The Ghosts of Lovely Women (The Teddy Thurber Mysteries) Read online

  The Ghosts of Lovely Women

  A Teddy Thurber Mystery

  by Julia Buckley

  Copyright © 2011 Julia Buckley

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Ivan Diaz

  eBook edition by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  “Nora, Nora—how like a woman!”

  —Torvald Helmer; A Doll’s House

  “Now, then, no sooner had Queen Persephone driven off the ghosts of lovely women, scattering left and right, then forward marched the shade of Atreus’ son Agamemnon, fraught with grief and flanked by his comrades, troops of his men-at-arms who had died beside him, who met their fate in Lord Aegisthus’ halls. He knew me at once… tears sprang to his eyes, he thrust his arms toward me, keen to embrace me there—no use—the great force was gone.”

  —From Homer’s The Odyssey

  “Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition

  Worthily purchased, take my daughter…”

  —Prospero, from The Tempest

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  About the Author

  One

  “…for I have lost my daughter.”

  —Prospero, The Tempest, Act V

  Jessica was murdered in spring, when the lilacs were in bloom but the air held a reminiscence of winter’s chill. Lustful bees had started to venture into open classroom windows, causing the girls to scream and press against the walls while the boys laughed and boldly tried to catch the flying visitors by their wings, risking stings to impress their classmates.

  We teachers didn’t like this at all; it was a distraction on top of all the other distractions, the most notable of which were the young women and young men, who thought of very little except each other or, to be honest, themselves.

  I’m sure I was thinking about this, or some other spring thought, as I passed the lilac bushes that fateful morning and saw Rosalyn Baxter, one of my seniors.

  Rosalyn caught up with me as I marched up the school steps, clutching my coffee.

  “Ms. Thurber! How’s it goin’?” she asked, bright and perky at seven-thirty in the morning. “Hey, you know the reading you assigned us last night? I actually did it!”

  I stopped to face her just in front of the glass entrance doors of St. James High. I liked Rosalyn; she was one of my nicest students, and she wanted to think and learn. Right now, though, I was having trouble being awake. “That’s great,” I said. “I expect you to contribute lots of discussion in class.”

  “Oh, I totally will. You know what’s funny? I really feel sorry for the murderer. Are we supposed to feel sorry for him?”

  We entered the building and began walking down the hall. “Let’s raise that subject in class. Think about this until then: is he someone who has lost his humanity, or does he have a chance for redemption?”

  Rosalyn looked thoughtful. She was seventeen, with naturally nice skin and enviably auburn hair. I stared at it. In my family gray hair came early; I’d found my first strands when I was in my mid-twenties, and now, at twenty-nine, I had gray-winged temples that I carefully colored with “Brown Sugar” in a box.

  “Redemption,” she repeated, and then looked up and gasped.

  I turned in time to receive a full body-blow from the figure that had been hurtling down the hall. My coffee, purse and books went flying, but I only managed an indignant “Hey!” before I landed on my butt, hard, on the floor across the hall from the Main Office.

  Rosalyn stared at the departing figure, who had never stopped running. “What the hell?” she said. “You’re a total loser, Danny! You knocked down Ms. Thurber!”

  I was still sitting in a coffee puddle, shocked, moving gingerly on my tailbone. “Danny Washburn?” I asked, surprised. I’d never found him to be rude, but this fell into that category, and I had a feeling I’d be holding a grudge.

  Students were gathering now, some looking concerned, some snickering. A couple of them came forward and began to pick up my things, murmuring “Are you okay?” Steve Jansen and Juan Perez, both from my world literature class, held out their hands to help me back to my feet.

  “Did Washburn knock you down?” Juan asked, his face bellicose.

  “Not on purpose, I’m guessing.”

  “Still. That’s not cool. Are you okay and everything?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, although I could feel a throbbing pain in my coccyx that I didn’t want to discuss with seventeen-year-old boys. “Listen, could you ask Mr. Hendy to come with a mop so that no one slips in this coffee?”

  Steve said “No prob,” and shambled toward the janitor’s room.

  I spied our Assistant Principal, Fred Bastian, coming toward me down the hall, wearing a look of disapproval. This was one of only two expressions that Fred’s face could achieve, the other being a sycophantic smile. The latter was never directed at me. He reached the area of my recent collision, looked at me, then down at the brown puddle on the floor. I vaguely heard Rosalyn, ever resilient, giggling with Juan and saying, “Isn’t it funny how coffee makes your breath smell like salami?”

  I wondered if she was referring to my breath or the breath of others, but then Fred Bastian distracted me by putting his disapproval into words.

  “Teddy, what happened here?” He was still staring at my coffee.

  “One of the senior boys just crashed into me.”

  His eyes met mine and his eyebrows hiked upward. “Who was it?”

