Death Stalks the Principal

By Pat Clark

When the principal of a small high school in northern Wisconsin is murdered, teacher Cynthia Allen agrees to take over the job. She's got support from the superintendent, the students, and most of the staff, but she has no idea how crazy things can get: kids with problems, kids who cause problems, teachers with grudges, parents with agendas, and one more thing: The person who murdered Bill Deagan isn't done killing yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snoopbooks
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386110804

Book preview

Chapter One

When Chiquita Bernhalt discovered a corpse in the back hallway of our high school, it was totally my fault—at least the way she told it. If I hadn’t been chasing her, she’d never have gone down that hallway and never been terrorized and traumatized.

The truth is pretty simple. Returning to my classroom from an errand, I saw Chickie, a master at inventing reasons to leave her assigned class, standing at the mesh-reinforced window of the gymnasium. She wore a white blouse with the collar turned up under a pink sweater and pegged jeans so tight she could hardly move. At one side of her teased, hair-sprayed mass of dyed-blond hair was an oversized neon bow. The outfit was fashionable, but it didn’t flatter Chickie’s plump figure one bit.

She didn’t notice my arrival, since she was making faces at someone inside the gym. With a little sigh at the delay, I started down the hall to see what our resident hypochondriac was up to this time. When she saw me heading her way, Chickie disappeared down a side hall leading to the school’s back door. Aware it was a fool’s enterprise, I followed, determined to send her back to class, at least for a while.

When I turned down the short corridor, everything changed. Chiquita stood a few steps away from me, a horrified look on her face. We both stared at the still form just inside the metal double doors for a few seconds. He wore a dark suit, a shirt with vertical stripes, and a slim tie. The blood pooling under his head made it hard for my lungs to pull in air. Chickie’s weren’t similarly affected. After the briefest delay, she emitted a noise like an ambulance siren, soft and distant at first then soaring to full, screeching volume.

One week after Maribel High’s first murder ever, I opened the folder of essays my writing class had turned in, my interest slightly guilty. It was the sort of opportunity no English teacher can resist, a chance for students to write on a topic that’s real and compelling.

The atmosphere had been unusually still as I explained the assignment, except for the noise from the hallway where a janitor hammered away at a jammed locker door. I specified the number of words as a matter of course. It’s always the first question, and the answer has to be repeated many times. Many students don’t bother to read directions. Why should they when they can just ask the teacher?

The rough drafts, finished in record time, were stacked neatly in the folder, ready to be graded as my new schedule permitted. The annoying buzz of the clock behind me signaled time’s relentless passage, and I opened Chickie’s essay, since her name, beginning with a B, came alphabetically first in that class. Since Chiquita plans to be a journalist, she practices her craft by emulating our local news team, which makes a slightly singed barn sound like the Great Chicago Fire. At least this time she had something more than rumor to report. In her story, she was the star. I was merely the inciting incident, present but practically useless.

Writing Prompt: Describe the events of last Monday using detail, good transitions, and words that evoke the senses. 500-750 words

My Horrible Day

By Chiquita Bernhalt

On the fateful day of October 7, it was like any other Monday at Maribel High School, but terrifyingly soon I became the center of a situation that no one could have predicted in a millennium or even more. The prominent witness to the bloody murder of our principal, Mr. Deagan, was I. This is exactly how it happened:

At about 10:50 am, I began feeling nauseous in third hour art class due to noxious paint fumes that often trigger my allergies. I told Miss Bennett I needed to leave for a few minutes to recover.

At first she wasn’t going to let me go, but I reminded her that my mother has given the office doctor’s letters that document my medical problems. I said if she wanted to be taken to the school board for not allowing me to leave a toxic classroom, I was fine with it. She said, Go on, then, really nasty. (Like I care!)

After a drink I began feeling better, so I went to see if Alaina was in sociology class to talk to her about something important and personal. Warner was teaching for once, though, so I left.

To be descriptive for anyone who doesn’t know, the main part of our building forms a big square with the gymnasium in the middle and classrooms all around it. The back hall runs along the gym, and on either end of it there are shorter ones that lead to the back doors.

