Lesson Plan for Murder: A Master Class Mystery

By Lori Robbins

It was a truth universally acknowledged: Marcia Deaver's untimely death elicited very little grief from her colleagues at Valerian Hills High School. Some staff members speculate the cause of death was a heart attack, or perhaps a suicide, but Liz Hopewell knows no self-respecting English teacher would

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685123550

Lori Robbins

A former dancer, Lori performed with a number of modern dance and classical ballet companies, including Ballet Hispanico and the St. Louis Ballet. Her commercial work included featured spots for Pavlova Perfume and Macy's. After ten very lean years onstage, she became an English teacher and now writes full-time. She is co-president of the New York/Tri-State chapter of Sisters in Crime and a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

Book preview

Chapter One

~Things Fall Apart

If you want advice on how to inflict the kind of pain that festers forever, consult an English teacher. They’re easier to find than hitmen, and they understand suffering. Admittedly, the skills required of hitmen and English teachers don’t intersect to any great degree, but success in either profession required similar strength, as well as a similar ability to compartmentalize. Dr. Marcia Deaver was a case in point. Of course, all she did was call me a thief and a liar. A pinprick, more than a case of outrageous fortune.

My feral colleague began her assault in the lobby of Valerian Hills High School. I was shocked to see her, but not because she was angry. There was nothing unusual about that. No, the surprise was that my fellow English teacher had executed a real-life variation on a very adult essay topic: What I Did on My Summer Vacation After My Husband Left Me. The overweight, elastic-pants-wearing Marcia had lost at least thirty pounds. She appeared to have invested all of the money she’d saved at the grocery store on a new wardrobe, a personal trainer, and an excellent facelift. Perhaps Botox.

Her expression was at odds with her appearance. While her smooth, tanned forehead seemed to advertise the latest in luxury bedding or Prozac, the look in her eye screamed Lady Macbeth on amphetamines.

I tried to compliment her, but Marcia cut me off, possibly to demonstrate her physical makeover hadn’t changed her personality. Liz Hopewell! Stop your mindless chatter this instant!

The two-word response that sprang to my lips died a silent death inside my head. Although I grew up in the Brooklyn projects, I didn’t let those formative experiences dominate my life. I tried not to, anyway. But there was a limit to politeness. I executed an about-face, and Marcia had to address the rest of her tirade to my back.

Someone stole my desk chair! My $700 chair is gone. Have you seen it? Someone has to know.

Not guilty, Marcia. Impressed by her passion, I held both hands wide to demonstrate my innocence. Unconvinced, Marcia continued to tail me. Her vehemence inspired me to take the stairs at a much quicker pace than usual. Thanks to her new level of fitness she didn’t break a sweat, but I was more than a little winded. With Marcia still at my heels, I walked down the hall and entered my classroom. She examined the room, apparently to confirm I wasn’t harboring her stolen property.

Someone in this benighted excuse for a school is a petty criminal. Although she stomped her foot with enough force to smash an atom, the delicate shoe survived. When I find out who it is, I will press charges.

Marcia wasn’t at her best when dealing with adult human beings, but she was a gifted English teacher. Her lectures on Frankenstein made every listener feel the utter pain and isolation of that tormented man and his Creation. When she talked about A Tale of Two Cities, the horrors of the French Revolution came to life. Her ability to discuss topics that didn’t appear on the AP exam, however, weren’t as well-documented.

I didn’t doubt Marcia’s capacity for making people miserable. But she was like a heat-seeking missile: dangerous when headed in your direction, but capable of being diverted to a more appropriate target.

I logged onto my school email and stared at the spam in order to avoid facing Marcia. Why are you bothering with me? Go find a custodian to harass. Or send a district-wide email. I think all that weight loss has affected your brain.

It’s not my brain that’s the problem. She narrowed her eyes and drew together artfully plucked brows. I’ve already cornered every possible suspect. Except for you. And don’t give me that innocent expression. I know you’re still angling to get my Advanced Placement classes, which is never going to happen. You’re not getting my classes or my Aeron chair.

