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An Emma Lovett Mystery by Kelley Kay Bowles 408 W. Applewood Dr. Fruita, CO 81521 www.kelleybowles.com (970) 201-3080 kelkay1202@yahoo.com approx 75,000 words You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. --The Merchant of Venice V.I.278-9 Prologue Wednesday, August 27 Melvin McManus closed the small hidden doorway and navigated the pipe maze through the basement. He lurched up the stairs, his bulky form weaving back and forth as if he wasn’t sure of finding the next step. Covering his mouth to silence a hacking cough, Melvin stopped, listened. He really shouldn’t be here after midnight--his shift only went from three to ten. But sometimes it took much longer than that, because he was down in the basement almost as much as he was in the classrooms. His job was so much easier, cleaning up after those little pains, when he got to sneak downstairs every so often for a nip at the bottle. Seemed a small reward for the crap he had to deal with; I mean scraping gum out from under desks? This was his life’s work? Jesus. Hearing nothing, he opened the door at the top of the stairs and continued into the hallway. The brown tile gleamed–it would look beautiful until about 7:30 in the morning when it would be desecrated by ungrateful teens. PissAnts, he used to call them. Well, now he’d met some, and they weren’t all bad. Mostly ungrateful, though. He didn’t remember being like this when he was a teenager, but he’d been thrown out into the world so young he probably didn’t have the time or the means to be ungrateful. He ran a hand through sparse graying hair and wondered why he did it. Why did he work so hard to make this place presentable? It would only stay this way for his eyes; anyone else just saw the results of 1,500 kids traipsing about, throwing corn dog wrappers, dropping math papers on the floor for him to pick up. Jesus. Then he remembered why he was here, and he stopped and leaned against a locker with a smile. The thought got him moving again. As Melvin wove through the hallway, steadying himself briefly against some lockers and then again on a wall painted with a fierce-looking blue cat, he stopped to look at the sign above the main office: “Wildcats: producing proud and productive future citizens.” He’d seen this sign many times before, but tonight it made him mad. Proud? Productive? These kids only seemed proud of producing a massive garbage pile for him to clean over and over, and proud of making fun of him for doing it. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it, even with his helpful hideout in the basement. He knew he was close, though–close to achieving his goal. Edward had said as much last week, and the closer he got, the less he drank, the better he felt. He allowed a moment of anticipation to get the best of him, forgot about the Wildcat sign, and almost ran down to the basement for the key again. He sighed, an explosive whoosh that flattened his belly and whispered his nosehairs. Almost there, almost there. This job would be cake after he’d done what he came here to do, or maybe he could find a new and better job. Or maybe he could take more pride in this one–his conversations with Adam, a really good kid, had helped him see that. He looked down at his hands, dirty and greasy from work, but still strong. He thought of those hands in his younger years, how she’d kissed them on each of the fingertips like they were precious. He remembered what those hands had felt like when they held her, and the dirt fell away like magic. A muffled thump startled him out of his reverie. Damn. Melvin knew he was a little tipsy, not done with his work, and in the wrong part of the building to boot. He began walking nonchalantly in the other direction, but he heard the thump again, followed by a tinkling noise like breaking glass. Shit. Maybe he should look. It could be a cat or other animal, and he’d hate to trap one in the school for the whole night. Or it could be…no, he was pretty sure that issue was taken care of. He walked over to the double doors that led to the courtyard. The long, narrow windows afforded a glance through the courtyard and out to the staff parking lot beyond. A brown Toyota sat right in front of the entrance. Shit. His liquor buzz disappeared and was replaced by adrenalin; he turned and headed for the office as fast as shaky legs would take him. As he turned the corner and looked at the desk, computer monitor flashing, he saw someone sitting there. His breathing sped up. He almost tripped over a computer cord, and the person turned to look. Melvin was right, it was who he thought, and as he glanced at the monitor, it was obviously why he thought. He straightened, removed his foot from the cord, and spoke. “Oh, wow. I thought we had this all worked...” Melvin heard a whoosh followed by a crack, and his body slammed down hard onto the shiny brown tiles. Chapter 1 The previous Monday, August 25 Emma Lovett walked onto the campus of Thomas Jefferson High School, Pinewood, Colorado, at 7:30 a.m. She looked around at a wide expanse of courtyard. Lovely. In all four corners, nubby split-log benches enclosed small gardens of pastel