucer. Its price tag was only $15. Fantastic for real bone china.

Cilla helped carry the bags to the car; Angie checked each of the tires by doing a complete circle around the vehicle while Kiana told Cilla what happened earlier.

“So, you’re having dinner with Mr. Philmore,” Kiana said once they were back on their way.

Angie sipped the now-cold coffee she’d left in the cup holder. “Should I read something into your comment? Or from their invitation?”

“I guess not. I just find him strange. No, that’s not the right word. He’s changeable. One day up and one day down. Evan and I wondered if he was on some kind of drugs.” Seeing Angie’s surprised glance, she added, “No, nothing like that; I mean, like prescription drugs. You know, for depression or something.”

“Are you in any of his classes?”

Kiana nodded. “He’s kinda boring, sticks strictly to curriculum. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to keep awake.” She drank from her cup, set it in the holder, knocking knuckles with Angie as she set down her own. “I like Mrs. Philmore though,” Kiana added.

“Me too, so far. We’ve only met twice so the verdict’s still out. Do you plan on making acting a career?”

Kiana’s sigh took Angie’s attention momentarily from the road. “I did.”

“Did?”

“Well, Ms. Forest…”

Angie tried but couldn’t make a connection to help the girl past her obvious trouble finishing the sentence.

“If we can’t save the drama program my chances of getting into the best college will dwindle to nothing. I really need the credits from this last semester. I thought about changing high schools but my parents are pretty adamant against it.”

“Against changing schools?”

“Well, they’re against me acting at all. They don’t think it’s lucrative enough.”

“What school are you trying to get in?”

“Greensboro’s advanced program. Ms. Forest told me it was the best in the country. She was helping me work toward it. She helped me enroll in the local Thespian Society. I go to their regular meetings. That earns me credits.”

“I’m not fully up on the requirements of colleges. And I’ve only just joined the Thespian group. Because of my schedule, I don’t get to attend many meetings. Why might you not be able to get in now?”

“With my grades, I qualify for any school. And I can get into Greensboro’s school, no problem. I needed this year’s credits to meet the criteria for the advanced program. Also…I can qualify for a full scholarship if I meet certain other requirements.”

They’d arrived back at the school. Strangely enough, the same parking space was still open. They collected cups, handbags, and shopping bags and met on the sidewalk outside the school. At Kiana’s comments about the Greensboro acting program, a thought had popped into Angie’s head. Kiana had stepped toward the school doors. When she saw Angie hadn’t moved, she came back.

“Need help with something?”

“About Greensboro’s requirements… Would it help if an operating theater hired you?”

Kiana nearly dropped her bags. “Definitely, but—” When she faced Angie her eyes were lit like lasers. “You mean you’d hire me?”

“I need to run it past my partner first, but I’m confident something can be worked out.” She touched Kiana’s arm, suddenly not sure a teacher should be touching a student, but at this moment, not caring. “Let’s get this show under our belts, save the school program, then worry about your future. Okay?”

Angie’s concerns about physical contact with a student were erased when Kiana did indeed drop the bags and fling her arms around Angie’s neck. “Thanks.” She dropped her arms. There was an awkward moment where neither woman seemed to know what to say. “I can’t help you pick them up,” Angie finally said, squeezing her own bags tighter.

Kiana bent to retrieve the fallen packages. Someone came out of the left double door. Kiana ran to get inside before the door could swing shut. She propped a foot so the door would stay open, and waited for Angie to precede her.

To prepare for the performance’s new outdoor venue Randy had excused cast and crew from classes. The pair of janitors were invaluable in helping move the heavy sets, though Angie noticed Lincoln Underwood stood around till someone specified what he should do. His attitude was surly and he often snapped at the kids. Angie also noticed Kiana kept much of her attention focused on him.

At lunchtime, Randy had a dozen pizzas delivered. While a yard crew mowed the football field, wafting a fresh-cut-grass scent into the air, the jovial group sat on the bleachers to eat. Some of the actors recited their lines to each other as if making normal conversation—which sent everyone else into gales of laughter.

As the last of the food boxes were cleared away, the topic switched to speculation about who might be trying to sabotage the show. Angie turned her mind to the upcoming performance, fitting details here and there, and making sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.

Evan appeared in front of her bleacher seat. “Can we talk a sec?”

She waved at the bleacher space beside her.

He sat. Which meant the subject was serious.

“What do you do when you learn something that absolutely blows your mind?” he asked after gazing around to make sure nobody was listening. “I mean, how do you face the person—the one the news is about—on a daily basis?”

“Hard question. I guess you have to put the information into a special file in the back of your mind.”

“What if you can’t? What if, every time you see this person you get angry, or want to say something? What if, every time you see him you want to shake him and ask ‘how’ and ‘why’?”

Angie let out a small grin. “That’s how I feel about my ex husband.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Like I said, I have a special file. Evan, I don’t know what this is about but here’s something you should try to remember…and I know I’m coming off sounding like a lecturing adult, but here goes…you can’t go through life letting things bother you. If you do, they’re going to build up and build up. Someday they’ll explode all over someone—probably someone you love.” He gave a half-nod. “Does this have something to do with Kiana? I noticed a bit of a strain between you today.”

“It’s like you just said. Some of my build-up overflowed on her.”

As she expected, they must’ve been arguing. Angie hoped it was school-related and nothing to do with Gwen. She’d no sooner thought the thought when Evan asked, “How do you feel about…homosexuals?”

So this had nothing to do with Kiana. The only mention of homosexuality she’d encountered was to do with Randy.

“How can I face him every day?”

“What is it that bothers you the most about this person being gay?”

An involuntary shiver shook the boy from head to foot. “It’s gross. It’s against the bible. It’s against life. It’s…well, it’s just gross.” His hands clenched in his lap and buried themselves between his knees.

“I do think this is one of those things you need to lock in that special file in your head.”

He sat there, as if trying to do what she suggested. He blinked. He unclenched his hands. He blinked again, this time squeezing his eyes tight as though squashing the images that wreaked havoc with his brain.

Evan stood up. His usually brilliant green eyes looked dull. “I know you’re right. I guess I’ll have to work on this.”

“Think of it as a math problem. Work on it, solve it and store it away.”

He nodded. “Thanks Mrs. D.” He moved on long, wiry legs toward the building.

So, the news about Randy was out. It did explain a few things. Most especially why he and Gwen got an annulment all those years ago. Yes, the news explained a lot. Angie wanted to yank out her phone and call Jarvis.

But the topic of conversation suddenly stood before her.

TWENTY-THREE

Randy seemed to have come to check on things and not ask questions about the so-called case. He asked how rehearsal was going. Asked if the pizza was all right. He never mentioned a word about the investigation. Probably because several of the kids had moved into hearing range. Angie felt like gathering them close and keeping them there a while. Finally Randy left to check on the construction crew.

Though there was still a lot to do, she sent everyone home at five o’clock so she could get back to the hotel to change for dinner with the Philmores. Angie couldn’t stop thinking about Evan’s turmoil. She’d gone through much the same thing after her breakup with Will. Finding that spot in her brain to hide the pain had been the only way she could handle the sadness, the shock. Every now and then she revisited those feelings, often when faced with tough decisions or seemingly impossible situations. She thought it helped keep the events and emotions in perspective. Had she explained it well enough to Evan? Was that special file a good enough way for a teenager to deal with conflicting emotions? Ultimately it would be up to him to decide.

Would Evan confront Randy? Probably not. A strong boy, Evan would find a way to work through his emotions. Again, she considered phoning Jarvis, if just to hear him say she’d handled Evan’s situation the right way.

How had the kids come into possession of that decal? Had they broken into Randy’s office? News wasn’t spreading like wildfire through the school so that meant they weren’t talking about it. Which also meant they probably had broken in. Angie heaved a long breath. Those kids were going to get hurt.

An hour later Angie knocked on the door of the Philmore’s colonial style house. Josh answered wearing the same clothes he’d worn in school. He gestured Angie inside. Since Cilla had said they’d be eating beef, she’d bought a bottle of merlot. She handed it to him. For a moment he seemed confused. Finally he said “thanks” and shut the door.

The muted strains of Chopin’s piano came from the living room that they bypassed on their way to the back of the house where Cilla bustled around the stove. She set a wooden spoon on a trivet and came to greet Angie. Ever the stylish one, she’d changed into a flowing peach color caftan. Her long hair flowed loose around her shoulders. She pulled Angie into a quick hug.

“I thought we could eat in the sunroom.” Cilla gestured through a set of sliding glass doors where a white wicker table had been set. Daylight was fading. Flickering candles lit the room, two on the main table and three more on small tables around the perimeter.

“Can I help with anything?” Angie asked.

Josh showed Cilla the wine Angie had brought. Cilla nodded her thanks. “Will you open this for us, please?” she said to Josh. “Let it breathe for a few minutes. Sure Angie, you could carry the salad and the dressing. Josh, bring the butter too, if you would.” Cilla picked up a cutting board that held a loaf of what looked like fresh baked bread. “I hope the music is all right.”

“Believe it or not Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie is one of my absolute favorites.”

Cilla shot Josh a smirk, at which Angie raised her brows. Cilla laughed. “Josh didn’t peg you as a classical lover.”

Josh gave a sharp, “Cilla!”

Angie laughed to cover the awkward moment. “What sort of music lover do I look like?”

“Jazz.” This he said with a note of hesitation.

“Ooh, I love Chick Corea.”

Josh seemed satisfied. He held Angie’s chair and she settled facing the house. On the kitchen counter, steam rose from an enormous crockpot.

Cilla made most of the conversation. Josh chomped on salad and feigned interest. His face wore that same glazed-over look Jarvis got when her mother visited. The only difference was, quite frequently Angie felt her own face getting that glazed-over look too since Gloria tended to monopolize all conversation.

It didn’t take long to figure out that tension existed between these two people. Not the sort of tension that comes from a discussion…“no, I really think she’ll prefer jazz music.” Angie had felt the same thing the other day when Josh dropped his arm around Cilla’s shoulder. There was something going on, or maybe not going on, between these two.

Cilla brought the crockpot and set it on a trivet with a mosaic picture of a butterfly. Seeing Angie looking at it, she said, “Our youngest son made it for us. We were talking the other day about all the things in our house that the kids made.”

“And how much stuff we have,” Josh added. “And how we should get rid of some stuff.” A flicker of a scowl crossed Cilla’s face. This too must’ve been a conversation they’d had before. And not one Cilla wanted aired in public.

To cover some of the awkwardness, Angie said, “My ex husband and I had that too. Though we don’t have children, we did manage to accumulate things through the years.”

“How long were you married?”

“Almost thirty years.” A shiver welled up inside her, as it did every time she thought about the demise of her marriage.

“That’s a long time,” Josh said. There was no envy in his tone.

Cilla shoved the ladle into the pot. Drops of boiling broth shot around the table. Some landed on Angie’s hands but she didn’t raise attention by wiping at them. Josh did.

Cilla spooned out a delicious smelling mix of potatoes, carrots and beef. She gestured for Angie to hold up her plate. Which she was more than willing to do. Anything to hurry this meal along.

“Mmm,” Angie said, “smells great.”

“It’s Josh’s favorite.”

They were finishing the last of the entrée when the phone rang. Josh slapped his napkin on the table and left the room muttering about damned telemarketers. He came back quickly—probably he’d hung up on them. But he didn’t return to the table. “That was Brent. He needs help moving a new sofa into his apartment.”

Though Cilla protested, “Does it have to be tonight?” Angie had the idea she was glad Josh’s negativity might be departing the premises.

Josh laughed. “Apparently they’ve got it caught in the stairwell. I’m sorry Angie, I was looking forward to getting to know you better.”

“Same here. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As her husband disappeared through the kitchen, Cilla stood up. “What if we have our coffee and dessert in the living room? I’ll light the fire. It’ll be cozy.”

Angie rose and began stacking plates.

“No. Company doesn’t do that.”

“We’re passing the sink anyway, might as well carry something.”

Cilla brought the crockpot and set it on the counter. She punched the button to start a pot of coffee. “I made pumpkin mousse.” Cilla removed a pair of white ceramic ramekins from the fridge.

Angie snatched one of the containers from her hostess’s fingers. “Not on my diet.”

“Same here.” Cilla laughed.

They strolled into the living room carrying the desserts. Cilla stopped at a long wall of artwork obviously done by children. At the top was a picture of each of their three sons. Judging by the similar backgrounds, probably school photos. Below each one, fanned in a rainbow arc, were framed pieces, obviously done at all stages of the boys’ development. A great wall of childhood history.

Cilla pointed to a purple scribble on yellow lined paper. “Brent did this when he was two.” Above this, a cute brown haired boy who looked a lot like Josh, grinned down at them.

“How old is he?”

“In the picture, he’s eight. He’s nineteen as of next week, attending a two-year college in town,” she said with a mother’s obvious pride. “He’s the one Josh went to help with the sofa.” She thumped a finger on the middle group of artwork. “Scott is our middle son. He’s eighteen.” Scott looked a bit like Josh also. The third son had Cilla’s blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked to be about seventeen years old. “You had your boys close together.”

Cilla laughed. “In just over three years. It was quite stressful for a while, as you can imagine.”

“I can only imagine. As I said, we didn’t have children.”

“Didn’t you ever want any?”

Angie’s insides tightened as a whisper of guilt passed through. It had been one of the discussions between she and Will in the early stages of their marriage. He’d wanted kids and she didn’t. It wasn’t till after their divorce that she realized she’d been too self-centered. Kids would’ve gotten in the way of her lifestyle. Kids would’ve messed up the house. The recognition of this flaw in her personality was, as they say, a bitter pill to swallow.

“It just didn’t happen,” was all she could think of saying that wouldn’t bare the painful memory.

Cilla led Angie to a leather sofa and chair set atop a low pile carpet in a pretty cinnamon color. She placed her ramekin on a coaster then went to push the button to turn on the fireplace. “I’ll get the coffee.”

She returned and placed a carved wooden tray on the coffee table. After cups were fixed according to each person’s tastes, Cilla leaned back against the deep cushioned sofa with the dessert.

“You have a very nice house,” Angie said.

“Thanks. We bought it two years ago when we moved here to Nashua. Josh is responsible for most of the decorating. He has great color sense. He told me you live in Alton. I’m not sure where that is.”

“It’s at the very southernmost tip of Lake Winnipesaukee.”

“Nice. We went there on vacation about ten years ago. Do you live right on the lake?”

“No, I have a condo in town.”

“I always pictured living on the water someplace. Not the ocean—I’m frightened of the ocean—but a lake or pond. Something peaceful. That would be nice.”

“I don’t care for the water either. I get seasick.” Angie’s stomach twitched at the confession. She quickly took a bite of the mousse. It was smooth and decadent. She savored the wonderful concoction as it slid down her throat. “Very good.”

“Thanks. Josh told me you’re dating a cop. That’s got to be stressful, always worrying if he’ll get hurt.”

“Alton’s a small town with fairly well behaved people.”

“Except when there’s a murder. Josh mentioned you solved a couple of cases.”

“Helped solve.”

“I don’t really worry about Josh getting hurt at work.”

“Except when there’s a murder,” Angie mimicked her words and they both smiled.

“Except then.”

Cilla’s attention became riveted on the flames licking the ceramic logs in the granite stone fireplace. Angie watched her watching the fire. All at once, Cilla asked, “Who do you think killed Gwen?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean you don’t even suspect anyone?”

How to tell the grieving woman she had deliberately pushed potential clues to the back of her mind? “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be official. It would only be an opinion.”

Cilla faced Angie, tears glistening in her eyes. “I have to know. I have to…” Cilla brushed away the tears and went back to peering into the fire. Yes, the woman was grieving for her friend, but Angie couldn’t help thinking something else was wrong—and that something was the real reason she’d been invited here tonight.

Her mouth spoke before she could stop it. “Is something wrong? Besides Gwen’s murder, I mean.”

Cilla let her head fall back, took in a breath and straightened up. “Josh and I have been going through a rough time. Lately…” Cilla scraped the spoon around the edge of the dessert container, licked the last of the sweetness from it, then set it and the container on the coffee table.

A horrifying thought popped into Angie’s head. Did Cilla suspect her husband of murder? Was that what this was all about? Gosh, she so didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to hear any confession that might be coming.

Cilla turned, tucking one leg on the sofa, to face Angie. “The last of the kids moved out three months ago. I thought Josh and I would have time together, you know, that time when you tighten the bonds that brought you together in the first place. Not only were our kids born in quick succession they also came early in our marriage. We never had time to enjoy life, or each other.” Her eyes roved up and over Angie’s left shoulder. Angie thought she might be looking at the wall of childhood art. After a few seconds her attention returned, focusing on the base of Angie’s throat. Had Jarvis given her a hickey? Angie almost covered the spot with her hand but Cilla looked back onto Angie’s face, and said, “Whenever I bring up doing something…well, like the other day I mentioned going to the movies then getting a motel for the night. To be romantic. Get out of our rut. You know? He practically blew up at me. Called me a nagging bitch.”

Tears welled up in Cilla’s eyes. She blinked a few times and one rolled down each side of her nose. Why was she opening up to a complete stranger? Angie hated when people did that. With her track record, she obviously had no answers to spousal problems.

Deep thought wasn’t necessary. Angie knew why Cilla spoke freely—they were fellow women. Women’s bodies contained an extra gene, the sympathy gene. That sympathy could be turned in many directions, most especially toward each other. Now that her best friend Gwen was gone, Cilla needed somebody. For this evening it was supposed to be Angie.

Okay, for this evening, it would be Angie. Rather than ask the question uppermost in her mind—Do you think Josh killed Gwen—Angie asked, “Any idea why he reacted so strongly?”

“No. None.”

“Don’t answer because this isn’t a question and I’m not prying, but if there’s a money problem, it might make him unwilling to consider doing something…frivolous.”

“We don’t have money troubles. Josh is a good provider.”

Another long bout of silence. This time Cilla’s gazed focused on something on the mantle—perhaps the painted porcelain bowl with a tiny flower design. Pretty. It would look nice in Angie’s condo, on the shelf between the oil and vinegar cruets.

Cilla pulled her attention away from the mantle. “The reason I asked him to invite you tonight was because I thought he was…I thought he was—with you.”

“I’ve only just arrived in town.”

“Yes, but Gwen told me he’s been to your theater several times. She said he tried out for parts in your performances.”

Yes, she guessed it could be construed that way.

Cilla thought they were seeing each other. Angie looked the woman in the eye the way her grandfather always taught her. It was supposed to let a person know you were telling the truth. “Tyson—he’s my partner—handles most, if not all, the casting. My duties lean more toward office work, scheduling, advertising, costumes, set design. Things like that. I promise you, until I arrived in town, I didn’t really even know Josh. Yes, when I met him here, I realized I’d seen him in our place.” Angie clamped her lips closed. She was treading in dangerous territory, in the she doth protest too much category.

Cilla waved off Angie’s protest. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all in my own suspicious mind.”

Angie had thought the conversation would get easier if Josh left. She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.

“That’s the thing. I don’t think Josh is cheating, like having sex with someone.”

So, what did she think was going on? What sort of cheating was there if no sex was involved? And why would she rule out sex? Angie ran scenarios through her head. Outside of the fact that he could be impotent, she couldn’t come up with anything that made sense.

“I know the whole thing sounds stupid,” Cilla said, probably reading Angie’s expression. Everybody always said her face was easy to read.

The comment left an opening where Angie felt comfortable asking, “If you don’t think he’s cheating, what do you think is going on?”

Cilla stood up and walked to the fireplace. She stared down into the flames for a long time.

Why had this couple asked Angie here? Had Josh’s exit been carefully choreographed so she and Cilla could be alone? To divulge, or request, some information. Perhaps they had knowledge of Gwen’s murderer. Some tiny snippet they thought might be related but were hesitant to mention to the police, perhaps because it seemed insignificant, or perhaps they thought it would bring attention on their family.

Best thing to do was wait. Sooner or later the information would come to light.

But it didn’t.

After several minutes that stretched like an hour, Cilla visibly shook off whatever had possessed her, turned and walked to the coffee table. She gathered the dessert dishes and piled them on the tray along with the cups, even though Angie’s was only half empty. The message was clear. It was time to leave.

As awkward as it was, a relieved Angie stood and straightened her skirt. Usually she’d take the things to the kitchen, help with cleanup, but tonight it seemed best to make a rapid departure.

At the door she took Cilla’s soft, uncalloused hand. “I really hope you and Josh get things straightened out. Thanks for inviting me. You have a lovely home. I had a good time.”

“Liar,” Cilla said on a soft laugh. “Dinner was tense and embarrassing. I thought once Josh left things would smooth out. I thought we’d have some nice relaxing girl-talk. You know, swap recipes, things like that.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good at recipe-swapping,” Angie said to ease past the awkward moment. “Since opening the theater over a year ago, I’ve practically lived on fast food and frozen dinners.”

Cilla didn’t fall into the meager attempt at humor. “I had to go and spout off like a baby.”

Angie touched Cilla’s arm. “It’s been a very tense time for you.”

“You’re very nice to say that. I feel awful for the way the conversation went. Maybe I can make it up to you. Could we get together for coffee or something tomorrow?”

Everything inside Angie screamed that this was a bad idea, that whatever Cilla had been unable say tonight was best kept in this house. Unfortunately Angie’s brain didn’t agree because, before she could clamp her lips together, her mouth said, “Sure, I’d like that. I’ll tell you a few embarrassing things, then we’ll be even.”

Cilla opened the door, laughing. “I can’t imagine you have embarrassing moments.”

“Then you’ve severely misjudged me. Thanks again.” Angie stepped quickly outside. If she got out before a date for tomorrow’s coffee was set, she’d be off the hook.

As usual, her luck didn’t hold up because Cilla said, “Twelve-thirty at Farina’s?”

“Sounds good.”

Cilla remained on the front stoop until Angie backed out of the driveway and blinked the headlights. She heaved a sigh that cleared her lungs. Angie maneuvered the car along the city streets back to the hotel. She stopped trying to figure out what the heck just happened and let herself relax. The evening was over. All could be left behind—till tomorrow at 12:30.

Angie couldn’t squelch the idea racing through her brain, that there was something strange about the Philmores, or at least with Cilla. The couple was hiding something. Something each of them wanted out in the open, but at the same time, wanted to remain secret. Again came the thought that this couple knew something about the death of Cilla’s best friend.

TWENTY-FOUR

Angie pulled into a spot in the hotel garage. She still felt wound up from…well, from either the delicious mousse or the freaky situation with the Philmores. She wasn’t ready to go upstairs. She changed into walking shoes from a bag she always kept in the back seat and set off at a brisk walk, east on Tara Boulevard, reveling in the brisk air on her face. She wished for a heavier jacket but right now needed to burn off extra energy.

She passed an all-night restaurant called Farina’s—the one where she was to meet Cilla tomorrow—and almost stopped in to pick up a muffin to heat for breakfast. But she kept walking, planning to tick off about a mile on her internal odometer. Who was she kidding? It wasn’t sugar levels that needed burning off, it was the weirdness of the evening.

What was up with Cilla? First she mentioned suspecting Josh of cheating and then took it all back as though returning a defective coffee machine. She acted remorseful and embarrassed for even bringing up the subject. So, was Josh cheating or not? How can any woman be sure her man is being faithful? It had been the last thing Angie expected from Will and look what happened there. A pang of unresolved anger pushed into her veins and Angie walked faster, rubber soles striking the pavement with muffled thumps.

Cilla and Josh had been married a long time. The stress of life and family began early. They never really got to know each other, to build the familiarity needed to relax and be themselves before life swarmed at them. Angie had the idea Cilla walked on tiptoe around Josh, always wanting to please, never doing anything for herself. The one time she’d gotten the courage to ask for something—the night together at a hotel—he’d shot her down.

Finally Angie’s frustration burnt itself out. She turned and retraced her steps on the opposite side of the street for some different scenery. Not too many shops were vacant in this part of town. With such a nice hotel in their midst, they wouldn’t be, would they? That was another way she’d changed. Last year she would’ve made a point to go inside these shops, to browse till her feet were blistered and bleeding. Tonight, Angie only took note of the stores as scenery, something to keep away the boredom—and the puzzle of Gwen Forest’s death—at bay.

Outside the hotel’s entrance Angie dialed Jarvis’ number. The call didn’t go through. There was plenty of signal. Her battery was okay. What was up with that?

Oh well, she was too tired to worry about it tonight. She only wanted to make sure he got home safely anyway. She pictured Jarvis and Red tucked into the big bed in the freshly painted bedroom in the little ranch at the end of that dead-end street. Safe. Rested. Immersed in a murder investigation in somebody else’s jurisdiction. Because of her. Well, this time it had been none of her doing.

Angie whooshed upstairs in the elevator. Normally she’d take the stairs but didn’t want to reawaken her adrenaline. She undressed and slid between the sheets, pulling the fluffy duvet up to her chin.

She woke with a start, flew into a sitting position, eyes wide in the dark-as-charcoal room. The red LED on the bedside clock clicked from 3:35 to 3:36. Most times, when she woke like this in a hotel, it was because of some sound in the hallway, or the flushing of a toilet in an adjoining room. Right now, the building seemed quiet.

Wait, hadn’t she pushed that chair straight under the table? She squinted at it, trying to remember.

Maybe. She recalled sitting on the chair to remove her shoes. But couldn’t remember standing from it, let alone pushing the thing in place. It was the kind of movement, in her neatnik mode, as Jarvis called it, that she did automatically.

