Read Online Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese - Free Book Online
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
Ads: Link
Margot.”
“It’s good to be back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure. See you then.”
And, so saying, she flipped her cell phone shut.
There followed two hours of chaotic bliss, since this was Friday, and the last Friday, before a long holiday.
“One o’clock! Not much time to go!”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I’m going to sleep late!”
“Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! Give me some of that egg nog!”
The students were in a festive mood too, of course, but they were locked in classrooms. The teachers and staff members, at liberty to roam the halls and pop in and out of various offices, felt no restraints and gave vent to the POTENTIAL HOLIDAY FRENZY that arises inevitably from the fact that no one hates school as much as the people who have to run it.
Two o’clock.
Two forty-five.
What could go wrong?
NOTHING COULD GO WRONG, THE DAY WAS ALMOST OVER…
And something did go wrong.
At precisely three o’clock, a man wearing a uniform—not an athletic uniform but a uniform like those worn by hotel bellmen or butlers in old movies—walked into the school, asked to see Ms. Bannister, the principal, and said to her:
“Your car is waiting, Ma’am.”
This pretty much stopped things in the office.
Ms. Peterson, Ms. Forbes, Ms. Janekosky, Tommy Lawrence, Lakeesha Roosevelt, and Coach Suggs (the offensive line coach in fall and the drivers training teacher the rest of the time), all froze.
The man, who was standing, framed in Nina’s doorway, his blue captain’s hat held under his arm, repeated:
“Ma’am, your car is waiting.”
Nina, who’d been sitting at her desk wondering whether to go over attendance reports or attempt the New York Times Friday crossword puzzle (which she had never succeeded in doing) rose, looked at everybody in the outer office, each of whom was looking back at her, and asked, firmly:
“What car?”
“For the yacht, Ma’am.”
“The yacht.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Don’t ask what yacht, don’t ask what yacht, don’t ask what yacht—
“What yacht?”
“ The Sea Beagle .”
“ The Sea Beagle .”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, I hate to tell you, young man, but I––”
At which point, Pearl Johnson, not the main administrative assistant (secretary), but the associate administrative assistant (secretary), stepped out into the middle of the anteroom, slapped both of her palms against her cheeks, so that her face began to resemble Edward Munch’s great and frightening painting “The Scream,” and uttered the scream:
“Oh, my God.”
Silence.
The rain had become harder; it now sounded as though a stream of gravel was being poured upon the roof of the building.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”
The conversation did not seem, Nina thought, to be giving her many options.
“For what?” she said, which, like ‘what yacht’ a minute ago, was obviously the only thing she could say.
“I forgot to tell you.”
Nina nodded:
“You forgot to tell me something about a yacht?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, that begins to clarify things a little bit.”
“You’re supposed to go to a yacht after school today.”
“I see.”
“Now, actually.”
“And the reason?”
“The press conference.”
“What press conference?”
“A Doctor van Tinsdale or van Mothdale or…”
‘Van Osdale? April van Osdale?”
“I forgot the name exactly. It sounded something like that. They called early this morning to invite you but you were in with Ms. Ramirez and we were trying to find a substitute for Mr. Thompson and somebody found a condom in––”
Nina interrupted, not wishing to hear more details concerning the condom, or its location, or its owner, or its destination.
“It’s all right. I’d heard there was going to be a press conference, but I thought it was going to be after Christmas.”
“No, ma’am. It’s today.”
“I also assumed it was going to take place downtown somewhere.”
“No, ma’am. It’s on the
“It’s good to be back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure. See you then.”
And, so saying, she flipped her cell phone shut.
There followed two hours of chaotic bliss, since this was Friday, and the last Friday, before a long holiday.
“One o’clock! Not much time to go!”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I’m going to sleep late!”
“Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! Give me some of that egg nog!”
The students were in a festive mood too, of course, but they were locked in classrooms. The teachers and staff members, at liberty to roam the halls and pop in and out of various offices, felt no restraints and gave vent to the POTENTIAL HOLIDAY FRENZY that arises inevitably from the fact that no one hates school as much as the people who have to run it.
Two o’clock.
Two forty-five.
What could go wrong?
NOTHING COULD GO WRONG, THE DAY WAS ALMOST OVER…
And something did go wrong.
At precisely three o’clock, a man wearing a uniform—not an athletic uniform but a uniform like those worn by hotel bellmen or butlers in old movies—walked into the school, asked to see Ms. Bannister, the principal, and said to her:
“Your car is waiting, Ma’am.”
This pretty much stopped things in the office.
Ms. Peterson, Ms. Forbes, Ms. Janekosky, Tommy Lawrence, Lakeesha Roosevelt, and Coach Suggs (the offensive line coach in fall and the drivers training teacher the rest of the time), all froze.
The man, who was standing, framed in Nina’s doorway, his blue captain’s hat held under his arm, repeated:
“Ma’am, your car is waiting.”
Nina, who’d been sitting at her desk wondering whether to go over attendance reports or attempt the New York Times Friday crossword puzzle (which she had never succeeded in doing) rose, looked at everybody in the outer office, each of whom was looking back at her, and asked, firmly:
“What car?”
“For the yacht, Ma’am.”
“The yacht.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Don’t ask what yacht, don’t ask what yacht, don’t ask what yacht—
“What yacht?”
“ The Sea Beagle .”
“ The Sea Beagle .”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, I hate to tell you, young man, but I––”
At which point, Pearl Johnson, not the main administrative assistant (secretary), but the associate administrative assistant (secretary), stepped out into the middle of the anteroom, slapped both of her palms against her cheeks, so that her face began to resemble Edward Munch’s great and frightening painting “The Scream,” and uttered the scream:
“Oh, my God.”
Silence.
The rain had become harder; it now sounded as though a stream of gravel was being poured upon the roof of the building.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry.”
The conversation did not seem, Nina thought, to be giving her many options.
“For what?” she said, which, like ‘what yacht’ a minute ago, was obviously the only thing she could say.
“I forgot to tell you.”
Nina nodded:
“You forgot to tell me something about a yacht?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Well, that begins to clarify things a little bit.”
“You’re supposed to go to a yacht after school today.”
“I see.”
“Now, actually.”
“And the reason?”
“The press conference.”
“What press conference?”
“A Doctor van Tinsdale or van Mothdale or…”
‘Van Osdale? April van Osdale?”
“I forgot the name exactly. It sounded something like that. They called early this morning to invite you but you were in with Ms. Ramirez and we were trying to find a substitute for Mr. Thompson and somebody found a condom in––”
Nina interrupted, not wishing to hear more details concerning the condom, or its location, or its owner, or its destination.
“It’s all right. I’d heard there was going to be a press conference, but I thought it was going to be after Christmas.”
“No, ma’am. It’s today.”
“I also assumed it was going to take place downtown somewhere.”
“No, ma’am. It’s on the
Similar Books