flowers, their soft scents floating through the morning air. The center of the yard was divided into two sections, each marked off by cement benches encircling a monstrous and splendid old tree: walnut, she thought. Maybe oak. No, oak trees would leave little acorn droppings all over the benches and one would be unable to sit there without getting hard little nuggets up one’s butt. That would be an interesting excuse–no, teacher, my homework isn’t done because I have hemorrhoids. She smiled at the image and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Whew–no allowing nerves to get the best of her! They are just kids, for Pete’s sake. She hadn’t signed on to fly the Space Shuttle, only to teach some kids how to diagram sentences or to recognize iambic pentameter. Okay, that latter part could be hard. No, stop–she could do this. She rubbed her lightly freckled nose, which was already getting oily. Emma gingerly touched the long brown hair hanging about her shoulders, and smoothed her flowered skirt. Maybe she should have dressed more like she remembered the teachers she’d had as a girl–prim colorless suits and a bun so tight it pulled one’s face back toward the ears. She took another deep breath and shook her head. No, this was her new life and she was determined to be herself, act like herself, look like herself. Lifting her chin skyward, she strode toward the center of the courtyard as if she’d been doing this all her life. A knot of boys stood in the corner where the cement yard met the tall brick wall of the school. As soon as they spied Emma, they let out a string of catcalls and wolf whistles that would do a construction worker proud. At first, she was tempted to run for cover, but she called on her southern upbringing and walked directly toward the pubescent crew. “Good mornin’, boys. How’re y’all doing?” The boys mumbled, embarrassed. Only one, a medium sized kid with a shock of bleached blonde hair, managed a red-faced “fine.” Emma continued, “I just wanted to talk to you–about the whole catcall thing. It’s really awful. There are so many better ways to tell a nice girl you think she’s attractive.” “Like what?” this from a tall one in the back corner who had pieces of metal poking out of several spots on his face and a T-shirt that read ‘chicks hate me.’ Emma had to restrain herself from explaining to the boy just why the chicks felt that way. Instead, she launched into her maiden attempt at molding the young minds of the world. “Well, a sincere compliment, for starters–about her dress, her hair. Maybe a nice note that explains why you like her. And that would be aspects of her personality you like, guys! I don’t know–flowers and chocolate are my personal favorites.” With this sage advice, and without waiting for a response, she started for the blue steel double doors leading into the commons. One of the boys called out to her receding figure, “And what if she’s a bad girl?” “My understanding is that you don’t have to actually talk to those at all,” she flipped this back over her shoulder as she opened the door, a smile building on her face. Well, that had gone okay--her first official teacher/student exchange. No one had spit on her and she hadn’t assigned any detention. Did detention still exist? I know I can’t paddle them for misbehavior, but that’s okay. They’d probably like it. As Emma walked into the school building, she took another deep breath, inhaling the metallic smell of lockers that mingled with refrigerated air and remnants of old bunsen burners lit and re-lit. The combination sounded beastly, but it was so rife with nostalgia it might as well have been a donut shop. She’d only been to the district office for an interview on Friday–late hiring here–so this was her first time at the school. She’d only had education classes at college before she arrived, so it was technically her first time at any school. The interior commons was as open as the courtyard, with high ceilings and tall windows framing double doors on both ends. Rows of skinny royal blue lockers lined the walls on either side, with a renegade door here and there between sets of lockers; two were labeled “gym.” Emma assumed the others led to classrooms. Hallways extended from all four corners of the commons, giving the effect of a giant “H.” On the map, anyway. Which wouldn’t keep her from getting lost: visualize the “H?” How did that help? She wondered if getting lost on the first day would be an omen for what’s going to happen later. No, I don’t believe in omens. That rabbit’s foot in my purse is there only because petting soft things calms my nerves. Really. She skimmed across gleaming brown tiles past the gym, turned right at the far corner and walked down the hall. Her map gave the room numbers: 100, 102, 103. . .and 104 was hers. She walked into the room and gazed, dry-mouthed. The desks stood at attention, and an empty wooden bookshelf begged for literary redemption. The teacher’s desk –my desk– squatted in the right hand corner facing the student chairs, and she tip-toed forward, touching reverently everything she passed. This room alone made the journey of the past few years–leaving her weirdo husband, going back to school, moving thousands of miles away from home, getting a random job through an emergency teaching credential–worth it. Upon reaching the big desk –my desk!