Back in June, I answered an anonymous school-wide survey on what classes I wanted to teach. I knew it was a long shot, but I requested one of Marcia’s Advanced Placement English classes and offered up my creative writing class to sweeten the deal.

Someone blabbed, the change never happened, and Marcia and I ended the school year on very chilly terms.

She eyed me, and with a nasty grin said, No soccer mom, including you, is capable of taking my place.

I didn’t bother to defend myself against her challenge to my intelligence. Instead, I sat in my cheap chair and swiveled from side to side, to achieve maximum irritation. Marcia circled the room with the intensity of a latter-day Magellan in search of the Spice Islands. She was near the door when I stopped her.

I knew I would regret doing so, but I couldn’t resist saying, Before you go, I have to ask—what kind of diet are you on? And who did your hair? I wasn’t trying to flatter her or distract her. I really wanted to know.

Marcia put her hands on newly slim hips. I’m not on a diet. She tossed back her soft, brown waves, which a few months earlier had been the color and texture of Brillo. I did my hair myself.

"Yeah, right. And I’m the new swimsuit model for Sports Illustrated."

It took a much cleverer response than that to slow Marcia’s caustic wit. She pointed a scarlet-tipped finger at my chest and shot back, What size suit?

I couldn’t let Marcia’s nastiness go unpunished. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

I strolled over to the window, did a double take, and gasped, Oh my God! There’s your chair! In the parking lot!

She didn’t check to see if I was telling the truth and ran out of my classroom as fast as her four-inch stilettos allowed. I peered through the window and watched her search the chair-less parking lot. I felt slightly guilty at tricking her but figured all’s fair in love and war. And furniture.

Marcia made me late for our first staff meeting, but since I’d sat through the same dreary professional development exercises for the last ten years I wasn’t worried. The only part about teaching I liked was being with the kids, and they wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

I hadn’t seen most of my colleagues since June, and while I couldn’t compete with Marcia’s makeover, I didn’t want to be her foil either. I brushed a streak of dust from black yoga sweats, which from many angles looked like zip-up pants. I tucked an errant bra strap under my tank top and checked the mirror to see if those half dozen strands of gray hair had recruited any new members. Lastly, I swiped my mouth with some Barcelona Red lipstick. Without artificial help my pale skin and dark hair and eyes tended to elicit queries about my health. Reasonably satisfied with the results, I locked the door to protect my belongings from the chair thief.

By the time I got to the auditorium, the first part of our opening day program had started, and the only open seats were in the front. A motivational speaker, Mr. Pescarelli, (Call me Joe!) leaped onto the stage, eager to enlighten us about his Pescarelli Program.

After thirty minutes of imploring us to be the best we could be, Joe started a video that offered a detailed history of his Dickensian childhood and subsequent rise to success. The lights dimmed. I closed my eyes, positive the presence of my colleagues and the loud voiceover would prevent me from falling asleep. Unfortunately, neither was sufficient to keep me awake.

A cop, a cowboy, and a biker dude shimmied into my daydream and beckoned me to join the rest of the Village People on the dance floor. When I opened my eyes, the bare-chested guy in a feathered headdress evaporated, and in his place Joe Pescarelli urged us to share in a motivational teambuilding dance.

What the hell. Only a dead person could resist the siren song of YMCA. As the lights brightened and the opening beats echoed through the auditorium, I poked both arms in the air, clapped my hands, and began singing.

The auditorium seemed a bit quiet. I peered behind me. Not one other person was reliving Swinging Seventies Nights at long-defunct retro dance halls.

Joe Pescarelli said, Let’s give the dancing queen a big round of applause!

Those who weren’t checking social media clapped. I avoided eye contact and took a bow, hoping my colleagues hadn’t captured the moment and posted it in a video that would go viral. I barreled toward the exit. There was no better excuse for truancy than one grounded in public humiliation.

The halls were deserted, except for Mrs. Donnatella, the school secretary. Red-faced and perspiring, she stood guard behind a table filled with our back-to-school folders. Mrs. Donnatella, who made Marcia Deaver look like Glinda the Good Witch, was no happier to see me than I was to see her. She rarely moved from her throne in the main office, and I was surprised to see her outside the air-conditioned room. I greeted her politely and asked about her summer vacation.