What about the brass lock on the door? Pushing that in place was automatic too, wasn’t it? When a person entered their room for the night, it was the last thing they did. Try as she might, Angie couldn’t remember touching the bolt. What was the difference—nobody would want to break in here. Over and over she’d made it clear she had nothing to do with the case. She’d been careful to do only things related to the production of the play. The fact that she socialized with key people in the case wouldn’t be a contradiction at all. The thought made her grin.

As she sat in the dark, the duvet clutched against her chest she knew what woke her. It was nothing to do with crooked chairs or toilets flushing. It was something that happened at the Philmores’. Or something one of them had said. But what?

Angie lay back and sought the answer on the ceiling as the evening’s events replayed on the stark white rectangle. And came up with nothing.

She woke to the alarm beeping at 7 a.m. The day of the first performance had arrived. Two more days and she’d be back in her normal life. Normal? What a joke. Fifteen months ago, her life ceased being normal. The day she gave Will that fiftieth birthday fishing trip, things had been forever changed. This life—this crazy schedule at the theater—was the new norm. Not a bad thing usually.

After a shower, Angie settled at the table with a cup of coffee, made there in the room. Though the school was footing the hotel bill she didn’t take advantage of room service. The coffee from the tiny coffeemaker wasn’t bad, but that powdered creamer left something to be desired. She opened the drapes and stood there fingering the pretty sapphire pendant and looking out at the city street below. Right now the traffic was moving faster than the pedestrians.

Her phone rang. The caller ID said it was Tyson. She answered with a jolly, “Mornin’ pardner. How’s our little diva doing?”

“Fine for now. I gave her yesterday off so I could work with the understudies.” He laughed. “You should’ve seen her face when I said she could take the day off. At first she looked happy, then this layer of suspicion glazed over. I walked away expecting to feel claws in the back of my neck.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“Not to me. I heard her asking the others if they got the day off too.” He gave a sigh that came through the cell phone as a hiss. “Why didn’t we hire Lynn instead?”

Angie didn’t reply.

“I thought about hiding in the wings with a baseball bat and…oh, never mind, breaking her legs wouldn’t solve anything.”

Angie laughed. Tyson was usually a mild mannered guy. Marie must be even worse than Angie thought.

“I guess I’ll hold off hurting her for now.”

“I’ll come back this afternoon and talk to her.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I do. You know it and I know it. The sooner it’s done, the better.”

“How was your dinner with—what was their name again?”

“Philmore. It was delicious.”

“Did they bombard you with questions about the murder?”

“As a matter of fact, neither said much of anything.” Which, Angie just realized, was the whole problem. Gwen and Cilla had been best friends. Gwen was devastated at her loss. And yet, when someone is brought on the scene ostensibly to solve the case, she asks only if Angie has any idea who did it, but when no answer came, she didn’t press the issue. Didn’t ask a single question more.

“Angie!”

“I’m here. Sorry. What did you say?”

“Never mind.”

Angie sat in the chair to put her shoes on. “Anything new besides Diva Marie?”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. The ticket order didn’t come in. The distributor stopped carrying the makeup we use. And, oh yes, my stockbroker buddy bought four season tickets.”

She stood and made sure to tuck both chairs squarely under the table. “Four season tickets—isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?”

“Would be, except his check bounced.”

Damn. “Any of ours bounce as a result?”

“Not yet. So, how’re things on your end? Solve that case yet?”

“Tyson.”

“I know, I know.”

“I have some news. I found us a girl Friday. She can write, she can act and she’s willing to do about anything backstage.”

“Tell me more!”

Angie told Tyson about Kiana and her need for credits toward her scholarship.

“Have her come in after school on Monday,” he said. “We’ll show her around. We have plenty for her to do. Maybe I can set her on Diva Marie.”

“Marie will be gone by then. Besides, let’s not alienate the girl right away.”

“Right. Best to let her see the bad side of things, so she knows what she’s in for.”

“Believe me, after this past week, she knows. On top of all the stuff going on here, she’s got personal troubles too.”

“She gonna bring them here when she comes?”

“I doubt it. That’s what’s impressed me about her. No matter what’s going on, she handles it with style.”

“Any idea what the problem is?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will. You will,” Tyson chuckled.

Angie opened the top dresser drawer and reached in for her red scarf. The scarf was all bunched up—not folded neatly the way she’d left it. Maybe it got caught on something when she closed the drawer last night. She’d been so tired, most of the evening was a blur. She picked up the scarf. Something heavy held it down so she pulled until the lightweight silk came free. The brown and gold scarf underneath was bunched up too. What was going on?

Wait, she didn’t have a brown and gold scarf. Angie looked closer. “Oh my gosh.”

She vaguely heard Tyson’s shouting voice in her ear, but couldn’t answer because her attention was riveted on the enormous snake peering at her, its bulbous face looped through one of her bra straps.

TWENTY-FIVE

Evan stopped the bike at Mine Falls Park. Dawn was just creeping between the trees in a mottled display of greys and yellows. The weatherman said it would be cold and blustery today, but right now it was calm and clear—two things Kiana definitely didn’t feel.

He drew two steaming cups of hot chocolate from a holder on the handlebars and led her along one of the many paths through the park. They found a bench overlooking one of the canals and sat wordless for several minutes. Something was wrong with him. It wasn’t the not-talking, they never spoke much early in the mornings, it was more in his demeanor. On the bike, he rode stiff and formal beneath her arms around his waist. In line at the coffee shop he gazed around like a zombie.

What reason would he give today to quit investigating? Too much danger or he didn’t like the sour news they kept turning up?

They’d always been able to talk about anything, even internal emotions. At one time or another she thought they had discussed about every topic—even politics. Kiana realized yesterday that a conversation on homosexuality had never come up. She wondered if Evan was grossed out mostly because it was Mr. Reynolds, the school principal. Maybe the news wouldn’t have been so momentous if it was somebody more obscure in the school. Like that janitor.

To her right, Evan sat on the bench with his forearms on his thighs, the hot chocolate clutched in his hands. So far, he hadn’t touched it. Well, she wouldn’t make this easy on him. If he was about to drop another bomb, she would wait him out.

After a while Evan sat up straight, pulling the cup close and raising it up. She expected him to finally drink but he set the cup on the bench between them and stood. Kiana was about to ask what was wrong when she saw the movement down the path. Two people had strolled up and sat on a bench about forty feet away. Kiana would bet money that other couple wasn’t here to discuss a murder investigation. Or homosexual principals.

Evan stepped behind a tall bush. What was up with him? She turned her gaze away thinking he had to go to the bathroom. But when a suitable amount of time passed and she dared look again, he’d disappeared. She located his dark shadow behind another bush. Kiana couldn’t believe her eyes; he was sneaking up on those people.

Curious, Kiana rose and tiptoed along behind him. Through the shrubbery, she had occasional glimpses of the silhouetted couple. They sat close, upper arms and legs touching. The woman was almost equal to the man in height. She had on a dark color knit hat and a heavy coat. The hat bulged, which meant she either had a lot of hair or long hair tucked inside. The man was clean-shaven with short hair and glasses. He was wearing a parka of some kind, with fur around the hood. Something about him was familiar. Kiana caught up with Evan at a bush covered in tiny leaves. Under the leaves were clusters of long thorns that pricked her hands and wrists.

The couple bent their heads bent together talking in low tones. Kiana couldn’t distinguish their words but the way the man tilted his head when he talked—

When Evan’s hand clamped over her mouth she realized she’d gasped in recognition. The couple stopped the conversation and turned to stare in their direction. The man stood up and walked toward them.

Kiana pushed Evan’s hand away from her mouth and took a step. She wasn’t sure where she’d go but Plan A formed in her head. A simple plan that involved running very fast in the opposite direction. Surely she and Evan could outrun old people. After all, they had to be in their forties.

The woman stood up too, and called out that it was probably a squirrel. The man laughed and went back to sit down.

Kiana chuckled inside. Of course, it had to be an animal. No way would anyone else, potential witnesses to this clandestine meeting, be out at five in the morning.

The couple returned to their low-toned talk. Kiana barely noticed because another recognition had taken place. When the woman stood up, Kiana realized she’d seen her before too. But where?

Evan tugged on Kiana’s sleeve. He wanted to leave. Embarrassed at catching illicit lovers or scared of being caught catching them? She wasn’t sure. But she had to know more. She yanked her jacket out of his grip and moved in a low crouch to another bush. The couple had relaxed and resumed talking.

“I thought you were going to call today,” the man said.

“Sorry, I had rehearsal. And I spent the afternoon moving things. You know about the move, right?”

“Of course. How’d rehearsal go?”

“Same as usual.”

“You excited about the show?”

She leaned away a moment so she could look up at him. “Sure.”

“Not nervous?”

She looked up at him again. “No. Why so many questions?”

Kiana fell back on her haunches. This scene wasn’t at all as she originally thought, a meeting between two lovers. Well, it was, but the reality of it was growing at an alarming rate. This person in the knit hat wasn’t, as Kiana originally thought, an adult keeping warm. She was a student from the school—acting in Kiana’s own play—and wearing the hat to disguise her identity. To hide the fact that she was dating an adult! A person employed by Carlson South High School.

She turned to see if Evan had made the identification also, but he had disappeared. When Kiana again focused on the couple, they were walking along the path, back the way they’d come. She rose from her hiding spot and followed.

She stopped on the edge of the parking lot. They stopped between their cars, ducked their heads together a moment, probably for a kiss good-bye, though Kiana couldn’t tell from this far away. Each got into their cars and drove away. Kiana took special notice of the girl’s car. Tomorrow she would seek out this girl. Why? Maybe to talk some sense into her. It was illegal for students to date teachers, wasn’t it?

The only other vehicle in the parking lot was Evan’s motorcycle. Where was he? Skirting the perimeter of the lot, in case some rapist came, she made her way to the bike. Just then, somebody hissed at her from behind. It was Evan. He hurried toward her.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“I wanted to leave.”

“But you knew I’d kill you if I had to walk home from here,” she said, climbing on the motorbike.

“You’re going home?”

“Yeah. I want to take a shower.”

As Evan chugged toward her house, Kiana put thoughts of students messing with adults aside for a moment and wondered about Mr. Reynolds. It must be hard hiding a secret such as his. Hard to find somebody to go out with. Did he go to gay bars—things like that? Was there a gay bar in Carlson? Kiana didn’t think so, but there had to be several in Nashua.

The question was, did it matter? Could Mr. Reynolds’ possible relationship with another man have anything to do with Gwen’s murder?

TWENTY-SIX

The tongue flicked and the snake tilted its head. Angie slammed the drawer and backed away from the dresser even though the snake was too big to get out any of the tiny openings around the drawer.

Eyes riveted to the dresser she ran to the phone on the bedside table and dialed 9. When the operator answered she said, “I need help in room 554. There’s a snake in my dresser.”

“A snake, ma’am?”

“Yes. You know, big long and slimy, with scales and venom.”

Several second’s silence was followed by, “I’ll send someone right up.”

“Send a manager too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the police.”

More hesitation and then, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Angie, will you tell me what the hell is going on there?” Tyson was shouting. Probably he’d done so more than once.

Angie shook herself like a dog getting out of the water, hung up the table phone then said as calmly into the cell phone as she could, “There’s a snake in my dresser drawer.”

She had to give him credit; he didn’t question her like the operator had. He said, “Get out of the room, you don’t know what else has been done there.”

“I have to wait for management.”

She sat on the bed, making sure to keep at least one eye on the top drawer just in case it was some sort of magical snake and could osmose itself out of there. Maybe Tyson was right and she should leave. More than likely the snake was just meant to frighten her, which it had. But no way would she let whomever did it know.

“Make them give you another room.”

“Don’t worry. They’re gonna have to give me new underwear too.”

“Did you piss yourself?” he said. “I would’ve.”

“No, the thing’s in my underwear drawer. Tyson, you should see it, it’s got to be twenty feet long. It was looking up at me like I was invading its territory. No way I’m wearing those again.”

“I could make a joke here, but you’d probably hurt me when you got home.”

“No doubt.”

The knock on the door, though expected, startled her into almost dropping the phone. “They’re here,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

“Not yet. First, make sure that’s who it is.”

She asked, “Who else would it be?” but he’d been through enough with her to know anyone could be standing on the other side of that door.

Angie stood and went to stick an eye against the tiny peephole. Two men stood in the hall. One wore a brown sports jacket and blue tie—yuk. The other wore a blue uniform shirt and carried a cardboard box.

“I think it’s them,” she said.

“Don’t hang up till you’re sure,” he said.

“Okay.” Angie opened the door.

The one with the sports jacket said in a voice just above a whisper, “You reported a snake in your room?”

“Yes.” She backed so they could come in. “I asked for the police too.”

“I want to assess the situation before I call them,” said the manager. “Where is this snake?”

He said it as though he believed she’d merely had a nightmare, that no way could a reptile be in his hotel. She didn’t argue. He’d see soon enough.

“It’s in the top left hand drawer.” She didn’t bother whispering.

They stepped into the room and shut the door. Angie almost recommended leaving it open in case they had to make a run for cover.

“Is the snake alive?” the manager asked in a normal tone now.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“How big is it?”

“Well, it was all in a pile because I dumped it out of my scarf.” She pointed to the red silk lying on the floor in front of the dresser. “My brother had a snake whose head was about that big and it was eight feet long.” Even though she’d told Tyson it was twenty…

The manager’s brown eyebrows disappeared into the crinkles in his forehead. The one in the uniform shirt shrugged as if snakes were all in a day’s work. He pushed aside her hairbrush and jewelry case on the dresser top and set the cardboard box on the shiny surface. He pointed to the drawer in question. “Here?”

She nodded.

He gestured for the sports coat guy to turn on the overhead light then also pulled a penlight flashlight from his pocket. Safely armed with all the lighting he could need to save them from the monster in the dresser, he inched open the drawer and shined the small light inside. And nodded.

Good, now they all knew she hadn’t called them here for some sort of weird sex orgy.

He opened the drawer further. And further. Angie squeezed back against the wall as he laid the light on the dresser then reached toward the drawer. Angie fought the urge to close her eyes—movie scenes flashed into her head, of creatures leaping out and leaving everyone in the room a gory mess. Then it was up to the forensics guys to figure out what happened.

Perhaps she should’ve done as Tyson suggested after all and gotten the heck out of there.

She’d forgotten Tyson. She put the phone to her ear. “You still there?”

“Yeah. Everything all right?”

“So far.”

The man’s hand disappeared into the drawer. Angie held her breath till he lifted the thing out, one hand gripping it behind the head, the other holding it about halfway down the long, smooth length. He lifted it high and set it in the box. There was a bit of a struggle when the snake realized it was being shut into another small place, but the man managed to get it in without incident. He brushed both hands together in an easy as pie gesture. “Gentle as a lamb,” he said.

“I’ll take the lamb next time if you don’t mind.”

“Is this your brother’s snake?”

“What?”

“You said your brother had one.”

“My brother had a snake when he was ten. He’s in his forties now.”

“I hear snakes live a long time.”

“This isn’t my brother’s snake!”

“How did it get in here?” the manager asked.

“How the heck should I know?” Angie told herself to calm down. Be rational and they’d listen better. “Something woke me around three-thirty. That had to be when the intruder got in. Needless to say I’m not impressed with your security. Now I’d like you to phone the police.”

“I don’t think we—”

“Well, I do. If you don’t call them, I will. Now.”

“Atta girl,” Tyson said in her ear.

“Tyson, I’ll let you go now, the situation’s under control.”

“Okay. If you need anything gimme a holler.”

“Thanks partner.”

The manager had gone to the phone and was talking to someone.

“Who would put the snake here?” the worker asked.

“I don’t have any idea, but I appreciate you taking it out.”

“This snake has been somebody’s pet. He’s used to being handled. A snake this species, and size, is worth a lot of money.”

“Well,” she said as the manager hung up the phone, “I think you deserve to keep him as payment for doing such a good job.”

The manager nodded agreement. Why not? It saved him the responsibility of disposing of it. “The police are on the way,” he said.

“Look, I know you don’t want cops all over, but I work at the high school—”

“Where that teacher was murdered?” the worker interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Why are you staying at our hotel?” Did she detect a trace of suspicion in his voice? Like maybe her house was overrun with snakes and she moved here to get away from them?

“I am standing in for the teacher who died.”

The manager didn’t try to conceal his concern that the hotel was about to host the next murder.

“How about you switch me to another room and make sure it’s kept secret. Change my name on the registry so none of your staff can inadvertently give out my name. I’m sure you do it for dignitaries all the time.”

“What name are you registered under now?”

“Probably Carlson South High School, or something of that nature.” She gave her name anyway.

“I will facilitate the change immediately. Also, I will see to it your things are laundered.”

“Fumigated too.”

A knock came on the door. The manager opened it to a man wearing jeans and a very nice western style shirt. He showed a badge, said, “I’m Detective Rodriguez,” then stepped inside. His dark hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck. He shook hands with the manager. “I hear you’ve got an unwanted intruder.” His eyes came to rest on Angie and he smiled. What was that all about?

The manager gestured toward the box on the dresser. “Ken, you can take that thing home if you’d like. Unless the officer needs to see it. As evidence.”

“I really should take a look,” Rodriguez said.

The worker handed the officer the small flashlight. He nudged up a corner of the box and squinted inside. After a second he let go of the box, handed back the flashlight and smiled at Angie. It wasn’t a flirty smile—it was more of a knowing grin. Again she wondered what was going on.

The worker picked up the box. The manager held the door for the man to leave but remained standing there. “If there’s nothing else…”

“I’ll stop and see you on my way out,” the detective said.

“Thanks,” Angie said to the hotel men. She shut the door and faced the cop who now held a notebook and pen. Angie gave a play-by-play of her time since waking at 3:35 a.m. Detective Rodriguez wrote everything down, asked all the obvious questions, and received the same answers she’d given the hotel people.

Fifteen minutes later, he slapped the notebook shut. “I guess we’re done.”

“Why did they send a detective and not a regular officer?”

“I happened to be closest.”

Angie gathered up her purse and jacket. He held the door for her; they went out together. “Okay, so what was that look for?”

He asked, “What look?” even though it was clear he knew what she meant. “I met with Detective Jarvis late last night.”

Ugh. He must know Jarvis had just left her hotel room. Her face grew warm. Gosh, she wasn’t blushing, was she?

Thank goodness they’d reached the stairs. She opened the stairwell door and stepped into the echoing chamber, which earned a frown from the cop. Realizing he had no intention of taking the stairs, she said, “Meet you in the lobby,” and let the door swing shut.

Which was a very bad idea because on the landing sat an enormous, furry spider. She eased open the door, even though everything inside her screamed to run like hell, and backed into the hallway. The officer was just stepping into the elevator.

“Detective,” she called.

His hand flashed out to keep the door from closing. He ran over. She pointed through the small, rectangular window. Detective Rodriguez looked, then backed up to open the door. She let him go into the stairwell alone but stood ready to yank open the door in case he needed to make a quick exit.

Through the little window, she watched him approach the spider. He knelt beside it, which seemed a really stupid thing to do. Weren’t the furry ones poisonous?

Had the thing been left for her? Couldn’t be. Dozens of people must use the stairs each day. The officer stood up and came toward her. She opened the door. Behind him, the spider lay on the floor.

“It’s dead,” he said.

“Did you kill it?”

“No.” Then he smiled. “Jarvis said trouble followed you everywhere. Don’t know why I doubted him.”

He drew out a cell phone, referred to his notebook for a phone number, and called down to hotel management to ask for someone to bring up another box. Angie smiled hearing the manager’s frustrated sigh come through the phone. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that another room would no longer be available to her.

“So, who else knows you’re afraid of elevators?”

That’s what he thought? “I’m not afraid of them. I like the exercise taking the stairs. Most mornings at home I jog a little more than three miles.”

“Who knows that about you?”

“Nobody here in Nashua.” She shifted the handbag strap on her shoulder. “I have to go, I’ll be late for school.”

“Have a good day. If I find out anything I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Angie started to step over the spider then thought better of it. “I’ll take the elevator.”

Rodriguez laughed.

“You think I’ll find something dead there too?”

“No. I was already in there. It’s clear.” He took her arm and escorted her to the elevator and punched the down button. While they waited for it to return, he scribbled his cell number on a sheet from his notebook. “I have the feeling you’ll need this.”

The doors slid open. He made an impressive gesture of leaning inside and peering into every corner, including the ceiling. Then he bowed grandly. “My lady. Your carriage awaits.”

The doors swung shut. As the car descended, she tucked the phone number into the change compartment of her handbag. Then she hitched the bag onto her shoulder. But when the little white light flashed from 3 to 2 Angie realized something—she had told someone of her habit of using the stairs.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Jarvis stood in the kitchen window watching the first sign of dawn morph over his backyard fence. The scene changed by the minute. Amazing how many colors of the spectrum showed up if you stood there long enough. Many times over the years, he’d run to get the camera to capture its magnificence, only to find that when he returned, it was all changed. Sometimes it was gone completely. On the lawn, in near darkness, Irish Red romped and sniffed. She finally selected a spot and did her business. Then she pranced to the back door. Jarvis let her in, unable to see but knowing wet footprints decorated the tile floor. He laughed imagining Angelina’s reaction. Red raced to her bowl and crunched away at breakfast.

The coffeepot chugged the last drops into the carafe. He filled the largest mug from the cabinet and took it to his comfortable chair in the living room. He read the paper, watched the news, opened a book and shut it again. All to kill time. To keep from thinking about the most important thing on the docket today. The thing that had kept him awake all night.

It had nothing to do with work-related issues. It didn’t even have anything to do with the danger Angelina might be in. The problem: Jarvis needed a suit, a dress suit, for tonight’s performance. There was one in the closet. Angelina had bought it for him the night of the theater’s first performance because he hadn’t purchased a since item of clothing—not even underwear—since Liz died eleven years ago. The closet was full of worn jeans and sports shirts of all colors, except pink. He’d had one that Liz bought but Angelina hated pink and tossed it in the trash.

Did the occasion call for the rental of a tux? Angelina would know stuff like that. One small deterrent: he didn’t want her to know he was apparel challenged. Okay, so she already knew, but this one time he wanted to do it right without her help. Maybe his dependence on her was what held her back from accepting his marriage proposal.

Who else was there to ask? It had to be somebody who wouldn’t report back to Angelina. Sergeant Wilson? No, when not in uniform Ambrose was a jeans and sweatshirt guy. Same with all the guys at the department—even the captain. Jarvis could ask the dispatcher, she might know, but there was also a good chance she’d tattle to Angelina.

Funny that he had no dress clothes. He and Liz dressed up all the time. What was it with people these days? If it wasn’t a wedding or funeral, people wore only jeans. A shame really. Nothing sexier than a woman in spike heels and an evening dress—which had his insides pulsing at the thought of what Angelina might wear tonight. He hoped it was that teal dress she’d worn the night of Prince & Pauper’s opening. It had a V back that went almost to her butt crack. Jarvis adjusted his jeans and forced his thoughts to the issue at hand.

He could ask Rodriguez. The idea of the ponytailed detective knowing about evening wear had him laughing out loud. Last resort: Angelina’s partner Tyson. He would definitely know what to wear. And just maybe he could be trusted not to rat him out.

Jarvis’ cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID number, except that it came from another cell. He did, though, recognize the timid hello.

“Kiana.”

“I’m sorry to call so early.”

“That’s all right, I was awake. Is everything all right?” Of course, everything wasn’t all right. She wouldn’t be calling.

“Um…”

“Just spit it out. What did you and Evan get yourselves into?”

“We um…we were…”

“Investigating. Yes, I get it.”

“We were in Mine Falls Park. That’s near the school.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Talking.” When he didn’t reply, her tone grew defensive. “Really. We were talking about what to do next on the case. Anyway, this couple came and sat a few benches away.”

Jarvis knew where this was headed. Either they recognized the couple or overheard something juicy. He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. Irish Red appeared. She shoved her head in his crotch. He pushed her away and fondled her long ears while Kiana related the events from the park.

“You sure you recognized both of them?”

“Yes, well, I don’t know who she is exactly. But she goes to my school. Tomorrow I’ll figure out who she is.”

“Describe her again, would you?”

“I didn’t see her up close, and it was dark. She was tall and kinda thin. She had on a hat, knitted, a dark color. It looked bulky so I figure she had a lot of hair or it was long and all pushed up inside, you know?”

“Did she have any distinguishing characteristics?”

“Like an accent or walking with a limp? Not that I could tell.”

All at once Jarvis felt like he’d seen her also. He’d only been to the school once, just after the fire. He’d met up with some of the kids in the parking lot as they were leaving. He had to have seen her then. He wracked his brain but couldn’t come up with a solid image.

“What happened after that?”

“I sneaked up on them. I had to hear what they were saying.” When Jarvis made no response she added, “You would’ve too. Wouldn’t you?”

“What I would’ve done isn’t the issue.”

“I know. But I had to hear what they said. It could’ve been related to Gw—Ms. Forest’s murder.”

“Was it?”

“I…I don’t know.” She repeated the conversation she’d overheard. Unfortunately Jarvis could see no connection between their words and the case and he said so.

“You have to agree it bears looking into.”

“I will. If you’ll promise one thing.”

“I won’t promise not to investigate any more so don’t even ask.”

“I want you to promise to stay away from those people. Just in case they figure out you were the one in the park.”

“I can only stay away from one. The other—”

“Yes, I know. Just promise, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, go to school. If I don’t see you before the show, have a great time.”

“You’re supposed to tell me to break a leg.”

“I know, but the way things are going, you just might.”

They hung up laughing. As Jarvis went to finish getting ready to go out, he tried reaching Rodriguez. When the call went to voice mail he hung up.

