"The question is not if the killer or killers could be in this room. The question is, why are people being killed? We'll worry ourselves into a fit if we think each of us is vulnerable."
"But we are!" Market exclaimed. "Two people are dead—and one seventeen-year-old boy who admitted planting the first obituary is in the hospital. Who or what next?"
Harry replied evenly, "Marilyn, I know you don't want to hear this, but everything points to St. Elizabeth's."
"Does that mean we're suspects?" Jody Miller joked.
Irene put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "No one is suspecting students, dear." She cast a knowing look at Larry Johnson. She needed to talk to him. Jody was in the first trimester of her pregnancy. A major decision had to be made. On the other hand, she watched Father Michael and thought maybe she should talk to him. It didn't occur to her that Jody was the one who needed to do the talking.
Neither Sandy Brashiers nor any faculty members from the school were there to defend themselves or the institution. They were holding back a tidal wave of questions, recriminations, and fear at their own faculty meeting. The reporters, like jackals, camped at the door.
"You must put aside April's absurd accusations," Marilyn said nervously, "and we will audit the books this week to lay her accusations to rest. She's only trying to divert our attention."
"It's true," Roger said in his quiet voice. "The problem is at St. E's."
Mim asked, "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what is going on at your school? Is there a drug problem?"
"Mrs. Sanburne, drugs are everywhere. Not just at St. E's," Karen said solemnly.
"But you're rich kids. If you get in trouble, Daddy can bail you out." Samson Coles bluntly added his two cents even though many people shunned him.
"That's neither here nor there," Market said impatiently. "What are we going to do?"
"Can we afford more protection? A private police force?" Fair was pretty sure they couldn't.
"No." Jim, towering over everyone but Fair, answered that query. "We're on a shoestring."
"The rescue squad and other groups like the Firehouse gang could pitch in." Larry, getting warm, removed his glen plaid porkpie hat.
"Good idea, Larry." Mim turned to her husband. "Can we do that? Of course we can. You're the mayor."
"I'll put them on patrol. We can set up a cruise pattern. It's a start."
Mini went on. "While they're doing that, the rest of us can go over our contacts with Roscoe, April, Maury, and Sean. There may be a telling clue, something you know that seems unimportant but is really significant, the missing link, so to speak."
"Like, who gave Roscoe Fletcher candy at the car wash?" Miranda said innocently. "Harry thinks the killer was right there and gave him the poisoned candy right under everyone's nose."
"She just let the cat out of the bag." Murphy's eyes widened.
"What can we do?" Tucker cried.
"Pray the killer's not in this room," Mrs. Murphy said, knowing in her bones that the killer was looking her right in the face.
"But Rick Shaw and Cynthia must have figured out the same thing." Pewter tried to allay their fears.
"Of course they have, but until this moment the person who wiped out Roscoe didn't realize Mom had figured out most people were approaching Roscoe's murder backward. Now they'll wonder what else she's figured out."
"It's Kendrick Miller." Pewter licked her paw, rubbing her ear with it.
"If he is the one, he can get at Mom easily," Tucker responded. "At least he's not here."
"Don't worry, Irene will repeat every syllable of this meeting." Murphy's tail tip swayed back and forth, a sign of light agitation.
"We need to ask Fair to stay with Mom." Tucker rightly assumed that would help protect her.
"Fat chance." Murphy stood up, stretched, and called to her friends, "Come on out back with me. Humans need to huff and puff. We've got work to do."
Tucker resisted. "We ought to stay here and observe."
"The damage is done. We need to hotfoot it. Come on."
Tucker threaded her way through the many feet and dashed through the animal door. Once outside she said, "Where are we going?"
"St. Elizabeth's."
"Murphy, that's too far." Pewter envisioned the trek.
"Do you want to help, or do you want to be a wuss?"
"I'm not a wuss." Pewter defiantly swatted at the tiger cat.
"Then let's go."
Within forty-five minutes they reached the football and soccer fields. Tired, they sat down for a minute.
"Stick together. We're going to work room to room."
"What are we looking for?"
"I'm not sure yet. If April took other books, they're truly cooked now. But none of these people thought they were going to be killed. They must have left unfinished business somewhere, and if the offices are clean as a whistle, then it means April knows the story—the whole story, doesn't it?"
49
Eerie quiet greeted the animals as they padded down the hallway of the Old Main Building, the administration building. The faculty meeting was heating up in the auditorium across the quad. Not one soul was in Old Main, not even a receptionist.
"Think the cafeteria is in Old Main?" Pewter inquired plaintively.
"No. Besides, I bet no one is working in the cafeteria." Tucker was anxious to get in and get out of the place before the post office closed. If Harry couldn't find them, she'd pitch a fit.
"Perfect." Mrs. Murphy read headmaster in gold letters on the heavy oak door, slightly ajar. The cat checked the door width using her whiskers, knew she could make it, and squeezed through. Fatty behind her squeezed a little harder.
Tucker wedged her long nose in the door. Mrs. Murphy turned around and couldn't resist batting Tucker.
"No fair."
"Where's your sense of humor? Pewter, help me with the door."
The two cats pulled with their front paws as Tucker pushed with her nose. Finally the heavy door opened wide enough for the corgi to slip through. Everything had been moved out except for the majestic partner's desk and the rich red Persian carpet resting in front of the desk.
"Tucker, sniff the walls, the bottom of the desk, the bookcases, everything. Pewter, you check along the edge of the bookcases. Maybe there's a hidden door or something."
"What are you going to do?" Pewter dived into the emptied bookshelves.
"Open these drawers."
"That's hard work."
"Not for me. I learned to do this at home because Harry used to hide the fresh catnip in the right-hand drawer of her desk . . . until she found out I could open it."
"Where does she hide it now?" Pewter eagerly asked.
"Top of the kitchen cabinet, inside."
"Damn." Pewter rarely swore.
"Let's get to work." Mrs. Murphy flopped on her side, putting her paw through the burnished brass handle. Using her hind feet she pushed forward. The long center drawer creaked a bit, then rolled right out. Pens, pencils, and an avalanche of paper clips and engraved St. Elizabeth's stationery filled the drawer. She stuck her paws to the very back of the drawer. Mrs. Murphy shivered. She wanted so badly to throw the paper on the floor, then plunge into it headfirst. A paper bag was fun enough but expensive, lush, engraved laid bond—that was heaven. She disciplined herself, hopping on the floor to pull out the right-hand bottom drawer. The contents proved even more disappointing than the center drawer's: a hand squeezer to strengthen the hand muscles, a few floppy discs even though no computer was in the room, and one old jump rope.
"Anything?" She pulled on the left-hand drawer.
Tucker lifted her head, "Too many people in here. I smell mice. But then that's not surprising. They like buildings where people go home at night—less interfer ence."
"Nothing on the bookshelves. No hidden buttons."
Murphy, frustrated at not finding anything, jumped into the drawer, wiggling toward the back. Murphy's pupils, big from the darkness at the back of the drawer, quickly retracted to smaller circles as she jumped out. She noticed a small adhesive mailing label, ends curled, which must have fallen off a package. "Here's an old mailing label. Neptune Film Laboratory, Brooklyn, New York—and three chewed pencils, the erasers chewed off. This room has been picked cleaner than a chicken bone."