The Augustine Murders - Season 1, Episode 5

I.5

January 25^th, 1990 – Thursday

  Scott struggled to keep his eyes opened as he was sitting in the bus, on his way to Saint Augustine Bells. He had not slept so well, once again – and, after enjoying a big, hearty breakfast, the tall young stud was feeling a bit drowsy.

  It must have been snowing all night. Scott’s eyes twitched into the light. It was a bright, crisp morning. The snow had been ploughed into brown, crumbly bands by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the footpaths, it still lay in the streets and all over private gardens in an immaculate white.

  The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but the road was still a bit slippery. There were few people in the streets, and the bus was going cautiously slow. Scott yawned. He may have been eating a little too much, this morning.

– “Back to the scene...” he thought, as the bus left him next to the stately gates, where the layer of snow seemed thicker than anywhere else, covering the path to the school’s entrance as well as the trees and bushes around the corner.

  Scott looked up. The bells were striking nine. He had not heard them yet, or he had not noticed their presence until now. It was a long, low, strangely ominous sound. The sun was barely up, still hidden by the buildings. In the clear Winter light, everything felt shrouded in mystery, which was enough to give Scott a chill. It was worse than the fog he had been walking through until now...

  The permanent school pass he kept in his wallet helped Scott feel a bit better. He wouldn’t have to sign papers anymore. As a matter of fact, Mr Scupper was already in the waiting room – obviously here to welcome him, since he got up when he saw the young journalist. They even shook hands and exchanged a few words. Then he was invited to follow the old man.

  Thinking about it, Scott didn’t know if that was such a good thing. The campus was certainly large, and there were quite a few buildings, but he wouldn’t get lost if someone simply told him where to go, or gave him a map or something. With someone always leading the way, he couldn’t wander on school grounds. Scott had a hunch that he might learn something if he only followed his nose, instead of a nosey old guy.

  While he was not so happy with the way they handled things in Saint Augustine Bells, Scott was pleasantly surprised to find that Mr Scupper was quite eager to talk – a lot more, and a lot more frankly than he had expected.

– “Don’t get your hopes up, young man. You won’t get to interview any of our students today... not unless you play it real smart.”

  Mr Scupper suddenly stopped right in the middle of a large alley, and turned to Scott. They were alone, with nothing but the wind blowing over the snowy grass.

– “But you’ve been a clever player, so far!” he said. Scott noticed a malicious glimmer in the old man’s eyes. “Really clever. Aha!”

– “Huh... Thank you.”

– “Thank yourself. I have overheard a conversation between Mr Thorne and Mr Porkenham over dinner, last night. They both agree that you are less dumb than you look.”

– “Oh.”

– “Take it from Mr Thorne, it is a big compliment. And it has brought you this far. But you won’t get much more information from the guys you are going to meet today.”

– “ Who am I scheduled to meet?”

– “Mr Huggins first, I would say. Then Mr Swayn.”

– “And who are these gentlemen?”

  The old man shrugged.

– “Right. Call them gentlemen... Mr Huggins is the students’ counselor. He is also responsible for much of our budget, right under Mr Porkenham.”

– “And who is the other guy?”

– “Mr Swayn is a tutor and lecturer at our school. Don’t ever contradict him. He considers himself as some sort of psychologist. We’d better hurry now. They can’t hear us here, but we’re standing in the middle of nowhere...”

  Scott caught on immediately. Their presence was quite conspicuous in a wide, showy white field. As a matter of fact, Mr Porkenham and two other men were just stepping outside of the main building. They waited for them on top of the stairs, then Scott was formally introduced – all too formally for his own taste.

– “Dylan Huggins...”

– “Dirk Swayn... with a Y, not an I.”

– “Scott Girder... It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you...”

– “Quite...” Mr Porkenham concluded, always mumbling a little.

  As announced by Mr Scupper, Scott was invited to interview Mr Huggins first. His office was on the fifth floor, somewhat less large than the journalist figured it would be, since the man in question was supposed to be right under the director in the school’s hierarchy.

  Mr Huggins had to be in his late fifties or sixties. He was dressed in the same old-fashioned clothes as his superior: white shirt, black tie, dark grey vest and a deeper, darker jacket. It was not lost on Scott that the man was a bit short of breath, coughing every now and then.

  The young journalist tried not to sigh too visibly. He had little hopes about his day of investigation, at this point.

