“Dempsey’s taking a long lunch.” She raised an eyebrow. “He deserves it after his forty-five years of sacrifice.”
I relaxed and pulled up the chair. “You don’t happen to know who Ms. Jilton was seeing?” I asked.
Jodi shook her head. “I wish I did. I’d like to help you.”
“I’m sure you can help,” I said and tried to think of a good question for the school’s administrative director. “Tell me about Doris Carver, the English teacher,” I asked. “She seems almost as hostile as Dr. Dempsey.”
“Doris hated Miriam.”
I asked why, and Jodi said petty jealousy. “Miriam was stellar, and Doris isn’t. You won’t believe it, but some of this involved you.”
“Let me guess. The Focus on Fiction contest?”
“Bingo. When you got fired, Dr. Yates told Dr. Dempsey to choose a replacement. He chose Miriam, Doris got mad.”
“Don’t tell me Doris wanted to judge the thing?”
“Oh, heck no. But she wanted to be asked, and she used any excuse to give Miriam a hard time.”
“I understand the contestants also gave her a hard time.”
“And their parents. You should thank Jimmy Beak for getting you out of it.”
“I’ll be sure to do so when pigs start flying,” I said. “But what about the Junior Cotillion? How did Ms. Jilton get picked for that?”
“Dr. Dempsey again.” Jodi explained how the principal assigned extra-curricular events. “He tries to be fair by rotating the faculty.” She started tapping at her computer keyboard. “Here’s the schedule,” she said, and I leaned over to glimpse an elaborate Excel spreadsheet.
“It goes back three years,” Jodi explained. “That way Dempsey can keep track from one year to the nex—Well now, that’s interesting.”
“What?” I tried to decipher the column she was pointing to.
“MJ.” She ran her finger across the screen. “And another MJ. Miriam Jilton chaperoned at last year’s cotillion, too.”
“But what about the rotation?” I asked.
“That’s just it. Dempsey would never assign her two years in a row.”
“So she volunteered?”
“Maybe. But no one ever volunteers for cotillion duty.” Jodi looked up at me. “Ever.”
Chapter 14
“Stellar,” Karen said as we drove home, and I agreed that was the general consensus.
“Miriam Jilton even volunteered for cotillion duty,” I said. “But she was also having an affair. Or at least I think she was. No one could tell me anything specific.”
Karen stopped at a red light and offered a sly smile.
My mouth dropped open. “Mr. MacAdoo knows something?”
“I have news for you, girlfriend. Janitors always know something.”
“What did he say?”
“Don’t get too carried away.” The light changed and Karen started moving again. “Jack couldn’t give me a name, but he did see the guy pick Miriam up one afternoon. I guess her car was in the shop.”
“And?” I asked impatiently as Karen made a left turn.
“She was seeing a parent.”
“Of one of her students? Who?”
“Jack doesn’t know,” Karen said. “But that’s his theory. He says the guy doesn’t work at the school since he didn’t recognize him. But he also knows there had to be a reason Miriam was so secretive.”
“The other faculty assume the guy was married.”
“Jack says no way.” Karen glanced over. “It goes back to that stellar thing.”
I thought about the implications of Miriam’s behavior. “I wonder if there are rules against a teacher seeing a parent?”
“Jack wasn’t sure. But he thinks Miriam would keep it to herself, either way.”
I considered my chauffeur. “For a reluctant sleuth, you’re pretty good at this stuff.”
“Yeah, and wait ’til you see this.” Karen reached over to my lap and tapped a compartment on her tool belt. “Look in there.”
I reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. “You took notes?” I was impressed, even before I saw the details—a list of twenty or thirty people, each with a G or B next to their names.
“Good guys and bad guys?” I asked, and she nodded.
“The faculty according to Jack MacAdoo,” she said. “He’s not judging their teaching. It’s more like how they treat people—the kids, the staff. Especially the custodial staff.”
I scanned the list. “Wow. You went about this with far more precision than I did.”
“You sleuth your way, I’ll sleuth mine.”
I continued reading, but recognized very few names. Being not such a swift sleuth, I hadn’t bothered learning many names during my visit to the Command Center.
But at least I recognized the principal. Dr. Dempsey had a B next to his name, and the note, “Retiring—the sooner the better.”
Jason the gym teacher merited a solid G. And lo and behold, there was Doris Carver with a B next to her name and the note, “Mess this morning.”
