Giving Up the Ghost (9 page)

"Bor-ing," Heather said as soon as he'd finished. Then added quickly. "But a good topic,
Lance."

"Yes, a very good topic," Gabbie agreed, watching Lance's face turn strawberry red.
"Let's help Lance spice up his essay."

"Lots of sexy women," someone called out.

"Torture scenes." Lynne cracked her gum. "Sorry," she said before Gabbie had a chance
to reprimand her.

"All very graphic," Gabbie said, "but think--what makes a movie a classic?"

Dexter raised his hand. Though this was his first participation in class discussion,
Gabbie shook her head. "I said think. And after you've thought, write down five specific elements
that make a film a classic. You have five minutes."

She walked through the rows, delighted to see brains in action. The results were
creative, too. When she got to Barrett, she saw he was drawing tiny pictures in his spiral notebook.
She caught a glimpse of a burning house. Two figures were lying on the ground. Repelled, she
recoiled.

"Start working on your list," she said.

"I'm thinking," Barrett answered, and inked in a knife stabbing one of the bodies on the
ground.

I must speak to his guidance counselor, Gabbie told herself as she walked back to her
desk. The class spent the next ten minutes going over their lists. The kids all wanted to read theirs
aloud, and much as she hated to squelch their enthusiasm, it was time to move on. She took a deep
breath, let it out slowly.

"We've one more essay to listen to. Barrett, are you prepared?"

Instead of the excuse she'd expected, followed by a request for an extension, Barrett
surprised her with a broad smile. "Good thing I had a copy of my essay at home. I'm ready when you
are."

She disregarded his impudence. "Please begin."

"I've chosen to dispute a slogan from the Bible."

"Slogan?" Gabbie said. "A slogan is something we associate with advertising or
propaganda."

"Whatever." Barrett shrugged. "My essay is 'The Strong Shall Inherit the Earth.'"

The essay was every bit as horrendous as she'd feared it would be. The writing was
amazingly powerful, the language almost beautiful in its simplicity, as Barrett defended his theory
that the strong had always ruled because they were entitled to rule. When he started extolling
Hitler's virtues, she interrupted.

"Enough, Barrett. What you're saying is offensive."

"I've every right to read my essay aloud just like everyone else."

"Your essay isn't like everyone else's," she retorted. "Please leave it on my desk and take
your seat."

"Whatever." He did as she'd requested and returned to his drawing.

After class, Lydia sat in the English office and read Barrett's paper. The last part was the
worst: "The unproductive, the elderly, the sick and insane should abide by the laws of the strong
and able. Those unable to add to the society of the strong should be put down out of kindness to
themselves."

"Out of kindness to themselves!" She spit out the words as she gathered up her
belongings and strode off to the guidance office.

This time she was in luck. George Breck was leaning back in his swivel chair, gazing out
the window. His navy blazer gaped open to reveal a considerable paunch. She stepped past the
secretary, who was talking on the telephone, and knocked at the open door.

"Hi, George, Gabbie Meyerson. I've taken over Lydia Ketchem's classes, and I need to
speak to you about a student."

Dark, intelligent eyes assessed her. "Come in, Gabbie. Please close the door and take a
seat."

When she was sitting, he said, "How're things going?"

"Fine except for Barrett Connelly."

A slow smile spread across George's face. "Tell me why I'm not surprised."

"He's uncooperative, draws pictures of death and destruction, and he wrote this." She
thrust the essay toward him.

George scanned it quickly and handed it back to her. "Not a democratic thinker, is
he?"

Gabbie glared at him. "This is far from a joke. I think Barrett's dangerous. God, have you
people forgotten Columbine? Virginia State?"

"Of course not. And we're well aware of Barrett's eccentricities. But we've no indication
that he's dangerous."

"That's not what I've heard about him and his pal, Todd Ross."

George picked up a pencil and balanced it between his two index fingers. "Yes, we've all
heard the stories. But hearsay and having evidence of criminal behavior are two different things
entirely. Without proof to back us up, the school district could be sued for accusing a student of
criminal activities."