The hallway was eerily quiet, as if it knew something terrible had happened. Glancing down at the exit doors as I passed, there he was. I gasped in horror but didn’t at that time realize who I was looking at. I thought someone had a heart attack or something.

When I stepped closer and saw blood on the floor, I knew it was bad. That’s when Mrs. Allen showed up. She froze in shock, but I realized we had to call the authorities right away. I hurried to the office, not hysterical like some people say, but quickly because of the emergency. Mrs. Allen stood guard at the end of the hallway so no one else would have to look upon the horror that scorched our eyeballs.

Mrs. Patterson was at her desk. She doubted me at first, like usual. She never believes I need to call my mother when I’m not feeling well either. Honestly, she’s just a secretary. It’s not her place to comment on how often I get migraine headaches.

Anyway, Mrs. Patterson ordered me to wait in Mr. Deagan’s office and not talk to anyone. I did, because Mrs. Patterson makes you feel like you have to do what she wants. I sat for a long time, unknowing what was happening. Finally a policeman came in and asked me lots of questions, which I answered with utter completeness.

I think the murderer was a bum looking for money so he could get to Florida for the winter. No one here would kill anyone and leave him for someone to find who might have a heart condition or something and die of shock.

There was a review comment in the margin, made by my student assistant Charlene, who sometimes editorialized for my entertainment, knowing I’d delete her comments before returning the file to a student: "Not hysterical"? This reader can picture Chickie dripping tears down the hallway!

Smiling at Char’s perception, I turned aside, took off my glasses, and rubbed my eyes. Grading essays was the least of my worries at the moment. Because of Bill Deagan’s murder, my role at Maribel High School had gotten a lot more complicated. Looking at my reflection in the office window, I thought I looked eighty-one years old rather than forty-one.

Deagan, our likeable, fifty-something boss, had been murdered, and Rhoda Patterson and I had handled the unprecedented situation as best we could. After calling the police, we followed the emergency drill for an unknown threat, notifying teachers they should lock their doors and keep the students inside. It took almost an hour for the police to go through the school room by room, making sure there were no interlopers in the building. Luckily there was an aide in my classroom, so my students were supervised though I was stuck in the office.

Once it was deemed safe, I went down the hallway to my room (with a deputy as escort) and told the students what had happened. Silence greeted my announcement of a death in the building, and twenty plus faces framed by feathered hair watched me, for once not interested in anything but what I was saying. The superintendent had cancelled school, so they’d be transported home as soon as bussing could be arranged.

When I finished, the silence didn’t last long. I answered their questions honestly, trying to stem rising panic. The victim was Mr. Deagan, and yes, he’d been murdered. No, the police hadn’t found the killer yet. Yes, I thought they’d find him soon.

The teachers oversaw the loading of busses with commendable efficiency, but I knew from their glances that once the students were gone, I’d be inundated with questions. I had little more to tell them than I’d told the kids.

Students stayed home on Tuesday and Wednesday as the staff grappled with how to handle the situation. For me, Tuesday was a surprise, almost a shock.

It started with an early-morning phone call asking me to meet with the superintendent in his office at eight, two hours before the full staff was supposed to meet. Thinking I’d be asked to help with arranging Bill’s memorial, I went in. Clueless.

Aaron Fish had been around forever, a local man who started as a teacher, became elementary principal, then assistant superintendent, and finally the main man. Reaching the top of an organization is sometimes a reward for putting in the correct amount of time and kissing the correct posteriors, but that wasn’t the case with Aaron. He truly cared about the school, community, kids, and staff. Quietly progressive, Fish was what our tiny town wanted: solid education with no outrageous theories or expensive trinkets.

The superintendent’s office smelled like citrus, and the surface of Aaron’s pride and joy, a black walnut desk, shone with frequently-applied lemon oil. Sixtyish, short, and balding, Aaron was full of enthusiasm most days. Now he was more deliberative. His unfashionably small, black-framed glasses lay on the desktop.  Cynthia, I wanted you to come in early so I could ask you something important.

