by B K Stevens
“Answers.” I wound spaghetti around my fork. “With Jeopardy! you get answers, not questions.”
“Whatever. And he’d recorded bits of songs popular during their senior year for something called ‘Name That Tune,’ and—oh, it was so dumb. I’ve never been so bored.”
“Sounds bad,” I said. Sounds like Mr. Quinn, I thought. With him, everything has to be elaborate and figured out in advance and under control—preferably, his control.
“Then, right in the middle of a game,” Suzette said, “Ms. Quinn stood up and left the room for half an hour, without saying a word to anyone. I bet she went to the bar and had a drink, because she couldn’t stand being around him anymore. I don’t blame her. Can you imagine what it must be like to be married to Mr. Quinn?”
Fortunately, I couldn’t. “Did she seem drunk when she came back?”
“No, just fed up. My mom, though—she never left the room, but she drank way too much. She always does. She got too loud, so my dad snapped at her, and she started crying. It was so embarrassing.”
It did sound bad. “That’s rough,” I said.
“Yeah, it was. Plus I’m supposed to put posters for the stupid bake sale up around town, but I’ve got a mandatory dance team meeting, so what do I do about the posters?”
“I’ll put them up,” I offered.
“Really? You’re sweet!” Her eyes went moist. “I want to ask you something. Megan’s having a birthday party tomorrow. I don’t have my license yet, and Dad and Mom can’t drive me. But I’d really like to go to that party—I need to go, after the awful week I’ve had.”
She probably had girlfriends who could drive her, and I didn’t want to get into an every-weekend thing. But her hair was all lit up by light coming through the window. “I’ll take you, if you want.”
Instantly, her eyes got bright and big. “I’d love that! About eight o’clock? I’ll get the posters.”
When I got out of my last class, Graciana was waiting in the hall, holding her shoulders back stiffly. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said as we walked toward an exit. “How are you? Berk said Davis really worked you over.”
“I’m fine,” I said, and realized it was almost true. The pain in my side had faded, and I’d gotten used to the general soreness.
“Good. I called the hospital. Marie still can’t have visitors. I bet somebody doesn’t want her to have visitors.” She hesitated. “Matt, I apologize for what I said last night. The way you talk about your mother is none of my business.”
“I was only joking around,” I said.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Well. It’s none of my business.”
In other words, she still thought I’d been a jerk. I let that slide. We didn’t have to be best friends to work together, and I needed to run some things past her. “I had trouble sleeping last night, and I had a bunch of thoughts, mostly about Ted Ramsey. See what you think.”
The hall had pretty much emptied out by now, so I gave her a three-minute summary, keeping my voice low. At first, she looked skeptical. By the time I finished, she was nodding.
“That’s plausible,” she said. “Damn—I should’ve noticed the message implied Paul had already left. We should—no.” She caught herself. “We said we wouldn’t do anything more until the four of us talk. We should check with Berk and Joseph.”
“They won’t mind if we do things that can’t possibly be dangerous. I thought I’d go to the library and try to learn more about Nina’s death, and about Ted. I’m sure you’re better at research than I am. Want to help?”
She grimaced. “I’m babysitting my brother’s kids. Ms. Simon can help you. If you find out anything important, call me.”
Ms. Simon, our librarian, has been at the school since it opened, so she must be around fifty. She looks younger, maybe because she’s built on such a small scale—barely five feet, slim, chin-length hair, little wire-rimmed glasses perched on her head. Even her voice seems small, always hushed, like she was born to work in a library. Her high heels clicked against the floor as we walked to the computers. “What are you researching today, Matt?” she asked. “Working on a term paper?”
“No, I’m trying to find anything I can on Nina Ramsey’s death. Do I just Google her name?”
“You can start there.” She sat at a computer desk. “And other databases can lead you to information you won’t find through Google. Take a look.”
She spent almost fifteen minutes showing me how to access the databases. It was actually interesting. “Thanks,” I said. “I’d never even heard of those databases.”
“These are only a start. When you do research in college, you’ll use more specialized databases, including some our school doesn’t have access to.”
“There are more? That sounds hard.”
She smiled. “Things don’t get fun until they get hard. Would you enjoy basketball if the basket were three feet off the ground? And finding information isn’t the hardest part of research, or the most fun. The hardest part is interpreting what you find—seeing how things fit together, noticing when they don’t fit, figuring out why. I think you’ll enjoy that.”
I winced. “Maybe not. I’m mostly into sports. I’m not the academic type.”
“Don’t be too quick to decide what ‘type’ you are. You can be more than one type. Okay. That should get you started. If you get stuck, let me know.”
I didn’t get stuck. I found lots of information on Nina Ramsey, from her birth announcement to her name on a list of elementary school graduates to reports on her suicide. None of the reports had much solid information, just the same bland sentences from the police, all hedged with “apparently” this and “evidently” that. I’d hoped to find a statement about whether Nina had been drinking or taking drugs before she died, but none of the articles mentioned that.