  Once Mr Huggins closed the door and they were alone in his office, however, there was a surprising change in the educator’s attitude.

– “Would you care for a smoke?”

– “Huh... Sure.”

– “Got matches ?” the man asked with some excitement.

– “I have my lighter.”

– “Perfect. Now...”

  Scott tried not to peak as the old man sat by his desk, rolled down his right sock and produced a pack of cigarettes. He brought one to his lips swiftly.

– “All right. What do you have?”

  Scott had his own pack in his pocket.

– “Good ones, but I’ve grown to prefer these.” Mr Huggins let out a puff of smoke with delight. “Not a word about this, right?”

– “Right.” Scott smiled, very much amused by the man’s attitude.

– “Stupid kids... They want me around here until the end of days, I guess.”

  Listening to him, Scott concluded that he meant Mr Porkenham and the other members of the school committee. Of course, it wouldn’t provide much of an example to be smoking in the presence of students. When he was done with his cigarette, Mr Huggins got up and opened a drawer.

– “So... now that we understand each other, how about we take it to the next level?”

– “Huh... What level would that be?”

– “I guess you’re the kind of educated young man who knows his way around a good whisky...”

  Much to Scott’s surprise, the old man grabbed a large bottle of single malt, 15 years old to say the least. There were only glasses in the drawer on top of that one. Mr Huggins poured two glasses that would make any bartender look stingy.

– “Neat, right?”

– “Neat’s neat.”

– “All right. Neat’s the way to go. Now...You’ve come here to talk. Let’s talk.”

  Then, just when everything felt nice and easy, Scott found that he had nothing to say. If this was a trick, it was a most clever one! Neither of them was in the mood to discuss a murder investigation. Scott took it as an opportunity to learn a bit more about Saint Augustine Bells.

– “All your students come from very wealthy families...”

– “Yes, they do.” Mr Huggins sounded rather unimpressed about it.

– “Forgive me if I insist. I have never been so close to high class...”

  The old man let out a short, sharp laugh.

– “High class! Ha! Right...”

  Scott was definitely startled by that reaction.

– “I mean... Your students have a pretty high profile...”

– “There you see...” Mr Huggins pointed at him. “Mr Thorne was right. You’re a smart boy. Ha! Ha! Very smart boy, indeed... I’ll pour you another one.”

– “What did I say?”

– “High class, low profile... That’s our school in a nutshell. I couldn’t sum it up better myself.”

  That was pretty much the exact opposite of what Scott had said, but he was all ears at the moment. What did Mr Huggins mean by that?

– “Let me ask you a question. I know you came here with more questions than anything, but you may grant me one. How did you know about our school?”

– “When my boss assigned me to this job...”

– “Well, what do you know? You’re more honest than I thought. You had never heard of us until last week, I suppose.”

– “No... I had not. I didn’t grow up in this state.”

– “That’s not the question. Our students come from all over the United States. We also have quite a few boys from Canada.”

  Scott still couldn’t tell what Mr Huggins had in mind. Three triple neat whiskies probably didn’t help.

– “What kind of students are you looking for, then?”

– “We don’t really look for them: they find their way to us, through their parents’ connections. You will find that most of our students are second or third sons of rich, powerful and, or famous people. Most of them also dropped out from their previous school, wherever it is.”

– “I see...”

– “Then our boys share a very unique quality, although that is declined in many, many forms.”

– “What quality?”

– “I thought you would have guessed by now. They were all addicted to something. Mostly drugs. Hard drugs, in some cases. We have a few violent boys too. Nothing like good, old-fashioned drinking and smoking. Cheers!”

  Mr Huggins raised his glass. Scott was speechless. He should have thought about all this from the very beginning.

– “Then... What was Michael addicted to?”

– “Who’s Michael?”

– “The boy who... died. The one you used to call Mickey, I believe?”

– “Oh. Right, Mickey. Now, that’s really funny...” Mr Huggins chuckled, although Scott couldn’t see anything funny about the whole incident. “I never knew what his addiction was. He was a troubled boy, of course.”

  The old man paused, and poured Scott another glass. The young journalist could hold his liquor, but his head was beginning to spin a little. It was getting hard for him to focus, just when he was with someone who could no longer hold his tongue...

– “I don’t know. Mickey was a very clever boy, too... Yes, too clever... He had secrets, that one.”