She said, in a voice thick with disapproval, You’re supposed to be in the meeting.

I assured her, in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation, I’ll be back.

She wasn’t impressed but offered no further complaint. I initialed the checklist, grabbed my folder from the stack marked English Dept., and left.

Sunlight poured with brutal intensity into the classroom. I flipped through my folder and realized that in addition to grabbing the folder marked Hopewell, Liz, I’d also taken the one marked Deaver, Marcia. I contemplated Marcia’s probable response to this gaffe and for both our sakes was grateful burning at the stake was no longer in vogue. I longed to fortify myself with a glass of wine before facing the shrew across the hall, but that restorative was still hours away.

Marcia’s classroom was on the shady side of the building, and the sudden relief from burning sunshine gave me goosebumps. There was still no chair behind her desk. No Marcia, either. I decided to leave the folder in her classroom instead of returning it to Mrs. Donnatella.

Marcia’s room, like Marcia herself, had undergone a radical alteration. Although it was never neat, on that day it was weirdly—and wildly—untidy. On the floor her prized collection of vintage movie posters wound themselves into helpless spirals. Papers carpeted the area near her desk, and piles of textbooks were splayed on the windowsill, their bent spines protesting the rough treatment. A few had fallen into the trash can.

Was Marcia redecorating? I didn’t remember her ever changing anything in her classroom, but perhaps her personal makeover inspired her to alter her physical environment. This didn’t, however, explain the trashed books. None of her students dared deface a single page with a pencil mark or dog ear.

A breeze from the open window blew a few more papers across the room, and I retrieved them. Fearing Marcia would walk in on me, I held the papers at arm’s length in order to demonstrate my innocent helpful nature.

In addition to piles of books and random boxes, Marcia had left her shiny, red-soled shoes on the floor. They really were beautiful shoes. I put the papers down and walked around the boxes and behind the desk for a closer look.

The synapses inside my brain that were supposed to fire when they received visual information refused to spark. I looked at Marcia’s feet and at the undignified spread of her legs. Through a myopic haze I took in her gaping mouth and staring eyes. Underneath coral lipstick, the color of her mouth echoed the blue of her shirt. A thin stream of brown fluid trickled from an overturned coffee cup and landed, one drip at a time, on Marcia’s face.

The walls dipped and swooped. I tried to keep myself from falling, but my hasty grip on the keyboard panel caused it to slip forward, and I nearly pitched onto the top of the desk. In slow motion, I moved the panel back to its original position. A large yellow envelope, the kind we use for substitute lesson plans, dislodged itself from the underside of the desk panel and spit into my middle. I caught it just before it landed on Marcia.

Behind me, the door creaked. Finally, screams broke the tension. Mine, not Marcia’s.

Chapter Two

~Heart of Darkness

Icouldn’t burn from my mind’s eye the image of Marcia’s convulsed face and degrading posture. Every detail was as vividly present the following day as it was when I first found her. I needed a confidante, and my husband was the only available candidate.

How do you think Marcia died? I followed George into the bathroom.

How do I think what? He sniffed at the towel hanging next to the shower and tossed it on the floor.

It would take more than a moldy towel to distract me. I repeat, how do you think Marcia Deaver died? I think—do you think—is it possible she was poisoned? Dozens of people disliked her, but murder…

Was she the kind of person who bothered her husband when he was trying to get ready for work?

George’s sense of humor had never been more irritating. Why are you so worried about being late? You got that promotion. I thought you’d be able to cut down your hours.

He took the last clean towel from the linen closet and turned to face me. Think again. I’m a minor vice president of a real estate firm that’s managed not to make mega-millions in New York City. More importantly, I have to get out of here. We’re negotiating for a new office building in Brooklyn. I’m sorry about your dead friend, but I have a lot on my mind right now.

