Garden Stake: A Jonathan Blaise Whodunit

By Jon Sedges

In the tradition of New Jersey crime novelists Jane Kelly, Janet Evanovich and Robin Hathaway, Garden Stake surrounds a murder mystery with sarcasm, humor, and societal observations, all at the Garden State's expense.

 

"Garden Stake," by former New Jersey journalist Jon Sedges, is a whodunit in which a very personable odd couple—a handsome, gifted ne'er-do-well and a beautiful Indian investigator—try to find out who's been murdering high school principals throughout New Jersey, each of whom had been stabbed with a garden stake.

 

Suspects include students, teachers, administrators, reporters, officials, media personalities—and several others with possible motives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BearManor Media
• Release date: Jul 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393235217

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Garden Stake: A Jonathan Blaise Whodunit

© 2020 Jon Sedges. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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To my ninth grade English teacher, Miss Fronefeld, who falsely accused me of plagiarizing a book report on Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities because, in her words, it was too well written for a 15-year-old to have done on his own. Thank you for the inspiration, Miss Fronefeld. But despite that, I hope you’ve had a miserable life.

The author wishes to thank Image Marketing Consultants of Plantville, CT for the cover image; all the Jersey murder mystery novelists of the past two decades for the initial spark; and BearManor Media for its editorial and marketing support.

Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school.

Albert Einstein

Part I

ImageChapter1

One

Americana.

According to Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, which as a high school English and journalism teacher I keep on my desk at all times, Americana means ‘things typical of America.’ Over the years, the small New Jersey town of Venice Shores, where I have taught for sixteen years, has been described by The New York Times and USA Today, and on television by Stephen Colbert (who walked down Main Street carrying an oar and wearing muck boots for a video segment on his television show) as a model of Americana.

By that measure, typical of America are the following: mothers who would kill to get their kids into Gifted and Talented programs even though it would take an electron microscope to find any evidence of a single gift or talent; candidates who run for mayor with funny slogans like I won’t do anything to get indicted, and then get elected and indicted; girls who buy three-hundred-dollar presents for their best friends and then steal their boyfriends.

Forgive me. I know I sound overly sarcastic. But be assured that I am willing to acknowledge that the Americana label would not have been applied to Venice Shores — and repeated so often — if not for some truth behind it. There is truth behind it, for it is indeed a neat, attractive and appealing little seaside hamlet in the Garden State. It’s not exactly heaven, but it’s quite a few exits from hell.

Our two square miles consist of four very pretty neighborhoods anchored by a pretty beach with no eyesore concessions. A little less than half the houses in town were built within the last fifty years and range in style from modest capes to elaborate high ranches. The other half — again, slightly less — are refurbished summer cottages from the days when Venice Shores was almost exclusively a summer resort. There are now, of course, a few McMansions and several ramshackle disasters. Actually, you’d be hard-pressed to find any two houses that are completely alike in Venice Shores. Most people take pride in their homes. The sandy landscape makes it difficult to keep nice lawns and gardens, but most people do try. And it’s not as coarse as some other towns: for example, there are no pink flamingos, and our one and only Negro lawn jockey was painted white in the early Eighties and his lantern replaced by a begonia.

Let me tell you a little more about Venice Shores.

The commercial vacancy rate along Main Street is impressively low. Granted, there are far too many nail salons, tanning parlors and beauty shops, but at least people are working in this town. (Thirty years ago, New Jersey-bred comedian Jed Plastico, who had been a Saturday Night Live cast member in the late Seventies, filmed an HBO special in Venice Shores called Small Town, Big Hair.) There is a small park in the center of town, with a lung-shaped lake on which you can canoe on spring and summer afternoons, as long as you don’t mind hop scotching around miles of goose poop on the way to the boathouse. Until recently, what to do about the goose poop was the most contentious issue at Venice Shores Town Council meetings. Tim Saganski, editor of the Venice Shores Courant, complained that unless he soon had something more exciting to write about than goose poop, he’d give up journalism and take up serial killing.

What else…

Well, we have a public library that’s as small as a two-car garage, though the head librarian runs it as if it were on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street in Manhattan. We have an elementary school with a sign out front that resulted from lackluster proofreading: instead of A Community of Learners it says A Community of Leaners. We have our town drunk, a former Borsht Belt comic who still believes he’ll get a shot on The Ed Sullivan Show one day, even though Ed Sullivan has been dead for more than forty years. We have our town anorexic, who jogs every morning with an anorexic poodle. And we even have our town floozy, who would be appalled to hear herself called a town floozy.

The Venice Shores Police Department has nine officers, and they’ve arrested the town drunk three times for doing the ‘accountant sketch’ in the middle of Main Street, the anorexic twice for not cleaning up after her dog (although how he had anything to poop is still a mystery), and the floozy once, for sitting in front of her house on Independence Day in red, white and blue panties — and nothing else.

