A Hard Day's Fright

by Casey Daniels

By the time we got to the front of the line, Ariel looked more curious than starstruck. She slid her book in front of Patrick Monroe, stammered out that it was to be signed to her, and blushed sixteen shades of red when he squeezed her hand and offered what I think was supposed to be a sexy smile. I ignored my heebie-jeebies and made a mental note: he still liked ’em young.

  With a little waving motion that urged me to take her place, Ariel stepped aside. I pulled back my shoulders and flipped open my portfolio. Then I stuck out my hand.

  “Pepper Martin,” I said by way of introduction. “Graduate student.”

  Monroe liked what he saw. But then, I was wearing a snug white T-shirt with my jeans, along with the cutest little sunset-colored shrug. Who says redheads can’t get away with shades of pink? From the look in Monroe’s eyes, I knew that as far as he was concerned, I could get away with anything.

  I intended to try.

  “I’m writing my thesis.” Oh yes, I batted my eyelashes. “About you.”

  I wasn’t sure which he liked better, the batted eyelashes or the academic adoration. Still holding on to my hand, Monroe stood. I was right; we were just about the same height. This close, I saw that his face looked as lived-in as his sport coat.

  “I have a large body of work.” His smile made it clear he wouldn’t let go of my hand without a little encouragement, so I slipped it out of his grasp and got out a pen. I didn’t have to pretend I was taking notes, because I wanted to remember everything he said. “What are you focusing on? My early poems? My eighties glam/punk stage? My newest works? Surely, you must have an opinion on ‘Rock and a Hard Place,’ the piece I premiered tonight? I think it’s one of my best, but then, we’ll have to wait and see what the critics say about that.” He laughed, but call me a cynic, I could sense the desperation behind his nonchalance.

  See, I knew from the research notes Ariel had provided for me that, these days, the critics were less than kind to the wonderboy of the sixties. There was talk about Monroe being washed-up, and more than a few of the essays Ariel had downloaded (believe me when I say I was grateful I didn’t have to do it!) mentioned that he was no more than a one-hit wonder. After “Girl at Dawn”…well, a whole bunch of literary types claimed that it was all downhill from there.

  Leave it to a poet to know how to talk a good game. As if his blatant self-promotion would actually convince me—and as if what I thought might actually matter—he whizzed right on.

  “You’re a graduate student. That means you must be a smart woman. No doubt you noticed the atypical meter in ‘Rock,’ the unusual rhyme scheme and the measured tempo…ah!” He tipped back his head, savoring the thought, so I guess all that atypical stuff was good. “This poem is going to turn heads,” he said, and eyed me carefully. “But perhaps…” He wagged a finger in my direction. “Perhaps you’re not as concerned about my new work as you are about something else?” He tried wiggling his eyebrows at me, and when I didn’t melt like much of the audience had when he pulled that stunt during his reading, he turned down the volume on his attempts at sexy seduction. He did not, however, turn it off. A smile crinkled the corners of his mouth.

  “I think,” he said, “that perhaps you are one of those marvelous young women who cut her hormonal teeth on ‘Girl at Dawn,’ and you’re going to concentrate on that poem exclusively in your thesis. Let me give you some friendly advice.” He stepped closer, and I was glad there was a folding table between us. Lust gives off a pheromone all its own; advice wasn’t the only thing Patrick Monroe wanted to give me.

  I slid a look toward Ariel.

  Even she wasn’t fooled. She opened her mouth and pretended to poke a finger down her throat.

  “Others have tried to concentrate exclusively on ‘Girl,’” Monroe told me, and had I really cared, I might have appreciated his academic wisdom. “But remember, the piece cannot stand on its own. No poem can. Nothing is written in a vacuum. Surely you’ve discovered that for yourself in your studies.”

  “I surely have.” My smile was sleek. “That’s why I’m going to eschew the easy route.” Yeah, yeah…I know…eschew is one lame word, and not one I normally toss around in everyday conversation. But I’d done my homework in preparation for meeting Monroe. I figured poets were all about words like eschew. I think it has something to do with the meter. Or maybe they like to use strange words to make their readers feel all woolly-headed. Four years of high school English and too many college lit courses, and I’m pretty sure that’s what poetry is all about in the first place.