“Ms. Carver was Miriam’s department head,” I said. “And she has a big fat B next to her name. What’s the ‘mess this morning’ mean?”
“Remember, it’s how she treats the janitors,” Karen said. “Some kid threw up in her classroom, and Ms. Carver didn’t even thank Jack for, you know, cleaning it up.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Trevor Ploof must be quite a challenge.”
“I don’t remember that name. What’s he teach?”
***
But we never did get around to analyzing Trevor’s emotional or physical ailments. Because right then Karen turned onto Sullivan Street. Dare I say, the situation had heated up considerably while we were away?
As usual, Alistair Pritt and his ilk occupied center stage. Around and around the intersection of Sullivan and Vine they marched, stomped, and shouted.
Nothing new there, but Alistair’s poster certainly was new and different. He had abandoned his ‘Queen of Smut’ poster for a new ‘Cry for Rye’ poster.
“The ‘Queen of Smut’ one was prettier,” Karen said as she inched the van a bit closer.
Indeed, Alistair’s old poster had been a work of art, what with its bright red lettering and the gold glitter crown embellishment. In comparison, his new ‘Cry for Rye’ specimen looked downright sinister. It sported black lettering and a big black teardrop in the upper left corner.
“He must be upset about Wilson staying with you last night,” Karen said.
“Like it’s any of his business? Like destroying my career isn’t bad enough?” I waved an altogether indignant hand. “Now he’s out to ruin my private life?”
I could have continued ranting about Alistair. But really, there were too many other things begging for my attention. For instance, Roslynn Mayweather.
Yes, you read that right. Roslynn Mayweather, decked out in a pink business suit, was leading a small group of—
“Is that a counter-demonstration?” Karen asked. She, too, had turned her attention to the Mayweather devotees, who rounded the street corner in the opposite direction from the Pritt crowd. Roslynn’s bunch carried posters bearing such sentiments as ‘Romance Rocks,’ ‘Romance Rules,’ and ‘Read Romance.’
“Now those are some attractive posters!” Karen was downright enthusiastic. “And would you look at those outfits? The romance people have the book-banning people beaten by a mile.”
One had to agree. Roslynn’s crew, all women, were a well-heeled bunch. Each wore a pastel-colored business suit, with matching pumps and matching corsage pinned to each earnest chest. The pastel theme even extended to their posters, an assortment of baby blue, mint green, sunny yellow, and pink placards.
“Our agent must have put her up to this,” I said. “You’ve heard me mention Geez Louise?”
“Oh boy,” was Karen’s response as we reached our parking lot.
A shocking, but certainly a pleasant surprise, no one even noticed us. The two groups of opposing demonstrators were too busy concentrating on each other. And Jimmy Beak was too busy running back and forth between the protesters.
Karen parked without incident, and we were even able to get out of the van unnoticed. We hid around the corner of our building and watched the spectacle unfold as Candy Poppe and Puddles moved into the fray.
“Bless their brave, brave hearts,” I whispered, and Karen tore her eyes from the scene to look at me.
“Say what?”
I pointed to Candy. “Remember I mentioned I had a task for her. Candy’s on Jimmy Beak patrol.”
“Say what?”
“She’s to talk to Jimmy and ascertain his plans—how long he intends to follow this stupid story, et cetera, et cetera.”
Karen raised an eyebrow.
“Come on, Karen. Just this morning you scolded me about keeping my enemies close.” I again indicated the circus. “I should know what’s lurking in Jimmy’s mind. Because once he loses interest, Alistair and his groupies will be much less of a nuisance, no?”
“They couldn’t be much more of a nuisance,” she said, and we watched as Candy put her special skill set to use.
She may be an army of only one—two if you count her dog—but Candy Poppe is an expert at attracting attention. Her petite yet voluptuous figure is a proven show-stopper, as are her numerous mini-dress and stilettos outfits. While Roslynn’s brigade was pretty in pastels, Candy’s cheerful daisy-print ensemble also heralded spring.
First she talked to Alistair. The man actually stopped the protest line to speak to her. Or maybe the ilk, mostly male, stopped of their own accord.
Candy tilted her head and gave Alistair her rapt attention as he whispered who knows what in her upturned ear. Was the man actually smiling?
“Kiddo can charm anyone,” Karen said.
As if to prove the point, Candy moved on to Jimmy Beak. He jumped back and pointed to Puddles, and Candy bent over—all male eyes fixated on that maneuver—and whispered something to her dog.
