No Substitute for Money (Subbing isn't for Sissies #2)

By Carolyn J. Rose

Substitute teacher Barbara Reed knows better than to say the word “perfect.” Using the P-word is a sure way to jinx romance, finance, and circumstance.

Despite a chronic shortage of funds, things are looking up for Barb after the events of NO SUBSTITUTE FOR MURDER. She’s completing grad school and hoping for a job at Captain Meriwether High School in Reckless River, Washington. Her drug-cop boyfriend, Dave Martin, wants to move in and his daughter is all in favor. Even Barb’s tiny dog Cheese Puff has no objections—undaunted by size, he’s infatuated with Dave’s partner Lola, a drug-sniffing Golden Retriever.

Then Dave uses the P-word. And Barb’s luck leaves town.

Her car breaks down, her domineering sister comes for a visit, the condo manager plots to ban dogs, her jailed ex-husband begs her to be a character witness at his trial, a computer hacker creates chaos at the high school, and a hulking thug threatens violence.

Just when it appears things can’t get worse, Lola sniffs out a package in her car and a drug dealer decides Barb and Cheese Puff are his tickets out of trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn J. Rose
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014

Carolyn J. Rose

Carolyn J. Rose is the author of the popular Subbing isn’t for Sissies series (No Substitute for Murder, No Substitute for Money, and No Substitute for Maturity), as well as the Catskill Mountains mysteries (Hemlock Lake, Through a Yellow Wood, and The Devil’s Tombstone). Other works include An Uncertain Refuge, Sea of Regret, A Place of Forgetting, a collection of short stories (Sucker Punches) and five novels written with her husband, Mike Nettleton (The Hard Karma Shuffle, The Crushed Velvet Miasma, Drum Warrior, Death at Devil’s Harbor, Deception at Devil’s Harbor, and the short story collection Sucker Punches). She grew up in New York's Catskill Mountains, graduated from the University of Arizona, logged two years in Arkansas with Volunteers in Service to America, and spent 25 years as a television news researcher, writer, producer, and assignment editor in Arkansas, New Mexico, Oregon, and Washington. She’s now a substitute teacher in Vancouver, Washington, and her interests are reading, swimming, walking, gardening, and NOT cooking.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The problem with perfection is that the definition is open to interpretation. Your idea of the perfect meal may be my idea of culinary torture.

On top of that, perfection is often temporary, transitory, and untrustworthy.

At least on my planet.

The frizzy hairstyle that seemed perfect when I was twenty ranked at half-past ridiculous when I tried it again last week at age… um… Well, let’s say I’m standing in the shade of forty.

Radio show host Rick Rivers, the man I believed was the perfect boss, kicked me to the unemployment curb to save his salary when the budget got tight. He didn’t display a molecule of remorse.

And as for the men I married… What was my idea of perfection when I took those vows? Dear departed Albert might score seven out of ten with the benefit of charitable and creative math. He was sweet and well-meaning when he wasn’t obsessed with adding to his birding list. But handsome, smooth-talking Jake, even if he made good on endless promises to reform, repay his debts, and retool his personality, wouldn’t score much above zero point zero.

So, on a Sunday evening in March when Dave Martin pulled me down beside him on the sofa in my living room, nuzzled my neck, and whispered, This is my idea of a perfect evening, a warning bell clanged in my brain.

Don’t get me wrong. Snuggling with Dave felt a lot like perfection, but admitting that—especially out loud—could jinx not only the evening, but our relationship. I sat up straighter on the puffy sofa—no easy feat for a woman limp with passion—and pushed him away a few inches. It isn’t perfect. I rented the wrong movie. And I burned the edge of the pie crust.

Crust is tricky, Barb, Dave breathed in my ear. And I have no intention of wasting time watching a movie. He laid a trail of kisses from my cheek to my collarbone and undid the top button of my blouse. Not when we’re alone for the whole night. That hasn’t happened since January.

True. Before Mrs. Ballantine took off for a string of adventures in the Southern Hemisphere, she frequently entertained Dave’s teenage daughter in her condo next door. Allison spent hours playing dress-up in outfits Mrs. B wore decades ago as a Las Vegas showgirl.

Let’s give the scorched crust a rest, okay? And forget the movie. Dave undid another button. I’d rather do this. Wouldn’t you?

You bet, my nerve endings shrilled. Twice a day.

What I managed to get through my lips was Ummm.

Between our jobs and your graduate work and my daughter and your dog, Dave paused to cast a glance at Cheese Puff who watched us from the arm of the sofa, we don’t have much time to ourselves. His glance chilled a few degrees. At least Allison gives us a break now and then. That dog is never more than a yard away from you.

He’s lonely.

He spends the time you’re at work with senior citizens who treat him like royalty. He’s not lonely. He’s possessive.

