Chapter 9

I strutted through my den feeling newly empowered. I knew what to expect from high school students now. And I knew what I’d do with them.

I needed to calm down. The clock rang early on school days. By now the police had my information about Sledge and were probably discovering what happened between him and the dead man. Maybe the brute was already behind bars. Then Marisa Hernandez would no longer be a suspect. Kat could resume life as before, attending final classes, confiding in her mentor.

I relaxed. I wanted to read something that would put me to sleep, which excluded my latest Kinsey newsletter. In the kitchen I told Minnie hi and opened the dishwasher. The bottom shelf, holding my multicolored cookbooks, rolled out. Since I never planned to bother these appliances with lots of soiled dishes, I’d found the dishwasher a perfect place for storing my books. And a kitchen pantry shelf, without tons of food and often located near the back door, usually became a great space on which to place boxes of my shoes.

I fingered the orange cookbook from Georgia, the tan one from Toledo, the white one from Denver. I selected The Best Dishes of Montana. Whatever people ate in Montana might not let me stay awake long.

Lying in bed, I read their recipes for hors d’oeuvres. The first six doused me with sleep.

Morning brought me into my closet, where I picked through widely spaced items. A few women teachers at Sidmore High had worn knitted droopy pants and matching tops with pictures. I didn’t want to wear that and had nothing resembling it anyway. Pushing aside my already wrinkled pantsuit, I bypassed my slut clothes and considered an ecru linen jacket with off-white slacks and a silk blouse. My mind’s eye embroidered the outfit Marisa Hernandez wore, the classic knit dress with no bra. I envisioned the tailored suits worn by Hannah Hendrick and Anne Little and then decided on a compromise.

After a brisk shower I blew my hair dry, noting its roots wanting of more natural burnt sienna. Today I didn’t have time to find a hairdresser. I brushed my waves and strode through the condo, sans clothing. Gil had taught me to feel comfortable in the skin God gave me, even if much of it now pimpled with cellulite, and other parts sagged toward my waist.

Yesterday’s dinner at Gil’s restaurant had been early, my growling belly reminded me. I swallowed cranberry juice and spied Minnie’s head drooping. If this juice drenched humans with vitamins, how much better must it be for plants? Pleased with my inventiveness, I coated Minnie’s soil with the wine-colored liquid. “You should feel perkier within minutes,” I said and tossed my cup in the trash, smiling as I considered what the cafeteria might serve. Today I could find it. And today I knew how little time there would be for eating. I’d get to those pans of food in time for my noon feeding.

My outfit consisted of a suit. Navy—a no-nonsense, power color. Pads built up my shoulders. Epaulettes with gold buttons gave me the air of belonging to the military. I straightened, enjoying the authority I saw in the mirror.

Since I also liked Marisa Hernandez’s idea of having no underwear even when standing before those bloodthirsty people, I wore no panties. Instead, I drew on sheer pantyhose. Beneath them I normally wore briefs. Not today. “You have a great day,” I told Minnie, “because I will. I’ll make those teens sorry they ever messed with me.” Minnie didn’t look stronger, but maybe that would take a few hours. I grabbed my navy pumps from the pantry and slipped them on. I was ready.

A thought made a jolt of concern strike my stomach. Had Kat avoided school because she was scared to attend? After all, a man had died there. Sidmore High must have been a frightening place even before his death. Someone had keyed my Lexus the first time I went, when nobody there even knew me. Now Sledge and a few others must hate me. And some, like Roxy, knew Kat was my grandchild. I needed to make certain Miss Hernandez was at school. But suppose she had spent the night and morning in jail?

My head spun with dilemmas as I slipped my shoulder bag up above my arm. The phone inside it played da-dunt da-dunt da-dunt. I kicked my feet to the cheery tune and expecting Kat, I answered, “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hello, sweetheart.”

My belly balled up. “Gil? You’re up early.”

“So are you. I wanted to ask you something this morning.”

Anticipation bit in my chest. He’d question why I was going out at this hour. I wouldn’t tell him about my subbing brainstorm.

He said, “How can you tell if a person is a Cajun?”

I smiled. This had to be from the restaurant’s joke contest. “I guess by the person’s name. Or maybe by the accent.” I crossed to the door and paused, spending a moment to feel close contact with Gil.

“Wrong answer.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“A Cajun is someone who lets his black coffee cool off and then discovers that it’s jelled.” Gil made a hefty laugh.

“Cute,” I said.

“And did you hear about the fire that broke out at Boudreaux’s place?”

