Death of a Scholar: A Holly Reynolds Mystery:, #1

By D.A. Schneider

High school senior Holly Reynolds gained notoriety for solving a murder while on vacation at a snowed-in ski resort. Now, nearly a year later, a beloved former teacher ends up dead, and it's up to Holly to uncover the truth behind her untimely death. Can she prove it wasn't a suicide but a well-planned murder? Follow Holly as she unravels the mystery that will keep you guessing until the end.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editingle Indie House
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9789394346031

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Lazy Sunday afternoons have always been a personal favorite of mine. I usually spent them curling up with a good book by the pool or the window seat in my room when the weather was bad, while my dad was planted on the couch for a day of football or baseball and my mother was busy painting in her studio. The day I heard about the death of Mrs. Kenilworth was one of those Sundays.

It was just a week after Halloween, and I was still munching on the candy leftover from trick-or-treating. My mother went overboard every year and bought way too much. She always claimed it was an accident, but we both benefited from it. Even though we passed out a record amount (and being my first year as a giver of candy and not a receiver, I loved seeing the little kids in their costumes), an entire bowl of ‘fun size’ candy bars was left over. Honestly, I don’t see what’s so fun about them. Give me a full-size candy bar any day.

Outside, the rain was falling, and colorful leaves of yellow, red, and orange were quickly covering the faded green of our front lawn because of the blustering wind. I was taking a small break from the latest mystery novel I’d immersed myself in and rested my forehead on the window to watch the leaves swirl in the wind as they rained down from the branches above while Marlow, our yellow lab, snored away on my bed. I was mesmerized by the movement of the leaves. So much so that I soon found my eyes were heavy, and I started to doze off.

So when the knock came at my bedroom door, it startled me, and I felt a stream of drool down my chin that I hastily wiped away with the sleeve of my sweater. Yeah?

My mother came through the door with a dour look on her face. Hi, honey.

Hey, Mom. Is something wrong?

I could feel my mother’s nervousness as she shifted from one foot to another. I’m afraid I have some sad news for you. I knew something was wrong because she seemed unable to look me in the eye.

What is it, Mom? Tell me. My voice was almost soothing as I tried to coax the news out of her, despite my growing impatience.

She finally came clean. Your fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Kenilworth, has passed away.

What? I shook my head, forcing away the sleepiness, and sat up a little straighter. How?

It appears to be a suicide.

A great wave of grief washed over me. Oh, my God! Why would she do that?

Instantly, my mother sat beside me on the window seat and pulled me close. Her shoulder was always there for me to cry whenever I felt sad or hurt. I don’t know, honey. There aren’t many details yet.

Oh, Jason. Jason Kenilworth was the son of my old teacher and a classmate still. How is he? He’s got to be devastated.

We had several classes together, and though we were close in grade school, we ran in different social circles once we got to high school. I, of course, was the bookish nerd while he was a wide receiver on the football team. At that moment, all I wanted to do was reach out and comfort him.

With all these thoughts swirling around my head like the leaves on the wind outside, I let the tears come as my mother held me close and ran her hand through my hair.

Mrs. Shannon Kenilworth was one of my favorite teachers ever. She had a kindness to her that was rare among other teachers I’d dealt with throughout my school years. She could also be stern when necessary, though she exhibited endless patience when it came to the children in her class, regardless of how rowdy we could get. She was always happy and cheerful. I couldn’t imagine any reason for her to take her own life.

Perhaps she suffered from a mental illness. It wasn’t unheard of for people suffering from depression to commit suicide. These were often people you’d least expect. My mind kept turning back to Jason. Not the Jason of today, but that sweet little boy who used to give me his chocolate milk when we were little.

Even though I wanted to reach out to him, to give him some sort of comfort, I felt strange about it. It had been so long since we’d even acknowledged each other’s existence. Although we were friends on social media, there had been zero interaction since. I picked up my phone, opened the chat, and found his name to start a new conversation. I typed a few words, stared at them momentarily, then deleted everything. After repeating this process twice more, I threw the phone down on my bed and slumped into the window seat, blowing out a long, frustrated breath.

I was overthinking about the right words to say. His mother had just died. So, I thought it best to keep it short and to the point.

Standing with new determination, I walked around the foot of my bed, picked up my phone, and typed the message on his social media.

I heard about your mom. I am so sorry.

I sent it, and that was that. Whether or not he responded wasn’t important. At least I said what I wanted to, and he knew I was thinking about him. Much to my surprise, my phone chimed moments later, and I looked down at the screen.

Thank you, was all that he replied. And that was the end of it. Or so I thought.