  Scott couldn’t get more information from that guy. The bottle was very near empty anyway... When the bells struck eleven, the young journalist had to cover his ears. They were probably too close to the school’s tower. Or Scott was too sensitive at the moment.

– “Quite a noisy bunch, are they?” Mr Huggins chuckled again. “All right. Where were we ?”

– “Huh... You were telling me...”Scott tried to gather his thoughts. “You were telling me that Saint Augustine School is a... rehab center?”

– “Yes, you may call it a rehabilitation center. Mr Thorne likes to think that we are herders of black sheep, bringing them back all... whitewashed. Clean, with full school credit.”

– “So this is why your school is in Biberton...”

– “Exactly: right in the middle of nowhere, with plenty of fresh air, mountains and lakes for miles and miles around it.”

  Then Mr Huggins winked at Scott.

– “We also keep them away from the press. Too much publicity means too much pressure... They don’t want that. Their parents don’t want that. I’m sure that you understand our concern.”

  Scott understood. His hopes to interview Michael’s classmates were definitely shattered...

■ ■ ■

  Mr Huggins didn’t keep Scott much longer in his office. It was getting close to lunch time. The young journalist was hungry. After drinking hard with a man who probably downed a whole bottle every day without flinching, Scott’s tongue felt dry, and his breakfast was little more than a fading memory.

– “Mr Scupper will keep you company at lunch.”

  Scott wasn’t too displeased with that changing of the guard. Mr Scupper had made a better impression on him, while it was obvious that Mr Huggins wouldn’t tell him anything new.

  They walked by the largest building, and Scott finally got to see a few students. A few moments later, he saw a good hundred of them in the immense cafeteria.

  Then his first impression proved to be true: Scott had suspected that Michael wasn’t the only overweight student in Saint Augustine Bells. As it turned out, he had to be one of the relatively lean boys in his class.

  Mr Scupper was leading him through a gallery, which was separated from the students’ cafeteria by a number of large bow windows, but Scott’s curiosity was finally satisfied – up to a certain point.

  Every student he saw, even so briefly, had to be weighing at least 230lbs. Now that Mr Huggins had let the cat out of the bag regarding their condition, Scott could also spot some telling signs in their eyes, in the way the moved their hands or in the way they ate. He also noticed how very chubby they were, with cherub-like faces, double chins, sometimes merging into large, plump moon faces...

  Mr Scupper opened the door to the stairs. Scott followed him up to a private lunch room, with a balcony overlooking the hall where students kept going back and forth to the buffet, stuffing themselves with endless amounts of food.

– “Mr Porkenham has considered your wish to get a closer look at our students’ everyday life.”

– “That is... very kind of him. I truly wish that we could eat with them.”

– “Well, just the same, our director thought that it would be inappropriate for you to mingle, since most of these boys don’t trust strangers and some of them can get violent. You would recognize them easily enough, though...”

– “How so?”

– “They are only given soft spoons and forks with their meals – no knives. Besides, we keep an eye on them at all times. Now, follow my eyes... Don’t look straight at them!”

  Scott did as he was told. On the other end of the cafeteria, there was a small group of particularly large boys, whose school uniform was torn in a certain way. They looked intimidating. Scott knew the type. They didn’t need any knife or fork, since they were mostly eating with their hands, shoving fries and pieces of fried chicken into their mouths.

– “The tallest one...” Mr Scupper kept his voice and attitude casual, as if the boy in question could have overheard their conversation – while they were not even in the same room, technically. “That young brat is Dan Hilton. Next to him is his... well, let’s say “friend”, Brad Dulles. Then, at the other end of the table...”

– “Yes?”

– “That’s Owen Dickson. Okay, lunch’s ready for you.”

  Scott sat at the table. There were six plates ready around the center piece, but Mr Scupper was still standing.

– “I thought that we were having lunch together...”

– “This is not my place. Now, those boys?”

– “What about them?”

– “They are the ones you want.”

– “How so?”

– “Dan, Brad and Owen’s rooms are in the same hall as Mickey’s. They are his neighbors, in a way. Those three boys were sleeping in their beds, with only a wall or the hallway between them and... whatever happened.”

– “I see... Well, thank you.”

– “Hah, forget it... I will be back in a moment.”

  Mr Scupper didn’t leave for long. Scott saw five young boys entering the room with him. They were all built like the ones in the cafeteria, although they looked shy in comparison to the big bullies he had been steeling glances at before...

