Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (33 page)

I drew a blank. Desperately, I ran through the names of my pets, the closest thing to my children. Tinkerbell, Prometheus...“Max,” I blurted out. “Uh, Maxine. I call her Max.” I couldn’t resist adding, “I think giving a child an affectionate nickname helps build self-esteem, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. And how old is Maxine?”

“She’s, uh, ten. Just turned ten.”

He nodded. “The Sewanhacky School may well be just the right place for her,” he told me solemnly. “You know, some students—some students have no trouble following a traditional path. But we specialize in children who need to make their own way, struggling through the dense foliage of childhood without a compass or a map.”

The man didn’t seem to realize I happened to own a computer—and that I was one of those few million people who had access to the Internet. Either that, or he couldn’t help eating, sleeping, and breathing this stuff.

“Max definitely falls into that category,” I told him, thinking about all the chair legs and bedroom slippers my fake daughter’s namesake had torn to shreds. “And you may be right about Sewanhacky being the best place for her. In fact, the school came highly recommended to me by friends of mine. The Thorndikes? Their son, Ethan, was a student here.”

His eyes clouded. “The Thorndikes told you...good things about the Sewanhacky School?”

“Yes. They were very enthusiastic.” I tried to sound brave, but the tight feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I’d just said the wrong thing.

“Interesting, considering the fact that Ethan Thorndike was one of the school’s few failures. In fact, he was one of only two students in our twenty-seven-year history who was asked to leave.” His lip twitched, just a little, as he added, “The last I heard, the other young man was serving eight to ten.”

I decided it was time to try some open communication of my own.

“Mr. Stickley, I’m going to lay all my cards on the table,” I told him, even though I intended to keep one or two tucked away inside my sleeve. “You may not have heard about this, but Ethan Thorndike’s sister, Cassandra, was recently murdered. I’m trying to learn as much as I can about the entire family in order to help find out who was responsible.”

Mr. Stickley raised one eyebrow about a millimeter. I had a feeling that, for him, it was a shameless show of emotion. “So you work for the police.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s more like I work
with
the police.” Okay, so a few more cards managed to find their way inside my blazer.

However, Mr. Stickley suddenly looked as if a curtain had been drawn across his face. Something told me this was turning out to be one of those occasions when honesty was
not
the best policy. “In that case, Dr. Popper, you should know that an educational institution is not authorized to give out any information about any student without explicit permission from the individual in question.”

I sat up straighter, doing my best to look indignant. “Mr. Stickley, since this is a situation that involves murder, I just assumed that you would be anxious to be as helpful as you possibly could. In fact, I’m surprised that—”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Mr. Stickley interrupted, standing up abruptly. “And frankly, I don’t at all appreciate you coming in here this way. Especially since you tried to deceive me about your true purpose in requesting a meeting with me.”

I was about to argue that I really did have a Max at home who was sorely in need of guidance. However, my Max was a he, not a she—and the kind of help he needed had mainly to do with learning that sit, stay, and get down were commands, not suggestions.

I, too, stood up. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to give it one last try. “Mr. Stickley,” I said, “please let me assure you that—”

“And that comment I made about the other boy who was thrown out serving eight to ten?”

I nodded.

“That was a joke. I was just kidding.”

Somehow, Mr. Stickley didn’t impress me as much of a kidder. But he was clearly serious about getting me out of there. Before I had a chance to comment, I found myself on the wrong side of the door.

“Did you and Mr. Stickley have a nice chat?” the receptionist asked in a kind voice, even though the creases in her forehead told me she knew exactly what kind of chat we’d had.

“Uh, I think I’ll be leaving now,” I told her. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to use the restroom first. To compose myself.”

I guess she could see I needed composing pretty badly, because her expression softened to one of sympathy.

“Of course. It’s right down that hall.”

“Thank you.” I cast her a grateful smile and headed in the direction she’d indicated.

I found one of those impersonal-looking restrooms with three wooden stalls, a chipped tile floor, and an empty paper-towel dispenser. I splashed cold water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and exited. By that point, I’d had more than enough of the Sewanhacky School and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

In fact, I was making a beeline for the door when I heard, “Pssst!”