He loaded Irish Red into the Jeep and headed for the station, praying nothing had come up that’d keep him in town tonight. He wished he lived closer to Carlson. Being this far from Angelina—and now worrying about those reckless kids—made him uneasy.

* * * *

For once the only person in the police station was the dispatcher. She looked up from a crossword puzzle. “What’s an eight letter word for food of the deities?”

Jarvis thought as Red scampered around the small dispatch room, sliding on the tiled floor. Finally he said, “Ambrosia.”

She checked to see if the word fit in the available space. “Thanks. Hey, I got something on that search you asked me to do.” She handed him several sheets paper clipped together.

“Thanks. I’m going back to check my messages, want to keep an eye on Red a few minutes?”

She ruffled the dog’s ears. “’Course.” She picked up the new toy, wiggled it under Red’s nose, said, “Get it, girl!” and flung it down the hallway. Red’s big brown eyes followed the sailing toy. When it thunked off the far wall she tilted her head at the dispatcher as if to ask what the heck was going on.

Jarvis laughed and headed for his office where there were no voicemails.

He strode back down the hall, picked up the toy, waved bye to the dispatcher, called to Red and went outside. He hefted the dog into the Jeep then dialed Rodriguez’s cell number. Again there was no answer. How odd. Last night at the diner, the phone had been strapped to his belt. He’d made a joke about it being a permanent appendage. Jarvis’s adrenaline spiked. With trembling fingers, he dialed Angelina’s cell, even though she most always kept her phone turned off. He left a message saying he couldn’t wait to see her later.

Then he drove to the Alton diner and took the sheaf of papers inside. The owner, Margie was already pouring a mug of coffee on the back table. They chatted a moment about the weather, and about tonight’s performance, then Margie headed to the kitchen, calling to husband Joel that they needed to order something—once she disappeared from sight, her words got absorbed into the sound of the exhaust fans.

Jarvis pulled off the paperclip and spread out the six pages. They appeared to be a compilation of the interviews Rodriguez’s men had done. From Gwen Forest’s school acquaintances to her neighbors, and owners of shops she was known to frequent.

Two looked like they hadn’t been followed up properly: Gwen’s college roommate Debbie Fingerman, and the gym. It appeared that Gwen had gone there nearly every morning before school. Already several days into the case, this should’ve been done. Since he couldn’t reach either Angelina or Rodriguez, he decided to head for the gym on his own. But first, the tux.

On the short drive to the theater, Jarvis couldn’t get out of his head that something was wrong. Something had happened to Angelina. Or one of the kids. Rodriguez didn’t answer his phone because he was on-scene, and didn’t want Jarvis worrying.

No. Calm down. Somebody would call. To be sure, he checked messages in his cell. He also dialed the answering machine at his house and the voicemail at the office.

Of course! The reason Rodriguez didn’t answer was that he was sleeping after working the night shift. Not everyone was like Jarvis and didn’t sleep a wink till the case was tied with a pretty red ribbon.

Jarvis parked in the Prince & Pauper lot and got out, telling the dog he’d be right back. He was ten feet from the building when he heard the first angry shouts. Wow, that was some realistic rehearsal. He wondered if he sounded as authentic when he acted in that first show. The front door was unlocked.

Nobody was in the lobby. Nothing unusual there, the action was at the back of the building.

He pulled open the door at the top of the auditorium and stepped onto the left-hand aisle. There was nobody in the auditorium. Odd, he’d assumed they were on stage.

Jarvis picked up his pace, taking long strides down the aisle and up the three steps leading to the hallway, which led to the backstage area. He was thoroughly familiar with the layout of the place since he’d been hoodwinked into acting in the company’s first show. It was laughable that they’d cast him as a burglar. But the newspaper reviews had been flattering. There had even been a picture of him wearing the worn leather jacket and black hooded mask. Angelina bought several copies. She’d framed three: one for the theater’s front lobby, one for her front entryway. The third she’d presented to him. He’d left it on the table under a pile of old mail, then finally, when she mentioned it, hung it in a remote corner of his kitchen.

The shouting was louder now, and angrier. It seemed to be coming from the green room. There were so many voices he couldn’t pick out specific words. Sounded like a brawl brewing. Something heavy thumped the wall to his right. Were they throwing things? Cop training brought him alert and he hurried into the dimness of the long hallway that joined the stage to the dressing areas. He warned himself to be careful; he’d look pretty silly bursting in on a rehearsal.

Something whizzed past his right ear. Jarvis ducked. Okay, probably this wasn’t rehearsal.

“That’s enough!” Tyson yelled.

“You can’t do this to me!” said a female voice. “I won’t stand for it.”

Then came a chorus of shouting mostly trying to calm the situation.

Jarvis had the idea one person had gone on a rampage and a bunch of others were trying to stop it. And they were losing.

Something flew through the air. It struck the left hand brick wall, shattered and struck the floor. Jarvis patted his hip where his gun would be, remembered he wasn’t on duty, and stepped into total bedlam.

A dozen or so people were gathered in the long narrow room that spanned behind the main stage. All the people were in varying stages of dress and undress. Most all were shouting. A tall, lean woman, with her back to him, moved left one step at a time, coming ever closer to him. He realized she was making for the exit.

She held a crystal vase over her head. It was obvious she planned to heave it. Jarvis leaped forward and snatched the thing from her hands. A growl erupted from her throat and in one movement she spun and launched herself at him. Jarvis raised an elbow and jabbed her in the throat. She dropped like a stone. He handed the vase into nearby hands and stood over the prone and very angry woman. Even in a position of defeat she’d lost none of her spunk. “Who the hell do you think you are!”

Jarvis displayed his badge. Her anger wilted, but only a bit. “Get up,” he told her.

She obeyed, fire shooting from her bright green eyes—he’d bet they were contacts. A red-faced Tyson elbowed through the gathering of people, who’d quieted. Help had arrived.

“What’s going on here?” Jarvis asked.

Everyone started talking at once. He caught a few words. Enough to know the woman on the floor had caused a heck of a lot of trouble—and not only today.

Tyson raised a hand and the noise shushed. “Everyone, let’s call it a day,” he said softly. He waited a moment as the crowd backed away, some disappointed not to be able to see the outcome. The angry woman moved back also. Tyson shook his head. “Except you, Marie.”

She kept moving anyway. Jarvis physically stopped her with a hand on her upper arm.

“Don’t touch me you piece of—”

“Tyson, are you filing charges for any of this?”

He thought a moment. Jarvis thought it was more to calm himself than a hesitation. “No, I just want her out of here.”

“You can’t do this to me, I’m the star of this show!”

Jarvis winced. “Did you officially fire her?”

“That’s what started this whole thing. She won’t leave. The rest of the cast was ‘helping’ her go.”

“You were instigating trouble,” she said. “They don’t want me to go. Neither does Angie.”

“Yes we do,” came shouts from the dressing rooms.

“So does Angie,” Tyson said.

“No,” she said but the steam had gone from her, even her bouffant hairdo seemed to droop.

“This isn’t Broadway,” Tyson said, his mood gaining momentum. “From day one you started telling me how to run my show.”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Tyson continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I put up with it because it’s easier when things go smoothly and frankly, when you behave, you’re a damned good actress. But lately it’s gotten so I hate coming to work because I’ll have to listen to your complaining and the rest of the cast’s grumbling about you.”

“Well I never—”

“Looks like you have now,” Jarvis said. “Get your things together and take a hike. If I hear of you showing your face here again, I’ll arrest you and throw every citation I can think of at you. Now git.”

She slinked into the dressing room. Immediately Tyson and Jarvis realized in unison that putting her in the same room as the rest of the cast was a bad idea. They started for the door as a new battle erupted.

This one was quickly dispersed. Smirking cast members lined the walls as defrocked Diva Marie snatched up her belongings. Someone held the door open. Before she stepped through she turned, smiled, and gave one final soliloquy, “It’s all right. I am finished here.” And then she was gone.

Everyone cheered and high-fived as the door slammed shut.

“Okay, wait till her car’s gone, then everybody go home. Come in at ten instead of nine in the morning. Becky?” A pretty woman, though not so striking as Marie, moved to the forefront. “You know the lines?”

She gave a vigorous nod.

“Then I’ll see you at eight.” Another nod and she was on her way.

Once the door closed for the last time, Tyson heaved a heavy sigh. “Thanks. Your timing is impeccable.”

Tyson picked up broken glass, carrying it to a trash receptacle in the corner. Jarvis joined him, fingering shards of glass and collecting them in one palm. It wasn’t long before the place was clear of debris though a sour aura hung in the air.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Tyson slipped into a leather jacket in what was probably the latest style. His family was richer than God, though since Mom and Dad went back to Manhattan, Jarvis wasn’t sure how much financial support Tyson got any more. Until two years ago, he lived with them in the penthouse suite in the city. When he broke the news that he’d been taking part time jobs on Broadway, they threatened to disown him. And when he refused to go into investments with his father, the mother had gone ballistic. Jarvis had to give him credit; Tyson stood up to them and followed his dream.

He climbed in the Jeep, said hello to Red, and followed Tyson’s Range Rover to the Olde Bay Diner. As usual Margie greeted them like old friends. “How’s Angie doing ‘down south’?” she asked, pouring coffees without being asked.

Tyson shoveled sugar into his practically before the brew stopped pouring.

“She’s up to her ears in teenagers,” Tyson said with a laugh.

“Has the big T found her yet?”

“Trouble? Oh yeah, several times.” This time Tyson didn’t laugh. Neither did Jarvis.

“Don’t know what we’ll do with that girl.” Margie poised her pencil over the pad, waiting. While Tyson scanned the menu, Jarvis gave his order.

“You talked to Angie today?” Tyson asked once she’d left.

“No, why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering. I er, haven’t spoken to her since yesterday. I was wondering when she’d be home.”

“Probably Sunday. No later than Monday, I imagine,” Jarvis said, though his thoughts were of a more wishful nature, if she doesn’t get hurt.

“Okay, what’s she need?”

“Huh?”

“Wasn’t that why you came to the theater? I know you weren’t checking up on how I was handling things. Although,” he tucked his thumbs under his arms and boasted, “I fired Marie.” He laughed. “Angie was coming back to do it tonight.”

“I wasn’t checking up.” Embarrassment heated Jarvis’s face. “She didn’t send me at all. My visit was, um…personal. I need help, advice in how to dress for tonight’s performance.”

Tyson tested the temperature of his coffee with the tip of his tongue then took a longer swig.

“You’re not laughing.”

“No way. Asking is a good thing.” He set the cup down and said, “Tux.”

“You don’t think it’s too much for a high school production?”

Tyson shrugged. “Might be, but it’ll let ’em know us hicks from up north have some class. It’ll be good advertisement for P&P.”

“That what you’re wearing?”

“Yeah.”

Okay, clothing problem settled, Jarvis let his mind mull over what happened at the theater.

“Really glad this thing with Marie is over.”

“Has she been like that from the get-go?”

“From day one. I’d better call Angie and tell her she doesn’t have to come up this afternoon.” Tyson drew out his cell phone and dialed. “Hey pardner, I’m surprised you answered the phone…I wanted to tell you the good news. I fired Marie… Not well,” he gave a small laugh, “she threw a few things. Jarvis and I cleaned it up… Yeah, we’re at the diner… Nothing. We met up in the parking lot.” He winked at Jarvis. “Anyway, I just wanted to say you didn’t have to come back and that we’d see you tonight… Okay, see you then.” He deposited the phone back in his pocket. “She said to meet her backstage before the show.”

“I think I’d rather stay out front. Not that I don’t want to see her, but I think I contribute to her nerves.”

“Then we’ll go back to say hi, then sit out front.”

Jarvis turned down a third cup of coffee and stood up. “I hope I can find a tux at such late notice.”

“I don’t suppose you want to ride to Carlson together tonight.”

“I don’t think I’ll be coming right back.”

Tyson nudged Jarvis in the arm. “Duh. Of course not.”

Jarvis drove north to the nearest tux rental shop in Meredith wondering when and how Tyson had lost control of his employees. Did Angelina know? If she had a clue, she never would’ve left town.

But she had left town. And therein lay their troubles.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Kiana slid onto the bench at the edge of the football field, the peeling paint catching on the thighs of her new jeans. A construction crew bustled around the field—somehow without the white chalk lines. How did they get them off? She gazed across at the school. Man, she didn’t want to go there today. To face the other kids. By now they probably all knew she’d been taken to headquarters and questioned about her relationship with Ms. Forest. “When did you last see her?” “Who were her friends?” “Did she have any enemies?”

She should’ve kept her mouth closed these last two years. Shouldn’t have made their relationship so public. But she’d been proud of their rapport. Maybe rapport wasn’t the right word. But she couldn’t think of a better way to describe what they had.

Why did things have to go so wrong? Why was Gwen taken from her so soon?

Okay, okay, stop whining. Things are what they are. Life goes on. Didn’t Gwen always say that? “Accept what life has given you and make the best of it.” So, straighten up, girl, and stop crying.

Wouldn’t pay to have Evan find her in this condition. He’d never seen her cry—never would. Crying was a sign of weakness. Kiana made a conscious effort to sit up straight, set her feet flat on the too-long grass, flatten her palms on her thighs, and place a smile on her face. Smiling really did make you feel better. What sort of hormone made that happen? One of these days she’d have to research it.

On the football field, the long rectangular stage was finished. Two men were setting steps at either end of it. Three others were erecting a giant frame at the front. It would hold the big heavy curtain that she and four crewmembers had removed from the auditorium and taken out for dry-cleaning. The scent of the fresh sawn pine lumber hung in the still morning air. The weatherman had predicted a clear but chilly evening. Even so, Kiana wouldn’t feel secure until the show started—without precipitation, without anyone being hurt or… Kiana literally shook off the trepidatious thoughts. She smiled at the coined word.

The putt-putt of a small engine motorcycle had her turning on the bench. Evan stopped the bike at the sidewalk, set his helmet on the seat and came toward her. His manner was determined, as usual, his face set in the same no-nonsense way.

Kiana swiped at the corners of her eyes to make sure no tear-remnants hung around, then pasted a smile firmly in place. Evan settled beside her, close but not too close. Not like last night in the cafeteria when he was almost in her lap. What was he trying to do, establish her as some sort of territory? For whose benefit? Looked like he was trying to impress that detective friend of Mrs. Deacon’s. “See, I can get a girl too.” Kiana couldn’t stop a grin. She knew how Evan felt about her. It was apparent in everything he did and said. She expected that someday they would get together. Right now just wasn’t a good time. Not with the play and her worries about the scholarship. School—her future—had to be the single focus for now. So, till he actually spit out the words, put her on the spot, she’d pretend they were nothing more than friends.

“Hey,” they said at the same time.

Evan watched the workers on the field. “Looks like they’ll be done in time for a full dress rehearsal this afternoon. Are the costumes ready?”

Kiana nodded. “Mrs. Philmore busted her butt making sure everything was complete, right down to the socks and jewelry. Had some trouble finding another leather jacket. I think she ended up borrowing from one of her sons.”

“You ever meet them?”

“I met the youngest one once when she came to pick up Mr. Philmore. He’s kind of dorky.”

“Like his dad.”

“Right. Say, why do you think the Philmores invited Mrs. Deacon for dinner?”

Evan’s face scrunched. When he did that, he looked like an old man. She thought it best not to mention it.

“Probably trying to show what a shining pillar of society he is.”

“He isn’t?”

“I guess he’s okay. I get the idea he’s the type to want people to know.”

“Maybe. I think Mrs. Deacon was wondering why they invited her too. I mean, Mr. Philmore doesn’t have anything to do with the drama department. He never even shows his face at this end of the school.”

“Maybe Mrs. Philmore told him to ask her. She and Mrs. Deacon seemed pretty friendly when we went to the shop.”

“Maybe. Okay, so what’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why all this dumb chitchat about nothing? You hate chitchat.”

Evan pulled in a breath and let it all out before saying, “I got called in for questioning by the police last night. I’m scared they think I killed Ms. Forest.”

So, they’d called him too. The information made her feel a little less suspect. She’d done the same as Evan though—spent what little there was left of the night feeling the same way. She had even fantasized about running to Canada to hide.

“What did they want to know?” Kiana asked.

“They asked if I knew who Ms. Forest hung out with. Did any of the other teachers dislike her? Stuff like that.”

The same things they’d asked her.

Word would spread around the school today like wildfire. Kids would be anxious to brag how they’d been interrogated. She looked up, from her hands still lying flat on her thighs, and into Evan’s bright green eyes. She’d never seen anyone with eyes that color and often told him so. It always made him blush. Maybe now would be the time to say it again, to get his mind off the interrogation. But she suspected nothing would dissuade those thoughts right now. She’d been unable to keep them from overwhelming her own mind. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first. “The only thing I could tell them was about Mrs. Philmore being Ms. Forest’s friend. They already knew about her.”

Had he mentioned the argument he overheard in the green room? She didn’t want to come right out and ask so she skirted around it. “What did you say when they asked if you knew anybody who didn’t like her?” It would absolve him of the guilt he’d been feeling for keeping it inside all this time.

“I kinda went all around it for a while. Then I thought, what the heck, if it’s out in the open, maybe they can find her killer because of what I know… So, I told them.” He grinned. “Man, were they surprised.”

Yes, she could imagine their excitement getting such a juicy new bone to chew on. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see cops all over the school today.”

After Evan’s momentous information, they must’ve been disappointed in the results of her question session. The juiciest thing she’d given them was that Gwen zealously guarded the fact that she smoked cigarettes.

Last year Kiana had researched police procedure for social studies class and learned a lot. Like if a case isn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, the best clues go cold. She’d also learned how they went about solving a murder case. They made a list of the dead person’s circle of close friends because nine times out of ten, one of them was the killer. They talked extensively to this group. From that group they were able to make what they called a second circle of associates. Kiana assumed the cops had exhausted that first set of relationships and had proceeded to the second circle—in this case, the students.

Evan threw himself forward, burying his head in his hands. His voice was muffled but she had no trouble understanding when he said, “I know they think I did it.”

Kiana hadn’t wanted anyone to know—not even him—that she’d been questioned, but she couldn’t let him go on thinking he’d been singled out. She laid a hand on his back. “Evan, if they suspect you, then they suspect me too. They took me there just after dinner.”

Slowly, the information hit him and he sat up straight. Instead of being relieved he looked more distraught. “They probably think we worked as a team.”

Suddenly, over at the stage, there was a loud crack. Kiana shot to her feet as the frame the crew was erecting wobbled. It seemed like time slowed to a turtle-crawl as the construction swayed back and forth. She sent up a quick prayer that it wouldn’t fall—and that if it did, nobody would be hurt.

“Watch out!” somebody yelled and the crew scattered. Just in time.

The long four by four inch beam rocked off its uprights and tumbled to the ground with a horrific crash. Several men cursed.

When nothing else looked about to fall, they went back to examine the mess. One of the men kicked at the rafter that had fallen. Then all faces peered from it to the uprights that had once held the huge beam in place. They were talking but from where she was, Kiana couldn’t hear what they said.

She and Evan sprinted through the gate. She pushed between two men but couldn’t see what was going on because two others were kneeling beside the frame.

One cursed and said, “What the hell happened here?”

Kiana stepped over the long piece of wood and knelt too. Somebody said she should get out before she got hurt. He stood to take her arm—that’s when she could see that the huge piece of wood had broken. She started to shout at the men for their ineptness but realized, as they had, that the thick board had been sawn almost all the way through.

“Oh no.” She felt her arm being grasped and went with the pressure, standing up to see Evan at her side. “He’s at it again.”

“Who’s at it again?” somebody asked.

Evan reminded them of the reason they were having the performance outdoors. “Can you guys get this fixed in time?”

“Sure. No problem kid.”

“And we’ll also keep watch on it 24/7 till the show,” someone else said, to which the others chimed in their agreement.

“Thanks.”

“Somebody should report this,” the foreman said.

“We will,” Evan offered. “Right away.” He laid an arm on Kiana’s shoulder and urged her away.

“Oh Evan, who’s doing this? Who wants the drama program to fail that badly?”

“I don’t know but we’re going to find out. I promise.”

Somberly she followed him back to the bike. They got on and motored around the field to the front parking lot and went into the school. They found Mr. Reynolds and Mrs. Deacon seated at the table in his outdoor office. Mrs. Deacon knew right off there’d been trouble. She shot to her feet and hurried toward them. Kiana let Evan explain what happened.

Mrs. Deacon remained standing beside Kiana. Did she look so bad she needed support? Probably she did. This whole thing was making her wonder if it’d be better to just let the program die, and transfer to Carlson North. The drama program there wasn’t as advanced. The teacher not as easy to get along with, but she could suffer it out till May. She would do anything for even a partial scholarship.

So, what was stopping her from transferring? Why stay here and deal with this? Any moment now, somebody might get hurt, and all because she wouldn’t let this drop. An image flashed into her head—of the meeting with the school board. She, Evan and Gwen had stood before them, with the rest of the crew overflowing the front row of the auditorium. “The kids need this program,” Gwen had said. “Look at the success we’ve had. Our shows have brought in money to buy new curtains, paint for the green room, costumes—”

“Yes,” the superintendent had said, “all things for the department. If the program expires, those things won’t be needed any more. It’s all a trade-off. We’re losing nothing.”

Gwen had stepped forward and set her feet in a stance Kiana called her bulldog pose—reserved for moments like this. “Except children’s education. Has the reason we’re all here escaped you? And, let me remind you that this school’s drama program also provided new basketball hoops—” Someone in the group started to speak and Gwen had pointed a finger at him— “and three tables for the cafeteria. These kids,” Gwen had half-turned and pointed at Kiana, “these kids could be on the streets or in front of video games, yet they work tirelessly to make this program work.”

Gwen had pointed at her, and only her. At the time, Kiana thought it was a generic gesture meant to include everyone. Till now. Till this moment Kiana believed Gwen was trying to keep the program going for the sake of the program. But she was doing it for Kiana—to keep her dream alive.

So, where did that leave Kiana? In a mad dash effort to save her own future? Would it be worth it without Gwen’s passionate encouragement? Sure. Life was there for the taking. She had to make it work, had to make Gwen’s faith in her come to fruition. Which didn’t answer the original question—to transfer or not? If she left, Evan would be alone to either make the program a success or quit altogether.

Evan nudged her with his elbow and whispered, “Are you all right?”

Kiana nodded, her eyes on the principal.

“You’re crying.”

Kiana shook her head. “No I’m not.”

Evan shot a glare at the principal. Mr. Reynolds frowned as though he had no clue what might be Evan’s problem. For several seconds there was absolute silence. Finally, Mrs. Deacon tapped them both on the arm. Even wrenched his attention from her to the principal. He drew in a breath and presented an emotional description of the events in the football field.

How could she desert somebody as passionate and dedicated to life?

Maybe he could transfer too.

The scraping of a chair on the bricks made her look up. “If you’d all excuse me,” Mr. Reynolds said, “I’m going out to have a talk with the crew.”

“Mr. Reynolds,” Evan said, “they said they’d keep a constant guard out there. They said nobody else would get to it.”

“Very good. Very good.” He shook hands with Evan, squeezed Kiana’s arm, said he’d see them later, and left.

“Come on, let’s get to the auditorium,” Mrs. Deacon said.

“I’ll see you there,” Evan said. “I have to move my motorcycle to the other end of the building.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Kiana told Mrs. Deacon. Maybe she could find out how dinner at the Philmores went and whether she’d learned why they invited her.

“I’ll bring in your things, Kiana,” Evan said.

“Thanks. See you in a few.”

Mr. Reynolds had excused Kiana and Evan from classes again today. They planned to spend the morning preparing the boy’s locker room for the onslaught of actors and actresses at the final bell. The locker rooms were closer to the field, meaning there would be less delay between scenes. Less chance for the crowd to get itchy, especially if the show didn’t go well. Therefore, much transporting had to be done between the auditorium and the locker room.

The show had to go well. Had to be a success, not only for her future, but for its reputation. She’d literally begged for financial support from local business owners, promised a great show as she peppered the audience with potential donors for both performances. Things had to be perfect.

“Sorry I was so late this morning,” Mrs. Deacon said.

“Late?”

She hesitated and Kiana waited for a lengthy explanation but all she said was, “Running late.”

“Did Mr. Reynolds yell at you? He always yells at us.”

“No he…” Then Mrs. Deacon realized Kiana was kidding and they shared a smile.

“I hope you weren’t sick or anything.”

“Sick. No.”

Nothing else was forthcoming. Something was up. How to find out what it was?

Mrs. Deacon held the door for her to go into the green room where three large cardboard boxes sat on the table. In the corner was a wheeled cart holding a couple more boxes. “You can use these for the things we’ll need tonight,” Mrs. Deacon said. “Try to think of everything so we don’t have to send a gopher back and forth. I’ll be out to help in a few minutes, I have to make a phone call.”

“Are you all right?” Kiana asked.

“Sure, why?”

“You seem distracted.”

Mrs. Deacon smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks for caring. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kiana watched Mrs. Deacon unlock her office and go inside. What a pretty skirt she had on. Short but not too short. Nice material that swayed when she walked. And a pretty—probably expensive—sweater in a nice color, not one she’d wear—kind of a gray/blue.

The office door had no sooner clicked shut when there came a terrible thump, a grating sound and a groan from the other side. Kiana ran to the door. “Mrs. Deacon, is everything all right?”

There was no answer. She called again and tapped lightly on the door. Still no answer. Kiana turned the knob and eased the door open a couple of inches. The room was dark as night. Kiana pushed to open the door all the way but it wouldn’t go more than six inches. There was resistance, something hard and solid.