"What about zero tolerance! Schools are suspending students for making threatening
comments."

"We do what we can. If Barrett and Todd wear black trench coats to school, they get
in-school suspension. I'm afraid that's all we can do legally without proof of dangerous intent."

Gabbie shook the essay she held in her hand. "What about this? It shows violent
tendencies."

"It shows he's taking issue with a Biblical quote. Professing a philosophy that runs
contrary to our belief system."

"A philosophy our country considered evil enough to fight against," she said.

"I'll make a copy to keep in his folder." George took the essay from her and headed for
the copy machine in the outer office.

She rose as he reentered his office and handed her back the essay. "That's it?"

"For now. Sorry." He let out a rueful chuckle. "I don't even think I can change his English
class this late in the year. Too many teachers have asked me to remove him from their classes."

"I'm not asking you to." She sat down again. "But I'd appreciate your telling me about his
background."

George stretched both arms above his head then clasped them behind his head.
"Barrett's an only child. Father's a garage mechanic, mother's an RN. Surprisingly enough, both
parents are decent, caring people. Which is why, when he got into trouble in Queens, they moved
out here, thinking a rural-suburban environment would make a difference. They've tried putting
him in therapy a few times, but Barrett wouldn't cooperate."

"What kind of trouble did he get into?"

"Truancy. Caught lifting a few items from a local store." He paused. "His parents told me
he'd been suspected of starting a few small fires."

Gabbie's heart began pounding. "Two of the big three," she murmured.

George nodded. "We've no proof of the fires or the dog shaving incident."

She appreciated his honesty. "No proof, but you'd think--"

"Sorry to cut you short, but I've an appointment in two minutes. I'll let you know if I
hear anything, and would appreciate it if you'd do the same."

"Sure," Gabbie said, deciding she liked George Breck. He'd just told her, in his own
fashion, that much as he'd like to take action, there was nothing he could do until Barrett did
something worse.

Lunch was a turkey sandwich at the Harbor Diner. Gabbie wondered if Darren would
put in an appearance, and was both disappointed and relieved when he didn't show up. She drove
over to the library, intent on boning up on photography. The only how-to book she found was
wordy and precise in its details about shutter speed and light, F stops, and digital cameras. She
flipped through books of photographs. Some nature shots were heartbreakingly beautiful. Seeing
them gave her an idea.

Instead of focusing on the technical side of photography, she'd work on composition.
She knew enough about that from the various art appreciation courses she'd taken over the
years.

She'd take whatever kids showed up Friday afternoon out to the woods behind the
school. She'd select one aspect of nature--perhaps a tree--and ask them to capture its unique
qualities. Each student would pick a tree and photograph it, illustrating its shape and color, texture
and size. It would be a lesson in keen observation. Viewing an ordinary object from an original and
personal perspective. Either set off by itself or as a part of the whole.

Yes! Excited, Gabbie started searching through the books for photographs of trees. She'd
take them to the meeting to show the kids before they went out to find their own trees.

She was about to check out the books and leave for home, when she decided to look up
the newspaper reports of Cam's death. Newsday must have run an article about it, as well as the
two or three local papers that covered Chrissom Harbor and the neighboring towns.

At the reference desk she asked to see old copies of Long Island papers.

"We've everything for the past year in the newspaper stacks." The librarian pointed to
the room behind the glass wall. "Over there, just past the computers. Actually, you can also go to
their web sites and bring up articles on the computer. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, no," Gabbie said. "I just wanted to look up some things about the town, now that
I'm living here."

The librarian gave her a broad grin. "The articles on Cameron Leeds are in the last two
May issues of our local paper, and either the second or third week in June."

"Oh." Some detective she was. About as subtle as a grizzly bear in a General Store. "Well,
I thought I'd take a look."

"Don't forget Newsday. May nineteenth and twentieth, I believe."

Gabbie spread out the newspapers on one of the tables. The first local paper had it
plastered across page one: "Body of Local CH Man Found on Beach."

