"I know And I'm not asking. I'm simply telling you, on the off chance that it might be useful information. Wouldn't it be a feather in your cap to catch an escaped convict?"
Luscious appeared to like that.
"And wouldn't it also be a triumph if you found out who murdered Emily and-"
Luscious swung his feet to the floor with a crash. "I've got a lot of work to do, Tori. You feel free to drop by any time, hear?"
Since I'd stopped making notes right after Luscious had mentioned the stolen van, I asked, "May I take that latest bulletin about Varner with me? I can use it to corrob- to check my facts when I write the Police Blotter."
He shrugged to show me it wasn't important. "Help yourself."
I already had.
In the truck, I looked over the bulletin. Vonzell Varner had escaped from a county jail in Louisville, Kentucky. I knew that. But I hadn't known he'd done time in Graterford. I'd heard that name fairly recently. From Haley Haley, and I couldn't help wondering if there was some sort of connection between the two men. I dismissed the thought. There must be thousands of convicts at Graterford; that didn't mean they all knew each other.
I went into the office and helped P.J. and Cassie lay out the pages of this week's newspaper. P.J. told me she liked the article about the deer preserve, but wanted to leave out the part about my nearly being shot. "No need alarming people," she said, peering over her half-moon glasses. "Hunting accidents happen all the time."
I would have argued with her, but she was overcome by a coughing fit, and I could only watch helplessly while Cassie got her a cup of water and rubbed her shoulders.
We worked into the late afternoon, with only one short break when Cassie went out for sandwiches. We left the front page blank for late-breaking developments. The inside pages were filled with farm news; the Extension Agent's advice; comics; the police blotter; lists of divorces, marriages, hospital admissions, and real estate transfers; some syndicated columns we subscribed to; club news; and sports, lots of sports. The editorial page was also left halfblank, waiting for P.J.'s editorial of the week.
"That's it," P.J. announced. "See you both back here early in the morning to finish up."
I left quickly before she thought of anything else for me to do. I glanced at my watch and saw it was not as late as I thought. There was still time to do something I'd been meaning to do ever since I found Rodney Mellott's diary.
After showing a photo ID and signing a book, I was allowed into the Lickin Creek High School. It was the closest thing to a security measure I'd ever seen in Lickin Creek. What a shame it had to be in a school. It wasn't always that way; there was a time when schools were safe places, I thought, then stopped short as I recalled Rodney Mellott, whose diary proved that danger sometimes came from unexpected places and that it was always necessary to be aware of its hidden presence.
The librarian looked a little surprised when I entered his office, but he still greeted me warmly.
In response to my question, he said, "Yearbooks from the sixties? Of course. We have a complete collection." He opened a closet door and pointed to many rows of books. "They're supposed to be in order by year, but sometimes they get put back wrong. If you have any problem finding what you need, let me know."
I settled down at the worktable in the office with several yearbooks from the early sixties. It was my intention to find out who "B" was, the boy who was mentioned in Rodney's diary. And after I figured out who he was, I was going to determine whether he knew anything about Rodney's demise.
It only took a few minutes to find pictures of Rodney Mellott with both the orchestra and the band. Rodney was posed in his tuxedo and ruffled shirt, looking both serious and proud. Other faces stared out at me from long ago. Young boys with Elvis pompadours, girls with either long straight hair or enormous beehive hairdos. All looked so much alike, I had to look at the captions below the pictures to identify them.
As I scanned the list of names, I realized there were a lot of names beginning with B, and I saw the names of many of the borough's now-established citizens. Bruce Laughenslagger, millionaire owner of the BL Deer Hunting Preserve. Benjamin Koon, funeral home director. Billy Barnes, of the Barn Door Swingers. Even Buchanan McCleary, the borough solicitor, soon to be Greta Gochenauer Carbaugh's husband.
Others, who didn't begin with a B, but whom I recognized were Edward Fetterhoff, now a judge; J.B. Morgan, president of the bank; Wilbur Eshelman, who owned the drug store; even a Luscious Miller, who I guessed was the father of our acting police chief. Others with whom I was familiar were Charles Handshew, owner of the hardware store where Emily's body had been found, and Marvin Bumbaugh, the president of the borough council.