“Mrs. Deacon?”

No answer. Kiana’s adrenaline went into warp drive. She found the wall switch and flicked it. Nothing. She moved it up and down several times. No light. What the heck was going on? And what was that smell? It was warm and kind of…metallic. Blood!

Kiana jiggled the door, making it thunk against whatever was keeping it from opening. It met solid resistance. Thank goodness, not soft resistance, like Mrs. Deacon’s body. What to do? Not enough light came from behind her to see into the office. And Kiana couldn’t get the door open enough to go in.

Repeatedly calling Mrs. Deacon’s name, Kiana put pressure on the door. Whatever held it shut was heavy, but little by little it moved across the floor. Little by little the door opened. Eight inches. Ten. Room enough to squeeze through.

Light filtered in, but it was still dark. Very dark. The blood smell was stronger. Something terrible was wrong with her teacher. No, this couldn’t be happening again.

Kiana crouched and patted the floor. “Mrs. Deacon?” Kiana moved to the right, groping and touching, yet holding back for fear of dousing herself in blood. Where was Mrs. Deacon?

Kiana shuffled a bit further to the right. All at once something heavy crashed down on the back of her neck. And her own lights went out.

TWENTY-NINE

Pressure on her left eye brought Angie alert. From inches away, a pair of chocolate brown eyes with huge irises peered into hers. They blinked once, hovered a second, then moved away. Pressure on her eyelid released. After another second, her right lid was stretched open and the same brown hoverer zoomed in close. When the lid was released Angie blinked a few times to bring the surroundings into focus: gauges and belts, cabinets and, up close, a husky woman in blue polyester. The room shifted and rolled left. Then it leveled out and zoomed forward. That’s when she realized she was in an ambulance and belted to a stretcher. Her head felt thick, like somebody had crammed all the orifices with cotton batting.

“What happened?” she managed to ask through cotton-clogged lips.

“Lie still, you have quite a gash on the back of your head. What’s your name?”

“Angie. Angelina Deacon.”

The face, female wearing a hormone mustache—god, she hoped that never happened to her—came close. “What color are my eyes?”

“Brown.”

The face backed away. A darkly tanned hand appeared. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two. What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Angie closed her eyes and saw a snake wrapped in red silk peering up at her from a small, dark space. She blinked the slithery image away. Another took its place: a pile of clothes burning with laser-like intensity on a long narrow table. Angie shook her head to dislodge that scene and pain shot from her brain to her toes. She squeezed her eyes tight, until the pain subsided. Then she remembered. “I went in the office and—” She’d stepped in for some privacy to call Jarvis and tell him about the snake in her hotel room when she bumped her head on something. No, that wasn’t right, something struck her. “How bad am I hurt?”

The woman lifted Angie’s right arm and wound a blood pressure cuff around it. “At the very least you have a slight concussion. They’ll do a CT scan to look for further damage. We found a baseball bat beside you on the floor. For right now, I’d say you were very lucky. Another good thing: they caught the girl who did it.”

“Girl?”

The EMT braced herself against the stretcher as the ambulance took a right turn. “I didn’t catch her name. She’s in another ambulance. Looks like you were able to get in a lick of your own before you lost consciousness.”

“Lick?”

“Yeah, you walloped her good.”

Who had been hiding in the office? How had they gotten in? Since the mousetrap incident Angie had been diligent about keeping things locked tight. The EMT said it was a girl. Which meant, not a woman. One of the students. Somebody in the play, probably. But who?

Angie woke in the hospital emergency room, in a small room with a glass window where anybody could look in. Man, her head hurt. Maybe somebody could wheel in a wheelbarrow load of aspirin. In the hallway, people bustled past, oblivious. She groped for a call button and couldn’t find it.

She woke again to a man stretching her eyelid. Gosh, was that all they did around here?

“Ah, you’re awake.” How could he sound so jovial when her head pounded like a jackhammer?

“Awake,” she moaned.

“Hurt a little?”

“Lot.”

“I put something in your IV for the pain. You’ll be pleased to know you only have a minor concussion. You have five stitches in the back of your head. Sorry, we had to shave off your hair. But don’t worry, you have a great shaped skull.”

Angie’s hand shot up to her head and the doctor laughed. “I love doing that. We only had to clear a small spot, to get the stitches in. Lie back and rest till the medication takes effect.”

Just to be sure, Angie touched her hair. Except for the fact that it was clotted with dried blood, it was all there. “Home?”

“A half hour or so. The neurologist is preparing meds and a prescription.” From her ex-life as an ER nurse, Angie knew it would take far longer than a half hour. “Anyone we can call to pick you up?”

“That would be me,” said a deep voice that boomed around in her aching head and made her wince. A tall, hazy figure stood in the doorway. A few blinks brought Detective Rodriguez into focus.

“You know him?” the doctor asked.

“Cop.”

“Okay. I guess that’s okay then.” He patted her arm. “Take care.”

“Thanks.”

Rodriguez approached the bed. He was smiling. “Jarvis was right, you just can’t stay out of trouble.”

“Finds me.”

“How are you?”

“Argh.”

“Gotta learn to stay out of the line of fire.”

“You catch ’em?”

“Yes. One of the girls from the play? Care to guess which one?”

Donna, Deb, Martina, Wanda…no, no, no, couldn’t be.

“Her name’s Kiana Smith,” Rodriguez said.

“Ki—” Angie shook her head and again pain blasted into every nerve ending. “No. She was…” Angie pulled in a breath and held it till the pain-echoes went away. “…with me.”

“We found her lying beside you on the floor.”

“Prob’ly…look…f’me,” she inhaled and rested till the pain eased back. “Not her.”

Rodriguez nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

“She okay?”

“Took a bash on the shoulder. They’re doing X-rays now.”

“Up?”

He seemed to be wondering if health-wise it was all right for her to move, because he first glanced out the big window, probably looking for somebody to ask. After a second he groped around under the bed. The head whirred upward. “Say when.”

When the bed was at about a forty-five degree angle, she wiggled a hand for him to stop. “When.” The intravenous painkiller was working. Magically Angie’s headache faded and her ability to speak returned. “You think the snake and fire person was waiting in my office?”

He considered her awkwardly worded question a moment and, with a little magic of his own, translated her thoughts. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Do you want me to call Jarvis?”

“No! He’ll haul me home.”

“It’s where you should be.”

“Trouble won’t leave because I’m gone. Somebody wants the show stopped.”

“You might get yourself killed.”

“Got to watch over the kids.” Then she chuckled, which brought a new volley of pain, though not so bad as before. “Done good so far, right?”

“I know there’s no use trying to talk you into postponing everything so I’ve made plans to be there with you. My captain’s sending a couple of others too. I assume Jarvis will be there.”

“Yes.”

A man in a white lab coat entered carrying a few packets of what Angie recognized as Tylenol III and a slip of paper from a prescription pad. “Here are a few pills to tide you over till you get the scrip filled.”

“Thanks.”

“You can go home. Go to bed. Avoid excitement for at least three days.” Rodriguez laughed but cut it short at the nurse’s sharp look. “I mean it. She needs to rest.”

“Yes sir,” Angie said.

“Is the Smith girl still here?” Rodriguez asked.

“Her mother just arrived to pick her up.”

They stopped at the hotel so Angie could take a quick sponge bath and gather evening clothes for the show. Though she was in a hurry to get to the school, Rodriguez insisted they stop for something to eat.

At two p.m. Angie arrived at the school with Detective Rodriguez glued to her side. She had him escort her first to the football field. The stage was totally set up, including the first scene’s furniture. The heavy curtain was in place. Lighting had been erected.

Hand shielding his eyes from the bright afternoon sun, Randy Reynolds stood at one end of a long line of bleachers surveying the area. Though she didn’t really want to talk to him right now—she had more pressing things on her mind—she approached him. They met in the long narrow area, where the band would play, between the bleachers and the stage.

“I called the hospital. They said you’d been discharged. I hope you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Angie said.

“She’s not fine,” said the detective. “She has a concussion and a gash on her head, and has been ordered to have complete rest.”

Randy gave her a perceptive smile. “I don’t know you well, Angie, but I’ve heard that once you start a job, you see it through to the finish come, as they say, hell or high water.”

“You’d just better do all you can to keep her and those kids safe,” Rodriguez said. Angie shot him a take it easy look.

Randy was unfazed by Rodriguez’s stern comment. “I hired a security agency. They will have undercover men on-scene during and after the show.”

“I hope it’s enough.” Rodriguez patted her arm. “Come on, we have work to do.”

They walked around the back of the stage where tables were piled high with props and things needed for set changes. Four crewmembers bustled about. In turn, each came up and wished Angie well. Her heart soared for these kids.

She faced Rodriguez. “What did you mean, I hope it’s enough?”

“The words slipped out before I could stop them. I don’t want to worry you, but I also don’t want you lulled into complacency. We don’t know what, or who, we’re dealing with here. We don’t know how far they’ll go to stop this event.”

How far would they go? Until the incident with the cut wood at the outdoor stage, Angie had been sure they were only looking for something—something related to Gwen’s murder. It seemed that all the “events” were fashioned to keep them from digging too deeply around the back-stage area. Till somebody sawed that piece of wood.

Her response to Rodriguez was cut off when she saw Kiana standing at the far end. The girl looked tired and washed out. She came to hug Angie. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Same here.” She gripped both Kiana’s shoulders and peered into her eyes. They seemed clear and bright. “You sure you can handle this?”

Kiana nodded and winced. “If you can do it, so can I.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She just left. She’s all messed up. She only left because Mr. Reynolds told her he hired a security team. He promised it would be safe.”

How could he promise such a thing? Somebody needed to talk to him about his single-minded determination—but later. Other things needed doing right now.

Angie pulled her into a hug. “Then let’s get to it. We have four hours till the performance of a lifetime.”

Kiana shuffled away, calling for Evan to gather the crew together, that she had something to say. He scampered off to do her bidding. Kiana looked around as if making sure nobody was watching and palmed some meds from a foil packet. Angie smiled, counting the moments till she too would do the same.

What she wouldn’t give for a cup of latte right now.

“Oh no.” Angie sank back against the brick wall. Rodriguez grasped her arm.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m all right. At least physically.” She moved away from the wall to stand on her own. “She’s going to think I’m the most irresponsible person alive.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Cilla Philmore. We had a date to have coffee.”

“She’ll understand.”

Angie gave a small laugh. “I missed a dinner date at their house the other night too.”

“She’ll understand,” he repeated.

To her right, the cast and crew stood in a circle around Kiana. Angie hadn’t been invited to the pep talk so she finished her circuit around the staging. Her intention was to make sure nothing had been tampered with, but the construction crew had remained true to their word and posted three of their people on-site. One, a tall man in a blue flannel shirt, stepped up to Angie as she and Detective Rodriguez passed. He introduced himself and said what a shame it was when kids work so hard for something and some idiot tried to take it away.

“I couldn’t agree with you more. I truly appreciate you and the others volunteering to help out.”

“Three of us will be here all night. The janitors are staying also, to keep watch inside the building.”

Angie wasn’t sure how safe she felt with Lincoln Underwood on guard but she thanked the flannel shirted man and moved away. As Rodriguez eased alongside her, she told him her suspicions about the janitor.

“I’ll have one of the men keep an eye on him. Where to now, ma’am?”

“Call me Angie.”

“If you call me José.”

“José it is then. Come on José, I want to check things out before Kiana sends the kids in there.”

The locker room still smelled like a locker room, but it looked like the backstage of a theater. She needn’t have worried. Evan had taken charge of the whole operation. Everything they would need for two night’s performances was piled neatly on some long tables. The show must go on.

Angie and José separated. She dug through the boxes, costumes, cases and every bit of paraphernalia in the place. José moved off to check the shower area and whatever lockers weren’t padlocked. Neither of them found anything related to the murder—though José did find two bags of marijuana and a carton of cigarettes.

At 4:07 p.m. he said from atop a ladder at the end of the long row of lockers, “I’m about done here. Looks clear. You can let the kids in.”

Angie opened the door to the cast and crew who flooded the place chatting loudly. An air of excitement overshadowed the scent of locker room. That’s when Detective Rodriguez found the gun.

THIRTY

Jarvis hung the tux carefully in the back seat of the Jeep. He placed his duffle bag, containing shaving gear, clean underwear, and dress shoes, on the floor. He Mapquested the gym Gwen frequented in Nashua and headed in that direction, first stopping to eat along the way.

The gym wasn’t too busy, being that it was lunchtime. A few people bored themselves on the treadmill near the front windows where the only thing to look at was the Friday traffic. As he stepped in through the heavy glass door, a woman wearing a body-fitting leotard—or whatever they called the things these days—approached. She couldn’t have stood five feet tall but in perfect proportion, right down to her perky little nose. He felt like he was talking to a child and hoped he wasn’t staring.

Jarvis showed his badge. “Could I see the manager please?”

“I am the manager.” She put out a hand. “My name is Vickie. How may I be of help?”

Jarvis asked about Gwen and the woman’s face turned sad. “I—”

“Of course, you’re looking for her killer. You don’t think we’re harboring a—” She waved her hand. “Sorry, I was kidding. But this isn’t a joking subject, is it? Come. Sit.”

He followed her swaying round buttocks to a juice bar. She hefted herself onto a stool and gestured for him to do likewise. Vickie seemed friendly and wanted to help, but Jarvis left fifteen minutes later, having learned nothing he considered pertinent to the case. Gwen came to the gym three to four mornings a week, before work. She always came alone. She didn’t talk to anyone there—just went about her business. She didn’t mention a man in her life, nor did she talk about having problems with anybody.

“May I look in her locker?”

Vickie thought a moment then shrugged. “I guess there’s no reason not to, is there?” She slid off the stool and led him to a blue door at the far end of the room. “Wait a moment while I make sure the coast is clear.”

She returned in a few seconds and waved him inside, propping the door open with a large rubber doorstopper. The lockers were inset into the far wall. She led him to one at the end. There was no padlock on it.

Jarvis opened the door. Inside he found a set of gym clothes, sneakers, three pairs of fresh socks, each rolled into a ball, and a brown zip-up case. Using just his fingertips, he lifted it by the handle and set it on the floor of the locker. He used the tip of his jackknife to undo the zipper. One by one, being just as careful, he took things out of the bag: shampoo, deodorant, conditioner, hairbrush, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick—pale pink, and toothpaste. He laid the tube beside the other items. “Woo hoo, what’s this?” he said. He picked up the tub again and read the label. “Sherman Cream Makeup.” The same makeup found taped in Gwen’s mouth.

“May I take these?” he asked while putting things back inside.

“Sure. Take anything you need. Are they clues?”

“Maybe.”

Back in his car, Jarvis phoned Rodriguez who finally answered. There was a lot of noise in the background. “Hold on,” Rodriguez shouted, “while I find a quiet place to talk.” A moment later, things grew silent and Rodriguez said, “There, that’s better.”

“What’s going on?”

“Not sure I should say.”

His adrenaline gushed into overdrive. “What’s happened to Angelina?”

“I’ll tell you about that later. Things are okay now.”

Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better. “Is she all right?”

“Pretty much. She can tell you about it later. Right now, we have a minor emergency going on. I’m pretty sure it’s not related to the case though. I found a gun in the boys’ locker room. It was stowed on top of some lockers deep in a box. From the looks of things, it’s been here a while. The team is going over it now. So, buddy, what did you call about?”

“I just got back from the gym.” He told Rodriguez what he found.

“Shee-it. That raises a buncha new questions, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll drop the stuff off at headquarters and be there soon.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Jarvis put the phone away and drove to Nashua police headquarters where he made sure they catalogued the bag as evidence in the Gwen Forest case. Then he drove to Carlson South High School thinking about his discussion with Kiana that morning. She had been upset seeing the people in the park. It blew her mind to think a student could be involved with an adult. Unfortunately the news carried things like that all the time.

The high school parking lot was full. Jarvis squeezed the Jeep between an end car and some bushes at the far end. He picked up the tux, jammed the bag under one arm and locked the vehicle.

THIRTY-ONE

Kiana finished her pep talk to the crew hoping she sounded more upbeat than she felt. And hoping she sounded more together than she felt. The whole time she spoke she examined each member of the cast and crew, looking for the girl from the park. Of the twenty-four people involved in the play, ten were girls. None wore knitted hats. Three were tall and thin. Of the three, one had long hair. None had particularly thick hair. Kiana knew the tall, long-haired girl. Nina. She played one of the minor characters with two small appearances.

Kiana finished her talk with a shouted, “break a leg!” and received a rousing cheer from the group. As they filtered away, Kiana called to Nina who turned and ran back.

“I just wanted to say what a good job you’re doing.”

Nina flipped her dark hair over one shoulder and smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying so. If we save the program, I’m hoping for a larger part in your next show.”

“My next show?”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re a senior, you won’t be here next year. That’s too bad, I looked forward to working with you.”

“So, what do you do in your spare time?” Kiana asked.

The girl didn’t seem to think it an odd question. “I play the trombone. I volunteer at the senior center. And two afternoons a week, I assist a music teacher with her fourth grade musical group.”

“When do you find time for all that?”

“Probably the same way you do it. You squeeze it in every available minute.”

“I get up at five every morning,” Kiana said.

“I get up at four thirty,” Nina said with a grin. “I take my father to work so Mom can have the car. I have a new baby brother—this way Mom can stay in bed a little longer.”

Yes, and while Mom sleeps you go meet your adult lover. Out loud, she said, “That’s very nice of you.”

“Evan is so fly,” she noted as he bustled about backstage.

“He is.”

“He your baby?”

“N-no. Not really.”

“So he’s…”

Was she asking what Kiana thought? Did she want to move in on Evan? Wasn’t any of her business. She had no claim on Evan. Still, the thought didn’t make her feel good.

“Yes. He is.”

With a lighter step than she’d arrived, Nina danced off.

Suddenly, this night couldn’t get over fast enough to suit her. She shoved pictures of Evan and Nina to the back of her mind and shuffled toward the school.

Till this morning she’d convinced herself that Gwen’s murder was unrelated to school business. Till this morning. The attack on both she and Mrs. Deacon made further avoidance impossible. Either of them could’ve been hurt badly. Or killed, though she didn’t think that was the person’s intention. She and Mrs. Deacon had both been unconscious. The intruder had plenty of time to finish them off. Which sent a shiver straight to her pink painted toenails.

Was what Evan overheard the catalyst for the murder? Couldn’t be. That would mean Mr. Chalmers was involved. No. He’d been in love with Gwen. He wouldn’t hurt her.

She couldn’t stop the next thought, that sometimes love died, or got overshadowed by life’s events. Ms. Forest’s life was a perfect example. When things got too hot, she’d dropped out of college in Massachusetts and moved all the way to the west coast. What had made life too hot, Gwen never said, but last summer, she admitted to Kiana that she was sorry she ran away. Sorry for most everything that happened during that time of her life.

Kiana had said she understood, that she knew people often did things they later regretted. But she’d lied. Sometimes in life, you had to go back, to try and undo things you did wrong. You had to swallow your pride for the good of others. That was one place Gwen had been weak. She hadn’t been able to do that.

Was her murder related to that weakness? Probably not. But Kiana would find out. She would try and put right what Gwen had been unable to do.

So, what were the facts in the case? Somebody wanted something. They thought it was in Gwen’s possession, or at least somewhere in the auditorium area. And it was well hidden because they were obviously still looking for it. They were willing to hurt people, which wasn’t good. It meant things were escalating for this person.

It might be a good idea for her and Evan to tear the place apart. If they could find whatever this item was… How to get in? With all the extra guards on duty… No matter right now, she’d worry about it on Sunday. Tonight and tomorrow the shows were more important. The future of the drama program depended on their success.

Kiana stepped into the narrow passageway between the rows of bleachers. This was the area through which the football team erupted before a game. This alley would be lined with cheerleaders and fans, everyone cheering and whooping for the team to play hard and win. The team only played day games. No lighting had been erected in this area and it was almost dark, which made her mind switch gears—to worrisome thoughts. Here would be a perfect place for somebody to lurk…

Was there danger onstage tonight? Could she be shot while standing on that makeshift platform? Chances of that were slim, Kiana supposed, since more than a dozen people would be standing guard. But she didn’t kid herself, the Secret Service themselves couldn’t guarantee her safety. Look what happened to President Kennedy. There were too many ways to kill somebody these days. Poison darts, poison in her water bottle—no, no, no. If authorities thought there was real danger, they’d insist on canceling the performance.

Her foot kicked a clump of grass and she tripped. She caught herself before falling, righted herself and hurried toward the yellow rectangles of light in the double doors. As her fingers touched the right handle, the other door burst open. She staggered back. She couldn’t stop the squeal from exploding out of her throat. This time she did stumble. And fall. Rocket-bursts of pain from her shoulder landed in every molecule of every extremity.

“Are you all right?” asked a male voice.

“Yes,” Kiana managed to choke out and tasted blood; she must’ve bitten her tongue. She lay there waiting—hoping—whoever knocked her down would help her up. She wasn’t sure she could do it on her own. When help didn’t come, she rolled up onto her backside, tucked her legs and struggled to her feet, somehow keeping her arm close and the pain bottled inside. Kiana planted her shoes solidly, straightened knees and spine. Took in a breath. Okay, she’d survived. She looked around.

And realized she was alone. What just happened? Kiana clearly remembered the door knocking her down. Recalled the acute pain. Remembered a voice. A familiar voice. Well, it sounded familiar. It was muffled by the noise going on in the field behind her, but it was a voice she’d heard before. Whose?

And why had he left?

Okay, think about it later. Right now, get pain pills.

All the way from the hospital her mother kept urging her to cancel tonight’s show. “Your father will be furious at me for letting you go through with this. Kiana. Please postpone, at least for tonight.”

Kiana had kissed her mother’s cheek. “When Dad gets here, give him one of these from me. I will see you both after the show.”

She couldn’t cancel. Kiana Smith was not a quitter. Not like Gwen.

She peeked through the small window, made sure no more battering rams were coming, and opened the door. The hallway stood empty. But the locker room wasn’t. Somebody moved around in the bowels of the metal jungle. Somebody spoke. It sounded like Mrs. Deacon. Then a man’s voice boomed off the lockers. Feeling safe now, Kiana turned left and pushed through a newly hung curtain into the area sectioned off as the female actors’ dressing room. She chugged two painkillers and a quarter of a bottle of water. As she twisted on the cap and set the bottle on the bench overflowing with clothing and props, Kiana remembered one of her recent thoughts about poison in her water. She held the clear plastic up to the light. Looked all right. But it would, wouldn’t it? Okay, never mind, she had to trust the security did its job. Couldn’t jump at every shadow.

Somebody parted the curtain behind her. Kiana whirled around, realizing with dismay that yes, she was afraid of every shadow. A tall man came in. She recognized him as the detective who’d questioned her at the station. He really shouldn’t come in here without announcing himself. She opened her mouth to tell him so when he stepped close.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Wh—” The word was cut short as he gestured toward the doorway. She was being arrested? This couldn’t be happening.

“You have to leave. Now.”

“I—” was cut off also when he touched her shoulder. The word turned into a screech of pain, and he was instantly apologetic.

“I’m sorry. Really. But you have to get out of here. Now.”

Get out? Those weren’t words used in an arrest. Kiana clutched her right elbow with her left hand, eased through the curtain and out into the corridor.

“Anyone else in there?” he asked.

“What?”

“Is anyone else in there?”

“I d-don’t know. I just got there.”

He shouted “Angie!” and Kiana winced.

She wished for the medicine to work so that every little sound didn’t hurt. Like magic, Mrs. Deacon appeared. Kiana briefly wondered why Mrs. Deacon hadn’t been the one to come get her rather than the male cop. Then she wondered about him calling the teacher by her first name but the thoughts were stifled when Mrs. Deacon bent over her with soft words that worked almost as well as the painkillers. As soon as the words were spoken Kiana couldn’t recall them but the important thing was their resulting calm.

“What’s going on?” Kiana asked.

“The detective found a gun,” Mrs. Deacon said to everyone. “He’s got to clear the place and double check there aren’t any others.”

Kiana didn’t mention that they were all proverbial sitting ducks out here in the wide echoing hallway. She hoped this was a mere formality, that there was no killer on premises, and the gun belonged to—who? One of the kids in gym class? Yes, that thought was much more comforting.

Kiana leaned against the cinder block wall while the security team searched and re-searched. The rest of the cast arrived at some point. Mrs. Deacon bounced around keeping everyone calm, which Kiana thought was a harder job than the detective’s.

Finally, a few minutes past five they were all allowed back inside. The excited atmosphere had been squashed. An air of trepidation had settled over everyone. Time for another pep talk. Kiana stepped forward.

Mrs. Deacon appeared beside her looking strong and pain free. How did she do it? She had to be nearly paralyzed from that concussion. Kiana stood taller. If the teacher could do it so could she. Which was a testament to the power of positive thinking because, as she straightened up and encouraged her classmates, Kiana actually did feel better. By the time they dismissed everyone to get into costume, Kiana felt pumped and ready for the show.

Evan appeared from the makeshift wings and introduced the play, the performers and the band. Kiana stepped on stage for her introduction amidst loud appreciation from the large crowd. She couldn’t keep from checking the cross bar holding up the curtains. Had the builders mended it well enough? Or would it topple down on someone as they spoke their lines? Trust. She had to trust. She had to believe things would go smoothly. Too much was riding on it.

The play did go smoothly. There were no forgotten lines, no misplaced props, no wardrobe malfunctions. And no disruption from the audience. No guards shouting “Stop Killer!” No poisoned water, no snipers.

