LeGarde Mysteries

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Chapter Twelve

   Superintendent Lou Marshall sat at the head of the table and twirled a yellow pencil between his stout fingers.  His bristly white hair, shorn in the style of a 1950’s crew cut, transported me back to the fifth grade.  My pals and I had carried little black combs, leftover from picture day, in the back pockets of our chinos. We’d wetted the combs under the washroom faucets, and had spiked the front of our hair straight up.  Marshall, in his mid-fifties, looked as if he’d been combing his hair in the same style ever since.  His bulk filled the wooden armchair as he slouched against the table with an expression of strained tolerance.
   Mrs. Bigelow sat directly across from Camille.  Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.  Lisa, according to her mother, had been too distressed to attend classes and was still resting in the nurse’s office.  Marshall harrumphed loudly and resumed his conversation, having stopped to allow Mrs. Bigelow to noisily blow her nose.  She’d been ranting and raving since we’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier.
   “As I was saying, Mrs. Bigelow, Miss Coté volunteers for this activity.  It’s not a paid position.  She retains complete control of the production and reports to no one in this capacity.  It is through her dedication that our school has been honored with the Rochester Broadway Theater League’s “Stars of Tomorrow” awards.  You may know that we've won “Best Musical” in our class now for four out of the last five years.  We have absolute faith in her ability to choose the appropriate cast members and don’t intend to interfere with her selections.”
   Agnes looked at us sullenly.  Her black hair escaped from a stringy ponytail.  She pulled her baggy gray sweater tightly around her chest, sniffed loudly, and looked down at her hands.  She spoke in an unsteady voice.
   “My daughter practiced these pieces for six months!  I paid over four hundred dollars for singing and dance lessons.  Molly told Lisa that she picked up the music one week before the auditions!  One week!  In my opinion, Lisa outperformed Molly in every facet of the performance. There was no question in my mind that she’d get the part of Celeste.  I was flabbergasted when she called me this morning.  Just flabbergasted!”
   Camille spoke gently to the troubled woman.
   “Agnes.  Please.  Lisa did a fine job, but Molly is really better suited for the part.  Lisa will have a ball as Ricki.  It’s a wonderful role.”
 Agnes raised her head and shot a steely glance at Camille.
 “I know favoritism when I see it, Miss Coté.  I know it well.  And this fiasco smacks of it!”
 She paused momentarily, smoothing her sweater as she looked haughtily around the table.  After a brief pause, Agnes continued with her nose tilted in the air.
   “I’d like a second opinion.  My daughter is so distraught. This will destroy her.  It will simply destroy her!”
 The superintendent shifted uncomfortably in his chair and met my gaze.  He played with a loose button on the slightly yellowed cuff of his white shirt, and then directed his response to Agnes. 
   “Mrs. Bigelow, this isn’t a medical issue.  Second opinions are not an option.  But perhaps Professor LeGarde would offer us the benefit of his observations?  After all, he is a music professor.  You must have heard his radio show, Mrs. Bigelow?  It’s on WRLN Sunday mornings at eight.”
   Agnes’s head snapped up and she stared at me with widened eyes. 
   “Professor LeGarde?” 
   She looked worried, and then snorted, “I thought you were just the piano player.” 
   She delivered the words “piano player” as if they were an insult.  Apparently she hadn’t paid attention when Maddy answered the phone earlier.  I rolled my eyes at Marshall and decided to speak up.
   “Mrs. Bigelow.  I volunteered to play the piano for auditions.  I wrote the musical, albeit many years ago, and have a thorough understanding of the roles.  I will continue to provide the service for free during the rehearsals, until the orchestra comes on board.  In addition to being “the piano player” and the composer, I’ve taught for nearly twenty-five years at the University and am currently the chairman of the Music Department.  I believe I’m qualified to offer you a second opinion.”
   I pushed my chair back from the table and took a deep breath.  Agnes seemed to calm down as she nodded in my direction.  I spoke up in my lecture-hall voice, overdoing it a little.  I was rapidly losing patience.
   “First of all, the choice of cast always has been and always will be the unique decision of the director.  Whom the director chooses is her option.  The decisions are final and are not questioned by the participants.  The cast must trust in the instincts of the director or seek acting opportunities elsewhere.”
   Agnes opened her mouth to interrupt, but I barreled on with my pedantic speech.
