Connor Singleton listened to the soothing sound of “Piel Canela,” a sound he knew so well. He had, after all, been the one who coaxed the performer, totally hot Amy Chambliss, to perform at his school, Drennon High. She had come from Cruz Cantamos. A Spanish song company.
Amy continued singing. “Ojos negros piel canela. Que me llegan a desesperar. Me importas tu y tu y tu. Y solamente tu…”
Connor leaned back in his chair comfortably. Just staring at Amy. Her golden skin. Her well-groomed eyebrows. The wide hips that made her look so slender. Connor had thought about asking her out several times, but then he remembered the age factor. He was sixteen and she was twenty-four.
But then, just as he was beginning to indulge in the viewing of her wonderful presence, Connor heard a blast of thunder fire across the room. Everyone was frantic. All the teachers were gone. What were they thinking? Mrs. Remora and Mr. Larimore were supposed to be looking after them. But where were they? Running scared like everyone else?
Then Connor saw a figure wearing gray rush from the room. Could that have been the shooter? Of course it was. Whoever had shot Amy was getting away. Not on his watch. Connor jumped out of his seat, elbowing through the barricade of frightened people.
Once outside, Connor saw Mrs. Remora with an unusually lumpy waist. He was too startled to ask what is was. He just kept running. Kept looking for the killer. Finally, after rushing behind a balcony, he saw Edward (Ed for short) Abelson looking down.
“Ed? It was you?” Connor did not care that he was jumping to conclusions by automatically assuming that Ed was the shooter just because he was in a strange position.
“What? What was me?”
“Weren’t you in the assembly when Amy was shot a few minutes ago?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Why did you—”
“Hang on, man. I didn’t do nuthin’.”
“But you’re sitting here, hiding…”
“Yeah. Cause I don’t want Shayla to find me.” Shayla was Ed’s girlfriend who he hadn’t built up the courage to dump yet.
“But, but…”
“But nuthin’. If you really wanna know who killed Amy, look no further than Mrs. Remora. I saw her run out from the auditorium in her gray shirt and pants. And she was at the back the whole time. It makes perfect sense, dude.”
“Well why haven’t you told anybody?”
“I don’t wanna get involved. Now get outta here. Shayla’s comin’!”
Connor reluctantly left.
Could what Ed have said been true. Of course it could. And that lump that had been on Mrs. Remora’s side. It must have been her gun.
Shoot, Connor thought. If only I’d thought to ask her what that was.
Connor wanted to kick himself. Instead he decided it would be best to wait to confront Mrs. Remora the next day at school.
*****
The next day, Connor got to school early. Just enough time to talk to Mrs. Remora. In case she tried something funny, he’d tackle her. She probably would not have thought to bring the gun back today.
He walked down the hallways, ignoring every “What’s up man?” spoken by the other early comers.
He looked in Mrs. Remora’s room, number 249, and saw police huddled in front of it. They were escorting her. He looked in the corner and saw Ed. So he did want to get involved. Well, that was it. The killer had been caught just like that. No elongated escape attempt. They just took her away. Ed had probably done it for the money.
Connor turned around and strode out the door. He walked down the hallway to Mr. Larimore’s room to get ready for first period when he saw something peculiar. He never noticed a pale white stamp at the bottom of the picture that Mr. Larimore kept of his wife, Barbara.
Carefully, he removed the picture from the frame. The stamp read,
Cruz Cantamos.
Cruz Cantamos? Where had he heard that name before? Then it hit him. Amy was from Cruz Cantamos. So what could it possibly mean? That Mr. Larimore’s wife had murdered Amy? Impossible. She wasn’t even at the school that day. Or was she?
Connor rushed over to Mr. Larimore’s desk, abundantly thankful for two things: (1.) Mr. Larimore still wasn’t at school. (2.) He always kept a copy of substitute teacher listings in his classroom.
Connor read the list silently to himself.
Sarah Cunningham
Andrew Cort
Jack Cole
Mary Fleckerson
He read more names. None of which were Barbara Larimore. He was just about to replace the paper where it had been when he thought of something new. He looked on the back of the paper. And there it was. There was the missing piece of the murder mystery. It had been Barbara Larimore.
Suddenly, with no warning, a bullet whistled through the air and sliced the paper in half.
“What the heck!” Connor yelled. He turned around. And the face he saw was no what he’d expected. The face he saw defied explanation. The face he saw was that of Mr. Larimore. “Mr. Larimore?”
“Yes. The fact is, you’re coming too close to the truth.”
“What truth?” Connor asked perplexedly.
“The truth of who really killed Amy Chambliss.”
“I’m sorry your wife has to go to jail, but…”
“My wife? That’s your killer. You’re the worst detective I’ve ever heard of. But then what would you expect but idiocy from a football jock?” Mr. Larimore’s comment stung like ten angry hornets.
“Well then who are you protecting?”
“Myself. I am the one who killed Amy Chambliss.”
Connor felt like all the air had been kicked out of him. Mr. Larimore? No WAY!
“Well,” said Mr. Larimore condescendingly, “you’re obviously too dimwitted to ask for an explanation, so here it is. That picture you saw. It was a complimentary frame given to me by Cruz Cantamos. But the label kept falling off, so I glued it to the picture of my wife to remind me of my two dedications in life: My wife and my real job.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. I mean I work for Cruz Cantamos. And Amy wouldn’t have had to die if it hadn’t been for you and your seducing her into singing Piel Canela instead of reciting the simple ode to clarity in by Pablo Neruda in Spanish.”
“So why did you have to kill her? I still don’t understand.”
“Isn’t it obvious? She sang the wrong song. She was commanded by the president of Cruz Cantamos to recite the ode to clarity. She didn’t. So she would have been fired. Meaning me, being her agent, also would have been fired. I made $340,000 in that job and I am not about to give it up over a song. And if she never got to finish performing, then no one gets fired. I stay rich, and Mrs. Remora is in jail. Though I don’t know how anyone could think it was her.” It all made sense. It all made such perfect sense. Why hadn’t Connor seen this before?
But he’d have no more time to reflect on that. Because Mr. Larimore redrew the gun he’d had before.
“Don’t,” Connor pleaded, “I swear I won’t tell a soul!”
“Yes you will. As soon as I let you go, you’ll run to the police. I refuse to get caught. Goodbye, Mr. Singleton.”
So that was when Connor finally decided to use his head. He was going to die either way so why not try to jump Mr. Larimore? He dived into Mr. Larimore’s chest. Mr. Larimore fired the gun, but it was too late. The blast nicked the rope that suspended a chandelier above the classroom’s desks. They both hit the ground with a painful thud and the gun skittered across the floor and into a dark corner.
Mr. Larimore grinned as he pulled a knife out of his trench coat. Connor jumped, but Mr. Larimore slammed Connor in the stomach with his elbow. Then he brought down the knife.
“Ahh!” Connor cried out in pain. The knife had slashed his shoulder deep. In a last ditch protection effort, Connor raised his hands, holding off another blow from the knife that was intended for his heart. The knife was inches away from his chest. Pitifully, Connor looked up at the chandelier that had been shot earlier. It had begun to wobble and looked like it would fall any minute.
Just a few more seconds, he told himself.
Snap! The chandelier’s rope fell. But Connor was out of energy. The sharp end of the knife began piercing his heart. And, being no longer able to stay awake, Connor gave in to the dark in front of his eyes that was unconsciousness.
This story will continue in OJOS NEGROS, which will be published by 5/20/2009. Until then, keep reading!
