THIS TIME I didn't bother with the brighter hall lights. Having just toured the school building with a policeman, I could afford to be brave.
I didn’t much care for betraying a friend’s trust, but there was an emergency Board meeting going on at my house that added urgency. As I saw it, my behind-the-scenes deadline was Friday, the day of Randy Webb's Grand Jury hearing. If I could point the police to someone outside the school community before then, Bryn Derwyn stood a better chance of survival. That meant ruling out insiders with good reason to hate the murder victim. Unfortunately, my childhood friend was one of them.
I opened Kevin’s office door and went in. If I was careful, he would never know I had been there and would, therefore, never suspect my disloyal thoughts.
I took a deep breath and flipped on the overhead light.
Kevin's cubicle revealed an entirely different persona than Randy's office next door. For decor he had robin's-egg blue walls, the same color as the kindergarten classroom, which told me that Kevin primarily worked inside his head.
Also, the condition of the room seemed to protect its tenant, all but shouting—Go away, he's busy. Piles of stuff littered every available surface—the desk (especially the in/out tray), the credenza against the left-hand wall, the two file cabinets, under the computer desk, plus a couple piles on the floor in a corner, which was the only place they wouldn't have been kicked over on a regular basis. Even Kevin's briefcase, a nice quality burgundy leather one, was opened in the middle of his desk, revealing folders and brochures of roof shingles, spreadsheets, colored pens, a calculator, and a Hershey bar.
My search of the briefcase made one thing crystal clear–that catching a crooked business manager was beyond me. It would take weeks just to grasp the scope of his job. Figuring out if he was honest? Forgetaboutit.
After fifteen minutes, the only oddities I came across were three easy-reader books in his deep, right-hand desk drawer: Green Eggs and Ham, an Encyclopedia Brown, and something about a goose. Puzzling, but scarcely incriminating.
Just as I bent to poke through one of the paper piles on the floor, I heard a sound that froze me and dissolved me all at once—the school's front door closing.
At least that's what I thought I heard. Noise usually travels through the empty building like voices across a lake, but now there was nothing.
My ears could have been wrong, but my nervous system didn't believe it. The murderer had returned. The lobby carpet was muffling any footsteps, that was all.
I turned off Kevin's light. Then I decided I wanted a weapon, but nothing in the business manager's office came to mind except mess.
Leaving the door open, I rushed to Randy's door, frantically fitted keys into the lock, then stumbled through the dark to the shelf where I knew there were bookends, miniature skiis leaning against what I remembered to be very lumpy brass mountains. I hefted one of them in my hand and forced myself to think.
Who could be here, really? Rip looking for me? I doubted that he remembered my existence with the Board meeting going on; but if he had come looking for me, he certainly would have shouted my name, if only to save me from the terror I was presently experiencing.
So who else? Not a student. No teachers had exterior door keys. It wasn't cold enough or snowy enough for Jacob to be checking the heater or his supply of rock salt.
If, as I was inclined to believe, the evening visit was related to Richard's death, I realized that I was probably hiding in the intruder's destination. Randy was in jail. What better time to sneak into his office to plant incriminating evidence?
Too late for escape. Clutching the bookend for dear life I scurried through the semi-dark hallway back to Kevin's mess.
The interior fire door creaked open just as I ducked out of sight. No time to shut the door. Hiding further out of reach risked making noise, so I merely huddled against the wall beside the doorjamb and tried to breathe silently.
Heavy heels clacked on the tile, a man's footsteps made with dress shoes. Not Jacob, who always always wore rubber-soled work boots, even in summer. I wanted to groan, or possibly scream.
A hand reached around the corner next to my face and flipped the light switch.
I let out a guttural "arrugh" and raised the bookend high over my head.
"Hey!" Kevin said, jumping back. "Put that down."
I slumped to the floor.
He let out a nervous laugh and reeled back a little, as if he still feared a blow from a bookend. "What are you doing here?"
Honesty is the best policy, Mom always said. Besides, I was too shook up to lie. "I was collecting evidence with Lt. Newkirk. And you?"
"I don't see Lt. Newkirk anywhere, Gin. What's going on?"
I stood up. Knowing my Mom, she meant complete honesty. "Okay. I did bring Newkirk over here, but after he left I decided it was a good time to search your office."
Kevin's college-boy face went stiff. His moonstone-blue eyes darkened into granite. He said nothing. He didn't have to.
