Jody's blackening eye caught her attention when the girl removed her hands from her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, blinking through her tears. "Hello, Mrs. Murphy."
"Hello, Jody. What's the matter?" Murphy rubbed against her leg.
Jody stared out at the alleyway, absentmindedly stroking both cats.
"Did she say anything to you?"
"No," Pewter replied.
"Poor kid. She took a pounding." Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, putting her paws on Jody's left knee for a closer look at the young woman's injury. "This just happened."
"Maybe she got in a fight on the way to school."
"She has field hockey practice early in the morning—Brooks does, too."
"Oh, yeah." Pewter cocked her head, trying to capture Jody's attention. "Maybe her father hit her."
Kendrick Miller possessed a vicious temper. Not that anyone outside of the family ever saw him hit his wife or only child, but people looked at him sideways sometimes.
The light crunch of a footfall alerted the cats. Jody, still crying, heard nothing. Sandy Brashiers, whose car was parked behind the market, stopped in his tracks.
"Jody!" he exclaimed, quickly bending down to help her.
She swung her body away from him. The cats moved out of the way. "I'm all right."
He peered at her shiner. "You've been better. Come on, I'll run you over to Larry Johnson. Can't hurt to have the doctor take a look. You can't take a chance with your eyes, honey."
"Don't call me honey." Her vehemence astonished even her.
"I'm sorry." He blushed. "Come on."
"No."
"Jody, if you won't let me take you to Dr. Johnson, then I'll have to take you home. I can't just leave you here."
The backdoor of the post office swung open, and Harry stepped out; she had heard Jody's voice. Miranda was right behind her.
"Oh, dear," Miranda whispered.
Harry came over. "Jody, that's got to hurt."
"I'm all right!" She stood up.
"That's debatable." Sandy was losing patience.
Miranda put a motherly arm around the girl's shoulders. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"She got pasted away," Pewter offered.
"I suggested that I take her to Larry Johnson—to be on the safe side." Sandy shoved his hands into his corduroy pockets.
Jody balefully implored Miranda with her one good eye. "I don't want anyone to see me."
"You can't hide for two weeks. That's about how long it will take for your raccoon eye to disappear." Harry didn't like the look of that eye.
"Now, Jody, you just listen to me," Miranda persisted. "I am taking you to Larry Johnson's. You can't play Russian roulette with your health. Mr. Brashiers will tell Mr. Fletcher that you're at the doctor's office so you won't get in trouble at school."
"Nobody cares about me. And don't call Mr. Fletcher. Just leave him out of it.''
"People care." Miranda patted her and hugged her. "But for right now you come with me."
Encouraged and soothed by Miranda, Jody climbed into the older woman's ancient Ford Falcon.
Harry knitted her eyebrows in concern. Sandy, too. Without knowing it they were mirror images of one another.
Sandy finally spoke. "Coach Hallvard can be rough, but not that rough."
"Maybe she got into a fight with another kid at school," Harry said, thinking out loud.
"Over what?" Pewter asked.
"Boys. Drugs. PMS." Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail in irritation.
"You can be cynical." Pewter noticed a praying mantis in the crepe myrtle.
"Not cynical. Realistic."
Tucker waddled out of the post office. Fast asleep, she had awak ened to find no one in the P.O. "What's going on?"
"High-school drama." The cats rubbed it in. "And yon missed it."
Larry Johnson phoned Irene Miller, who immediately drove to his office. But Jody kept her mouth shut . . . especially in front of her mother.
Later that afternoon, Janice Walker dropped by the post office. "Harry, you ought to be a detective! How did you know it was Sean Hallahan? When you called me back yesterday to tell me, I wasn't sure, but he came by this morning to apologize. He even took time off from school to do it."
"Two and two." Harry flipped up the divider between the mail room and the public area. "He sounds like his dad. He can be a smart-ass, and hey, wouldn't it be wild to do something like that? He'll be a hero to all the kids at St. Elizabeth's."
"Never thought of it that way," Janice replied.
"You know, I was thinking of calling in BoomBoom Craycroft's demise." Harry's eyes twinkled.
Janice burst out laughing. "You're awful!"
11
Roscoe glanced out his window across the pretty quad that was the heart of St. Elizabeth's. Redbrick buildings, simple Federal style, surrounded the green. Two enormous oaks anchored either end, their foliage an electrifying orange-yellow.
Behind the "home" buildings, as they were known, stood later additions, and beyond those the gym and playing fields beckoned, a huge parking lot between them.
The warm oak paneling gave Roscoe's office an inviting air. A burl partner's desk rested in the middle of the room. A leather sofa, two leather chairs, and a coffee table blanketed with books filled up one side of the big office.
Not an academic, Roscoe made a surprisingly good headmaster. His lack of credentials bothered the teaching staff, who had originally wanted one of their own, namely Sandy Brashiers or even Ed Sugarman. But Roscoe over the last seven years had won over most of them. For one thing, he knew how to raise money as he had a "selling" personality and a wealth of good business contacts. For another, he was a good administrator. His MBA from the Wharton School at University of Pennsylvania stood him in good stead.
"Come in." He responded to the firm knock at the door, then heard a loud "Don't you dare!"
He quickly opened the door to find his secretary, April, and Sandy Brashiers yelling at each other.
April apologized. "He didn't ask for an appointment. He walked right by me."
"April, stop being so officious." Sandy brushed her off.
"You have no right to barge in here." She planted her hands on her slim hips.
Roscoe, voice soothing, patted her on her padded shoulder. "That's all right. I'm accustomed to Mr. Brashiers's impetuosity."
He motioned for Sandy to come in while winking at April, who blushed with pleasure.
"What can I do for you, Sandy?"
"Drop dead" was what Sandy wanted to say. Instead he cleared his throat. "I'm worried about Jody Miller. She's become withdrawn, and this morning I found her behind the post office. She had a bruised cheek and a black eye and refused to talk about it."
"There is instability in the home. It was bound to surface in Jody eventually." Roscoe did not motion for Sandy to sit down. He leaned against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.
"A black eye counts for more than instability. That girl needs help."
"Sandy," Roscoe enunciated carefully, "I can't accuse her parents of abuse without her collaboration. And who's to say Kendrick hit her? It could have been anybody."
"How can you turn away?" Sandy impulsively accused the florid, larger man.
"I am not turning away. I will investigate the situation, but I advise you to be prudent. Until we know what's amiss or until Jody herself comes forward, any accusation would be extremely irresponsible."
"Don't lecture me."
"Don't lecture me."
"You don't give a damn about that girl's well-being. You sure as hell give a damn about her father's contributions to your film project—money we could use elsewhere."
"I've got work to do. I told you I'll look into it." Roscoe dropped his folded arms to his sides, then pointed a finger in Sandy's reddening face. "Butt out. If you stir up a hornet's nest, you'll get stung worse than the rest of us."
"What's that shopworn metaphor supposed to mean?" Sandy clenched his teeth.