When I switched to Ted Ramsey, I mostly found arrest reports, mostly for stuff like shoplifting and disorderly conduct. In the earliest ones, he was eighteen. There were two or three a year until he was twenty-two, and then nothing until this fall, when he had an assault arrest at age twenty-seven. I remembered Marie saying Ted used to pick on her “the first time he lived with us.” Had he lived with the family when he was younger, gone off on his own, and then come back? I’d look for a way to find out.
Ms. Simon came over to check on me. “How’s it going?” she asked, and looked at the computer screen. “Ted Ramsey—I didn’t realize you’d be looking for material on him, too.”
She didn’t ask why, and I decided not to try to explain. “Did you know him when he was a student here?”
She hesitated. “I didn’t know him well. He didn’t spend much time in the library.”
I could believe that. “Did he graduate? I couldn’t find his name on any graduation list.”
“No, I’m quite sure he dropped out.”
She didn’t seem eager to talk about him. Probably, teachers have rules about not talking to students about other students. But he wasn’t a student anymore. Maybe I could get her to open up if I gave her a reason. “I’ve run into him a few times. He seems like an angry guy. In fact, he gave me this.” I pointed to my eye. “Maybe I should stay away from him.”
She looked alarmed. “You should definitely stay away from him. You’re right—he’s an angry sort. At least, he was when he went here. That was Dr. Lombardo’s first year as principal, and he gave her quite a time. He was constantly getting sent to her office.”
“That must be rough on a brand-new principal,” I said, to keep her talking.
“I’m sure it was, though she handled the situation adroitly.” She half-smiled at some memory. “Several students that year were—colorful. One girl thought she was a pagan priestess and decided to put a curse on the school. She performed rituals in the girls’ room, ones that involved sacrifices, and when other girls found what she’d left behind, th
ey’d run out screaming. And there was a boy with an odd, the-South-will-rise-again name—Stonewall Jackson Smith, something like that—who was exceptionally talented in track and set two state records as a sophomore. He seemed quiet, even shy, but one day he nearly beat a boy to death. Another student—well. I shouldn’t go on and on. The point is, Dr. Lombardo had a challenging first year, but she took a firm stand on discipline. The school has been a saner, more orderly place ever since. Can I help you with anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m just going to check out a few more things.”
“Fine.” She hesitated. “Matt, I’m serious about staying away from Ted Ramsey. I shouldn’t go into detail, but associating with him would be a mistake.”
“I bet you’re right,” I said. “Thanks.”
She nodded and walked away, and I got back to work. After fifteen minutes that didn’t lead to anything new, I gave up and turned the computer off. Maybe I’d check some old yearbooks and see if I could learn more about Ted Ramsey. As I was stuffing my notebook into my book bag I felt a hand on my shoulder, turned around, and saw Mr. Quinn.
“Working on a term paper?” he said. “Good—I’m always glad to see you in the library. But I was sorry to hear you missed the chemistry review session after school yesterday.”
Damn—did Mr. Pavlakis give him daily reports? “I’m sorry, too. It slipped my mind.” I almost said I’d gone to see someone in the hospital. It’s a good excuse, but he’d want to know who I went to see, and then he’d ask questions about Marie. It could go on forever. It’s always dangerous to give Mr. Quinn information. There’s no telling where he’ll run with it.
He frowned. “You can’t let academic obligations ‘slip your mind.’ Do you make a daily schedule?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll—”
“Come to my office. I’ve got a packet you can use.”
“Thanks, but I should get home. I—”
“Matt.” His shoulders stiffened, and all the muscles in his face got tight. “This won’t take long. And I’ve heard enough excuses for one day.”
“Yes, sir.” Actually, I didn’t think I’d given him any excuses, but it’s a mistake to argue with Mr. Quinn when his face gets like that. Most of the time, he’s pretty easy-going, but if he thinks you’re defying him, watch out. I followed him without another word and waited in his inner office while he rummaged through files in the reception area. Bored, I strolled over to take a closer look at a framed photograph on the wall behind his desk.
“Here we go,” he said, walking into the office, a thick folder in his hands.
I pointed to the photograph. “Great picture. Is that Mr. Link standing next to you?”
His face brightened. “That’s right. That was taken at regionals, right after our final win.”
“I can see that,” I said, looking at the trophy a young Mr. Quinn was holding over his head, at the triumphant smile that seemed to take up his entire face. “Coach Tomlinson lectures us all the time about how you guys won regionals the first year the school was open, about how we have to work harder if we want to come anywhere close to that.”
“And I’m sure he’s right.” Mr. Quinn’s face flushed with pleasure as he gazed at the photograph. “Hard work, Matt—that’s what leads to victories you cherish for a lifetime.”
I nodded. “I don’t think I’ve seen this picture before. You used to have something else hanging here, right?”
He flushed again. “That’s right. After all my years here, I have lots of Ridgecrest High memorabilia. I like to circulate things, so I can enjoy them all. Now, these packets—”
“Your Outstanding Senior award,” I cut in. “Didn’t you have it in that spot?”
“For a while. Then I decided to put the picture there.” He sounded impatient now. “You said you needed to get home, Matt. I’d like to get home, too. Let’s focus on the task at hand. I designed this packet myself. Let me show you how it works.”
