A Murder of Crows by Jan Dunlap

Luce. “You might be able to save the local detectives a lot of trouble for nothing.” I watched her pop the tray of biscuits into the oven. “And maybe you’re right—I am too suspicious.”
    Luce cleaned her work area and put away the bag of flour. “By the way, thanks for picking up flour. I forgot to put it on the grocery list when I shopped yesterday afternoon, and I know how you love those buttermilk biscuits with salmon.”
    “What flour?” I asked.
    “The bag of flour I found in the front hallway when I came in. To be honest, I was surprised you’d thought to stop at the store and pick it up. I didn’t know you were aware we were out of it.”
    The bag of flour.
    Goldie.
    Oh, crap.
    I looked into the oven where the biscuits were already rising into fluffy magnificence.
    “That’s somebody’s baby in there,” I said, not sure if I should laugh out loud or pound my head against the kitchen wall.
    “Say again?” Luce asked.
    I pointed at the oven, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.
    “That bag of flour was Sara Schiller’s child development class ‘baby.’ I was babysitting it for her today, and I had to bring it home overnight.”
    Luce looked from me to the oven, then back to me.
    “Well, that settles that question,” she said. “Once we have kids, I’m sure not leaving them alone with you at home.”
     
     

Chapter Six
     
    I made a quick detour on my way into work on Tuesday morning and pulled into the Stop ‘n’ Go gas station two blocks from the high school. I grabbed the first bag of flour I could find and went to pay at the register.
    “Morning, Bob,” said a voice behind me.
    I turned to find Paul Brand, our new art teacher, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand as he dug in his pocket with the other.
    “Hi, Paul,” I replied. I nodded at his large cup. “You’re a wise man. The java here is far superior to what we get in the teacher’s lounge.”
    I paid the young man behind the cash register, and waited for Paul to do likewise.
    “So how are you adjusting to life at Savage High?” I asked him. “Are the students treating you okay?”
    “They’re good kids,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
    I waited a beat for him to say something more, but he didn’t. I fished through my memory to see what tidbit I could retrieve about him to continue the conversation, but came up empty. I really didn’t know anything about him, other than he was our new art teacher and had played hockey.
    And Alan thought he was the Bonecrusher.
    I studied Paul while he dropped his change in his pocket. Only an inch or two shorter than I was, he was broader through the shoulders and slimmer at his waist. I tried to visualize him in a black mask and leotard, which was a little tough at the moment, since he was wearing a mustard-colored cotton V-necked sweater over an open collared shirt, his sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. Even though I could see the definition of muscles in his biceps, with his wavy jet black hair and chiseled cheekbones, he looked more like a GQ model than a former wrestling star.
    Except for his broken nose. That was definitely not GQ.
    I propped my bag of flour against my hip and abruptly realized that I was staring at Paul’s crooked nose.
    “It looks a lot better now than it did when it happened,” he informed me. “Fortunately, I have a very high pain threshold.”
    “Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to stare. Still, that must have hurt,” I added. “Hockey?”
    “State tournament, my senior year of high school,” he said. “My mother cried all the way to the emergency room. I figured I was just paying my dues as a hockey player. Believe me, I’ve taken worse hits.”
    The way he said it made me think about Alan’s insistence that Paul was the Most Likely Faculty Member to Be the Bonecrusher in our bet. Did Alan know more about Paul than he had shared with me? I always made a point of being on good terms with all of the