Here’s another tidbit: we were designated ‘Village of the Month’ a year ago in a profile by Garden State Monthly. The magazine’s publisher, Aimee Rochette, had been driving down Main Street one day when her car broke down. She was rescued by a mechanic from Venice Shores Texaco. In her publisher’s note in the magazine the next month, Aimee wrote that the marvelous mechanic looks like George Clooney, with an engaging personality to match. (He really does look like George Clooney.) Whether or not that’s why the town received its ‘Village of the Month’ designation from Garden State Monthly has never been determined.

It’s important to note, though, that Venice Shores does not really need a magazine’s seal of approval, an HBO special, or a famous talk show host walking down the street wearing muck boots. It has its heritage and pride even without all that and does very well on its own, regardless of outside attention.

Of course, a few weeks ago it also had one hell of a front-page story in The New York Times, which shook things up a bit.

You might wonder, then, why I’m so damned sarcastic about this little town. So I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I suppose it’s because I still teach at Venice Shores High School when I would much rather write novels, plays and newspaper or magazine articles. I’ve tried, and I’ve failed. My name is Allen Besserman, but you’re not likely to see that name on a book jacket or in a Playbill anytime soon. Not even in The Venice Shores Courant or Garden State Monthly, for that matter. In fact, as active as my brain had once been in coming up with ideas and plots and article proposals, for the last three years or so that same brain has drawn a creative blank. No ideas, no plots, no proposals. Nothing. Hence, nothing published. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just not one of the lucky ones. Or maybe there just hasn’t been anything suitable to inspire me. Up until a few weeks ago there had been very little to arouse my creative urges.

Being unlucky is one thing; when people don’t let you forget it, well, that’s something else. And for better or worse, too many friends and associates never let me forget about my lack of luck as a writer — including my boss (or should I say former boss), Dr. Richard Zaccaro. Zaccaro once said that he ribbed me about my inability to get published only because I was one of the best teachers he ever had on staff and didn’t want to lose me to the world of celebrity reporters and playwrights. I guess I was supposed to feel honored. Whoopee.

So call me bitter. Go ahead; as countless students have said to me over the years, it’s a free country.

If you followed me around during a typical day you’d see quite easily why bitterness is my middle name. Mine is a fairly lame existence. For one thing, I spend far more time in school than I do at my Venice Shores apartment. That’s because in addition to English and drama, I was recently certified to teach sex education (at the request of Dr. Zaccaro), and I volunteer my time as faculty advisor to a half dozen clubs. I’m no longer married and have no kids, so to get to school early and leave late is never a problem. There’s nothing terribly wrong with all that, other than the fact that I usually end up taking my frustrations out on Venice Shores High School when I talk about the town to people from other places. That makes me feel bad, because Venice Shores High doesn’t deserve to be a target like that.

But I just can’t help it: the school gives me plenty of target practice.

Last month is a good example. In one day alone in the middle of May there was a series of events at the school, beginning at about noon on a Monday and ending just past midnight, that would make anyone take a shot at the school.

First there was the Sherry Goldstein affair.

Sherry Goldstein is the mother of twin girls, Cyan and Magenta. (Her husband is a printer.) Sherry was heard screaming at Dr. Zaccaro in his office just after third period because he had refused to change the twins’ social studies grade from a B to an A.

Both of them have all A’s, Dr. Zaccaro, Sherry yelled. All year. Every single year! A’s! Nothing but A’s. Why shouldn’t they have A’s in social studies, too?

Why? Because they have B’s in social studies, Zaccaro countered, softly. That’s why they don’t have A’s, Mrs. Goldstein, because they have B’s. It’s not brain surgery. It’s really quite simple.

Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Zaccaro. I just don’t see why you can’t change one little grade so that my girls can maintain perfect A averages. Is that asking too much?

"I can’t do that because the girls don’t have perfect A averages, Mrs. Goldstein. As a matter of fact, what you probably don’t know is that they should actually have gotten C’s in social studies, but Mrs. Graydon was kind enough to let them get away with B’s. And in any event, one B isn’t bad at all. Cyan and Magenta will still make the honor roll. So why all the fuss?"

Why all the fuss? Why all the fuss? I’ll tell you why all the fuss. Because B’s are terrible! Sherry Goldstein howled. "It’s like a scarlet letter. Terrible terrible terrible terrible terrible! In our family, a B is like having half a brain in your head. Not a whole brain; half a brain. Would you like that in your family, Mr. Zaccaro? Half-brained children? Hmm? Would you like that, Mr. Zaccaro?"

Mrs. Goldstein, the principal smiled after a short pause, "the most important thing is this: please remember that it’s Doctor Zaccaro, not mister."

That comment infuriated Sherry Goldstein to the point where the veins in her neck took on several angry colors (cyan and magenta, you might say). So to avoid exploding right there in his office, she simply left the room and didn’t even bother to close the door.

Three periods later there was the Ken Liang incident.

Ken Liang, a financial consultant and lecturer, is divorced and has primary custody of his son, fourteen-year-old Donald. His ex-wife lives in Lower Edison, a few towns to the northwest, and Donald is quite adept at hopping onto a New Jersey Transit bus and going from one home to another whenever the mood strikes. A few days earlier, Ken Liang, along with all other district parents, had received a new school calendar for the academic year to begin in September. Looking through the calendar, Ken noticed that five separate school events were planned during the Chinese New Year the following January.