George paused to contemplate his navel, not as an aid to meditation, but to check the outline of his abdomen. It was attractive, though not at all like the skinny torso of the guy I fell in love with twenty years ago. Of course, twenty years ago he’d have pulled me into the shower with him. Twenty years ago, the only real estate that interested him was the lumpy bed we shared in our first apartment.

I tried to keep his attention. I have a lot on my mind too. Death trumps real estate. And to answer your question about Marcia, she didn’t bother her husband when he was in the shower because she was divorced.

My husband turned the faucets on full force. Is there any evidence the poor woman was murdered? She probably had a heart attack.

I suppose that’s possible. But Marcia looked so healthy. I saw her less than an hour before she died, and she looked better than she had in years. I hate to admit this, but if she was murdered, there are plenty of suspects at Valerian Hills High School.

That’s ridiculous. George leaned over the edge of the tub to test the water, which resisted any temperature not freezing or scalding. I met Marcia and the rest of the bunch at that horrible fundraiser you dragged me to. If someone did kill her, he probably bored her to death. Anyway, we went over this ten times last night. Put the whole thing out of your mind.

I wished I could put it out of my mind. You didn’t see her. She looked like she died violently. Her face…it wasn’t a peaceful death. She suffered.

George stroked my cheek, and the sudden tenderness reminded me of many tender moments. He said, more gently, Finding her like that must have been awful, but that’s no reason for you to start imagining some bizarre conspiracy theory. People don’t die according to schedule. Your mother was only thirty-seven. And how old was your father? Do you even know?

Of course I knew when my father was supposed to have died.

I pulled away. I don’t want to talk about him. It’s more important to me that you stick around. And this isn’t about my father. This is about Marcia.

George went back to fiddling with the taps. I know how you love to dramatize things, but the only evidence the woman was murdered exists in your head. Even those lunatics in the English department aren’t that crazy. Look on the bright side. Maybe you’ll get to teach those AP classes you’re always talking about. Apparently feeling this comment closed the conversation, George stepped into the shower.

I raised my voice to compete with the hissing water and clanking pipes. I’d love to teach AP, but I doubt it’ll happen. Caroline Cartwright has probably already sweet-talked both Gordon and Timmy into changing her schedule. I think she has a bit of a crush on Timmy.

Which one is Timmy?

I knew the names of George’s coworkers, and his inability to remember mine annoyed me. Timmy is the assistant principal. Gordon is the principal.

I had more to say but was distracted when he handed me a chunk of plaster that dropped from where the rickety shower pole met the ceiling. The appeal of our modest Victorian home didn’t extend to the avocado green bathroom, which hadn’t been renovated since the Carter administration. I lusted over advertisements for gleaming bathroom fixtures, but George was betting a new hot water heater was going to win out over more aesthetically pleasing upgrades.

When I complained, George reminded me this house was the one I chose. Although he worked in midtown Manhattan, he wanted to move to a more distant suburb, similar to Valerian Hills, where new houses featured walk in closets, wall-to-wall carpeting, and central everything. I insisted we move to Oak Ridge, where turn of the century Tudor, Georgian, and Victorian money pits radiated the kind of charm and personality that were so expensive to maintain.

George muttered a few words to himself, and then, louder, said, This is real life, not literature. You get nervous reading about crime.

I stood my ground. I didn’t have to admit to something simply because it was true. I’m a lot tougher than you give me credit for. Plus, I could use the exercise.

If you want to exercise, you can start by using the gym membership that gets deducted from the American Express card every month. I think you’re averaging $100 per visit.

I let George have the last word. It was getting late, and I still wasn’t dressed for work. I swapped plaid pajama bottoms for a long stretchy skirt that hid a multitude of ice cream sodas. I exchanged a faded tank top for a less-worn version and added three-inch high-wedged sandals. The extra height, plus the all-black ensemble, helped me pretend I wasn’t short and didn’t need to lose ten pounds. Maybe twelve. Fifteen, at the most.

I went down to the kitchen. The kids were already on their way to Oak Ridge High School. Ellie, fifteen years old and an aspiring dancer, had left her peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the counter. She also left a list of items she wanted from the grocery store. These included diet Jell-O, diet soda, and diet salad dressing. Sixteen-year-old Zach left four horribly smelling soccer socks next to Ellie’s lunch.

