A rolling clothes rack was against one wall. Donny went to it, found a fluffy blue coat. It was at least 50 percent stained a rust color that I wished I hadn't seen. He fished in one pocket and produced a miraculously unharmed CD player the size of a bread plate.
“Here it is,” he said, holding it up, headphones trailing behind, dangling toward the floor.
“Is there anything in it?” I didn't want to touch it.
He popped it open. “Yup.” He took out the shiny disc.
“Tonka Toys.
By somebody called Jane-Jane.”
“Ever heard of her?”
“Nope.” He held out the CD.
“Do you have a player? I'd rather not put on those headphones.”
“I understand,” he said, nodding. “We like to have soothing music playing when we have visitors. It's in the other room.”
He put the player back in the stained blue coat and headed for the viewing room. I followed, steeling myself against the sweet sight of the girls, hoping to keep my eyes averted.
The room's dim light was, indeed, comforting, and the crackle of the fire was reassuring.
Donny went to a small hutch in the corner of the room, opened it to reveal a hidden stereo system. He turned it on and put in the CD.
An explosion of petulant blaring filled the room, an adolescent girl's anger.
“Okay,” I told him over the din.
He touched a button and the room fell mercifully quiet again.
“Loud,” Donny said.
“Could I use a telephone here?”
“Office upstairs,” he answered. “You want this?” He held out the CD.
“Better put it back in the player in Rory's coat,” I said. “You wouldn't know if Rory was driving, would you?”
“No.” He started back to the other room.
“The office is the first room at the top of the stairs, right?”
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “You can go on up. I'll let you have your privacy. You calling Sheriff Needle?”
“Right.” I turned to give him a smile. “Were you always this bright?”
“No,” was all Donny said before he disappeared into the overlit room.
I headed along the hallway and up the stairs. The banister was so polished I was afraid to put my hand on it, I didn't want to smudge the finish.
Directly at the top of the stairs was a door that opened into a room with floor-to-ceiling windows in the outside wall. The other three walls were completely occupied by dark-stained oak bookshelves. There were few books still in evidence, but plenty of papers, stacks and stacks, neatly arranged. Ages ago when the funeral parlor had been a private home, the room would have been a library. Even
darkly overcast, there was enough light through the windows for me to see the huge oak desk, top well organized, and the phone close to the far corner.
I walked slowly in, letting my eyes adjust to the lower light, rounded the desk and picked up the phone, dialed Skid's number by heart. I was surprised to hear him answer. He rarely did that since he'd been elected sheriff.
“Sheriff's office,” he said tersely.
“Skid, it's Fever,” I told him quickly. “I'm at the funeral parlor. Have you seen what the Deveroe boys did with the bodies?”
“No.” He was in no mood.
“Great work. They look wonderful. The girls. And sad, you know.”
“Fever,” he broke in, “I'm kind of busy.”
“So I went to the scene of the accident,” I hurried on before he could continue, “and found two CD cases that belonged to the girls, as well as a lipstick, Coke cans, and hairbrush that may have been theirs. Then I went to Eppie's and saw the wreck, and I have a few really fast questions.”
“You found some things you think were in the car with the girls?”
“They were down the tracks from the crossing, about fifty feet or more, off to the side, under the bushes,” I said. “No one would have seen them in the dark last night. I wouldn't have seen them except for luck. But here are my questions: Do you know who was driving last night?”
“What?”
“Which girl was driving,” I repeated, “do you know?”
“Tess. Why?” His voice had relinquished a touch of its frost.
“And Rory was wearing headphones at the time of the accident,” I went on, “listening to a CD.”
“The headphones weren't on Rory's head, exactly,” Skid sighed, “but that doesn't mean anything, given the circumstances of the accident. They were attached to a portable player in her coat pocket, so it's a good bet she was listening to it, yes.”
“Did you hear the music?”
“Did I listen to the CD?” He bristled. “No.”
“It was loud,” was all I told him. “My last question is, did you or somebody last night take the car keys, the keys to the Volkswagen?”
There was a beat of silence.
“They weren't in the ignition,” he said slowly.
“Right, and no one found them last night?”
I heard him shuffling papers on his desk.
“No.” He seemed to be thinking.
“Okay, that's all I needed,” I said briskly. “I'll give you a ring tonight.”
“Fever, damn it,” Skid said, a small taste of his real voice creeping into his words, “that's not all. What's on your mind? What are you doing?”
“I'm just
collecting
at the moment,” I said honestly, “trying not to come to any conclusions. But it is strange that the keys are missing, don't you think?”
“It's strange that I didn't notice it,” he said ruefully.
“I'm going to talk to the girls' parents in a while,” I said softer, “and before you tell me to leave them alone, I'll promise not to pester them long. I only have a few questions. You should really come and take a look at what the brothers did over here at the funeral home. It's remarkable.”
“You're going to call me tonight.” It wasn't a question.
“After I talk to the parents,” I agreed, “and give the Palace a call.”