CHAPTER 2

The home of Purdue University, Lafayette, Indiana, had been the town I’ve called home all my life. Like many towns in the state, the population isn’t exactly booming at just over sixty-seven thousand. Still, the campus brings a sense of diversity and culture to the town that my parents always loved and impressed upon me from a very young age. The community emphasizes art and creativity, with museums and art galleries often buzzing with social events and shows.

Being a college town, the high schools always seem like they need to keep up. My high school was no different. Jefferson High is among the smaller schools in town but boasts a beautiful campus and excellent college prep programs—many of which I utilized in my senior year. At seventeen, I had my eyes on getting an education from Purdue, where my father was a professor in creative writing.

I also had become known throughout my school as the girl who’d solved a murder case while on Christmas vacation the previous year. This notoriety did not have the effect I’d expected. Rather than being praised for such a feat, I was pegged as dark and a weirdo. Nothing new, really. More like an amplification of how people saw me before.

In my experience, books are far more interesting than people, and that was where I spent most of my time. I read in the mornings as my mother drove me to school (I was in no way ready for driving yet and said so whenever my parents pestered me about it). I read while I ate lunch, in fifth-period study hall, and in the evenings after finishing schoolwork and chores. Overall, I always read. But I didn’t read just any kind of book. Murder mysteries were my thing. To this day, I can’t get enough.

That’s why I was able to solve that murder, I think—snowed in at a ski resort, a dead body on our hands, with the roads blocked from police help. Most of the guests at the ski resort locked themselves in their rooms, but not me. I knew I could solve the case. I’d read so many detective stories that there was never a doubt in my mind. So, I followed the evidence where it took me and solved the case before the police arrived.

Oddly, this brought very little in the way of accolades, especially from my parents, who, while impressed with what I’d done, were no less angry with how I’d put myself in danger. For me, that was part of the thrill. And, since it happened, I couldn’t deny I wouldn’t jump at the chance to take on another case. However, this was real life and not Murder She Wrote (which I binged watched with my mother and loved), and murder victims didn’t just appear out of the blue. It seemed this thirst for solving real-life mysteries would have to go unfulfilled for the foreseeable future.

Monday morning started much the way every school day began. I sat in the drop-off line and read while my mother was on the phone with a client (though sometimes she was on the phone with a partner at her architecture firm) as we edged ever closer to the school’s side door. Finally, she gave me a nudge, and I kissed her cheek, mouthing I love you to avoid interrupting her call, then got out to meet my best friend, Gwen.

Oh, my God, did you hear about Mrs. Kenilworth? Gwen asked first thing instead of greeting me. A perfect contrast to my dark hair, dark clothes, and general dark demeanor, Gwen had blonde hair, bright clothes, and an energy that I sometimes found exhausting. Still, she was a nerd just the same as me, though instead of books, she loved trading card games and Harry Potter.

Yes, I’m so sad about it. I just can’t believe she’d commit suicide.

I know, right? She always seemed so strong and confident. Gwen’s voice trailed off, and she started fiddling with her fingers.

Yeah. I wonder if she tried to reach out to someone for help, you know? A therapist or something.

Probably not. Some people keep everything bottled up, and it eventually gets to them. I wonder how Jason’s doing.

He’s got to be devastated. I shook my head, on the verge of tears.

For sure. Gwen was never the best at showing emotion, but I could tell by her slumped shoulder she was grieving.

We went quiet after that and walked toward our lockers as if having a moment of silence for the dearly departed Mrs. Kenilworth. Then we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways until the second period when we had a shared chemistry class. I walked into first-period English Lit, and my eyes went directly to the desk where Jason normally sat. Empty. I wondered how long one was out of school with the loss of a parent and silently prayed I’d never have to find out.

At the front of the class, Mr. Webster was writing the day’s lesson plan on a dry-erase board, and when the bell rang, he turned to the class with a solemn look on his face. I’m sure by now you’ve all heard, we lost a very dear friend over the weekend. Mrs. Shannon Kenilworth was a teacher for many of you in grade school, and I hope you’ll think about her with fondness as you go about your day, as I know I will. For now, let us have a moment of silence for her and keep young Jason in your thoughts and prayers as well.

In the silence, some prayed. Most bowed their heads in observance. But Kyle Burton, widely known as Jefferson High’s local psychopath, worked on drawing a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth on a piece of lined writing paper. From the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of his pen; however, Mr. Webster ended the moment by clearing his throat and proceeding with his class.

The rest of the day went much the same way, and by the end of the week, we were all getting past the initial shock, and a strange sort of numbness seemed to set in, as if I, along with all my classmates, had just woken up from a long, uneasy sleep. We moved through our classes like zombies, freshly escaped from the grave and functioning on pure routine and instinct alone.

When Friday came, I decided to walk home with Gwen, and we talked about the week along the way. What a dreary, depressing start to November! I lamented.

