The Burgenton Files

by C. Ruth Daly

  I could hear LBJ run to the phone. She must be bored being stuck on their farm with her grandpa.

  “Hi, this is Lori Bell.”

  “LBJ. It’s me, Donna. I have some news for you on the Hollis case.”

  “Oh, Donna. I have news for you!” LBJ’s voice was full of excitement. “Mom has hired a bunch of boys to work on the farm this summer and they’re all walking around with their shirts off!”

  I rolled my eyes. “LBJ. This is important. Can you make it into town tonight or tomorrow? We need to go and check something out at the library.”

  “McNally! Why do I want to go to the library when I can stay here? Maybe you can come out here, do ya think?”

  “Okay, LBJ. I’ll call you back and let you know what Glynda and I find out.”

  I was disgusted with her. Here we had a great lead and she was letting her hormones make decisions for her. I hung up the phone and dialed Glynda’s number. There was no answer and I let the phone ring ten times. Maybe she was at her grandma’s house. “Mom! I’m running over to Glynda’s house. I’ll be right back!” I yelled to cover myself just in case Mom wasn’t around; I could later tell her I told her I was leaving.

  Jogging to Glynda’s, I passed Mr. Robert’s house to see Mrs. Roberts swinging the baby in the little swing on the tree. I waved and ran faster past the armory to Glynda’s house. Three knocks on the door and no answer. Then I heard screams from the backyard. I ran to the back and opened up the wooden gate. There stood Rodney with a pellet gun in his hands and his one good eye peering over the barrel at Glynda. Poor Glynda was backed up against the garage with the bottom of a clothes basket shielding her face and chest. The freshly washed clothes she was suppose to hang on the line were strewn across the barren lawn.

  I leapt behind Rodney and grabbed the gun from him. “It’s okay Glynda. It’s safe. You can put your clothes basket down.”

  Glynda dropped the clothes basket to the ground, let loose a deep-throated, exasperated scream, and charged after Rodney. The two ran circles in the yard like a hound after a rabbit. Rodney finally eluded Glynda by shinnying up the mulberry tree, and perched on a branch where he armed himself with the not ripened berries. He began pelting them at Glynda and me, yelling, “Go way dumb girw! You stink!”

  Glynda took the pellet gun from me and said, “Forget it, Rodney. I’m not playing games no more. I’m telling Mom when she gets home!” Then she turned to me. “Come on, Donna, let’s go inside.”

  The inside of the house was a wreck and so was Glynda. She plopped down on the couch and set the clothes basket on the coffee table in front of her. I waited until Glynda had calmed down and the redness in her cheeks had subsided before I spoke.

  “Can I get you some iced tea, Glynda?” I really did feel sorry for her. The living room had toys, clothes and dirty dishes lying about. The kitchen wasn’t any better and I had to step over a sticky pool of spilled grape juice in order to get to the refrigerator for the iced tea.

  “Glynda, do you think you would be able to go to the library with me today? See, I was talking to Mrs. Randall this morning while I was weeding her garden and she told me some stories like she always does, but this time she talked about Thelma Carson.”

  “Why’d she talk about Thelma Carson?” Glynda asked between gulps of the iced tea.

  “Uh ... because I asked her to. I told her I wanted to know about her and she told me what Thelma was like in high school and when she was littler.” I paused and watched as Glynda slammed down the ice tea then poured another. “You know Thelma Carson lived in Indianapolis around the same time Ned Hollis was born?” I waited for the “Ah ha!” to come from Glynda’s lips.

  “So she was in Indianapolis when he was born. Well, they’re relatives ain’t they?” Glynda finished her second glass and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she made the connection. “That’s right! Ned Hollis is adopted ... so Thelma Carson is his adopted cousin. What are you getting at, Donna?”

  “Glynda, Mrs. Randall said Thelma had a boyfriend, but the family moved back to Ohio because the boy was killed in the war. Remember? Ned Hollis’s real mother was a teenage girl who had given her heart to a soldier. Remember? That’s how the story went, didn’t it?” I could hardly contain the excitement in my voice.