At least, I thought that was what I heard. The soft whistle could have come from a door swinging shut or even a radiator. Still, I glanced around.

“Over here!”

I turned, my eyes darting from side to side. I had to admit, I’d never met either a door or a radiator that was capable of forming complete sentences.

Sure enough, there was a man with a grizzled beard and a hairdo that made Albert Einstein look like a Pantene model, sticking his head out of a doorway with a sign that read
Maintenance.
He wore a pale gray jump-suit that matched the receptionist’s outfit. Instead of pearls, however, he’d accessorized with the name
Mr.
Waylan
embroidered on the pocket in red.

“Yes?” I asked, still puzzled.

“I heard you just before, talkin’ to Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud Stickley.”

“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. The old-fashioned wooden doors looked thick enough to keep out the Spartan army. How could this man have possibly overheard our conversation?

He answered the question for me. “Through them air vents,” he said, pointing upward.

I tried listening. “I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s ’cause you gotta stand on a bench.”

“I see.” So he hadn’t exactly overheard. It was more like he considered part of his job description to be testing the strength of the building’s air vents by making sure they carried sound waves effectively.

Mr. Waylan gave a loud snort that sounded like a noise a horse would make. A horse with a very bad chest cold.

“Damn rich kids. You wanna know what screws ’em up?”

I half-expected him to start quoting Carl Jung. Instead, he continued, “Having too damn much money, that’s what. They’re all damn spoiled!”

I couldn’t completely disagree with him, at least in part.

“You been askin’ questions about that Thorndike boy, right?”

“That’s right.” Trying not to scare him off by sounding too interested, I added lightly, “I don’t suppose you knew him.”

Mr. Waylan let out the same equine snort. “Sure I did. Everybody knew ’im. Boy like that, one of them peeculiar types, is the kind of kid everybody talks about.”

“Peculiar...how?” I asked, as if I hadn’t made a few observations of my own.

The maintenance man looked from right to left. Then, peering at me from underneath his bushy eyebrows, he said, “I noticed Stickley didn’t say nothin’ about the time the Thorndike kid stuck a pair of scissors in that girl’s hand over and over.”

“No,” I replied, impressed by how matter-of-fact I managed to sound. “I don’t believe he mentioned that particular incident.”

He snorted again, making me wish I’d brought along a wad of tissues. But I quickly forgot about Mr. Waylan’s revolting personal habits when he said, “He was all set to call in the police and everythin’, but then the kid’s father, the one that owns that big winemaking operation out east, he comes in and starts makin’ a fuss.”

Somehow, I found it difficult to picture Gordon Thorndike making a fuss about anything. Then again, I hadn’t exactly seen him under the most usual conditions.

“So Stick-in-the-Mud decides he’s just gonna expel the kid, without callin’ in the authorities. Y’ask me, kid like that should be locked up. And they should throw away the key. Kid like the Thorndike boy ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

As repulsed as I was by this gentleman, I couldn’t resist picking his brain—such as it was—just a little bit more. “How badly was the girl hurt, exactly?”

“Ha!” Another snort. This time, at least, I was quick enough to jerk backward before any bodily fluids hit me. “How’d you feel if you got a pair of scissors stuck into your hand more’n a dozen times?”

“Probably not that great,” I admitted. “Had Ethan and this girl had an argument?”

“Kid like that don’t need no real reason t’go around hurtin’ folks. He was just...weird, y’know? Probably the kinda kid that enjoys that kinda thing. Good riddance, I say. Maybe they didn’t lock ’im up, way they should, but at least they got him outta here.”

“Well. Thank you,” I said. “For your insights, I mean.”

He just shook his head in disgust, then leaned over to pick up a large metal pail. I expected him to move away, but he stepped inside the maintenance closet and closed the door. For all I knew, Mr. Stickley had another appointment on the schedule and he wanted to be sure to position himself so he wouldn’t miss a single word.

