Page 22

CHAPTER 22

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;

Oh, night and stars, return!

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew;

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

And only wake with you!

—Emily Bront?, “Stars”

WHITNEY

In light of Macedo’s cat dander allergy, we exited my house and instead sat in the front of his cruiser, using it as a mobile office of sorts. I had the student schedules file on my lap and riffled through them, searching for the schedule with Elijah Clemson’s name. I hoped it hadn’t been removed when he was expelled. We were in luck. There it is.

I pulled out the schedule and perused it. “According to this, Clemson’s last class before lunch was astronomy with Dr. Joule.”

Macedo gestured toward the file. “Can you cross-reference it with the class roster? See if any other troublemakers were in the class?”

I riffled some more and found the file that contained the teachers’ class schedules and rosters. I ran my eyes over the list of students in Dr. Joule’s third-period astronomy class.

One name instantly jumped out at me: Terry Thorne .

While Elijah had been only a sophomore in the spring of 1982, Terry had been a senior. Because astronomy was an elective, however, it appeared that students at any level could sign up for the class. Had I been wrong to dismiss Terry as a suspect? Could she, in fact, have killed the Finsters? She might have noticed that Eli Clemson left his backpack behind and snatched it. Terry would have worn a small or maybe even an extra-small ladies’ jacket, but she might have stolen the medium-sized men’s jacket from another student, as well. After all, she’d stolen makeup and jewelry from her roommates. She had a history of taking things that didn’t belong to her.

“Look whose name is on the list.” I handed the list over to Macedo, pointing out Terry’s name. I reminded him that she was currently sitting in jail, awaiting trial on felony charges for attempting to purchase a gun illegally.

His head bobbed. “She just might be our killer, after all. I’ve got to swing by the Davidson County Detention Center on Monday for another case. I’ll interview Terry Thorne while I’m there.”

“Good luck.” He’d need it. Getting information out of Terry was like getting blood from a botoxed turnip. I returned my attention to the roster. None of the other names corresponded to those I’d seen in the headmaster’s disciplinary reports. “None of the other students in Clemson’s astronomy class had a discipline record.”

“What about Joule’s first class after lunch?” Macedo said. “Maybe Clemson’s backpack was still in the classroom when they arrived. One of them could have taken it.”

I consulted that roster as well. “Nope. None of the names are familiar.” It wasn’t surprising in light of the fact that Joule’s class immediately after the lunch period was a physics class. Kids who were smart enough to study physics were smart enough to stay out of trouble.

Macedo drummed his fingers on his thigh as he thought aloud. “Could have been a first-time offender, I suppose. But murder would be a doozy of a way to start misbehaving.”

Having heard many stories from Collin, I knew criminals often got away with lots of crimes before finally being caught. Their arrest records rarely documented every bad deed they’d done. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Joule,” I reminded the detective. “So, I know where he lives. Maybe he’ll remember a troubled kid who flew under the radar.”

“Good idea. Let’s pay him a visit.”

While I directed Macedo to Joule’s apartment, I held the files on my lap along with a copy of Irving Finster’s partially completed draft for what would have been his third novel. We parked, obtained visitor tags at the front desk, and rode the elevator up to the second floor. As we stopped before the door, the strong scent of pipe tobacco told me not only that Dr. Joule was home, but also that he was enjoying a mid-afternoon toke.

Macedo rapped on the door. We waited for a full minute with no response. Had Joule fallen asleep while smoking his pipe? I hoped not. His recliner could catch fire.

Macedo knocked again. After another half minute, the door swung open. Dr. Joule stood there in an undershirt and a pair of wrinkled shorts, his smoldering pipe in one hand, his cane in the other. “Sorry to keep you waiting, folks. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I was going about in my skivvies. Had to put on some proper pants before opening the door.” He looked at me. “Nice to see you again, Whitney.”

“You, too, Dr. Joule.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Doctor, mister, geezer. Call me whatever you want. Makes no difference to me.”