  “Donna ...oh gross! Could Thelma Carson be Ned Hollis’s mom?” Glynda was shocked, but also beginning to be thrilled by this turn in the story.

  “Yeah, Glynda, she could be his mom. Can you go to the library with me to look at the old yearbooks on the shelves and see if we can find a Ned Hollis look-a-like?”

  Glynda looked around the room and turned her head to the backyard where Rodney was still perched in the mulberry tree. “Donna, I can’t right now. Look at this place. I have to clean it up before Mom comes home and I still have Rodney to watch. The library is the last place I want to take Rodney.” Glynda lowered her head in defeat.

  “I can help you clean it up, Glynda. Maybe Irish can watch Rodney. You know, she needs to practice for when the baby’s born and watching Rodney would give her lots of practice.” I looked at Glynda and smiled. “Please, Glynda? I would hate to go to the library myself and figure out this part on my own. I called LBJ and she is boy crazy again and didn’t want to leave the farm. Her mom’s hired a bunch of boys to work this summer. And LBJ says they’re all running around with their shirts off ... so there’s no way she’ll come.”

  Glynda thought about it a moment. “You really think Irish will watch that rotten kid I call a brother?” She shook her head. “Well ... if you can help me clean and even if we have to take Rodney, I still want to go.”

  I extended my arm to Glynda and pulled her off the couch. “Come on. Let’s get busy.”

  It did take us about an hour to clean the downstairs and make it look halfway presentable. Gathering all of the dirty dishes and scrubbing off the dried ketchup was the worst part. I decided then for sure that Glynda’s brothers were nothing but pigs.

  “Where are your older brothers, Glynda?” I wanted to know how they got out of household work.

  “Oh, Damian has a part-time job at the greenhouse and Alan is mowing grass for the city.” Glynda sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Now I’m stuck here cleaning up after them and watching Rodney while they get paid to work and I get squat!”

  “Sorry, Glynda. Are you ready to go?”

  Glynda straightened up and with her hands on her hips belted, “Rodney! Let’s go now! Get your butt in here right now!” Glynda was ready to go.

  We first walked to my house where we found Irish in the backyard sunbathing on the picnic table. Irish really didn’t know Rodney, which was a good thing since her only experience with him was the night we had the wild chase. He didn’t seem too dangerous then. I planned to ask innocently and then Glynda would tell her Rodney was ready for a nap. Of course, both Glynda and I knew Rodney had never taken a nap in his life.

  “How are you feeling, Irish?” I asked with great sincerity.

  “I’m better now, Donna.” Irish opened her eyes. “Hi Glynda. Hi Glynda’s little brother.”

  “Irish? Could you watch Rodney real quick while Glynda and I go to the library?” We both gave her a big smile. By then, Rodney had left Glynda’s side and had begun chasing a squirrel up the big oak in our backyard. Glynda and I glanced at each other, hoping Irish hadn’t noticed.

  Irish turned to watch Rodney a moment and then gave me the look. “NO.”

  “Please, Irish? What if you have a baby like Rodney?” I was at the point of getting on my knees and begging.

  “I will never have a baby like Rodney. And if I do, then I will have myself committed.” Irish laid back down and shut her eyes. “Bye, Donna. Bye, Glynda.”

  “Come on, Rodney!” Glynda yelled with disgust. “We’re going to the library.”

  And the three of us walked the four blocks to the library where Rodney ran up the cement steps and immediately leapt toward one of the stone pillars supporting the bric
k overhang to the library’s entrance. Before we knew it, he had got himself stuck between the corner of the building and the pillar. It took Glynda and me ten minutes to free him while I climbed the pillar, dislodged his foot and lowered the flailing Rodney to Glynda, who gave him a hard whack on the head. “Rodney! I’m going to kill you!”

  It was all Glynda could ever say to Rodney. But I feared it would be the other way around. Rodney would kill Glynda before she had a chance to kill him.