Yeah. I’m so glad it’s the weekend. I don’t think I would have been able to stand another day.

Agreed. I wonder when Jason will be back. Throughout the week, I attempted to message him many times but didn’t find the words.

I don’t know. Tina Fenton was gone for three days when her grandmother passed away.

Yeah.

Gwen stopped as an idea occurred to her. You know what? All this talk about death has got us in a funk. Let’s go to my house and put on a movie. A comedy.

Yeah, all right. I just have to text the mothership and let her know where I’ll be.

We carried on through the streets of our enormous neighborhood, kicking through the fallen leaves as we walked to Gwen’s two-story house. We lived in the same housing edition, though my household was further in.

Through the front door and into the living room, the Heerd family (for that was my bestie’s name, Gwendolyn Alexandria Heerd) had insisted on dropping a sofa and chair with a flower pattern in front of a massive eighty-six-inch TV. My mother and I agreed that it was perhaps the most horrendous furniture set either of us had ever laid eyes on. But, of course, this was an opinion we kept to ourselves.

My parents won’t be home for another couple of hours, Gwen said, throwing her bag on the sofa. We could watch something R-rated. She suggested with a mischievous grin.

I openly watch R-rated movies, I stated with a shrug. My parents don’t care.

Oh, right. I forgot they considered you an adult at six.

That’s not true. I rolled my eyes and feigned insult.

You read a Stephen King book when you were like eight.

So? I was just an advanced reader. That doesn’t mean they considered me an adult.

Well, I’m nearly eighteen, and my parents still govern everything I watch. I don’t understand eighty percent of the Samuel L. Jackson memes I see on social media.

I couldn’t help but laugh at this. It felt good to do so after the downer week at school, despite the hurt expression that Gwen now wore.

It’s not funny, she continued. I feel so sheltered.

Well, we better get to it if we want to get one watched before they come home.

Right. I’ll get the popcorn. You pick out a movie.

In the end, we found Wedding Crashers and had a few laughs. It was nice to get my mind off the death of a beloved teacher for a while, and as I walked home, I felt my mood was a little lighter. But all that came crashing down when I walked into the house to find my parents at the kitchen table wearing identical stern looks on their faces.

Hey, guys, I greeted, afraid I was about to hear more tragic news. Is everything okay?

Sit down, pumpkin, my father said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. And using that particular term of endearment told me everything I needed to know. Pumpkin meant whatever they were about to say, I wasn’t going to like it.

What’s going on?

Well, my father began, then glanced at my mom. She nodded in encouragement, and he went on. I’ve been offered a new position. Dean.

Oh, my God! Dad, that’s amazing.

I felt like such great news should have led to happier expressions.

It would mean a considerable jump in salary and comes with many attractive benefits. Dad continued.

Okay, I’m hearing nothing but good things, but your tone is not matching at all. What’s the catch?

He took another look at my mother as if trying to make sure she was still there. Then, he turned back to me again. The position is at the University of Louisville.

And just like that, the earth dropped out from beneath me. Louisville? Dad, all this time, you’ve been grooming me to go to Purdue. Now you’re telling me we’re moving to Louisville.

"Not quite. The job won’t be open until next fall. You’ll be eighteen, Holly, and will no doubt have your choice of schools. Your mother and I have been discussing it. We will be moving to Louisville. You can still go to Purdue if you’d like and live on campus, or you can come with us if you want and go to Louisville. Or you can go to any other school that accepts you. The choice is yours."

What could I say to that? The old ‘I don’t want to leave my friends behind’ argument was null and void here. My only real friend was Gwen, and she most likely wouldn’t stick around. She had always said she wanted to live in California and would try to find a school there that would accept her.

That leaves... no one. Nothing. Sure, I’d prepared most of my life for Purdue because it’s where my father was. I could live at home and attend school; no need to live in a dorm with an annoying roommate or get a job to afford housing off campus. Instead, I would be able to focus entirely on my education. So, what now?

Holly, my mother called out, and I realized I’d been quiet for a while. She may have thought I was in shock. You don’t have to decide right away. Take some time. Think about it.

Yeah, I answered monotonously. My voice sounded strange to my own ears, as if I were swimming up through the depths of a murky dream to the surface of wakefulness. Wait... Mom, what about your job?

We have an office in Crestwood, just outside of Louisville. I’ve already talked to the partners about transferring down.

Shit, I whispered. They both heard me but seemed to allow it under the circumstances. Or, perhaps at that point, permission to curse was included with the R-rated films as a packaged deal. I would be eighteen in little more than a month, after all.

After an uncomfortable dinner that consisted of silence and Chinese take-out, I retired to my room and my favorite spot. Unfortunately, even my window seat and a good murder mystery weren’t enough to keep my mind from wandering, and I found I was having serious trouble concentrating.