  “Actually, I was going to concentrate on your early career,” I told him. “Not your career as a poet. Your years as a teacher.”

  His face registered surprise, but I didn’t give him time to think this over. I went right on. “I think I’m in an especially advantageous position,” I said, pulling out all the stops and the last big word I knew. “I live in Shaker, and that’s where you taught. It’s like a sign from heaven. I’m destined to write about the time you spent here.”

  “Poets are big believers in destiny. After all, if it wasn’t for destiny, I might be writing advertising jingles instead of speaking at prestigious universities to beautiful women like you.” His smile never wavered, but I saw the way he looked past me, and the relief that swept over his face when he realized I was last in line. I was playing hard to get, and he wasn’t used to having to trawl for women. I had to move quickly, or I was going to lose him to the groupies who were already collecting in tight knots near the front of the stage. No doubt, Monroe would soon be on the receiving end of who-knew-how-many dinner invitations.

  “So much of the research I need is right here, all around me,” I said, ignoring the beautiful comment as if I was modest, not grossed out. “I can talk to people at Shaker Heights High, and I imagine a lot of your students are still living here in the community. I’m so anxious to hear what they have to say about your brilliant classroom techniques. Especially the girls you taught.”

  His smile was gone in an instant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Don’t worry, I was prepared. As if I couldn’t believe what a dummy I was, I laughed and blushed on command. “Oh my gosh! That came out all wrong. What I mean…” This time I pulled out all the stops and twinkled. “Come on, they all must have been in love with you.”

  He tried to keep his thunderous expression, but it melted in the warmth of my smile. When he laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkled into dozens of crow’s-feet. “That’s the problem with being a poet,” he murmured.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a problem,” I said right back.

  Ariel coughed.

  I ignored her.

  “One of those girls was Lucy Pasternak, right?”

  His smile froze, and before he could recover, I closed in for the kill. “I’m sure you remember her. She was in your summer school class. Right before she disappeared and was never seen again.”

  He scraped a hand through his hair. “Lucy. Of course. That girl who ran away.”

  “Did she?”

  As if he didn’t quite get it, he shook his head. “Did she…run away? Well, I don’t know. I thought that’s what happened. I left the area soon after, and it was a very long time ago.” He signaled to his minions to get his books and CDs and tote bags all packed up.

  “Which is why this opportunity to speak to you about that crucial summer is so perfect,” I said, and when a couple college kids carefully moved the table out from between us, I stepped closer to Monroe. “I’m using the summer of 1966 as a focal point. The whole hippie movement was just beginning and that was starting to shape society. The Beatles were in Cleveland that summer. You were at the concert, weren’t you?”

  His look was as steady as a rock and just as soft. “You really have done your homework, haven’t you?”

  I took this as the compliment it was not meant to be and breezed right on. “You published ‘Girl at Dawn’ at the end of 1967, which means ’66 must have been a crucial year for you.
You know, as far as your artistic growth and development.”

  “It was…” He stepped aside as the kids folded the last table and carted it off. “It was an interesting time. So much of what we did and thought was influenced by the tidal waves of social change. There was the civil rights movement, of course, and the whole hippie subculture. There was the War in Vietnam—”

  “And there was Lucy.”

  “Really, I don’t see what she had to do with anything.” With a shake of his shoulders, Monroe turned and walked away.

  But I’ve got long legs, and I’m a redhead, which means I’m not easily put off. I caught up to him in a heartbeat. “Well, I don’t know if her disappearance does have anything to do with your growth as an artist,” I said, watching a muscle bunch at his jawline. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Between Lucy and that job you lost in New York—”

  He spun to face me. “You’ll never get anywhere academically if you listen to rumors and not the truth.”

  “And the truth is?”

  “The truth is, there was never any truth to those allegations in New York. You can put that in your thesis. Tell them you got it right from the horse’s mouth.”