   “I agree wholeheartedly with Miss Coté’s decision.  Her instincts are superb.  Lisa is a talented young woman, but her vocal range precludes her from the high B flat that will be required in many of the solos.  She’s much better suited in the comedic role of Ricki.  Actually,” I added, with a touch of churlishness, “I personally would have cast her in the hippy chorus and would have chosen the Williams girl for the part of Ricki.”
   The color drained from Agnes' face.  Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled.  She resembled an emaciated Doberman as she expelled a long, sour breath.  Without warning, she erupted from her seat and seethed across the table.
   “Well, sure you’d side with her!  You two are screwing each other, aren’t you?” she hurled the words across the table, knocked her chair to the floor, and bolted from the room, sobbing loudly.
   I looked at Camille.  Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she reacted to the accusation.  She looked at me, and then at Marshall.  Marshall spoke first, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
   “I am so sorry, Miss Coté, Professor LeGarde.  I truly apologize for this, for this, uh— unusual situation.”
   In addition to the fury, I felt a powerful urge to defend my fiancée's honor.  Aside from a few tentative romantic interludes, Camille and I had maintained a rather Victorian relationship.  We’d agreed to wait until we were married to consummate our union.  Camille’s soul was still tender due to the physical abuse from her ex-husband.  In spite of my love for Camille, and the surges of desire that rose when I was in her company, I often felt clumsy and strangely guilty when in her arms. 
 Elsbeth was to have been my lifetime soul mate, and although it had been five years since her murder, it felt as if she had fallen from the Letchworth Gorge cliffs yesterday.  Waiting until Camille and I worked through our personal issues had been the right choice for us.
 I stopped the jumble of thoughts that Agnes’ sordid comments had triggered, and turned to Marshall.
 “Mr. Marshall, I just want you to know that— “
 He dismissed my attempt with a brief hand wave.
 “She had no right to speak to you that way.  Please don't give it a moment's thought.”
 Jonesy was just outside the door, pushing a wet mop in large “S” patterns across the linoleum.  He raised his head from his work, looked dully at each of us, nodded in recognition, and then turned his attention back to the floor. 
 Marshall touched Camille’s sleeve with an expression that bordered on affection.
 “Miss Coté?” 
 Camille turned toward him, her face flushed.
 “Yes, Mr. Marshall?” she said as she cast her eyes down.
 “I hope you won’t let this affect your decision to continue with the show?  We need you.  We need your talent.  The work you do with these children is exemplary.  It’s one of the best and healthiest outlets they have.  Don’t let the words of a—” he hesitated and lowered his voice, “a lunatic— stop you. Please?”   The strained expression melted from her face. 
 “Thank you, Mr. Marshall.  I won’t. I don’t plan to give up on them.  They’re a great bunch of kids.”
 Marshall beamed at both of us, shaking our hands.
 “Well then, we’ll be just fine now, won’t we?”

Chapter Twenty-one

    On Wednesday afternoon, my last class was over at 2:30.  The sun beckoned through the dusty, old windows, and lured me outdoors.  It teased across the pile of papers that I had begun to grade, dappling the pages.  I held out for a good fifteen minutes before I rose from my desk, stuffed a sheaf of papers in my briefcase, waved goodbye to a startled Madelaine, and gave in to temptation.
   I emerged from the ivy-covered, stone building and started across the brick courtyard that graced the north end of the campus.  Built in 1810, the Wilson building had housed the school children of the Genesee Valley until the late 1970s, when the sprawling Genesee Valley Central School had been constructed north of the village on Route 60.  At that point, the University had moved the Music and Art departments into Wilson. 
   Although my colleagues often snickered at the ancient heating system, the archaic electrical network, and the drafty windows, I found the building with its massive mahogany doors, marble floors, and elegant banisters to be comfortably familiar.  The stately antique stood as a unique and solid citizen, nestled among its eclectic neighbors and newer structures that continued to multiply as the university grew in national popularity.
   Rolling up my shirtsleeves, I crossed the courtyard and enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun.  I wove my way between the buildings toward the parking lot.  Flowerbeds flourished around the walkways.  Gold marigolds, red dianthus, pink sedum, and tall blood-red grasses waved in the afternoon breeze that wafted up the eastern slope of the valley. 
   Silver-blue dragonflies flitted around the grounds.  I stopped for a moment as one landed on my bare forearm.  Her fragile legs whispered against the hairs on my arm.  I lifted her to the level of my eyes and examined her gossamer wings.  They glistened and winked metallic in the warm sun.  I waited patiently until she tired of her perch and flew over to a wooden bench. 
