Genevieve was appalled, imagining Miss Love being stalked by some psycho ex-boyfriend. “Why didn’t she go to the police?”
“Oh, she did,” he said grimly. “Tried to file an order of protection, but they told her she didn’t have enough evidence against him. He was stalking her in public places, after all.”
Her heart flamed in fury. So that’s why Detective Christie wasn’t able to find an order of protection—the cops hadn’t taken Miss Love seriously. “So, she just had to live with it? Being followed around by someone who obviously wanted to hurt her?”
The principal looked patiently at Genevieve with that aggravating ‘welcome to the real world’ expression. “Basically, yes.”
“And so she fled town,” Genevieve said unhappily.
“She left, yes. She told no one where she was going. Sam had no family; she was an only child and had been estranged from her parents for years. She reached out to me in the summer and asked if there were any openings at the school. Mr. Garcia had recently been let go, and I had been prepared to offer the position to Ms. Pierce, but of course I gave it to Sam instead. She was a far better teacher; all the students loved her when she’d subbed for us before. She asked that her address remain confidential and that we keep her name off the district website.” The desk phone rang again, and this time he answered it with a curt, “I’m in a conference, Jenine. Five minutes.” He replaced the phone in its cradle and continued.
“Sam felt that after a year or so, perhaps he would give up, get bored, find someone else to harass. And then she could stop hiding.” He smiled wistfully. “She was working on a teacher blog; she had so many plans for her career here at Pinewood High.” His shoulders sagged and he stopped talking.
Genevieve felt once more the keen sense of loss and a kind of kinship with the principal, who had obviously cared for Miss Love. She cleared her throat. “Then this man is definitely a suspect. Of course, you told all of this to the police. Principal Mattison?”
He was shaking his head. “No, Miss Winterland, I’m afraid he isn’t our man. Sam kept close tabs on the guy, believe me. He’s a musician, and currently on tour halfway across the country. You can track him easily on the band’s social media pages. On the night she disappeared, he was in Kentucky.”
Something didn’t fit. “Regardless, you need to share this information with the police,” Genevieve said. “They need to know you were involved with her.”
He went very still, and then said slowly, “And why would I do that, Miss Winterland? It makes no difference, and then they would suspect me.”
“But they’ll find out anyway, and then you’ll look even worse for hiding the fact!”
He rose, pressed his fists onto the desk and leaned over it, looming above her. “And how do you suppose they’d find out?”
Genevieve rose as well. She was furious: for Miss Love, for women everywhere who were forced to back down, to flee their homes, to cower before tyrants. She would not be intimidated. “You’re so selfish,” she spat. “Any information the police get can help them find the killer.”
“And you, Miss Winterland, are so naive,” he said. “They’re more interested in making an arrest than finding the actual killer, and they’ll arrest me. They always arrest the boyfriend.”
Genevieve narrowed her eyes. “Maybe they should. Maybe you—”
She mostly wanted to gauge his reaction, and the taunt worked. The principal’s face twisted in fury and pain. “Are you… has nothing I told you mattered? I loved Sam. I would never have hurt her.” He straightened, the bloodless flesh of his fisted hands filling again with color. “Maybe you should train your amateur detective skills on that little punk at your father’s ice cream parlour. He had plenty of reason to get rid of both teachers.”
Genevieve rocked back on her feet, thunderstruck. “Tyler?”
His face smoothed out into instant remorse. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have implied... never mind.”
“But—”
The bell rang, signaling the start of the first lunch period, and Principal Mattison looked at Genevieve meaningfully. “Goodbye, Miss Winterland.”
CHAPTER NINE
A CRYPTIC MESSAGE
Take two, Genevieve thought as she pressed a scoop of Different Seasons into a sugar cone and handed it to the little boy in line. She’d decided, in honor of the early wintry weather, to combine her popular Winter Fudge with an autumny salted caramel, and the flavor had turned out scrumptious. Unfortunately, she’d had to make the order twice after the first cone split—a rookie mistake she hadn’t committed in years.
“Sorry again about that,” she said to the boy’s father, chagrined.
The man’s eyes twinkled as he swiped his debit card. “Didn’t look like an accident to me,” he teased her. “I bet you get to eat all your mistakes, right?”
“You know my secret,” she said, and laughed along with him. In truth, she’d already had a triple scoop of Winter Fudge before her shift, hoping to drown her troubles in ice cream.
It hadn’t helped. Genevieve was off her game, preoccupied with her interview with Principal Mattison and his cryptic comment about her broody coworker. Genevieve had known, of course, that Tyler had a dark past, that he’d once been enough of a violent troublemaker to get expelled from school. But that wasn’t what Mr. Mattison had been referring to. He’d said, “He has plenty of reason to get rid of both teachers.”
What could that mean? Ms. Pierce had subbed at Pinewood High since the age of dinosaurs, but the youthful Miss Love would not yet have been a teacher at the time Tyler attended high school. How did he know her? Or did he know her at all? Maybe the principal was just trying to throw her off course. She resentfully recalled how he’d referenced her “detective skills” with dripping sarcasm.
No, Genevieve thought as she dunked her scoop in a tub of water, the principal had known something about Tyler. And she was going to find out what it was.
The door chimed and Genevieve looked up with apprehension, thinking maybe Tyler was, for once, actually on time. Then her face broke into a wide smile.
“Detective!” she said. She’d forgotten it was Wednesday.
“Ma’am.” Detective Charlie Moran tipped his hat at her and slid onto the counter stool nearest the register. Genevieve promptly began scooping ice cream for his butterscotch malt.
“Make it a double,” he said, tossing a ten on the counter. “You could use one too.”
She started to protest, and then thought better of it. “You know what?” she said. “You’re absolutely right—don’t mind if I do.”
“That’s the ticket.” He slapped down his book; the cover featured a bug-eyed chihuahua sitting erect on a banquet table next to a dripping stack of pancakes and an ominously spilled cup of coffee. The title read Paws for Concern.
“How’s the book?” Genevieve asked, pouring milk into the shake tin. He took off his hat and set it on the empty stool next to him.
“Halfway through and I already know who dunnit,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll keep reading for the recipes. These books have the best recipes.”
She placed the shake tin on the blender and turned back to him with a sigh. “I wish Pinewood’s own mystery were as easy to solve,” she said in a low voice, not wanting Mellie to overhear.
He leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
