Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese Read Free Book Online Page B

she arrived at six fifty five AM, opened the door to the high school, walked inside, opened the door to the central office, and found the lights on.
    A pot of coffee was percolating.
    “Hi there!”
    Flitting about in the ante-room that adjoined her office was a man of indeterminate age, about five feet ten in height, shaggy of hair, a pendant of some kind (was that a silver werewolf hanging from it? Surely not.), wire-rimmed glasses, sandals, and a greenish sport jacket that seemed to have been plucked from one of the large bins in the city center labeled “For the Less Fortunate.”
    “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought my own coffee; one does get used to certain pleasure, don’t you know.”
    British.
    Long haired, disheveled, and British.
    “I thought I should get a good start on the day. You too or so it seems. Are you in maintenance?”
    “I’m––”
    “Because I’m afraid I have to tell you, one of the loos is stopped up.”
    “One of the what?”
    “The loos. Stopped up, you know. Not working. Or—oh, that’s right, you call them ‘WCs’ over here, don’t you?”
    “We call them toilets.”
    “Well, at any rate, one of them isn’t working right. Popped in there half an hour ago to, you know, eliminate last night’s ingestives, that sort of thing, and—well, it looks a total mess. Thought you might want to know.”
    “I do.”
    “Yes, well, not the kind of thing one loves talking about, but there it is. Will you have some coffee?”
    “Thank you.”
    “This is a special blend. Some mates sent it to me from Leicester. It’s somewhat like gin, isn’t it? Gin and tea and beer, none of them even extant in this country in any consumable form.   Of course, the gin can be disposed of for a day or so but not the coffee and certainly not the tea. Oh! Are there strictures about smoking?”
    “You can’t.”
    “What?”
    “You can’t.”
    “I’m not talking about pot, you know. I simply mean…”
    “You can’t.”
    “Why in God’s name not?”
    “Cancer.”
    “But isn’t that my own concern?”
    “No.”
    “Blast. Do you mean to tell me there is no place at all where one might smoke a fag?”
    “The docks.”
    “You’re joking. It can’t be true!”
    “Well, now that I think about it, it may not be true. I think they’ve made that a no smoking zone too.”
    “My God, what a country! How can you live here?”
    “It’s tough.”
    “Of course, it is! Well, there it is then. Nothing to be done about it. So. I must tell you though—despite your infantile Puritanism—I love your town. Absolutely love it.”
    “Glad to hear that.”
    “You know, it’s very much like Cornwall. Have you seen Cornwall?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “You must go.”
    “All right.”
    “You would be struck by the similarities. Of course, there’s a kind of, I dunno, a kind of ‘craggy grandeur’ about Cornwall that you don’t get here.”
    “No, we miss that.”
    “But that quality of earth and sky, and roar of the ocean sort of, I don’t know, sort of—imploding against man and yet bringing him back to his sources. It’s all very Masefield for want of a better term. I’m not keeping you from your duties, am I?”
    “No, no.”
    “Do you like the coffee?”
    “I do. It’s wonderful. Who are you?”
    “What?”
    “Who are you?”
    “In what sense?”
    “Identity sense.”
    “Oh you want my––”
    “Name. Like––who you are. What you’re called.”
    “Oh that!”
    “Yes!”
    “Lirpa. Max Lirpa. The name is Italian, but I was conceived in Oxford and grew up there. I’m here to teach English. Just hired some days ago, actually.”
    “Oh, my God.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I suppose I’ll be meeting the students shortly.”
    “Yes. Yes, you will.”
    “And you’re in maintenance, you say?”
    “Actually I’m the principal.”
    “The what?”
    “The principal.”
    “You mean the Headmistress?”
    “You could put it that way.”
    “Oh! Then