Gabby held
Deluge
in front of Alistair’s nose. “I highly recommend
A Deluge of Desire
for Adelé Nightingale’s male audience,” she said. “You should try it.”
“I already have,” Alistair bragged. “I’ve highlighted my copy!”
“In yellow,” Karen reminded me.
Chapter 15
We were still laughing when Wilson’s truck pulled into the parking lot, and all merriment came to a screeching halt.
“He’s gonna kill you,” Karen said, and I asked her to tell me something I didn’t already know.
“Okay, how about, Jimmy sees us?” She pointed, and sure enough Jimmy was headed our way, followed closely by his cameraman and Alistair. “We’re trapped!” Karen continued delivering the good news. “Wilson or Jimmy? Take your pick.”
“Candy,” I said and started moving. “She and Puddles can block us, and we’ll make it to the door.”
“You’ll make it to the door, alright.” Wilson was already at our backs. He grabbed each of us by the elbow and thrust us toward the stoop. “Get inside!” he ordered.
Candy and Puddles must have been following the action also. They skirted Jimmy Beak and landed on the doorstep with Karen and me.
“Inside!” Wilson shouted.
He turned to stave off the crowd, and for the first time ever, the four of us—Karen, Candy, Puddles, and I—followed a direct order simultaneously.
We made quite a ruckus as we rushed the lobby, but once inside, we quieted down and waited while Wilson locked the door behind him.
He leaned back on said door as if he were holding off an attack of the Huns and caught his breath. Then he folded his arms and frowned at the various residents of 607 Sullivan Street.
Candy broke the silence. “I’m not used to seeing you here in the middle of the day,” she told him. “It’s unusual.”
His gaze landed squarely on me. “A lot of things about today have been.”
***
My supposed friends somehow found pressing matters to attend to in their own homes, leaving me to face the wrath of Wilson Rye alone.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked the moment we stepped into my condo.
“Making lunch.” I headed for the kitchen. “Would you like something?”
“How about an explanation?”
I explained we would be having peanut butter and jelly.
“You know what I’m talking about. The stunt you pulled this morning.” He pointed to my chest. “You’re wearing the proof, Darlin.’”
I grabbed at my hall pass. Oops.
“I’ll have you know, Superintendent Yates herself gave me this.” I tossed my head. “I was perfectly within my rights to be at the school today.”
“Rights-schmights.” Wilson sat down at the counter and spoke to Snowflake. “Should I even ask how she knows Yikes?”
I explained how and why I knew Gabby, and Wilson groaned in all the appropriate places.
I looked up from spreading the peanut butter. “Come on, Wilson. Surely you knew I would get involved in this. Everyone and his brother thinks I should be involved.”
Ignoring yet another groan, I explained the deal the superintendent and I had made. I waved my knife toward the windows. “That’s why Gabby’s down there right now.”
“She lets you call her Gabby?”
“She does. I predict we’re going to be good friends.”
“You’re a little scary. You know that?” Wilson didn’t wait for an answer. “Who else have you been making these deals with? Who was in the elevator when I got here last night?”
I blinked twice. “Do you, or do you not, want lunch?”
“If you’re sleuthing for those kids, I will wring your neck with that stupid hall pass.”
For safety’s sake, I removed my hall pass and returned it to my junk drawer. Then I assured Wilson I was not sleuthing for Frankie. “He merely asked me to talk to Rita.”
“Rita? As in Sistina?”
“Correct.”
While Wilson banged his head on the countertop, I explained my arrangement with Rita and assembled the sandwiches.
I pushed a plate and a glass of ice water in his direction. “You can thank me anytime,” I said.
He did so and started eating, but I told him I wasn’t talking about lunch. “I’m talking about Rita.” I took a seat with my own plate. “We definitely got the better end of that bargain.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. Rita agreed to stop accusing you of brutality, and she’ll allow Frankie to see Lizzie.” I sipped my water. “And all we have to do is solve this murder. Karen and Candy are helping, too. You should thank them also.”
Wilson again spoke to the cat. “At least she didn’t get Peter Harrison involved.”
My eyes got wide at the mention of my other neighbor, but luckily Wilson didn’t notice.
“Speaking of neighbors.” I got up to fetch Karen’s notes from my purse and handed them to Wilson. “G is for good guys, and B is for bad.” I tapped the paper. “It’s Karen’s system. Mr. MacAdoo the janitor helped her, of course.”
