“People blame the school, they blame the parents, but everyone’s in charge of himself. We tell the students about these critical choices.” A worm of a question crossed his large brow. “Do you know any more about how she got it? Do you suppose she came in contact with someone in Port Renfrew? It’s a tough place. The students mentioned seeing a few local boys the first day at the beach.”
“I have a couple of names to follow up on.” She wondered if he knew about Billy and Mike and guessed that he was grasping at any opportunity to pass the blame away from his own students. “We have doubts that she took the drug on her own.”
He gave a sharp intake of breath, then exhaled slowly. “My thoughts exactly. Certainly not Angie.” A frown passed across his features like a dark cloud. “But who would do such a thing? I see now why you need to re-interview people. How can I help? Can I show you around?”
“I graduated from here...more than a few years ago.” She pointed at the old regulator clock, out of place in a digital world. “Several times I sat out a detention in this office. Skipping religion class.”
He assessed her with a smile. “From your age, no disrespect meant, you must have been here in the glory days. Five hundred students. They came in from Victoria, even Duncan. We offered more electives then, the drama club, band and choir. Fewer sports, of course. All girls. I can’t imagine that. Half of the teachers were nuns, I hear.”
She made a brandishing gesture. “Let me tell you, they wielded a mean pointer and weren’t afraid to break it over your head. How about you? When did you arrive?”
“This is my second year. The wife was sick of winter and wanted to move to the island, and they had an opening, so I transferred from a diocese on the mainland. Pulled a few connections, and the timing was good. We hit here just before the housing market went bananas. Forty per cent assessment increase in one year.” He mimicked a rocket. “But I didn’t know about the enrollment crisis. We’re scraping by with only two hundred and twenty-five. If we don’t see a substantial jump in numbers...let’s just saying I’m praying as hard as I can.”
“The new housing developments might save the day. Who says sewers aren’t a blessing in disguise?” Many plots in the core which had no percolation for septic systems could now be parcelled out and sold. Money in the bank for retirees.
“Let’s hope so. I like it here. So does Elanie.”
The clock ticked on, prodding her. “Is Coach Grove in his office?” She remembered the layout of the school. Holly had played intramural baseball. Right field. She always cringed when the ball came her way. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Imagine you’ll drop it, and you will. Still, her hitting and base running had compensated for that embarrassing weakness. Was that choking mechanism waiting for another opportunity?
Gable’s stomach rumbled, and he gave it a rueful pat. “Oops. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Terry should be there. With a small staff, we know where everyone is at any time. I’ll give him a buzz to stay put.
“I guess you know your way to the gym, Officer,” Gable said, giving a slight scowl to a student with a mohawk, who entered and thumped onto a bench. He looked as if he had been sent there as punishment. “Not you again, Len. Same old story?”
“It’s a bunch of bull, Mr. Gable. I was only...”
His words stuttered out in the changing voice of a young man as she went off down the hall. A bell rang, and students poured from the classrooms in a noisy but vibrant flow. Some went to the water fountains, others jostled each other. They all carried spine-challenging backpacks. A couple of whoops echoed, and a male teacher with a trim moustache emerged from a door. “Settle down. This isn’t the circus. I have a nice fat pack of detention slips,” he said, patting his pocket in a mock threat.
She could smell the gym before she got there. Cold, sweaty, with the silent cheers of thousands over the years and testosterone embedded in the walls, the varnished wooden bleachers that pulled out from the wall, the caged clock for basketball. Opponents. Saints. Banners on the wall from tournaments when the school was larger. Dingy grey padded mats and weight equipment. A thick rope snaking from the ceiling. The locker rooms hid at the far end. In the back corner was the coach’s lair. “Terry Grove”, a paper nametag said on a door. Not
Mr
. This man wanted to be a friend as well as a mentor. She knocked smartly.
At the request to come in, she found Grove with a Dagwood sandwich, as her father would say. No doubt it beat the dismal cafeteria fare. Mayonnaise dripped down his chin.
“Paul gave me a call,” he said, reaching for a pile of serviettes. “You have more questions about Angie. I’ve already heard the rumours. News travels. Small community, smaller school.”
The layers of meat and cheese made her stomach churn with hunger. “I’ll be fast. Don’t want to keep you from your lunch.”
