"Sure? Why not?"
It was early afternoon when we got to Mercer Island High School. The clerk told us that the principal, Ned Browning, was busy. We asked for Candace Wynn instead. She was sitting at a desk in the counseling office, poring over a yellow sheet covered with writing. She stood up as we entered.
"Are you here about the memorial service?" she asked.
"Memorial service?"
"For Darwin. Tomorrow evening, after the funeral. Mr. Browning asked me to be in charge of planning it. The funeral is going to be small and private. We thought there should be something here at school for the kids. Something official."
"I'm sure that's a good idea, Mrs. Wynn, but that's not why we're here."
"What, then?"
"Do you have keys to the lockers in the girls' locker room?"
"Pardon me?"
"I had a long talk with Bambi Barker in Portland last night," I said. "There's something on one of the locker ceilings we need to see."
Andi Wynn frowned. "I could probably get a master key," she said doubtfully, "but I'm not sure I should. Did you talk to Mr. Browning about this? Shouldn't you have a search warrant or something?"
Peters sighed. "We probably should, but we're not searching for evidence per se. It's a matter of our simply corroborating something Bambi told us. I can assure you, we won't be looking for anything but that one thing."
Andi Wynn sat quietly, considering what Peters had said. Finally, she shrugged. "I don't suppose it would matter that much."
The three of us waited in her office chatting about inconsequentials until the final bell rang and school was dismissed. Then Andi left us to go to the office for the key. When she returned, she led us to the girls' locker room. While Andi stood to one side and waited, Peters and I spent twenty minutes opening lockers, glancing up at the top to see if anything was written there, and then closing them again, being careful to disturb nothing else in the process. We were almost finished when we opened locker number 211.
Peters was the one who saw the names written there. "Bingo! Holy shit! Look at this."
Peters isn't the excitable type. He stepped aside, and I moved quickly to the locker, craning my neck to see what was written there, scratched with a sharp object into the gray paint on the locker's metal top.
Just as Bambi had said, Darwin Ridley's name was the last one on the list, printed in awkwardly scrawled letters.
The name that caught my eye, though, was that of Ned Browning. The principal.
His name was on the list, too.
Twice.
CHAPTER 18
When I stepped away from the locker, Andi Wynn was looking uncertainly from Peters to me. "What is it?" she asked. "What did you find?"
"Look for yourself," I said.
She did. I watched her expression when she turned back to face us. "I don't understand."
"It's a trophy case," I told her. "The cheerleaders' trophy case."
"What does it mean?"
"It doesn't matter. Let's get out of here, Peters."
I welcomed the fresh air when we stepped back outside. I felt sick. Ned Browning, too. The one who had been so protective of his "young people." He, too, had fallen victim to the cheerleaders' hit list. More than once.
We were nearing the office when I rounded a corner and ran full tilt into Ned Browning himself. Ned Browning and Joanna Ridley.
Joanna looked surprised to see me. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Working. What about you?"
She nodded toward Ned Browning, who was carrying a large cardboard box. "Mr. Browning asked me to come get Darwin 's things. They're hiring a replacement and he needs to use the desk."
Ned nodded. "It was most awkward, having to call, even before the funeral, but the board has moved forward and hired a replacement. He'll be here at school tomorrow. I felt Mrs. Ridley was the only one who should handle her husband's things."
"Did you find out anything?" Joanna asked.
More than we expected, I wanted to say, but I didn't. Instead, I reached for the box Ned had in his hands. "Would you like me to carry this to your car?"
She nodded, and Ned handed it over. It was fairly heavy. "I'll be getting back to my office," he said. He turned to Joanna and took her hand. "Thank you so much for stopping by. Will you be attending the memorial service tomorrow night?" he asked. "Mrs. Wynn here is in charge of planning it."
Joanna glanced in Andi's direction and shook her head. "I don't know. I doubt it. It'll depend on how I feel after the funeral. I appreciate what you're doing, but I may be too tired."
Ned nodded sympathetically. "I understand completely. It would be nice if you could. It would mean a great deal to the students, but of course your physical well-being must come first."
He took Joanna's hand and pressed it firmly. "You take care now, Mrs. Ridley. We'll hope to see you tomorrow. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."
Ned Browning scurried away toward his office, the little shit. I wanted him out of my sight. I turned to Peters. "I'll help get this loaded into Joanna's car and be right back."
We left Andi Wynn and Peters standing together in the breezeway. "Where did it come from?" Joanna asked.
"What?"
"The picture. I thought you were going to find out how the man at the newspaper got it."
"Oh, that." Maxwell Cole's column seemed eons away. "No," I told her. "I haven't been able to locate him yet."
"Oh," Joanna said. She sounded disappointed.
Her Mustang was parked in the school lot. She led the way to the trunk and unlocked it. The cover bounced open. A large tin-plated container, the kind restaurants use to hold fifty pounds of lard, sat in the middle of an otherwise empty trunk.
Joanna looked at it and frowned. "What's that doing here?" she asked.
"What is it?"
"It looks like my flour container. But what would it be doing in my car?"
I put down the box. "I don't know," I said. "Let me take a look."
As soon as I cracked the lid on the container, before I even looked inside, I was sorry. The stench was overpowering. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I lifted the lid anyway.
Coiled at the top was a length of rope. Under it, through the center of the rope was what appeared to be a man's shirt. A maroon man's shirt, dusted with flour.
For a moment, Joanna had recoiled, driven away by the overwhelming odor of human excrement. Despite the smell, she came forward again to peer warily inside the container. She saw the shirt at the same time I did.
"That's his shirt," she whispered.
I shoved the lid back shut. "Are you sure?"
She nodded, holding her hand to her mouth. "That was his favorite, his game shirt. He always wore it."
"That day, too?"
She nodded. "It's either his shirt or one just like it."
I examined the outside of the container. A fine film of white powder lingered on the outside and on the top. I took a tiny swipe at the bottom edge with my finger and touched it to my tongue. It was indeed flour.
"And this looks like your flour container?"
"I'm sure of it. I keep it in the storeroom out in the carport. There's a smaller one, a canister in the house. When I need to refill it, I get the flour from this one."
"And you have no idea how long this has been in your trunk?"
"No."
I closed the lid of the trunk. "Open the car door," I ordered. "We'll put the box in the back."
Unquestioningly, Joanna did as she was bidden. She unlocked the rider's door and held up the front seat while I shoved the box in. When I turned back toward her, she was trembling visibly, despite the fact that a warm afternoon sun was shining on her.