For most of the show, rather than relax backstage in a chair Evan had left for her, she stood on the sidelines beside Mrs. Deacon. Was she really as at ease as she appeared? Kiana didn’t think so. She flashed the substitute teacher a confident smile.

From this perspective Kiana could see both the stage and backstage. Everyone went about their business with preprogrammed accuracy. Ten feet away Nina talked to two stagehands. Nina was personable and pretty. Not Evan’s type though. He needed someone who was…

Was what? Like her?

All at once the crowd erupted in applause. The band launched into the final chords of the closing song. But it couldn’t be heard over the enthusiastic audience.

They had made it through the show. The enormity of the accomplishment hit. She felt like…well, like a mother who’d just birthed her firstborn. In a way, she guessed she had. Was this a beginning? Was she on the way to her future? Gosh, what was she thinking—the show could very well be a flop of the most gargantuan proportions.

Though the crowd didn’t seem to think so. The cheering went on. Kiana’s alert-mode faded, Mrs. Deacon visibly relaxed.

Somebody shouted for an encore.

Mrs. Deacon nudged Kiana in the side. “Go take your bows.” But before Kiana could move, Evan ran to center stage and put up his hands for quiet.

Little by little the applause died. “Folks,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

He waited till more applause faded to quiet. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the obstacles we’ve faced this week in the death of our drama teacher. But only a few of you are aware of the strength of our leader. She’s been our rock in the face of adversity. She’s provided support when she surely felt weak herself.”

Kiana stood taller as Evan embellished his accolades to Mrs. Deacon. She had made incredible sacrifices to come here and help a group of kids she’d never met. She didn’t have kids of her own, had no vested interest in this school. Yet, here she was.

“And so I’d like to present to you—at the risk of sounding like a dork—our fearless leader.” Evan’s right arm raised and pointed toward the wings. “Kiana Smith!”

The crowd burst into raucous applause. A hand bumped her back, propelling her forward. On wooden legs she moved to center stage. Mr. Reynolds approached from the other side of the stage, and stopped beside her. He presented a huge bouquet of roses to Kiana, and a smaller one to Evan. He gestured for Mrs. Deacon, who came forward.

“I’d like to introduce the person who brought this whole team together,” Mr. Reynolds said. “Angie Deacon, as I’m sure you all know by now, owns the Prince and Pauper Theater in Alton. When I called, she unselfishly dropped what she was doing—and folks, she was in the midst of preparing her next show—and generously came to help us out.”

“Go Angie!” someone, who sounded suspiciously like Jarvis, shouted from the back of the crowd.

Kiana suddenly realized she was crying. Somebody pressed a tissue into her hand. “Are you all right?” Mrs. Deacon asked.

“My mother is here.”

Kiana moved forward on the stage, alone now, the focus of attention, and raised her arms skyward. She waved the bundle of roses in her right hand and peered up in a gesture everyone seemed to know referred to their esteemed drama teacher. Behind her, every cast member raised their hands also. Unbelievably the cheering grew louder. The audience rose to their feet. And sang Amazing Grace.

THIRTY-TWO

An hour later, the standing room only crowd had gone home. The sky was black, the only light came from streetlights around front of the building. Or maybe the light came from the glow of success oozing from each cast member. The entire group—nobody had wanted to leave yet—lounged on the bleachers in air cold enough to make goosebumps, but the lingering euphoria kept all chills away. Security’s presence was an occasional shadow patrolling the fringes of the football field. It wouldn’t be hard to forget they were there. For this wonderful October evening, this single moment in time, it was almost as though the events of the past week never happened. Kiana’s pain had faded, whether from medication or pure exhilaration, she didn’t care. For this very moment, all was right with the world.

A few moments ago, Mrs. Deacon presented a congratulatory speech that lifted every little hair on Kiana’s body. It had her feeling talented and invincible, and ready to perform again—right now. Mrs. Deacon finished to a standing ovation that she focused back on them. “All I did was stay out of your way.” Which brought more applause. Kiana hoped that someday she could inspire people like that. She couldn’t wait to start working at Prince & Pauper.

The group lapsed into contemplative silence broken only by an occasional huff of breath or shuffle of feet on the cold bleachers. Kiana knew with absolute certainty that Gwen had been there, had seen the performance. And had been pleased. Kiana also knew it was the last she’d see of her beloved mentor. Tears fuzzed up her vision and her thoughts wandered to places she’d sworn to avoid because sometimes your fate is set and nothing can change it. No, she would not think about that right now.

“You all right?” Mrs. Deacon asked, touching her arm.

“She’s gone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” If she explained about Gwen being there, Mrs. Deacon would think she was off her rocker and renege on her offer of a job.

Mrs. Deacon stood up and came around to where Kiana sat. She pressed a wad of tissues in her hand, then stepped back and called, “Anybody hungry?”

A rousing shout came from the group—mostly the boys. “I’d like to treat you all to Chinese food.”

“We can’t let you do that,” Evan said. Others voiced agreement but not very vehemently.

“It’s all been arranged, so go inside, gather your things and meet me at the Lilac Blossom. If anyone needs a ride, either buddy up or meet me at my car.”

Kiana hurried inside to collect her purse. No need to change from the costume since in the last scene she’d worn regular street clothes. Though she could have, and normally would have ridden with Evan, tonight she wanted to go with Mrs. Deacon. Since learning about Mr. Reynolds being gay, Evan had been all weirded out, like he was looking at everyone, even her, in a different light.

Cars zipped out of the parking lot as if on the way to a fire. Two boys stood beside Mrs. Deacon’s car. Kiana waited for them to get in the back. Suddenly her pain came back with the intensity of a freight train. She gripped the hood of the car and waited for the wave to pass.

She felt a hand on her arm and opened her eyes. Mrs. Deacon eased her around the door and into the passenger seat and shut the door. Her hazy figure crossed in front of the car, and she got in the driver’s seat.

“What is your address?” Mrs. Deacon asked.

“Wha—”

“Where do you live—I’m taking you home.”

That sounded like the best idea she’d heard all day. Moments later two boys were escorting her into the house where her mother took over and put her to bed.

* * * *

The next morning, she still felt washed out but got up at five and left without breakfast, telling her mother she planned to meet Evan at the coffee shop—a lie. They needed some time apart. He needed to come to terms with Mr. Reynolds’ homosexuality and she needed… Right now, Kiana only wanted to find Gwen’s killer.

She and Evan had planned to go to the janitor’s house early this morning. The man’s extraordinary interest in that picture needed looking into. His home address, gleaned from the job application she’d stolen from Mr. Reynolds office, was tucked in her jacket pocket. She headed for Farina’s but a last minute change of thought that she might meet up with Evan there had her heading for a fast food place nearby.

Kiana bought a hot chocolate and two orders of hash browns and took a seat near the window, rubbing her frozen fingers together. Why hadn’t she brought gloves? For a while she alternated between watching cars slog past and making notes on her finding the murderer list. She didn’t take much notice of the person who slid into the seat two booths away. Until the woman reached up to take off her hat. She laid it on the table near a beat-up cloth handbag.

It was the girl from the park!

And in the bright light of the fast food place, Kiana realized with immense disappointment, it was not Nina. This person looked nothing like Nina.

Last night, the hat appeared thick like she had bunched long hair up inside it. Today Kiana could see the reddish locks pulled back in a short, fluffy ponytail, which accounted for the thick look of the hat. The woman was about thirty, not pretty, but the addition of makeup smoothed out the features and made her pleasant to look at.

Kiana felt a glimmer of recognition. She’d seen her somewhere before.

Gosh, if she knew this woman, then the woman might know her too.

Kiana scarfed down the rest of the potato, popped the lid back on the hot chocolate, and moved to a table far across the room. Kiana took out her phone intending to call Evan. He lived miles away and chances of him getting here in time to follow the woman were slim so she dialed Mrs. Deacon instead. It rang once then someone snatched the phone from her fingers, flipped the lid shut and slid the thing across toward her.

Evan sat and pushed her across the bench seat with his rear end.

“What are you doing here?” they said at the same time.

“I came for breakfast,” Kiana said as he said, “I was following her.”

Evan continued with, “I was on my way to pick you up. I stopped for gas and saw her coming out of the Quik Stop. And followed her here.”

“You think she’s meeting him?”

“I’d bet money on it. Too cold to meet in the park.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. You?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. I’ve seen her before but can’t place her. It could be some place as simple as the checkout line at K-Mart. You know what I mean?”

“Think hard.”

Kiana did think. She ran a slide-show of memories through her head. Nothing came to mind.

Fifteen minutes passed. Nobody showed up to meet the woman. She crumpled her sandwich wrapper, stood and put on her hat. Kiana nudged Evan to get up. He did and started for the door. But Kiana went the other way—toward the woman. They crashed into each other. Purses flew.

Kiana staggered back against one of the booths. The hard back of the chair dug into her hip. The woman stumbled into a chair that grated on the floor, smashed into one of the tables and upended a chair on the other side. After a few moments, everything had been put back in place and Kiana stood staring sheepishly at the woman, who pointed at her. “I know you.”

Kiana slid into a seat. “I was thinking the same thing. But I couldn’t remember where.”

The woman sat also. “I work in the high school. In the cafeteria lunch line. I see you and him,” she pointed at Evan, who now came to join them. “You sit together every day. You always look so busy.”

“Lately we’re rehearsing,” Evan said. “Kiana wrote the play the school is putting on.”

The woman nodded. “I heard it’s quite good.” She looked at Evan. “I heard you wrote the music.”

“Someday she’s going to be a big star,” Evan added.

What was he up to? He’d never said anything like that to her. Was he trying to get information from the woman? If so, he should be leading the conversation toward the man they’d seen her with.

“She’s going to attend Greensboro College to major in acting and voice,” Evan continued. “And next week, she’s starting work at Prince and Pauper Theater.”

“In Alton.”

“Right. One of the owners, Mrs. Deacon, is here taking Ms. Forest’s place.”

“That was nice of her to come.”

“It was,” Kiana said. “It was nice of her to give me a job too.”

The woman picked up her gloves from the table and stood. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in school. I have to get going.” Then she walked away.

Evan got up too. “Come on, I have a plan.”

Kiana was on the verge of telling him he could participate in his plans by himself, but couldn’t say the words. They quite possibly had to do with finding Gwen’s murderer. For that, Kiana was all in.

Evan outlined his thoughts. Then he gave her a job—phone Mrs. Deacon and invite her to breakfast. And don’t take no for an answer.

THIRTY-THREE

At 6:03 a.m. Angie stepped out of her damp running clothes just inside the hotel room door. A new hotel room. With bigger windows and a lot loftier view than she had yesterday. The higher-up vista came from the Penthouse suite, a gesture hotels always made when their tenants woke to find snakes in their dresser drawers. She was now registered under the name of Charlene Reading, a name hotel staff had chosen. Angie wouldn’t let herself think of the reason she’d needed a new room. Snakes tended to make her brain numb. She left the window and went to pick up the clothes. She stowed them in the hotel’s laundry bag then poured another cup of coffee.

In her purse on the dresser, the cell phone chirped. Jarvis had left a while ago, planning to question hotel staff. “Has anyone been asking for Angie?” “Has anyone been lurking around, especially in the hallway near her room?” “Has housekeeping noticed anything odd?” He was probably calling with the results before heading home to pick up Irish Red from the Wilsons.

Angie was halfway to the phone but it went silent after one ring. No time even for the caller ID to kick in. Probably Jarvis had lost the signal. She returned to her chair at the big new table—this one sporting a beautiful white tablecloth and a silver tea set delivered by room service earlier.

So who had put the snake in the drawer? Had to be the person who ransacked the auditorium. Who else could be after her? The phone rang again. Angie waited through the second ring in case the call messed up again.

But it wasn’t Jarvis, it was Kiana.

“Everything all right?” Angie asked.

“Yes. Great. I hope we didn’t call too early.”

She didn’t have to ask who “we” was. “Not at all.”

“We wanted see how you were feeling.”

Sure you did. “I’m fine, thanks. How’s your shoulder?”

“I’m good.”

“Evan and I…well, we wanted to invite you out for breakfast.”

Angie had planned to spend the day in bed, reading manuscripts. Perhaps later she’d take herself out to lunch, or avail herself of the hotel’s very generous—and suddenly free—room service menu.

It wouldn’t be polite to turn them down. Besides, something must be brewing. Maybe she could get back quickly and still do some reading. She said, “That’s very nice of you,” even though she ate an English muffin a while ago.

“So, you’ll come?” Kiana sounded a bit too desperate, which made Angie leery.

These kids wanted something. Question was, what could they want that their parents couldn’t give? Angie met their parents last night. They seemed very supportive of their kids’ efforts—all four had seats in the front row. Word had it they’d be in the same seats tonight. Something nudged the back of Angie’s brain. Something Kiana said last night.

Kiana was talking. “Can you meet us at Farina’s? Do you know where it is?”

“I do.” She stood up and went to the closet to find something to wear. “What time?”

“Is seven o’clock too soon?”

* * * *

Angie made small talk through the cheese omelets and wheat toast breakfasts. “Are you writing another play?” “Have you made out the application for college?” And they countered with “How do you get plays for your theater?” “What do you and Jarvis do for fun?”

“That’s a beautiful pendant,” Kiana noted. “It looks very expensive.”

“Kee,” Evan warned.

“It’s all right. I got it in Cilla’s shop the other day.” Angie undid the clasp and handed the necklace to Evan, who examined it and held it up in front of Kiana.

“It goes perfectly with her eyes, don’t you think?”

“And with her sweater. Why don’t you borrow it for today?”

“I couldn’t do that,” Kiana protested.

“Of course you can. Evan, help her put it on.”

Once the pendant was settled around Kiana’s neck, the pretty girl said, softly, “Thanks.”

Angie couldn’t hold in the question any longer. “Okay, so what gives?”

Kiana’s face screwed up in a question that didn’t fool Angie a bit. Evan got right to the point. “We are going to Ms. Forest’s apartment to look around. We thought you might like to go with us.”

“Two questions.” To make her point, Angie shot up one finger. “Are you crazy? And two,” a second finger appeared beside the other, “are you insane?”

A patron eating at a nearby table stopping chewing long enough to smile at them.

“Okay,” Angie said in a lower tone, “you do realize it’s an official crime scene.” She posed the argument but knew the answer to whether she’d go with them was a no-brainer. They weren’t crazy or insane, just two desperate kids dissatisfied with the speed—or lack of it—from the police investigation. She knew the feeling. She also knew there would be no talking them out of it.

“The crime scene is almost a week old,” Evan said. “They must’ve taken down the tape by now and everything. The landlord is probably making plans to rent the place to somebody else.”

He had a point. Any clues they’d found would’ve been catalogued and removed to the station. “As I recall it’s on the second floor,” she argued. “You planning to climb the drain spout to get in?”

“If we have to,” Evan said.

“No need to do that.” Kiana held up a string with three keys dangling from it.

Angie put a palm out toward her. “I don’t even want to know where you got it.”

“It’s nothing nefarious. I took care of her plants while she was on vacation.”

Angie didn’t bother voicing the obvious question. What adult would give a key to a teenager rather than a friend, neighbor, or co-worker? She pushed the empty plate and cup to the middle of the table. “You’re making me sorry I gave you guys the day off from rehearsal—you have too much spare time.”

“You know we have to do this,” Kiana said.

“I know nothing of the sort.” Maybe she should ask José to meet them there. Would he come? He might. He seemed to have taken a liking to her in all those hours they spent together at the hospital. But if he denied them access and later found out they’d gone anyway, not only would it mess up her relationship with the local cops, it might screw things up between him and Jarvis.

“What do you expect to find there?” It was a dumb question. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

Evan shot her a million-watt grin, pulled a wallet from a back pocket, and threw some bills on the table.

“Could I leave the tip?” Angie asked.

“It’s taken care of,” Evan said. “You ready?” he said to Kiana who scraped the last of her over-easies from the ceramic plate, lipped the last of the yolk from the fork and stood up, looping her purse strap over the uninjured shoulder.

The kids bypassed the motorcycle and climbed into Angie’s car. They headed for Gwen’s apartment, four miles away.

“So, why did you invite me along?”

“What?” Evan asked from the backseat.

“You heard me. The other day you were all gung-ho for investigating on your own. Why involve me? You had to figure I’d try and talk you out of going. Or insist on bringing in the cops.”

“But you didn’t.”

Kiana half-turned in the passenger seat to talk to Evan. “We did think she would.”

“I guess we wanted your…”

He seemed lost for the right word. Kiana, who had a very mature vocabulary, inserted it. “Expertise.”

“Right,” Evan said.

When he didn’t elaborate, Kiana said, “We thought you could look at the scene and get clues from it.”

“Right,” said Evan, “we have no idea what to look for.”

Besides that, Angie was the so-called investigator. If authorities showed up she’d be able to talk them out of a mess. Well, they might have a great big surprise coming. Alton Bay cops would listen to her excuses for their presence at a crime scene, but Carlson cops? No way.

Angie pulled into the parking lot of the building she recognized from the news. “You realize the cops will have taken everything that so much as resembles a clue, right?”

Neither teen answered. She hadn’t expected one. She knew, as did they, that cops might have overlooked the significance of a particular item.

Kiana led them up the stairs and to Gwen’s apartment. They didn’t meet anyone along the way. They must be large apartments since there was quite a distance between entry doors. No sounds came from the apartment across the hall. The tenants might still be in bed, it wasn’t yet 8:30. Also possible that they’d gone to work.

Angie put her hand on Kiana’s to stop the key from going into the lock. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You realize the place won’t be, um…cleaned up?” Angie couldn’t believe when her mouth added, “What if I go in alone? You could wait in the car.”

“I’ll be all right,” Kiana whispered.

She wouldn’t be. The scene inside that apartment would be forever etched in her brain. It would be in every waking moment. It would be there when she went to sleep and when she woke. Angie also knew there was no changing the girl’s mind. She would go inside. And so they did, Evan’s confident fingers turning the key and pushing open the door.

Though she’d warned the kids about the emotion and horror they might experience in Gwen’s apartment, not even Angie was prepared for what was behind that door. As expected, a white chalk outline had been drawn to the left side of the living room, on a royal blue carpet, in front of a modern style chair and small side-table. From the outline it was hard to tell if Gwen died on her face or her back, but her head had been canted to one side, both legs bent awkwardly. Yes, Angie expected the chalk but she didn’t expect three smooth-treaded footprints to mar the thick white line. Large feet for a woman, average size for a man.

Angie had expected to see fingerprint dust on everything; fingerprinting was one of the first things done at a crime scene. But she hadn’t expected the dust itself to be streaked with new prints.

The third unexpected sight—and they hadn’t left the living room—was the total devastation. The place was a shambles. Papers and magazines of every imaginable color and size littered the carpet. The couch had been overturned, its bottom panel and every cushion torn open. CDs and DVDs lay haphazardly in front of a large wooden television cabinet along the hallway wall. The flatscreen television, DVR, and DVD player had been taken from their compartments and dismantled.

Someone had been looking for something. And they weren’t leaving an inch unsearched.

Evan and Kiana stood elbow-to-elbow on her left both froze in dumbstruck silence. Evan’s emotions weren’t only on his face; at his sides, his hands clenched and unclenched. He stepped forward and knelt beside one of the footprints overlaid on the chalk mark. His fingers remained inches away but traced the outline.

“I probably don’t have to tell you not to touch anything,” Angie said as she moved for a better view of the apartment. To the right through a wide archway, was the kitchen. Since Evan seemed to have taken the living room, she would search there. She turned to suggest Kiana take the bedrooms and wasn’t surprised to see tears racing down the girl’s face. Evan went to her. As he wrapped her in his arms, Angie continued into the kitchen where in an incongruous display of happiness, sunlight streamed through the pair of windows.

The appliances were old, as they would be in a rental unit—management rarely changed one unless it broke down—but they were clean. There was no need to inspect the insides of the cabinets as all the doors stood open and all the contents lay on the floor. Most every box had been torn open. The refrigerator door stood open but most items were still inside. Apparently what the intruder wanted was too big to be stored in a mayonnaise or mustard jar. The freezer had been totally emptied. She kicked at a package of hamburger. Still partly frozen. Which meant the intruder had been here late last night. Did they also have a key?

Though Angie looked through all the mess on the floor, she could find nothing that pointed toward a clue, or a motive. She walked back into the living room. Evan had knelt in front of a small desk set along the kitchen wall. He peered into one of the empty drawer cavities.

Something about the room looked different. After a second Angie realized someone had gathered up the bills and magazines from around the room. They lay in a pile on the desk. He looked up and gestured for her to look through them.

She righted a kitchen chair and sat in it to inspect the mail. All postmarks were recent; none of the bills outstanding. In the bank statement, dated a week ago, Angie noted that Gwen’s savings account had a modest balance; her checking account had no overdrafts or unusual withdrawals. The balance was $627.42. Gwen Forest was probably not being blackmailing.

Gwen had died from a makeup tube taped in her mouth. The tube and tape indicated the killer was trying to keep her from divulging something he wanted kept secret. And he’d obviously expected to find it at the school rather than here, since he searched the school twice already and only broke in here today. Or maybe it had just been easier to search the school. A lot less chance of being caught at that extreme end of the building, especially during off-hours. Too many possibilities for witnesses here. But the perpetrator had finally gotten so desperate he had to come. Had to take the chance.

In her handbag dangling from her right shoulder, Angie’s cell phone rang. She set the bills on the desk and reached for it, then changed her mind. It was probably Jarvis and this wasn’t a good time to talk to him. For a moment she imagined his reaction when she told him where they were. She switched the call to voicemail. “Where’s Kiana?”

“Bedroom,” Evan said without looking up from another empty drawer hole in the desk.

Angie started for the bedroom and stopped—because, in the doorway stood a gray-haired woman holding a cell phone like a weapon. Watery blue eyes scanned the intruders twice each. She punched one button on the phone, and then another.

THIRTY-FOUR

Jarvis was halfway back to Alton when his cell phone rang. Rodriguez’s number showed on the caller ID. He stopped the Jeep on the shoulder of the road and answered.

“Jarvis, I need a huge favor. I got permission from both our captains for you to help, if you want. There was another murder last night—not related to Ms. Forest’s.”

Of course he wanted to help. Especially if it’d get Angelina out of danger and back to Alton Bay. Jarvis cupped his left hand over his ear to muffle the sound of traffic zipping past.

“What do you need?” he asked, knowing the new case was hot and would take priority on the case that was growing colder by the minute. Besides, it would be nice to have something to keep him busy till showtime tonight. Angelina had thoroughly nixed the idea of him shadowing her movements all day.

“So, what’s going on?” Jarvis asked.

“I need you to do some follow-up. Got a notebook?”

Jarvis plucked it from his pocket, clicked the pen and poised it over the paper. “Can you go speak to Debra Ellis nee Fingerman?”

Jarvis nodded, recognizing the name of Gwen’s college roommate. “Got an address?” Rodriguez reeled of an address that he said was a half-mile from Bridgewater State College.

“Husband Jason Ellis, a stockbroker in Boston. Works for Charles Schwab.”

“Prestigious.”

“Yeah. He makes upwards of two hundred thou.”

“We’re in the wrong jobs.”

“Tell me about it,” Rodriguez laughed.

“Something I was thinking. Do you have the phone number handy for UC? I want to double check exactly what courses Ms. Forest was taking.”

“Hold on a sec.” A deep voice in the background asked Rodriguez a question. Then Jarvis heard papers rustling. “You there?” asked Rodriguez.

“Go ahead.”

Rodriguez recited the number, then asked, “What’re you thinking?”

Jarvis laughed. “It was something Angelina said last night about Gwen Forest’s choice of courses. Remember, she switched from Bridgewater State where she majored in childhood education. Her plans were to be an elementary school teacher. Last week, she was teaching high school drama. Angelina wondered what prompted the switch. You don’t know offhand if Bridgewater State offers any courses in drama?”

“No idea.”

“I’ll call you later. Okay if I take Angelina with me?”

“Up to you. I don’t see any danger, if that’s what you mean.”

Jarvis laughed. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Jarvis laid the cell phone on the passenger seat and pulled the Jeep onto Route 93. He’d no sooner eased back into the flow of traffic when he changed his mind and squeezed the car close to the guardrails once again.

Angelina’s phone switched over to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, just got back into the flow of northbound cars, hurried to the next exit, then made a beeline south, back to Carlson.

He didn’t know where to start looking for her but twice more dialed her number. The third time he left a message detailing Rodriguez’s request, then added, “I’m on the way to pick you up. Make it easy on me and let me know where you are.”

Good chance she was at the school by now. Knowing Angelina, there were probably a million things she wanted to tweak, neaten, or fix for tonight’s performance. So why didn’t she answer her phone?

Jarvis pressed on the accelerator. What made him think that, regardless of her vow not to work on this case, she was up to her ears in trouble?

THIRTY-FIVE

Before the watery-eyed woman could hit the third number on her phone, Angie shot up a hand. “Wait. Please.”

If the kids hadn’t been here, she would’ve pretended to be a detective. Or maybe smooth-talked her with a giant lie. But lying and subterfuge weren’t things good role models did. So, Angie let blunt truth work in their favor. “Good morning. We’re from the high school. We’re looking for clues to Gwen’s murder.”

Evan’s eyes grew wide. These certainly weren’t words he expected Angie to say.

“Could you please shut the door?” Angie said. “We really don’t want to draw a crowd.”

