Picking Journey up this morning must’ve pushed Spam and Lysa pretty hard because even though I stop by all of our usual spots I don’t see either of them during lunch. Instead I find a quiet table and try to figure out our next steps.
I refer back to the list in my notebook. Item one: What was Miss P working on. Spam’s already agreed to check out the phone records. Miss P’s house is the crime scene, so I’ll never get in there, but I do know another place that might help us.
I need to get us into the lab at school.
22
There’s always right and wrong. And then there’s what your gut tells you to do. My gut has never steered me wrong.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
I slide into biology class as the echo of the tardy bell fades. Of course, we have a substitute teacher again today, and we will continue to have them for some time to come.
This one, an older grandmother type, offers me a patient smile before scrawling her name on the board: Mrs. Henderson.
I give her two days.
She announces we’ll be watching a movie. My guess is we’ll be watching a lot of movies over the coming weeks, until they sort out who’s going to take over the class.
To follow through on finding out what Miss P was up to during her final days, I need to get into the lab and snoop around, but without a qualified biology teacher on hand, that’s not going to happen. If I want in there today I’m going to have to be creative.
I’m wearing a navy blue hoodie over a white tank with thin straps. I slip my hand inside my hoodie, grasp the strap, and pull hard. It takes a couple of tries, but I manage to break the strap. I rummage in my purse for my mini sewing kit.
While the TA sets up the equipment for the movie, Mrs. Henderson moves her papers to the back of the room. Just beyond her is the door to the lab. Holding my strap in my hand, I make my way over to stand in front of her. In a low whisper, I explain that my shirt ripped and ask for permission to slip into the next room to fix it.
“Oh dear,” she says sincerely. “Maybe you should go to the nurse instead.”
“Huh? No. I mean, uh, I can’t. Because … um, well I’m not hurt, and what if someone else was really sick and the nurse ignored them because she was fixing my strap? That would be awful, right?” I add a pleading-puppy look to seal the deal.
Mrs. Henderson is grandmotherly and kind, not stupid. She narrows her eyes. “Calm down, dear. What I meant to say is that the nurse can probably hand you a safety pin, which shouldn’t prevent her from providing care to others.”
Great. Since when are subs such devoted problem solvers? I shake my head. “Oh, yeah, but see, a safety pin will show, and look, I have this sewing kit and everything. My friend can help me fix it quickly.” I motion to Spam, who responds with a scowl.
Mrs. Henderson glances from me to Spam and back to me again. I try to look hopeful and trustworthy. Reluctantly, she agrees. I motion for Spam to follow me. But she shakes her head.
What? Like I have time for this.
I grab Spam’s sleeve and tug. She either comes with me or her favorite pink sweater is going to have one arm longer than the other. She frowns, but follows. We slip into the lab and I lock the door behind us.
The lab is a large room, about the same size as the classroom, but designed with tables in the middle and room for activity stations along the counters against each wall. A certain amount of clutter is normal for this space. But today things look particularly disorganized.
Spam slouches. “I was planning to sleep through the movie.”
I guide her straight over to Miss Peters’s desk. “No time for naps. Boot up her computer and copy all of her files to your cloud drive.”
Spam starts clicking keys. “We shouldn’t be in here,” she says.
“Maybe not, but I’m guessing we’ll only get one shot at this, and we owe it to Miss Peters to do our best. Besides, we know what the lab looked like before. The police won’t have a clue if something is missing … or new.”
Next to Miss Peters’s computer is a holder containing pens and pencils, and I remember the scrap of paper we found in Journey’s van. It had the word DNA on it.
I know it’s a long shot but if I could prove that scrap came from a note written by Miss P, it might actually be a real clue. I scoop up all the pens and jam them into my pocket. Next, I open the sewing kit and find a tiny safety pin. I slip my arm out of my top and reattach my strap. Then I take a closer look around.
“Whoa. Somebody trashed this place,” I say.
“It looks the same to me.” Spam glances up from the keyboard and shrugs.
“Not really.” I gaze at the chaotic mess of papers covering the entire top of Miss P’s desk. Along the walls, all of the activity stations have been shoved to one end of the counter. Instead of being spaced out to accommodate two or three students, the microscopes are shoved together and toppled over. The cupboard doors are ajar.
There isn’t stuff thrown all over the floor, but otherwise, the status of the lab isn’t that different from my bedroom after the police executed their search warrant. “Someone’s been in here looking for something.”