A Brilliant Death (30 page)

Under the cover of darkness, Travis and I returned to the old family property the following Saturday night with a garden rake and a rusting, steel-wheeled wheelbarrow that had been forgotten in the weeds behind Big Frank’s garage. In the wheelbarrow, which Travis slowly and silently worked up the banks of Thorneapple Creek, was a flat stone that he had picked out of the creek bed earlier in the day. On it he had painted in black letters:

Beneath this stone lies the body of Amanda Virdon Baron.
Born: April 2, 1931
Murdered by her husband, Frank Baron: September 30, 1953

He moved the cement cap from the cistern and dropped the handmade tombstone inside. He said a prayer for his mother and apologized to her and God for not being able to seek for her the justice she deserved. When he had finished, we began the task of filling in the cistern, hauling dirt and scrap and stones from the property to the hole. We worked into the early morning hours, filling the hole a little more than a third of the way.

We returned the next Saturday to continue the fill. While Travis pushed dirt into the hole, I scavenged the hillside for pieces of pipe and board, a tree stump, two old car tires, and the rusting remains of a girls bicycle, all of which were dumped in the opening. Around the base of the foundation of the old house were loose stones that easily came out. I rolled them down the grade to Travis, who guided them into the hole. By midnight, we could see the bottom of the hole, not five feet deep. There were enough pieces of crumbling concrete and stones around the foundation of the house to fill in the rest of the way to the rim. When the hole had been filled to near ground level, we rolled the cement cap back over the opening, sealing forever the tomb of Amanda Baron.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

With only finals week left before our graduation, Travis had a death grip on the Ohio Valley Steel Scholarship. He would finish the year with a perfect 4.0 grade point average and as our class valedictorian. Margaret Simcox would be our salutatorian, finishing her high school career with an average of 3.96, four one-hundredths of a point behind, the “B” she had received in driver’s education dooming her to second place.

There seemed to be little chance of Travis blowing the lead. He was excused from the trigonometry final by virtue of having an average of one hundred for the year. The College Prep English class final was a term paper, which he had completed three weeks earlier and received a score of one hundred and six out of a possible hundred, collecting all six bonus points. Chemistry had been an in-class demonstration and talk, which he aced. Mr. Jankowski, our journalism teacher, graded us on the quality of the school newspaper over the course of the year, and he rarely gave anyone less than an “A.” The only class that remained was American Government, which was Travis’s strongest subject. Margaret had resigned herself to the fact that Travis would breeze through the exam and claim the scholarship, though it made her blanch to think he would use it to attend welding school, to which he had yet to apply.

Travis had been particularly quiet since the night we talked with Tornik in his car, which I deemed understandable. He stopped by the house the night we were eliminated from the regional baseball tournament. Artie Drago had been daydreaming in center field and let a lazy fly ball drop just ten feet away. It was one of those embarrassing mistakes that we would be reminding him of at our twenty-fifth class reunion. I was on the back-porch swing, savoring the last few minutes that I would ever wear any kind of uniform for the Brilliant Blue Devils. It had been a good run, I thought.

He came up and sat down on the swing. “Tough way to end a season,” he said.

I nodded. “No doubt. Glad it wasn’t me. That’s the kind of thing I’d wake up in the middle of the night and think about fifty years from now. Fortunately, I guess, it was Artie.” Travis smiled and nodded, the implied message understood. Artie Drago didn’t have the brain power to agonize over his mistakes. While such a mistake would haunt me for years, Artie had probably already forgotten about it. “So, what’s going on with you? You haven’t killed Big Frank in his sleep, have you?”

“That son of a bitch isn’t getting off that easy. If I kill him, it’s going to be while he’s awake. I want to make sure he knows who’s doing it.”

“Have you heard anything about . . .”

“No, Mitchell, I haven’t heard anything about welding school and let’s preserve our friendship by not discussing it any further.”

“Cheesus, who pissed in your oatmeal?”

“You bring it up every time we talk.”

He was trying to bait me. Over the years, I had become very astute at understanding when he was trying to pick a fight. “Bank on this: I’ll never bring it up again.”

He crossed his ankles and jammed his hands into the pockets of his shorts, the pressure he was exerting causing the fabric to stretch tight. “I can handle myself, you know. I practically raised myself,” he said after a few moments.

“I know you can handle yourself, Trav. That’s not the point. I know this whole thing is a mess, and I know it’s pinging around inside your head like a pinball, but I don’t want it to ruin your future.”

He got up to leave. “Don’t worry about my future,” he snarled. “I know exactly what I’m going to be doing. You don’t have to worry about me.”

I worried. It was my nature.

The American Government test was given on Friday, the last period before lunch. Once it was taken, our classroom obligations at Brilliant High School were officially completed. The test was easy, a basic review of the class highlights, and certainly nothing that Travis couldn’t handle. I had been working on the test for twenty minutes when Travis stood, shoved in his chair, and started for the front of the room. As he passed Margaret, he leaned down, draped an arm over her shoulder, and whispered a few words that sounded like, “Always speak kindly of me.” Then he winked and left the room.