I threw the socks into the washer with a load of other laundry, knowing this would sap the remainder of the hot water. Energized by George’s audible reaction to the suddenly chilly cascade, I scrubbed from the table bits of soggy cereal that were metamorphosing into concrete before heading back to work.

The students’ return to school was postponed until the following day. I reported to the auditorium, where the Home and School Association provided us with a post-mortem bagel breakfast. Refreshments were eliminated from discretionary spending years ago, and I was unprepared for this assault on my diet, which had begun two hours earlier. I convinced myself that if I ate a bagel and skipped lunch, this would be the same as dieting.

Caroline Cartwright looked at my plate and sniffed, as if she needed olfactory confirmation of what was plainly visible. With an amused smile she said, Aren’t you on the Atkins diet?

Her position as the English department chairperson, in conjunction with a posh British accent, emboldened her to express thoughts most civilized people kept quiet. Even Marcia could barely keep up with her.

I flicked a few crumbs in her direction, trying to keep her far enough away that she wouldn’t spy the cream cheese hiding in the bagel. No, Caroline, now I’m on the Bagel Diet. All you have to do is eat as many bagels as you want, and you lose a ton of weight.

Caroline stepped back, careful to preserve the ironed perfection of her pencil skirt. She didn’t deign to answer, but Bill Murphy, a former jock who was spreading into middle age, was impressed.

Really? That’s awesome! Bill piled two bagels and a muffin onto a paper plate that struggled to bear the burden of the combined carbohydrates. Feeling somewhat guilty, I hoped at some point Bill would realize my improvised Bagel Diet was no substitute for Weight Watchers.

Here at Valerian Hills High School, we usually sat together by department, not because we liked each other, but because we were lazy. I slipped in next to Emily Pearson, who was as gentle as Caroline was aggressive. All around us teachers spoke in subdued voices, as though we were already at the funeral.

The principal walked in, flanked by two police officers. Both wore bright gold badges on civilian clothes. Right Hand Cop looked like a cartoon character, with white hair and a moustache that hung over his top lip. He shifted back and forth on his scuffed shoes, possibly to alleviate the pressure that his brown sports jacket inflicted on his middle. Left Hand Cop was tall and lean, with blue eyes and light brown hair. His linen blazer hung open to reveal a white shirt and a repp tie striped in red and gold. He looked like the kind of guy who didn’t need privacy while taking a shower.

Neither was my type. I preferred short, skinny guys in unfashionable eyeglasses. Someone in off label jeans and a tee shirt, or a nerdy short-sleeved plaid number. If I ever were attracted to a cop, which was doubtful, he would have to be more like a Masterpiece Mystery detective than the hero of an action movie. Nevertheless, Left Hand Cop did have the kind of athletic allure that attracted some women.

Gordon and the cops stood together, at a distance too far away for us to hear what they were saying. While we waited for them to get started, Emily said, I thought Marcia had a heart attack. I hope the police won’t interrogate me. I barely knew her.

Excuse me? Caroline looked down her nose. You’ve been working with her almost as long as I have.

Emily stuttered through an unnecessary apology and an even more unnecessary explanation. I meant, you know. I just, well, I didn’t know her personally. I never saw her outside of school.

None of us saw her outside of school, Caroline snapped. Marcia Deaver thought she was too good for the rest of us. She paused and then added, Not to speak ill of the dead.

I wonder who’s going to teach Marcia’s Advanced Placement classes? Perhaps it was a bit callous of me, but I really did want to know.

Emily, who’d taught the same freshman curriculum for her entire career, quavered, "I don’t know anything about those books. They have to read Moby Dick!"

Caroline was equally disinclined, but being Caroline, she had to couch her answer combatively. I’d bloody well love to see them try to make me learn a new curriculum.

Bill didn’t respond. I wondered if he, and not Caroline, would be angling for Marcia’s schedule.

In an effort to discourage Bill, I said, "Marcia’s students earned some of the best scores in New Jersey, and whoever takes over her classes is going to have