The Girl on the Edge of Summer

by J. M. Redmann

  I was just pouring my drink—I opted for the diet, less for my girlish figure than my guess that it would be the less popular choice, when a group of kids came in. They didn’t look old enough to be on the cusp of adulthood, high school seniors. But maybe I had looked that young and only thought I was older because it was how I wanted to be.

  One of the boys spotted me and headed my way. The second boy hurried to follow, the two girls hung back, letting the boys take the first step. Or maybe they were mature enough to not be the fools who rushed in.

  “Hi, I’m Kevin,” the first one said, sticking out his hand, an awkward reach across the table. “It is true you’re a lady detective?”

  Bless his heart. I kept my face neutral. Lady detective went out in a previous lifetime.

  I returned his handshake, a long stretch. I understood he was trying to be grown-up. “I am a licensed private detective,” I said as I stood up to avoid any more far-reaching handshakes.

  “I’m Brandon, the brains of the outfit,” the second boy said, also sticking his hand out.

  “Maybe once a month,” Kevin said, “when I’m asleep.”

  I cut off Brandon’s reply by asking the girls their names. Polite and professional didn’t extend to listening to adolescent boy banter meant to show off.

  “Janice,” one said, also opting for a handshake.

  “Sophia,” the second one said, staying behind the others and giving only a vague wave in my direction.

  I let them choose their seats. The two boys took the center, Janice sliding in beside them and Sophia perched on the outside, a gap between her and Janice. I took the other outside seat, closer to them than the shy Sophia. This allowed me to be able to watch them as they poured their drinks, diet for the girls and regular for the boys. Must things be so stereotypical?

  Beige, Cindy Lee had called Tiffany. These kids were beige as well. Not in a bad way, not fully formed enough to be their adult selves. Or maybe I could only see the surface they dared show.

  Kevin seemed more the leader, although I doubted any of the others would call him that. He was a little taller, his clothes were slightly better; he seemed a little more at ease. It might disappear in a year. His mouth was a bit large for his face, but other than that he was a forgettable (well, to me, maybe girls his age disagreed) young boy. Brown hair, brown eyes, a little shorter than me, about five-nine, the body of neither a gym rat nor a couch potato. He wore neat khakis and a navy polo shirt.

  The second boy, Brandon, was several inches shorter than Kevin, maybe five-five. He might have a growth spurt in his future, but linebacker didn’t look like a career option for him. He wore jeans that were loose and not a great fit, especially in the age of skinny jeans, with a T-shirt that probably needed a laundry date in the near future and a ratty zip-up sweatshirt over that. They were all dark colors, although different darks, as if he just grabbed what was handy. His hair was dark brown, almost black and straight, no styling, and either he was trying to grow it or was in need of a haircut. He wore glasses, gold framed and too round for his round face. Girls would call him cute, soft skin, little sign of a beard, some of the baby fat still there. I suspected he had Star Wars action figures in his room at home.

  Janice was dressed in the girl version of Kevin’s outfit, which meant she was better clad than he was. Girls have to be. She had on a white shirt with pink pinstripes, a round collar to make it clearly a girl’s shirt, a dusty rose skirt that was a deeper shade of the pink in her shirt with matching shoes. She wore a touch of makeup and her hair was light brown, in an easy ponytail that she probably spent fifteen minutes getting just the right casualness. Either this was who she was, or she was doing a good job at hiding. Or maybe trying on different people until she found one she wanted to become.

  Sophia had dark, thick hair, the kind the other girls envied, but she left it loose, and clearly little time had been spent fussing with it. She wore black jeans and a white button-down shirt. Plain, simple, as if she couldn’t bother with decisions on how to dress. Or just didn’t get how to fit in. Or maybe it was class, her family didn’t have the money for matching pink shirts and skirts. She seemed the one who had been Tiffany’s friend, although it seemed an odd pairing, while the others had connections with each other as well. Of the four of them, she was the most interesting. But, I suspected, the one I’d get the least from.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” I said.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Brandon said, almost cutting me off. “We had to get out of the school clothes.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes. The girls kept their faces neutral. Clearly they all wanted to act like they got to wear clothes of their choosing and not uniforms that labeled them still in school. Brandon was gauche to bring it up and spill their secret.

  “Can I see your badge?” Brandon interjected. He seemed to want to control the conversation. Or at least get the attention.

  “Why?” Kevin argued. “This isn’t the movies.”

  “I want to see it.”

  I pulled out my license, not badge, and handed it to him, but Kevin took it first, examined it, and only then handed it to Brandon. So this was how it was going to go, Kevin and Brandon in an awkward adolescent fight for male dominance.

  Brandon barely looked at it before handing it back to me. “Had to check,” he said, just enough of a smile on his lips to indicate he’d won.

  The pizza arrived and the boys grabbed two slices each, while the girls daintily took one. I also took one, more to take part than hunger. From the grease and smell, Uncle Poppo’s didn’t appear to be the solution to my dinner dilemma.

  I started again, “I really appreciate you taking time to talk to me…”

  “No problem,” Kevin said for the group.

  “We’re happy to,” Brandon added.