By this point, I’d really had enough of the Sewanhacky School, even though I had a feeling the short conversation I’d just had could well have made the entire trip worthwhile.

As I moved toward the front door, the receptionist called, “Dr. Popper?”

I was surprised to see that she’d followed me into the entryway. I was about to ask if I’d left behind my umbrella or something when, in a loud whisper, she said, “Don’t listen to what Mr. Waylan says. I knew Ethan Thorndike. And I thought he was a perfectly nice boy. A little eccentric, perhaps, but a lot of the kids who come here are. In fact, I never believed that that incident with the scissors was his fault. There was something strange about the whole thing. I think Mr. Stickley was wrong to expel him.” She’d barely gotten the words out before she glanced over her shoulder nervously. “Of course, I’d never let him know that.”

I stared at her for a few seconds, as surprised by her interest in clearing the name of one of the school’s students as I was pleased to get a second opinion of the young Ethan Thorndike.

“Thank you,” I told her sincerely. “I appreciate your honesty. It’s true that I came here to find out whatever I could about the boy, but it’s only because his sister was killed. Anything I can learn about her family is bound to help.”

“In that case,” she said, “I hope I’ve been of some assistance.”

She hurried back to her desk before I had a chance to tell her that she had. It was probably just as well that I didn’t have the opportunity to mention that her comment about Ethan Thorndike was the first positive thing I’d heard about him.

But one thing was certain: Whoever’s version of the pen incident was more accurate—the janitor’s or the receptionist’s—it was definitely worth further investigation.

I was still ruminating about the two radically different portraits of the ventriloquist as a young man I’d just gotten as my van came into sight. I slowed my pace, my heartbeat quickening at the sight of a dark shadow in the front seat. At first glance, the round shape looked like the silhouette of a person. I could feel the adrenaline surging through my body. I glanced around, hoping to spot a friendly stranger or two. But it was late afternoon by now, and the lot was almost empty. There were no other vehicles in the Visitors’ Parking section, and most of the spaces in the Faculty area were vacant.

I must be seeing things, I told myself. No one could break into my van. Besides, who would want to?

Cautiously I walked closer, telling myself I’d probably just thrown a sweater over the back of the seat, or maybe the lengthening shadows were playing tricks with me. Then a beam of sunlight reflected off something shiny, and I knew that was no sweater.

As I neared the van, I let out a little cry. Someone was waiting for me in the front seat, all right.

Or at least some
thing,
I thought, realizing in a split second what was going on.

Once again, Ethan’s dummy sat propped up in the driver’s seat in what had been my locked van.

Not again, I thought, unsure of whether to be relieved or frightened. That is, until I noticed that the shiny object that had caught the light was a scalpel stuck into his chest.

Instinctively I stuck my hands into my pockets, searching for something that could serve as a weapon. Quickly realizing that a crumpled tissue and a half-melted cough drop weren’t going to do the trick, I did a mental inventory of the contents of my purse. While I remembered that I had a couple of pens, I wasn’t exactly what I’d consider adequately armed.

I glanced around, remaining as silent as I could as I listened for the sound of a footstep or even someone breathing. Nothing. I stood still for what seemed an eternity, finally concluding that once Ethan had delivered his calling card, he’d left the premises.

This time, it appeared, he wasn’t looking for a face-to-face confrontation. Instead, there were two simple facts he wanted me know.

The first was that he was aware that I’d visited his alma mater to ask questions about him.

The second was that he wasn’t happy about it.

“Out of the front seat, Mr. Ed,” I muttered as I gingerly lifted the dummy and stashed it in the back of the van, taking care not to displace the scalpel or add any fingerprints. For all I know, I thought grimly, Dollface here could end up as Exhibit A at Cassandra Thorndike’s murder trial.

Then I hightailed it out of there. As if it wasn’t disturbing enough driving around with that thing in my vehicle, I had another peculiar errand to run. I just hoped the Arthritis Foundation’s thrift shop in Elmwood still had that rack of leather castoffs I remembered seeing there once or twice.