Hmm. He’d been adamant I address him as Doctor the last time I’d been here. Then again, he’d been in a crotchety mood waiting for his shower to be fixed. He seemed much more relaxed today.

I introduced him to Detective Macedo, who took over the conversation. “Mind if we come in?”

“Be my guest.” He held out a hand, inviting us inside. “You don’t mind if I smoke while we chat, do you?”

Macedo answered Joule’s question not with words, but with a sneeze.

Joule chuckled. “Looks like I got my answer.” He used his cane as he wobbled to his chair, then extinguished his pipe while Macedo and I sat down on the couch.

Macedo got right down to brass tacks. “Ms. Flynn came across evidence at the boarding school that leads me to believe the Finsters’ deaths were not, in fact, a murder-suicide.”

Joule’s brows lifted in surprise, and he glanced my way. “You did? What was it?”

I deferred to Macedo, not certain how much the detective might want to share.

“The first thing she discovered was a bullet in one of the porch posts that had collapsed at the headmaster’s house. More recently, she found a bullet casing in the pocket of a school blazer that had been stuffed into a backpack. The markings indicate the shell was expelled from Dr. Finster’s gun.”

“My goodness!” Joule said. He leveraged himself with his cane to lean forward in his chair. “What does this all mean?”

“We think it means that someone other than Dr. Finster is responsible for his death and his wife’s. That they might have missed a shot and attempted to hide that fact by removing the shell from the scene.”

“Wow. This is a lot to take in.” Joule sat back again and returned his gaze to Macedo. “Do you have any suspects?”

“A couple of students.”

“Which students?”

“The backpack belonged to Elijah Clemson.” Macedo didn’t mention that we’d already spoken with Clemson and provisionally cleared him.

“Oof.” Joule put a palm to his forehead. “That boy was nothing but trouble. Couldn’t sit still, wouldn’t listen. He was in my astronomy class. I’m not sure why he even signed up for it. He had no interest in studying the sky. The only thing he enjoyed was the walk out to the observatory.” He winced, as if the thought of someone not enjoying a subject he held so dear was painful.

Macedo continued to fill Joule in. “Clemson was in your third-period class, which was that last period before the lunch break. Were you aware that he’d left his backpack in your classroom the day he was expelled?”

“I don’t recall seeing his backpack,” Joule replied, “but I can’t say I’m surprised. Eli would have forgotten his head if it wasn’t attached. If I’d been aware, I’d have turned the backpack in to the front office. Probably one of the other kids picked it up.”

“That’s my theory, as well,” Macedo said. “In fact, we’re thinking Terry Thorne might have taken it.”

“Terry Thorne?” Joule rolled his eyes to the heavens. “That girl certainly had the right name. She was a thorn in everyone’s side at Ridgetop. She was nearly as disruptive as Eli, spent half the class checking her makeup and hair in her little mirror. I finally stopped calling her on it because, as long as she was focused on herself, she wasn’t causing problems.”

Macedo returned the discussion to the jacket. “Was there another boy in your third-period astronomy class who would’ve worn a men’s medium? Or maybe a boy in your class directly after the lunch break? One who might have had been problematic in some way, or have had a grudge against the Finsters?”

Joule shrugged. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but even if it was, you’re asking me to recall students from more than forty years ago. The few I remember were the ones who excelled or the ones that were a pain in the ass, like Terry Thorne and Eli Clemson.”

I held out his class rosters. “Do these help?”

Joule took the rosters and slowly ran his gaze over them before looking up again. “None of these names jogs my memory.”

He returned the pages to me, and I tucked them back into the proper file folder.

“I appreciate your time, Dr. Joule.” Macedo stood but held out a hand, palm down when he saw Joule going for his cane. “No need to get up. We can see ourselves out.”

I clutched the files to my chest and stood, as well. I bade the man farewell with, “Have a good day, Dr. Joule.”