There were few girls in the music program, I noticed. Things had certainly changed for the better in that regard. Last time I'd been to the symphony in New York, more than half of the orchestra had been female. As I stared at the picture, I noticed a face that looked somewhat like a snake. It was Big Bad Bob, who apparently hadn't always been a homeless alcoholic.
Which one of the young people in those pictures was the myste rious "B"? And how many of the others had Rodney Mellott tried to corrupt? The secrets of the band director were not revealed in the innocent faces of his students.
It suddenly occurred to me I'd seen no pictures of Emily Rakestraw and had no idea what she looked like, and so I flipped pages of the yearbook until I came to a double-page spread devoted to the art department.
Emily looked nothing like what I'd imagined. Because of the romantic legend that had grown up around her, I had expected her to be quite glamorous. Instead, she was a plain-looking woman, a little overweight, with a hairdo that must have been disastrous even in a decade of bad hairdos. I knew I shouldn't judge character based on appearance, but looking at Emily's pictures, I couldn't help but understand a little better why she had agreed to marry the unattractive music teacher.
Just for fun, I opened an annual from the mid-fifties. I quickly found Ethelind Gallant's senior picture. The years had been fairly kind to my landlady. She had hardly changed at all. She'd been big and mannish-looking then, and she was still big and mannish, only now her hair was gray instead of dark brown or black.
Ethelind once mentioned that she'd known Emily Rakestraw in high school, and I found Emily's senior picture on the next page. She looked pretty much like all the other girls. In the index, I found her name listed a half dozen times. Emily had participated in a lot of extracurricular activities. She'd been a cheerleader, worked on the yearbook and the school newspaper, was a member of the art club, and she also was a "Booster," whatever that was.
"Do you have a copying machine?" I asked the librarian.
He nodded, not even looking up from his book, and pointed to a corner of the office. I copied the two photos of Rodney Mellott with his band and his orchestra. I also made a copy of the faculty photo of Emily.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm going now."
"You're welcome. But I advise waiting a few minutes. School's letting out, and you might get trampled in the rush."
I watched through the window as hundreds of students streamed toward the cars in the parking lot. "Doesn't anybody ride the bus anymore?"
The librarian smiled wryly. "They're supposed to, unless there's a good reason like after-school jobs, activities, or sports practice. Apparently most of the students have something important to do right after school lets out."
Within a couple of minutes the parking lot was nearly deserted. That's when I noticed about a dozen men walking toward the school building carrying large coolers. I recognized one of them as Wilbur Eshelman from the drug store. I tapped on the window, and when I had his attention waved at him. He looked up surprised, then smiled and nodded, unable to wave back because his arms were full.
Soon, Wilbur was standing in the doorway to the library office. "What are you doing here?" he asked with a warm smile.
I pointed to the yearbooks. "I've been trying to identify former stude
nts who might have known Rodney Mellott and Emily Rakestraw," I said.
Wilbur put down the cooler he'd been carrying, came over to the table, and stared down at the yearbooks. "How?" he asked.
"By determining who was in band and orchestra."
"Why?" he asked.
I didn't want to tell him about the diary, so I simply said, "Maybe someone who knew him might know something about his disappearance."
"He didn't disappear, Tori. Didn't disappear. He eloped...." Wilbur's voice trailed off as he remembered that Emily's body had been found a few days ago. "Good grief. Do you think... do you think Mr. Mellott had something to do with what happened to Miss Rakestraw and then killed himself? The newspaper said you found his body in a cave. I am confused, Tori. Really confused. "
I noticed he had reverted back to the high-school way of speaking of teachers. There had been no mention of the diary in what P.J. had left of my article, and I couldn't tell him about it. "I don't think so," I said. "Maybe."
Wilbur shook his head. "Hard to think of Mr. Mellott doing something like that... something awful like that."
He seemed lost in contemplation, so to break the mood I asked, "What are you doing here, Wilbur?"
