Babe, stop living in Dimsville. Jail isn’t the same as prison. And there are two things to remember in life: people don’t change, and most of them are no damned good.
“The way I’m feeling, I won’t even argue with you.”
But you’re still not ready to go to the mat.
“I’m going to see the principal now,” I said out loud.
“That’s good, Pen,” my aunt replied. “And don’t forget to stop by Brainert’s afterwards. I can’t wait to hear what he’s discovered.”
A visit to the Casa de Egghead? Why do you want to go there, lamb chop? You just got out of jail!
CHAPTER 16
Principally Speaking
You get a smack on the snozzle in about a minute.
—Norbert Davis, “Kansas City Flash,”
Black Mask, March 1933
“I’M SORRY, MRS. McClure, Mr. Chesley should be back any minute.”
Behind the high metal counter, the school secretary, “Ms. Jane” (what Jane Wiley had been instructing kids and parents to call her since I was ten years old) checked the antique watch on a chain around her neck. She glanced out the bank of windows behind her, patted the back of her upswept, silver-threaded brown hair, then sat down at her wooden desk and began to drum a pencil against the side of her computer.
She looked up at me again, a little nervously, then quickly shifted her attention to her computer screen. The lady seemed uncomfortable. Of course, it occurred to me Ms. Jane’s real discomfort might not have been her boss’s lateness but my notorious presence. After all, how many times a day did a LOCAL STOREOWNER IMPLICATED IN THEFT walk into the Quindicott Elementary School office?
Well, baby, Jack said, if the broad introduces you as “the accused,” that’ll be your first clue.
“Thank you,” I simultaneously said to Jack and the secretary.
There was a line of empty chairs near the glass office door and I sat down in one. Whether it was my night in jail or the giant poster on the wall listing DO’S AND DON’TS OF SCHOOL CONDUCT, I suddenly felt like I’d been sent in here for a reprimand.
Jack laughed. Feeling like a bad girl, are you?
“During the six years I went to this school, I never before saw the inside of this office.”
No? You mean nice-thinking, do-right, moo juice–drinking little Penelope never got into trouble? Now there’s a headline.
“Stow it, Jack.”
There you go with that nautical talk again, and I can’t stand the navy.
I massaged my throbbing temples. “I’m charged with a felony, waiting to see the principal, and a ghost who lives in my bookstore won’t stop harassing me. What happened to my life?”
Aw, baby, now don’t go getting into a funk, ’cause the last time I checked, I ain’t no shrink, and I got no clue where the spirit of Sigmund Freud is marking time.
“I don’t need Sigmund Freud. I need a good trial lawyer. Know any?”
Sure. Abraham Lincoln. Only, like old Siggy, I don’t know where he’s located, either.
After fifteen minutes of verbally sparring with my ghost, watching teachers come in and out of the office (glancing curiously my way), and listening to the office phone ring nonstop (“Quindicott Elementary, May I help you?”), I began to pace.
“Excuse me, Ms. Jane?” I finally called.
“Yes, Mrs. McClure.” She looked up from her computer, removed the reading glasses from the tip of her nose.
“You said Mr. Chesley was ‘due back’—is he even in the building?”
Once again, Ms. Jane glanced out the window, scanned the parking lot and the long driveway leading from the road. “I’m so sorry you have to wait. He did have some personal business to take care of, but it’s been over an hour now, and he really should be back soon.”
This dame’s a back door, you know, Jack whispered through my mind.
“A back door?” I echoed.
Sure, baby, she’s a way for you to get some background on this Chesley character you’re waiting for. Use your limbo to advantage. Not that I am, by the way. I can think of a lot more stimulating places to haunt than a backwoods bookstore in a town full of hicks.
Ignoring Jack’s latest jibe, I chewed my lip and seriously considered his back door suggestion. I wasn’t a gossip at heart. I liked my own privacy and I tried to give people theirs—“Live and let live and you’ll live a lot longer,” my mom used to say. But when it came to murder, Jack was right, all bets were off.
“So…uh, Ms. Jane, I’m curious,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what can you tell me about Claymore Chesley? I mean besides what you mentioned yesterday, about his credentials.”
“Well, since you asked…” She rose from her desk and moved across the room, placing her elbows on the high counter that separated the waiting area from the rest of the office. “He’s single, never been married, and no children, as far as I know,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve overheard him talking on the phone, and it sounds to me like he came back East to help out his parents, but he’s very disappointed he couldn’t find any college-level openings right away.”
“Why does he have to help out his parents?”
“His father’s been ill. He’s in a nursing facility now, and his mother’s getting on in years. So he moved back home, took a supervisory position last spring in the school district office, ‘just to pay the bills,’ I overhead him say. With his father’s illness, they’ve likely mounted up.”
“So he’s not going to be permanently on staff here, then?”
“Oh, no! Heaven’s no. This is still Mrs. McConnell’s school. Mr. Chesley was sent here by the school district to cover for her temporarily. I spoke to Eleanor just this morning to keep her up to date on everything. She has every intention of returning after her baby’s delivered.”
Most everything else Ms. Jane knew about Clay Chesley she said she’d picked up from a memo the school district had issued to the elementary school staff, announcing his temporary appointment.
“That’s really all I know,” she said with a shrug. “Not much, since we’ve only just started working together.”
Not much? Cripes, this dame would make a hell of a professional snoop. I should hire her as my secretary.
“You can’t. You’re dead.”
Don’t get touchy, honey. Jealousy’ll give a girl wrinkles.
As Ms. Jane went back to her computer, I continued to look out the office’s back windows. Within a few minutes, a large black SUV pulled into a reserved parking slot near the building, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the driver to emerge.
The door opened and a tall, well-built man stepped out. He wore a tweed blazer, white shirt, brown corduroys, and a ochre tie. I couldn’t make out his facial features very well, but he had a thick head of golden hair.
Was this the principal? The man threw an overcoat over his arm and strode toward the school entrance. Less than a minute later, I had my answer. Claymore Chesley arrived in a whirlwind, sweeping through the office door without even noticing me in the anteroom.
“Jane,” the man called, snapping his fingers. “I’m back. Anything urgent?”
“Your noon appointment is here,” Jane replied, rising quickly to meet the man. She gestured in my direction.
Principal Chesley half turned, finally noticing me.
“Mrs. McClure,” he said, with a short nod. “I didn’t see you.”