I followed Macedo to the door. I was halfway through it when I remembered the other document in my arms and turned back. I held up the draft. “I almost forgot! This is a copy of the manuscript Dr. Finster was working on when he died. There’s a character in there that I’m nearly certain is based on you, a science teacher whose skills come in handy. I suspect it was a subtle tribute to you. I won’t spoil the story by saying more. It’s not finished, but I thought you might enjoy reading it.”

“I would,” Joule said. “Thanks, Whitney.”

I walked back into his apartment and handed him the draft. On my return to the door, my eye spotted the cherrywood apple teacher-of-the-month award still sitting atop the bookcase. The engraved side was turned to the wall now, probably placed that way by a housekeeper who’d dusted the shelf, but I knew it read MARCH 1982 . I remembered the first time I saw it, how I’d realized that Joule must have been the last teacher to receive the award. I faltered in my step, a ghost of a thought floating through my mind. But, like the moving shadows at the Victorian, it refused to become corporeal. There’s something about that apple…

As I turned to close the door, I caught Joule watching me intently. When our eyes met, his lips curled in a tight smile. No doubt the news we’d brought had been a shock. “See you later, Whitney.”

Macedo drove me back home, both of us wondering whether we’d found our killer in Terry Thorne, but neither of us willing yet to consider the case resolved. There were still too many outstanding questions. Even if Terry had done it, would we ever be able to prove it?

With nowhere else to go with the investigation and Collin not yet home for dinner, I decided to read the minutes from the staff meetings. I’d taken a glance at them before, but they hadn’t seemed to be of much use. But now, they were all I had left to consider. The minutes were replete with minutiae about departmental budgets, policies for classroom decor, textbook replacement. The only thing more boring and torturous than these minutes was Finster’s second novel.

Per the dates on the minutes, as well as the notation of the time when Dr. Finster called the meetings to order, I discerned that staff meetings had been held on the third Monday of each month, prior to classes starting for the day. Though seven a.m. was an early time to conduct a meeting, I supposed Dr. Finster couldn’t hold the meetings after classes let out for the day because many of the teachers would be leading extracurricular activities at that time: theater and music rehearsals; choir practice; studio time for visual artists; chess club, gardening club, fashion design club, comics club, poetry club. I’d seen a list somewhere. Ridgetop Prep offered an amazing variety of enrichment activities for the students.

The last item addressed at each meeting was the teacher-of-the-month award. Ending the gatherings on a positive note was a good idea. I imagined the teachers exiting the meeting, congratulating their fellow faculty member who’d won that month’s award. Carole Tiller had won the award in December of 1981, her first year of teaching and only four months into the school year. The minutes noted that several students had nominated her after the class had an especially fun time doing improvisational comedy Carole had referred to as the Nutcracker Crack-Up. She’d started the students off with the prompt that they were all guests attending the Christmas Eve party at the home of Clara, Fritz, and their parents, the scene that kicks off the Nutcracker ballet. The students had taken it from there, and things had apparently become quite creative and entertaining. Carole seemed to have a knack for being supportive, yet letting the students spread their wings. Finding that balance couldn’t be easy.

It dawned on me then that the minutes weren’t clear on when a particular month’s teacher-of-the-month award was given out. With the teacher-of-the-month awards being passed out on the third Monday, they could be awarded as early at the fifteenth of a given month if the first Monday fell on the first day of the month, or they could be awarded as late as the twenty-first if the first day of the month was a Tuesday. Had they been awarded retroactively for exemplary behavior in the preceding calendar month, meaning the January teacher-of-the-month award would be handed out at the February staff meeting? Or had they been awarded contemporaneously, meaning that the January award would be handed out at the January staff meeting? I supposed they could have been awarded prospectively, meaning the February award would be passed out in January, though this last option seemed highly unlikely, even ridiculous. It was the only option, however, that would explain how Dr. Joule could have possession of the March 1982 teacher-of-the-month award.

