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“Indeed they have,” he said.
I got up. “Oh, one more thing.” I felt like Columbo. “Do you know if Tina’s here today?”
“I don’t, but you could check with her home room teacher, Alice Fortune. Room 180.”
“Thanks again.”
He nodded and smiled. I made a mental note to keep Frank Powell in mind as a future source of other information Tina might conveniently forget.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I caught Alice Fortune, a short, stout woman with caramel skin and close-cropped black hair, in the middle of a class. I peered through the small window in the door. She read, while the kids bent over their desks in classic test-taking posture. When I tapped on the glass, she strode toward the door, her colorful dashiki-style dress swaying over ample hips. “Keep your eyes on your papers,” she ordered before stepping into the hall.
“I’m in the middle of a class,” she said, glancing at my pass. “If you have a problem to discuss—”
“I’m very sorry to interrupt. I have one quick question for you.” I introduced myself and explained what I was doing there. “Is Tina Jackson in school today?”
As I explained my purpose for being there, her expression changed from irritation to deep concern. She paused and took a breath. “Tina hasn’t been in school all week. I’m worried about that child,” she said. “She’s too smart to be involved in this kind of nonsense.
“I’m worried about her, too. Her mother was recently murdered.”
Her hand flew to her chest. She gulped air, her eyes wide. “Lord, no.” She shook her head and murmured, “That’s horrible. Truly horrible. Mind you, I know the woman could rub a person the wrong way. But that’s just tragic. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t been in school. I’m surprised no one told me.”
“Thing is, her mother’s body was discovered only yesterday, but you say Tina’s been out all week? So she was skipping school before her mother died. And I take it you’ve met Shanae Jackson?”
“She came to one parent-teacher meeting. Never saw her at another. Tina said she had to work nights.”
“What did she do to rub you the wrong way?”
“I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying she could. She was the kind to get attention because she complained a lot, you know? Not to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true.” She glanced back into the room to make sure the class was following orders. “I know she got up a full head of steam when she met with Mr. Powell and Mr. Thompson, after Tina got into that fight.”
“Who’s Mr. Thompson?”
“Reggie Thompson is the vice principal. I don’t know if Ms. Jackson was madder at Tina or the school for making her come in. She acted all put out that they wanted her there. I mean, her daughter had been in a fight.” The teacher spoke with a derisive edge that told me exactly how little she thought of Shanae. “Now, I know she probably slept late if she worked nights. Still, you’d think she’d want to be involved in something like that. Then, earlier this week, I heard she came back to see Mr. Thompson about something else. I don’t know what that was about.” She shook her head. “All I know is, Tina’s another example of a good kid going bad. I see it all the time.”
“You seem particularly concerned about her.”
“She’s brilliant, that’s why.” She gave me a hard stare. “She was in my English class last year. The girl could be an honors student, if she just tried.” She emphasiz
ed each of the last four words with a force borne of frustration, sadness, and bitterness. “So many of these kids could be more than what they are. All I can do is try to make it interesting for them. They’re the ones who have to do the work. Some of them do, others . . . .” She sighed. “The whole system makes it impossible to really teach them, anyway. This stupid quiz, for instance.” She waved a hand toward the room full of kids. “All I do is teach them how to take tests. Do they learn anything from it? Sure—how to take tests. Some days, I feel like a damned glorified babysitter, you know?”
I shook my head, not knowing what to say. “How do you do it?”
“Hmm?”
“How do you do this?” I gestured toward the classroom. “Day in and day out.”
She smiled but without mirth. “Well, it’s not for the money and it’s not for respect. So I guess it must be love.”
“That’s something, anyway. To love your work.”
“Fools fall in love, Ms. McRae.”
* * * * *
For the umpteenth time, I tried reaching Tina on her cell phone. I left yet another message. Before leaving the school, I stopped by the office to ask about Rochelle Watson. Trying to get someone to look up her schedule proved futile. Frustrated, I returned to my office. The insurance company had called with a lousy counter-offer on Dancer Daria’s slip-and-fall. The answers to my interrogatories in the messy divorce still hadn’t arrived.
I wrote a polite, but firm letter to Slippery Steve, Esquire. Then I called him, only to be shunted to voice mail, where I left a message that he needed to get those answers to me or he could expect a motion to compel discovery—and soon. “Have a nice weekend!” I snapped before slamming the receiver down. “And you better spend it getting those damned answers together,” I grumbled to myself.