"I'm sorry." Instinctively, I wanted to add his name to the apology, but to presume upon our family friendship would have come across as manipulative rather than sincere, and I certainly did not want to sound insincere. Kevin Seitz was no longer a sleeping, honey-blond boy slung over his father's shoulder. He stood before me a six-foot-tall adult at the peak of his strength, and part of me still wondered whether he had swung a shovel into Richard Wharton's head.
"I was getting desperate," I continued. "The Board is over at our house making 'contingency' plans. They're afraid the reason for Richard's death might be internal, especially now that Randy's been arrested."
"And you prefer the idea that I did it to avenge my father. Sweet, Gin. That's really sweet." He fell against the doorjamb.
"I said I'm desperate. I said I'm sorry."
He looked at me with disgust. Then he sighed. "Shit. I guess you really are desperate."
I was quick to agree.
"Gimme that," he said, referring to the bookend. "You're cutting off your circulation." He sounded like my big brother might have sounded, if I'd had one. He set the bookend on top of his in basket, while blood rushed painfully to my hand.
"So why are you here?" I asked, feeling myself blush at my own temerity. Much more of this and I would be nothing but blotches.
"I've got a 7:30 meeting with a roofer tomorrow morning and I'm not ready. Luckily, the snow reminded me."
"That doesn't sound like you."
"Yeah? Well, sneaking around behind my back doesn't sound like you."
If possible, I blushed harder.
"So did you find my secret game plan? The one with the diagram of the shovel?"
"Of course not,” I assured him. “But I would like to know who you were talking to on the phone the first time I came by Friday afternoon."
"When was that?"
"About three."
"How should I know? Probably roofers. Does it matter?"
I shrugged. "You see anybody in the hall other than that couple or Richard or Randy?"
"No. I didn't even see you..."
"...because you were on the phone with some roofers." We recited the words at the same time.
I thought a minute. "You weren't here during the murder, or you'd have heard something. Right?"
"I guess. Right."
"So where were you?"
"Jeez, Gin. The police asked me that, and I just plain wasn't sure. I'm all over this place all day, you know? How would I know when I went where or why?"
"Okay, so you were somewhere else at the critical time. Do you remember seeing a Dustbuster in the hall next to the Community Room door?"
He wrinkled his forehead and nose. "One of our new ones? In the hall? No. I'd have noticed that. I would have put it away."
"Okay. What are you doing with Green Eggs and Ham in your desk?"
"Green eggs? Oh, the books. They're for–come to think of it, that's none of your business."
"Au contraire, mon cher. 'Fess up."
Kevin laughed. "If it'll get you off my back—hey! That's probably where I was: putting the books in Patrice's locker. I always wait until after school, when nobody's around, and I probably did it early because it was Friday. I'll bet that's it."
"That's what?"
"Where I was during the murder."
"Explain."
Kevin leaned against the wall, looking quite at ease. "You promise you won't tell?"
"No deal. Let's hear it."
"Okay, but don't tell Patrice. She's embarrassed enough about learning how to read at her age."
"You're borrowing easy-readers for Patrice? To practice? Wow, why didn't she say something?"
"Like I said—she's embarrassed. Lots of adults who can't read are embarrassed about it. Otherwise, they'd probably ask for help. I found out about Patrice when she couldn't figure out how to operate the new washing machine. I told her to read the instructions, and she started to cry. Jeez, I felt like shit. So I made her a deal. She'd try to learn, and I'd keep it between her and me."
"Of course." I'd once seen Patrice leaning on a dust mop outside a classroom listening to the teacher. I’d assumed she was goofing off, when she probably had been trying to learn something. Dumb, dumb, dumb—of me. I simply had to stop jumping to conclusions.
"Kevin, you're wonderful. And I promise not to tell. In fact if I can help...?"
"Nah. It's covered. She's coming along real fast. It used to take her a week to read three books. Now she returns them overnight."
"But what do you say to the librarian? You're not even married."
"They're for my niece."
"Nice. You're really nice." I felt excessively proud of him, also inordinately pleased that I had suggested him for the business manager's job. He belonged here. I wasn't sure I could say that much for myself.
"So does that mean you no longer think I'm guilty of murder?" he pressed.
"I never wanted to think that in the first place."
"But you were desperate."
"Yeah." I touched his cheek with my hand. "I really am sorry, Kev." Then I eased my way past him through the door.
"That's what all the women say when they leave."
I smiled all the way down the hall and all the way through the lobby until I was outside.
Then the wind and snow slapped every warm sentiment right out of my head.