"Chicken and Slippery Pot Pie dinner tonight. The Downtown Businessmen's Association holds it once a month to make money for our projects."
I should have remembered that. I'd been sent by P.J. often enough to cover the monthly event.
"Why don't you stop by and join us? Please do," Wilbur said.
"I just might," I said, thinking I had no intention of eating another fried, starch-filled meal.
Wilbur paused in the doorway, looking nervous.
"Yes?"
"Tori, I like you a lot. A lot. And I don't want to see anything happen to you."
"That's very kind of you, Wilbur. I assure you I'm taking good care of myself."
"I meant.. .just be careful, will you?"
After he left, I put the photocopies I'd made into my purse and the yearbooks back in the closet. I was thoughtful, trying to make sense of Wilbur Eshelman's words to me. No doubt about it, they'd sounded like a veiled warning. Maybe even a threat.
Seventeen
Ethelind greeted me with a cup of hot cocoa and a stack of phone messages. I flipped through them, determined that most were from strangers, and pulled out the ones I wanted to answer immediately. The most pressing was one from someone at the State Department, and I called on the chance that a civil servant might be working late. I was correct.
He wanted to tell me that the American embassy where my father was presumably holed up was still under attack. No supplies were allowed in. At least three local hires had been killed. He couldn't tell me anything about my family. He wasn't very encouraging that things would work out. When I hung up I was in tears. The ordeal had gone on for nearly two weeks.
Ethelind handed me a tissue, and I wiped my face and blew my nose. No point in crying, I thought. Not until I know for sure what has happened.
There was also a message from my dental hygienist. Last time I'd seen her, at the bowling alley during my disastrous date with Haley Haley, she had reminded me that I was nearly due for a cleaning and checkup. The receptionist sounded a little cranky when I called, saying the office was officially closed, but yes, they had a cancellation tomorrow afternoon and could work me in.
On Friday morning, I went into the Chronicle office to help finish the paper. Cassie waited until I was seated, then handed me a folded piece of lined notebook paper with my name on it. "It was inside the front door when I got here," she said. "Looks like someone slid it under the door."
I unfolded it and read, "I'M NEAR YOU RIGHT NOW." For a moment I couldn't breathe.
"Anything I can do?" Cassie asked, looking worried.
I shook my head. "Just some crank writing me notes," I explained.
"Maybe you should take it to the police."
"Good idea," I said, thinking it was no such thing. But I folded it and put it in my purse as if that were my intention.
All morning, I wrote whatever was necessary to fill in the holes, added a long article about local club meetings, and by noon the paper was on its way to the printer. Thankfully, P.J. had said no more about my being fired. Either she'd forgotten or she knew she needed me. Regardless, I was grateful to still have a job.
I grabbed a quick bite to eat at the newest pizza joint to open on Main Street, then got the truck and drove to the dentist's office.
"I'm so glad you could come in on such short notice," Megan said. She was the hygienist who had cleaned my teeth the last time I'd been here. "It's rare we have a cancellation. Dr. Gelsinger suggested I try to call you since he knows you have Friday afternoons free."
I grunted, which was all I could do with my mouth full of her hands.
She x-rayed, chipped, scraped, and finally polished. "All ready for Doctor," she said brightly.
Again, all I could manage was a grunt. She stepped back, and Dr. Gelsinger came in. He was a man in his mid-fifties, well tanned as if he'd just stepped off the golf course. He put his hands where hers had been. "How are you today?" he asked.
"Grunt, grunt, grunt." I intended it to mean, "Pretty good, thank you."
"Tut, tut."
My mouth was reflected in his glasses. "Grunt?" Meaning, "What?"
"Bad cavity. If you've got time I'd like to fill it today"
"Grunt, grunt?" Meaning, "Is that really necessary?"
How he understood me, I'll never know, but he answered, "The tooth could break if I don't do something. Then you'd have to have a root canal, crown...."
"Grunt." Meaning, "Go ahead."
"Do you need me here, Doctor? If not, I have another patient waiting."
