We stared at each other. This was Rynwood, one of two towns in Wisconsin that voted overwhelmingly liberal in every election. Asking about a political stance couldn’t be legally part of a job interview, but everyone knew there were ways to sneak in questions. Though Agnes had been smart enough to keep her politics private, if enough influential parents had known she was Republican, her job could have been in jeopardy.
“No wonder she was killed,” breathed Marina.
I put the letter back on the desk. “No one would kill Agnes because she’s right instead of left.”
“She was principal of our elementary school,” Marina said darkly. “Who knows what she was doing to the minds of our children?”
“Get a grip.” I banged off the light and headed down the hall. Politics was the one thing we were agreed never to discuss. If you weren’t with Marina, you were against her, but I’d declared myself a noncombatant long ago. What the politicians did in St. Paul and Washington, D.C., might affect me, but what I did in Rynwood would have little effect on them, so I paid them about as much attention as I did the time of high tide in the Bay of Fundy.
“Do you think they know?” Marina followed me. “The police, I mean?”
“About Agnes and the Republicans?” It sounded like the name of a bad garage band. “The letter was on her desk. Just a guess, but I’d say the police can read.”
“Maybe you should call and tell them the implications.” Marina tugged at my elbow. “It might be important.”
“Me?” I stopped. “Because I talked to the deputy in charge of the investigation for thirty seconds, I should be the Rynwood contact person?”
“You’ve established a rapport.”
“Hah. It’s been nice, but I have to get to work.” Since Agnes’s house was closer to the store than my house was, I’d packed a bag with a change of clothes.
“We haven’t seen the basement,” Marina said. “Down, a look around, and back up. Less than five minutes.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’m barely going to make it on time as it is.”
“What’s a few minutes? Lois will be there, and I bet Sara will stay to cover.”
“Paoze.” It was Sara’s Saturday off.
“Paoze, then. He has such a crush on you that he’ll hang around the rest of the day, anyway.”
With a wave I dismissed her oft-repeated theory and looked around for my purse. “I’m the owner. If I’m late, it sets a bad example.” The purse sat on the end of the counter and I grabbed it up. As I turned around, I caught sight of what had to be the basement door.
And I stopped.
“Gotcha!” Marina crowed. She grabbed the knob of the door and pulled it open with a flourish. “Down we go!” Her feet clattered on wood steps, and the top of her head disappeared from view.
“I’m going to be late,” I said, and followed her.
“Would you look at this?” Marina stood in the middle of a large room.
We’d found the color in Agnes’s house, and it was all thanks to hockey. Other than a small corner with laundry appliances and a tool bench, Agnes’s basement was a floor-to-ceiling shrine to the Minnesota Wild and the North Stars. Wisconsin doesn’t and never has had an NHL team, but Minnesota does, and Minnesota is directly west of Wisconsin.
The floor was covered with a glaringly red carpet. The walls were painted a darkish shade of green. The floor molding and window frames were painted in a white bright enough to hurt the eyes.
I circled the room, staring with disbelief at the memorabilia. Signed jerseys of Wild players—Brunette #15; Gaborik #10. Signed green-and-yellow jerseys of North Star players, the team that left town in the early nineties and became the Dallas Stars—Broten #7; Bellows #23. Signed hockey sticks. Photos of Agnes with coaches and players and general managers.
“So Agnes was a hockey fan.” Marina slipped off her scarf, and her hair came tumbling down. “Weird. Don’t think I once heard her talk about hockey.”
I studied a framed set of used tickets; Agnes must have had two season passes. It was almost a five-hour drive from Rynwood to the Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul. How on earth had Agnes managed to attend all those midweek games and make it to school the next morning? No wonder she’d been cranky all the time.
“Look.” Marina stuck a hockey helmet over her head. “This year’s new fashion accessory.”
I gaped at a framed photo of Agnes with a man wearing the longish hair of the early 1980s. He wore a yellowish beige jacket, light blue shirt, and dark blue tie. “That’s Agnes with Herb Brooks. Herb Brooks! Look at that ice rink. She must have been there. The Miracle on Ice! Marina, Agnes saw it!”
“What is it with you and hockey, anyway?”
I couldn’t believe it. Agnes had seen the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team win the gold medal.
Marina dragged the helmet off and shook out her hair. “Do you realize what time it is?”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze was locked on to the photo. Agnes and Herb Brooks. Agnes and—
“You’re going to be late,” Marina said.
“What?” I looked at my watch and shrieked. “I’m late! Put that down, Marina. There’s no time for you to play slot hockey. It’s not a toy, anyway; it’s a collector’s item.” I shooed her up the stairs and drove to the store, pushing the speed limit all the way.
“Sorry I’m late.” I rushed in, my bag of clothes in hand. “Paoze, you can go. Thanks for hanging around.”
“There is no problem to stay, Mrs. Kennedy.” Paoze smiled at me. “I will wait until you are ready.”
I said hello to Marcia, my other part-time worker, as I hurried back to my office. In three minutes or less, I was dressed in mostly wrinkle-free polyester and ready to help customers, if, that is, I could stop thinking about the veritable Who’s Who of Minnesota hockey in Agnes’s basement. A hot shot of emotion ran through me—one I’d never in a hundred million years expected to feel in regard to Agnes.
Envy.
I shook it away as best I could and found Paoze. “All set. Thanks again.”
“I was glad to stay.” He gave another blinding smile, slipped on his jacket, and left.
Marcia, a fiftyish emphatic blonde, patted her heart. “What a cutie. Those white teeth!”
“He’s a nice kid.” The bells on the door jangled, and a young family walked in. I gave them the owner-of-the- store nod.
“Do you think he has a girlfriend?” Marcia asked.
“Paoze?” The rolls of stickers were already showing signs of Saturday abuse and the swags of orange and black crepe paper hanging above the rolls weren’t helping. I moved to start the Sisyphean task of tidying. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about himself much.”
“Polite. Clean-cut. Well educated, or going to be. Smart.” She ticked off Paoze’s characteristics and giggled. “If I weren’t almost old enough to be his grandmother, I’d get him to ask me out.”
“Your husband might object to that.”
“My kids, too. Say, did you hear about the school?”
“Tarver?”
She nodded vigorously. “I heard about it from Cindy. She takes care of the flowers at city hall? She says the guys—that’s what she calls the police officers—had a call last night from someone across the street who saw some lights on that weren’t supposed to be on. By the time the guys got there, the burglar was gone, but there was a big mess all over the offices. Papers everywhere. Books tossed all over.” Her face glowed with the excitement of the tale. “I bet it has something to do with that principal’s murder. I mean, how could it not?”
The school? I put my hand to my throat. The building where my children spent almost eight hours a day? Tarver wasn’t safe? I breathed in and out, in and out. “What rooms? Do you know?” Not room 16, I begged. Not room 37.
“Just the offices,” Marcia said.
“Offices,” I repeated, and felt my pulse rate drop down toward normal.
“At least that’s what Cindy told me. The principal’s office, mainly. Hey, do you feel okay? You look a little pale.”
The front bell tinkled and a gray-haired couple came in. A small cloud of leaves came in with them and puddled on the floor. Sweeping the floor in October was a never-ending chore. “Hello,” I said, smiling. “My name is