   I continued on my way through the two hundred foot long cast iron arbor that joined the courtyard with the grassy commons.  Boston ivy graced the metal structure as it rose from flowerbeds of white cosmos and miniature pink roses and then cascaded down from the roof.  It was reminiscent of an Italian pergola.  I walked briskly in the sunshine, swinging my battered old briefcase and smiling at the students who passed.
   When I reached the car, I tossed my briefcase into the backseat, and then drove up the narrow road that merged with Main Street in the village of Conaroga. 
   Main Street ran north and south in the village.  It was a wide boulevard flanked by sidewalks and mature trees.  The University stretched over the western side of the street, rolling down the hillside with over twenty-five buildings that covered almost two hundred acres.  
   Quaint storefronts lined Main Street along the southern end.  When the village had been awarded “historic town” status ten years ago, most storeowners had replaced their modern signs with gilt, custom-made boards.  Some had followed in the tradition of European villages and had hung golden symbols that represented their craft.  The bakery featured a large, gilt pretzel that was suspended high above the door.  The bookstore boasted a three-dimensional library shelf with rounded, gilt book bindings that protruded from the board. 
   The merchants had carefully restored their storefronts to maintain historic appearances, and yet had also artistically enhanced them to attract students and townsfolk.  The owner of the antique shop, for example, had chosen the interesting color combination of cobalt blue, sky blue, and vermillion.  Although not historically accurate, it was especially attractive when combined with the gold lettering above the window. 
   Gargantuan antique dwellings lined the north end of Main Street.  Many of them boasted three stories.  Although the village was founded in 1820, a portion of the homes had been updated to the Victorian style in the late 1800’s.  Gables, spires, wraparound porches, and picket fences were common.  Each home was carefully tended and sat on large, grassy lawns, complemented by weed-free, mulched and color-coordinated flowerbeds.  Many of these expansive homes housed students, art galleries, or businesses.
   As I waited behind a line of cars at the intersection of University and Main, throngs of students paraded around my car.  The glorious weather, the packed streets, and the euphoric atmosphere thrilled me.  I had rolled down both windows and was drinking in the sultry breezes, waiting for a break in the traffic, when I saw them.
   Armand pushed Molly against the back wall of the Chinese restaurant.  A narrow alley separated it from the building that housed the student laundry facilities.  He kissed her up and down her neck and face, thrusting himself against her in a lurid parody of sexual intimacy.  She pummeled his chest in protest.  He raised his hand to her, threatening to strike.  Molly cringed against the wall as he again pushed his mouth against hers.  He slobbered over her and groped her mercilessly as she struggled against him.
   I turned off the engine, unbuckled my seatbelt, and leapt from the car, reaching him in seconds.  I grabbed his collar with one hand and his arm with the other, yanked him off of her, and shoved him against the opposite wall of the alley.  He reeled around and fell to the ground, landing on his backside.
   “What the—” he sputtered as he looked up and recognized me.
   His expression transformed from surprise, to rage, to cagey neutrality.  A cluster of students had stopped to watch. 
   “What’s wrong with you?!” I spat at him as I turned to the shaking girl.
   Molly wiped her tears with her sleeves and straightened her clothing.  Her hands shook badly.
   “Are you okay, Honey?  Do you want me to call the police?”
   She took a deep breath, looked down at her feet, and shook her head.
   “I’m okay,” she said in a small voice.
   “You bet she’s okay,” snarled Armand, “she wants it.  We were just playing around, right, Molly?”
   He rose.  His threatening tone challenged her to back him up.  She seemed to collect herself, stood taller, and looked me in the eyes.  Traces of fear still flitted across her face, but she held it back.
   “Yeah.  I’m fine, really, Professor LeGarde.  It’s okay.”
   Armand approached her with an arrogant, self-satisfied expression.  As he was about to drape his arm across her shoulder to claim his prize, I intervened.  I pushed his arm down and then slammed him up against the wall.  Fury boiled within me, born both of the outrage I felt for the girl, and fired by anger toward Camille’s ex-husband, who had similarly abused her years ago.  The injustice of it all made me livid.
   “That’s no way to treat a woman, Armand.  You’re a vile, selfish little bastard.  If I ever hear that you’ve tried to force yourself on this young lady again, I will personally see to it that you’re prosecuted for assault and attempted rape.  In prison, you might find time to reflect on your behavior as you fight off the same kind of attention you’ve been giving to this fine, young woman.”