My absolute favorite. A Boudreaux and Thibodaux joke. “No, what happened?”

“Boudreaux’s buddy Thibodaux phoned the fire station and said they needed the firemen to come out. The fireman asked for the best way to reach his house. Thibodaux thought a minute and said, ‘Don’t y’all still have those big red fire trucks?’”

How good it felt to be laughing in the morning.

“They came from the contest last night,” Gil said. “If you’d stayed longer, you would have heard them.”

A cold rag could have been slapped down between us. Both our voices changed, no smiles left in them. “I’m sure it was nice,” I said. Of course Legs had remained. “Thanks for sharing the jokes with me.”

“Any time.”

“I’m sorry, but I really have to run.” No, don’t say run. “There’s something I’m doing.” He’d probably think I was ready to take a shower.

“I’ll let you go. But we didn’t get to talk much yesterday. Would you like to have lunch?”

“Lunch?” Oh goodness, getting to sit in the cafeteria would take almost too long for the little break allowed for the meal. Surely there wasn’t time to drive to the restaurant, eat, and return for afternoon classes. “Sorry again, I can’t make it.”

“Well maybe some other time.”

“Maybe. Thanks for the invitation.” We said goodbye and clicked off. Damn, I’d have to eat cafeteria food, and if memory served, those meals weren’t anything to anticipate. And I’d have delightful company: the students. I snarled and then went out the door.

Driving up to the school, I parked my avocado mail truck without worrying. I swung my epaulette-clad shoulders through the humid air and walked inside the building. Someone had removed Grant Labruzzo’s picture from the office window. Nobody seemed to have mourned him for long.

In the office I boldly projected myself into that sacred space, behind the counter. Staff members lolled about, yawning and gathering coffee in mugs with written sentiments. I didn’t see Marisa Hernandez, but I had arrived early. Anne Little bent over and searched in a file drawer. Again she wore a suit, carnation pink silk, and almost dead center on its skirt rear was what appeared to be an ink stain. Schools did that to you, I surmised, recalling the purple stains on my teachers’ blouses and hands after they ran off our papers. I had enjoyed the smell of those tests taken right off the old ditto machines. But that ink might ruin Anne Little’s lovely suit.

Secretary Cynthia Petre was wearing her hair down. Today it looked rich and full. She appeared more attractive than she had before, except for her brown top with a maroon skirt. A mid-sized calendar stood on her desk. Days had been crossed off with huge red X’s, the countdown to summer vacation. I noticed that today was May third. Ever since I’d begun creating my new life, I seldom paid attention to calendars. Such a great feeling, freeing myself from most time constraints.

“Good morning!” I announced.

Two women groaned, and Anne Little glanced up but gave no response. Cynthia Petre waved to call me. “I have your keys,” she said, her braces flashing.

I knew what keys. Did they pass from hand to hand, not returning to the person who had told me she was in charge of them and hiring us subs?

Cynthia Petre handed me a key. “For the classroom. It’s number 115 down the science hall.” Great, I could find that. “And this one’s for the bathroom,” she said, giving me another.

Anne Little frowned as she approached me. “Mrs. Gunther, yesterday I saw you going in the girls’ restroom. The faculty ladies’ room is down the cafeteria hall. Do you know where that is?”

“Absolutely.”

“Or if you’re around here, you can use the one for the office.” She pointed to a door directly to the rear. Ah, I’d moved up. I was privy to the administrative toilet.

Hannah passed through that rear hall, and Mrs. Little trotted off after her, saying, “Can you believe it? Tom Reynolds just called in sick.”

“I don’t give a damn what you were doing!” a man shouted behind me. “You shouldn’t have been around there.” Coach Millet clenched a tall boy’s arm, almost dragging him, and flung a furious gaze across the secretaries. “Where’s Anne Little?”

“Back there.” Cynthia Petre nodded toward the rear hall, and Coach tugged the boy toward where the administrators had disappeared.

Chills scooted across my back. A killer at this school? One might be out in the hall and peering in here. Or one could be right in this private area. Was Kat here today? I wanted her to be, yet felt a strange fear for her if she was. Hurry up, end of school.

Cynthia Petre obviously read questions in my face. “That kid might have been smoking weed,” she said, explaining Coach’s behavior. “Probably out in back of the stadium. That’s where a lot of them go.”

