Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

I dressed and made espresso. Arch and Julian shuffled sleepily out of their room and joined me. I flipped thick, egg-rich slices of hot French toast for them and poured amber lakes of maple syrup all around. This perked them both up. After the boys left for school, I worked on my accounts, sent out some bills and paid some, ordered supplies for the upcoming week, and then took off for Elk Park Prep with the raccoon coat rolled into a furry ball on the front seat of my van.

The winding driveway to the prep school had been paved and straightened out somewhat at the end of the summer. But the approach to the magnificent old hotel was still breathtaking. Several of the driveway’s curves even afforded glimpses of snow-capped peaks. Saturday night’s snowfall, now mostly melted, had reduced the roadside hillocks of planted wildflowers to rust-colored stalks topped with wrinkled flowers in faded hues of blue and purple.

As I rounded the last curve and rolled over speed bump number three, I noticed that the school had finished tearing down the chain-link fence around the pool construction site. In its place was a decorous stone wall surrounded by hemlock bushes. Looked like the administration didn’t want kids thinking about swimming with winter coming on. Over the summer Arch had nearly drowned in that damn pool. I didn’t want to think about swimming, either.

I parked, grabbed the fur coat, and leaped out onto the iced driveway. Over by the headmaster’s house I could see two policemen methodically sweeping the ground with metal detectors. I turned away.

Someone had taped photocopied pictures of Keith Andrews onto the front doors of the school. Black crepe paper hung around each. The angelic, uncannily Arch-like face stared out from both flat photos. I closed my eyes and pushed through the doors.

In the carpeted lobby, chessboards left in mid-game were perched on tables with their chairs left at hurriedly pulled-out angles. Piles of books and papers spilled off benches. Through this clutter threaded Egon Schlichtmaier, my muscular faculty assistant from the college dinner. Today he was conspicuously spiffy in a very unFaustian sheepskin jacket. Next to him clomped the much less sartorial Macguire Perkins in a faded denim coat. Macguire’s acne-covered face had a dour expression; Egon Schlichtmaier’s baby face was grim. They had just come in from outside, and they were in a hurry.

“You heff made us late,” Egon was scolding.

“So?” retorted Macguire.

“Ah, there you are,” trilled Headmaster Perkins at me. He approached in the tweed-of-the-day, a somber herringbone. “With Mrs. Marensky’s coat. Won’t she be happy.”

Yes, won’t she. Mr. Perkins escorted me into his office, a high-ceilinged affair that had been painted mauve to match one of the hues in the hand-cut Chinese rug that covered most of the marble floor. A buzz of his intercom distracted him. I sat carefully on one of the burgundy leather sofas profuse with brass buttons. It let out a sigh.

“You and me both,” I said under my breath.

“Well!” said the headmaster with a suddenness that startled me. “Saturday night was indeed tragic.” From behind his horn rimmed glasses, Perkins’ eyes locked mine; we had the abrupt intimacy of strangers thrown together by disaster. There was the mutual, if unwanted, need to come to terms with what had happened. His usually forced joviality had disappeared; his anxiety was barely masked. “Awful, just awful,” he murmured. He jumped up restlessly and paced back and forth in front of the windows. Sunlight shone off his thick mass of prematurely white hair. “It was like a … a …” But for once the complicated similes wouldn’t come. As you can imagine,” he floundered, “our phones have not stopped ringing. Parents calling to find out what happened. The press…” He gestured with his hands and lifted his pale eyebrows expressively. “We had an emergency faculty meeting this morning. I had to tell them you were the one who found the body.”

I groaned. “Does this mean people are going to be calling me to find out what happened?”

Headmaster Perkins brushed a finger over one of the brass wall sconces before moving toward his Queen Anne-style desk chair, where he ceremoniously sat. “Not if you can tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs. Korman. That way, I can deal with those who want all the details.”

Hmm. In a small town, people always wanted all the details, because everyone wanted to be the first one with the complete story. How many stitches did George need when he fell while rock-climbing? Did Edward lose his house when he filed for bankruptcy? Did they take out Tanya’s lymph nodes? And on it went. So the request did not surprise me. On the other hand, this wasn’t the first time I’d had some involvement with a homicide investigation. I had learned from Schulz to talk as little as possible in these situations. Remembered details were for the police, not the gossip network.

“Sorry,” I said with a slight smile, “you know as much as I do. But let me ask you a question. Who would have had the keys to your house to get in before I did that night?”

“Oh.” Perkins didn’t bother to conceal his distaste. “We leave it open. This is an environment of trust.”

Well, you could have fooled me. The receptionist buzzed once more. While Mr. Perkins was again deep in similes, I glanced around his office. The mauve walls held wood-framed degrees and pictures. The Hill School. B.A. from Columbia. M.A., Yale. There was a large crackled-surface oil painting of a fox hunt, with riders in full Pink regalia hurtling over a fence. Another painting was of Big Ben. As if the life of Merrie OIde Englande were available in the Colorado high country. But these hung decorations sent a subliminal message to prospective students and, more important, to their parents. Want these accoutrements and all they imply? Go 10 this school.

The headmaster finished up on the phone and laced his fingers behind his silvery-white hair. “I have a few more things to talk to you about, Mrs. Korman. We need to move the next college advisory meeting off the school grounds. Too much anxiety would be aroused if we held it at my residence again, I fear. Can you stay flexible?”

“As a rubber band,” I said with a straight face. “And you do remember that the SATs are this coming Saturday morning? You’re making a healthful treat, something whole grain?”

I nodded. How could I forget? I would be bringing the Elk Park Prep seniors, as well as the visiting seniors from the local public high school, a buffet of breakfast-type treats, to be served before the test. Better than skiing at Keystone any day, I thought sourly.

“It’s the morning after Halloween,” the headmaster reflected, “although I don’t suppose that will make a difference. But it may spook them,” he added with a grin.

Getting back to his old self. I waited. Perkins pulled off his glasses and polished them carefully.

I said, “Well, if that’s all –“

“It isn’t.”

I squirmed on the sofa. He put on his glasses, narrowed his eyes, and puckered his lips in thought.

Perkins said: “Your son Arch is having some problems.”

Ringing assaulted my ears. Keeping my voice even, I said, “What kind of problems?”

” Academic as well as social, I’m told.” To his credit, a shade of gentleness crept into Perkins’ tone. “Arch is failing social studies. Missing most of the assigned work, is my understanding. He seems quite unhappy… not swimming with the currents of scholastic life. Reading books outside of the curriculum and wanting to report on them.”

“Failing a course? Social studies?” The mother is always the last to know.

“We wanted you to be aware of this before midterm grades come out next week. Parent conferences are scheduled in two weeks. When you come, you can ask Arch’s instructors yourself.”