Hmmm, it’s not the memorial then. That didn’t warrant the foreboding in his demeanor. He shifted a legal pad on the desktop so it aligned with several folders on his left. If I sat up really straight, I could see that the top folder had my name on it.

Cynthia, you’ve been teaching here for eight years now, right?

Yes. What is this about?

Aaron’s voice took on an instructive tone, like he was starting a lesson. Cynthia, you’re a good teacher, popular with students but no easy mark. You expect their best and manage to get it. You’re energetic and hard-working. The staff likes you...

My thoughts drifted for a moment. Most of the staff liked me, but I could name a few who wouldn’t put me on their top ten lists. Schools are little microcosms of the world, and the noble mission for which we all sign on is sometimes perverted by petty disagreements. Because I believed students had individual needs, I wasn’t popular among a few teachers who had the Get-them-before-they-get-you mind-set.

Cynthia If he says my name one more time I’ll scream, I thought, and almost missed the rest of the sentence. —take over as principal for the rest of the year.

Later I wondered if I did a double take like characters in movies do when they’re hit with something they never expected.

You’ll remember I asked you to apply before Bill Deagan came along.

Loosening the death grip I’d taken on my chair arms, I set my hands in my lap. Teaching English is what I’m good at.

True. But you also have leadership qualities: organization, social skills, charisma. Some of the students would jump off a cliff if you said it was the right thing to do.

A huff of denial escaped me. And others would like to push me off that same cliff. You’ve heard the joke, right?

Joke?

Johnny wakes up one morning, comes downstairs, and says to his mother, ‘I don’t want to go to school anymore. The kids all make fun of me and call me names. The teachers find fault with everything I do. Do I have to go?’   Johnny’s mother replies, ‘Yes, Johnny, you have to go. You’re the principal.’

Aaron Fish was a good man and a good superintendent, but he was one of those people with no real sense of humor. He knew funny things existed; he knew the proper reaction to a joke. He just didn’t see the humor. I got a weak grin before he returned to business, touching the stack of folders as if to ground our conversation again.

When the students return on Thursday, we’ll have a police investigation going on around us. We, the board and I, want someone the students know and respect to keep things running the way they’re used to. He paused as if unsure whether to add something, but meeting my gaze, he went ahead. Darwin volunteered to take the job, and there was some consideration of his request. I argued you have a better grasp of the day-to-day requirements.

There was a note of disapproval in Aaron’s voice when he mentioned his second-in-command. For his whole professional life, Darwin Prall had wanted to tell somebody what to do and actually get them to do it. To rise to the position of assistant superintendent he’d worked more overtime than anyone else, done more thankless jobs than anyone else, and shamelessly flattered more school board members than anyone else. His toadying had brought him the title he craved but not much in the way of power. Some of us thought it had been the board’s way of getting an ineffective teacher out of the classroom and into a spot where he couldn’t do much damage. The coarser members of the staff abbreviated the assistant part of Dar’s title to the first three letters.

If Darwin got the principal’s job, he’d fix the high school according to his own weird sense of what it should be. That would be a step back a hundred years for the students of Maribel.

Making no comment on Dar’s suitability for the principal’s job, Aaron went on to his next point. We assume the person who killed Bill is long gone, but someone who knows our procedures and our people can reduce any possible danger to a minimum.

Danger?

Aaron waved a hand, minimizing the threat. The police are fairly sure the killer came from outside the school. Though the rear doors are locked during the day to prevent unauthorized visitors, it seems likely that Bill let him in.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine that happening. If someone had knocked at the back door as Bill was passing, he might have let them in. Every door had panic bars on the inside, so leaving would have been easy.

I’m not a suspect, then? Again with the humor? I chided myself.

Aaron’s answer was as serious as the question had been facetious. Twenty witnesses confirm you were in your classroom until just before the body was discovered.

Twenty-eight, I corrected automatically. Class size is always an issue for teachers.

So you’re our first choice for interim principal. Now it’s up to you. Having made his case, Aaron sat back, letting me think it through. A fly beat itself to death against the window, its anguish loud in the silence.