  I’d have to be careful how I controlled the interview. I wanted to both let the group dynamics play out, but also get something from each of them.

  “Tell me how each of you knew Tiffany,” I said, nodding at Kevin to start.

  The direct question put him on the spot. “Um…in class, I guess. You know, we just sort of hung around. Did some class things together.”

  I waited a beat, but that seemed to be all he had to say. “How about you?” with a nod at Brandon.

  “Same. Class. First one together was in eighth grade, both science and English. We had just moved here that year and Tiffany was nice to me. Lent me some of the extra reading books for our English class.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “I don’t really remember. That was a while ago. Mostly boring stuff they made us read.”

  I’d been hoping that Tiffany would turn out to be an avid reader, something to give to her mother. But I remembered her room and the few books there.

  Brandon’s lack of memory and his clipped answer made me wonder if he was hiding something. Then I reminded myself these were high school kids, not devious adults with something to hide, and no crime had been committed. The point of this interview wasn’t for me to find information, but to let these kids feel like they were helping, and maybe that would help them cope with Tiffany’s death. All I needed to do was be kind, ask reasonable questions, and make it last long enough for the pizza to disappear.

  I timed my next question with both boys having just taken a bite. “What was Tiffany like?”

  Janice and Sophia looked at each other, then back at me. Both started to speak.

  “She was nice,” from Janice.

  “She didn’t look where she was going,” from Sophia. That got her another look from Janice.

  “What was nice about her?” I asked.

  “She helped with things,” Janice said quickly as if she needed to fill the silence and not let anything negative be said about her dead friend.

  “Like what?”

  Kevin answered, “She sometimes let me copy her homework when I was too busy to do it.”

  I didn’t point out that proved Sophia’s point.
They could both be failed for cheating, with Tiffany solving Kevin’s problem by creating a bigger one of her own.

  Brandon added, “She was nice to me when we first moved here. My dad was stationed in Afghanistan, so it was just me and my mom. We moved here to be closer to family, but I didn’t have any friends here.”

  This speech got an eye roll from Kevin, making me suspect that Brandon pulled out the soldier dad on more regular occasions than high school kids wanted to deal with. It did explain his arrogant nerd demeanor, moving to a new school, a little short and young looking for his age, awkward social skills, and in a family that had to be going through a hard time.

  Brandon continued, loosening up either from the caffeine, sugar, pizza grease, or the attention, “Kevin wouldn’t have been lucky enough to meet me if it hadn’t been for Tiffany.” This got a snort from Kevin, but Brandon ignored it. “She invited us both to her fifteenth birthday, and that was how we both learned we liked to play World of Doom. I got to the first level two months before Kevin did.”

  “Only because you played it every day,” Kevin interjected.

  “So did you, you just forgot after you lost,” Brandon retorted.

  “Tell me more about Tiffany,” I cut in. “Sophia, what did you mean when you said she didn’t look where she was going?”

  But again, it was Brandon who answered. “She was texting one day while crossing the street. Stepped in front of a bike and caused him to wreck.”

  “He was on the football team,” Kevin added. “We all suffered for her stupidity.”

  “How?” I asked.

  This got me another eye roll from Kevin. “We were the people she hung around with. He’s popular, so he trash-talked us all. Brandon was running for chief dog-catcher—”

  “Student council,” Brandon said.

  “And they decided they weren’t going to let him win. No one really cared about the election except for that stupid thing,” Kevin finished.

  “Is that what you meant, Sophia?” I asked.

  She nodded and mumbled in a way that meant it really wasn’t, but that she wasn’t going to argue it. She got a second slice of pizza and took a bite.

  I asked a few more questions, but most of what I got in response was what TV show she liked, what music she listened to and, generational divide, I’d heard of none of them.

  The pizza was gone; the boys had finished it off.

  One last question, “Did she ever mention someone named Edward or Eddie Springhorn?”

  Their reactions proved they were not devious adults.

  “Don’t know that name.” Janice, for once, took the lead.

  “He was dating Tiffany,” I said, using the polite term for what he was doing. Still none of them admitted knowing who he was.

  “She didn’t tell us everything,” Brandon said, more defensively than necessary.

  They were lying; I knew they were lying, but it didn’t matter. Maybe their parents had told them to stay away from him, and they were worried I would tell.

  I thanked them for their time and stuffed enough money in the bill to leave a more-than-decent tip—the few dollars it would cost me wasn’t worth the wait it would take for change.

  As we walked to the door, Brandon said, “You’re going to need to talk to us again, right? Smart kids like us could be really helpful.”

  “You have helped a lot,” I said. “I’ll have to see where the case leads me.” But I dutifully took their names and phone numbers, with them all telling me it was better to text than call.

  I assured them I would. In the unlikely event I ever needed to talk to them again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A cloudy day. Perfect for the task in front of me, going to Metairie and telling Mrs. Susie Stevens the identity of the lout who harassed her daughter into despair.

  I’d made our appointment at ten, mainly to both give me time to prepare and, more importantly, let the rush-hour traffic abate.

  The overly clipped lawn seemed grayed by the drizzle, as if it was closer to winter than summer. Or maybe that was just the way I saw it.