– Emma settled into the rickety wooden teacher chair and did the whole “feet on the desk, this is my throne” ritual, hands hooking behind her head, eyes closed, heaving a fantastic sigh of contentment.. Emma was interrupted by a woman standing in her doorway–the most un-teacherlike woman she had ever seen. She stood at least 5'11", with blonde bobbed hair dropping to a sleek angle along her chin. Perfect makeup emphasized smooth fair skin with almond-shaped blue eyes. A slim red suitcoat was buttoned over a black top and calf-length black skirt, long legs ending with pumps that definitely sported a stiletto heel. Her of-course-I-wore-braces smile bathed the whole room in its sparkling light as she placed her arms up high against either side of the door and struck a pose. She looked almost exactly like Emma’s friend Hannah would have looked, if she’d ever paid more than twelve dollars for a haircut, and had ever worn anything but jeans and Keds. They both had the same drama queen attitude though, Emma could tell already she would like her. “Hey there,” she spoke languidly, but without Emma’s southern drawl. “I’m here for your indoctrination.” The grin was so contagious Emma couldn’t help but grin back. “You are? Well.” She threw her own arms up in a “V” and struck a queenly posture from the chair. “I’m feeling quite ‘indoctrinable’ at this particular moment. Teach me your ways, O Wise One.” The woman came over to the desk and plopped down on the corner, with a grace that belied the word ‘plopped.’ “That’s it! I just was curious to see if you knew what the word ‘indoctrinate’ meant. You’re in!” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Leslie Parker, head of the English department, Defender of the second-semester word and Crusader against PDA’s in the hallways.” Emma returned the greeting, “I’m Emma Lovett, one of your new departmentees. Is that a word, ‘departmentees?’ Now...the meaning of ‘second-semester’ word is patently unmistakable. Conspicuously evident. Alarmingly discernible. But PDA’s? I thought those were electronic organizers.” Leslie laughed and shook Emma’s hand. Emma shook back vigorously–no shrinking southern violet, she. “No, here at TJ High, PDA’s are Public Displays of Affection. You’ve never seen anything that makes you really want to hurl until you’ve seen a 16 year-old playing tonsil tag with another 16 year-old in the middle of a crowded hallway.” “Oh. Yuck.” She even sounds like Hannah, although Hannah would have called it ‘tonsil hockey.’ I love this woman already! “But a crusade? Shouldn’t you be more worried about, oh, I don’t know–stamping out ignorance?” “Small potatoes compared to PDA’s.” Leslie started pacing back and forth, hairdo wiggling as she shook her fists. “I did it, yes. During my high school years I was routinely impaled against my locker by the tongue of one Timothy Andrews. I followed my fool tongue and married the bastard, and HERE I AM! A divorced, bitter old maid at the age of 37. No, ignorance is bliss, but PDA’s can never be unlearned and must be stopped!” Leslie took a huge breath and seemed to step down from an invisible soapbox. “So, how do you stop them?” Emma asked. Leslie made a dismissive gesture, “Oh, well, I usually whack ‘em upside the head as I walk by.” The image made Emma laugh out loud. “You sound just like my friend Hannah, although she would have said ‘Ah’d smack ‘em til’ their skulls bobbled in their hair.’ Does that stop it, whackin’ them upside the head?” “Oh, I don’t know.” Leslie sighed. “I keep hoping if I do it often enough they’ll get tired of biting their tongues and just stop.” She started toward the door and held it open for Emma to follow. “I thought I saw a chunk of tongue lying in the hall as I came in. Ick.” “But worth it if I can stop one poor impressionable girl from following her face. Your friend Hannah sounds like the original Southern woman. A debutante, perhaps?” Emma’s laugh was now almost a yelp. “I don’t think Holly Hills, South Carolina, is much for debutantes. Wooden shacks, maybe, and Hannah’s more inclined to overalls than ball gowns. But she felt the same way as you about people neckin’ in public.” “Ah, smart girl. So, Emma Lovett, are you ready for the fifty-cent tour of Thomas Jefferson High, our lovely institute of erudition?” Leslie waved her through the door. Emma smoothed her blouse and ran fingers through her hair. “I’m ready. Erudite me!” A short giggle: “I must really be nervous, because all I can think about is how dirty that sounded.” “Oh, Emma Lovett, I think I’m going to like you. I will erudite you. ‘They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.” “Shakespeare. Venus and Adonis.” I’ll never tell her that’s one of maybe two Shakespeare pieces I know, and that’s only because of the ‘Adonis’ part, thought Emma. “Oh, Emma Lovett, I take it back. I know I’m going to like you!” The two women walked down the hallway toward the heart of the building, comparing “second semester” vocabulary words and keeping an eye out for PDA’s. * * * There