I’ve made the same request two times in the past, Dr. Zaccaro — not to schedule major events during the Chinese New Year, Ken griped. This is a very important time for my family. Just because my ex-wife is not — 

I assure you, Mr. Liang, Zaccaro interrupted, this has nothing to do with your wife.

I’m not saying it does. If you would just let me finish. Just because my ex-wife is not Chinese does not mean that my son doesn’t hold the Chinese New Year in high regard. How can you expect Donald to do well in the geography club and on the school newspaper, and with the math club, debating club, garden club and chess team, when our family celebrations are happening at the same time as all the club activities?

Geography? Debating? Chess? You mean he’s not in the school plays, too? Zaccaro grinned, sarcastically.

He doesn’t like musicals. Please, Dr. Zaccaro — please stay on topic and let’s be serious about it. As you know, Donald has a few problems, and that’s why he needs all those activities to channel his energies. You said so yourself. Remember? I know you and Donald haven’t exactly seen eye to eye on a few issues lately, but please believe me that things are improving — and in order for them to continue to improve, we simply must avoid these kinds of scheduling problems. What can I do to make you understand?

First of all, it’s not up to me, Mr. Liang. The superintendent and the Board of Education make the final decisions on the school calendar. Second of all, put yourself in their places, Zaccaro continued, his hands folded neatly in front of him on his desk. We have Jewish students, Christian students, African-American students, Indian students, Russian students, Iranian students…If we crossed out all the dates on the calendar when someone has a holiday, we’d have absolutely no time for school events.

Go with the numbers, Ken said calmly. In his well-tailored suit, he looked as if he were about to give one of his financial lectures. All that was missing was a laser pointer.

I beg your pardon? Zaccaro asked.

Go with the numbers. There are now more than twenty-five Chinese students in this district, and probably only two Iranian students. Why can’t we just be smart and go with the numbers and do what’s right?

If we went with the numbers, I still think you’d be very unhappy. More than seventy five percent of the students in this district are Italian, and without us, there might not even be any school events in America in the first place, because Christopher Columbus was Italian, not Chinese!

Why do you feel it necessary to insult me? Ken asked.

How am I insulting you?

With your tone, Ken said.

Well, you insult me with your hidden prejudice.

"My hidden prejudice? My hidden prejudice?"

Is there an echo in here? Is there an echo in here?

Offended and exasperated, Ken Liang left the office and slammed the door so hard behind him that Zaccaro’s wall-mounted calendar jumped off its hook and landed on the floor. On the month of the Chinese New Year, no less.

And finally, near the end of the school day, there was the Jonathan Blaise episode.

Jonathan Blaise was a substitute teacher who, because of his knowledge of so many subjects, and because the students liked him so very much, had been hired to be on call at school every day of the week. Jonathan is a good friend of mine. He also considers himself a writer. About a year ago, he met the publisher of Garden State Monthly at the magazine’s Best High Schools in New Jersey press conference, and he shared with her a few things he had written. The publisher liked his work and asked him to write a few articles for the magazine. Although that initial assignment didn’t pan out, Jonathan kept the publisher updated on his writing activities. (He even tried to get an assignment for me at Garden State Monthly, but the publisher turned down the idea. She’s allowed. It’s a free country.)

At thirty-six years of age, Jonathan already looked back on at least a dozen professions. He is one of the brightest, kindest and most innocent guys on the face of the planet, and frankly, that’s always been one of his problems. He can learn just about any topic, fix any kind of device, master any concept — but on the other hand, he’s been let go from every job he’s ever had. That’s because he’s too nice and obliging, takes people’s problems too much to heart, believes everyone’s story, and tries too hard to be helpful, understanding and forgiving.

What a criminal!

I was the one who helped Jonathan get his subbing gig at Venice Shores High School. The students adored him from the first day. (So did many of their mothers, for he looks like a slightly disheveled version of a tall, dark and handsome matinee idol, complete with an unruly pompadour and outrageous dimples.) He was voted Best Sub after his first year.

He also got in trouble a few times.

The first time was last October, when he agreed to an unusual request by several eleventh grade boys in an English class for which he subbed for an entire month. Their request was to allow them to identify and memorize as many references to the sex act as they could find in all of Shakespeare’s plays. The kids insisted that it would be fun and educational, and Jonathan could find no reason to disagree. So for three days the boys scoured the plays, and for two weeks after that they gleefully went around school shouting about making the beast with two backs, finding a girl in order to front her and board her, and sleeping in the contrivance of lust, only to be wak’d to do it.

Word reached home, and several parents complained bitterly to Dr. Zaccaro. Jonathan, who was pleased to hear eleventh graders so readily quoting Shakespeare instead of Donald Trump, was soundly reprimanded.

Then, a few weeks ago, while in charge of another English class, Jonathan agreed