  Tall or short, they were stocky just the same, with their bellies bulging out over their waists. Scott took a guess that the leanest one wore size 42 pants. It was also hard for him not to look at their love handles – hanging over their hips, with their chests starting to sag under those school uniforms.

– “These young boys will have lunch with you.” Mr Scupper introduced the students, patting the back of their heads a bit roughly. “This boy’s French, I believe, or Canadian French. It’s pretty much the same... These two meatballs here are supposed to be Spanish. I think this one is actually Portuguese, but Mr Swayn never got to tell the difference. And this potato head is German, right? And, last but not least, we have an Italian boy here.”

  That last boy was the largest and roundest of the bunch. They had barely said hello, but they sat with Scott and started eating as soon as food was brought to their table.

– “You’re safe. They hardly speak a word of English.”

  To Scott’s distress, Mr Scupper left him with those five greedy boys. They had been served fried chicken steaks with heaps of buttery pasta. Scott’s head was still smarting a bit from all that strong liquor with Mr Huggins, so he didn’t mind digging in. As a matter of fact, he had to eat rather fast or the boys sitting next to him would certainly steal from his plate.

  The young journalist didn’t quite forget that he was here with a purpose, but it was really hard to establish a contact with younger boys who didn’t understand him and only seemed to care about what would be next on their menu.

  Even before the chicken was gone, Mr Scupper opened to door and announced the second course: a whole platter of veal cutlets with fries and green beans.

  Scott could hardly believe it. He was no longer tipsy, and he wasn’t really hungry anymore, but he was served a large plate full of meat. Then his old survival instincts came to the fore and he found himself fighting the other boys for second helpings...

  Just when he started feeling thirsty again, Mr Scupper brought bottles of beer.

– “Wait a second... Beer?”

– “Local brew. It’s called Swift Fox beer, very low in alcohol. It’s lighter than ginger ale, really.”

  Scott looked at the bottles and recognized the BBB logo on the side. He didn’t know that beer, but it was both tasty and refreshing. Since there was no glass on the table, he drank straight from the bottle like the rest of the boys.

  Something still felt strange about their behavior. Scott was now aware of their condition, whatever it was they may have been addicted to, but he was very much impressed by their appetite.

– “Third course: Mexican delights!” Mr Scupper called to everyone’s attention.

  Scott saw a pile of enchiladas coming his way, all covered in cheese, guacamole and sour cream. There would be no fight over these, at least: everyone was served four big, thick ones, and they were told to eat everything to the last bite.

  It would take some time. Scott had already given up on making small talk with the boys around him. They wouldn’t answer. They wouldn’t even listen to him.

– “Fourth course!...”

■ ■ ■

  By the time Scott was done with his dessert, he was feeling drowsy again – not from lack of sleep at his hotel, not from the alcohol with Mr Huggins, but from pure, plain and simple overeating... Once the students were back to class, he let out a long, greasy belch.

– “BUUURRRP!”

  Mr Scupper had to remind him that he had an appointment with Mr Swayn. It was a good thing that the lecturer’s office was on the first floor. Scott didn’t feel like walking up another long flight of stairs.

  Mr Swayn was the youngest person Scott had met in Saint Augustine Bells, so far. He looked like a golf player, or a tennis player, with the proper tan and the proper clothes. Scott had an eye for these things – the guy had good taste. His office looked very much like a doctor’s office, with diplomas on the wall to Scott’s right. On the wall to his left were pictures of governors and senators shaking hands with the school staff. The largest picture even showed the president of the United States.

  Everything felt fake – even the pictures, which were obviously real... Scott was in such a state where a good fiction would sound better and more believable than any news report.

  Sensing that his guest wouldn’t know what to say, Mr Swayn asked him a few questions about his work, his stay at the Paddington Hotel, and what progress he had made with the case. It helped Scott focus, and he was able to ask questions of his own.

– “How well did you know Michael?

– “I knew him all too well. I wouldn’t know where to start... I got to meet his mother once, you know. Sarah Silversmith, the daughter of Ham Silversmith, the famous... philanthropist.”

– “Huh... Okay.”

  Scott could care less about the victim’s grandparents, who seemed to be still very much alive, according to what he was currently told.

– “Ham Silversmith? Doesn’t ring a bell? “Ham” is not short for “Hamilton”. It’s Haim. It should be Haim junior, to be honest, since he’s the son of Haim Selig Silberschmidt... grand old Wall Street tycoon.”

