Read Online Murder as a Second Language by Joan Hess - Free Book Online Page A

area. As I paused, Willie came out of the ladies’ room and, with a bewildered expression, went into the classroom. If Gregory had the slightest sense, he was either holed up in his office or long gone.
    I chose to be long gone.
    *   *   *
    Peter had slipped away when I woke up the next morning. The previous night we’d had a very pleasant marital interlude that had almost erased the ugly scene at the board meeting, and I was feeling chipper as I fixed a bowl of cereal. Before I could pick up a spoon, the telephone rang. I thought of a long list of people with whom I had no desire to speak, so I opted to let the answering machine deal with it. I’d managed one bite when Peter’s voice said, “Claire, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Call me back as soon as you can, okay?”
    I snatched up the receiver. “What’s so urgent?”
    â€œThere’s been a death at the Literacy Council. I’m surrounded by people speaking so many languages I might as well be in the United Nations cafeteria. The person in charge is in her office, sobbing—I think in Japanese, but it could be Korean. The director’s not here.”
    â€œWho’s dead?” I demanded.
    â€œOne of the students. Will you please get here as quickly as you can?”
    I felt a tingle of self-satisfaction. In every case I’d been involved in, Peter had done everything within his power to keep me out of it. He’d had my car towed. He’d put me under house arrest (or so he’d thought). He’d threatened and cajoled in a most endearing fashion. Now he was begging for my help. I deigned to be magnanimous.
    â€œI’ll be there in half an hour,” I said sweetly.
    My smugness faded as I went out to my car. The death of a student was tragic, no matter who it was. The ones I’d encountered were good people, struggling to fit into their adopted country. I recalled the terror of my French classes in high school, where I’d crouched behind my textbook and prayed that I wouldn’t be called on to read or recite. I’d been obliged to take a foreign language, but the students at the Literacy Council did so voluntarily.
    The parking lot was jammed with civilian and police vehicles. An ambulance blocked the entrance. I parked across the street and was approaching the door when two paramedics wheeled out a gurney. The body was in a black bag, but from the bulge, I had an idea who it might be. A uniformed officer lifted the yellow crime scene tape and waved me in. Forty or so students were milling about in Leslie’s classroom. I knew that some of them had come from countries with oppressive governments and brutal police forces. I hoped Peter had been gentle with them.
    Lieutenant Jorgeson joined me. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. I understand that you were invited to the crime scene.”
    â€œFor once,” I said, finishing his unspoken sentiment. “What happened?”
    â€œA woman’s body was discovered in a storage room in the back. It looks as if she fell against the copy machine and cracked her skull. The medical examiner concurs. The girl in the office is trying to contact the woman’s next of kin, but she’s … upset. Do you think you can calm her down?”
    â€œI’ll try after you explain why this is being treated like a homicide. If the woman fell against the machine, why isn’t it an accident?”
    â€œIt may have been an accident, but someone dragged the body into a corner and tried to conceal it. The medical examiner said that the woman would have been incapable of crawling.”
    â€œWe’re talking about a Polish woman, right?”
    Jorgeson opened his notebook. “Ludmila Grabowski. Her grandson is—”
    â€œA professor at the college,” I said. “I met her Friday morning. She wasn’t what I’d describe as likable. She may have made some enemies.”
    Jorgeson gave me