  She opened the door as I came up the walk, clearly looking for me.

  As I entered, she hurriedly said, “Would you like coffee or tea?” as if the proprieties needed to be adhered to no matter what.

  “No, thank you,” I said. I had done my job; I wanted to get it over with.

  She led me to the formal living room, sitting so close to the edge of her chair, I worried she might fall off.

  I sat opposite her, also close to the edge of the chair, although I made sure my butt was securely settled. It wouldn’t do for us both to slide off.

  Her face was neutral, or holding a mask of no emotion, but her posture, from the chair to her hands, twining and untwining of her fingers, showed otherwise.

  “I’ve found the identity of the person who threatened to send out the photo,” I said needlessly.

  “Who is it?” she asked, her voice a brittle whisper.

  “His name is Edward Springhorn.”

  “I’ve never heard that name before.”

  Of course, Fast Eddie wasn’t the type you brought home to meet the ’rents—parents.

  After the computer grannies had given me what they’d found on the computer and phone, I’d done my usual homework. Eddie wasn’t trying to hide, so he’d been easy to find. “He’s twenty-four years old.” Far too old, in my opinion to be messing with high school girls. But my opinion wasn’t needed here. “He lives in Kenner, a local boy. I have a list here of his email address and social media information.” I handed her the sheet of paper with that on it.

  She scanned the page, then looked up at me. “What about his address? Where he works?”

  This was the conversation I didn’t want to have. “Mrs. Stevens, this boy is an unspeakable lout. You have every right to hate him. But breaking the law to get revenge isn’t going to bring your daughter back. When we talked, you said you wanted to post online about him, warn others off. You don’t need his address or workplace for that.”

  “You think he doesn’t deserve it?”

  “What I think doesn’t matter. What about the rest of your life? Your son? If you do something illegal—as unfair as that may be—you could end up in prison, losing more than you’ve already lost.”

  “You don’t understand.” It was almost a shout, as if the emotions couldn’t be held in check anymore.

  “No, I don’t,” I admitted. “But I can’t ethically help you do something that is both illegal and will likely only make things worse for you.”

  “But you have the information?”

  I gave a bare nod. Of course I had the information. I even had his Social Security number because Eddie was only fast, not smart.

  “My husband asked me to make sure I got it.”

  Ex-husband, but I didn’t go there. “Why?”

  “He says we can sue him.”

  “Yes, but keep in mind you might not win. It could force you to spend years dealing with him and cost a lot of money.”

  “I know all that,” she said dismissively, her voice back in control, the emotions as contained again as the lawn. “But my husband knows lawyers, we can make his life a living hell, force him to hire a lawyer, take time off only to cancel at the last possible minute. It won’t cost us much.”

  I hesitated.

  “We’re not going to do anything stupid. We had a long conversation with my brother-in-law, he’s a lawyer, about what we could and couldn’t do. We intend to do everything we legally can to make him pay. But that’s all.”

  I handed her the second sheet with his home address and workplace (AOK Trucking—maybe it was legit). He lived in one of those hastily thrown-up apartment complexes out near the airport, the kind that would never be expensive because no one would pay to live next to the sound of roaring planes.

  “Thank you,” she said, but her eyes were fixed on the page as if the intensity of her glare alone could get to him.

  I heard
a back door open and a voice call, “Mom? Where are you?”

  She seemed startled, not expecting anyone. Before she could react, he skidded into the room.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said, a hidden touch of relief in his voice.

  The son. Now I wish I’d opted for coffee. He was tall, still gangly and growing. His nose was a little big, his mouth slightly too wide, but they saved him from being conventionally handsome and gave him an interesting face instead. His hair was brown, close to the shade of his mother’s under her blond highlights. He was dressed in a way that was both neat and casual, as if he found a way to meet his mother’s need for an orderly world but do it his way, with a purple (LSU color) polo shirt, tucked in, light khaki pants, and polished brown loafers.

  “Alan, I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

  “Traffic was light, so I made good time.”

  “I’m just finishing up here. Give me a minute.” She stood, clearly indicating I should as well, still holding the piece of paper in her hand, her knuckles white from how tightly she gripped it.

  There would be no introductions. She ushered me out the door, saying on the threshold, “Thank you so much for all your help.”

  Well, I hadn’t planned on bringing up the bill in any case.

  The son’s car was a cute little blue Mazda Miata. I suspected that the insurance father had picked the safest sporty car—and vetoed red—for his son. Alan? Was that what she called him?—had seemed worried about her, perhaps scared that one suicide could lead to another. I’d give him points for being willing to come home from Baton Rouge on a weekday to check up on his mother. Maybe Mrs. Stevens had talked to her ex-husband about going after Fast Eddie, but it seemed that her college-aged son was being kept out of the loop. She had avoided introducing us, a huge breach of courtesy for as proper a Southern lady as she was.

  The case is over. Like I had predicted, no happy ending. Fast Eddie might be dogged by lawsuits and legal trouble, but in the end revenge takes time and effort and doesn’t free you. But I doubted anything could ever free Mrs. Susie Stevens.