Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder by Kent Conwell Page A

chilling flop, flop, flop of a flat
tire. I pulled up in front of a convenience store and climbed out.
Both rear tires were flat. “What the …”
    Disgusted, I aimed a kick at a deflated tire, wondering just
what I had run over. I had one spare. One spare and two flats
don’t calculate out right. Cursing, I called my auto club. While
waiting for road service, I tried my home number again, and
again, no answer. “Stewart, where the dickens are you?”
    Fifteen minutes later, a wrecker from Riverside Salvage
pulled up, hoisted the rear of my truck off the ground, and
quickly repaired the flats. Both had been punctured by two-inch
roofing nails. And to make the incident even more curious, each
puncture was between the two middle treads of the tire.

    The driver of the wrecker looked up at me, then glanced in
the direction of the high school. A grin split his round face.
“You a teacher?”
    I shook my head.
    He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know, friend, but it looks like to
me someone was playing a trick on you.”
    I glanced back down the road toward the high school. A
trick? Or a warning?
    I groaned when I drew near my apartment. Stewart’s Pontiac
was gone. “Jeez, Tony. Now what? Some family you are. Your
ward hasn’t been here twenty-four hours and already you’ve
lost him. I sure hope Leroi doesn’t call,” I muttered, pulling
into the drive. “Just take it easy,” I mumbled, trying to reassure
myself. “The boy’ll be in later.” But, I was worried sick.
    Inside, my fears vanished. Stewart had taped a note to my
computer. He was being interviewed for a job and would be
home by five or six. I sighed with relief and wandered into the
kitchen where I almost stepped on an empty milk saucer.
Stewart must have fed the kitten. I looked through the apartment, but the tiny gray kitten was nowhere to be seen.
    Giving up my search, I plopped down in front of the computer and began transcribing my notes, placing a copy in the
new file I created on my hard drive, a copy on a disk, and then
printing up two hard copies, one for me, and one for Marty.
    The remainder of the afternoon flew past. When I finished
around five-thirty or so, I rose, stretched, and peered out the
window. Outside, dusk crept over the neighborhood like a sly
cat, soundless on its padded feet.
    Returning to my computer, I studied my notes. While I hadn’t
found too much that wasn’t in the police report, what I did learn
from the interviews engendered some fascinating theories.
    Kim Nally had an abortion about which she had said nothing. Could it be the result of a scandal threatened by Frances
Holderman?

    Then came Perry Jacobs’ assertion that Holderman decided
to issue a reprimand instead of denying a contract. First, I wanted to verify the claim that Holderman appraised teachers,
which while there was nothing wrong with it, was unusual. On
the other hand, I found it difficult to believe anyone would take
away another’s livelihood just because of dislike. But then, we
were talking about administrative educators, many of whom are
not members of the intelligentsia.
    I looked up abruptly when a car door slammed. Moments
later, Stewart burst in with a big grin on his face. He waved as
he headed for the bathroom. “Gotta hurry, Tony. I got the job,
and my boss is taking me out to dinner tonight. Hope you
weren’t planning anything,” he blurted out before I had a
chance to say a word.
    I had figured on the two of us going out for dinner, but I just
shook my head. “No. Nothing. What kind of job is it?”
    “I start off doing delivery work. Austin Expediters is the
name of the company,” he replied, and through the open bathroom door, he gave a running description of his day while he
showered and dressed. He was a nice looking young man.
About six feet, well-built, and when he flashed that bright
smile, his brilliant white teeth contrasted sharply with his cafe
an lait-colored skin.
    As