  Mr Swayn went on to comment, in an almost Darwinian “survival of the fattest” process among fat cats, on how the son of a loan shark becomes a banker, then his son gets to be a promoter, then a philanthropist, once the family has reached such a level of wealth that demands some attention and respect.

  There wasn’t a piece of information Scott could use in there, which made his next move even more difficult. Then he decided to follow a hunch.

– “Would you say that... Michael took after his grandfather?”

– “Absolutely. People would tell you that he was smart. And he was. I should know, I have tested his IQ myself. But there was more to it. Mickey was cunning, like... a rat or something. He was hiding something.”

  Scott was under the impression that everyone was hiding something. In its own slanderous way, comparing the victim to a rat could be taken like a compliment.

– “I guess he did a good job at keeping his secrets...”

– “A bit too much of a good job, if you ask me. But you have only arrived a few days ago, you must have lots of questions.”

– “I do...” Scott had a hard time picking one. “Well, for one thing, I have only noticed today how your students are...”

– “Yes?”

– “They’re... huh... really well-fed!”

– “Oh! Yes, they are... That is part of our policy here, at Augustine Bells.”

– “Okay...” Scott didn’t sound too convinced. “Why?”

– “I believe that you are now fully aware of the special nature of our school. All our students are recovering from very serious addictions, deep personal troubles, even personality disorders sometimes. We have a responsibility toward them and their parents, and so we do our best to keep them safe and prevent any erratic behavior on their part.”

– “How does this translate into big meals?”

– “Happy meals for happier students...” Mr Swayn chuckled. “A well-fed boy will overcome his addiction so much easier, whatever it may be: drugs, sleeping pills, alcohol, ether, you name it... And it works. Of course, Graham wasn’t too happy about the whole idea, but it’s not like Mr Porkenham or Mr Thorne ever asked for his opinion.”

  Something didn’t feel right, once again. Scott had met almost every educator on campus, at this point, and he couldn’t remember anyone named Graham.

– “Our average student’s diet amounts to 8.000 to 10.000 calories a day, at least during his first year... We keep a 24/7 Opened Fridge, All you can Eat policy on campus. It represents a significant part of our budget, by the way.”

– “So... how much did Michael weigh when he was admitted in Saint Augustine Bells ?”

– “I couldn’t say... I remember that he was always on edge, always nervous for absolutely no reason. I guess he weighed about 150lbs... 155, maybe...”

  Scott didn’t take a note, but he kept it in mind. Even before his body got to grow so huge overnight, Michael had put on about 50lbs.

– “When was he transferred to Saint Augustine?”

– “About a year ago. Michael had not turned 18 yet.”

  So that meant a 50lbs gain in less than a year... Of course, after he had just shared lunch with some of his classmates, Scott understood only too well how such weight gain would be pretty common around here.

  The young journalist let his mind wander for a moment – what if all this was only a decoy? – a way to distract him from more important key points? Michael’s size and weight would look like nothing special, nothing worth mentioning in the newspapers... Scott could feel that ominous shroud of mystery weighing on him and everything around him, once again.

  He had to admit that the students behaved rather strangely, and in such a way that could not be part of an act. They were also genuinely fat and overweight – and incredibly greedy. Scott knew enough, from his own personal experience, to confirm that they ate and stuffed themselves like they meant it.

  What was left for him, then? Michael only studied, ate and slept like the rest of the students in that godforsaken school – he got healthy, big, fat and round like the rest of them...

– “Who would you say were his best friends?”

– “Mickey didn’t have any friends.”

– “Not even one?”

  Mr Swayn didn’t look too concerned about that question.

– “I guess he was friends with Graham, in a way... But that wouldn’t count. The guy’s friendly with all our students.”

  Scott had to ask him, this time.

– “You’ve already mentioned a Graham, earlier. Who is he?”

  Mr Swayn suddenly blushed. Scott didn’t expect that from such a guy.

– “I meant... We had to provide our students with regular check-ups and medical attention, so we hired someone from our local hospital. That’s Graham.”

– “So he’s a doctor, or...”

– “Naturally! He used to be a surgeon in the Army.”

– “Wait. Are you talking about Phil? Dr. Hedge?”

– “That’s right. That’s him.”

– “Why do you keep calling him Graham?”

  The young tutor looked embarrassed for a moment. He had let himself get carried away, somehow. Scott couldn’t tell why, but he actually enjoyed watching this cocky young man squirm a bit before him.