Once again she’d forgotten to make herself something to eat.
She took the institutional wooden chair that he offered. He put down his sandwich and pointed to the coffee machine on a side table. When she nodded, he filled a cup for her. “Decaf okay? Fair trade. Got it at Serious Coffee.”
“Perfect.” She sipped the brew, making a mental note to pick up some for her father. At her mother’s request and his own thrift, he’d always boycotted Starbucks.
Holly opened the notebook, turned to a fresh page and dated and timed it. “I came back to the school to try to track down this meth connection.”
He shook his head, eyes deep with sorrow. “Those tests must be mistaken. Angie was a dedicated athlete. A brush with pot or a beer maybe. But meth? She gave a terrific talk on it for her health class. She was dead set that kids stay away from it. Even handed out cards with the B.C. Meth website. And the pictures of addicts. Holy crow. Put me right off my lunch.”
Whitehouse had found research for the speech on the computer. “That’s what I hear. But suppose someone slipped the drug to her.”
Terry’s face purpled, and he pounded the table. His eyes were wide with contempt.
Was he acting?
“That would be criminal.”
“Exactly...coach. If she drowned as a result, we might have an involuntary manslaughter charge. Maybe even voluntary.” He looked puzzled. “I don’t know anything about the law other than TV shows, but isn’t manslaughter like murder? Like when a drunk driver kills someone?”
She gave a bittersweet smile. “One up the ladder from criminal negligence. Here’s a similar case. A man let his son handle a loaded pistol. Showing off. A few days later, the boy took the gun from the closet and shot and killed his sister.”
“I see. It’s like the drug was a loaded gun.”
A knock sounded at the door, and a slim young woman with close-cut chestnut hair came in. “Hi, Terry, I...” She caught a look from Grove, then noticed Holly. The girl gave her an unabashed assessment from top to bottom, as if measuring the competition. “Coach. Sorry. Guess I’m...interrupting.”
He brushed crumbs from his Saints sweatshirt. “That’s fine, Katie. I’ll be free in...” He looked at Holly, and she held up five fingers. “A couple more minutes.”
“Great. See you then. I brought the forms all filled out with my parents’ signatures.” She waved a bunch of papers. The door closed.
Grove cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Kaitlin Pollock. Katie. I’ve got her set up for a scholarship. She’s our best swimmer next...next to Angie.” He leaned forward and raised a thick eyebrow. “She’s good, but Angie was one in a million.”
Holly made a note. Had jealousy been a factor? “Was Katie on the camp-out? I don’t recall seeing her.”
He shook his head. “She had the flu that weekend. Left school on Thursday.”
Holly asked Grove to keep an ear open. Then she gave him her card, recently arrived from headquarters. It seemed odd to read Corporal by her name, but it felt good, as if she were working toward a goal, not letting life pass her by. Her father was proud of her. Again she thought of Ann’s bitter disappointment. Reg had mentioned a mother in a nearby nursing home.
Kim Bass was sipping coffee in the faculty lounge when Holly tracked her down. Lounge wasn’t an accurate description. The stuffy room was small and crowded with stark furniture more suitable for a prison, hard wooden chairs and scarred melamine tables. The walls were an ugly pea green unrelieved by anything but a school calendar and a dusty bulletin board. Mindless elevator music burbled from two loudspeakers on the wall. Obviously people were not encouraged to linger here. A crusted coffee maker had a half-full carafe, and a tea kettle sat next to a tray of sugar and cream packets.
Dressed in dark brown slacks and a soft deerskin jacket with a beaded pocket, Kim was chatting with an older woman in her early forties. The merriment in their voices and relaxed posture indicated that they were close friends. Kim saw Holly and turned. Uncertainty flashed across her face, no guarantee of either guilt or blamelessness. Often the best liars had total control; they could also fake the nervousness of innocence, a double blind.
Introductions were made. Chris Wallace, the Spanish teacher, packed up her Tim Hortons travel mug. “Nice to meet you. Gotta run now. Grade elevens are getting ready to put on a play they wrote. Jennifer Lopez theme. Poor girl meets rich man. Typical fairy-tale world. What did we do wrong?” She winked at Kim, whose face pinked as she touched a beaded necklace featuring a double-headed eagle. Once, twice. Was she trying to reassure herself with this totemic image?