   Armand backed down.  His muscles slackened and he looked toward the ground.  I thought I saw his lower lip tremble, but it passed so quickly that I was unsure.  Molly recovered her poise and came to his rescue as the horns began to honk from the street where I’d abandoned my car.
   “It’s really okay, Professor.  He didn’t mean anything by it.”
   She reached over and linked her arm in his, stroking the side of his face with the back of her hand.  I searched her face for the truth, and felt my stomach drop as I realized how badly she wanted this boyfriend and to what levels she’d stoop to keep him.  I felt sick as I sighed deeply, warned him once more, and then returned to clear the traffic jam that I’d caused.

Chapter Thirty-three

    Camille slept during the drive back to East Goodland.  The combination of wine, outdoor exercise, and the stress of revealing her secret had simply knocked her out.  She stirred as the tires crunched over the gravel driveway that led up to her modest white Cape Cod. 
   “Are we home?” she asked, her voice infused with sleep.
   “Yup.”
   I smiled in her direction and pulled up the parking brake.
   “What time is it?” she asked, still confused.
   “It’s about eight.”
   Raising the back of her seat, she rubbed her eyes.
   “I can’t believe I slept through the whole ride.  I’m sorry, Gus.  Not very good company, huh?”  
   She smiled ruefully as she opened the car door.  The remnants of her confession still lingered heavily in the air between us, cloaking her in sadness.  It pulled at my heart. 
   “Not to worry, my love.  I had fun watching you sleep.  You made the cutest little faces all the way home.”
   An embarrassed laugh burst from her lips.  She shook her head and stuck out her tongue at me, then got out of the Outback and started to collect her drawings, antique book, and paperweights.  For a moment, I was afraid that she would cross the thin border between laughter and tears, but she maintained control and walked around to the back of the car.  She leaned against it as she watched me mix and match the wine from three cases.    As I lifted one of the boxes to carry into her house, she closed the car door and said, “Hey!  We never stopped back at that last antique store, did we?!”
   I shook my head and smiled at her. 
   “Next time, sweetheart.  It’ll be a good excuse to go back there, won’t it?”
   She unlocked the front door and held it for me as I maneuvered the carton through the doorway.  As I walked toward the kitchen, a sensation of unease trickled down my spine. 
   It was too quiet.  Something was wrong.
   Camille pulled her keys from the front door and joined me in the kitchen.
   “Boris!  I’m home, baby.  C’mon out!”
   She turned to me, smiling, “Poor little guy, I’ll bet he really has to go!”
   The house was still.  Ginger hopped down from her perch on top of the refrigerator and meowed loudly, reaching up on her hind legs to stretch her paws up to the counter.  
   Camille asked, “Where is that little monkey?  He must be sleeping.  Oh, Ginger, are you hungry, girl?” 
   As she opened a small can of tuna-flavored cat food for Ginger, I offered to look for Boris.  My feeling of disquiet intensified.  As I looked unsuccessfully around the first floor, I realized that it stemmed from the fact that I’d never walked through Camille’s doorway without Boris’ sharp, welcoming bark. 
   As I passed through the dining room, one of the sheer curtains billowed from the window.  I walked over to shut the window and stopped in my tracks.  Broken shards of glass covered the floor.  The window was raised and the screen was missing.
   “Camille?  Come here for a minute, Honey,” I whispered urgently. I wondered if the intruder might still be in the house. 
   “Did you find Boris?” she asked, as she walked through the doorway. 
   She gasped and raised her hand to her mouth when I pointed toward the broken window.  She looked around nervously behind her and skittered over to me.
   “Someone broke in?” she asked.  She drew in her breath sharply and looked up at me, whispering, “Do you think they’re gone?”
   “Probably,” I answered, “but why don’t you call the police while I double-check the house?  See if you can get Joe out here.”
   As Camille dialed the police station, I looked around for a weapon.  Her fireplace utensils were decorative and scarcely heavy enough to use in self-defense.  I carefully opened the foyer closet door, looking for both the intruder and something that could be used as a bludgeon.  I nearly jumped out of my skin when Camille walked up behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder as I peered into the closet.  I muffled my embarrassed laugh with my hand.
   “Gheez, Camille!  You almost gave me a heart attack.”
   “I’m sorry, Honey,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
   I poked my head back into the closet, looking for the light switch.
   “I’m looking for something to use— in case—like a baseball bat,” I murmured. 
   She reached around me into the side of the closet. 
   “Here.  Use one of Greg’s old golf clubs.  I guarantee you, it can knock a person out,” she said. 
