The Principal Cause of Death by Mark Richard Zubro Read Free Book Online Page A

but he refused to believe me, and no matter what I tried to talk about, he’d come back to my blabbing about his behavior in meetings with Jones. I decided to ask Meg to talk to him. They’d known each other
for years, and she could sometimes get him to see reason when the rest of us couldn’t. As I left, he was already back to grading papers.
    Next I walked down to the office to try Georgette. She often knew which teachers were in late. She buzzed around me solicitously for a minute or two; then I asked her who might have been in after six yesterday.
    â€œYou’re investigating,” she said.
    â€œI want to find out the truth,” I said.
    â€œI know. Being the prime suspect must be hard.”
    â€œIs that what people are saying?”
    She tittered. “It’s what everybody’s saying, but when anybody accuses you of murder, I defend you.”
    â€œPeople are accusing me?”
    â€œNot in so many words, but people wonder, you know. A little aura of trouble around somebody, and you find out who your true friends are real fast. Over the years I’ve seen it happen to any number of people and for much smaller issues than this. People don’t like to be around trouble.” She patted my arm. “I’ll help you.”
    I leaned toward her across the counter and repeated my question about who’d been in the building late yesterday.
    She thought for a minute then said, “I know Marshall Longfellow, the director of building and maintenance, was here. They were trying to fix the heating for the third time this week. He had some man from the electric company with him the last time I saw him, around four.” She leaned over the counter and whispered. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but under the circumstances … I know he got yelled at by Mr. Jones yesterday for not getting the heat fixed. They had words around noon. We could hear them out here in the office. They weren’t as loud as you were after school, but it was pretty bad.” She lowered her voice even more. “Mr. Jones threatened to fire him.”
    â€œYou told the police this?”
    â€œOh, yes, but I don’t know what they decided to do about it. And”—she leaned even closer—“I know Mr.
Longfellow drinks on the job, but I didn’t tell the police that. Should I have?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I thought a minute, then asked, “Who else was here?”
    â€œThe football team and all the coaches, of course, but they were out in the field. You could ask them if anybody came into the building.” She tapped a well-manicured finger on the Formica countertop while muttering to herself, “Let me think. Let me see.” She reached back to her desk, grabbed a clipboard, and riffled through the stack of papers attached to it. “Here,” she said. Her finger pointed to a brief list of afterschool clubs.
    I saw the chess club, the debate team, and the cheerleaders. Fortunately yesterday had not been an exceptionally busy after-school time.
    â€œOf course,” she said, “this doesn’t include teachers who may have been staying after school on their own, or who may have kept kids after.”
    â€œThanks, Georgette. At least it’s a start.”
    She smiled at me and patted my arm again. “I’ll help you any way I can,” she said. And I knew she would.
    I didn’t have time to talk to anybody then because lunch was almost over. In my room I checked my master schedule and found that Fiona Wilson, faculty sponsor of the chess club, had a planning period at the same time I did.
    I knew Fiona Wilson from last year, when I was working on the discipline committee with her; she was the most organized and competent person on the committee. She taught all the advanced physics and chemistry courses. I found her in the science department offices. She wore a gray skirt and a crisply starched white cotton blouse, plus a