– “It’s... nothing, really. It’s a joke.”

– “A joke?”

  Scott wouldn’t let him weasel his way out of it so easily.

– “It’s not a very good joke at that...” Mr Swayn’s voice was almost a whisper.

– “Tell me.”

– “We call him Graham”, he finally sighed “...because Phil is our little cracker.”

– “Oh...”

– “And also, you know, students often refer to him as their “pet bear”. So there you go, Graham cracker... Teddy Graham... Ha. Ha.”

  It was a terrible joke. Mr Swayn’s laugh was dead flat too. Deep down, he was furious that Scott had caught him spreading more racist slur like that. Making fun of the rich and foreign – and Jewish – was one thing, but to dismiss the poor and All-American – Southern as they may be – all in the same conversation, that was a bit much.

  It would be better for the two of them to change the subject immediately. As a matter of fact, Mr Swayn mentioned that students had “pet names” for pretty much everyone around school, which Scott was ready to believe.

  Their conversation went back to its main subject. Most of Scott’s leads were lost already: Michael probably didn’t eat any more than his classmates – he had no reason to hide food in his bedroom, as Mr Thorne had already pointed out. There was only one card left for him to play.

– “Were you aware of Michael’s allergies?”

– “I’m a psychologist. You’d have to ask Gr... Err... Phil, for that matter.”

– “Well, I had every intention to do so... Then I was told yesterday that it would imply some serious consequences for him and his coworkers. Financial sanctions too, apparently.”

– “Oh, really...”

– “I guess your colleagues didn’t keep you in the loop when they signed that letter to doctor Hewdge at the hospital. I don’t think that I remember your name being mentioned in there...”

  Scott had gone straight for the jugular, and it paid off. Mr Swayn couldn’t take any more. He interrupted the journalist, took his fountain pen and started writing a new letter immediately.

– “You were right to tell me about their decision... Mr Porkenham can be a bit hasty in his actions. I will discuss this matter with Mr Thorne.”

– “So, I can question the hospital staff.”

– “It’s an important aspect of your job, isn’t it? To each his own...”

  Mr Swayn signed the letter, which looked like a giant blue mosquito drawn in a hurry. Then he handed it to Scott.

– “When you see Dr. Lipton... or Phil – whatever you said his name is – will you give this letter to him?”

– “I can do it tomorrow.”

– “Perfect.” Mr Swayn sat back in his chair. “I guess you should ask Miss Spread about Michael’s diet...”

■ ■ ■

  Diana Spread was the top chef at Saint Augustine Bells.

  Scott had to wait for almost an hour before he could leave Mr Swayn. Then he was introduced to her by Mr Scupper, who took a moment to congratulate him on their way to the kitchen.

– “You've made the right choice. This is where the action truly is.”

– “So you think that Michael was poisoned?”

– “I never said such a thing. Maybe he was poisoned, maybe he wasn’t. The whole school is talking about it... The point is, did you see those kids eating at lunch ?”

– “I did...”

– “Rich kids today... They live like pigs, they eat like pigs!”

  The old man went on, rambling on the students’ lack of any real education, bad manners, foul language, outbursts of anger – Scott had stopped paying attention for a while, when they entered the kitchen.

  Just as he had expected, the rooms were simply huge: endless, sparkling clean surfaces of stainless steel and ceramics. It felt a bit cold and empty, now that the staff was done cooking and serving lunch.

  Miss Spread was a short, four-eyed, vivacious brunette who evidently loved her job. She was making preparations for dinner already. Scott looked at the clock. It was barely 5PM.

– “I don’t remember that Mickey had any allergy, really...”

– “Do you remember what he had to eat, on Saturday night?”

– “Mickey ate exactly the same food as his classmates. If there was something wrong with the food, I would be the first to know. Here, taste this...”

  Miss Spread was working on a curry sauce. Scott had a good spoonful of it, over pieces of shredded lamb.

– “Hmmm... Good.”

– “Bit too hot, maybe. What do you think, spicy enough?”

– “I guess it depends on how spicy you like your food in general.”

– “See? That’s the thing. We’re dealing with kids, here. There’s no such thing as too spicy food. Have a taste of this chicken here.”

  Scott was offered to sample a few different sauces with pieces of chicken breast – then Miss Spread asked for his opinion about a dozen preparations for Mexican beans and lentils.

