Chapter Thirteen
October 17 Friday Afternoon
Howard James Private School
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Delays didn’t make things disappear. Well, sometimes they do, but not this time.
She should also have asked Reardon if the police could remove the journalists from private property, even if they were just at the gate of the parking lot. She still hoped they would leave on their own, making better PR than having them thrown off.
Never mind the phone calls from Richard Collins, HJPS Board Chairman. So far, she’d had her secretary say she was visiting classrooms, but his pink message slips were stacking up and intermingled with those from The Boston Globe, WHDH, WBZ, CNN, ABC and Fox News.
She saw three messages from City Manager Paul Lander.
How had the story reached the media so fast?
Checking the internet, there it was: “Private School Girls Plan Murder” under a “Breaking News” banner. Surely none of the girls’ parents would have tipped the media off, or would they?
What about Maureen, the little whistleblower. She was young too, but her parents. Maybe, but why?
***
The school campus was made up of an area with a twelve-foot hedge surrounding it. Inside were six very large Victorian houses, three of which were converted into classrooms. One was her home: one was a dormitory, although only five students of the 107 registered students boarded. The rest were day students from Cambridge, Boston and the surrounding towns. The houses were named after American writers: Longfellow, her home, and then Hawthorne, Thoreau, Emerson, Melville and Hale. Why no women, she wondered. She wasn’t about to battle the board to change the names of two buildings to Alcott or Dickinson.
Walking to Hawthorne House, where she’d just been with the detectives earlier, she smelled the Charles River mixed with car fumes from Memorial Drive running along the hedge surrounding the campus.
She needed to talk with Robin Katz, the youngest HJPS faculty member. Robin taught fourth grade and Friday special classes about theater and film.
HJPS had an unusual system. Monday through Thursday the children were taught in their proper grades like most schools. Fridays they could select special classes like art, music, math, science, writing, etc. In each area, grades one to three would participate together as did grades four-six, sort of the one-room classroom theory of mixing ages being beneficial to all age groups.
In Friday sessions, the projects were decided partially by the children themselves. Each child made a semester commitment, but many continued the next semester. Some children would do math for all three years, while others might do math then science, later switching back to math. Currently there were groups checking out rocks, drawing statues around the city, documenting The Freedom Trail and slavery in early New England. Those were the ones Elise knew about. Because there was a playwriting group, it was more than possible that the girls were preparing for a play contest and the knife, apron and note were just props. Possible, not likely.
Robin Katz’s regular Monday-Thursday classroom was converted from the original 1887 living room and dining room. There were 15 desks and two working fireplaces, although they were never lit. Today the desks were pushed against the back wall with all the children in a circle on the floor.
Elise listened. She guessed they were writing a group story. One child would talk for a few minutes after which another child would take up the tale. Elise found herself adding to the plot.
Elise’s predecessor, when she reviewed each of the faculty with Elise, commented on how well-loved Robin was by all her students. Watching Robin, Elise understood why.
Spying Elise at the door, Robin walked over to her.
“Can you step outside?” Elise asked.
“Something wrong, Dr. Hanson?”
“Not really, but I’ve a question.”
Robin made a go-ahead movement with her face.
“In this group are there any plans for a play writing contest?”
“Yes and no.”
It was Elise’s time to make a questioning look with her face.
“We’ve talked about it, but nothing came of it.” Robin glanced back into the classroom. The children were sitting more or less quietly. “Anything else?”
“Thanks, but no. You better get back before your children get restless.” It was a school policy to only call them children, pupils or students. Politeness and consideration were emphasized, bullying equaled dismissal. Murder was not mentioned in the handbook, Elise thought walking back to the office.
A glance at the journalists, she decided yes, she would call the police.
The pink message slips continue to pile up on her desk even though she hadn’t been gone that long. No good telephone fairy made them disappear. She was tempted to open the window and let a breeze blow them out the window but let the grown-up part of her personality win out.
She’d deal with the board chairman first. Maybe he would have an opinion on how she should proceed . . . or not.
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