“The movie house?” He was irritated again. “What do you want with that?”
“Do you know what movie the girls saw?” I asked slowly.
“No.”
“What time it let out?” I shot back, picking up speed.
“No.”
“Do you know if the girls met dates there last night?” I concluded.
“Feverâ,” he began hotly.
“That's why I'm calling them, Skid,” I answered defensively. “Why are you so weird about all this? What's the matter with you?”
For a moment I thought he might have hung up. Then I heard him sigh.
“Being sheriff is a lot different from being deputy,” he told me, all his steam gone. “There are things about this situation that I can't tell you; it's more complicated than you think.”
“What are you saying?” I rested myself on the corner of the desk.
“I'm saying there's more to this whole mess than just a train wreck,” he said stonily.
“Just
a train wreck?” I shot back.
“I can't
talk
to you about it, Fever.” There was iron in his words. “You're not a policeman, you're an exâcollege professor. Leave it be. I won't be responsible for what happens if you don't do what I say. I mean it.”
“All right,” I answered slowly through tight lips. “I'm going to talk to the girls' parents for Lucy's sake, and then I'll stay out of it.”
More silence ensued.
“I wish I could believe that,” he said at last. “Look, I've got to go.”
“Bye.”
He hung up.
It wasn't much of a fight, but it was the worst communication Skidmore and I'd had since we were in high school. We never fought. Something was really bothering him.
What was all that about not being responsible for what would happen if I didn't leave the investigation alone? I thought as I sat there on the desk. Was he threatening me? Am I in some sort of danger? The train wreck wasn't the only thing that happened last night, that's clear.
The only effect any of my thoughts had at the time was to convince me to step up the investigation.
I looked around for a phone book, ended up calling information for the number of the Palace movie theater.
The phone rang a while before someone answered.
“Palace.”
“Hello,” I began, “This is Dr. Devilin calling. I have a few questions about the movie last night. Did you work?”
“Last night?” the teenaged boy said. “Uh-huh, I work every night. What is it you want to know?”
“What's your position there?”
“Position?” he grunted. “I do everything: sell tickets, work concession, clean up. It's just me and Chester.”
“The projectionist?” I guessed.
“Yes, sir.”
“So what movie was playing last night?”
“Vertigo,
”he said in a bored voice. “Hitchcock.”
“You're not a fan.”
“It's almost as stupid as
Psycho,”
he complained. “If you want good Hitchcock, you have to go back to
The Lady Vanishes,
in my opinion, or
The Thirty-nine Steps.
Before he went Hollywood.”
“You're a student of film,” I said, doing my best to take him seriously.
“I'm going to make films,” he said plainly.
“Really? I think that's great.” I took a different tack with him. “I've made a few films myself. Just documentaries.”
“You're the folklore guy, right? You came to our high school once. You're all
Nanook of the North
and stuff.”
That a young man from the mountains knew enough about film history to appreciate early Hitchcock and to remember the movie I'd shown two years before was impressive even to me and belied every stereotype in the book.
“Who are your influences, cinematically?” I asked him.
“Claude Lelouch is the main one,” he fired back. “He could tell a story that didn't depend on the budget.”
“A Man and a Woman,
right?”
“That was his commercial success, yes,” the boy said sagely. “What else do you want to know about last night? I've got a lot to do before we open.”
“Sorry,” I hurried on. “What time did the movie let out?”
“The early show on Friday's over at around nine; second show's done by eleven thirty at the latest.”
“You wouldn't know the Dyson girls, would you?”
“Nope.” I could hear him clattering something in the background, maybe getting the popcorn machine ready.
“All right, they're two high school girls,” I began, “one's around
eighteen with blond hair, the other's got brown hair, a year younger. They're sisters, pretty, very outgoing.”
“Okay.”
“You don't remember seeing them last night?” I pressed.
“Mister,” he sighed, “on Friday night we're packed. There were probably a hundred people here. I can barely keep up.”
“I understand,” I said calmly. “What's your name, do you mind my asking?”
“Andy Newlander,” he whined. “I'm going to change it. It's not a good filmmaker's name.”
“Would you mind if I came by sometime this weekend and showed you their picture? See if you remember them?”
“Why?” He was suspicious. “Are they in trouble?”
I took a deep breath.
“Did you hear about the train wreck last night, over there in Pine City?”
“No.”
In as little detail as possible, I explained to Andy Newlander why I wanted to come and see him. He agreed, more subdued than he had been, and we hung up.
Outside the rain was clattering at the window, a wandering spirit demanding sanctuary. Distant thunder sounded, absent any lightning I could see, like muffled timpani played slowly. The room grew darker, and in the distance, I heard a train whistle blow.
Â
I made my way downstairs, wandered to the back of the funeral home again looking for Donny. I was doing everything I could to get images of Tess and Rory out of my mind, but they wouldn't leave. Like the girls themselves, their memories clamored for attention, each one cheerfully vying for full appreciation.