   As I closed my hand around the iron, I grimaced as I thought of the torment she had endured at the hands her ex-husband.  Camille followed two steps behind me as I examined each room, fearful to be left behind in case the burglar popped out from a concealed location.
   The house was empty.  Joe Russell arrived within twenty minutes, dressed in weekend attire.  I felt guilty as I realized that it was Saturday evening and that Joe had probably been relaxing at home.  Adam Knapp pulled up in his cruiser seconds later and they approached the house together cautiously, hands positioned on the butts of their revolvers.  I opened the door and waved them inside.
   “What’s going on here, Gus?  Is Camille all right?” Joe boomed as he marched up the front steps.
   “Someone broke in,” I said.  
   “Are you sure they’re gone?” he asked.
   I nodded, “Pretty sure.  We checked the first and second floor and didn’t see anyone.”
   Adam took his flashlight and expanded the search into the cellar.  Joe followed me into the dining room and looked at the glass on the floor beneath the window, shaking his head slowly.
   “Any valuables missing?  Have you had a chance to look around, Gus?”
   “Yeah, Joe.  We did.  We found some items missing.  Come sit down at the table and I’ll give you the details.”
   I motioned for Joe to follow me into the kitchen.  As we walked, he pulled a stubby pencil and steno pad out of his jacket pocket. 
   Camille sat at the kitchen table with her head buried in her arms.  Her shoulders shook.  Joe looked at her with concern. 
   “They took a few pieces of Camille’s clothing,” I said quietly. “There were some, ah, underclothes that had been hanging on the shower rod.”
   Joe grimaced and started to write down the particulars.  He looked up as I said, “But Joe, the weirdest thing is that they took her dog.  They took Boris.”
     Joe looked dubious, and turned to Camille.
   “Are you sure he didn’t just slip out the door, Camille?”
   She raised her head and nodded a tear-stained face in his direction.  I answered for her.
   “We looked, Joe.  All around the house.  He’s not a wandering type; he’s a housedog.  He would’ve come back up onto the steps if he got out.”
   Adam returned from the basement and walked around the house, making careful observations.  He determined that the intruder must have entered through the broken window, and exited through the kitchen door that had been unlocked from the inside while we were gone. 
   Missing were a white silk slip, two pairs of pantyhose, several additional pairs of intimate clothing, and one mini-dachshund.

Chapter Fifty-two

   Camille floated down her front steps and glided to my car.  Beneath her winter parka, she wore a cream brocade gown that fell to the ground in graceful swirls.  My mouth dropped open as she slid onto the front seat.  She drew back her hood and revealed a fancy up-do, complete with banana curls and tiara.  She wore mascara, blush, lipstick, and glittery, silver eye shadow.  It was the first time I’d seen her wear makeup.  I stared at her, speechless.
   “Meet Glinda, Good Witch of the North.  Welcome to Munchkin land, my love!”
   I stammered.
   “You— you look gorgeous, Camille.”
   She laughed with a self-deprecating chuckle, leaned over, pressed her soft lips to my mouth, and then poked a finger at my chest.
   “And where’s your costume, Professor LeGarde?”
   I looked at her blankly.
   “I didn’t know we were—” 
   Camille placed her index finger on my lips, stopping my excuse midstream.  She smiled forgiveness and motioned for me to drive to the school.
   When we arrived, the parking lot was full of life.  Although it was only forty-five degrees out, Maurice Potter ran down the sidewalk in an oversized diaper, tee shirt, and baby bonnet.  He chased a tall boy, dressed as a vampire, who waved a giant pacifier above his head.
   “Give me back my binky!” laughed Maurice.
   The party was open to the entire high school.  Cars jammed the parking lot and teens streamed into the lobby.  Camille shepherded Maurice and the vampire inside as we headed for the cafeteria. 
   George Bigelow sat behind a school desk at the cafeteria entrance.  He was dressed as a clown, with blue hair, a wide ruffled collar, and a red bulbous nose.  His face was painted white with green diamonds above and below his eyes. 
   “Two?” he asked, “That’ll be eight dollars, please.”
   I fished a ten out of my wallet and handed it over to George who returned two wrinkled dollar bills, chuckling as he eyed my clothes.
   “Nice costume, Gus.  What are you supposed to be, a college professor?” 
   I grimaced and rolled my eyes. 
   “I suppose I should go look in the prop room, huh?” 
   Camille and George nodded simultaneously.
   I pocketed my ticket, gave Camille hers, and wandered through crowds of ghosts, witches, and hobos toward the back stage.  
