by Judy Clemens
“Bryan Walker. He graduated in the early 90s. ’93, I think.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head at the same time, which made her look pretty funny. I didn’t laugh.
“I wasn’t here then, yet.” She turned. “Viola? Hey, Viola.”
An older woman looked up from her computer, sliding her glasses up onto her nose to look at the secretary. “Yeah?”
“You were around in ’93, weren’t you?”
“I’ve been here since ’85.”
The secretary pointed at me with her thumb. “This lady wants to know about someone named— What was his name?”
“Bryan Walker. He graduated in ’93.”
“What do you want to know?” The older lady again. Crabby and blunt.
“Whatever you can tell me.”
“There’s copies of the school yearbooks in the library, but other than that you’re on your own. I couldn’t say anything even if I could remember it, and let me tell you, with three thousand kids in this school every year I don’t remember many of them. They’ve got to be really bad or really good to make an impression.”
“So he wasn’t either?”
“Not so’s I remember. But then, like I said, I couldn’t tell you if I did.”
She turned back to her computer, her back to me. The secretary shrugged. “There’s your answer.”
Great. “So where’s the library?”
She pointed out the door. “To the left. Down the hall. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” A whole helluva lot.
“Wait!” She stood up. “You’re going to have to sign this—” A Visitor list. “—and wear this.” A clip-on badge that said, “VISITOR.”
I did both, and left.
The library was teeming with kids, which shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Somehow I didn’t figure students into my trip to the school except for sitting quietly in class, texting each other. It’s hard to imagine teenagers actually going into a library, but I suppose they have to sometimes, when their teachers make them.
The librarian was a young woman with short hair and a pixie nose, who looked happier to be in a school library than seemed possible. A plaque on her desk said, “Ms. Richardson.” She smiled. “Can I help you find something?”
“School yearbooks.”
“They’ll be in the reference section. Over there. Second shelf from the top.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
Like a reason to justify my hesitation about Bryan? She didn’t look old enough to remember when he’d attended school. Although maybe as a classmate.
“Did you go to school here?”
She looked surprised. “No, actually, I grew up in Illinois.”
“Oh. Never mind, then.”
The annuals were easy to find, but picking Bryan out of the crowd proved a lot harder. As the crabby office lady had said, there are thousands of kids at North Penn High School, and it took a major event for someone to stick out.
I had the advantage of the Internet search, so I picked out the ’92-’93 yearbook first, and found him on the basketball team. And the cross-country team. Of course. Hadn’t Babs said he goes to the gym to run? (And run, and run, and run?) A peek in the yearbooks around that one showed he actually graduated in 1994. His senior picture, serious, with him in dark suit and tie, looked just like him. He’d only added a few wrinkles. And his hair was now a bit thinner.
While looking at that year’s cross-country section I was struck with an idea. I put back that yearbook and grabbed the most recent one. The basketball coach was different now, but one glance at the cross-country team showed the same guy. Older now, with gray hair, but the same. Royce Byler. Then and now.
Talk about commitment.
I slid the annual back into its slot and returned to Ms. Richardson, the librarian. She looked just as happy as before.
“Can you tell me where I might find the cross-country coach?”
She pondered this for a moment before turning to her computer and typing briskly. It didn’t take long.
“He’s teaching freshman health right now. Class will be over in—” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “—twelve minutes.”
“And where would that be?”
She looked back at the computer. “Second floor. All the way down the hall. Room 47.”
I thanked her and left the library, finding the stairs after a minute of searching, and the classroom exactly where she said it would be. Through the door’s window I could see the coach/teacher at the dry erase board, scribbling something no one could possibly read. Then I stepped back and leaned on the wall to wait.
Ten minutes later I about had a heart attack when the bell rang and the door slammed open, almost crushing me. Guess I should’ve stood on the other side.
I waited for the rush of kids to stop before stepping into the doorway. Royce Byler was still at the board, but this time he was erasing the illegible scribbles. He glanced up, taking in my VISITOR tag. “Help you?”
“Yeah. You’re the cross-country coach?”
“Sure am. You interested in helping out?”
Uh. Right. “No, I’m doing some…research…and wondered if you might remember a runner named Bryan Walker.”
“Bryan? Sure. He was one of my best for a couple of years.”
“Just a couple?”
He shrugged. “Things happen.”
“Like what?”
The eraser stilled, and he studied me. “Who are you, again?”
“Name’s Stella Crown. Just trying to find out some information about him.”
“Because…?”
Honesty? Seemed the best route, as I’m a terrible liar.
“My friend recently started dating him. I’m looking out for her.”
A smile tickled his lips. “Watch dog, huh?”
“Sort of.”
He finished wiping the board and leaned against it. “Bryan was a good guy. Strong runner. Good student.” He hesitated.
“Was?”