“Of course,” Wilson said. But he lost the sarcasm as he reviewed Karen’s list. “You agree with the G next to Jason Bell?”
I nodded. “How about you?”
“Other than he’s a lousy baseball coach.”
“You do know he overheard part of Miriam’s last phone conversation?” I asked.
“I better know. I’ve talked to the guy three times.” He made sure to catch my eye. “The last being right before you. Bruce Poleski called me as soon as you headed down to the Command Center.”
“Figures,” I said. “So who was fine?”
Bless his heart, not only did Wilson understand my question, he actually had an answer. And will wonders never cease? He actually told me what it was.
Apparently Jason Bell had overheard Miriam talking to her boyfriend. “Name’s Eric Ashton. His daughter Paige was at the dance, and Jilton was telling Ashton his daughter was okay.”
“He was worried?”
“He doesn’t approve of his daughter’s boyfriend—a kid named Cory Hanks.”
I put my sandwich down. “Which explains why she was at that dance.”
“How’s that?”
“Miriam Jilton volunteered for cotillion duty, which I gather, is an unheard-of precedent.”
“She must have volunteered to keep tabs on Ashton’s daughter.” Wilson was also connecting the dots.
I asked how he had learned about Eric Ashton. “Karen and I couldn’t get a name out of anyone.”
“Would you give us lowly cops some credit?” He pushed his plate away. “Believe it or not, Lieutenant Densmore is an even better sleuth than Karen Sembler.”
“How?” I asked again.
“How about phone records? And Densmore even knew how to investigate further than that.” Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Having a badge comes in handy.”
“Sooo?” I said. “Is Mr. Ashton a married man?”
“Nooo.” Wilson mocked my tone. “He’s a widower. There was nothing sordid about him and Jilton, other than he’s a parent of one of her students.”
“Just as the janitor suspected.” I stood up to clear the plates. “Is dating a parent allowed?”
“As long as neither party is married, the faculty handbook has no rule against it.”
“But I can still see why she’d be so secretive,” I said.
“And why everyone assumed she was having an illicit affair.”
“And why she was left on my car.”
“And why we can rule out Ashton as a suspect. He wouldn’t purposely call attention to her love life.” Wilson frowned. “Even if he didn’t come forward on his own accord.”
I glanced up from loading the dishwasher. “Oh?”
“Densmore had to track him down.”
I was indignant, but my beau the cop—make that my fiancé the cop—insisted that innocent people don’t always realize they’re sitting on useful information. “Aston didn’t even know he was the last person to speak to her until we told him.”
Wilson took another look at Karen’s list and asked if anyone in particular had caught my attention.
“Doris Carver,” I said without a second thought.
Wilson agreed Miriam Jilton’s department head didn’t like her. “But Carver has a rock solid alibi.”
“And being passed over to judge Focus on Fiction doesn’t sound like much of a motive.” “That’s the trouble.” Wilson continued studying Karen’s list. “No one had a motive. Jilton was stellar.”
“So I hear.” I stood up and shut the dishwasher, and Wilson absently petted Snowflake, who had found a spot on his lap.
He tapped Karen’s notes. “May I?” he asked. I nodded, and he put the notes in his lapel pocket. “This might have been a random act of violence,” he said. “I’m beginning to think teachers get as much random hostility as cops.”
Speaking of hostility, I asked about Dr. Dempsey.
“Hostile and uncooperative,” Wilson said. “But what’s his motive? All the principal wants is to finish his last month and retire with no mishaps.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“Claims he was home with his wife but can’t remember what was on TV.” Wilson shooed Snowflake from his lap and stood up to leave. “Dempsey’s fishy. Every time I talk to him, the number of years he’s worked for the schools changes.”
Chapter 16
“Don’t try to stop me,” I told Snowflake as soon as we heard the door downstairs close.
The cat gave me a disapproving look.
“It was actually Wilson’s idea,” I said.
More feline disapproval.
“And besides,” I tried again. “I’m only going downstairs. One can hardly call that sleuthing.”
The phone rang.
“Don’t try to stop me,” I said again and headed out.
“Jessie!” Candy Poppe popped out of her apartment as I rounded the second floor stairwell. “I just called, but you didn’t answer. I’ve been listening for Wilson to leave to tell you.”