   As I searched through the racks of costumes, Jonesy pushed a mop and bucket into the room.  He looked up in surprise as his owl eyes peered through thick glasses.  He grunted a greeting in response to my hello, hummed a tune from the show, and continued mopping as I looked through the clothes.  After a few half-hearted swipes with the mop, he backed out and started down the back hallway.
   I finally found a costume that fit.  The black pants were a little short, but when covered by long black riding boots, they worked just fine.  I put on the frilly white shirt, short black jacket, and black cape.  Finally, I donned the black half-mask and hat and looked in the mirror at Zorro.  I laughed at myself, grabbed a fake fencing sword, thankfully without a snake attached to it, and then walked back through the crowds of teens who raced along the hallways and streamed in and out of the cafeteria.
   Twinkling, orange pumpkin lights dangled across the doorways and over the windows throughout the darkened room.  The lunchroom tables and chairs had been pushed against one wall.  Fake spider webs formed filmy threads along the walls and across the ceiling.  Tissue paper ghosts hung from the strings of lights at regular intervals.  Jack-o'-lanterns flickered spookily from tables that lined one side of the room.  They would be judged at the end of the party, along with the best costume. 
   Agnes Bigelow served punch and cookies from the other side of the room.  She was dressed as a rather jaded Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.  She wore a short blue-and-white-checkered dress with a square white apron.  Her braided hair hung with shiny blue ribbons, and she wore ruby red slippers with short white socks.  Her face had been excessively made up with a garish red lipstick and dark blue eye shadow.  I looked at her again in surprise.  Her eyebrows were drawn in far too high so that she exuded the unpleasant image of the “Astonished Hooker from Oz.” 
   I avoided looking at her and switched my glance to Lou Marshall, who stood at one end of the room under a spotlighted disk jockey station, inviting the kids to dance.  He filled out a snug ringmaster costume and seemed to be having a wonderful time as he grabbed the mike, snapped his whip, and joked with the audience.  A gangly boy with a bad case of acne played the CDs and announced each selection in a surprising baritone. 
   I found Camille over by the windows, chatting with Takeema and Nelson. 
   “Well, look at you!” Camille said as she curtsied before me. 
   I couldn’t resist.  I swept off my hat and bowed gallantly before her. 
   “M’lady,” I said.
   Takeema and Nelson giggled and hung onto each other as they watched us flirt. Takeema was dressed as a cat.  She wore a tight black leotard, furry pointed ears, and a long flowing tail.  Her face was painted purple with yellow, white, and orange whiskers.  The fur lines and cat-shaped eyes were drawn with delicate precision. 
   Nelson was attired as a circus acrobat.  He wore a shiny, lavender body suit and black silk slippers.  His slicked back hair emphasized the white makeup on his face.  His eyes, eyebrows, and lips were highlighted in various colors.  He carried fluorescent orange juggling rings and wore silver chains around his neck.  A small silver ring sparkled from his right ear. 
   The music blared again.  Takeema grabbed Nelson and tossed his juggling rings onto a chair.  They danced across the room, parodying a polka.  Whirling and twirling around the room, they pitched from side to side in perfect unison.  The whole crowd applauded and made room for them in the center of the dance floor. 
   I glanced around the cafeteria and tried to recognize the drama kids.  Two of the seventh grade girls, who were featured in the hippie chorus, were off to the side, dancing by themselves.  They were dressed as a nurse and a scarecrow.  Gene and Nathan, who had dressed up as Godzilla and Frankenstein, hung around the snack table.
   Suddenly, I saw a flamenco dancer with Maurice Potter.  Lisa Bigelow wore a long black wig, swirling crimson skirt, lacey black blouse, and sparkling black shoes.  She clicked her castanets, laughed happily, and threw her head back as she danced around Maurice in his diaper.  The admiration of a boy two years her junior had clearly bolstered her confidence.  She glowed as she danced circles around Maurice, who returned her gaze, completely captivated.
   Candy Price ran from person-to-person as she snapped photographs.  Her short, red curls bobbed as she laughed and caught her friends by surprise.  She followed Lisa as she twirled around, flashing the camera several times.  Finally, she ran up to us, breathless and laughing.
   “C’mon Miss Coté.  It’s your turn.  You and Professor LeGarde.”
   We stood stiffly beside each other, our shoulders barely touching. 
   Candy let the camera hang around her neck.  She put her hands on her hips, dramatically rolled her eyes, and teased, “C’mon, now, can’t you get in a little closer?”