  We were finally in the library which was nice and cool with air conditioning, and got some books from the children’s section. Rodney actually looked at them for five minutes while Glynda and I got the yearbooks from 1943-1945. It was hard to believe they went back that far. We finally found the right yearbook between smacks at Rodney to keep him quiet and shushes from the librarian. There it was The Burgentonian, 1944. Glynda spotted Thelma Carson’s senior picture, then the two of us flipped through the yearbook three times, looking at the seniors’ pictures, and then the juniors, sophomores and freshman. There wasn’t one boy with a name beginning with “Mc” that remotely resembled Ned Hollis. On the fourth go around I finally noticed a face in the football teams’ picture. The face looked familiar—hauntingly familiar. It was Ned Hollis’s face— a slightly older Ned Hollis. But the face wasn’t attached to the body of a young athletic student. The face belonged to the football coach Ernest Moore. I gave Glynda a nudge and pointed to my discovery. Glynda looked long and hard at the face in the picture.

  “This is weird, Donna. It’s him!” Then Glynda and I stared at each other and we both uttered the same name: “Moore!”

  TWENTY

  The annual Fourth of July festivities were scheduled for Wednesday. LBJ’s hormones had returned to a stable level and she had once again returned to our fold. The three of us gathered at Rita Brennan’s old apartment for another sleepover. Burgenton had the usual program planned for the Fourth beginning with a pancake breakfast and parade in the morning. Historical plays depicting the settlement of Burgenton would be held at City Park in the afternoon, and the day would end with fireworks at dusk. The only slight difference this year was the mayoral political speeches which were scheduled at City Park after the plays. Everyone in town knew the two political candidates running for mayor. One was Ned Hollis, of course, and the other was Gil Rolf’s older brother, who declared his candidacy after much coaxing from Gil.

  The incumbent mayor, after declaring his candidacy for reelection, backed out at the end of June when he suddenly declared it was time for him to retire and move to a warmer climate like Florida. Many people were shocked, and a replacement candidate was quickly sought. That’s when Gil’s older brother, Robert, became the man to oppose Ned Hollis.

  “Are we going to go to everything tomorrow?” Glynda asked while she stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

  “What do you want to do, LBJ?” I was busy studying the photocopied picture Glynda and I had taken at the library that afternoon in June. “Doesn’t the coach look like Ned Hollis?”

  “Donna! Stop talking about the coach looking like Ned Hollis.” Glynda was frustrated with me again because she thought I spent too much time obsessing on the whole Ned Hollis thing.

  LBJ picked up the picture and pulled it close to her face. “He does look like him for sure. Do you think he’s related to Officer Moore?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Randall couldn’t tell me much about him. She said the coach wasn’t from around here, but lived in Burgenton for about ten years and coached the football team during that whole time. Hey, Glynda, do you think your grandma would know anything about him?” I looked at Glynda. “Can we go down and ask her now? It’s only seven o’clock. She’s not in bed yet.”

  “Okay. Only if this will get you off of Ned Hollis. I want to have a fun day tomorrow and nothin is going to spoil it. And that means we’re not talking about or doing anything that has to do with Ned Hollis.” Glynda threw her legs over the side of the bed and the three of us headed down to see Mrs. Becker.

  “Grandma!” Glynda yelled to announce our entrance.

  As usual, Glynda’s grandma was in the kitchen, but tonight she was sitting at the table and sipping a cup of tea.

  “Grandma. We want to know if you think this picture looks like Ned Hollis.”

  Glynda handed the photocopy to Mrs. Becker and pointed to Coach Moore.

  Grandma Becker studied it carefully. “Why he sure does look like Mr. Hollis. Did you get this from a yearbook?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Becker. Glynda, me, and Rodney went to the library last month and we were looking at the old yearbooks—you know, just for fun. And we came across this picture.” I looked at Glynda in triumph. Glynda looked a little excited, too. Someone besides the three of us thought the picture looked like Hollis.

  Grandma Becker looked at us quizzically. “Now how did you get Rodney into the library? Why I’ve tried to take him before and we were kindly asked to leave. That child is one rowdy boy. I wish I could help out your mother more with him, but I only had girls to raise. Thank God for that!” And she returned her attention to the picture. “Why that man’s name is Moore. Hmmm ... isn’t that strange.”

  The three of us looked at each other. Grandma Becker had recognized the name Moore. “Why is it strange, Mrs. Becker?” I wanted to see if she could fill in some empty cracks in the Hollis saga.

  “I just remember this man was divorced and had a son and daughter who lived in Terre Haute with their mother. They’d come up and see him once in a while. The boy, well he was a man in his early twenties by that time, ended up marrying Celeste Peterson, then he up and left her. Celeste was the mother of Terry Moore, but she died in a car wreck not long after Terry, or Officer Moore, was born. His grandma Peterson ended up raising him. Of course Geneva, she was Geneva Peterson, you see, she passed away about seven years ago. Not long after Terry finished high school.” Grandma Becker studied the picture. “So this man would be Terry Moore’s grandpa. Huh ... funny thing. He sure takes a liking to Ned Hollis.”

  Grandma Becker handed the photo to LBJ. She looked at us thoughtfully. “What made you girls want to look at high school yearbooks from so long ago?”

  “We were just bored one afternoon, Grandma. That’s all. So Donna and me went to the library.” Glynda shrugged her shoulders.

  “If you were watching Rodney I don’t know how you could be bored!” Grandma Becker snorted and slapped her knee. “Do you ladies have time for a cup of tea and some molasses cookies?” She pushed the plate of cookies toward us and eased herself up from the table to make us some tea.

  We were pretty wired after we had devoured the plate of chewy cookies and each of us had sucked down two cups of orange pekoe tea.

  Quick to engage Mrs. Becker in conversation, I began. “Mrs. Becker. What do you know about Thelma Carson? She’s our bus driver.” I added. “She’s a cousin or aunt or something to Ned Hollis, right?”

  Mrs. Becker gave me a look of consternation. “Why are you bothering yourselves with Thelma Carson?” She paused and sipped her tea. “Thelma is a cousin to Ned Hollis. She grew up in Burgenton. That’s about all I can tell you. Why?”

  “Did she ever have boyfriends in high school?” LBJ wanted to know.

  “Yeah, Grandma. Thelma never got married, did she?” Glynda sat back down by her grandma while LBJ and I stood in anticipation of a Burgenton tale.

  Mrs. Becker stared thoughtfully at the wall in front of her. “No. Thelma never married. I don’t know a lot about her social life in high school. She was always a bigger girl and looked older for her age. She kept to her mother a lot. I guess she was kind of a homebody.”

  “Didn’t she live in Indianapolis for awhile?” I pulled a chair from the table and sat beside Glynda. LBJ joined me to my left. The three of us sat at the round table and listened to what Grandma Becker could tell us about Thelma Carson. The story was like the one Mrs. Randall had told, but there was one piece Mrs. Becker gave which Mrs. Randall didn’t. It
was rumored Coach Moore was fired from Burgenton High for inappropriate conduct—presumably relations with another faculty member. No one really knew with whom the coach had relations, Mrs. Becker reported. LBJ, Glynda and I all looked at each other. Grandma Becker gave us a knowing look too. Like the three of us, Grandma Becker was putting pieces in place.

  “Oh nonsense! Such crazy ideas go through my head!” Mrs. Becker shook her head and laughed. “I think I’m getting sly-minded like you girls. I’m too old to be thinkin crazy thoughts.”

  “What do you mean, Grandma?” Glynda tried to look innocent. “What kind of crazy thoughts?”

  Grandma Becker reached over and placed her hand on Glynda’s. “I’m too old to change things and it’s been too long for me to try to make sense of things from thirty some years ago. I think it’s time for you girls to head back upstairs and for me to go to bed. Tomorrow’s a big day for all of us. Now I don’t want you girls getting crazy thoughts about Mr. Hollis. Just stay clear of that man.”