"The body of 37-year-old Cameron Leeds, a Chrissom Harbor resident, was discovered
by two teenaged boys as they walked along the beach."

She gasped as she read the next line: "'Todd and me, we were on the beach around
seven-thirty, eight o'clock--just fooling around--when we saw this guy just lying there,' said
16-year-old Barrett Connelly."

Todd and me, she repeated silently. What the hell were the two of you doing there?

Did they do it? Could they have killed Cam for the money? And why hadn't anyone
mentioned that those two awful boys had discovered the body?

She scanned the rest of the article, and then read the follow-ups. The doctor's report
appeared weeks later in the local paper.

"'No suspicion of foul play,' declared Dr. Bradley, after examining the body of local
businessman, Cameron Leeds. 'Poor Cam must have lost his footing at the edge of the bluff and
fallen to the beach below. Plenty of contusions and his neck was broken.'"

There were enough gory details to entertain the readers, but the fact that Cam had been
drinking had been kept out of the paper.

A noise--something between a squawk and a gasp--sounded in her right ear. Gabbie
spun around and found herself nose-to-nose with Sonia Russell. Before she could speak, Sonia took
off at a half-trot in the direction of the circulation desk.

What on earth was Sonia doing, peering over her shoulder? The poor woman was
obviously distraught about Cam's death. Still, she had no business spying on Gabbie.

Perhaps Sonia was upset because she'd seen something the day Cam had been killed.
Gabbie considered chasing after her to find out. Sonia lived next door to the Leverettes. She might
have overheard Jill and Cam arguing. Or seen Jill or Fred leaving the house that afternoon and, for
some reason, followed her neighbor to the cottage.

It was too farfetched. But Sonia worked in the library and could have overheard a
conversation about Cam, a conversation connected to his death. Gabbie made a mental note to
question her about the day Cam died, but she'd have to do it when Sonia was in a calm state of
mind.

As she was putting the newspapers in order, a headline in one of the May issues caught
her attention: "Construction of Luxury Homes to Break Ground in June"

She read on. The homes hadn't been visible from the road when she'd passed the site
Sunday, on her way to Chrissom Harbor. No doubt this was the property that had belonged to
Reese, Jack, Terry and Don. The property Cam had convinced them to sell to him, and which he in
turn sold to the Coxwell Development Corporation for a tremendous profit.

She refolded the newspapers and, as she returned them to their proper place, she saw
Jill approaching. "Are you taking a break between students?"

"Actually, I'm finished for the week. I'm on my way to Reese's office to work on payroll."
Jill gave her a rueful smile. "I'll be there 'til after six."

"Theo and Charlie persuaded me to hold a meeting of the Photography Club this Friday.
I think I'll have them take pictures in the woods behind the school."

A flicker of fear crossed Jill's face. She shook her head, and it disappeared into a
tremulous smile. "Why don't you come for dinner Friday evening? I've the afternoon free, and time
enough to prepare something decent."

Gabbie hesitated. Was it protocol to accept a dinner invitation from the mother of one of
her students? But Jill was a neighbor of sorts. And Cam's lover, which put her high on the priority
list. She stifled a snort of laughter as she realized finding his murderer had turned into her number
one concern. "Sure, I'd love to," she said. "I'll bring a bottle of wine."

"Lovely. Theo will be pleased. She told me she likes you."

"She did?"

Jill laughed at the look of pleased surprise on Gabbie's face. "Believe me, my daughter's
not one to show her feelings." Her voice went flat. "And you'll meet Fred, of course. How about
seven? We live at 24 Greenbriar Lane."

"I'll find it. Thanks a lot."

Fred was the only suspect she hadn't met, and she'd be seeing him in two days. Good
work. Now, on to Sonia.

She felt a ping of excitement as she approached the circulation desk. Sonia was the only
one on duty. After waiting while Sonia checked out several children's books to a young mother, she
stepped up to the desk. Sonia must have seen her coming, because she quickly busied herself
shuffling through some papers.

"Miss Russell? Sonia," she said, when she got no response, "could I speak to you for a
moment?"