Free Cold Case by Linda Barnes

playground, a soccer field, a summer school class.
    Gardeners. Three long-haired males on riding mowers were cutting the grass. The drone grew louder, deafening. I waved and hoped they’d stop. The one riding right-wing waved in acknowledgment. He wore no shirt. Either he hadn’t heard that overexposure to the sun could cause skin cancer or he didn’t care. Handsome and young could beat the big C any day.
    Life had news for him.
    He swooped out of line, sped downhill, and halted a few feet from me, standing astride his mower like it was a stallion and he was an old-time outlaw. If there’d been fewer clouds, his gold hair might have shone. He wore dark heavy boots that didn’t go with his skimpy cutoffs. Sensible enough to value his toes if not his health.
    â€œEverybody gone for the summer?” I asked.
    His face split in a grin.
    â€œHeadmaster,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with a muscle-roped forearm.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œHouse next door to the biggie. He’s the guy pays us.”
    â€œYou work here all year?”
    â€œMostly. We cut grass, plow snow. They’ve got a couple old guys do the roses and shit.”
    â€œYou work here during the school year?”
    â€œYep.”
    I’d located an outspoken informant.
    â€œHow old are the kids?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œKindergarten? High school?”
    â€œMore like junior high. Older, maybe, I guess.”
    â€œThey give you a hard time?”
    â€œNot allowed to speak to the snots.”
    I raised an eyebrow.
    â€œYeah, and you should see some of ’em, too. Delicious. Wiggle and giggle whenever we buzz by.”
    One of his mates on the hilltop hollered down at him, made a gesture.
    â€œI gotta be gettin’ back to it,” he said, staring at his boots. His feet must have been hot.
    â€œHeadmaster around?” I asked.
    He shook his head no. “Went out. No telling when he’ll come back. Walks into the square.”
    â€œOld man? Silvery hair? Glasses?”
    â€œKinda young. New last year.”
    So much for a heart-to-heart with my lying client.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œYou might try the missis,” he said before he gunned the motor and returned to the hilltop.
    The house next door was a well-maintained Victorian with a wraparound porch. A box of brochures rested on a rattan table. I grabbed a couple. Educational philosophy, along with a wide variety of classroom offerings, and the option of extensive study abroad. No prices. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. I wondered if the brochures on the porch were the gist of the school’s advertising. Word of mouth and the old boy network would provide.
    I knocked at the headmaster’s door. I’d almost given up when it finally opened.
    The woman was both young and shy. Her shiny brown hair was twisted severely and coiled on top of her head. If not for her obvious pregnancy, she would have fit the surroundings perfectly. A servant’s apron and cap would have looked positively fetching.
    Fetching! The otherworldly old-fashioned air of the place was starting to get me. Fetching, my ass.
    â€œAre you selling anything?” she said. No throwback to a gentler age here. Straight to the point.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay. Um, is it about one of the students, because they’re on vacation.”
    I could simply wait until she hit on the reason for my visit. Or I could supply one.
    â€œHello,” I said, taking the steps quickly, opening the screen door, pressing her hand warmly. “I’m so glad you answered the door. You’re Mrs.…?”
    â€œMrs. Emerson. I’m, uh, the headmaster’s wife.”
    She blushed when she said that, and twisted her wedding ring. She hadn’t been the headmaster’s wife for long. I wondered if the pregnancy had predated the wedding.
    â€œIs your husband in?”
    â€œNo. I’m sorry.” She started to close the door.
    I