  “I didn’t see,” I murmured. I wasn’t thrilled with Danny, but I didn’t really want to force him into an encounter with Fred. “Tom Hendy will be coming with the mop any minute,” I said, edging toward the lounge where my mail awaited me.

  “I need to speak with you before you go. In my office?” He was already moving away and speaking over his shoulder.

  This was typical of Fred. He liked having power, and one of the common ways he wielded it was to make every meeting, however small, happen in his office; he’d sit behind his desk and narrow his eyes at whomever stood before him, assessing them as if they were trying out for a Broadway show or, as my friend Joshua put it, as though they were seeking parole.

  With a sigh I followed Fred, first making sure that the janitor was on his way. I gave a wave of thanks to Rosalyn and Juan.

  Fred’s office was tucked into the corner of the Main Office complex. Rosa Martinez manned the phones with ease and grace and also managed to be a storehouse for every nugget of gossip that the busy main artery provided. I rolled my eyes at her and she laughed. “Got a summons?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Yeah. What did I do this time?”

  She shook her head. “Got me. Nothing I heard about.”

  “I just sat in coffee. Do you have something I could blot it with, Rosa?”

  She reached into a drawer and handed me a wad of paper towels. We
asked Rosa for all sorts of crazy stuff, and she usually had what we needed. I pressed the absorbent towels at my damp posterior, smirking at Rosa, whose face said, “I’ve seen it all.”

  “At least I’m wearing black. Hopefully no one will see a thing. Thanks. See you at lunch maybe,” I said. Teachers never knew who they’d be having lunch with — someone will always be detained by a student seeking help, a colleague requesting a meeting, a phone call from a parent (and those were rarely calls of praise or thanksgiving). “Oh no, wait — I have a committee meeting today.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll get there. I have another husband story for you.”

  I laughed. Rosa’s husband was much-beloved but also affectionately teased all the time. They were, I think, quite happy. Her last husband story had involved his total inadequacy as a plumber.

  With a nervous glance at my watch, I tossed the towels in the garbage, waved to Rosa, and moved into Fred’s office, where he stood talking to a chestnut-haired, bearded, thirtyish man. “Ah, here’s Teddy,” Fred said. “Teddy, this is Derek Jonas; he’s the new social science department chair.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shook the man’s hand, then turned back to Fred. “I need to make copies,” I said, going for an apologetic tone. I hadn’t planned on falling or on being waylaid by the assistant principal, and now I was running out of time. I had a first period class, as Fred well knew.

  “That’s fine; and when you go upstairs, you can let Derek into the computer lab. You’re the only other one on that floor who has the key, and I have a meeting in just a few moments.”

  I looked helplessly at the new teacher. It was true that as the moderator of the newspaper I had a key for one of the big computer labs. But letting the new guy in would entail more wasted time: I’d have to turn off the alarm and show him where the switchbox was and give him a quick lesson in how to use the machines.

  “I’ve been in there already, so I know the drill,” the new guy said, much to my relief.

  “Oh, uh— okay…”

  Fred’s phone rang and he held up a finger that meant “Just a minute.”

  I stood there and briefly considered throwing a tantrum. Fred’s office clock said 7:45. The bell was going to ring in ten minutes. I sighed loudly, but Fred had turned away and was murmuring into the phone.

  I raised my eyebrows at the new guy. David? Donald? I had already forgotten his name, which was a terrible trait of mine. Anyway, this seemed like a serious call.

  I glanced at Fred’s desk, where he had now turned back and started writing on a pad: Former student dead.

  My heart thudded in my chest. I watched Fred’s pen, which shook slightly, afraid of the upside down information it was about to impart. “Yes,” Fred said. “Yes, of course we’ll have to make an announcement with our morning, uh— prayers. And we’ll pass funeral arrangements on to the students. Yes, uh— If you would remind me how to spell—”

  And he wrote it. Jessica Halliday.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  The new man grabbed my arm. “Are you all right?”

  I stared at him, but I was seeing Jessica, her bright pixie face, her pretty blonde hair.

  “What?” I said.

  Fred was off the phone. “Teddy, there’s been a—”

  “Jessica,” I said, cutting him off. “How did it happen? What happened? Was it a traffic thing? I know she was in New York…”

  “She was murdered last night. Found strangled. Her father didn’t go into further details. He asked that we simply say she passed away.”

  Murdered. “You’ll be announcing this?”

  Fred shrugged. “Half of them will have heard it on their cell phones already, or from text messaging. Stupid phones,” he said, scowling. We were in agreement on that one.

  “I have to go,” I said, and I tapped the new man to indicate that he should follow.

  We walked in silence into the faculty room, where we both retrieved our mail, and then I led him to the stairwell closest to my classroom; the lab was across the hall.

  “Thanks for doing this,” he said.

  “What? Oh, sure.”