What teacher hasn’t considered becoming a principal? Considering the number of administrative degrees granted each year, lots of them do. How many would be good at it? Very few, and that’s what held me back. I’d seen good teachers try to be good principals and fail.

Aaron rose and moved to the window where two screaming seagulls cruised the parking lot looking for garbage. Administration isn’t like teaching. Politicians are always pointing out our faults in order to show their concern for education.

When they haven’t got a clue what we do each day, I grumbled.

Parents will complain, too, and it will be your job to deal with their concerns.

At least with Aaron as my boss, I’d have support. Some superintendents aren’t above blaming their principals for the bad things and taking the credit for the good ones themselves. It’s one reason so many principals want to be superintendents.

Decision, I reminded myself. Aaron is asking if you’ll take this job.

It wasn’t beyond my skills. I was pretty efficient, and I had the respect of most of the people I’d be directing each day. The school board needed my help—

Oh stop, I scolded myself. You’re such a chump for, We really need you. Just say no, and they’ll go on to whoever’s name is on the second folder on Aaron’s desk.

Turning from the window, Aaron said diffidently, I hesitate to suggest it in this age of empowerment, but maybe you’d like to talk to your husband about this.

You’re right, and I’m in no way offended. Dennis would support whatever I decided, but he deserved a voice—even if I knew, as I suddenly knew now, what the answer was going to be.

Fish turned the phone on his desk toward me and left his office, discreetly closing the door as I punched in the number that would locate my husband at whatever construction site he was working today.

Chapter Two

Dennis was nearby and not terribly busy when I called. Hearing the serious tone in my voice when I said we had something to discuss, he suggested we meet at the coffee shop.

Darla’s Diner was the main hangout for Maribel’s locals. With no conscious intent I knew of, the place had a 1950s theme: red plastic booths along one wall, glossy-topped tables with aluminum edging in the center of the open room, and a long counter lined with stools where the singles sat, hoping someone from a booth or table would invite them over. The waitress, Julie, worked the floor while Darla ran the till and bussed tables. In the back somewhere Darla’s husband Mark fried eggs and flipped bacon. When things were calm, they would join one of various coffee klatches, gossiping and giving a hard time to anybody they could.

Den and I met on the sidewalk and entered together, greeting groups as we passed but taking a booth in the back to forestall interruptions. Darla asked what was going on at the school. When I made only a brief comment about how tragic it was, she got the hint. Over plain old coffee (exotic types are not favored in Maribel) I told my husband about the job offer.

Dennis was dressed for work in corduroys and a flannel shirt. His cap sat on the chair between us, a sign of good breeding in an area where many men leave them on all day long, inside or out. After twenty years of marriage, Dennis still looked good to me. The rest of the world seemed to like him too, though for other reasons.

So, are you going to do it? he asked, stirring a half-teaspoon of sugar into his cup.

No advice? No help? It’s all up to me? I whined theatrically.

He grinned, and tiny wrinkles edged his eyes. You know my opinion, Cyn. You’d be the best darned principal they ever had up there, but only if you want it.

But if I don’t take it they might put some dingbat like Darwin in the job. Looking around, I checked to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Speaking my opinions on staff shortcomings was okay at home, but in public I tried to be professional.

And somehow it will work. He sat back with a grin. You’re the best candidate. Fish has that right.

Says the candidate’s husband.

"Her objective husband." We both jumped as a tray of silverware clattered to the floor, followed by Julie’s moan of dismay and applause from some local smart alecks.

Lots of people have said it, Den said when things calmed down. You’ve got real world managerial experience, teaching experience, long, gorgeous legs and sable hair, and you’re pretty efficient, even if I did have to pack my own lunch today.

Hey, I wasn’t expecting to be called in early!

You’re forgiven. Anyway, here’s the question: Would you rather be the principal or work for their second choice?

I can’t work for Darwin! Darla came by with a coffee pot in each hand, but we covered our cups. She moved away, her nurses’ shoes squishing softly on the checkered tile floor.

Dennis leaned in closer. "It’s terrible that Bill is dead, but this is kind of a golden opportunity. You have almost a full year to try out the job. If it’s good, you apply for permanent status and