Stone Cold Dead (7 page)

She made her way back to the office with the frosted door and, after a minute, she returned and invited me to follow her. “Mr. Brossard will see you now,” she said.

I remembered that name immediately from the basketball game at the high school. He seemed like a decent enough man. I only hoped he hadn’t formed a bad opinion of me, based on the vomit in my hair.

“
You’re
Miss Stone?” he asked. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” I said, surely blushing. “What are you doing here at the junior high? Aren’t you the high-school assistant principal?”

“Oh, no. That’s Mr. Brooks. He was ill that night and asked me to fill in for him,” he explained. “All the administrators are required to chaperone basketball games from time to time.”

“Your lucky night,” I said. “You got the sick girl. Sorry about that.”

He smiled and waved it away, held a chair for me, then took his own seat behind his desk. I smoothed my skirt over my knees, wet my lips, and waited for an opening.

“So you’re here to do a story on our Teddy J.?” he asked, rocking in his chair. “He’s quite a phenomenon, isn’t he? And only a freshman.”

“I’ll say. It’s not often a freshman makes the varsity squad. And he’s the best player on the team.”

“Best player in the county,” he corrected.

“By the way, I’ve been wondering why the freshman class is part of the junior high and not the high school. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Simple explanation,” he said. “The high school’s too small to house four classes, so the freshmen are here.”

“I see. So tell me more about Teddy.”

“Well, did you know he’s an honors student at the top of his class? Best scores in the school on the Iowa Tests. We think he’s going to be a writer someday. Brilliant in English.”

I smiled back at him for a moment, then I gave up on the charade.

“Yeah . . . Mr. Brossard, I’m not really here to talk about Teddy Jurczyk,” I said.

Brossard was confused. “Sorry?”

“I’m investigating the disappearance of a student of yours: Darleen Hicks. I believe she’s a ninth grader here.”

The change of gears had thrown him. He gaped at me, cocked and shook his head as if to clear out the cobwebs.

“I’m making general inquiries into her disappearance. Her mother is convinced she didn’t run off, as the sheriff believes.”

Now he was peeved. Brossard leaned forward in his chair and stared me down, as he might do to a truant student.

“What game is this, Miss Stone? Why the pretense of talking about Teddy Jurczyk?”

“I apologize. I don’t know why I said that.” Truth be told, the disorienting effect had been my intention. It’s an old Indian trick I use often when interviewing. He settled back in his chair, watching me, drawing out the silence to intimidate me. I really don’t mind silence; it gives me time to collect my thoughts.

“Yes, Darleen Hicks is a student here,” he said finally. “What is it you want exactly?”

“I’d like to speak to some of her friends and others who might know her. Her teachers, for instance.”

Brossard pursed his lips and tented his fingers as he thought it over. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t like the idea,” he said. “It would be very disruptive.”

“For the girls or the teachers?”

“Both. Did the paper send you here?”

“Actually, it was Mrs. Metzger, Darleen’s mother, who asked me to help find her.”

Brossard was softening now that the shock of my bait-and-switch was wearing off.

“I remember the day it happened,” he said. “It was a Wednesday, and her class went to Canajoharie to the Beech-Nut factory. I remember because it was also the day of the superintendent’s Christmas banquet. The entire administrative staff was invited to Isobel’s. I had ziti and meatballs.”

“That’s nice,” I said, wondering what that had to do with the price of tea in China. “About Darleen Hicks . . .”

“It is a perplexing case,” he said.

I crossed my legs and leaned forward. “In what way?”

“People don’t simply disappear. She either had a plan to run away or someone made plans for her.”

“Foul play?” I asked.

“What else?”

“You don’t think she ran off?”

“That’s the most likely possibility, but she would have needed help.”

“Money . . .” I offered.

He nodded. “And transportation.”

I mulled over his assessment for a minute then asked him again about Darleen’s friends. He frowned as he considered it.

“I still don’t like the idea of you talking to the girls. They’re young and impressionable.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, thinking I could easily visit Darleen’s friends on my own away from school. “What if we compromise? May I speak to a couple of her teachers?”

Brossard arranged for me to meet Darleen’s algebra teacher, Mr. Vernon, during his free period at ten a.m. Mrs. Worth escorted me to the newer building, passing through a communicating hallway on the second floor, and we climbed the stairs to the teachers’ lounge on the third.

“That’s him over there,” she said, pointing to a tall, balding man in a dark-blue suit, serving himself some coffee from the stainless-steel percolator. He was bent over about twenty degrees, searching for the cleanest sugar cube in the bowl to drop into his cup. Once he’d made his selection, he stood up straight and twirled a spoon through his coffee. Then he turned and spotted us in the doorway. He must have been warned of my visit, because he scowled. In fact, he produced the physical equivalent of a groan, making me feel as welcome as a sneeze. He trudged over to a worn armchair and placed his coffee down on a heavy wooden side table. Then he drew a handkerchief from his vest pocket and proceeded to dash it against the chair’s seat several times. At least that’s what I assumed he was doing. From my vantage point at the door, his large bottom blocked my view and any chance for a true eyewitness account.

“I’m afraid you’ll find he’s a pill,” Mrs. Worth whispered in my ear.

Her confidence surprised me, and I must have looked puzzled. Then she gave me a gentle nudge. “Go get him,” she said. “Girl reporter.” And she winked. No smile. Just a wink.

I still looked confused.

“Jordan Shaw was in my Girl Scouts troop,” she said. Then she turned and left.

I cracked a small grin back at her, though she didn’t see it. Then I made my way over to the seated Mr. Vernon. I stretched out a hand and introduced myself. Vernon neither accepted my hand, nor invited me to have a seat in the chair on the other side of the wooden table. I took it anyway.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” I said once I was seated, knees tucked safely together. He wasn’t looking.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” he grumbled, lighting a cigarette.

