“Dad!” Jenna shot to her feet. “What’s wrong with Dad?”
“Nothing,” I soothed. “He’s fine. Your grandparents are fine, all your friends are fine.”
“How do you know for sure?” Jenna’s voice went shrill. “Maybe there was a car accident or something.”
“Someone would have called. Everyone’s fine. Sit down, Jenna.” As she eased herself into the chair, I asked, “Remember Mr. Stoltz?”
Oliver poured maple syrup over his pancakes. “The outside train.”
Norman Stoltz had lived two blocks away and had built a magnificent garden train. The place was a kid magnet. If a child put in the requisite number of hours of weeding, he (or she) got to wear an engineer’s hat and run the controls. Sadly, Norman Stoltz had collapsed the year before from a massive heart attack.
“He’s dead.” Jenna eyed me.
“Yes.” I looked at my untouched plate. Cold poached eggs on a piece of cold toast. “I’m afraid Mrs. Mephisto is, too.”
“Our principal?” Oliver asked.
“She died last night.” I watched my children carefully, waiting for an emotional response, waiting for a tumultuous reaction, waiting for tears.
“Like Mr. Stoltz?” Jenna asked. “Her heart gave out?”
The adult phrase sounded strange coming from such young lips. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“She was pretty old.” A drop of maple syrup dripped onto Oliver’s shirt. “Maybe she just got tired.”
“People don’t die because they’re tired,” Jenna said.
“Paoze said that’s why his grandmother died. She was tired and went to sleep and never woke up.”
“Maybe where he came from they die because they’re tired, but not in Wisconsin.”
They both turned to me, each of them looking to be supported as being correct. I sidestepped the referee job. “Mrs. Mephisto was killed,” I said quietly.
“Like car crash killed?” Jenna asked.
“No, she died at home.” Last night, Marina had said an EMT had said the back of her skull had been bashed in. I shied away from the image. My poached eggs, now congealed to the consistency of soft plastic, looked up at me with wide eyes. I pushed the plate away. “The police will find who did it and put him in jail for a long, long time.”
“Mrs. Mephisto was murdered?” Jenna’s eyes went wide.
I wondered how many fictionalized murders my ten-year-old had watched via television and movies. But this time the victim was someone she knew. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yes, she was murdered.” I searched for words of comfort—words that would help them through the stages of grief; words they could carry the rest of their lives. Before I came up with the perfect phrase, Jenna jumped up.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To call Bailey,” she flung over her shoulder. “Bet she doesn’t know. I can be first!”
When I dropped the children off at school, Lauren Atchinson, Oliver’s teacher, was standing on the sidewalk. She caught my eye and made I-need-to-talk-to-you motions. I pushed the DOWN button for the passenger window, and she leaned in.
“Does Oliver know?” she asked softly. Which was the only way I’d ever heard her talk. How this quiet woman controlled twenty-six seven-year-olds, I hadn’t a clue. She pushed curly blond hair behind her ears.
“They both know,” I said.
She nodded. “Good. Gary called the teachers last night. We’re to tell the kids first thing. A grief counselor Gary knows is coming later on this morning.”
Gary Kemmerer was Tarver’s assistant principal, browbeaten by Agnes for too many years. If the reactions of my children were any indication, the counselor wouldn’t have a lot to do. “That was smart of Gary,” I said.
“Do you think he’ll be principal?” Lauren’s eyes darted left and right. “I shouldn’t be thinking about it at a time like this, but you’re a friend of the superintendent. Gary would make a perfect principal, don’t you think?”
“It’ll take a while before things get sorted out.”
“Mack Vogel couldn’t do better than Gary. You think so, don’t you?” Her face was flushed with an emotion that didn’t look at all like sorrow.
“It’s the children who are most important right now,” I said. “Everything else can wait.”
“He’s perfect for the job.” Lauren kept on track, and I got a glimpse of how she ran a classroom successfully. “He deserves to be principal.” A silver SUV braked to a stop behind my car, and Lauren moved away to speak to another parent.
Thoughtfully, I watched her go. Yet another person not prostrate with grief. Maybe I should start a tally.
“Did you hear?” Lois stood in my office doorway. This morning her hair was spiked and gelled. She wore a white tuxedo-style shirt, a silk paisley vest, and a blue skirt made of a crinkly fabric that made a swishy sound when she walked.
“Please be more specific,” I said. “Did I hear the weather forecast? Did I hear the Jonas Brothers’ latest release? Did I hear the Dow Jones report?”
She sniffed. “No tea for you. And today I brought in a box of your favorite.”
“Indian spice chai?”
“And milk.”
I caved instantly. “Marina called me last night. She lives almost across the street from Agnes.”
Last night, strong, confident, I-know-what’s-best-for-you Marina had needed my comfort, something that had never happened before. Sure, Marina hadn’t liked Agnes, but who had? It didn’t mean she wanted her dead. I chewed on my lower lip and thought about life and death and just deserts.
Lois made a rolling motion with her hand. “And? Details. I must have details!”
“All I have is thirdhand knowledge,” I cautioned. “Accuracy is questionable.”
“Perfect. Let me get the kettle on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’d finished a mug of tea and come to the end of the story.
“No suspects?”
“She was killed less than twelve hours ago. There’s hardly been time.”
Lois made a snorting noise. “Especially with our police force. Last time someone in this town was killed was twenty years ago. Harvey Knotton.” Lois had lived in Rynwood all her life and was better than the newspaper archives for what really went on.
“Who was Harvey Knotton?” I asked.
“Dairy farmer south of town.”
“What happened?”
“Harvey and his brother Matt were in the barn arguing about something. Matt had a temper—always did. He grabbed a pitchfork and”—she made a fist and thumped her chest—“blammo.”
“How horrible!”
“Matt called the ambulance, but it was too late. When he got out of prison, he moved to Wyoming. Or was it Montana? One of those. I hear he’s a hospital janitor, cleaning up people messes instead of cow messes.”
“How on earth do you know this stuff?”
“Harvey and Matt’s big sister used to date my little brother,” she said matter-of-factly, as if maintaining bonds from the offshoots of a high school romance forty years ago were an everyday occurrence. And for Lois, they probably were.
“Mrs. Kennedy!” Paoze rushed into the back room. “There was a murder in this town! Mrs. Mephisto is dead!” His large brown eyes were filled with empathy. “Your children must be sorrowful.”
“Um.” I pictured Jenna’s face, alive with the excitement of being the bearer of bad tidings. I saw Oliver’s empty breakfast plate, and like that other Oliver, his small hands picking it up and asking for more, please. “They’re young and resilient.”
“How did you know about the murder?” Lois asked. “The Rynwood paper doesn’t come out today, the Madison paper hasn’t shown up yet, and I’m pretty sure you don’t have a car radio on that ratty bicycle of yours.”
“No, I do not,” Paoze said. “How can a rat be on a bicycle, please?”
