“Nuh-unh. Tap never had a gun. I wouldn’t have one in the house with these kids,” she said.
“Do you have any idea at all who he was dealing with?”
“Some woman, I heard.”
That got my attention. “Really.”
Back went the hand to her chin. Pick, pick. “Somebody saw ‘em together at the pool hall night before he died.”
It took a split second. “Shit, that was me. I was trying to get a lead on this Bailey Fowler business and I knew they’d been friends.”
“Oh. I thought maybe him and some woman …”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “In fact, he spent half the time showing me pictures of you and the kids.”
She colored faintly, tears welling. “That’s sweet. I wish I could help. You seem awful nice.”
I took out my card and jotted down the number of the motel on the back. “Here’s where I’ll be for the next couple of days. If you think of anything, get in touch.”
“Are you coming to the funeral? It’s tomorrow afternoon at the Baptist church. It should be a good turnout because everybody liked Tap.”
I had my doubts about that, but it was clearly something she needed to believe. “We’ll see. I may be tied up, but I’ll be there if I can.” My recollection of Reverend Haws made attendance unlikely, but I couldn’t rule it out. I’d been present at a number of funerals over the last several months, and I didn’t think I could endure another. Organized religion was ruined for me when I was five years old, subjected to a Sunday-school teacher with hairs sticking out of her nose and bad breath. Trust me to point that out. The Presbyterians had suggested the Vacation Bible School at the Congregational Church down the road. Since I’d already been expelled by the Methodists, my aunt was losing heart. Personally, I was looking forward to another flannel board. You could make Baby Jesus with some fuzzies on his back and stick him right up in the sky like a bird, then make him dive-bomb the manger.
Joleen left the baby sidestepping his way down the length of the couch while she walked me to the door. The bell rang almost simultaneously with her opening it. Dwight Shales stood on the doorstep, looking as surprised as we were. His glance shifted from her face to mine and then back again. He nodded at Joleen. “Thought I’d stop by and see how you were.”
“Thanks, Mr. Shales. That’s real nice of you. This is, unh …”
I held my hand out. “Kinsey Millhone. We’ve met.” We shook hands.
“I remember,” he said. “I just stopped by the motel, as a matter of fact. If you can hold on a minute, we can have a chat,”
“Sure,” I said. I stood there while he and Joleen talked briefly. From their conversation, I gathered that she’d been at the high school not that many years before.
“I just lost my wife, and I know how it feels,” he was saying. The authoritarian air I remembered was gone. His pain seemed so close to the surface, it made tears well up in Joleen’s eyes again.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Shales. I do. Mrs. Shales was a nice woman and I know she suffered something fierce. You want to come in? I can fix you some tea.”
He glanced at his watch. “I can’t right this minute. I’m late as it is, but I’ll stop by again. I wanted you to know we’re all thinking of you over at the high school. Can I help you with anything? You have enough money?”
Joleen seemed completely overwhelmed, nose turning rosy, her voice cracking when she spoke. “I’m all right. Mom and Daddy are coming up from Los Angeles tonight. I’ll be fine as soon as they get here.”
“Well, you let us know if there’s anything we can do. I can have one of the senior girls look after the kids tomorrow afternoon. Bob Haws said the services are scheduled for two.”
“I’d appreciate the help. I hadn’t even thought about who’d be keeping the kids. Will you be at the funeral? Tap’d be awful glad.”
“Of course, I’ll be there. He was a fine man and we were all proud of him.”
I followed him out to the street, where his car was parked. “I pulled school records on Jean Timberlake,” he said. “If you want to stop by the office, you can see what we’ve got. You have a car? I can give you a lift.”
“I better take mine. It’s back at the motel.” “Hop in. I’ll drop you off.” “Are you sure? I don’t want to hold you up.” “Won’t take a minute. I’m headed back in that direction anyway.”
He held the door for me and I got in, the two of us chatting inconsequentially during the brief ride back to the Ocean Street. I could have walked, but I was trying to ingratiate myself with
the man in the hope that he might have personal recollections of his own to add to whatever data I found in Jean’s file.