“Oh, he’s still a good guy. He just had some struggles. His dad died during his sophomore year. Left him with his mom and three younger sisters. He was never the same after that. Much more serious. Actually worked harder at running, if that were possible, but his heart wasn’t in it. During the fall of his second year, before his dad died, I’d thought he’d be able to get an athletic scholarship to college, when the time came, but that never happened. I’m not sure he even went to college.”
“He did. MontCo. At least for a year or two.”
“Probably didn’t run, though.”
“Don’t know about that.”
He pushed himself away from the board and looked at his watch.
I paused, then asked, “How about girls?”
“Like girlfriends? No. At least none that I knew about. And he didn’t joke around, even with friends. When we’d go on trips with the women’s team he’d be the guy in the front of the bus sleeping. And those meets that lots of parents would come and take their kids home with them? He’d be one of the two kids returning on the bus. Sad, really.”
“You know his mom?”
“Just to look at. She rarely came to a meet. Had those three younger daughters, you know.”
Students began trickling into the classroom and Byler’s attention wandered toward them.
I backed out of the way. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. I hope it turns out well. He really was a good kid. I hope she’s a good one, too.”
Uh-huh.
I waited for a break in the flow through the door, and made my escape.
Chapter Thirty
“So when someone’s dad dies it turns him into a killer?” Nick wasn’t too happy.
“Of course not. Don’t be stupid. But look at the circumstances. He’s left alone, at fifteen, with a mom and three little sisters. He’s suddenl
y the man of the family, and the normal high school stuff is over. Cross country, the thing he loved the best, becomes something he does alone.”
“Cross country’s all about being alone.”
“But not without support. His mother never even came to his meets. Can you hand me that hammer?”
Finding the boys digging through lumber that morning had reminded me of some stalls that needed repairing. After I got home I found Nick awake and needing something to do, so I dragged him out to the barn, where the two of us tried to do together the work of one person. It felt good to do something physical and see some actual development, even if it was slow going. My brain was tired.
Nick put the hammer in my hand. “What about at MontCo? What did they have to say?”
“Nothing.” After North Penn I’d driven out to Montgomery Community College, where I’d found out exactly zilch about Bryan. Nobody really remembered him, he’d participated in nothing extra-curricular, and the yearbooks had one of those generic “No photo available” graphics in place of a headshot. “Waste of time.”
Queenie, who was lying a few feet away, supervising, leapt to her feet and went racing out of the barn, barking. I hit my thumb with the hammer, then stood up too quickly, getting a head rush in conjunction with my throbbing thumb. I squatted back down.
“You okay?” Nick knelt next to me.
“I’m fine. Can you go see who it is?”
A minute later Carla was standing over me.
She was smirking. “Now what?”
I stood up, slower this time, and held out my red thumb. She winced.
I put my hand down and clenched my thumb in a fist. “How’s your head?”
“Real good, actually. I feel pretty much back to normal.” She was grinning like all get out.
I peeked behind her, but didn’t see the skinny running cowboy. “Where’s Bryan?”
“Work.”
“So how’d you get here?”
She grinned even wider. “Come see.”
It was a brand spankin’ new F250. Shiny silver paint, tires with the little rubber tags still on, and not one scratch or dent or fleck of dust to be seen.
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Went and got her this morning. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I stepped a little closer and took in the perfect leather interior. “You’re allowed to drive?”
“Got the okey-dokey this morning.” She put a loving hand on the hood. “Bryan took me right to the dealer, and I picked her out.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“Not that I didn’t love my old one.”
“Of course not.”
We had a moment of silence.
“What about a Port-a-Vet?”
She turned around and leaned against the warm truck. “Had to order that special. Should get it by early next week. I’ll have to drive down to Philly to pick it up.”
“Need me to come?”
“No, thanks.”
“Bryan?” I tried not to sound whiny.
She laughed. “No. I can drive myself. They’ll put it right on the truck and I can drive it home.”
“Oh. Right.”
She stepped away from her truck and looked at Nick’s Ranger. “Kinda makes yours look like a little baby.”
Nick grinned. “At least I don’t need a ladder to get into mine.”
“Yeah. It is kind of high, isn’t it? Higher than my old one.”
Another moment of silence.
“So,” Carla said. “Got any ice cream?”
We dug through the freezer and found an old tub of cookies-and-cream. Carla scraped off the top layer and said the rest would be fine. Nick and I watched her eat right out of the box.
“So Willard called me this morning,” she said around a mouthful.
“Yeah?” Before court, I guessed.
“Have you heard the latest?”
I shook my head.
“I thought you were always in the loop.”
I’d thought so, too. “Anyway…” I rolled my hand.
She took another bite. “Anyway, a guy called the police to say that not only did he see someone walking along Route 63 in Green Lane on Sunday, but he stopped and picked him up. He gave a description to the police, but from the description it could be anybody. The guy had on a jacket—”
“In this weather?”