I had no coffee, so I lit a cigarette as well, and we settled in for our chat.

“I’m investigating the disappearance of Darleen Hicks,” I began. “I understand she’s a student of yours.”

“Great work so far,” he said, looking away from me.

“Can you tell me anything about her?” I asked, ignoring his crack.

“What’s to tell? She was a rotten student with a miserable attitude. There are dozens like her here, all headed for jail or the welfare line.”

I studied him as he sipped his coffee. He hunched his shoulders and blinked his eyes rapidly as he raised the cup to his lips. I noticed the sprinkling of dandruff on the shoulders and lapels of his jacket, as well as some flakes trapped in the slicked-down hair of his head.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, and I shook the distraction from my head.

“Tell me about Darleen in particular,” I said. I had learned not to let the subject dictate the direction of the interview.

“I didn’t like her, if that’s what you mean. She was a silly girl who didn’t pay attention in class. She chewed gum incessantly. Used to stick it under her desk. Disgusting habit.”

“I see. Anything else you remember about her?”

“She failed fractions.”

“Why do you refer to her in the past tense?” I asked.

Vernon had tired of me. He sneered, picked himself up, and trod off out of the lounge. I was writing some notes in my pad, about to leave, when another teacher, a woman, approached me.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you inquiring into Darleen Hicks’s disappearance?”

Her voice was a crackling falsetto, her dress a baggy flower print. She was about sixty and smelled of rose water.

“My name is Adelaide Nolan,” she said, taking Vernon’s vacated chair. “Darleen was in my English class last year.”

“What can you tell me about her?” I asked, stubbing out my cigarette.

“Well, she’s a spirited girl, but she has a good heart. I remember that she felt sorry for Oedipus.”

“How’s that?”

“She felt sorry when Oedipus poked his own eyes out. We were reading Sophocles, and Darleen thought that Oedipus was a little too hard on himself. After all, he didn’t
know
Laius was his father and Jocasta was his mother.”

“Still,” I said, “one can understand his horror at the discovery . . .”

“Of course,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “But Darleen didn’t quite grasp the concept of Greek tragedy.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Nolan, but why are you telling me this?”

“Because of Joey Figlio.”

I remembered that Irene Metzger had told me about him. He was Darleen’s boyfriend.

“Joey Figlio was in the same class,” she continued. “A bad egg, that boy.”

She sipped some more tea, and I waited for the punch line. After thirty seconds had ticked by, I cleared my throat.

“Oh, sorry,” she said after my prompting. “A smart aleck. I gave him detention once.”

“What for?”

“It was for Oedipus again. He made a tasteless joke in class when Darleen Hicks said she felt sorry for Oedipus. As I told you a moment ago, Darleen asked me why poor Oedipus should blind himself. And I said how would you feel if you killed your father and married your mother?”

“And then?”

She pinched her nose and sniffed. “From the back of the room, Joey Figlio started singing ‘
I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old Dad.
’”

I couldn’t quite suppress the laugh that snorted through my nose. Adelaide Nolan stared daggers at me and pursed her lips in disapproval. I apologized, but continued to struggle to stifle a smile. Joey Figlio had unsuspected wit. Mrs. Nolan quickly changed her opinion of me.

“I’m sorry,” I choked. “Please continue.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s it. That’s the story.”

“Excuse me, but why did you tell me about Joey Figlio, then?”

“Because you should be questioning him, not her teachers,” she said. “He’s no good, that one. Do you know that he writes obscene poetry? Disgraceful. Poems about Darleen. Go talk to him, and you’ll find out what happened to that poor girl.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I stopped by the paper to give Charlie Reese an earful about the Royal Lancer. I had always thought it was too nice a car for me, and now I had the proof. Millicent Riley, the publisher’s secretary, said Charlie was in a meeting with Mr. Short. That was my signal to scram. Artie Short hated me, and I was happy to return the sentiment.

“Not so fast, Miss Stone,” Millicent called after me. “Mr. Short said he wanted to see you when you came in.”

I froze. What did he want with me? I’d been keeping my nose clean for weeks, if you didn’t count getting sick at the high-school basketball game.

“Can’t you tell him you haven’t seen me?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, to be nice just once?”

She buzzed her boss inside the office. “Miss Stone to see you, Mr. Short.” Then she glanced at me and said, “You may go in now.”

“Look what the cat dragged in,” mumbled Short as I entered. “I didn’t know Miss Stone still worked here. Haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“Now, Artie, she’s been a good girl,” said Charlie. “She’s been covering the basketball games and the City Council meetings for me. Doing a darn good job, too.”

Artie waved a hand at Charlie. “Our Miss Stone knows we’re old friends,” he said with a scowl, pointing at a chair for my comfort. “Isn’t that right, Miss Stone?”

“Like Martin and Lewis,” I said.

“I called you in here to discuss this missing-girl case,” he said, ignoring me. “What’s her name, Charlie?”

“Darleen Hicks.”

“Yes, Darleen Hicks. She’s a ninth grader who disappeared a couple of weeks ago. Charlie wants you to look into this. I’m not convinced, of course. Seems like a lot of nothing.”

“By the way, what were you working on this morning?” asked Charlie. “I’ll reassign it.”

“Actually, I was working on the Darleen Hicks story.”

The two men exchanged glances. Charlie shrugged.

“Don’t you know what your staff is doing?” Short frowned, taking a seat at his desk.

Charlie threw me a withering look.

“Darleen’s mother came to meet me and told me the whole story. She asked me to help her.”

“What have you got so far?” asked Short as he shuffled through some papers.

“I’ve interviewed the mother, the neighbors, and two of her teachers.”

“What’s next?” he said, not even looking at me.