were very few kids in the hallway, and none of them apparently felt the urge to make out with each other at such an early hour, so Leslie kept her hands to herself while leading Emma toward the office. A large blue feline bared its teeth at them from its position on the wall. A sign about proud and productive Wildcats hung over the entrance to the office, and Leslie jumped up and hit it with her hand as they walked through. How she landed on those heels was a mystery to Emma. “What’d you do that for?” “When you first learned to drive, did you ever hit the car roof when you drove through a yellow light?” Leslie asked. “Well, sure. Actually, we kissed our hand first and then hit the roof. It was supposed to keep you from being in an accident the next time you ran a yellow.” Emma’s face colored. “Ah still do it, if you want to know the truth.” “Well, I hit the sign to keep from being in an accident when entering the office.” “Oh my. What kind of accident can you get into here?” Leslie wiggled her eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. “Oh, I dunno. You can get buried in junk mail. Piss off a secretary. Be forced to communicate with a coach–that’s my personal horror. Come on, I’ll show you the teacher’s lounge.” They walked around a long white rectangular counter. Behind it were three desks placed in triangular formation, covered with office paraphernalia–phones, computers, trays overflowing with paper and mail--secretary desks. The ceiling was lower here than in the commons, with high ceilings on the lower level only. The office chairs that bumped up to the desks looked a lot more comfortable than the one Emma had in her room, but...it was her very own room! The two women continued on around the counter and up two stairs in the back of the room. At the top they reached a large, open area full of round tables and chairs, with three long couches against the back walls. The walls were covered in paper–sign-up lists for chaperoning duties, advertisements for graduate classes, phone numbers for potential babysitters. Black and white photographs of famous teachers–Maya Angelou, Ben Franklin, even Sting, covered a corkboard on the left wall. One of the couches was backed up against a huge window overlooking the courtyard. Overall, not the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria, but a pretty decent setup. A few teachers were sitting at the tables, and loud, boisterous men surrounded the one in back. Leslie immediately steered Emma in an almost complete circle so they faced the wall to the right of the door–it was covered by a huge wooden structure filled with square holes. They now had their backs to the tables. “Shhh....just ignore them,” she stage-whispered. “They’re the Lounge Lizards.” Emma replied softly, “Lounge Lizards! They sound a little obnoxious, but isn’t it mean namin’ ‘em after scaly cold-blooded creatures?” “No, they call themselves that. It’s like a little club–coaches only. The rule is that they can only talk about sports and sex.” Emma glanced surreptitiously at the group before returning her attention to the mailbox wall. Each hollow had a name pasted above it, and Emma was thrilled to find “Lovett” above a box in the middle. Empty, but still a mailbox all my own. Leslie went down the wall two rows, and pulled mail from her box. Suddenly, a voice called from the other end of the room. “Hey, Parker!” They turned toward the voice, a deep growl that emanated from a burly, semi-bald giant who stood from his position at the full table in the back. He wore those running pants that swished when they walked, and a Thomas Jefferson T-shirt that strained over his gut, but was at least tucked in. He slammed a pair of meaty palms on the table. “Who’s the new gal? Why’ntcha park-er over here in my lap?” The table erupted into laughter, with the exception of one youngish looking man who squirmed and looked uncomfortable. Emma had actually taken note of this man when she glanced at the table earlier. Not exactly Sting, but pretty cute. Leslie lifted one corner of her lip and hissed, “Damn! An accident! I must not have hit that sign hard enough.” She turned, pasted a wide Colgate smile that looked more like a sneer to her face, and retorted, “That’s interesting, Charlie. You made a play on words, otherwise known as a pun, and actually seemed to understand it.” The large man leered back at her. “I understand you, babe.” He high- fived the men on either side of him, all of whom wore some version of the running pants/T-shirt/tennis shoe uniform. Emma looked down at her skirt and blouse, which she liked very much, but...no fair. How come these guys got to dress like Saturday morning? Leslie pulled Emma across the room to the Lounge Lizard table and stood with fists digging into her sides, arms making triangles on either side of her body. She flung her head to the side, nose skyward, striking a pose like Joan of Arc. “Really?” she scoffed. “You understand me, you do? Do you understand me here with a gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, a boar spear in my hand, planning that thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle?” She turned her face to Emma, whispered “Antony and Cleopatra,” and winked. Charlie looked at her blankly. “Huh?” The younger man snickered from the other side of the table. “I think that means she’s planning to kick your ass.” The other coaches laughed at that too, until silenced by a black look from Charlie. He got up, pulled Emma into the seat next to him, and clumsily patted her knee. He had a brown fuzz of hair sitting on his ears, close-set dark eyes with a uni-brow that traveled from one corner of his face to the other, a large hooked nose and thin lips. He pursed these together, and his eyebrows made a ‘v’ as he pulled out a look that one assumed was created to show interest and concern. “No, really, honey. Tell us about yourself.” Emma shot a look toward Leslie, who shrugged her shoulders in an ‘it’s too late; you’re on your own’ gesture. “Well. I don’t know anything about sports. And what I know about sex, I’m not tellin’.” Only the guy at the end of the table smiled, the rest cowed by Charlie. Or maybe she wasn’t that funny. “Ain’t that a bitchin’ accent!” exclaimed the Lizard. “Are you Southern?” “What a fantastic guess. What class did you say you teach?” “Well,” Charlie tried a humble face; failed. “I have basic P.E classes most of the day, but this semester I also have Advanced Strategies of Golf. That one’s a killer!” Emma’s eyebrows came up. “I can imagine.” Charlie’s ham-handed attempt at seduction was interrupted when a woman entered the lounge and stopped at the first row of mailboxes. Her lips were pursed, and she walked with purpose. Emma didn’t get a chance to see her face. She was somewhat tall but looked taller due to a stacked bee-hive hairdo dyed an unnaturally vivid shade of red. Her glasses had chains extending from either side, and she wore an ill-fitting brown skirt and a white oxford blouse with a peter-pan collar. Emma couldn’t resist, she looked to the floor: sure enough, serviceable brown oxfords. Now this is a real teacher, she thought. Just like I remember! I wonder if she sleeps under her desk like we always assumed. Someone from the Lizard table coughed into his fist, a mangled choking which sounded an awful lot like the word ‘electrolysis.’ Charlie jumped up off his chair and walked toward the wall. He made a complete circle around the woman, his nose almost touching the sides of her face as he searched her cheeks and chin. The woman made a circle with her fingers, thumped him on the head and stalked with her mail out of the room. Emma thought her eyes would goggle from her head as she turned to Leslie for explanation. Leslie picked Emma up off the chair and motioned her toward the door. She leaned in, murmuring, “It’s probably best you know now... that’s Martha Bonaventure, a Social Studies teacher. Rumor has it that Martha was once a bearded lady at the circus.” She glared at the back table on their way out. “The Lounge Lizards are shameful about it. They search her for facial hair, and sometimes Charlie stands on the table and acts like a ringmaster when she comes in.” “That’s awful!” cried Emma. “I know. Sometimes she gets back at him, though,” Leslie said. “Besides social studies, she’s also the newspaper editor. Once she had his head morphed onto a tightrope walker’s body and printed the picture in the school paper.” “Wait, wait–let me guess the headline: He’s Wound Too Tight for the Tightrope?” “Actually, it was ‘Charlie Cherishes His Sequined Tights.’” Leslie grinned. “I think next issue Martha’s going to morph his head to a clown’s body. You know, ‘Clown Charlie Disproves Myth About Big Feet’.” At this, she threw her head back in glee, clapping, and the two women made their way back down the hallway. As they headed through the courtyard, now filling up with students, Emma was treated to another odd sight. Well, not odd for this place, she decided. A tall man with wavy blonde hair and a handlebar mustache was coming their way. On a skateboard. His long-sleeved blue shirt was rolled up to the elbows; tie flung around his neck and fluttering in the breeze. He passed them with a cheery smile and a “Hi, ladies!” Leslie waved and continued on as though they hadn’t just passed a grown man in dress clothes on a skateboard. Emma clutched at her arm, mouth open, shaking her head. “That’s the principal,” was Leslie’s nonchalant remark. “Haven’t you met him?” Emma shook her head ‘no.’ “Oh, that’s right–you interviewed with the Assistant Principal.” She shrugged. “You’ll meet him later.” Emma waved. “Hmm. Well. Ah think I’m the one who’s going to get the education here. That’s all right, though. You know...I haven’t even taught a class yet!” “Yes, that’s right. New girl, emergency credential, no real classroom experience.” Leslie’s eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. “I can’t wait to hear how that turns out. You go, girl. What is your first hour, American Lit?” Emma nodded, “and then I have Sophomore Lit and more Sophomore Lit, followed by everyone’s favorite subject: Lunch. I guess I’ll see you then?” “Until then...” Leslie intoned sonorously, “…may the Force be with you.” They parted ways and Emma proceeded toward her first totally in-charge, no help from books on education, do-or-die class ever... |