  I marched up the stairs, my mind racing. Jessica. She’d been my student last year in Senior Honors English, and the year before in British Lit. Bright, pretty, ambitious — she had wanted to be an actress. She’d told me that she was destined to be famous and to make lots of money. I had laughed at her mercenary tendencies, but I was sure that she could succeed in whatever she set out to do.

  She’d been popular, too. Student Council vice president, an athlete boyfriend, a theatre scholarship…

  I smacked my head. “Danny,” I said.

  “What?” asked the new man politely.

  “Oh, it’s just — the girl who uh— who has died. Her boyfriend was a year younger; he’s a senior now. He must have heard; he must have known something. That’s why he was barreling through the hall this morning.”

  “It’s a terrible thing,” he said.

  We reached the lab and I opened the door and quickly turned off the chirping of the alarm warning. I flipped on the lights and the new guy thanked me.

  “You’re welcome, uh—”

  ”You forgot my name? I hope so, because I forgot yours.”

  I managed a real laugh. “Theodora. Which is horrible, so I go by Teddy.”

  “Like the bear. Easy to remember.” He smiled. “I’m Derek.”

  “Derek. Like the… nothing I can think of.”

  He laughed. “I’ll wear a nametag.”

  “I’m just across the hall if you need anything, Derek.”

  He thanked me and I moved to my own room. It was an Honors World Literature class full of seniors and I anticipated that if they hadn’t already heard the news, many of them would be upset when they did so. I tried to think of some quiet work that I could give them so that they could process their feelings in their own individual ways.

  The bell rang and the students began to file in. As usual, they seemed to know far more than we did. While Fred had only just received the news, some of these kids seemed to have lived with it for a while. I wondered, as I overheard their conversations, when Jessica had died.

  Rosalyn came in, smiling. She, for one, obviously hadn’t heard. She and Jessica had been friends; they’d been in a play together. I said, “Class, be quiet, and let’s wait for announcements.”

  But Matt Jacoby came to my desk, looking angry and confused. “Miz Thurber, you heard about Jessica?”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “But it’s not true, right?”

  “What’s not true?”

  “About Danny. They’re saying that Danny killed her!”

  Two

  “I alone did everything. Remember that.”

  —Nora, A Doll’s House, Act II

  Period One was difficult; after prayers came tears, from those who had already known and those who had just heard. There were a few students who didn’t know Jessica, had never known her, and they felt distinctly uncomfortable, not wanting to feign grief but also not wanting to seem callous.

  I told them to work quietly. I allowed a few to go to the school chapel to pray; Fred had announced over the p.a. that our campus minister would be there, along with some counselors.

  Despite my own shock at the news, I didn’t want to forego class entirely; I wrote a few main questions about the reading assignment on the board and asked students to try to respond to them all before leaving, but also noted that they could work at their own pace.

  The students wanted to talk.

  Matt Jacoby was still angry. “Why are they saying Danny did it when he loved Jessica? He was gonna like, ask her to marry him after graduation.”

  “Who is saying that he did it? How would you know that?” I asked.

  Matt looked secretive. He ran a hand through hair that looked still damp from a morning shower. “Kids are talking and stuff. Just go in the halls and you’ll hear it. They’re saying the cops want to question
him, and that’s why he went running out of here this morning.”

  Some of the other students mumbled agreement with this.

  I held up a hand. “I’m not really interested in hearing any sort of rumors, and you shouldn’t be, either. A girl that we knew and liked has passed away, and she and her family need our prayers and support, not our speculation.”

  That quieted them briefly, but then Nancy Cavanaugh, red-haired and fiery, stuck out her chin with a fierce expression and said, “I heard that Jessica had just gotten a really good part in a New York show. That was what she always wanted. She was going to be a big Broadway star!” This brought tears again.

  I realized they felt sorry — yes, for Jessica — but also for themselves, because they were being forced to acknowledge that death could happen to them. They were feeling their way, wondering how much they were supposed to feel, not knowing how to process the murder of a nineteen-year-old girl.

  They talked a bit among themselves and made a half-hearted attempt to answer the questions. I went to my desk and sent a quick e-mail to Fred, telling him that I doubted Danny had showed up at his first period class, and that perhaps he should contact Danny’s family and let them know that he had stormed out of school; I also mentioned the rumor about Danny’s involvement. Much as I hated rumors, it was something the administration would want to know about, especially if the police came knocking on our door. I copied our principal and the senior counselor on the e-mail and clicked send.

  I turned back to the class, where one of my most scholarly students, Christopher Angelini, was staring at the blackboard. He raised his hand. “I have a question about Crime and Punishment,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “You ask about Raskolnikov’s motive for murder, but that’s easy. He hates the pawnbroker because he sees her as a leech, someone who feeds off of the poor, the worst sort of person.”