“First of all, it is not a ‘play.’ The Mikado is an operetta, and there is a world of difference. Do you understand?”
Bethesda did not understand at all, but nodded as if she did, so he would skip ahead to the good part. The assistant principal sat behind his flimsy wooden desk, twisting his thin fingers anxiously. “I had hoped this wouldn’t come up. I really had. Just wishful thinking, really—sheer bootless self-deception. I can’t do it, Bethesda! I can’t tell her the truth! She’ll box me up and ship me off to work somewhere horrible! Like a coal mine! Or an elementary school!”
Bethesda leaned eagerly toward Jasper. “What truth are you talking about, Mr. Ferrars?”
“After-school activities like drama and athletic teams, as you know, have direct access to their respective domains: the auditorium, the gymnasium, or the playing fields. But anyone needing access to the main section of the school is supposed to be let in personally. Principal Van Vreeland leaves every day by three thirty. So who do you think is responsible for letting in all these people?”
“You?”
“Me. But I have a life outside these doors, you know! A community-theater production of The Mikado is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a bass-baritone such as myself! So for the three weeks of rehearsal and performance, beginning two Fridays ago, I—I . . .”
He paused and took a deep breath. Bethesda remained silent, riveted.
“I took a risk. I made a few copies of the front-door key. Each person given one understood they were to share their key with no one, and to tell no one of its existence.”
Mr. Ferrars shifted in his chair, sighing woefully, while Bethesda formulated her next question. “And, okay, so, keys, and so—” Slow down, she chided herself. Put the words in order. “You said there were a few keys. How many exactly?”
Mr. Ferrars cradled his forehead in his hand and sighed. “Eight.”
“Eight keys?”
“Eight keys, including mine.”
Mr. Ferrars wouldn’t let Bethesda write down the names, but it wasn’t hard to memorize the list. The names tumbled about in her head as she left the main office and made her way to her locker.
Guy Ficker
Natasha Belinsky
Lisa Deckter
Pamela Preston
Kevin McKelvey
Ms. Ida Finkleman
Mr. Hank Darlington
Assistant Principal Jasper Ferrars
And then there was Janitor Steve. Jasper hadn’t made him a key, but as the school custodian, he carried one on his key ring. A total of nine people, then, had the key. Five kids and four adults. Nine names . . . no! Nine suspects. And some of them were already under suspicion. This was too exciting!
“Tenny! Hey!”
Perfect timing. Just as she turned down Hallway C, Bethesda spotted her assistant detective emerging from the Band and Chorus room. “I have a major breakthrough!”
“Huh?”
Bethesda plucked the earbuds from Tenny’s ears. “A breakthrough? In our mystery?”
“Oh. Right. Totally.”
Bethesda paused, the earbuds dangling limply from her hands, while Tenny looked back at her absently. Had he somehow forgotten they were solving a mystery together? As they walked together up the steps to the eighth-grade lockers, and she explained about the keys, Bethesda observed Tenny. She had this strange, troubled feeling, like her old friend was here, but not really. Like even though he had reenrolled at Mary Todd Lincoln, in some weird way Tenny was just as much missing as Pamela Preston’s gymnastics trophy.
And what—did he have lunch with Ms. Finkleman every day now?