Cheese Puff raised his upper lip, baring a row of tiny teeth.

I rushed to his defense. He’s looking out for me.

Dave snorted. He’s a voyeur.

Well, he has no love life of his own.

Dave chuckled. The chuckle morphed into a guffaw. Cheese Puff raised his lip higher, revealing miniscule molars.

Are you laughing at my dog?

No, I’m laughing at the idea of your dog having a love life. I mean, he’s one determined little guy and I have a lot of respect for him since that night I pulled you both from the river, but there aren’t many females in his weight class. And even if he wasn’t fixed, he’s not the pedigreed material dog breeders search for.

Cheese Puff growled and the orange hair on his ruff stood up. He looked like his head was being swallowed by a spaghetti squash.

I stifled a smile.

Sorry, CP, Dave said. I’m no prize myself.

Actually, he was. A prize hunk of man with a grin that turned my knees to warm jelly. A prize hunk of man who didn’t seem to mind my frantic schedule, chronic shortage of funds, the resulting stress generated by those factors, and the few extra pounds that were more determined to stay with me than I was to shed them.

But enough about that. Dave undid another button. You have a job in the morning and I have a briefing about my next assignment. Although why they call a meeting so long it puts your butt to sleep a ‘briefing’ is beyond me.

Will it be dangerous?

The briefing?

I tugged at his hair. The next assignment.

He chuckled again and nibbled at the points of my collarbones. Probably not as dangerous as being a substitute teacher in the Reckless River School District.

I gave him my most intense don’t-mess-with-me substitute voice. I’m serious, Dave.

Okay. He stopped chuckling. You know I can’t talk about my assignments, but you read the papers, you know we’ve got a huge meth problem. Lots of money at stake. That raises the desperation factor. Plus, some pushers sample the product which makes them not the most sane and cooperative folks to take into custody.

Not reassuring. But you’ll be…

I lost the will to speak as he kissed his way along my neck and chin to my lips. If it will make you feel better and more attentive to my plans for the evening, he murmured, rumor has it I’m getting a partner.

A partner. Someone to watch Dave’s back. Someone to take a turn being first through the door.

With the image of a burly man providing backup blotting my fears, I turned away from Cheese Puff’s baleful gaze, and yanked Dave’s T-shirt over his head. While he tackled the rest of my buttons, I ran my fingernails up his spine, and scratched a spot between his shoulder blades.

Ahhhhhh, he groaned. Right there. Perfect.

And from then on everything pretty much was.

Right up until the next morning when Dave’s cell phone rang.

Chapter 2

It was Allison, her voice sizzling with teenage righteousness—loud teenage righteousness. "Daaaadddd. You said you’d be at Megan’s to pick us up. Now. Right now."

I’m on my way. Dave disconnected.

Crap! He dove for the clothing scattered on the floor.

I glanced at the clock. 6:40 AM.

Double crap! I hurtled from the nest of tangled blankets, colliding with him as he hopped on one foot trying to force the other into jeans turned inside out by his headlong rush to shuck them last night.

I thought you set the alarm, he howled.

I did. Fumbling through the dresser drawer for fresh underwear, I saw I was down to a tough choice—the ones with tired elastic, or the ones that rode up into places best left unmentioned in a book without an X-rating. I went with the saggy pair. At least, I thought I set it. As you may remember, I was more than a little distracted.

Dave hopped across the room and kissed my shoulder. So was I. If Allison’s late for school it’s not the end of the world.

But if she’s late for breakfast with Josh before first period, it’s the place from which the end of the world is clearly visible.

Noted. Dave stuck his socks in his back pocket and grabbed his running shoes. I’m outta here. Got a counseling session with Allison tonight and tomorrow you have class. See you…

Wednesday, I said, contorting to hook my bra. No. There’s a lecture I need to show up for. Thursday?

Can’t, he called as he clattered downstairs. Gotta qualify at the range. Friday?

Friday, I agreed, pulling on an emergency outfit: black jeans, a black T-shirt, and the first blouse from a line of five set apart because they were guaranteed to go with black. This one was royal blue with green and gold stripes.

Since I became a substitute teacher, emergency is pretty much where I start from most mornings. High school classes begin at 7:30 and subs are required to turn up at least half an hour before that. Having a wardrobe preparedness plan in place helped me make it—most of the time. Sticking to that plan now meant pulling on a pair of black socks and choosing between black running shoes or loafers. A no-brainer. I went with the running shoes.

When I got downstairs, Dave was gone and Cheese Puff was glaring at his empty food bowl. I slid the glass door to the deck open a few inches. You know the drill. Take care of business first.

Cheese Puff hesitated, then yipped his displeasure at the relentless rain, raced across the deck, shot through the slats in the gate, bounced down the steps to a quartet of rose bushes in need of pruning, squirted, hunched, and shot back inside.