  “And the truth about Lucy?”

  He narrowed his eyes and looked me over. “The truth about Lucy is that I don’t know anything about Lucy. She was here one day and gone the next. It was a long time ago and nobody cares anymore, anyway.”

  “My mom does.”

  I hadn’t realized Ariel had followed us across the stage. Now I turned and saw that her shoulders were back and her head was high. “My mom,” she said, “and Lucy were best friends.”

  “That’s sweet. Really.” He ruffled her hair. Ariel did not appreciate this. She stepped closer to me. Monroe pulled in a long breath. “Look…girls…” He took us both in with a look I imagined he’d used on freshman English students once upon a time. He might be a friendly guy, it said, but he was definitely superior, and that meant he wasn’t about to put up with any crap. “There’s really nothing I can tell you about Lucy. I hardly knew her. She may have taken a class or two with me. Honestly, I don’t remember. It was a very long time ago. But other than that…” His shrug said it all.

  And I knew when to back off. Or at least to make it look like I was backing off. I grabbed his hand and pumped it. “I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to talk to me,” I said. “Having your perspective on things helps so much.”

  “That’s nice.” His smile was tight. “Good night.”

  “There’s just one more thing.”

  Since I had a death grip on his hand, it’s not like he was able to go anywhere, anyway. His smile firmly in place, that muscle jumping at the base of his jaw, he gave me one more minute. I knew it would be the last.

  “I hoped you could provide some insight into one little thing. It really would be a coup in terms of my thesis.”

  He’d had enough, but since I was standing between him and the only exit off the stage, the only way he could get around me was to knock me down. Call me crazy, but I think he actually considered it. Lucky for me, instead he said, “I don’t have much time. I have other engagements, other commitments.”

  “Of course. I understand.” I took a step closer. “I was just wondering…about ‘Girl at Dawn.’ All that repressed sexuality. All that yearning and aching and vibrating. That girl was Lucy, wasn’t it?”

  He jerked his hand out of mine. “You think I had something to do with Lucy’s disappearance? Think again. The police interviewed me after Lucy disappeared. Plenty of times. They never found a connection between us. Except for school, of course. If you did your research the way a graduate student is supposed to, you might have turned up the not-so-unimportant fact that there was someone else who was far more likely to have had something to do with Lucy vanishing.”

  He’d already turned to walk away when I grabbed his arm. “Who?”

  He shook me off. “Research, darling,” he purred. “Start with that friend of hers who died in Vietnam. From what I’ve heard, he walked right into a firefight, eyes wide open. Suicide by Nam, they called it. You know, like he was feeling really guilty about something.”

  10

  “That’s Lucy. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Over my left shoulder, I heard Ella expel a breath and watched as she touched a finger to the faded color photograph she’d brought to the office at my request. I recognized Lucy at once, of course, but I couldn’t let on. There she was in that cute little khaki mini, the pink top, the golden lipstick, and the waterfall hair. According to Ella, the photo was taken by her mom when the other kids came to pick Ella up for the concert. In it, Lucy was happy, smiling—and very much alive.

  “She was always smiling like that,” Ella said, her voice dreamy and faraway. “It wasn’t just the concert she was excited about. Lucy was excited about life. About all the things she still had in store for her.”

  “If she only knew,” I mumbled.

  Ella moved down the row of bright-faced teenagers, left to right. “And there’s Bobby. You asked about him.” Her voice dropped. “He was so young.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Though I knew Bobby Gideon was going into his senior year and must have been seventeen or eighteen when the photo was taken, he didn’t look a day over twelve, a grinning, goofy-looking kid with big ears.

  “It wasn’t more than eighteen months or so after this picture was taken,” Ella said. “You know, when we heard he was dead.”

  “Did you hear how?”

  “How he died?” She’d dragged my guest chair behind my desk and was sitting in it, and she sat back. “In Vietnam. In combat. That’s pretty much all anyone ever knew.”