"It's all right, Megan." He was preoccupied with my mouth. "I can manage."
For the next century, or perhaps half an hour, I lay back and grunted while he worked. Finally, he stood back, pulled off his rubber gloves, and announced he was done. "It was even bigger than I thought. I'm going to call a prescription into the drugstore for you. Be sure to take it as directed. We don't want you to get an infection. I'd advise starting it tonight."
"Which drugstore?"
"The one downtown," he said, as if there were no other worth mentioning.
"How about something for pain?" The novocaine was wearing off.
Dr. Gelsinger shook his head. "Take Tylenol. I don't want you getting addicted to anything."
He was dialing as I left the office.
It was rather late in the day, but I thought I'd best go to the drugstore and pick up my prescription, since Dr. Gelsinger had been so adamant about my starting it right away.
Lickin Creek, like a lot of Pennsylvania towns, had long ago turned its back on its scenic wonders, and so the pretty bubbling stream that was the Lickin Creek was bordered by paved parking lots and the unattractive backsides of most of the town's Civil Warera buildings. In the twilight, they looked dilapidated and sadly in need of paint. I parked in the lot behind the drugstore and ran down the alley, hoping Mr. Eshelman would still have the pharmacy open.
Inside, the dinner crowd had already gathered. It looked exactly the same as the lunch crowd. The lawyer types from the courthouse often met here with the members of the Old Boys' Club for the day's last chat before heading to their respective homes for the evening.
To get to the pharmacy, I had to walk through the dining room, but this time nobody looked up. When I reached the window, I found that a louvered shutter was pulled down over it. The sign said BACK LATER.
Mildred, the waitress, spoke so close behind me that I jumped. "He went home for dinner," she said.
"Food here not good enough for him?" I thought I was being funny, but she didn't crack a smile.
"He always goes home at this time, after making the bank deposit. He should be back in about an hour. Do you want me to get you something to eat?"
"Maybe he left a prescription for me," I said, hopefully. "Could you chec
k behind the counter?"
If her sigh was meant to make me feel bad, it didn't. I waited patiently, while she ducked under the counter. I heard her rummaging through paper bags. In two minutes, she was back. "Nothing there for you," she said. "Do you want to order dinner now?"
"No thanks. My dentist really wants me to get started on the medicine right away. Isn't there someone here who can fill it for me?"
She shuffled through a very small pile of papers. "The cook's a part-time pharmacist, but there's no prescription written down here for you. Your dentist must have forgotten to call it in."
"I'll come back for it tomorrow."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself."
I walked slowly back to where I'd left the truck, half keeping an eye out for Big Bad Bob. I didn't particularly want him scaring me again, but this time he wasn't in sight. I was also preoccupied with feeling irritated at Dr. Gelsinger. If he thought my taking antibiotics was so important, the least he could have done was call in the prescription. I'd thought that was what he'd been doing when I left the office, but now I realized I was mistaken.
I had gotten as far as getting into the truck and turning on the engine, when I noticed a 1960 Oldsmobile at the far edge of the lot. I recognized it as Mr. Eshelman's car. There weren't too many of that vintage around.
My first thought was that he'd just returned, and I'd give him a minute to get into the store, then follow. But after several minutes went by and nobody had gotten out of the car, I began to get worried. After all, he wasn't a young man, and his skin had that grayish pallor I associated with sick people. What if he were in there, sick, maybe dying?
I turned off the engine, climbed down, and hurried over to the car. I peered in the window and saw that the car was empty. When I tried the door, I found it unlocked just as I had expected. People who don't feel it's necessary to lock up their houses when they go out certainly wouldn't lock their cars. How could he have gotten past me without my seeing him? The only way in to the drugstore was through the alley.
I slammed the door, and started to turn to go back to the truck, when I felt something nasty beneath my feet. "Dog-doo," I muttered. "There ought to be a law." I lifted one foot to stare at the sole of my shoe. It was wet and slimy, all right, but it neither looked nor smelled like dog-doo. I appeared to be standing in a puddle of oil.
5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes Page 16