As I scooped kibble into the bowl, he rubbed himself dry against my jeans, leaving damp strands of orange hair stuck to the fabric. Thanks a bunch.

I plopped a spoonful of canned dog food on top of the kibble. Wrinkling his nose, he jutted his lower jaw in what passed for a pout.

Suck it up. I brushed in vain at my jeans. Someone will be by in a few hours to coddle you in the manner you think you deserve.

He seemed to consider that while I tossed a couple of granola bars into my briefcase and grabbed a bottled coffee drink from the refrigerator. Then he took one lick of the canned food and trotted to his favorite chair to bide his time until a member—or several members—of the Cheese Puff Care and Comfort Committee dropped in.

On weekdays my condo might as well have a revolving door. Committee members came and went, offering massages, walks, rides, movies, or doggie treats from lunches or dinners at restaurants where I couldn’t afford even an appetizer. His activities were recorded in notes and an array of photographs tacked to a four-foot-long bulletin board in the hallway near the door. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that he was loved.

When I wasn’t green with envy, I was grateful that he didn’t spend his days alone, and more grateful that he didn’t abandon me for one of the senior citizens who doted on him. That doting made it possible for me to work, finish my graduate degree, and spend my spare hours with Dave. Not that either of us had a huge supply of spare hours. And not that those hours always matched up.

Shrugging into my waterproof jacket, I snatched my briefcase and headed for the door, waggling my fingers at a photo of Muriel Ballantine pinned to the bulletin board. The founder and leader of the CPC&C Committee inherited a pot of money from her late husband and had no qualms about spending it. Thanks to her financial savvy, I lived in a condo with mortgage payments I could just about afford, a river view, and covered parking. On a dank morning like this, that metal canopy shielded me from pounding rain and increased the probability that my car would start.

And, on the third attempt it did, engine clattering like an unbalanced washer with a couple of bolts loose. Before I drove a mile, the clatter gave way to a rattling thud.

What I know about cars is that it’s always something, something as major as a crucial engine component giving up the ghost, or as minor as a screw working loose. What I know about substitute teaching is that if I don’t show up, I don’t get paid. No pay meant no way could I finance a car repair, even one of the loose-screw variety.

I crossed my fingers and pressed harder on the gas pedal.

By the time I reached the parking lot at Captain Meriwether High School, the rattling thud was backed up by a wheezing squeal. To make things more interesting, my power steering quit working and it took all I had to turn. Meanwhile, the brakes got as mushy as a bowl of warm oatmeal.

Wrenching the wheel hard enough to risk dislocating my shoulder, I aimed for a slot beneath a dripping Douglas fir and pumped the brakes. With a whoomp and a thump, the front wheels hit the curb. The car rebounded a foot and shuddered to a stop. I turned off the ignition. The engine choked and wheezed but refused to die.

Crap on a cracker.

I yanked out the key, grabbed my briefcase and the umbrella I kept on the back seat, and bolted through a string of puddles. The engine kept up its death rattle. When I lost the will to ignore it and glanced over my shoulder, a geyser of steam erupted from the grille.

Yo, Ms. Reed, a passing skateboarder called. Your car’s smokin’.

Thanks for the bulletin, I told his retreating back. I hadn’t noticed.

Accompanied by a rending screech of metal, the geyser diminished and the engine coughed a final time.

Great, I snarled. Terrific. Exactly what I needed.

The little voice in my mind suggested this was the price of thinking last night with Dave merited the P-word. I mentally flipped off the voice, turned my back on what I anticipated would be my future former vehicle, and trudged through the rain to throw myself on the mercy of a woman reputed to have none.

Chapter 3

Tapping the triplicate form centered on her desk calendar, Big Chill squinted through a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses with frames the same stoplight red as her lipstick and nail polish. I’m delighted you condescended to join us this morning, Barbara.

I sloshed to a halt and set my briefcase on the carpet in front of her desk. Most subs were intimidated by her sarcastic snarls, and I couldn’t blame them. This four-foot-ten-inch woman with her short white hair—today rinsed a faint shade of lavender—was the power behind the throne at Captain Meriwether High School, that throne being the chair at the desk belonging to Principal Jerome Morrow. I was a quivering mass of fear and trepidation during my first few encounters with Wilhelmina Frost, but after being suspected of murder and then nearly murdered myself, I vowed to assert my right to caustic comments, biting backtalk, and ironic input. As it turned out, Big Chill admired and appreciated that and elevated me to the position of preferred substitute. That status just about guaranteed jobs on Mondays, Fridays, the days before holidays, the days after holidays, and a heck of a lot of days in between.

I reached for the form. Your delight is nothing compared to my own. My heart is pounding with anticipation of the assignment you have for me.

Big Chill’s eyes sparkled. Band.