  Not anyone. Not if Patrick Monroe was to be believed. He’d painted an incomplete but tantalizing picture of the incident. Suicide by Nam, he’d called it. Like Bobby was feeling guilty about something.

  For a while longer, I stared into the face of a kid who looked like the only thing he could possibly feel guilty about was filching treats from his mom’s cookie jar, then I moved on. “This has got to be Janice,” I said, pointing to a girl in a bright yellow sheath dress and a teased, beehive hairdo. Now that I knew about Lucy and Darren and suspected that Janice might have had something to do with their breakup, I took an especially close look at her. I remembered what Ella had said about seeing Darren and Janice talking at the concert, about how insistent Janice had seemed. Yeah, she looked the type. It was there in the way she stood, her head high and her shoulders back and her gaze aimed right at Mrs. Bender’s camera in an in-your-face sort of way that wouldn’t have been unusual for a teenaged girl these days, but back then, I imagined made quite the political statement.

  “Janice was a pretty girl, too, in her own way.” Ella slid the photo off my desk so she could take a closer look at it. “But she had a sort of harsh beauty, don’t you think? Lots of makeup. Lots of ratting her hair. That sort of thing. It wasn’t a natural prettiness like Lucy’s.” She set the picture back in front of me. “And there’s Darren.” When she pointed to a boy in madras shorts and an open-collared shirt, I gave him a careful once-over, too.

  “Lucy’s secret boyfriend,” I murmured.

  “Oh, no!” Ella was so sure of this, she boffed me on the arm for making fun. “Lucy and Darren? Don’t be ridiculous. If Lucy was dating Darren, I would have known about it.”

  “Not if it was a secret,” I reminded her.

  She pooh-poohed the very idea. “I’ve seen you think your way through mysteries, Pepper, so I know you can logically work through a problem. Not this time, though. Look at that shaggy mop of hair of his! And those sparkling blue eyes. Back in the day, he sent shivers down the spine of every girl at Shaker.”

  Personally, I thought he was cute, but geeky. The fact that every girl at Shaker thought he was a gift from the gods made me wonder about the standards of the sixties.

  “Besides,” Ella added while I was still lost in thought, “if Lucy was dating Darr
en, she never would have broken up with him. I mean, who in their right mind would?”

  And what detective in her right mind wouldn’t ask why they had.

  Then again, Lucy hadn’t exactly given me the chance, not with the sizzling electric light show of hers.

  I made the mental note and moved on.

  “Will Margolis, right?” The nondescript kid was shorter than Darren and standing in front of him. He wasn’t looking at the camera. His eyes were glued to the girl standing next to him, the one in the plaid skirt, Peter Pan collar shirt, and kneesocks.

  “He liked you,” I said.

  Ella clicked her tongue. “Will was friendly, and not just to me, to everyone.”

  “And you were as cute as a button!” I had to look at her when I said this, because I wasn’t going to take the chance of missing Ella blush. I was not disappointed. “Look at you in that adorable little skirt. I bet you had a matching sweater.”

  She slid the photo away. “The sweater was my mother’s idea. And I…” She checked out the photo and cringed. “I looked like a complete and total loser.”

  “An adorable complete and total loser,” I teased.

  Ella tried to pretend she minded, but she couldn’t control her smile.

  While she was still in a good mood, I pounced for more information. “Tell me about Will.”

  Her smile was gone in an instant. “I really didn’t know him well,” she admitted. “He was a quiet, sensitive kid—an artist. He usually had a sketchbook with him, and he liked to show me his drawings. He wasn’t as young as me, but he wasn’t as old as the other kids. I think he and Bobby were neighbors; that’s how he got to be part of the group.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  She shrugged and looked at her watch. “Ariel should be here soon.”

  Too off the subject not to be conspicuous.

  Since I’m far more subtle, I played it cool. “Did Lucy ever date Bobby?”

  Ella laughed. “Bobby? You’re kidding, right? I mean, I loved Bobby to death.” Another shot of color heated her cheeks. “Bad choice of words, considering what happened to him, but you know what I mean. He was a great guy, but he was out of Lucy’s league.”