“Tell me what, Sweetie? Can it wait?”
“It’s about Jimmy Beak.”
“Jimmy can wait.” I pointed down the stairs. “I need to catch Peter before his after-school piano students start arriving.”
“But, Jessie.”
“Later.” I started moving again. “I’ll stop by on my way back up.”
“But, Jessie,” she repeated, but I had already made it to the first floor landing.
***
And to Peter Harrison’s door. Wasn’t it clever of Wilson to put such an excellent idea into my head?
My elderly neighbor taught music at the high school for decades. Which meant he had spent countless hours in the Command Center of Bitch, Moan, and Gossip.
I stared at Peter’s door. But he retired years ago, which meant he likely had never met the young Ms. Jilton.
But, I reminded myself as I knocked, Peter was still Lizzie’s piano teacher.
I frowned. But I wasn’t allowed to mention Lizzie.
“Don’t fret, Jessie. We’ll figure it out.”
I glanced up at Peter’s benevolent face. “Excuse me?”
“This murder you’re trying to solve.”
I scowled. “You know I’m sleuthing?”
“You always do. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?”
He giggled and waved me inside.
“I confess I’ve been quite jealous of Miss Sembler and Miss Poppe,” he said as we found seats on his couch. “They always get to help you. But this time.” He wiggled his hoary eyebrows and pointed to himself. “This time I’m an excellent source of information.”
I smiled broadly. “That is exactly why Wilson suggested I talk to you.”
Peter blinked twice. “What can I tell you?” he asked. “Lizzie’s one of my students, you know?”
I glanced at the baby grand piano that presided over the room and bit my lip.
“Oh dear,” he said. “You’re wondering how I know Lizzie’s involved in this.”
“Her name’s been kept out of the media, Peter.”
He had two explanations for his knowledge. One, he overheard Rita Sistina arguing with her daughter as they left the building the night of the murder. And two, Lizzie had called to tell him what had happened.
He offered a mischievous grin. “We’re, like, friends. Lizzie’s been taking lessons with me since she was, like, five.”
“She’s, like, not a suspect,” I said.
Peter got serious. “Of course she isn’t. But she mentioned your bargain with her mother. I understand you know her young man?”
“His entire life. Frankie’s a good kid.”
“Lizzie is also. She’s far more mature than her speech-patterns imply, and she’s a brilliant musician. Her mother wants her to be a concert pianist.”
“Excuse me? She keeps insisting Lizzie will go into law.”
“If Rita has her say, Lizzie will do both.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Try telling Rita that.”
I rolled my eyes and changed the subject to Miriam Jilton. As predicted, my neighbor had never met her.
“She was probably still in school herself when I retired,” he said. “But I do know some of the older faculty.”
I summarized the visit Karen and I had made to the school, and the list Karen had created. Peter agreed that Jason Bell and Jack MacAdoo were good guys, and that Doris Carver was not. But to my surprise, he refused to label Richard Dempsey a bad guy.
“Richard and I go way back,” he said. “He taught chemistry for years before getting promoted. He was a good principal.”
“He was very rude to me. He seemed like a bad guy.”
Peter insisted some things aren’t as straightforward as Adelé Nightingale’s stories would suggest. “For most of his career, Richard was highly dedicated. I’d bet he was to chemistry what Miss Jilton was to English.”
“Stellar,” I said, and he nodded.
“But unfortunately some teachers lose their enthusiasm over the years. I’m afraid Richard grew weary.” Peter shrugged. “Some would say wearisome.”
I agreed Dr. Dempsey certainly was wearisome. “I think he was hiding something about the murder.”
“Well then, let’s try again.” The old guy almost bounced out of his seat.
I tapped my watch. “Don’t you have piano lessons to give?”
“Not on Mondays. Sleuthing, here I come!” he said, and I cringed at the baby grand.
***
“That’s right, Richard.” Peter winked at me but spoke into the phone. “I’ve been meaning to see those roses you used to tell me about. It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I have no piano students scheduled.”
He allowed his voice to drop off and listened to the other end.
“Yes, it has been a long time,” he said. And then he politely, yet firmly, asked Richard Dempsey for his address.
He hung up the phone and smiled. “I’ll just get my keys.”