The woman lowered the phone, did as requested. Angie stepped close with her hand out. “I’m Angie Deacon. I was hired to take Gwen’s place with the drama class. Evan,” she gestured toward the boy, who’d begun looking under the sofa, “and Kiana, who’s in the bedroom, are—were Gwen’s students.”

The woman took another moment to size up Evan and Angie—Kiana hadn’t come to see what the commotion was about. She slapped the phone shut. “Martha Benson.” Her voice was deep and raspy, a smoker’s voice. “You’ve made quite a mess here.”

“I can only hope you’ll believe it was like this when we arrived. I don’t imagine you saw or heard anything. This probably happened during the night.”

“I was at my daughter’s till around ten. A birthday party for my great-granddaughter. She turned six.” As she spoke her gaze took in the room. “What were they looking for?”

“We don’t know. They’ve done the same to the theater at the school. Were you and Gwen friends?” Angie asked.

Martha shook her head. “We had tea now and then.”

“Had she lived here long?”

“About two years. I’ve been a tenant for almost fifteen.”

“Did she, by any chance, ever give you something to hold for her?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Like, whatever they were searching for?”

Angie smiled.

“No. She didn’t give me anything to hold. Do they know who…did it?” She shook her head. “Of course they don’t. That’s why you’re here.”

“We thought we might find something the cops missed.”

She gave a small nod. “Happens on TV all the time.”

“Did Gwen have a lot of friends?”

Martha thought, then said, “I only know of three. One was that boyfriend. Ted, I think his name was.”

“Did you know he asked her to marry him?” Evan asked.

The grey eyebrows went up and then down. “They were getting married?”

“Ms. Forest hadn’t accepted.” Evan came to stand beside them. “You seem surprised to hear it.”

“I guess I am. I didn’t have the idea she was serious about him. She wouldn’t have to be for him to ask, would she? I mean, relationships don’t always go both ways.”

“You mentioned two other friends,” Angie said.

She nodded. “One was a pretty lady. Tall with reddish blonde hair.”

That would be Cilla. Martha went on to describe Randy. “Did they come around often?”

“Maybe once a week for the woman. Less than that for the man. Was she dating him too? I never wanted to ask.”

“He’s our principal,” Evan said.

Martha’s expression said the explanation hadn’t answered her question.

“They were just friends,” Angie said.

“She loved kids. I remember when she first came here. She said she’d always wanted to teach history.” Martha moved toward one of the living room chairs, picked up the cushion from the floor, placed it gently in the chair, and sat.

“Why didn’t she?”

“She did. But just a short time later—maybe a couple of months—she transferred to the drama department.”

“You don’t know why?”

After a brief hesitation Martha shook her head.

“Did you ever overhear, or did she ever mention, any problems with anyone?”

“Well, I normally wouldn’t say anything but…if it might help…I wasn’t eavesdropping, mind you. These old walls are thin.”

“I understand.”

“I did hear her arguing with somebody. About a week ago. Couldn’t understand their words—the walls aren’t that thin.” She smiled. “It went on a few minutes, then a door slammed. By the time I could get my door open, he was going down the stairs—”

“A man?”

Martha nodded. “There’s not much light in the hallway. All I saw was a dark color jacket. He wore a hat so I couldn’t see his hair.”

“What sort of hat?”

She thought a minute but shook her head. “Not a baseball cap. More like a toque.”

“Did you tell this to the cops?”

“Yes.”

Angie wondered if there were surveillance tapes. Most complexes had them these days. And surely the cops would’ve looked at them for the time period prior to Gwen’s murder. But how could she ask about a break-in last night? It would mean letting them know she’d been here. Of course, if there were cameras, and the cops had any reason to look at them since the murder, she and the kids would be on them.

She walked around Martha and bent to inspect the doorknob and lock. She was no authority in these matters but it certainly looked as though somebody had tampered with it. Which got them off the hook since Kiana had a key and wouldn’t need to break in.

Angie took out her business card and passed it into the gnarled fingers. “If you think of anything else…”

A smile spread across Martha’s face. “I was at your theater’s opening performance. Sad for someone to die like that in front of an audience. Thank goodness it didn’t close your theater before it got truly open.”

“Yes.” She steered Mrs. Benson toward the door. “It was very nice meeting you.”

After closing the door to the woman, Angie and Evan walked to the bedroom. It was in the same condition as the rest of the apartment. Clothing decorated every surface. All drawers were open, and empty, as was the closet.

They found Kiana seated on the bed, turning the pages of a photo album, though no way could she see through the blinding river of tears. Evan sat beside her and wound an arm around her waist. Kiana leaned against him.

On the floor were T-shirts, jeans, socks, sweatshirts, and a few dress clothes; two pairs of Converse sneakers, one pair of loafers, a pair of black heels; sports bras and cotton underwear. Angie opened her mouth to say they should get going.

Evan rose from the bed and picked something off the floor. A pair of cotton panties hung from his left index finger. Angie was about to chastise him for fooling around when he cleared his throat to get Kiana’s attention. She swiped tears from her eyes and nodded at the garment. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Angie asked.

Evan dropped the underwear on the floor. “The ones we found in Mr. Chalmers’ desk…they didn’t belong to Ms. Forest.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Angie said.

“That means he was cheating on her,” Kiana said softly.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Evan protested. “He asked her to marry him.”

Angie didn’t mention that people sometimes behaved in horrible, unexplainable ways.

What if Gwen found out he’d been cheating…one thing led to another and—

“Let’s get going.”

Evan started for the door. Kiana didn’t move. Angie eased the album from her hands and nudged her onto her feet. Kiana snatched the album away from Angie. “I want to keep it.”

Angie didn’t see any reason for her not to have it. Nobody else seemed to have turned up to claim anything. “Tuck it under your shirt.”

She did so. Then all the way downstairs and out to the car, walked with her arms around herself. No—nobody would guess she was hiding anything.

Angie wondered if Gwen did indeed have any family. She asked Kiana, who looked up from the intense stare she’d focused on the front of her jacket.

“Family? Um, no.”

Angie hit the remote to open the car doors. Evan held the passenger door for Kiana to slip inside. He climbed in the back. As Angie started the car, she noted the time, just before 10 a.m. She checked her cell phone and found that Jarvis had called several times. Hoping there was no further trouble she dialed him back.

Beside her, Kiana removed the album from her shirt and opened the cover, tears again gushing down her face.

Jarvis answered on the third ring. His barked, “Where the hell are you?” almost made Angie jam the phone back in her purse. Apparently Evan heard the sharp tone because he pushed forward in his seat to listen.

“In my car,” Angie said, catching Evan’s eye and raising her brows.

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“I’m here in Nashua. Where are you?”

“I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I kind of figured that. Where are you?”

“At the school.”

When Angie asked, “What’s wrong?” Kiana looked up from the album. On the page was a 5x7 picture of two women, both about twenty. They stood in front of a white clapboard house. Along both sides of the paved walkway were pink flowers. Probably petunias. One of the women was Gwen. The other, also dark haired and about the same height, held a dark-haired girl of about a year old.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jarvis said in answer to her question. “I thought we could spend some time together.”

Angie knew it was more than that but didn’t want to elaborate in front of the kids. “I’m on my way back to the hotel. Meet me there.”

“When?”

“A half hour.”

“Where are you?”

Angie held up crossed fingers that made Evan grin, and said into the phone, “Shopping.”

Jarvis’s “Figures,” said she was off the hook. About time her past addiction came in handy for something.

Angie hung up the phone then pointed to the album in Kiana’s lap. “Who’s that?”

“This one is Gwen, of course.” Kiana touched the face of the other woman. “This is her best friend from college. Her name is Deb Fingerman.”

“She’s pretty. Is that her baby?”

“She has two children now.” Kiana turned the page. Since the photo had been mounted on a page underneath a clear vinyl sheet, any possible writing was hidden.

At Farina’s Restaurant, Angie stopped the car next to Evan’s bike. She held the album while Kiana retrieved her backpack and handbag from the backseat. While she buttoned her coat all the way up, laughing about the chilly breeze on the bike, Angie thumbed through a few pages of the album. She recognized a group photo of the school drama club with Kiana crouching in the front row, right hand side. Another was of Gwen and Ted at some sort of formal affair. A third was taken at a church. A man of about twenty, with brown hair and a bushy mustache, held a dark haired newborn in a white dress. Deb Fingerman stood beside them. This must be the baby’s christening.

Evan stowed Kiana’s bags on the back of the bike then came to Angie. “Thanks for going with us. You saved us from that neighbor. She would’ve called the cops if you weren’t there.”

Angie handed Kiana the album, which she tucked inside her jacket. “We would’ve been in big trouble.”

“Kind of like Mrs. Deacon’s gonna be when Jarvis catches up to her.”

THIRTY-SIX

Evan’s prediction turned out wrong. Jarvis never mentioned a word about her shopping excursion though she knew he would once his mind was cleared of whatever errand they were headed out on. Which so far, he kept a secret.

Until he was ready to talk about it, Angie figured she’d better come clean about the morning’s events. While they walked out to the parking garage, she told him where she’d been and how Gwen’s place had been upside down when they arrived.

“I figured it was something like that,” he said. Then he laughed. “I knew you couldn’t not investigate.”

“Sorry to disappoint you Sherlock, it had nothing to do with me. The kids begged me to go, and I went because I knew they’d go regardless.”

His nod said he believed her. “Did you find out anything?” Jarvis asked.

“Nothing much. Kiana found a photo album. I let her keep it to remember Gwen by. Don’t look at me that way, if the cops, or the intruder, thought it meant anything, they would’ve taken it.”

“S’pose so.” Jarvis opened the passenger side door of the Lexus for her. “You want to stop someplace for lunch?”

“Depends. Will we be gone long?”

“Probably.”

“Then yes, let’s stop.”

Jarvis turned left, headed for Route 3 south. “I used to know a nice place over the state line in Chelmsford… I haven’t been there in a while. I hope it’s still there. Did it look like the intruder got what they were looking for at Gwen’s apartment?”

“When someone finds what they want they stop searching. Since the entire apartment was a shambles, it tells me they didn’t find what they wanted. Which makes me wonder if maybe they don’t know exactly what they’re looking for.”

“Oh, one of those I’ll know it when I see it kind of searches.”

“Possibly. Oh yes, we met Gwen’s neighbor from across the hall. An elderly woman.”

“She tell you anything newsworthy?”

“Not sure. When I asked if she knew anything about Gwen ending up teaching a drama class in a high school instead of history to grade-schoolers, she had a second’s hesitation.”

“You think she knows more than she’s saying?”

“I do.”

Angie leaned back in the seat. She was still determined not to work on this case, though it was becoming increasingly evident that people kept thrusting her into things—as Jarvis was doing now. In her defense, riding along while he investigated could not be considered her doing the investigating. Trouble was, the bits and pieces she gleaned every time somebody heaved her into the fray, were gelling in her mind. Were evolving into a mental investigation.

They crossed into Massachusetts. Nothing much to look at outside the window, especially this time of year when trees were bare and grass was turning brown. It seemed like this was the season everyone spent waiting for the onslaught of winter.

Jarvis laughed and she turned to look at him. “What?”

“I hear your hamster’s wheel turning.”

She refused to be baited into verbalizing her thoughts. She needed them to simmer a little longer without his input so all she said was, “You telling me where we’re going or will I just find out when we get there?”

“Rodriguez is stuck on another murder case. He asked me to do a bit of follow-up on Gwen’s.”

“Is the new case related?”

“No. But it takes precedence over this one that’s growing colder by the minute. You want to guess where we’re heading?”

“If it were me, I’d be talking to Gwen’s friends from her college days.”

“So, you think her past holds a clue to her murder?”

Angie did think so. Of the two suspects floating around in her mind, one was definitely related to Gwen’s past. She was pretty sure how this person connected but could not yet assign a solid motive.

Jarvis’s, “Earth to Angie,” was accompanied by a nudge in the elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

“You suddenly stopped talking. Want to share your thoughts?”

“Not yet. Which of Gwen’s friends are we going to see?”

Jarvis said, “Guess,” as he turned into the parking lot of a small mom and pop type diner. He shut off the key and swung around on the seat to look at her.

“Debra Fingerman.”

He stretched across and kissed her on the temple. “You’re amazing. The last name is Ellis now.”

* * * *

In the historic college town of Bridgewater, the GPS instructed Jarvis to turn right off Route 28, which was Main Street. Another right and they found themselves on a narrow, tree-lined street with turn-of-the-century homes from one end to the other. The Ellis family lived in the first house on the right, a beautiful Colonial with an attached two-car garage. A recent model Chrysler was parked in front of the left-hand garage door.

Angie and Jarvis stepped up and rang the bell to the cranberry colored front door. A pretty woman in her late forties appeared. She had wavy almost-black hair that was going gray at the temples. Her demeanor was friendly but sad. She pushed wire-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and then gazed over them at Angie and Jarvis.

After he introduced himself and Angie, she ushered them into a living room that took a step back in time. The furnishings looked to have been taken from a house Angie once saw in old Salem village: a plank coffee table, a maple sideboard, and a braided rug in shades of blue.

After offering refreshments and receiving a negative reply, Debra Ellis seated herself on one of two identical flower-patterned sofas set perpendicular in front of a red brick fireplace where a jolly fire flickered. In her jeans and Patriots sweatshirt, she looked out of place in the colonial style room.

Angie and Jarvis sat on the second sofa with Jarvis leaned back and his leg crossed over one knee while Angie remained perched on the front of the cushion.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you,” Deb said. She had a deep voice for a woman.

“I’ve heard many good things about Gwen. She had a great many admirers.” To which Deb nodded. “You two were close.” Angie said it as a statement of fact.

“We became best friends from the minute they assigned us as roommates. We had so many things in common. Both came from broken homes. We were both only children. We each loved history, especially American history.”

“So much so that Gwen majored in it.”

Deb smiled sadly. “As a child she hated the subject. Hated how all the teachers could do was recite dates and make them memorize battles and lists of presidents. Gwen had a plan for how she wanted to teach kids about their country.”

“But she never did,” Jarvis said.

“No.”

“Is that reason related to her death?” he asked.

She seemed surprised at the question. “Maybe.”

Angie didn’t ask her to elaborate right now. Her mind was churning, assembling information. For a while she steered the conversation toward more general topics like the play and the school.

“Did you and Gwen see much of each other?”

“We had a standing date. The first of every alternate month, we met in Boston. We had lunch—each time at a different place. We did a little shopping or sightseeing, or just sat on a bench and talked.”

“I assume you she told you she was seeing Ted? Did you ever meet him?” Jarvis asked.

“Nice man.”

Angie smiled at her. “Very noncommittal reply.”

Deb smiled. “He was a noncommittal kind of man.”

“What did you really think of him?”

“Odd. He was odd. That’s the best way I can describe him. I never could put a finger on what it was. But he was good to Gwen. He doted on her. They were good friends.” She moved forward on the couch, assuming a position much the same as Angie’s—leaned forward, feet flat on the worn braided rug, hands clasped in her lap.

“But when he proposed marriage, their relationship changed,” Angie said.

She felt Jarvis’s gaze on her and knew he was wondering if his repeated proposals had damaged their relationship. Angie pushed on with her questions. Time enough later to face that topic.

“Tell us about Randy.”

“She adored that man. And he loved her. Till the day she died.” Deb brushed something off the cuff of her sweatshirt. “Some people look their whole lives and never find the one. Gwen had two.”

Other times, Angie would ask if Deb was one of them, but she didn’t want to interrupt the flow of thought.

“You know he’s gay, right?” Deb said.

Angie and Jarvis nodded. “Was that what broke them apart?” Jarvis asked.

“Yes. He couldn’t perform in the bedroom. No, no, I take that back. He could perform but it was frustrating for them both. His allegiances, if you want to call it that, were elsewhere.”

“Was there someone else? For him, I mean.”

“No. It was an emotional thing. He just didn’t mesh with women. Gwen understood. She was totally supportive.”

“Was that why she moved out west?”

“No. The UC—the University of California—offered great courses in childhood education. She’d heard they taught innovative ways of mentoring kids. Randy encouraged her to go.”

“Maybe he thought that would be a better way to gain his freedom.”

“I don’t believe it. He and Gwen were totally honest with each other. Remember, I was there. We were together every day. They always planned on getting back together. They talked about finding jobs at the same school so they could be near each other. Maybe share a house.”

“They did get to be near each other,” Angie offered.

“It took a little longer than they planned.

“What happened?”

“Life got in the way.”

“Especially for Gwen.”

Deb smiled sadly. “Yes.”

Angie saw Jarvis shake off a puzzled expression and almost smiled. She loved when she could introduce information he hadn’t yet thought of.

He got back on track with, “Which again brings up the question of why she didn’t end up teaching elementary kids.”

“It seems like that’s the question of the day,” Deb said with a smile.

“Here’s a new one,” Angie said. “Who do you think killed Gwen?”

Deb lowered her head and, for several seconds, looked at her hands in her lap. “I can’t imagine it’s any of the kids—they adored her. Nor can I picture either Randy or Ted…”

“Though there’s a small part of you that wonders if something could’ve driven one of them over the edge.”

She took off her glasses and moved her gaze from Angie to Jarvis. Then she gave a tiny nod.

“Since I arrived in Carlson, someone’s been ransacking all Gwen’s personal places. Any idea what they’re looking for?”

Deb raised her face and looked Angie directly in the eye. “Again, all your questions come ’round to the same subject, don’t they?”

“I hoped they would.”

Angie’s comment earned another sharp glance and a soft grunt from Jarvis.

“And he doesn’t know.” Deb tilted her head toward him.

“I didn’t intentionally keep it from him. Right now, the thoughts are all tangled inside my head. I thought if I started throwing out questions…”

“Have my answers led to any untangling?”

“I have unraveled one nagging problem, though I still can’t fathom how it relates to a motive for Gwen’s murder.”

Deb nodded. “Neither can I.”

Confusion rolled off Jarvis in waves. Still, he didn’t speak.

“When will her body be released? I’d like to make plans for the funeral.”

Jarvis scribbled a phone number on a sheet of notepaper and handed it across to Deb. “Detective Rodriguez is heading up the investigation.”

To Angie’s left, a pair of oil lamps decorated each end of the fireplace’s rough-hewn mantle. Between them, spanning the length of the mantle were photographs, each encased in the same handmade wood frames. Angie went to look at them, hoping to see one in particular. It was there. She picked up the picture of four people. It had obviously been taken at a photographer’s studio. In it, Deb stood beside a good-looking blond man whom Angie assumed was her husband Jason. Two young boys, about four and six years old, were seated on stools in front of them. Both children were dark-haired like their mother.

Deb came to stand beside Angie. She took the picture and gazed at it with love in her eyes. She showed the picture to Jarvis and waited while he examined it and handed it back.

“Have you figured it out yet?” she asked them both.

“I believe I have,” Angie said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Kiana and Evan stood on the sidewalk in front of a three-story building with yellow vinyl siding. It looked to be six apartments, two on each side of the center entrance. The building was wedged so tightly between two other tenements—these with peeling paint—that there wasn’t enough space between them to park cars.

Evan stuffed the last of a hamburger in his mouth, chewed, swallowed and said, “Ready?”

Kiana nodded and they climbed four steps to the front door, recently painted a brilliant green. Seven black mailboxes hung on the right hand wall of the small vestibule. The first were numbered one through six in white stencils. The seventh box was different, newer, and with the apartment number 1A in gold stick-on letters rather than the stenciled numbers. This newer box bore the name Underwood in the same adhesive letters. Strange. If her estimation of the building’s makeup was correct and the building had six apartments, then the seventh must be an add-on. Probably it was tucked into the attic—a tiny apartment in the eaves—the owner’s way of producing more income.

She stepped back and peered up. Flat roof. No attic. No eaves. Maybe the apartment was a wing added at the back. She gestured to Evan who followed her down the alleyway to the right of the building. They didn’t find a wing-apartment, but they did locate a door, down three steps, into the basement. There was no identifying number on it but it was painted the same green as the front.

Evan made no negative response so she went down. And knocked. No answer. No dog barked. Lincoln Underwood’s personnel file had indicated he was single, but that didn’t mean a girlfriend wasn’t hanging out here. They hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Lincoln was at the high school, still drying auditorium seats. Even though the show had been moved outdoors; Mr. Reynolds didn’t want things getting all musty so he’d kept the staff busy drying the place out.

After knocking two more times and still getting no response, Kiana tried the knob. Locked.

She turned to ask Evan what to do next, when the door whooshed open, yanking the knob from her sweaty fingers. She prepared an excuse for why she’d been trying to get in but it was Evan standing there looking very proud of himself.

“I found an open window.”

“There aren’t any windows in a below-ground apartment.”

“Sure there are.”

Kiana stepped in to dark, though well-outfitted living quarters. The studio apartment appeared to take up half the basement of the building. To the left, a dresser and double bed, with a blue spread tucked neatly around the pair of pillows. To the right of that, beyond a half-open door Kiana could see a bathroom. Straight ahead, a leather sofa and chair in front of a wide screen TV hanging from the wall. To the right, a small kitchen. The eating area consisted of two stools tucked under a rolling countertop in front of the sink. Over the sink, as Evan said, was a rectangular window.

“The bathroom window was open,” he explained. “I fell on my head in the bathtub.”

“Could’ve been worse. You could’ve landed in the toilet.”

Evan punched her on the arm. She shrugged. “Let’s get looking. Who knows what time he gets off today.”

Kiana wanted to know more about this man who seemed so interested in that photograph from under Gwen’s blotter. Was he somehow related to her? Long-lost brother? Ex-boyfriend? Maybe they could find a clue here.

On a small table near the couch sat a pair of framed pictures. She picked them both up. One was Lincoln holding a small blonde-haired girl of about eighteen months. In the other he held a blond boy of about four years old. Kiana guessed the janitor was divorced and these were his children. She felt bad for the man that, until this moment, she hadn’t liked.

Evan had gone to the bedroom area. His hands were invisible in the top drawer of the dresser.

“Find anything?” she whispered.

“Just pictures of a couple of kids.”

“Same here.”

No other personal items were in the living room, so she went to the kitchen and pulled open drawers. Lincoln Underwood was a very neat man. He kept everything aligned side by side. The pile of mail stacked and fastened with a rubber band.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” came a growl from her left.

Kiana didn’t have to spin around to know a very angry Lincoln Underwood had arrived. He stepped toward Kiana. She stepped back.

“I’ll ask you again. What are you two doing here?”

He took another step. She took one. Out the corner of her eye she saw that Evan hadn’t moved from the bedroom area, though he had shut the drawer.

Underwood took another step. Kiana backed one more.

This couldn’t continue. Soon she’d be trapped against the refrigerator. And he could make bodily contact. He didn’t wield a mop this time but his body said he could wring her neck without a second thought.

Kiana launched herself at the man, pushing off with her feet and throwing her hundred-twenty-five pounds at his chest. He tumbled backward and landed with a thud on the floor between the rolling counter and the sink. His head make a terrible sound on the tile-covered cement.

Kiana fell against the countertop, which rolled to the right. She slid off the edge of it and landed on the floor too.

Evan shouted, “Run!” but there was no need to. She had already scrambled to her feet and taken a step around the counter toward the door.

Suddenly her feet were yanked out from under her. She went down hard on her shoulder. The high-pitched squeal had to have come from her.

“Kiana!”

“Go, Evan! Get help!”

He hesitated, torn, she knew, by opposing thoughts.

Then, decision made, Evan’s silhouetted form raced past them, through the door and disappeared up the stairs.

Lincoln’s grip loosened—probably from indecision on how to handle this new development. Kiana took advantage. She kicked,  and though most of the force only shoved her across the carpet, one of her soles made contact with flesh. He grunted and ducked his head away, then shifted his grip to get hold of both ankles.

She kicked both feet and tried to turn over. Skin tore. Ligaments stretched. Kiana rolled anyway and landed on her back. Her legs were twisted yet she kicked again and again.

“Knock it off,” he said. “Stop kicking.”

This only made her kick harder. Flat on her back now, her hand found wood, which provided leverage. She planted one shoe bottom on his head, the other on the arm that held her ankles. And pushed. The grip loosened a bit. Kiana moved both heels to his head—and jabbed.

She wrenched herself free, feeling his groping fingernails digging into her skin. Kiana clambered to her feet.

She’d taken two running steps when fingers found a handful of her shirt. Buttons popped. One hit the wall with a thwack. She slid out of the garment and took another step. A hand latched onto her right arm. Pain shot from her wounded shoulder and into each extremity.

“Help! Help!” Could anyone hear? Had he chosen this secluded basement apartment for a reason? Maybe he routinely killed people here. “Help!”

“Shut up.” Lincoln shoved her against the wall and she squealed again as her shoulder thunked against the metal.

“You can’t kill me, Evan’s gone for help.”

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m calling the cops.”

That was a good thing, right? They’d rescue her from this crazed school cleaning man. A cell phone appeared in his hand. He dialed the three numbers.

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Figured what out?” Jarvis felt his brow wrinkling into an accordion. It wrinkled further as Angelina and Debra’s discussion grew more cryptic. The more they talked, the more confused he became.

“Though it still doesn’t explain why Gwen was killed,” Angelina said.

“That’s what’s got me thoroughly confused,” Deb said. “Nothing in Gwen’s past could be construed negatively. There’s no reason for anyone to want her dead.”

Jarvis wasn’t convinced Gwen’s past was as picture perfect as Deb said. She hadn’t lived a perfect lifestyle, as was evidenced by her arrest for marijuana possession. Deb must know about that.

When Jarvis asked about it, Deb smiled. “Yes, she and Randy, and six others were arrested at a party one night.”

“No claims of, ‘it wasn’t mine, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time’?” Jarvis asked.

