desk.
“Hello,” I said.
She jumped. She had been writing a personal
letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be
tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with
her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole,
love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing
so sweet in life as love’s young dream.
When she had recovered enough to speak, she
said, “Can I help you?”
I smiled engagingly and showed her my
investigator license.
A hell of a picture.
“Doesn’t look like you.”
“It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose,
turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same
full wattage smile. “See?”
She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is
cuter.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After
all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy
cute.
“So you’re a private investigator?”
“Yep.”
She nodded, but her interest was already
waning.
“I give autographs, too,” I said.
“I don’t want your autograph.”
“Of course not. Who would I see about gaining
permission to access your school?”
“You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”
“Great.”
“Let me see if she’s in.”
“That would be fantastic.”
“Are you always this cheery?”
“Yes!”
“Hold on.”
“Super!”
She removed herself from her post, snatched
up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the
open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall
and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered
with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The
photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the
windows.
“Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr.
Knighthorse.”
“Keen.”
“Keen?”
“I was running out of superlatives.”
9.
The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk
designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah, she
would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all
students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of
discipline.
One difference.
She couldn’t have been prettier.
Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and
shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She
was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around
her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free
from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to
her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.
I am, of course, a detective.
Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide
collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and
pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald
eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a
pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming,
true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice.
She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.
“You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr.
Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your
mind.”
Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of
sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly
with each breath.
“I was just wishing I had had you as my vice
principal in high school.”
She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick
away from mine. “What are you implying?”
“You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”
She cracked a smile, and placed one hand
carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band
clearly. A plain gold band.
“A looker?”
“Means I think you’re swell.”
“Lord. Is this some sort of come-on
line?”
“You’re married, and I’m happily dating the
love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I
need.”
“At least you’re honest about your
intentions.”
“That, and I think you’re a looker.”
“What do you need, Knighthorse?”
“What happened to the