Ann had returned from the hospital and I saw her peer out of the office window as we pulled up. She and Shales exchanged a smile and a wave and she disappeared.
I stepped out of the car, leaning back toward the open window. “I have another errand to run and then I’ll pop by.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’ll check and see if any of the staff have information to contribute.”
“Thanks,” I said.
As he took off, I turned to find Ann right behind me. She seemed surprised to see him pull away. “He’s not coming in?”
“I think he had to get back to the school. I just ran into him over at Joleen Granger’s. How’s your father?”
Reluctantly, Ann’s gaze flicked back to my face. “About what you’d expect. Cancer’s spread to his lungs, liver, and spleen. They’re saying now he probably has less than a month.”
“How’s he taking it?”
“Poorly. I thought he’d made his peace, but he seemed real upset. He wants to talk to you.”
My heart sank. It was the last thing I needed, a conversation with the doomed. “I’ll try to get up there sometime this afternoon.”
15
I sat in the vestibule outside Dwight Shales’s office, variously picking my way through the papers in Jean Timberlake’s school file and eavesdropping on an outraged senior girl who’d been caught in the restroom shampooing her hair. Apparently the drill in disciplinary matters was for the culprit to use the pay phone in the school office to notify the appropriate parent about the nature of the offense.
“… Well, guy, Mom. How was I to know? I mean, big fuckin’ deal,” she said. “… Because I didn’t have time! Guuuyyy … Well, nobody ever told me … It’s a fuckin’ free country. All I did was wash my hair! … I did noooot … I’m not smarting off! Yeah, well, you have a big mouth, too.” Her tone shifted here from exasperation to extreme martyrdom, voice sliding up and down the scale. “Okaaay! I said, okay. Oh, right, Mom. God … Why’n’t you ground me for life. Right. Oh, rilly, I’m sure. Fuck you, okay? You are such an asshole! I just hate you!!” She slammed the phone down resoundingly and burst noisily into tears.
I suppressed a temptation to peer around the corner at her. I could hear the low murmur of a fellow conspirator.
“God, Jennifer, that is just so unfair,” the second girl said.
Jennifer was sobbing inconsolably. “She is such a bitch. I hate her fuckin’ guts. …”
I tried to picture myself at her age, talking to my aunt like that. I’d have had to take out a loan for the ensuing dental work.
I leafed through Jean’s Scholastic Aptitude Test scores, attendance records, the written comments her teachers had added from time to time. With the weeping in the background, it was almost like having Jean Timberlake’s ghost looking on. She certainly seemed to have had her share of grief in high school. Tardiness, demerits, detention, parent-teacher conferences scheduled and then canceled when Mrs. Timberlake failed to show. There were repeated notes from sessions with first one and then another of the four school counselors, Ann Fowler being one. Jean had spent a large part of her junior year consigned to Mr. Shales’s office, sitting on the bench, perhaps sullenly, perhaps with the total self-possession she seemed to display in the few yearbook photographs I’d seen. Maybe she’d sat there and recollected, in tranquillity, the lewd sexual experiments she’d conducted with the boys in the privacy of parked cars. Or maybe she’d flirted with one of the senior honors students manning the main desk. From the mo-ment she reached puberty, her grade point average had slid steadily downward despite the contradictory evidence of her IQ and past grades. I could practically feel the heat of noxious hormones seeping through the pages, the drama, confusion, finally the secrecy. Her confidences in the school nurse ceased abruptly. Where Mrs. Berringer had jotted down folksy notes about cramps and heavy periods, advising a consultation with the family physician, there was suddenly concern about the girl’s mounting absenteeism. Jean’s problems didn’t go unnoticed or unremarked. To the credit of the faculty, a general alarm seemed to sound. From the paper trail left behind, it looked as if every effort had been made to bring her back from the brink. Then, on November 5, someone had noted in dark blue angular ink that the girl was deceased. The word was underlined once, and after that, the page was blank. “Is that going to help?”