Рита Браун - Murder On The Prowl

"Every day is a party for Roscoe," April Shively, stenographer's notebook nipped open at the ready, said admiringly.

April, not a member of the committee, attended all meetings as the headmaster's secretary, which saved the committee from appointing one of its own. It also meant that only information deemed important by Roscoe made it to the typed minutes. Lastly, it gave the two a legitimate excuse to be together.

"Where were you this time?" Irene Miller, Jody's mother, asked, an edge of disapproval in her voice since Maury McKinchie missed too many meetings, in her estimation.

"New York." He waited until Roscoe took a seat then continued. "I have good news." The group leaned toward him. "I met with Walter Harnett at Columbia. He loves our idea of a film department. He has promised us two video cameras. These are old models, but they work fine. New, this camera sells for fifty-four thousand dollars. We're on our way." He beamed.

After the applause, Little Mini, chair of the fund-raising committee, spoke. "That is the most exciting news! With preparation on our part, I think we can get approval from the board of directors to develop a curriculum."

"Only if we can finance the department." Roscoe folded his hands together. "You know how conservative the board is. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. That's it. But if we can finance one year— and I have the base figures here—then I hope and believe the positive response of students and parents will see us through the ensuing year. The board will be forced into the twentieth century''—he paused for effect—"just as we cross into the twenty-first."

They laughed.

"Is the faculty for us?" Irene Miller asked, eager to hitch on to whatever new bandwagon promised to deliver the social cachet she so desired.

"With a few notable exceptions, yes," Roscoe replied.

"Sandy Brashiers," April blurted out, then quickly clamped her mouth shut. Her porcelain cheeks flushed. "You know what a purist he is," she mumbled.

"Give him an enema," Maury said, and noted the group's shocked expression. "Sorry. We say that a lot on a film shoot. If someone is really a pain in the ass, he's called the D.B. for douche bag."

"Maury." Irene cast her eyes down in fake embarrassment.

"Sorry. The fact remains, he is an impediment."

"I'll take care of Sandy," Roscoe Fletcher smoothly asserted.

"I wish someone would." Doak Mincer, a local bank president, sighed. "Sandy has been actively lobbying against this. Even when told the film department would be a one-year experimental program, totally self-sufficient, funded separately, the whole nine yards, he's opposed—adamantly.

"Has no place in academia, he says." Irene, too, had been lobbied.

"What about that cinematographer you had here mid-September? I thought that engendered enthusiasm." Marilyn pointed her pencil at Roscoe.

"She was a big hit. Shot film of some of the more popular kids, Jody being one, Irene."

"She loved it." Irene smiled. "You aren't going to encounter resistance from parents. What parent would be opposed to their child learning new skills? Or working with a pro like Maury? Why, it's a thrill."

"Thank you." Maury smiled his big smile, the one usually reserved for paid photographers.

He had enjoyed a wonderful directing career in the 1980s, which faded in the '90s as his wife's acting career catapulted into the stratosphere. She was on location so much that Maury often forgot he had a wife. Then again, he might have done so regardless of circumstances.

He had also promised Darla would lecture once a year at St. Elizabeth's. He had neglected to inform Darla, stage name Darla Keene. Real name Michelle Gumbacher. He'd cajole her into it on one of her respites home.

"Irene, did you bring your list of potential donors?" Little Mim asked. Irene nodded, launching into an intensely boring recitation of each potential candidate.

After the meeting Maury and Irene walked out to his country car, a Range Rover. His Porsche 911 was saved for warm days.

"How's Kendrick?" he inquired about her husband.

"Same old, same old."

This meant that all Kendrick did was work at the gardening center he had built from scratch and which at long last was generating profit.

She spied a carton full of tiny bottles in the passenger seat of the Rover. "What's all that?"

"Uh"—long pause—"essences."

"What?"

"Essences. Some cure headaches. Others are for success. Not that I believe it, but they can be soothing, I suppose."

"Did you bring this stuff back from New York?" Irene lifted an eyebrow.

"Uh—no. I bought them from BoomBoom Craycroft."

"Good God." Irene turned on her heel, leaving him next to his wildly expensive vehicle much favored by the British royals.

Later that evening when Little Mim reluctantly briefed her mother on the meeting—reluctant because her mother had to know everything—she said, "I think I can make the film department happen."

"That would be a victory, dear."

"Don't be so enthusiastic, Mother."

"I am enthusiastic. Quietly so, that's all. And I do think Roscoe enjoys chumming with the stars, such as they are, entirely too much. Greta Garbo. That was a star."

"Yes, Mother."

"And Maury—well, West Coast ways, my dear. Not Virginia."

"Not Virginia," a description, usually whispered by whites and blacks alike to set apart those who didn't measure up. This included multitudes.

Little Mim bristled. "The West Coast, well, they're more open-minded."

"Open-minded? They're porous."

8

"What have you got to say for yourself?" A florid Skip Hallahan glared at his handsome son.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sean muttered.

"Don't talk to me. Talk to him!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher."

Roscoe, hands folded across his chest, unfolded them. "I accept your apology, but did you really think phoning in my obituary was funny?"

"Uh—at the time. Guess not," he replied weakly.

"Your voice does sound a lot like your father's." Roscoe leaned forward. "No detentions. But—I think you can volunteer at the hospital for four hours each week. That would satisfy me."

"Dad, I already have a paper route. How can I work at the hospital?"

"I'll see that he does his job," Skip snapped, still mortified.

"If he falters, no more football."

"What?" Sean, horrified, nearly leapt out of his chair.

"You heard me," Roscoe calmly stated.

"Without me St. Elizabeth's doesn't have a prayer," Sean arrogantly predicted.

"Sean, the football season isn't as important as you learning: actions have consequences. I'd be a sorry headmaster if I let you off the hook because you're our best halfback . . . because someday you'd run smack into trouble. Actions have consequences. You're going to learn that right now. Four hours a week until New Year's Day. Am I clearly understood?" Roscoe stood up.

"Yes, sir."

"I asked you this before. I'll ask it one last time. Were you alone in this prank?"

"Yes, sir," Sean lied.

9

A ruddy sun climbed over the horizon. Father Michael, an early riser, enjoyed his sunrises as much as most people enjoyed sunsets. Armed with hot Jamaican coffee, his little luxury, he sat reading the paper at the small pine breakfast table overlooking the church's beautifully tended graveyard.

The Church of the Good Shepherd, blessed with a reasonably affluent congregation, afforded him a pleasant albeit small home on the church grounds. A competent secretary, Lucinda Payne Coles, provided much-needed assistance Mondays through Fridays. He liked Lucinda, who, despite moments of bitterness, bore her hardships well.

After her husband, Samson, lost all his money and got caught with his pants down in the bargain in an extramarital affair, Lucinda sank into a slough of despond. She applied when the job at the church became available and was happily hired even though she'd never worked a day in her life. She typed adequately, but, more important, she knew everyone and everyone knew her.