“Oh.” The calendar beside her regained my attention. May third. Why was that date important? Gil’s birthday! Scenes scattered through my brain. Experiences we’d shared, the joy, the intimate moments. The hot sex. Imaginings made me smile. Then I recalled that things were different now. I needed a gift, but one that wasn’t remotely romantic. I borrowed Petre’s phone book, looked up a number, and called.

Waiting for an answer, I spied the older detective I’d seen yesterday coming in from the corridor. He guided Marisa Hernandez through the office. She kept her gaze down toward her denim jacket, not making eye contact with anyone, and went with him into an inner office. The door shut.

A recording responded to my call. “Sorry we’re closed. Your business is important to us, so please leave a message.”

“I’d like to rent someone,” I said, giving all the information. I left my phone number in case they’d have questions and hung up wondering about Hernandez.

Anne Little returned from the rear hall and came to me. “Did I remember to tell you that today you have duty?”

“Duty?”

She nodded, and her gold hoop earrings danced. “Lately we’ve had teachers pulling duty. But yours is duty five, so it’s not until your hall’s lunch break. And then after school with the buses.” She stretched a long finger to the left. “At noon you go out the door down that hall. And after school, you go out there.” While she turned, I saw her skirt’s ink stain. I smiled, not about to tell her she had it. How dare she give me duty! “Just see that nothing looks suspicious and nobody gets in trouble,” she said. “Make sure nobody drinks liquor or smokes, especially weed. And after school, don’t let any kids get in anybody else’s car.”

“Is that all?”

“And if a fight starts, break it up.”

Being here to make Kat graduate suddenly seemed much less appealing. But maybe while I stood on duty, I’d have an opportunity to speak with Kat. She could keep me company. Maybe she’d know who belonged in which vehicle and who might try to puff weed. And maybe Marisa Hernandez would be out there on duty again. Then all three of us could chat. I could help clear up any misunderstanding they might share. Ah, this duty thing was sounding better.

I returned the phone book to Cynthia Petre’s desk and accidentally knocked over her calendar. Replacing it, I noticed a framed picture, which had stood beside it. Kat’s ex-boyfriend. “John Winston,” I said.

Petre’s smile showed me the rubber bands that stretched across her braces. “John’s my nephew. We’re so proud of him.”

I made no comment and started out the door. Hannah Hendrick came from behind. “Oh, Mrs. Gunther, today you’ll be taking Miss Fleet’s place. She said she would leave a sub folder.” With something written in it? “It will tell you everything you have to do.”

Administrators here seemed to know little about what transpired in teachers’ classrooms.

A perspiration odor oozed through corridors, especially from large boys showing off too-heavy jackets with letters from sports. A clump of long-haired males gave off an unusual tangy smell that might have been marijuana. I glanced back, making certain they weren’t smoking. I saw some teens who’d been in class with me. Others I wasn’t certain about, for the sleepers had kept their heads down. A few kids looked me over. I answered their stares with my teacher-from-hell glare.

“Yeah, they’re asking her about that janitor,” a female voice said. I turned and saw that Roxy was the speaker. Spying me, she made angry eyes and spun away. Had she been talking about Miss Hernandez? Surely the girl would not tell me more. But I hoped someone would.

Abby Jeansonne’s door was open when I found the hall I’d been in yesterday. “Hello,” I said, poking my head into her room. She was scribbling on papers, the red-black bangs draped over her eyes.

She flung her hair aside to see me. “Back again?”

“Yes, today I’m Miss Fleet.”

“Oh, chemistry.”

“Chemistry!” I recalled little of science, and my knowledge of chemistry could fit into my smallest finger. “I never took that subject,” I said, willing myself not to panic.

She shoved the reddish mane off her neck. “Chemistry’s not too difficult. It’ll come to you.”

That was easy for a science major to say. But I bolstered myself, recalling my mission. I needed to discover some things if I was going to get Kat to remain here these next few days. What was being said about her favorite teacher, and why had that cop taken her into the office? A less-than-direct approach seemed most appropriate. I said, “Oh, yesterday I met Marisa Hernandez. She seems like a nice person.”

Abby wrinkled her nose. “The Spanish lady.”

“Is she from Spain?”

“No way, born and raised a few streets over, around Grant Labruzzo’s house.”

“Really? What kind of teacher is she?”

Abby gave me a one-eyed stare. “She’s another one of those.”

“Ah.” I inclined my head. “One of those…?”

“Yes.” Abby returned her attention to her papers.

I was no further along than before. But my students would come to class soon, and I would have to teach chemistry. I unlocked Miss Fleet’s door, dreading what I’d find.