– “Wait a moment. You’re a grown man, you deserve to taste this with a good vintage of red wine.”

  Before he knew it, Scott was standing behind the kitchen counter with a glass of Merlot in one hand, and toast in the other. Miss Spread was often interrupted by one of her assistants, who was working on something tasty. And, since Scott was their guest du jour, she insisted that he should be offered some food to give them an unbiased opinion.

  After four glasses of wine, Scott’s tastebuds were no longer in the game... He couldn’t tell Miss Spread that everything tasted the same to him, so he tried to compliment every dish. His opinion was generally well-received.

– “Add more butter to that sauce... Didn’t you think that it was a little lean?”

– “I don’t know...”

– “We’ve been over this. No such thing as too spicy. Get those kids to drink. And no such thing as too much butter.”

  Scott didn’t feel like interrupting anyone who gave him information about the way they handled things in this strange school for rich, white trash, dropout kids. He accepted another glass of wine, although miss Spread had already moved on to desserts.

– “Cake is almost ready... Try this chocolate frosting, boy!”

  When Scott eventually left, his shirt felt unbearably tight around his stomach.

  The young journalist had made an excellent impression on the entire staff of cooks, but he must have eaten the equivalent of nine or ten large plates of appetizers, first course, main course, cheese, desserts and cookies.

  Scott was lucky to catch his bus, right when he had left Mr Scupper at the gate – with the head of security waving good evening at him with half a smile. It was almost 10PM already. For a moment, Scott couldn’t believe how time could fly on a day like this.

– “A hard, long day at work...” Scott thought, absent-mindedly patting his full, groaning stomach.

  The lights were off inside the lobby at the Paddington Hotel. Scott recognized Tom at the desk, and wished him good night.

– “I will escort you to your room.”

  Scott didn’t know why the young guy would be interested in operating the lift. His job in the lobby had to be pretty boring. As they were going up, Tom started asking questions.

– “You’re investigating about that murder in Saint Augustine, right?”

– “I am... investigating. Yes.” Scott hesitated. “Why do you think that it was a murder?”

– “I don’t know... I just thought... Saint Augustine’s a pretty weird place.”

  Scott sighed. He couldn’t agree more.

– “All right... Good night, Sir.”

  Once he was alone in his bedroom, Scott let out another massive belch. He had been drinking too much for his own taste – not that he couldn’t handle his booze, but those people had made him mix whisky with beer, and red wine.

  Scott would probably wake up with a nasty headache, and he didn’t want to start another day like that... He got to the bathroom, thinking that a toasty bath might help – then he noticed that the couple in the next bedroom was going at it again. It made him sigh, exasperated.

  He couldn’t help feeling a little bit frustrated too.

  Just then, Scott heard a knock on his door.

– “What the...”

  Scott went back to his door. There was Tom, standing in the alleyway – with a plate of sandwiches.

– “What are you doing here?”

– “Well... You came back so late. I figured, maybe you didn’t get to have dinner. And I thought, maybe you’d like a sandwich or to... I’ve noticed that you enjoyed our bakery’s buns, so...”

– “Believe me, boy... I have had more than my share of a good dinner.”

  It was still nice of him to be so considerate – but Scott wasn’t dumb. He could tell that there was some other reason for Tom to be back and knocking on his door.

– “All right... Let me make this clear for you, once and for all. I can’t discuss on-going investigation.”

– “Wow... You had to go all FBI on me like that.” Tom smiled, looking more than a bit smitten by Scott’s cocky attitude. “Wicked, man.”

  Scott leaned against the door frame. They took a moment, looking and smiling at each other.

– “So, you see... There’s no reason for you to be here.”

– “No reason at all. Unless you would enjoy some company for tonight...”

– “I guess... Working night shifts must be pretty lonely too. You should be at the desk, right now.”

– “I really should... You don’t want Mr Jackson to find out about these things.”

– “Who’s Mr Jackson?”

– “Hotel manager. He’s a real prick.”

– “Oh well... I know the type.”

  Scott took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, and held it between his fingers like a cigarette. Tom’s smile and his own turned into mischievous grins.

– “How about Mr Franklin... What would he say about this?”

– “I think he definitely outranks my manager.”

– “All right then. Get your buns in here...”

  Tom closed the door behind him, and – thanks to the magic of room service – Scott enjoyed his first good night in Biberton.

(to be continued...)