Charly, still unsettled by such an odd instruction, but too curious about what was going on to delay, did as she was told. She made her way along the hall beside the long counter, took a left, and then walked over to the door on the right. It was open, and she could hear voices, so she walked on in.
The conference room was filled with the executive staff of the school, along with a few of the board members who saw the police heading for Saint Chris and headed over there too. They all were Caucasian and much older than Charly. Decades older. And as soon as she walked in, the conversations ceased and she could have heard a pin drop.
“Yes?” board member Margaret Ackroyd asked Charly with a frown on her face. “Who are you to barge in here like this?”
Charly didn’t stutter. “I’m Charlene Johnson. The new dean of students.”
They all seemed shocked to Charly. Did they not know she was coming? The secretary did. Why wouldn’t they?
But they knew. All of them knew. They were just surprised by what they saw. They expected Charlene Johnson to be some big, fat woman in runover shoes for some reason even they could not legitimately verbalize. That was how their less-than-liberated minds had envisioned her.
But Charly, to them, looked like a tall, attractive model. Not a thin one by any stretch, but not a fat one either: at least not to the men around that table. But a very shapely, big-bosomy one. Certainly nothing like the dean of students any of them were used to!
But if Charly were to be honest, their unfriendly faces was a huge letdown.
It was Amos Yerkson, the vice-principal, a man in his late-fifties, who was the first to show any politeness. He smiled, rose from his seat and made his way to Charly, extending his hand as he came. “Welcome to Saint Christopher Academy, Miss Johnson,” he said to her. “We are so honored to have you join our faculty.”
A friendly face finally, Charly thought. “Thank you,” she said with a smile of her own, and shook his hand.
“I’m Amos Yerkson,” he said. “And please forgive me. I planned to greet you out front. It’s just that this business today has all of us off our game, I’m afraid.”
“What business is that?” Charly, never afraid to pry, asked.
“The principal would have liked to be here today, too,” Amos said instead of answering her question, “but as it happens he’s on vacation. But I’m your direct supervisor, anyway, so it works out in the end.”
“Yes, it does,” responded Charly. “What business are you referring to? I saw the police cars out back.”
They said black women were tough, Amos thought in a way he knew was stereotypical, but she was proving the point. And he was about to answer her. But when he looked and saw that all eyes of those obnoxious, overbearing board members were on the two of them, he placed his hand on Charly’s upper arm and escorted her into a file room off from the conference area, closing the door behind them.
Charly was super-curious now. She stared at Amos with big, concerned eyes.
“There’s no easy way to say it,” Amos said, his own eyes filled with what Charly could only describe as dread. “But a dead body was found in the back of the school this morning.”
Even though Charly assumed the worse, as she usually did, she did not assume that. “A dead body?” she asked, shocked. “Oh my goodness! Do they know who it is?”
“They may,” Amos said, referring to the police, “but they aren’t sharing that information with us.”
“But what happened? Was she or he shot or --”
“Still no information,” Amos responded. “But if you knew Boone Ryan, you wouldn’t be surprised.”
Charly had no idea who Boone Ryan was, and at that point she didn’t care. “Who discovered the body?”
“The head cook,” said Amos. “She went to throw a pot of water out of the backdoor, which we told her time and time again to stop doing, but she did it again this morning, and that was when she saw the body. Nearly drenched it, she said. The police are with her now. I just arrived, so that’s all I know. I don’t know who, what, when, none of those things.”
He seemed almost out of control, Charly felt. It was understandable, he was the vice-principal of the school and the death apparently happened on his watch. But he was also a leader at that school. He needed to pull it together.
Not that Charly had it altogether herself. She didn’t. She thought she was getting away from drama when she left the west coast. She thought she would find peace and redemption here. But to find more killing? It astounded her.
“But please, don’t let it upset you,” Amos said as he squeezed her arm, as if he could feel her anxiety. But the way he placed his hand on her made her uncomfortable. He, apparently, sensed that too and removed it. “It’s an awful way to begin your tenure here, I know it is, but I assure you this doesn’t happen to us every day.”
Charly looked at him as if he was crazy.
“Or not even every other day,” he quickly corrected himself.
When she continued to stare at him as if he was still mad, he made himself clearer. “This is the first time something like this has ever happened at Saint Chris, is what I’m saying,” he said.
Charly was relieved, but still unsettled.
But then the door was opened and a uniformed police officer peered inside. “Sorry to disturb you, Amos,” he said, “but the chief wants all of the senior leadership in the cafeteria.”
“Finally,” Amos said with a touch of obnoxiousness himself, and then he motioned for Charly to go first.
They both headed out of the file room, and made their way to the chief.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They all sat up front, with the members of the board of directors, Fritz Hollingsworth, Les Pataki, and Margaret Ackroyd, seated on the front row. Amos and Charly sat just behind them. The head cook, Zelda, the woman who discovered the body, sat behind them. It was the pecking order in Hemingway. The members of the board hailed from among the wealthiest families in the county, families that ran that whole town. They always took the choice seats.
A small group of plainclothes detectives, along with a larger contingent of uniformed cops, were in the front of the cafeteria leaned against the stage. One man in particular, Charly noticed, seemed to be at the center of it all. He was on his cell phone, in what appeared to be a heated conversation with somebody, although she could not hear what was being said. But his face made it clear it wasn’t great.
Amos leaned toward her. “That’s Boone Ryan,” he whispered in her ear with breath that smelled like eggs. “He’s our infamous police chief. He is the sort of person you shall want to avoid at all costs,” he warned.
Although Charly nodded, Amos’s warning only increased her curiosity and she found herself staring at the “infamous” chief.
He appeared to be in his forties, if Charly had to guess, and he wore a very stylish suit that looked rather rumpled considering how much he had to have paid for it. Either he was up all night in that suit, she concluded, or he wore rumpled clothing and just didn’t care. But by the look of the very well-polished, expensive dress shoes he wore, she knew it wasn’t the latter.
The police chief ended his phone call and tossed his phone in his pocket, still upset by what apparently had been discussed. But when he looked up and saw that the school leadership had assembled, he put on a smile and walked over to where they were seated. He stood directly in front of them.