Page 47 of Wicche Hunt

“Are these faculty offices up here?” I asked.

“No. These are student residences. Cypress Academy serves as a boarding school for sixty percent of our student body. Really, I must insist. This officer—”

“Detective,” Hernández reminded him.

“—may have the credentials to enter our campus, but you, as a consultant, do not. We don’t allow strange adults to wander our school and certainly not in the residences. Now if you’ll please follow me out.”

Hernández had already said that her captain was pushing her to close the case as an accident. That was why I was here. So far, I hadn’t found anything concrete to keep it open, so we followed him down.

On the second-floor landing, right where the conversation and bash would have happened, there was an antique table displaying various awards for students who had long since graduated.

“Headmaster?”

He paused on the first step down.

Pointing at the clean spot in the very light layer of dust, I asked, “What was here?”

Sighing, he came back up and looked where I was pointing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s time to go now.”

“She’s right. I see it,” Hernández said, taking out her phone, leaning down, and photographing the spot.

“The cleaning staff may have moved one of the awards or a student took it as a prank,” he said, turning toward the stairs again.

“Sir,” Hernández said, “this is why you’re a headmaster and not a detective. All of these awards are weighty. They’re substantial blocks of wood, metal, and glass. And this is where the dean went tumbling down the stairs.” She pocketed her phone, then took out her notebook and began scribbling.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”

“Sir, I’m going to stop you there. Can you please find any custodians currently working and send them here to see me?”

“The staff is very busy,” he said, bristling at the interruption.

“I’m sure they are.” She looked from her notebook and shot him a look that would have had me backing up. “So are we. Is it your intention to obstruct this investigation?”

He blew a sharp breath out of his nose and then went down the stairs without another word.

“Ooh, he does not like you at all.” I snickered, looking over the railing as the headmaster stalked out of sight.

“Color me surprised.” She added notes to her book. “A Latina telling him what he can and can’t do?” She looked up at me, eyebrows raised. “I will bet you five dollars that when he gets around to sending a custodian or two, they will look more like me than you.”

“Do you think it’s your gender or ethnicity that has him more worked up?” I asked, leaning on the railing and watching the stragglers run to beat the bell.

“Both, especially in combination. Men like him base their worth, their identity, and place in society, on being able to pee standing up and having skin too sensitive for the sun.”

Laughing, I said, “We can pee standing up too. It’s just messier.”

Her perpetual poker face broke and she grinned, her brown eyes sparkling.

Shaking her head, she walked over and leaned on the railing beside me. “This place is another world.” Gesturing with the notebook in her hand, she said, “Andhisproblem is he’s forgetting he isn’t a part of it. He works here. His students may come from influence and money, but he’s just a jumped-up school principal who believes he’s gained power through proximity.”

“Would you have wanted to go to a school like this?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not even a little bit.” We both heard footsteps and looked down the hall to see two Latinas in matching black dresses walking our way. “You can give me the five on the way home.”

“I don’t believe I took that bet because I’m not stupid.” Whispering, I added, “The killer hit him with a block of glass.”

She nodded and then lifted her voice. “Hello. Sorry to interrupt your day. I’m Detective Hernández and I’m investigating the dean’s death this morning. I assume you both heard about that?”

The women shared a glance and then nodded nervously.

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