“I am aware of our school policy. I do not need a first year assistant coach to explain it to me, nor do I care to engage in an argument about my decisions. Immerman is no longer eligible to participate in extracurricular activities, in that his grades are below one point two five. Is that clear?”

“As clear as mud, Mr. Weiss!” Our gray-clad hero stormed out of the room without a parting glance for Miss Hart, who seemed on the verge of a collapse. Beside me, Evelyn looked grim, but Sherwood Timmons was battling not to snicker too loudly. I considered a kick, but opted for a glower.

“Dum spiro, spero,” he said, shrugging. “While I breathe, I hope.”

“Shut up, Sherwood,” Evelyn hissed. She looked back at Paula Hart. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Once the auditors arrive, Weiss will forget all about this. But in the meantime, keep Jerry away from him.”

Paula’s eyes filled with tears, but she bravely held them back. “Jerry doesn’t deserve to be abused, and it’s not fair,” she said in true pioneer-woman fashion.

Miss Dort cleared her throat. “One final item, please! Today I noticed a marked increase in the flow of students in the hallways during class, especially from the basement. Any student who leaves your room for any reason must have a blue slip with the current date, room of origin, destination, and your signature. Is that clear?”

Oh, dear. How slipshod some teacher must be to allow students to roam the hallways without blue slips. I slumped down and stared at my ankles, which are trim and appealing. When those around me began to shuffle, I presumed it was safe and stood up.

Evelyn accompanied me to the sunless labyrinth of the basement. “By the way, Claire,” she said as I turned toward the cave door, “on Fridays we have a potluck lunch in the lounge. The Furies, Paula and Jerry, the Latin pedant, and whoever else drops by. Sherwood considers it a prime opportunity to needle any and all of the aforementioned, but you mustn’t pay any attention to him.”

“I haven’t yet,” I said. “I understand from the gossip that he and Paula used to-to, ah…”

She laughed. “For almost three years, Sherwood had a jewel, and he knew it. She did his tax returns, balanced his personal checkbook and that of the Latin Club, edited and typed his manuscript, and did almost everything a devoted wife would do for her hubby. All in hopes, I’m afraid, that he would marry her so that she could quit teaching and start reproducing in a vine-covered cottage.”

“Then Jerry showed up?” I said encouragingly. I will admit to a flicker of shame for encouraging gossip. A teensy flicker. Curiosity snuffed it.

“He strolled into the first staff meeting of the year in his saggy gray sweats, his blond hair flopping in his eyes and his boyish grin just a shade shy. Paula melted; she hasn’t recovered since.”

“Was Sherwood devastated by the loss of free labor?” I was now utterly shameless, and I scolded myself without mercy as I panted for further details.

“More irritated than devastated, I believe. He does sulk whenever the lovebirds coo too loudly in the lounge, but other than that, he seems to have recovered. He may think he can persuade me to take over her duties.”

“Is that possible?” Pant, pant.

“As the kids would say, no way. I was married once upon a time, to a tool salesman from Toledo. During the first trimester of newly wedded bliss, I had the opportunity to meet two of his other wives. And I thought bigamy was reserved for Mormons!” Laughing, she waved and clicked away down the hall.

I picked up a bundle of old Falcon Criers and started for the stairs and a dose of scotch. As I passed the teachers lounge, I heard loud voices from its interior.

“Jerry,” Paula said with surprising vehemence, “there’s nothing he can do to you. Even if he does fire you, there are lots of coaching jobs in other schools. it’ll be okay.”

“He’s a damn tyrant. How in the hell did he ever get hold of my transcript, anyway? I’m doing a good job with the team. Fred thinks I’m a good assistant coach, and so do the boys. We have a chance at the district title, Paula. Fred’s talking about retiring at the end of the school year, which means I could take over the head coach position. We could afford to get married!”

“Oh, Jerry,” she sighed.

Conversation halted. Anyone with an ounce of scrupulosity would have tiptoed away, and allowed the two to do whatever they were doing in private. I edged closer to the door.

Jerry came up for air. “Somebody ought to do something about Weiss. Maybe I’m the somebody.”

“What can you do? He already knows about your past, and he’s probably told Miss Dort. She’ll tell the Furies, and they’ll broadcast it to God.” Paula was trying to sound stern and sensible.

“I’ll think of something.” Jerry merely sounded angry.

Wincing, I opted to retreat before the door opened and my nose was creased. I turned around and ran into Sherwood Timmons, who was wiggling his eyebrows like venetian blinds.

“Trouble in paradise?” he murmured, noticeably undistressed. “Could there be some bone of contention between the two?”

“I have no idea. I came by to see if I left a folder in the lounge.”

“And were prevented ingress by our Echo and Narcissus? Did you catch them in flagrante delicto?”

Evelyn had the right idea-and the right shoes-to deal with Sherwood. I gave him a quick frown and went around the corner to go upstairs, but he followed like a faithful old dog. Or a slobbering old bloodhound. I gave up and stopped.

“Yes, Mr. Timmons? Was there something else?”

He backed me into a corner, close enough for me to smell a hint of wintergreen on his breath. “Would you be interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mrs. Malloy?”

We had found the darkest corner of the basement, which was no sunlit meadow to begin with. I dared not glance at the ceiling, due to a phobia of bats and other rabid creatures, including men in goatees.

I put a finger on his chest to remove him from my face. “Why would I he interested in a peek at the journalism accounts, Mr. Timmons? I’m a substitute teacher, not a CPA.”

He leaned forward and propped an arm on the wall above me. “Ah, but in reality you are a bookseller-not a substitute teacher. It’s rather obvious why you’ve come to Farberville High School, my dear literary peddler. Your reputation precedes you.”

“What reputation might that be?”

“As our local amateur sleuth, dear woman. I’m sure all your activities were pro bono publico-”

“If you say one more syllable in Latin, I will yank off your goatee to use as a mascara brush. I will then apply my foot to your gluteus maximus.”

about apologies; I shall do my utmost to restrain myself. Now, your purpose for infiltrating our little school, Mrs. Malloy.

May I call you Claire? It’s obvious that you’re on an undercover mission to expose the financial diddlings.”

“It is? Perhaps I’m here to help out until a replacement can be found for Miss Parchester. Civic responsibility, a commitment to education of our youth, that sort of thing.”

He chuckled at my silly attempt. “You’re here to snoop around and discover our closet embezzler, Claire. You need not be ashamed. In truth, it’s quite admirable. That’s why I offered to help you get your lovely hands on the journalism accounts.”

As a Mata Han, I was not good. As a loser in the skirmish of wits, I could at least struggle for a graceful concession. “Where are the journalism ledgers? When I couldn’t find them in the journalism room, I presumed Miss Dort locked them away in the office for the auditors.”

Sherwood put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a key. “She did, but that needn’t stop us. Shall we say tonight at midnight? The two of us, tiptoeing through the darkened hallways lit only by shafts of moonlight, our hearts pounding wildly yet in unison as we approach our shadowy destination?”