“—and jeans. Sunglasses. And, unfortunately, a Phillies cap.”
Damn. There went the whole regional loyalty thing. “White guy?”
She nodded.
“Hair?”
“Brownish. The guy thinks. He didn’t study him real hard because how was he to know the guy was a criminal? Besides, they just talked about the Phillies for a few miles and the rider wanted out.” She looked at Nick. “Guys and their observation skills.”
He held up his hands. “Don’t blame me. I’m not responsible for every guy.”
Carla pointed at him with her spoon. “I’ll bet you a million bucks if it had been a blonde with big boobs he woulda remembered that.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “But he wouldn’t have any idea what they talked about.”
She laughed.
“Hey,” I said. “You went out to the Hershbergers to check on their dog last weekend.”
“Who?”
“The Hershbergers. They were just moving in.”
“Oh, that’s right. A cute little terrier. Some kid had stepped on him. I wasn’t sure how it was going to turn out, but the poor thing was just bruised. Why?”
“Carla…that’s the Hershbergers. The new minister at Kulpsville Mennonite. The one whose office was vandalized.”
She stared at me, mouth open. I was glad there wasn’t any ice cream in there. “I am so…dense. I just didn’t connect it from what you said before. And I was busy that day. I was headed to Freddy Hill for a dislocated hip when I got the call, and just swung on by their house. We didn’t talk about why they’d moved. I mean, how many people move to this area every day? Zillions. I don’t even think I saw the woman.”
“Who did you see?”
“I don’t know. Moving people.”
“Like…”
She closed her eyes. “Well, Lenny was there. Can’t miss him, since I know him… There was another big guy. He and Lenny were moving a huge bureau, just the two of them.” Had to be David, the brother-in-law. “And lots of other people.”
“Teen-agers?”
“Actually, yeah, now that you mention it. Pretty many of them.”
The Kulpsville MYF.
“Oh,” Carla said. “And some college girl. The Hershbergers’ niece, maybe? Seemed pretty excited to see a woman doing my job.”
“Yeah. She’s into that. Going to be a lawyer. Change the world, you know.”
“More power to her.”
I thought about Carla’s truck. “Did you have the medication on board that day?”
“You mean the Ketamine that got stolen? Yeah, I had some. During on-call days you never know what you’ll need, and I usually take some.”
“And was your Port-a-Vet open so anyone could see in?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t locked, since I was using it. Anybody could’ve gotten in it, but I’d think they would’ve been noticed.” She studied my face. “Why does all this matter?”
“Because of the connection. It’s the first one between you and any of the other women. What if someone there saw you?”
“Like a church teen? Or the family? Come on.”
“Well, it had to be somebody.”
“Yeah, Stella, a random mugger.”
I stared at her. “You really think so?”
She took another huge bite and gave it time to melt in her mouth before swallowing it. “Willard told me about the signs at the church and the doctor’s office with the nasty stuff. I didn’t get anything like that. All I got was the concussion and the stolen truc
k. And the stolen drugs. Don’t you think the drugs are all the connection we need?”
She wasn’t getting it.
“So, does Bryan know your routine?”
“What do you mean? I talk to him about work. And he talks to me about his.”
“But does he know about your being on-call and how you take the drugs with you?”
Nick inhaled sharply at the same time Carla slammed her bowl down on the table. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“Just that—”
“That you can’t stand it that I got a boyfriend and you didn’t know about it. Well, just for your information, Miss Nosy, I don’t have to get permission from you. I don’t have to get permission from anybody. So you can just take your accusations and your suspicions and your…your jealousy…and stick them in somebody else’s business.”
And she thundered out of the house—without finishing her ice cream—and down the drive, swerving to miss Queenie and sending gravel flying.
Nick looked at me. “Well, that went well.”
I glared at him and dropped my head down onto the table.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Oh, shit,” I said.
I turned off the bobcat and watched Bryan’s Tundra pull up beside the barn. Once Carla had left I needed some personal space, and I’d managed to scrape most of the paddock, a bum leg not making much difference with a machine. Nick, who seemed a little annoyed with me, helped Tess, who’d decided to stay after lunch, to clean out the calf hutches. I had a feeling more calf-petting than cleaning was getting done, but they seemed to be having fun.
I slid down from the bobcat and limped out to the fence to see what Bryan wanted. Probably to yell at me for the way things had ended up with Carla. Queenie had stopped barking by now, and was busily smelling Bryan’s pant leg.
I leaned on the gate. “Help you?”
He jumped, then took a deep breath before coming toward me, Queenie following. Bryan didn’t look mad, but then, I really didn’t know him.
I leaned over the fence to scratch Queenie’s head. “What’s up?”
Bryan looked behind me. “Is Carla here?”
“Nope. She was, but she left a little while ago.”
He frowned. “I can’t find her. She’s not at her house.”
“Try her cell phone?”