With this realization, my blood went cold. Could Dr. Joule have taken the March 1982 apple off Dr. Finster’s desk after he killed Irving and Rosie? I’d heard that killers sometimes took mementos to remind them of their sick deeds, terrible trophies that they treasured. The thought made me feel sick to my stomach.

My head was spinning, so I sat back and took several deep breaths to calm myself. Once I could slow my thoughts down, I realized I might be mistaken about the month. I read through all of the staff meeting notes, though, and realized that Irving Finster had never presented a teacher-of-the-month award to Dr. Joule. Could I have gotten the year wrong? Maybe Dr. Joule had been awarded the apple by a previous headmaster, before Dr. Finster got the job.

I was tempted to call Detective Macedo, but I knew how busy he was and I didn’t want to risk wasting his time. I wanted to get my apples in a row before getting in touch.

I called Carole Brown. “This might sound like a weird question, but I saw some teacher-of-the-month apples on Dr. Finster’s desk in the headmaster’s house. I know that you were given the award at the staff meeting in December of 1981. Did your apple say December on it, or was it another month? Maybe November or January?”

“It says December, ” she replied. “The month on the apple corresponded to the month it was handed out.”

In other words, the apple for March 1982 should still be sitting on the desk in Irving Finster’s study alongside the ones for April and May, which had never been awarded.

“I’ve gotten a lot of teacher awards over the years,” Carole said, “and I’m proud of all of them, but that first one was the most special. I display it in my classroom along with the others.”

“Do you know if the awards were given out before Dr. Finster took over as headmaster, or were the apples something he instituted?”

“They’d been given out since way before Dr. Finster became headmaster,” she said. “I know because I remember seeing some in the other teachers’ classrooms that had been awarded ten, twenty, or even thirty years earlier. A few of the teachers had amassed a collection. I remember joking with one that she had a bushel. I’d hoped to have a bushel one day, too.”

“Thanks, Carole.” I was glad she didn’t ask why I’d called for the information. I didn’t want to lie to a person as nice as her.

The only thing left to do was to verify that I correctly remembered the date on the apple in Dr. Joule’s apartment. If it was indeed March 1982, he’d have some explaining to do. If I’d remembered wrong, and the date was prior to Irving Finster becoming headmaster, then I was off base.

I grabbed my purse and headed out to my SUV. On the drive back to Dr. Joule’s apartment, I came up with a lie to explain why I’d returned. I’d tell him I’d lost an earring and wondered if it had fallen out at his apartment. While I waited at a red light, I removed the earring from my left ear and placed it in the cupholder.

Not long thereafter, I stood in front of Dr. Joule’s door, nearly hyperventilating. Was he a cold-blooded killer? I’d already knocked when another possibility popped into my mind. Maybe he’d gone into the headmaster’s house for some benign reason after the bodies had been removed and the crime scene had been cleared. Irving Finster might have borrowed a book from Joule that he’d gone there to retrieve, or maybe Joule had forgotten a pair of gloves or a scarf after a faculty gathering in the home. He might have seen the apples sitting on the desk and simply taken the one for March to have a memento that reminded him of an old friend. There were a thousand possibilities, none of which led in any way to the conclusion that Dr. Joule had murdered the Finsters.

But when Dr. Joule opened his door and I saw that the apple had been removed from atop the bookcase, I knew I’d been right to suspect him. He wouldn’t have hidden it away unless he had something to do with the Finsters’ deaths.

My gaze moved from the empty shelf to his face. He’d seen me looking for the apple, hadn’t he?

Terror gripped me and my voice came out a squeak. “Sorry to bother you again, Dr. Joule. When I got home I realized one of my earrings had fallen out.” I turned my head and lifted my hair to show him the earring on my right ear and the empty lobe on my left. “By any chance have you found it on your floor?”

He leaned harder on his cane, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white. He knows why I’m really here, doesn’t he?