Holly explained her reason for the visit. “Now that these complications have appeared,” she said, “I need to know more about Angie as a student of yours.”
Kim drained her mug with a wince, then gave a half-smile. Holly hadn’t noticed before that she had a small gap between her sparkling front teeth, an attractive feature in the days of assembly-line beauty. “If this is coffee...you know the saying.”
Holly let a beat or two pass. She liked this woman, but she remembered her initial days on the force. Several times she’d been one-hundred-eighty degrees wrong in her first estimates. Witnesses gave false information, sometimes not their own fault. With an endless variety of focus and five complex senses, people saw things different ways, could even be led in the wrong directions. Drained by hours of steady interrogation, confused by the options, innocent people confessed to murder, especially young people and the mentally challenged. “It’s a rather delicate situation.” She told Kim about the accusations. “Two students...and I consider their testimony as biased as the typical teen’s—”
“Probably less biased than an adult’s.” Kim passed a broad hand over her brow. It was stifling in the room, the sun streaming through the glass. She got up and levered open a window, and a cool breeze rushed past them. The instructor sat back down and levelled her olive black eyes at Holly. “It’s possible that Angie had a crush on me. Nothing was ever said or written. It’s something you sense. And even so, she might not know her own mind at this age. I was in love with my Grade Eight history teacher, Mr. Bradshaw.”
Possible crush,
Holly wrote, leaving her face impassive. It was critical to keep opinions out of reports. Stick to the facts and let the justice system sort them out. If this woman had nothing to do with the death, “outing” her served no purpose. “Did she try to talk to you after class? Or outside the school?” She hesitated. Two questions at once. Bad form.
Kim’s voice was even and serious. “Sometimes when school let out, she’d come by the classroom for a few minutes. She walked home, so she didn’t need to catch the bus.”
“Was she discussing her schoolwork?” Holly winced again.
Leading the witness. Her techniques needed refining, but at least she knew that.
Kim gave a sigh. “Angie was an overachiever. She brought in her essays for my opinions on improvement, not to argue about the marks. In the normal scheme of grading, the huge numbers, sometimes two hundred essays each week, I don’t have time to make thorough comments.”
Holly nodded. Her father made the same complaints. “I don’t envy you. Maybe gym teachers made the right choice.”
A soft smile greeted that humour. “Often she wanted to move deeper into a point. And she brought some poetry.”
“Poetry? Part of her assignments?”
“I teach Canlit, but I don’t mind looking at creative writing from my students or any others in the school. We’re starting a little magazine this year.
Spawnings.”
Holly sat up. “Pardon me? Did you say—”
Kim was laughing out loud, apparently at Holly’s expression. With her broad smile and a touch of crinkle at her eyes’ edges, she was even more attractive. “I know. It’s provocative. Sounds like Allen Ginsberg and those one-word Beatnik titles. But who around this fishing community could dispute it? I thought it was very clever. Angie was on the screening committee.”
The scenarios might be multiplying. “Does that mean she had a say about what was included? Could that have made her any enemies?”
“About poetry? Who would think? It’s the antithesis of violence.”
“Or should be. What about rock lyrics and rap music?”
Kim gave this some thought. “I suppose. Do you want me to send you a list of the students whose work she read, those who didn’t make the cut?”
“Might be an idea.” She passed Kim her card. “What were her poems about?”
“The normal teen angst. ‘Misery, companion mine, to my depths you do entwine’.”
Holly winced. “Ouch. I see she had no career there. But no one else has suggested that she was unhappy.” For once, Holly wondered if they were on the wrong track, if Angie had taken the drug herself. Even that theory didn’t explain where she had gotten it.
Kim gave her a wordly look that revealed her greater experience with teens. “She wasn’t unhappy. She was just exploring the concept. Young people think that writing about the small things in our lives, a flower, a delicate lichen, even a pet, is a trivial pursuit. They’ll learn. I sent Angie to that William Carlos Williams poem about finding a plum in the...fridge...icebox. So simple, so pure.” She closed her eyes. “Know what? There was a lovely fresh plum on my desk the next day.”