Our final exam grades and our career averages were posted the next Tuesday afternoon. On the American Government test, I had gotten an A, Urb a B, and Travis a D. The D on the test gave him a B for the grading period. The full-credit B dropped him in the standings below Margaret’s half-credit, driver’s education B. His name appeared second on the career grade point average chart, behind Margaret Simcox, our valedictorian.

I tracked him down at the bakery warehouse, where he was still working a few hours a day. “You tanked it. Why?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, poorly feigning ignorance.

“Don’t give me that. I heard what you said to Margaret. You said, ‘Always speak kindly of me.’ You threw the government test so Margaret could be valedictorian and get the scholarship.”

He continued to unload the empty metal racks from the back of the truck. “Mitchell, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I thought that government final was a bear.”

“I don’t get it, Travis. Even if it’s welding school, you could have used the money.”

He shrugged. “Margaret Simcox, for all her arrogant, self-centered faults, has some direction in her life. She’s going to college. She can use that money. I don’t know if I’m even going to welding school, let alone college. And I checked. Either the valedictorian uses the money within one year, or it’s defaulted. The salutatorian can’t have it. So why let it go to waste?”

I took a seat on the edge of the loading dock as Travis moved to the next truck, unloading and stacking racks of trays. “Does this mean you’re going to make a career of loading and unloading bread trucks?”

Travis arched a brow. “Hardly,” he sneered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I imagine they felt relatively safe. The only person they were concerned about hadn’t seen them in eighteen years, and Big Frank Baron had never been attentive to details, anyway. With the dozens of grandparents and aunts and uncles showing up for graduation in the crowded auditorium, Ronald and Esther Virdon slid right in, virtually unnoticed. They took a seat in the corner of the auditorium. Ronald sat stoic, eyes forward, shoulders straight, a look in his eyes that said he almost hoped Big Frank Baron saw him. The more-animated Esther sat away from the aisle, hunched, peering around her husband’s shoulders for a glimpse of her former son-in-law.

Travis had not told them of our discovery at the bottom of the cistern. If he did, he was certain his grandfather would kill Big Frank. Travis was so grateful for the new family, he didn’t want to chance losing it. Tornik, we were confident, would never say a word. Beyond that, the truth behind the mysterious disappearance of Amanda Baron was buried as deep as her remains.

When Big Frank entered the auditorium, attending the only function that involved his son’s high school career, Esther spotted him immediately. He was dressed in black slacks, pointy black boots, and a silver polyester shirt that stretched tight over his droopy belly. He had a gold chain around his neck that intertwined with his mat of chest hair. He needed a haircut; his locks were slicked back into a ducktail that hung over his collar, and a slick of sweat coated his jowls and neck.

From the lobby, I could see the look on Esther Virdon’s face when Big Frank entered the gymnasium. “Look how fat he’s gotten,” she mouthed. Ronald never budged, keeping his head, eyes, and erect shoulders forward. Big Frank walked past the couple without noticing them.

The Brilliant High School orchestra began playing
Pomp & Circumstance
as we entered the auditorium from the rear. We split, with Margaret Simcox leading half the graduates down the left aisle, and Travis leading half down the right. He saw his grandparents, but made no sign of recognition. I winked at Mrs. Virdon, who smiled. We sat in the first three rows of the auditorium. Folding metal chairs were set up on the stage to accommodate Margaret, Travis, and the local dignitaries, all of whom felt obligated to tell us how the worlds of industry, commerce, and higher education were anxiously awaiting our arrival. We, too, were certain that the Brilliant High School class of 1971 was destined for greatness. However, what we wanted most at that point was to get to the graduation parties, and thus paid scant attention to the principal, superintendent, or class advisor.

Then it was Travis’s turn to speak as class salutatorian. He stood before the hushed auditorium, and I got a chill. He was smirking, and I wondered if perhaps he would use this opportunity to tell all present of our adventure, and end the biggest mystery in the history of Brilliant, Ohio. It would be the most memorable speech in Brilliant High School commencement history, that’s for sure. Then again, maybe that was what he wanted me to think, just to rattle me a little. Even as we prepared to graduate, Travis continued to play me like an Ohio River bullhead.

Thus, as I nervously gripped the armrests, he began.

Travis paused for a long moment, looking out into the crowd and allowing his words to sink in. His was not the typical, upbeat speech generally delivered by the number two honor student, and the crowd was captivated.

The auditorium, save for a smattering of polite applause, was silent. Travis went back to his seat, and Principal Fishbaugh stuttered through an introduction of Margaret Simcox, who had prepared a speech comparing her graduation to the joy of watching her beagle, Daisy-Doo, giving birth to a litter of puppies. She hurried through the speech, accepted her scholarship from the president of Ohio Valley Steel, and took her seat.

“That was a very uplifting speech, Travis,” she said through clenched teeth.

Travis grinned. “As was yours, Margaret. I particularly liked the part where the puppy you named Apple Strudel kept biting your shoelaces.”

“Bite this,” she said under her breath, smiling as Principal Fishbaugh thanked the two speakers and began introducing the 1971 graduates of Brilliant High School.