“No, they were guilty. But marijuana was an experiment for them, not a habit.”

“Were you involved too?” Angelina asked.

Deb gave a sly grin. “I was working that night.” She replaced the picture in its place.

Angelina selected another and handed it to Jarvis. This one must’ve been taken the same time as the christening picture she’d described from Gwen’s album. Probably a few minutes later because Gwen was now holding the baby and standing beside the brown-haired man. A priest had entered the scene too.

Jarvis had been watching Angelina, trying to get information from her expression—she usually had a very expressive face—but right now he couldn’t read a thing.

He handed the framed picture back to Deb, who feathered her fingers across the glass surface, then held it against her chest. “So, Angie,” she said, “I gather you haven’t told Detective Jarvis that Kiana is Gwen’s daughter.”

He pulled forward on the sofa, perching on the edge of the cushion the way Angelina had been. His gaze shot toward Deb, who laughed. “I guess that answers my question.” She replaced the picture on the mantle.

“So, when Gwen found out she was pregnant, she asked Randy for an annulment and left for California,” Jarvis ventured.

“No,” Deb said. “The annulment really was because he was gay. Gwen didn’t learn of the pregnancy till she was out west. Actually, she passed out on her way into UC admissions office. She was taken to the hospital and received the momentous diagnosis.” Deb smiled nostalgically. “She phoned me that night. She’d just spoken to Randy, who’d been less than enthusiastic, but supportive.”

“So, she planned to keep the baby?”

“Yes, but time passed. The reality of raising a child virtually on her own became too much for her to handle. When Kiana was born, against my vehement advice , and my offer to take the baby, she gave her up for adoption. The adoptive parents lived in Kansas and did keep in touch, sending regular letters and pictures.”

“Then the husband’s job got him transferred to New Hampshire?” Angelina ventured.

“Right.”

“And Gwen got tired of living on the outskirts of her daughter’s life, and decided to move close to her.”

“Right again.”

“I bet Kiana’s parents weren’t happy about that.”

“I don’t think they knew—they’d never met Gwen in person. Didn’t know what she looked like.”

“Did Kiana know the truth of her birth?” Jarvis asked, amazed at the rapport between these two women.

In unison, Angelina and Deb said, “Yes.”

Jarvis blew out a chuckle. “What the hell is it with you women—do you have some secret language?” They all laughed. “How did Kiana find out the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Angelina said.

Jarvis laughed again. “You mean there’s something you don’t know?”

“I do,” Deb said. “Gwen told her. She couldn’t hold it inside any longer.”

“How long have you known about Kiana?” he asked Angelina.

“I suspected right from the beginning.”

No way anybody could know something like that from simply meeting a person. Then again, Angelina had an uncanny knack for reading the truth in a person’s demeanor. If another person claimed such a thing, he would’ve accused them of grandstanding for the witness.

“That first day,” Angelina explained, “Kiana was telling me about the play she wrote. The girl in the play, if you recall, experiences the same things we’ve just been discussing.”

“But the girl in the play was in high school,” Jarvis said. “And she had a boyfriend who was a football star. Her best friend got arrested for drug possession.”

Angelina went silent a moment. From past experience, he knew this meant he’d missed something. He ran the previous discussion around in his brain. Except for the age of the characters in the play, and that Randy was into track and not football, this could actually be Gwen’s story. “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “But what made you realize?”

“At one point as she was telling me, Kiana started to say Gwen’s name.”

“So you figured it all out from a slip of the tongue.”

“It was only a suspicion at that time. It got clarified after the show last night when she said, ‘My mother is here.’”

Now she was really stretching things. “Big deal. Her mother was in the front row. So was her father.”

“Exactly. So, why would she say it only about one parent?”

“I see, unless she didn’t get along with her adopted father.”

“They got along great,” Deb said.

“But doesn’t this add more evidence to prove Randy’s the murderer? He found out about Kiana being his daughter and killed Gwen to keep the whole thing quiet.”

Angelina shook her head.

“Randy doesn’t know,” Deb said.

“But Kiana was proud to find out Gwen was her mother. To know her father was right there in town should’ve sent her over the hill.”

“It would have, except that she doesn’t know Randy is her father.”

“But that photo the kids found in Gwen’s office…It showed them—together.”

“What photo is that?” Deb asked.

Angelina drew her cell phone from her purse, clicked a few buttons then held up the screen shot of Gwen and Randy taken at the college.

Deb smiled at the memory. “I took that the day they got married.”

“This looks nothing like Randy,” Angelina explained. Angelina returned the phone to her bag and sat beside Jarvis. He resisted the urge to hold her hand and settled for letting their upper arms touch.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve figured out that Gwen switched over to drama in order to be close to her daughter.”

“Right,” Deb said.

“But doesn’t that make a better case for Randy being the killer? He found out about his daughter… He’s the one ransacking Gwen’s things, looking for Kiana’s birth certificate, adoption papers—anything connecting him and Gwen to Kiana.”

“If he were the killer—then he would’ve taken the photo album from Gwen’s apartment. It was in plain sight,” Angelina said. “You see, that album is the key to the whole mystery. Randy would never allow it to see daylight. It’s got several pictures of him and Gwen.”

“Therefore, since Kiana now has possession,” Jarvis argued, “she must know he’s her father.”

Deb laughed. “No way is the Randy of those days recognizable from the Randy of today.”

She had a point. He’d taken courses in recognizing suspects by comparing things they couldn’t change about themselves: bone structure, eyebrow and lip shapes, and it had been a struggle for him to connect the two men. No, probably Kiana hadn’t realized the truth.

There seemed to be no further rehashing of the situation. No more information to be learned. Jarvis left contact information with Debra. She and Angelina hugged and said their good-byes.

Back in the car and heading onto Main Street, Jarvis had to ask, “So tell me how the Ellis family photo made you sure you were on the right track?”

“Excuse me?”

“You picked up that picture and nodded like things had suddenly become clear.”

“Remember I told you about the album Kiana took from Gwen’s apartment? Well, in it was a picture taken at a baby’s christening. A girl baby.”

“I get it. Debra has two sons.”

“Therefore the baby at the christening had to be Gwen’s.”

“I still don’t get the connection to her murder.”

“Neither do I. Yet.”

“It’s almost two o’clock, want to stop and get something to eat?”

“What if we get a coffee for the road? I’m anxious to get back.”

“Is something wrong?”

Her soft, “No,” took too long in coming.

Something was wrong. She looked okay. As a matter of fact, she looked fabulous. When Angelina got that serious set to her face, she was so sexy. Probably not something he should tell her. So, what was wrong?

For several moments he had no answer. He concentrated on finding his way back to the highway. Suddenly he knew; it was that intuition thing she often called a curse. “You think something’s about to go wrong?”

The nod was barely perceptible—which was probably not a good thing. The tightening of her lips was definitely not a good thing.

“No idea what it’s related to?”

“Kiana.”

THIRTY-NINE

Kiana stood against Lincoln Underwood’s kitchen wall, wearing nothing but jeans and her bra. The apartment door remained open from when Evan had run out. A cold breeze rushed in, raising her nipples to sharp points. Kiana had never felt more naked. She held her good arm up, fingers splayed to cover as much of her as she could.

A clink of metal and rustle of leather said the cops had arrived. Cautiously they moved into the room and took account of the situation.

With reinforcements in place, Underwood backed away from Kiana and retrieved her shirt from the floor near the refrigerator. He brought it and held it so she could ease her throbbing arm into the torn sleeve. Sure, now that witnesses had arrived, he could be Sir Galahad. A minute ago he was on a vicious rampage.

He told his story to the cops, how he’d come home to find the two kids ravaging his place. Kiana said nothing. What was the point? She’d been caught red-handed. Speaking of getting caught. Where was Evan? He had to be around somewhere, no way would he have left without her.

Because of her bad shoulder, they decided not to snap on handcuffs. Sandwiched between the two cops, she exited Lincoln Underwood’s apartment, and down the dank alley beside the building. People had gathered on the sidewalks on both sides of the street. They stood gawking as she was walked to the cop car with the lights flashing on top.

She should be embarrassed at all this, but right now felt only relief to be alive. A fleeting thought, to try and escape, was quickly dashed when a second police car skidded to a stop behind the other. A half-block away, Evan’s bike sat parked against the curb. No sign of him.

One of the cops yanked open the back door of the first cruiser and put a hand on her head as she slipped inside.

Kiana wasn’t alone. Seated beside her was Evan.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Sort of. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was going for my phone in my backpack on the bike. I saw the cop car at the end of the street. I mean, what are the chances of finding a cop when you want one? They told me to get in and we came here.” Evan noticed her popped buttons. “What happened to your— Oh no, Kee, he didn’t—”

“No. He didn’t hurt me, except when he shoved me against wall.” She explained how he’d grabbed her shirt when she tried to get away. Evan shrugged out of his jacket then fitted it around her shoulders.

On the sidewalk, the two officers talked to the janitor. They were joined by the officers from the second cruiser. Underwood did most of the talking, now and then jutting his chin toward Kiana and Evan.

After a minute they broke up. Both front doors of the cruiser opened. One cop got in the driver’s side. The other poked his head over the seat. “Are you all right, Miss? Mr. Underwood said you had an injured shoulder.”

Mr. Underwood, said as though he were some sort of royalty or something, instead of a possible murderer. Thoughts of her dead mentor brought tears to Kiana’s eyes. She shook her head. “I’m not hurt.”

The officer climbed in and the cruiser shot away from the curb.

Moments later, she and Evan were ushered into a small room in the police station. The only window was picture-window size and had to be that two-way glass she always saw on TV. How many officers stood on the other side watching them?

Weren’t prisoners supposed to get one phone call? Who should she call—her mother? No, that would be worse than death. Mrs. Deacon? Yes, she could, and probably would, say I told you so, but at least she’d come.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Kiana asked.

“We’ll probably be booked for breaking and entering,” Evan whispered.

“What is the penalty for that?”

“Dunno. Probably jail.”

She gulped down a lump the size of a golf ball. “Are we officially arrested?”

“They didn’t say the words.”

Man, had they messed things up. Just as Mrs. Deacon predicted. This would ruin her chances for entry into college. It would ruin any chance of those investors giving money to keep Carlson’s drama program running. But right now, the worst thing of all—it would ruin her in Mrs. Deacon’s eyes. The substitute teacher had been nothing but nice to them. She’d treated them as people, not children. Just like Gwen.

An hour passed.

Perhaps her one phone call should be to a lawyer. Trouble was, she didn’t know any. Maybe they could loan her a phone book.

The door opened. An officer entered. Before the door swung shut, Kiana saw Lincoln Underwood in the hallway. He was nodding and shaking hands with the cop involved in the murder investigation. What was his name? Rodriguez, maybe.

“Yes, yes, job well done, Mr. Underwood,” she imagined him saying. “You’re responsible for the arrest of two intrusive but well-intentioned kids.”

They were well-intentioned right? All they’d wanted to do was unearth a murderer.

The officer waited till the door clicked shut—Kiana just now noticed it had no doorknob. She couldn’t stop the shiver that shook her so hard it jolted her shoulder.

“Are you in pain?” the officer asked. “Did he hurt you?”

She started to nod, then shook her head. Evan explained about the shoulder injury from the day before.

The door opened again and Detective Rodriguez came in. He approached the table where they were seated. He took a minute to build the suspense, glancing back and forth between them. “You two know why you’re here? You understand the charges?”

“Nobody said anything about charges,” Evan said.

Suddenly, Rodriguez’s gaze landed on Kiana’s throat. He frowned. He bent and gestured at the sapphire pendant.

“May I see that?”

What was going on? Did he think she’d taken it from the janitor’s apartment?

“Would you please remove it?”

She started to reach for the clasp but the pain in her shoulder made her wince and drop her arm to the table.

“May I?” the detective asked. Kiana nodded. He undid the clasp and took the chain from around her neck. He held it up to the light—a single bulb recessed in the ceiling. “Where did you get this?”

“I didn’t—” she squeezed out before Evan broke in.

“Don’t say anything, Kee.” To the detective, he said, “We’re not saying a word without our one phone call.”

The first officer shot them an indulgent smile then shrugged at Rodriguez. “Okay, if that’s how you want it. Which of you wants to go first?”

“She can,” Evan said.

Kiana was escorted from the room and to a pay phone. Somebody handed her two quarters. Kiana wracked her memory for the phone number then punched in the numbers with her left hand. The familiar voice answered on the second ring.

“Hi, it’s K-kiana.” Stop wimping around. Talk like an adult. Kiana sucked in a stabilizing breath. “Mrs. Deacon, can you c-come?” Sobs erupted from her even though she tried to swallow them down. “At the p-police station. Evan and I have been arrested.”

Mrs. Deacon said they’d be there as soon as they could.

Kiana hung up the phone. She started back toward the interrogation room, the cop following tight behind. But as she stopped at the door to the room she’d left moments ago, he touched her arm and urged her past, and into a room all by herself. She’d seen this on TV too. The suspects being questioned separately—so they could compare stories. Gosh, could things get any worse?

FORTY

Angie and Jarvis bustled into the Carlson police station. Her heart kept trying to escape between her ribs. What on earth had the kids been up to this time?

They were shown into a room. Neither took the seats that were offered. Neither accepted the offer of coffee. Within minutes, two uniformed officers entered, followed by Detective Rodriguez, who stepped forward and shook hands with Jarvis, then nodded hello to Angie. “Sorry to see you both again under these circumstances.”

Jarvis asked what was going on.

“The kids are being detained. They were caught breaking into an apartment.”

Damn. She knew she shouldn’t have left them alone today.

“You don’t seem surprised,” one of the cops said to Angie.

“They were dissatisfied with the speed of Gwen Forest’s murder investigation and became determined to look into things on their own. Who’s place did they break into?”

“Lincoln Underwood. He works as a janitor at the school.”

“I know who he is.”

“Any idea why they would go there?”

She aimed the reply toward José. “I assume it’s because he showed extraordinary interest in that photo the kids found in Gwen’s office. You know the one I mean, right?”

José said he did. He explained it to the other officers.

“The other night, the janitor was in the process of threatening them when I walked in and took the photo away.”

Rodriguez reached into one of his breast pockets. He came out with something he juggled in his palm a second and then he was dangling Angie’s sapphire pendant in the space between them. “Have you seen this before?”

“My necklace.”

“Yours?”

“Yes. I loaned it to Kiana yesterday. Did you think they’d stolen it from Underwood’s apartment? José, I can assure you—”

He didn’t respond. He asked instead, “Where did you get it?”

Angie explained about acquiring the stone at Cilla Philmore’s shop. He pulled out a chair and sat, motioning for Angie to sit too. “We need to talk about this.”

“No. First we talk about the kids. Where are they? What can I do to get them released?”

Just then the door opened and Lincoln Underwood himself entered. He had on the same work clothes as at school earlier, but he’d lost that gruff and abrasive look he wore at the school.

Jarvis barely spared him a glance. “What are the charges against the kids?”

“There won’t be any,” Underwood said. “They have no prior record. And there are extenuating circumstances.” He jammed his hands in his pants pockets. The action pushed back the lapels of his poplin jacket.

“How magnanimous of you,” Jarvis said.

Angie smiled. “Did they plant only one of you at the school?”

“Pl—” Jarvis said.

“Yes. Unless I miss my guess, Lincoln Underwood is an undercover cop.”

“He is,” José said, shooting a look of amazement at Jarvis. “On a city-wide drug search, though right now we’re more concerned about that necklace. It was stolen from a local jewelry store three months ago.”

A beautiful bone china cup and saucer, and a flowing silk evening gown flashed into Angie’s head. “Cilla,” was all she said.

“You figured it out. Why aren’t I surprised?” José asked.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jarvis asked.

“Cilla Philmore is a kleptomaniac,” Angie explained.

“How did you know? And why didn’t you report it?”

“I was so busy with the play and all the problems related to it that it didn’t sink in till just this minute. There are a number of quite expensive items in her thrift shop.”

“I—” Jose placed his palms flat on the table and gazed across it at her. “We need your help.”

He didn’t have to explain that they wanted her to set up Cilla. “I don’t understand what you think I can do.”

“Right now, the presence of the items in her store is circumstantial. She can claim people brought them to her. As a matter of fact, if she’s as good as we think, she’ll already have receipts made out. We need corroboration that she stole them.”

“Seems to me you can compare surveillance tapes from the jewelry store. She had to have been in the place at the time of the theft.”

José heaved a long sigh. “Through one problem or another, we have no evidence.”

Obviously sensing her interest in the case, Jarvis reacted like a lover rather than an officer. “No way are you getting her involved. No freaking way is she putting herself in—”

He stopped the protests when she laid a hand on his arm. His mouth slapped shut.

“The timing for this is not good,” Angie said to José. “I am immersed in this play and—”

“It’ll only take an hour of your time.”

“Maybe tomorrow when all the other pressures are off.” When her head didn’t hurt so much.

As if reading her mind, Jarvis dug a small vial from his pants pocket and palmed out two painkillers. She accepted and swallowed them dry.

José’s grave expression glued to hers. What harm could it do? It was only an hour. Everything at the school was in place. She didn’t have to be there until seven.

“Release the kids right now and I’ll do it.”

“Deal.” José nodded to the officer, who left the room. “We’ll need time to develop a scenario for the meeting though.”

“No need. I have a plan.” She explained the situation, dug out her phone and dialed Cilla’s number. “Cilla. Hi, it’s Angie.”

“Oh, am I glad you called. I am so sorry I missed our coffee date. One of the boys had an emergency—cut his hand at work—and needed a ride to the hospital. I tried to reach you but got a message that you were out of the area.”

“Not a problem. Are you busy right now?”

“No. I close the shop at one on Saturdays; I can meet you in about three quarters of an hour. Same place?”

“Sounds good. I’ve been saving up embarrassing stories all day long. I’ll see you there.” Angie clicked the phone shut. “Okay,” she said to José. “We’re meeting at Farina’s in forty-five minutes. I assume all you’re looking for is confirmation that she stole the stuff—or that someone else didn’t bring it to the shop.”

“Right. If it’s all right with you, we’ll wire you.”

“May I have the pendant please?”

José gestured for her to turn around. She did so, then lifted her hair so he could clasp the gold chain around her neck.

“Be right back.” He exited the room and returned less than a minute later.

“You had this all planned, didn’t you?” she asked.

He shrugged and held up a tiny microphone. “Since you’ll be in public, there’s no need to tape it on or anything as elaborate as you see on TV. Just drop it in your pocket.”

He waited till she did so, then left, making sure the door was propped open so she and Jarvis could get out without calling for help. Angie considered following José so she didn’t have to be alone with Jarvis. Before he could protest again, she said, “We’ll be in a public restaurant. There is no danger. As a matter of fact, why don’t you head over there now? Find a good seat. Watch my performance.”

“That might work, she doesn’t know who I am.”

The realization appeared to make Jarvis feel better. They went into the hallway where Kiana was just leaving one of the interrogation rooms. The relief in her movements told Angie that José had indeed carried through on his promise. Kiana rushed to her. They hugged. Angie noticed that Kiana didn’t use her right arm. “Go home. Take painkillers and a nap. I’ll see you at seven.”

“What’ll you be doing?”

“The same thing,” she lied.

“Do you know why the janitor dropped the charges? He seemed so angry before and now… I can’t figure it out.”

“We’ll talk extensively later. Right now, I have to go. Do you need a ride home?”

“They said they’d take us back to Evan’s bike.”

Angie hugged Kiana again. “Go rest. I’ll see you later.”

* * * *

Angie stood in the entry at Farina’s. Cilla hadn’t arrived, which was good. It gave her a chance to select the best table for optimum safety. Across the room, she spotted Jarvis and another man, probably an officer. Jarvis gave a small nod at a booth near the door. She took it and sat facing the entrance. But Jarvis was gesturing for her to change seats. Angie didn’t think facing away from the door was the wisest thing but she moved anyway.

The waitress approached and Angie said she was waiting for someone. Was José there too? She cast a covert glance at the tables in range but didn’t see him.

He must’ve sat far away. Cilla probably already knew him.

Priscilla Philmore arrived five minutes later. She dropped a burgundy leather handbag on the booth seat and slid across, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and spice. “Hi.”

“Hi. Good to see you.”

The waitress arrived and they ordered coffees. Angie’s stomach growled so she added a bowl of clam chowder too.

Angie decided to get the conversation off with a bang. “So, how’re things going with Josh?”

“Better, I guess. He’s agreed for us to go away next weekend. I made reservations at the Marriott in New Castle.”

“Lots to do there.”

Cilla shrugged and grinned. “I really don’t plan on leaving the room.”

“That works too!”

The waitress arrived with coffee. When she left, Angie asked, “What do you do with the shop while you’re gone?”

“I’ll put a sign on the door.” Cilla doled a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee.

“You don’t have any employees?”

“No, I—”

Cilla never finished the sentence. She what? Couldn’t afford help? Or was afraid an employee might figure out what she was up to? More than likely that was the case. An employee would see inventory sheets, and unpack bags of donations.

“I see you’re wearing the pendant.”

“I love it.” Seeing an opening, she added, “I don’t suppose you have another. I’d love to have a garnet…or even an amethyst. Of course, I’d expect—demand—to pay for it this time.” Then Angie realized that might not have been the best thing to say. She didn’t think Cilla was in this for the money. The shop was a way to cover her disease.

Cilla sipped from her cup then set it down in the saucer. “I might have one.”

Angie feigned great interest; she set down her cup and widened her eyes. “Can I see it?”

Cilla’s surprise caused her to nearly tip over her cup. “I-I… What if we do it in the morning? That way the show will be out from under you, and you can take time to look around. I saw you admiring those paintings. He’s a local artist.”

Angie fingered the sapphire. “I really love this stone. I hope you have a similar setting. Where did you get this one?”

“Er, ah, I can’t really remember.” Cilla picked up the cup, then set it down. “Yes, now that I think about it, I do recall. A neighbor died. Her family brought most all her things to me.”

The waitress brought Angie’s soup. As she deposited the bowl on the table Angie didn’t miss Cilla’s slight nod at something over Angie’s shoulder. At the same time, she slid across the vinyl upholstery as though making room for someone to sit. Angie glanced up to see that Josh had arrived. As he eased in beside her, Cilla threw Angie an I’m sorry glance that didn’t fool her for a second.

“Good afternoon, Angie,” Josh said.

His voice sounded friendly but his eyes told her danger loomed. Thankfully Jarvis and company were near. Unfortunately, they couldn’t see Josh’s face, or hear his words.

“Nice to see you, Josh.”

“Sorry to intrude on your girl party. I was passing and thought I’d come say hello to my wife.”

“You’re welcome to join us.”

Josh waved off the waitress. Once she was out of hearing range, he said, “It’s no use making small talk. I know you’re on to Cilla.”

What could she say?

“We want to make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“To buy your silence.” Josh raked a hand through his hair. Then he grasped Cilla’s hand, lying on the table beside her cup. “You realize she’s got a disease, don’t you?”

“There are treatments.”

“She’s been through all that. Psychiatrists…digging into her head, into our private lives. We’ve been trying, on our own, to lick this thing.”

“What sort of deal would you offer?”

Again, his fingers pushed through his hair. “We own a cottage—in the Berkshires. It’s yours. Or money. We don’t have a lot but I could scrounge some.”

Angie pretended to consider the offer. “What if you bring me a couple more of these?”

“No!” came Josh’s sharp reply. “We’re trying to keep her from any more…of that.”

Angie understood the kind of love that formed Josh’s emotions. And his offer. Total and complete desperation to keep his wife out of jail. It would also cause the personality changes that had Cilla so upset. Upset enough to think he might be cheating.

“Where is the cottage exactly?”

“In the mountains. It’s small and secluded. No neighbors. Fireplace, with all the bells and whistles.”

Angie again thought as she finished the rest of the now-cold coffee. “I am truly sorry for your troubles. I know how these things can get out of hand. I really think you should seek out professional assistance. Yes, it’s intrusive but it’s a method that works. Trust me.” When neither Philmore reacted to her statement, she said, “All right, Mr. Philmore. I’ll take your deal. Do you want me to sign something, to swear not to open my mouth?”

“That won’t be necessary. You have an honest face. I can just sign over the deed to you.”

Angie unzipped her handbag. Josh’s hand shot out to stop her. “The meal’s on us.” As she stood up, so did Josh. He took hold of her hand. His was very cold and sent shivers up her arm. “We appreciate this, really.”

As Angie left, she passed José on his way into the restaurant. She pretended not to know him.

FORTY-ONE

After leaving the wire off at the police station, Jarvis took Angelina back to the hotel to change clothes and pick up some pain meds. He would’ve liked to stay a bit longer in the great penthouse suite and explore new horizons, but they were short on time so he didn’t bring up the subject. Plenty of time for that starting tomorrow. Starting tomorrow, he would do what he could to bring their relationship to the “next level,” though he wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. Perhaps new scenery. No, no, he’d tried that plan last month and it nearly got them both killed.

No, what they needed was a new outlook. A plan for the relationship itself. Angelina thrived on order and symmetry; she would be up for a discussion on this topic. Yes, a hike up Mount Major. There was a perfect spot near the crest. He’d bring her favorite lunch—veggie wraps with herb dressing. And he wouldn’t mention marriage. All he would talk about was their overall relationship, that it was good but what could they do to make it better, closer, more simpatico, between them?

Angelina came out of the bathroom wearing the new dress she’d gotten at Cilla’s shop. It was—well, there were no words to describe how she looked. With her hair twisted up on her head, it left her shoulders bare and begging to be touched. Still he didn’t make a move. Did she look disappointed?

