By Hazel Pearson
The three suspects fidgeted in their line while Crowe wrote in his notepad. He knew that writing usually made his suspects nervous, and while Crowe didn’t like that fact exactly, it couldn’t be helped. And sometimes he did get a bit of pleasure from the guilty party’s nervousness after the fact. Especially with murder cases.
He looked up and stared hard at each member of the line.
Ms. Bailey, Ms. Mohr’s assistant, stood slouched, her expensive suit’s seams valiantly fighting with her omnipresent tiredness. Her alibi had been that she’d quite literally fallen asleep in the room on the day Ms. Mohr was murdered. Not the most believable story, but the fact that she had been out cold in the first five minutes of her interview lent her credibility, if not respectability.
The new teacher they’d hired in Ms. Mohr’s place was next in line, his face a perfect mask of innocence, his crisp white tie shining against the dingy community college walls. Crowe had heard murmurs in the hallways wondering why this shiny new professor had come to a small, poorly-funded community school. Mr. Chiltington. Even his name sounded elevated.
And finally, the only student on the list, Sally Woodburn in her puff of a pink dress. Crowe knew she was respected and envied among her peers, and that he’d be doing most of them a favor if he ended up locking her away—anyone who could be in the running for valedictorian and still write her papers in sparkly pink ink was someone to be feared.
“I got the reports you wanted,” Mrs. Crowe told him. Crowe wondered sometimes whether the reason his services were so highly requested was that they came with a free guarantee of a graphologist. And although his wife really excelled in the study of handwriting and pens, she was also learning his craft fast, and Crowe worried that soon he’d no longer have to worry about what would happen when he had to retire from the position of senior detective.
Mrs. Crowe handed him photocopies of several notes.
“Mohr equity or Mohr murder,” one of the death threats read. Ms. Mohr was reportedly a terrible teacher and a worse grader.
“Is it worth your life?” another asked. A little “yes” and “no” had been written in with checkboxes, and whoever had written the notes was detailed—the checkbox was checked for “yes,” and the note had a little F- indicator on it.
“The pen hasn’t told us much,” Mrs. Crowe said, cutting off Crowe’s examination. “We examined the notes, and it’s one of the crappy black fountain pens given away by the college. From the look of the writing, the tip’s never been used. Not a chip on it.” Crowe nodded, looking back at his photocopies.
He turned toward the line of suspects.
“You were asleep at your desk when Ms. Mohr was pricked with the poisoned needle,” he reaffirmed, pointing to the assistant. “You were in very briefly to tour the campus, but spent extra time in Ms. Mohr’s room,” he told Mr. Chiltington. “And you popped in briefly to ask a question about your latest test grade but left a few minutes before he came in.” He directed his question to Sally but pointed at the spring-chicken teacher.
“Correct,” Sally said after a quick pause. Ms. Bailey followed suit, and Chiltington did slightly after.
His gaze darted to the middle of the line. Something about the teacher’s answer had ticked him off.
“What did you talk with Ms. Mohr about for so long?” Crowe asked casually.
“Working here,” Chiltington said, matching his tone. “I was asking her a few questions.”
“What sorts?” Crowe asked.
“Oh, you know. Grading system. Lunch quality.” Mr. Chiltington had some vague questions.
“Poor,” Sally answered. “For both.” And Sally had some suspiciously concise answers.
The teacher smiled, and Sally continued.
“But didn’t you also ask… oh, what was it… whether you could siphon money away from our school to use for your own personal gain?”
Chiltington’s eyes darted to Sally, his jaw clenching.
“Yes?” Sally asked innocently with a musical tone. She turned to Crowe. “Look at the area we’re in. It doesn’t make any sense for the school to be doing this badly. Something needs to change.”
“True,” Mrs. Crowe said mildly from behind her husband. “Although I believe you’ve just ratted yourself out.”
“How?” Sally asked. “Everyone knows we should have more funding. We do have more funding, now that Ms. Mohr’s gone.”
“You said originally that you left before Mr. Chiltington started talking with Ms. Mohr. Now you’re saying you overheard them talking about stealing funds from the school.”
“I might’ve forgotten a—”
“But even besides the fact that you’ve just given yourself motive to kill Ms. Mohr, that’s not the only piece of evidence tying the crime to you,” Mrs. Crowe continued coolly. “Remember how I said the fountain pen had never been used? Who better to have written those death threats than someone who only writes with sparkly pink pens?”
Sally huffed. “I’m going to call my lawyer now.”
Crowe turned back to his wife, certain they’d caught the criminal.
“You’re free to go,” he said over his shoulder to the other two suspects. “Although I’m sure the school board would love to investigate how some of their money is being spent.” He grabbed Mrs. Crowe’s hand, steering her to a quiet path that he knew from his days as a student there.
“Did I do well?” Mrs. Crowe gushed, her hand bouncing up and down excitedly. “I was so nervous.”
“You did great, my love,” Crowe told her. “But how’d you know about the penmanship stuff? I didn’t tell you about that from my research on Sally.”
“I did a bit of digging on my own,” Mrs. Crowe answered modestly. “You didn’t give me much to do until you found those death threats crumpled up in the bin.”
“I really do have to fear for my job,” Crowe said, smiling.
Rate this story:
(1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In which the murder of Ms. Mohr is solved by the murder of Crowes.