“Maybe he’ll pee on Jimmy,” Karen said hopefully.
Alas, no such luck. Puddles and Candy scurried off toward Roslynn and the pastel people, and I directed Karen’s attention to the newest arrival. “One imagines Gabby Yates is why Candy ran off.”
Superintendent Yates had indeed stepped out of her car and set a collision course with Jimmy Beak.
“Yikes!” Karen said. “That tote bag she’s carrying looks heavy. Maybe she’ll bonk Jimmy on the head with it.”
***
Poor Karen was destined to be disappointed again. And clearly Alistair Pritt had no idea what Gabby had in mind, either. He marched over, perhaps under the impression he had found himself a new ally.
But Gabby had her own agenda. She paid Mr. Pritt no attention whatsoever, dropped her formidable bag at her feet, and addressed Jimmy.
Truly disappointing—we couldn’t hear a thing.
Gabby soon realized she was mute and grabbed the microphone from Jimmy before he could even think to stop her. Still mute, or close to it, she examined the contraption and realized the problem. The mike worked well for Jimmy’s TV broadcasts, but since no speakers were set up around the demonstration itself, no one other than those in her immediate vicinity could hear her.
She handed Jimmy back his instrument and an argument ensued. She kept pointing to the Channel 15 News van, he kept shaking his head, and Alistair kept waving his poster to no avail whatsoever.
She turned on her heel and set her sights on the cameraman, who had somehow gotten distracted over there with Candy and Roslynn.
“Young man!” Gabby’s voice carried that time, and the cameraman hopped to.
He waved goodbye to the gals, jogged over to the news van, and emerged juggling his camera and a bullhorn. Gabby promptly relieved him of the bullhorn.
“Maybe she’ll bonk Jimmy on the head with that,” Karen suggested. But fun as that might have proven, Gabby stuck to her original plan. She reached down and pulled
Windswept Whispers
from her tote bag, and I grinned from ear to ear.
***
Gabby raised her bullhorn and got right to the point. “I, Dr. Gabriella Yates, Superintendent of the Clarence School District, read romance fiction.”
Jimmy gasped oh so predictably. Also predictable, he had acquired his own bullhorn. “You actually admit it?” He aimed his bullhorn at the crowd. “Dr. Yikes admits that she reads pornography!”
“Pornography-schmornography!” Gabby handled that mouthful with aplomb and reminded the crowd that Adelé Nightingale is a bestselling author. “Adelé—that’s Jessica Hewitt—has a national, nay international, audience.” Even from my distance I could see her glare at Jimmy. “Can you say the same, Mr. Beak?”
“Oooo,” Karen said. “Low blow.”
“Far better than bonking him on the head,” I agreed. For the record, Jimmy Beak has endeavored to attract the attention of a national news syndicate since he was in diapers.
He sputtered something else about pornography, and Alistair came to his rescue.
“Jessie Hewitt is the Queen of Smut!” he shouted. He, too, had found a bullhorn.
“Smut-schmut!” Gabby bullhorned back.
“Smut-schmut,” Roslynn and her pastel people began chanting. Helping out the good guy, as it were.
“I always enjoy a good Adelé Nightingale romance,” Gabby bullhorned over the din. “They are”—she hesitated—“fascinating stories.”
“Fascinating,” Karen murmured.
“No one reads these books for the sex scenes,” Gabby continued hallucinating out loud. “We read them for the intricate plots.”
I guffawed.
“The plots,” Gabby repeated as Alistair and Jimmy challenged her on that ridiculous notion. “
Windswept Whispers
is my personal favorite.” She held up the book, and for a moment I thought Alistair was going to bonk her on the head with his ‘Cry for Rye’ poster.
Instead he shouted “Pornography!” at the top of his considerable lungs and pointed his poster at Roslynn and the pastel people. “Look at them!” he bellowed into his bullhorn.
One had to agree the gals really were a sight to behold. They had replaced the “Smut-Schmut” chant to a “Pornography-Schmornography” ditty. And yes, apparently they could say that ten times fast. Even whilst jiggling their ‘Romance Rocks’ posters up and down at a frenetic tempo.
“Women writhing in the streets!” Alistair offered his interpretation of the situation. “This is where Jessie Hewitt leads our fair city! Degenerate! Degrading! Disgusting!”
“Oh!” Gabby said. “All those D-words remind me.” She dropped
Windswept Whispers
into her tote, and pulled out another of tome.
“
A Deluge of Desire
,” I told Karen.