   I obliged willingly, putting my arm around Camille’s soft shoulders.  On sudden impulse, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.  The camera flashed.  Candy laughed gleefully, thrilled to have caught us in such a position, and then raced off after Takeema and Nelson. 
   Camille whacked me on the arm, and laughed.
   “Gus! You shouldn’t have!”
   I shrugged my shoulders.
   “Sorry.  Must be that costume, Glinda.”
    The party had been in full swing for an hour when Molly Frost and Randy Sherman made their grand entrance.  Molly wore a clingy, scarlet dress with a slit on the side that revealed one long, black-stockinged leg.  The back was cut low, and she had knotted a black silk scarf around her neck.  Her hair was parted on the side and was plastered to her head, pulled tightly back into a low bun on her neck.  Her black high-heels had thin straps that wrapped around the ankles.  A new, flesh-colored cast was on her arm, but she seemed to barely notice it.  All that was missing was the long-stemmed rose that should have been clamped between her teeth. 
   She trotted into the room with Randy, who wore a white tuxedo and black bow tie.  They darted to the young boy at the DJ stand, and handed him a CD.  He obliged, slid the disk into the player, and turned up the volume.
   The crowd parted once again as Molly and Randy began to tango.  I watched as they glided across the room and performed the sensual dance.  I had heard that they’d been taking dance lessons together, but was astonished at their level of proficiency.  Randy held his arms up, squarely positioned, as Molly did the same.  They looked deeply into one another’s eyes, snapping their heads from side to side and moving gracefully across the floor.  Randy twirled Molly away from him, but didn’t let go of her hand.  Next, he pulled her back, raised her left arm up high, and gently ran the backs of his fingers down her arm and side.  She sighed, looked lovingly into his eyes, and then spun away from him again.  He danced around her, and then pulled her back, flush to his chest.  She wrapped one long leg around his waist and let the other trail on the floor as he dragged her across the room.  They teased each other with their movements, working their way down the length of the room. 
   When they reached the windows, Randy snapped Molly to his side, and slid his left arm around her waist.  She raised her right arm to his shoulder, and they both turned to the side, pressing their cheeks together.  As the music swelled, Randy grabbed Molly’s left hand with his right, raised it high in the air, and strutted with her across the floor in the traditional well-known signature move of the tango.
   Lou Marshall drifted over to us as we watched. 
   “Do you tango, Miss Coté?” he asked shyly.
   She looked up at him in surprise and smiled. 
   “Why, yes, Mr. Marshall, I do.”
   He looked at me and asked, “Do you mind if I borrow her, Gus?”
   I nodded, although a jealous itch threatened beneath my polite veneer.  He led her to the dance floor and danced beside Molly and Randy in a more sedate version of the piece. 
   I watched them as I lounged against the wall, wishing I’d taken the dance lessons that Camille had suggested in July.  I could manage a reasonable slow dance, but that was my limit.  Camille startled me with her graceful, sensual steps, and Lou Marshall was surprisingly light on his feet.  The green demon knocked again, louder this time.  I shoved the feelings back down and scolded myself. 
   Stop it.  She’s marrying you, not him. 
   Nelson and Takeema watched their teacher in awe.
   “Wow!” said Takeema, “She really does know how to move, doesn’t she?”
   I nodded and sighed.  Nelson dragged Takeema out to the floor.  They mimicked Randy and Molly's movements.  Several other teens started to copy them.  Before long, a large group of dancers huddled around them and attempted the tango. 
   I poured myself a cup of punch and took a sip, watching the crowd.  A tall student, dressed as either a grape or a Fruit-of-the-Loom guy, lounged against the far wall, his arms crossed and his expression sullen.  Something about him seemed very familiar.  I tried to place him, but it was impossible.  His face was covered in purple makeup and he wore a purple body suit with a tight hood that hid his hair.
   As Randy and Molly twirled past, he suddenly pushed off from the wall and propelled himself toward them.  
   The boy in purple dragged Molly away from Randy and tossed her to the floor. She shrieked and fell into a heap at his feet.  Without hesitating, he spun and attacked Randy.  He pushed him to the ground, straddled his waist, and pummeled Randy’s body as he screamed into his face.  The deafening music obliterated the words. 
   I ran toward them.  En route, I stopped Lou and Camille and pointed toward the brawling boys.
   “Get the lights and turn off the music.  I’ll break it up.”
   Marshall trotted toward the DJ stand as I raced toward the fight. I realized as I ran that the boy in purple had to be Armand Lugio. 
