The April Fools' Day Murder by Lee Harris Page A

neighbor. I happened to be up on the hill the afternoon of the murder, when Mr. Platt was lying spread-eagled on the grass waiting for the drama students to find him.”
    He smiled. “Our treasure hunt. He was such a great sport. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”
    “What exactly did he do for you?” I asked.
    “The question is, what didn’t he do? He helped build sets. He contributed generously when we needed to buy equipment or rent costumes. He came down and read with students who were trying to learn their parts. He kept us going is what he did.” He seemed sincerely saddened by the loss.
    “Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”
    “Not in a million years. I know he ruffled some feathers in town. He was a perfectionist in an era when perfection isn’t even a goal anymore. He had fights with the mayor, he complained when a group of kids had an overnight near his house and left the place a mess. What’s wrong with that? Who wants to wake up and find garbage near his property?”
    “I understand. But being angry at things like that isn’t really a motive for murder.”
    “Just what I’m saying.”
    “How long have you taught here?”
    “Nine years.”
    “Then you didn’t know the Platts’ children.”
    “They’re way before my time. I know the son doesn’tget along with the father, but that’s not exactly news these days. Oh, and there was an accident. That happened several years ago.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “It didn’t involve Will. It was his wife. She was driving one of their grandchildren somewhere on a snowy day and somehow got involved in a one-car accident. The grandchild died.”
    “I see,” I said. “How did Mr. Platt take it?”
    “Very hard. He blamed himself. Said she drove a small car and he didn’t think that was as safe as the car he drove, a bigger, heavier model. Also, he thought he should never have let his wife near the car on a day like that.”
    It’s the kind of statement that annoys me, although I understood why Willard Platt had said it, if indeed he had. I can’t imagine my husband forbidding me to drive my car if, in my judgment, I was able. But the Platts were older people and perhaps lived by a different set of rules. I wasn’t about to argue. “There was another accident, wasn’t there? Something that left Mr. Platt with a cane?”
    “Oh that.” He smiled. “That was before I knew him. I think he broke a leg. There are several stories about how it happened but the bottom line is the leg didn’t heal perfectly. He could walk without the cane, but the truth is, he liked it, thought it made him look distinguished. He had a few of them, some of them hand-carved, real works of art.”
    “But you don’t know how he broke the leg or when it happened.”
    “Not really. He never talked about it.”
    “How many students are in the drama club?” I asked, changing the subject.
    “We have fifteen this year. Fourteen of them took part in the hunt. Robby McPhail didn’t show up.”
    “Any reason?”
    “I haven’t seen him.” He looked at his watch. “He’ll be in my class in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll ask him.”
    “Could I have a list of the members?”
    “Sure.” He got up and went to a phone. In a short conversation, he asked someone to make a copy and drop it off at the main office. “It’ll be waiting for you,” he said when he came back. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why are you here? What’s this all about?”
    “I feel a personal interest, Mr. Jovine. I was very upset when I found Mr. Platt on Saturday afternoon. I thought he was dead and I called the police. When he was actually killed a couple of hours later, I couldn’t believe it. I just want to find out what happened.”
    “So do we all, Mrs. Brooks. I’ve talked to the police and I think they’ve talked to most of the kids in the club. I don’t think they’ve come up with anything.”
    “I haven’t either,” I admitted.