The thought of my crippled car enabled me to suppress a groan.

Phil Benson has an ear infection. Big Chill leaned across the desk and lowered her voice as I signed the form. Probably brought on by the brass section at the pep rally on Friday.

We shared a chuckle. Despite Phil’s tireless efforts and countless hours of practice, the CMHS band hadn’t won a ribbon of any color at any competition since the advent of social media. Recently, thanks to the efforts of a team of marketing students desperate for a project, the band’s shortcomings had gone from being lamentable to being a source of pride. Band members nicknamed themselves the Beleaguered Badgers and capitalized on the volume and enthusiasm that made up for their lack of musical ability. The student store sold dozens of Go Loud, Be Proud buttons and T-shirts each week.

At least it’s not chemistry, Big Chill said.

I nodded. The chem lab cabinets—many with faulty or broken locks—were chock full of liquids that didn’t always work and play well together as evidenced by the stench of rotten eggs lingering in that area of the school. And then there were glass tubes and beakers and Bunsen burners. I didn’t want to be the one who turned her back for that second when curiosity met a challenge. And I really didn’t want to be the one standing outside counting heads while firefighters dragged hoses into the school.

Big Chill slid a drawer open and plucked out a small plastic bag with a pair of foam earplugs. Need these?

Thanks, but I have a pair. Ordered after my first encounter with the band last fall.

Thought you might. She tossed the bag back in her drawer. You’ve got your act together.

Spoken like a woman who hadn’t seen the smoke curling from the hood of my car.

Waving my thanks for the compliment, I picked up the attendance sheets and hustled past the cafeteria, spotting Dave’s daughter at a table with Josh. He had one arm around her and the other around his guitar. Allison, smiling as she chattered and fed him chunks of a cinnamon roll, didn’t seem threatened by his divided loyalty. That, I hoped, boded well for her acceptance of my deepening relationship with her father.

It was a long walk to the band room and that gave me time to consider the condition of my car. I had no illusions that it would heal itself. In fact, I imagined it would be somewhere in the vicinity of DOA by the time a tow truck dragged it to a repair shop. Given the state of my finances, low repair costs would be a prime consideration in selecting that shop. But given that cheap wasn’t always synonymous with good, a little research was in order.

Which was why, when lunch period finally arrived, I put the question to the group around the wobbly table in the teachers’ room where I’d been accepted as part of the gang. While they argued it out, I nuked one of the frozen meals I’d stashed in the maw of a freezer compartment with an ice build-up thick enough to reverse global warming.

Not Dinty’s. Don’t go there whatever you do! Gertrude Suttle shrieked loud enough to make me glad I hadn’t yet removed the earplugs. They left grease all over my steering wheel and dashboard. It got on my favorite blouse and the dry cleaner couldn’t get it out. But would Dinty’s pay for a new one? Nooooooo.

Not those faster fixer guys over on the east side. Brenda Waring shook a plump finger at me. They claimed my car would be ready at three and I had to sit in their lobby until nearly five. She poked her fork into the contents of a plastic container and brought up a chunk of something that resembled raw liver and smelled like gym socks soaking in vinegar. Everything in their vending machine has the nutritional value of a radial tire and is months past its sell-by date.

Others curled their lips in distaste at Brenda’s description and her lunch, but Aston Marsden, who spent weekends reenacting historic events and weekdays getting into character, eyed it with interest. Then he dug a slab of pale orange cheese from a paper bag and slapped it—moldy side down—between two pieces of hardtack. He gnawed off a bite and spoke as he chewed. Not those bandits with the shop in the industrial area on the other side of the bridge. They can’t tell a carburetor from a calculator.

All eyes turned to Doug Whitman who was munching away at a triangle of cold pepperoni pizza. His jaws worked faster, a flush swept up his cheeks, and his eyes bulged. He swallowed hard. My, uh, sister’s boyfriend works for a repair shop over near the library. It’s kind of new so I don’t know all that much about it. But Larry’s a good guy and he says their prices are fair.

Fair was a good thing. So was the fact that Larry wasn’t a total wild card. And so was the location. The shop was almost on the way home. Almost that is, if I triangulated on Miami.

The microwave dinged and I retrieved my lunch—pasta with chunks of squash—and took my usual place beside the empty seat once occupied by history department chair Susan Mitchell. Susan was in jail awaiting trial for the murder of teacher Henry Stoddard, the blackmailing obstructionist who thwarted her dream of setting up a model history program.

Without discussing it, we’d reached a decision to keep Susan’s chair empty. All of us liked and respected her as much as we’d loathed Henry. All of us were stunned when she apologized for suspicion cast on me and confessed to strangling him with his own outdated tie. And all of us, over time, admitted that if we were called to testify in her defense, we’d gladly do it.

We defended the integrity of her chair in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. In February, when Doug’s student teacher headed