It took him half an hour. He showed me how to list weekly goals and daily objectives, how to fill out the schedule by assigning a task to each hour, how to use codes to link objectives to goals and tasks to objectives. There were spaces for writing summary paragraphs every evening, too, and a page for charting weekly progress every Saturday.
He sat back. “My secretary’s making you enough copies to last the rest of the academic year, one for each week. Now, be sure to schedule time for fun, too. It keeps life balanced.” He leaned forward over the desk, smiling, and lowered his voice. “So you and Suzette went out last Saturday. She’s a lovely girl, and of course she’s from a wonderful family. Are you seeing her again this weekend?”
I didn’t know how to avoid answering. “I’m driving her to a party tomorrow night.”
He chuckled. “‘Driving her to a party’—I’ve heard lots of euphemisms for dating, but that’s one of the best. Don’t feel embarrassed about being attracted to Suzette. The right girl can help you settle down and find your place at the school. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s popular. That way, you can count on support from her friends as you build your list of accomplishments for college applications. Have you thought about running for student council?”
“Not really,” I said, and felt relieved when someone knocked sharply, then opened the door without waiting.
Dr. Lombardo lifted an eyebrow. “Oh. Matt. I’m surprised to see you here. Is there a problem I should know about?”
“No problem.” I gestured toward the papers. “Mr. Quinn’s showing me how to keep a daily schedule.”
She looked through the papers, as if she didn’t believe me. “Fine. Are you almost finished? I need to talk to Mr. Quinn.”
“We’re all finished.” He shoved the papers into a folder. “Here. Remember to get the copies from my secretary. And stop by on Monday to show me next week’s schedule.”
Damn. Now I’d actually have to fill the stupid thing out. As I left, Dr. Lombardo closed the door behind me.
In the reception area, the secretary nodded toward Mr. Quinn’s door as she handed me the copies. “Another closed-door meeting with Dr. Lombardo! That makes four today. No wonder. Big changes coming, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. What changes?”
She looked alarmed. “I’d assumed word had gotten out. If it hasn’t, I’d better not say any more. I wouldn’t want to get Dr. Lombardo mad at me.” She winked. “Or Mr. Quinn, right?”
I had no idea what she meant. In the hallway, I checked a clock on the wall. Four-thirty—I still had time to look at a yearbook or two. I was curious about what Ted Ramsey looked like as a teenager.
Ms. Simon pointed me to the archive shelves, and I found the yearbook from ten years ago. Ted Ramsey would have been a junior then, I figured. I found the pages of junior pictures, and there he was, looking bored and surly, just as I’d expected. Most students had lists of activities next to their pictures—soccer, chorus, French club. The space next to his picture was blank. So he put in his time at school and didn’t participate in anything except making trouble, waiting until he got old enough to drop out. We’ve got some kids like that at Ridgecrest now, and the best thing you can do is to stay away from them.
I started to put the yearbook back on the shelf when I remembered what Ms. Simon had said about the other boy who got into big trouble that year, the track star with what she called a “the-South-will-rise-again type name.” I wondered what the name was—Robert E. Lee Rossini? Jeb Stuart Osaka? Curious, I flipped to the picture of the track team. Not a big team—maybe a dozen guys—and I didn’t see any flagrantly Confederate names. Probably, that meant I hadn’t paid enough attention the last time we had a Civil War unit, and I was forgetting some general.
I took a minute to look at the pictures of the guys standing and kneeling in their black shorts and sleeveless yellow jerseys. My eyes were drawn to a short, skinny guy kn
eeling in the front row. Something about him looked familiar, though I couldn’t have told you what. I matched the picture with a name. Jeff Roberts. Nothing Confederate-sounding about that.
Somehow, I couldn’t let it go and turned to the sophomore class pages. These were group pictures of homerooms, so the faces were really small. I found the P-R homeroom, and there was Jeff Roberts, again in the first row because he was short. So his full name was Jefferson Davis Roberts—this must be the guy Ms. Simon had been talking about. I squinted at the picture. Just an ordinary-looking guy, with curly, sandy-colored hair. The way he was holding himself, though, and the way his mouth was twisted in a half-smile, half-smirk—why did he look so familiar?
Jefferson Davis Roberts.
Davis Roberts.
Roberts, Davis.
Bobby Davis. I’d found him.
Twenty-six
“Bobby Davis went to Ridgecrest High,” I told Graciana. I’d called her as soon as dinner was over. “It’s a small picture, and it’s ten years old, but I’m almost positive. His real name’s Jefferson Davis Roberts—he called himself Jeff. He didn’t graduate, but he went there for his freshman and sophomore years, maybe part of his junior year. The point is, he was there when Ted Ramsey was. They could’ve met each other.”
“And how did he turn into Bobby Davis from Richmond? Why did he?”
“I’ve got a theory about that,” I said, and filled her in.
“It’s possible,” she said, sounding skeptical. “I’ll go to the public library tonight and see if I can find more information. Want to meet me there?”
“I can’t—I have to distribute bake sale posters. But I thought of something else. Didn’t Mrs. Dolby say one of her kids went to Ridgecrest High during Dr. Lombardo’s first year? Maybe she knows something about Jefferson Davis Roberts.”