“I haven’t seen it,” he said, “but you’re welcome to come in and take a look, if you’d like.”

How far should I take this pretense? If I went into his apartment, he might close the door behind me and whack me over the head with his cane, knock me unconscious. I decided to err on the side of caution. “I only walked from here to your couch.” Luckily, I’d been wearing large black dangle earrings that day and, if one had fallen to his floor, it would have been obvious. I traced the short route with my gaze. “I don’t see it. Darn. It might have fallen out at the grocery store. I’ll check there. Sorry to bother you.”

As I backed away, he kept his eyes locked on me. “Take care now.”

The instant I was back in my car, I phoned Detective Macedo and told him about this newest development.

“Maybe he just moved it,” Macedo said. “Maybe he’s got an explanation.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” I asked.

He groaned. “It’s Friday. My wife and I had a dinner date planned.”

“You can double with me and my husband after you talk to Joule,” I said. “Our treat. You and Collin can talk gory murders all you want over the appetizers.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

It took an hour for Detective Macedo to arrive. He was driving the same cruiser as earlier. We went inside. For the third time that day, I checked in and got a visitor’s sticker. We rode the elevator up to the second floor and knocked. When there was no answer after a minute, Macedo knocked again.

A trio of older men came up the hallway, one of them using a rollator. One called ahead to us. “If you’re looking for Adam, you’re not going to find him there. He headed out half an hour ago. He told us he’d met a woman online and had a hot date.” The man wagged his brows.

Damn! I’d been keeping an eye out as I waited in the parking lot, but apparently the underground garage had more than one exit.

Detective Macedo and I checked out and left the building.

Our spouses met up with us for a nice Italian dinner. Macedo’s wife was pretty and charming, and Macedo and Collin hit it off as well. We had a nice bottle of wine and a delicious dessert. As we parted in the parking lot, Detective Macedo said, “I’ll check back at Joule’s place tomorrow, see if I can catch him then.”

“Maybe he’ll tell you all about his hot date.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “I sincerely hope not.”

Dr. Joule never told Detective Macedo about his hot date. Macedo swung by the retirement community twice over the weekend, but both times Joule was gone.

Macedo visited Terry Thorne in the lockup, but she refused to tell him anything. All she’d done was giggle and smirk and give him the finger. With Terry being denied access to sharp implements, her nails would no longer be so nicely manicured.

Macedo returned to the retirement home and left his card in Joule’s mailbox with a notation on the back: CALL ME, PLEASE . Joule never called. Macedo went by a fourth time and left instructions with the receptionist and administrators to give him a call the next time they saw Joule. The staff were instructed to be discreet. No such call ever came.

Collin and I were in the neighborhood of Joule’s apartment on a Sunday in early October, and decided to stop in. We got our visitor badges and rode up to the second floor. We stepped off the elevator to see Joule’s door down the hall wide open.

“He’s here!” I cried.

Collin protectively stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body as we walked down the hall. He needn’t have worried. When we arrived at Joule’s door, we found the apartment empty of furniture and a crew steam-cleaning the curtains and carpets to remove the pipe smell.

We went back downstairs, where Collin spoke with the manager on duty.

“We haven’t seen him in weeks,” she said. “He called this morning and said he was moving to Florida. A moving company arrived a short time later to remove his furniture.”

“Do you have a forwarding address?”

“No. I asked for one, but he said he hadn’t decided on a place there yet. He pointed out that our lease doesn’t require him to provide a forwarding address. We return deposits automatically via wire transfer rather than by check, and we email tenants a list of any damages deducted from their deposit. Our residents are responsible for having their mail forwarded, so we don’t actually need a forwarding address for any purpose.”

Collin asked whether she’d contacted Detective Macedo.

“I did,” she said. “I left him a voicemail this morning, right after I got off the phone with Dr. Joule.”

Joule and his apple had disappeared. But was his move aboveboard? Or was he rotten to the core?