   By the time I reached them, Randy’s lower lip was split and bleeding furiously.  His right eye was puffy and blood covered the front of his white tuxedo.  Molly tried to stop the fight.  She grabbed Armand’s shirt from behind, yanking at it and screaming for him to stop.  Her hair had come undone and she’d lost one shoe.  The tango music still blasted in the background.
   I reached for Molly and pulled her away from him.  Just as I was about to grab Armand to lift him off of Randy, he raised his right hand.  A flash of silver glinted as he thrust a knife toward Randy’s neck.  Adrenaline rushed through my bloodstream as I grabbed Armand’s wrist.
   He struggled and turned to me.  His eyes burned and his face was enraged as he pulled the Zorro mask down over my eyes. 
   He knocked me down and sat astride me this time, screaming words in his native language.  I ripped the mask from my face, as the knife swept back and forth, just inches from my eyes.  Struggling to fend him off, I gathered my strength, flipped up, and knocked him off, rolling sideways to my knees.  He rushed straight at me with the knife extended toward my middle.  I feinted to the left, grabbed his other arm, spun him around, and shouted his name. 
   “Armand!” I screamed, “Armand, stop!”
   But he came at me again, harder than before.  I tried to lock my hand around his wrist and twist the knife free.  I missed.  He was just about to thrust the knife home, when Gene and Nathan reached us.  With one swift motion, they pulled him from me, pinned his arms behind his back, and slammed him to the floor. 
   The music finally stopped, and the lights came up.  Nathan took the knife and cautiously placed it on the table.  Gene sat on Armand’s back with his full two hundred and fifty pounds.  He held his hands tightly in a vice-like grip and slammed him against the floor each time he tried to get up.    Finally, when he realized escape was impossible, Armand began to cry.
   I looked away, suddenly feeling exhausted.  Molly applied a wet brown paper towel to Randy’s bleeding lip.  Tears streamed through her black mascara as she said, “I’m so sorry, Randy.  I should have known.  I’m so sorry!”
   Adam Knapp arrived with a fellow officer and snapped handcuffs on Armand, who had finally slumped into a purple defenseless lump, completely disconnected from the world.  He didn’t respond to Adam’s questions, but looked straight ahead, his eyes unfocused and his mouth slack.  The paint on his face ran down his cheeks in streams of tears.  Adam pulled the hood off of his head.  His curly black hair was plastered with sweat against his scalp.  I spoke quietly with Adam Knapp for a few moments before he walked the lamb-like Armand out to the patrol car. 
   I sighed, saddened at the state of the boy.  He would need some earnest attention, and would probably end up in an institution for a while. 
 Camille rushed to my side as concern flashed across her face.
   “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked, breathlessly.
   Before I could answer, she grabbed me and kissed me, right in front of the whole school.  After a long embrace, she looked me over, inspecting for wounds.  She cried out as she noticed a cut on my forearm where the knife had sliced through the fabric of the jacket and shirt. 
   “Gus!  You’re bleeding!”
   I pulled off the jacket and rolled up the shirtsleeves.  It wasn’t bad, and had already begun to bead over with congealed blood. 
   “I’m fine, love.  It’s nothing.”
   I rolled down the shirt and rubbed my right shoulder where I’d wrenched it during the fight, realizing that I’d been very fortunate to escape with such paltry injuries. 
   Somehow I managed to reassure Camille.  I draped my arm around her shoulders and glanced at my watch, surprised to see that it was only 9:00 P.M. 
   Lou Marshall took to the microphone again, settling the crowd down and trying to instill a renewed spirit into the group.  The party continued after the shock wore off, and by the time the jack–o-lanterns and costumes were judged; it had reached full swing again.  Maurice and Takeema won for their unique costumes.  Finally, the crowd headed home to sample candy unclaimed by the trick-or-treaters. 
   I wandered into the prop room and looked for my clothes.  I'd left them folded up on the shelf in the corner of the room.  I searched on, above, below, and around the shelf.  They were gone.  They’d been taken or were hidden among the hundreds of costumes. 
   After five minutes, I gave up looking, tired of dealing with the pranks of our nameless tormentor.  I drove home as Zorro, and after dropping off   Camille, locked the kitchen door, climbed up the stairs, and fell into my bed with visions of purple men and scarecrows dancing a mad tango.

"Le Violette" by Scarlatti, sung by Melanie K. Lazar, voice student at the Eastman School of Music, Rochester, New York.