He grinned inside. Yes, let her stew a little.

They stopped for dinner at a small, quiet restaurant where, several times, she accused him of “being in outer space.” He’d smiled knowingly and kept eating as tomorrow’s plans churned and grew in his mind.

With bellies full of pasta, they headed to the school for the final show. He had to admit, she’d done a great job. The relationship Angelina had developed with the kids came as a complete surprise to him. And possibly to her also. Many times over the year and half he’d known her, she’d said how she and kids didn’t get along. That lack of rapport was the real reason she never wanted children. But time and again, over the last week, he’d seen how she handled problems, settled disputes, organized situations. And bonded with the kids—particularly with Kiana Smith. It was amazing.

Suddenly Jose’s words boomed into Jarvis’s head. “Right now, I’m zoned in on Kiana Smith as the killer.” Jarvis himself couldn’t see it, but…what if it turned out to be true? That would blow Angelina all to hell.

A few cars were in the lot. He recognized many of them as belonging to the kids.

Inside the dressing room—that still smelled like a locker room, and would smell like a locker room even if a million air fresheners hung from the ceiling—people bustled back and forth in normal pre-show excitement. The excitement was like a physical thing. It was almost as though he could see it. He could tell Angelina felt it too. Of course she would. She straightened up and dove into the crowd.

Evan stopped to say hello. He had on the costume for his first scene—black jeans and a leather jacket that reminded Jarvis of his one-time appearance on stage. The boy looked calm and well rested.

“How’s it going?” Jarvis asked.

Evan read the correct meaning into his words. “I’m coming to terms with things. Kee is helping.”

“You really like her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I know there’s no future for us.”

“Not sure what you mean.”

He threw up his hands. “Look at her! She’s got it all, looks, intelligence. And she’s focused—determined. What would she see in somebody like me?”

“Want to know what I think?”

“Sure.” His eyes said he wasn’t just being polite; he really did want to know, so Jarvis said, “She cares for you more than she wants to show.”

He didn’t ask how Jarvis knew. He didn’t ask why she wouldn’t show it. He did ask, “How do I get through to her?”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Whatever it is.” Angelina’s voice sent tingles up his arms as she stepped up beside them, “he’s right. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Did you hear what we said?” Evan asked.

“No. But if it comes from Jarvis, it’s good advice. By the way, I’m sure you know Kiana’s starting work at Prince and Pauper on Monday.”

Evan nodded. “That’ll really help toward her scholarship.”

“My partner and I are in the midst of a new production. We’re having a terrible time with the musical score. We wondered if you might agree to come help us with it.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We’ll understand.”

“No! I want to. I just—why would you—oh, never mind. I’ll be there after school.”

“We’ll have to work something out because of the distance you have to travel. It wouldn’t make sense to drive every day. Probably what we’ll do, if it’s okay with all your parents, is have you come and stay for the weekends.”

This announcement had Jarvis’s head swinging around so fast he almost hurt himself. Had she just offered to bring two strangers—teens nonetheless—into her anally neat home? He must’ve misheard.

When she added, “My partner has generously offered to let you stay with him,” Jarvis relaxed. His senses hadn’t gone totally off-kilter.

One of the stagehands ran up to them. “Does anybody know where the box of jewelry is?”

“It was on the table over there.” Evan pointed across the room.

“It’s not there.”

Angelina gestured to a line of wooden benches between the rows of lockers. “It was over there last night.”

“Thanks.” They all turned and watched the boy hurry there and bend, back to them, and begin tearing through the mile-high stash of stuff.

Angelina’s, “Oh. My. God,” got Jarvis and Evan’s instant attention.

Jarvis couldn’t stop the wide grin that broke onto his face. Which made Evan frown. In most people’s worlds, those words would bring worry or all-encompassing fear.

“What’s so funny?” Evan asked.

“Not funny. This is great! It means she’s figured things out. Put the puzzle pieces together.”

“She knows who murdered Gwen?”

Evan’s words captured the attention of several people. Word spread like an atomic explosion. Soon the entire cast and crew had gathered around them, crammed in a long oval shape between the rows of lockers.

A concerned Kiana elbowed between two boys and came to stand beside Angelina.

“Okay,” Jarvis said, “spill it.”

But his woman was in another place. Pacing in a wide circle, between Jarvis, Evan and Kiana and the stagehands. Jarvis gestured for them to back up and make room.

Angelina was muttering. He could only pick up a few words now and then as she passed. “Birth certificate…” A headshake. “Marriage license…photos.” Another head shake. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not the cops.” She slapped a palm on one temple. “Stupid.” Another slap. “Think. Think.”

Suddenly she stopped pacing and shook herself back to the present. She noticed everyone gawking at her and gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry guys. False alarm. I thought I had it.”

Many disappointed faces showed around the group. But Jarvis remained undaunted. It meant she was working on things. It meant a solution would be forthcoming. Soon.

A check of the clock said they needed to be moving outdoors. Cast members gathered what they needed and together they all filed outside.

“Oh wait,” Angelina said. “I have to use the ladies room.”

“Go ahead,” Jarvis told the kids. “I’ll wait for her. We’ll be right out.” He let the door swing shut and stood near the bench while Angelina disappeared into the toilet area.

To pass the time, he wandered around the locker room looking for the missing box of jewelry, and didn’t find it. He checked his watch. She’d been in there almost ten minutes. Unusual for her to be gone so long. Probably she’d zoned into that other world and was working out murder clues. He knocked on the door. The sound echoed off the cement block walls.

No answer. He knocked again and called her name.

Still nothing.

* * * *

Angie wanted to shout for Jarvis to run for help. But she knew him. Knew he’d come storming in. And get himself hurt. But the gun to her temple prevented her from shouting a warning.

As expected, the door burst open. Jarvis erupted into the room, gun drawn. Her captor spun around, an elbow caught her on the side of the head. An explosion of pain toppled her sideways. She knocked her head on the wall. Everything went black. As she sagged to the floor, a gun went off.

FORTY-TWO

Angie came to with somebody kneeling beside her. Fingers came away from her throat—somebody checking her pulse? Or sizing her for a garrote? As her vision cleared, she could see the original situation hadn’t improved. She’d been in the cubicle when Jarvis entered. Now she was lying on the floor in front of the row of sinks. To the left were the showers. Slightly behind were the toilet stalls, where one of the toilets whooshed water from a faulty valve. She’d been checking it when the attacker struck her.

Rays from a streetlight streamed through the half-dozen rectangular windows near the ceiling, and illuminated her most recent predicament. From outside, the muffled voices of gathering spectators almost overshadowed the sound of the water.

She raised a hand to brush hair from her face and came away with something sticky. There was no mistaking the blood on her hand.

“Good, you’re awake. I wouldn’t want you dying yet.”

Tears prevented her seeing behind the gun waving in her face, but the voice was chillingly familiar. And not completely unexpected.

“Why are you doing this?” Stupid question. The reason was clear as mountain spring water.

“Sit up.” Pushing back the pain vaulting around in her head, Angie struggled to a sitting position by bracing her hands on either side of her. One hand touched wetness. She didn’t have to be a detective to know it too was blood.

The gruesome situation took a turn for the worse seeing Jarvis sprawled beside her. In the pool of blood. He lay in a semi-fetal position facing away from her. Blood encircled his torso. She reached out to touch him, to seek a pulse, to do something, but the gun menaced closer and she jerked her hand back.

Angie managed to focus on his backside enough to see that it was moving. But for how long? “H-he’s hurt.” Maybe dead.

“No kidding.”

“Don’t make this worse for yourself. You already have one murder charge hanging over your head.”

“So, what’s two more?”

This couldn’t be happening. Angie assessed Jarvis’s condition. He must be gut-shot—the blood was closer to that area. The puddle didn’t seem to be growing. She counted the rise and fall of his breaths—seemed to be fairly regular and without stress. How long before things went downhill?

“Look. The show’s about to start. Very soon, someone’s going to come looking for me. If you leave now, you can escape. I won’t tell anyone it was you.”

“Right.”

“Okay, what if I promise not to tell anyone for an hour? That should give you time to get away. Think about it. In a minute somebody will come. They’ll figure out what’s going on and run for help. You do remember that the place is crawling with cops and security guards, right? They’ll take you down without a thought.”

No verbal response but there was a flicker of hesitation.

“What are your options? You either run or try killing everyone who comes through that door. Sooner or later you’ll run out of ammunition and be trapped here—a sitting duck, with dead bodies all over the place. You try to run then and someone’s going to kill you. It’s a given.”

This time the response was a double blink of the eyes. Good, a little more hesitation. Hurry up, make a decision!

The puddle around Jarvis hadn’t expanded. As a former nurse, the fact was small consolation since so many things could affect the flow of blood—specifically internal bleeding.

Okay. Okay. She had to think of things she could change, namely the gun looming a foot from her left temple. “So, how did you get in my hotel room?”

“Simple, pretend to be Jarvis and ask for a key.”

The movement came out of nowhere. Something black zipped across her line of vision. Before her brain could process anything more than it was a human being, the attacker dropped to the floor with a grunt and a heavy thud. The wrestling began. Angie shot to her feet, prepared to jump into the fray. Where was the gun? As the bodies rolled and tussled, she spotted it now and then. Wait, Jarvis’s gun? There, under the farthest sink. She ran, picked it up and—as she aimed and shouted for their attention, the other gun went off.

She kept her gun aimed at the floor, at the person wearing a brown jacket. Brown rimmed glasses lay broken near her right foot. She kicked them away. The rescuer in black leather and denim stood up and moved away from the body. His face was red, his hair tousled. Evan Harris was the best sight she’d seen in years.

“Call 911,” Angie said. Evan took a phone from his hip pocket. After he dialed, she handed him the gun. She didn’t need to tell him what to do with it. He’d already aimed the thing at the person on the floor.

She knelt beside Jarvis. And rolled him gently onto his back. His eyes were closed. His skin ghostly white. Blood stained the entire front of his new suit. She pushed up the stiff white sleeve and two-fingered the pulse at his wrist.

The bathroom door burst open. José entered, gun drawn. He was followed by a pair of white-suited EMTs. Angie gratefully relinquished command. All she could do now was pray as they assessed, stabilized, loaded and left with her friend, confidant, and lover.

She started to follow but was halted by José’s touch on her arm. “I’ll take you in a few minutes. Help me straighten this out a minute, would you?”

Angie threw a desperate glance at the propped-open door. The stretcher was just disappearing around the corner. “Please.”

There was nothing she could do for him right now. She’d only get in the way at the hospital. Besides, he faced hours of assessment and tests—if he lived till then.

She sucked in some courage, nodded at José, walked to the body and kicked it hard in the ribs.

“Feel better?”

“Marginally.”

“You all right?” he asked Evan, who’d backed from the commotion and stood in the farthest corner crammed between the last sink and the wall. His skin was almost as pale as Jarvis’s. She went to him and wrapped him in her arms. He sagged against her. And then the sobs came. They wracked his thin body. Nobody said a word for a long time, though, behind her she heard people enter, turn over the body and begin collecting evidence.

Finally Evan was all cried out. He straightened his spine and backed away.

“Throw some water on your face.”

He did so, dashing handfuls up and over his hair. She pushed a wad of brown paper towels at him. He scrubbed them over his hair and heaved them in the trash, then turned to her looking a bit sheepish. She took his hand and led him from the room. They sat side-by-side in the main locker room, letting the investigation go on around them.

Finally Evan found words. “I don’t understand. Why would Mr. Philmore kill Ms. Forest?”

FORTY-THREE

Angie sat in a padded chair just outside the surgery room doors at St. Joseph’s Hospital. She wanted to be as close as possible when the surgeon exited with news. Good news. Great news. It had to be.

For the umpteenth time she wiped her palms on an un-bloody section of the green dress. A motion down the long hallway gave her something to look at beside the doors. A crowd was moving in her direction. Angie got to her feet as the cast and crew—except for Evan, who’d been escorted home—rushed toward her. After hugs all around, they settled in chairs and on the floor. Kiana took the chair beside her.

Angie prepared to explain what the cops hadn’t had time to. With her eyes she asked Kiana for permission to divulge her secret. Kiana shook her head and spoke for herself, telling how Gwen was her real-life mom. Surprised faces glowed around the group.

“I always wondered how you got to be so close to her,” one of the girls said.

“There’s more,” Kiana said. She pulled in a long breath and went on to explain the college relationship with Mr. Reynolds, leaving out the news of his homosexuality.

“Mr. Reynolds is your father?”

“Yes. I didn’t learn this till yesterday.”

“But how is any of that related to Ms. Forest being killed?”

“It isn’t,” Angie said, receiving a roomful of confused looks. “But I thought it was.”

“You thought Mr. Reynolds killed Ms. Forest?”

“I entertained the notion, that’s all. I wondered if Mr. Reynolds was the one tearing apart the auditorium—”

“And Gwen’s apartment,” Kiana added.

Just then José entered. Without a word, he joined the group, dragging a seat from across the room.

Angie continued her explanation. “I thought maybe he and Gwen had argued. And maybe she threatened to tell what she knew in hopes it would ruin his career.”

“Ms. Forest wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“A detective has to look at all sides,” Kiana said.

“Right,” Angie said, ignoring José’s sly smirk. “I wondered if he’d killed her to keep it all quiet.”

“’Cuz he would’ve lost his job.”

“Probably.”

“And he was looking for anything that might incriminate him,” someone offered.

“That’s where my thoughts headed for a short time.”

“When did you suspect Mr. Philmore?”

Angie gestured at José who told about Cilla’s shoplifting. He finished with, “We don’t have the entire story yet. Priscilla acknowledges that Gwen knew about her disease—yes, guys, kleptomania is a disease. Mrs. Philmore had been ordered into treatment for it, but couldn’t suffer the potential embarrassment. For quite some time, she and Mr. Philmore tried to treat her problem themselves.”

“But they couldn’t,” somebody said.

“Right.”

“Then Ms. Forest found out.”

“Right.”

“And then something happened between either Mrs. Philmore and Gwen, or her and Mr. Philmore. Either way, he feared she’d tell what she knew,” Angie said.

“She would never do that,” the same person who’d said this before, repeated.

“I guess when you’re desperate,” José said, “you tend to forget things like that.”

“So, he killed her to keep her quiet,” somebody said.

“What was he searching for all those times?” Kiana asked.

“Cilla told me she’d given Gwen a bracelet for her birthday last year,” José said. “It was very expensive—and stolen.”

“He didn’t find it,” Angie said.

“No. But we did. In Ted’s apartment.”

Angie explained about Gwen and Ted’s relationship. Some of the kids already knew. Others expressed major surprise.

Someone from hospital staff came and shooed everyone away. Amid thank yous and hugs, Angie promised to return in a few weeks to visit the kids. She and Kiana savored one last hug. “I will see you and Evan on Monday.”

And then she and José were alone. They sat side-by-side staring at the surgery doors, which continued to remain closed.

“Question,” Angie said. He swung around to face her. “At one point, you suspected Evan of Gwen’s murder.”

“I more so suspected Kiana. But yes, I wondered about him because of two witnesses who said he and Gwen had been arguing.”

“Did you find out what that was all about?”

“Evan thought Gwen and Kiana were too close. Unnaturally close. Since Kiana had rejected his efforts to grow their relationship, he entertained the thought that they had some gay ‘thing’ going on.”

That explained Evan’s severe reaction to the news about Randy’s homosexuality.

“I’m not sure—you’ll have to ask him,” José added, “but I have the feeling Gwen divulged her relationship to Kiana in hopes of diffusing potential trouble.”

That made sense.

“You told Jarvis you had two suspects in mind.”

“He told you that?”

José grinned, wide and white. “I know one was Philmore.”

“When I realized Ted had a penchant for wearing women’s clothes, I wondered whether he’d done it to keep her quiet.”

“Women’s clothes?” José asked.

“Yes. I believe his cross-dressing was the reason Gwen couldn’t commit to him on a permanent basis. Remember, she’d already been through a situation with a gay man. I think she feared to take on something so…unusual, again.”

José nodded. And then he frowned. “You have another question.”

“Marie Jason.”

A wide grin broke out on his smooth skinned face. “Jarvis was right. You are amazing.”

Angie didn’t say anything.

José continued, “Do you remember when Josh tried out for a part at your theater?”

“I don’t personally handle that end of things, but Cilla told me he did. Apparently Randy tried out at least once also.”

“I think that’s why Josh did—he wanted to one-up Randy. You know, spout about it if he got one and his boss didn’t. Anyway, at that time you were involved in solving another case. Cilla told me he came home complaining how you should keep to business, work in the theater and stay out of detecting. FYI, Randy told me he was impressed at your expertise.”

Suddenly she knew where all this was going. Josh had planned to kill Gwen, perhaps for several weeks. Somehow he knew Randy would request her services, and had sent Diva Marie to keep Angie so busy she wouldn’t be able to get away and help out when Randy called.

She started to rake her hands through her hair and realize most of it was fastened atop her head. She undid the barrette and shook it loose just as the double doors of the surgery burst open. A green-suited doctor strode through, carrying a green cap in both hands. Angie and José shot to their feet and met him a few feet inside the door.

* * * *

It was just after five in the morning. Dawn light squeezed between the heavy curtains in intensive care at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Beside her, oxygen whooshed through one tube, IV fluids and meds through another. Rough and tough Colby Jarvis had dodged another one. The bullet had pierced his rib cage, miraculously missing anything vital. The surgeon said that barring unusual developments he’d be moved to a regular room later today.

His eyes opened. They roved left and then right, and found her. She half-stood and planted a kiss on his lips. Then she sat, gripping his calloused hand like she’d never let go.

COMING IN NOVEMBER 2011

Rest in Pieces

When a popular sixteen-year-old girl is murdered, it devastates residents of the tight-knit communities surrounding NH’s Lake Winnipesaukee. But when the jury sets the accused man free, it shakes people to their very core. Detective Colby Jarvis blames himself for the verdict—his testimony wasn’t strong enough; he didn’t do enough to pull the case together. But he won’t take the murderer’s release sitting down.

CHAPTER ONE

Snow wafted from the darkening sky in delicate, airy whispers. Holiday lights twinkled off the Winnipesaukee River. A perfectly shaped balsam tree, glittering in white, filled the gazebo in Rotary Park at the end of the snow-covered walkway. The only sound was the occasional shush of cars, like skiers, up on the main road. Angie Deacon could almost forget the reason she and Jarvis were here. She linked her arm tighter through his. A snowflake landed on her nose and she sneezed.

Colby Jarvis unlinked their arms and turned her to face him. “You coming down with something?”

“Snow tickles.”

He planted a feather-light kiss on the tip of her nose then laid an arm around her shoulders and they began walking again. She nestled into the crook of his arm, difficult because they were close to the same height.

“Think you can do something about those pesky snowflakes, Detective? Arrest the little buggers.” She snatched at one with an ungloved hand. “Here, start with this one.”

His ringing cellphone cut off his laugh, making it come out like the bark of a small dog. She didn’t laugh. She and Jarvis, like dozens of others, had been praying the call would come tonight, so Crystal Folsom’s family wouldn’t have to wait through the holidays for the verdict.

He flipped the cell phone cover open, and snapped, “Jarvis here.” He listened for two seconds, his face morphing through at least a half-dozen emotions in that short time, clicked the cover shut and crammed the phone back in place. Wordless, he started walking.

Though she had long legs, Angie had to run to keep up as he practically sprinted toward Main Street. Thankfully the snow hadn’t made things slippery yet because no way would it have slowed him down.

A gaggle of reporters crowded the sidewalk out front of the Belknap Superior Courthouse. Jarvis gripped Angie’s hand and muscled his way through, giving a curt nod when asked if the jury had returned.

Halfway up the granite steps, out of earshot of the clamoring paparazzi, Angie asked, “What if they let him off?”

“They won’t.”

“A while ago, you were worried your testimony hadn’t been strong enough, to—”

His brusque, “He will not go free,” was followed by an almost prayer-like, “I hope,” that she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear.

The hallway outside the courtroom on the second floor was a madhouse. Jarvis wrestled along the corridor and into the courtroom. Things here weren’t any calmer here. Jarvis squeezed them onto the hard bench behind the bar—the barrier dividing the public from the court participants. None of the court staff had returned yet. The only people in the well were the defendant, his two-man defense team, and a pair of uniformed guards. The guards leaned against the wall looking serious. The defense team stood to one side, heads bent together and backs to the crowd. The defendant sat at the center of the defense table. Single, thirty-year-old, Abraham Gleason Jefferson presented an image of middle class respectability with his short Afro and neatly trimmed mustache. Until two months ago, he had been a hard-working member of the road crew for the town of Laconia. He had lived in town for almost ten years. He had no record, not even a speeding ticket.

So, what suddenly made this man want to kill young women? In particular Crystal Folsom.

As if feeling Angie’s attention, Jefferson rotated his head and their eyes met. He raised his right hand, folded it into a fist, extended his index finger, took aim and fired at her. Angie jumped as if a real bullet had exploded from the tip of that flesh and blood gun.

Angie groped for Jarvis’ hand on the seat beside her. And found nothing. Which made Jefferson laugh out loud. No mistaking the sound of it over the hum of the crowd.

She spotted Jarvis in deep conversation at the end of the row, with the prosecuting attorney Lillian Imada, a dwarf beside Jarvis’s brawny frame. Jarvis had once described Lillian as a pit bull in a Chihuahua’s body. This was Angie’s first real trial. The only others she’d seen were on television, but throughout the whole ordeal, Lillian had handled herself as well as Perry Mason. Her closing argument consisted of a rapid-fire narrative of what sounded like an open and shut case, though, all afternoon, Jarvis voiced his doubts. That worry showed now in deep lines in his handsome face. It was there in Lillian too, not so much on her face, but in her stance. The petite lawyer, in a red pay-attention-to-me business suit leaned a hip on the railing that separated her from Jarvis.

To the left of the judge’s bench, a door opened. The sober-faced bailiff walked in and stopped in front of the judge’s bench. When he raised both hands to the crowd, Angie’s heart took on a rat-a-tat snare drum beat.

“Everyone. Take your seats, please.”

As if at a championship ball game, each spectator pushed for the best seat. Lillian eased into her chair behind the prosecutor’s table. Crystal Folsom’s parents and elder brother entered from the aisle and took their places in the front row behind Lillian. How Ann and Samuel Folsom sat stoic while the defense badgered the woman attempting to bring their daughter’s killer to justice, Angie couldn’t imagine. Samuel, wearing a black suit with tiny gray pinstripes, leaned over the mahogany bar and said something to Lillian, who merely shook her head. He slid back on the seat and linked arms with his wife. Angie imagined he asked Lillian if she’d heard any rumor as to the jury’s verdict. And received a negative reply.

Son Justin, at nineteen, was three years older than Crystal. He’d attended the hearings every day with his parents, though Angie had the impression he’d rather be elsewhere. He sat hunched over what looked like a handheld video game.

The bailiff’s next words brought the already high tension to a peak. “All rise.”

With a rustle and shuffle, the assemblage rose as one.

The door opened again and the judge entered. Angie liked the redheaded man; he’d presided over a fair trial, allowing neither side to squeeze in unwarranted information. He fluffed his robes and sat. Angie tried to read his expression and couldn’t help thinking what a great poker player he’d make.

Another door discharged the jury: seven men, five women. Ten had children. Four were single. Two were retired. All bore unreadable faces.

The words, “You may be seated,” brought another rearrangement of bodies.

“Jury, have you made your decision?”

The jury foreman, a tall, painfully thin man with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, stood. “We have, your honor.”

“Would you read it please?”

With much to-do, the man drew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and read, “We find the defendant, Abraham Gleason Jefferson…” a three-second hesitation had the audience leaning forward on the benches… “Not guilty.”

ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS

Cindy has many passions in life. As with most authors, books are foremost. Except for the constantly churning bread machine, her house could pass for a library. Cindy also enjoys needlework, hiking, canoeing and jigzaw puzzles. She and her husband spend most weekends in their motorhome seeking out new settings for stories and of course, promoting books.

OTHER BOOKS IN THE ANGIE DEACON MYSTERY SERIES

A Little Murder

When a fishing trip hooks more than a few trout, ER nurse Angie Deacon and her husband find themselves unexpected suspects in a murder investigation. Who amongst the other five aboard Little One could have had a vendetta against the boat’s owner--especially one strong enough to see Nolan Little dead?

Will Angie live to regret her decision to aid Nolan’s aggrieved wife once she learns the woman harbors secrets of her own?

Untruths aren’t the only cause for alarm as the lethal pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place, leaving Angie wondering just exactly how her husband fit into the deadly equation…and if she is next on the killer’s list.

Play with Fire

Angie Deacon has a new career, co-owner of Alton Bay New Hampshire’s community theater. Her divorce is almost final and life is good once again. Until opening night when the co-star, played by new love interest Detective Colby Jarvis, shoots the star. Who substituted Jarvis’ real gun for the prop gun? And why would anyone want the star dead? By day he’s merely the owner of the local nursery.

Hair of the Dog

Angie Deacon thought her vacation in Weirs Beach, New Hampshire would be relaxing. But the dog next door would not stop barking. Finally she confronted the owner, Simon York at the local diner. Their ‘discussion’ ended in a near knock-down drag-out. The next morning he was found dead. And she’s the main suspect.

Angie must seek out the real killer before they stuff her behind bars till her skin wrinkles and her arthritis knobs her joints. Her search for the real killer leads her to a cosmetics factory that’s putting out some very questionable products. Now the owner of the factory—Simon’s wife—is dead.

Table of Contents

Title page

Dying to Teach

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS