by Sue Grafton
“Where’s Butch?” she asked.
“In the backyard, probably snoozing. I didn’t want to leave him cooped up inside while I was gone.”
Sloan crossed the foyer to the living room with Poppy on her heels. The room was cool and orderly, done in neutral tones. Sloan took a seat in her mother’s rocking chair and Poppy settled on the couch. The two had barely spoken for months and she was praying Poppy wouldn’t quiz her about the tape. As far as she knew, very few people had seen it, but word was out and there was already sly speculation about the contents. “You want a Coke?”
“No, thanks. I can’t stay. I just wanted to say hi. Are you doing camp again?”
“Starting week after next. What about you? Are you working?”
“Maybe part time at McDonald’s. I’m still waiting to hear.”
Sloan removed the clip from her hair and gathered up a few damp strays before securing it again. “I should finish drying my hair before it frizzes up on me.”
“I need to ask you something,” Poppy said. Her pale cheeks were tinted with pink. Sloan was already feeling cornered and she dreaded what was coming next. “I heard Kenny Ballard and some guys smirking about a video the guys made. Someone said you had a copy.”
Sloan blurted out the first thing that occurred to her. “I haven’t seen it. I don’t even know how I ended up with it.” Her tone was casual, but the statement sounded so lame, she expected Poppy to call her on it.
“Really? You haven’t seen any of it?”
“I caught maybe fifteen seconds. Fritz is smoking a joint and acting like a nerd. It seemed stupid, so I shut it off.”
“Maybe after the party, can I come over and watch with you? We could leave closer to three, which would give us plenty of time.”
Sloan couldn’t believe Poppy would push the point. She’d never seen her so anxious or insecure. Sloan was the self-conscious one, but now their places were reversed. She didn’t like lying, but what choice did she have? It would serve no purpose if she told Poppy the truth. Sloan responded in what she hoped was an offhand manner, though she couldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s not here. Someone else has it and I probably won’t get it back for a couple of days.”
“Someone else? Like it’s already in circulation?”
“No, no. I left it somewhere by mistake, which is why I haven’t had a chance to watch the rest of it. The guys are just goofing off. It’s supposed to be a parody.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I don’t know for sure. That’s just what I heard.”
Poppy frowned. “Someone told me Troy’s getting it on with Iris.”
“Really? Well, that’s weird. Who told you that?”
“I don’t know. Someone mentioned it in passing. I was, like, totally freaking out, but when I asked Troy, he acted like it was no big deal. I don’t know who to believe.”
“You know what? I don’t like all this gossipy stuff. It’s not a good idea. That’s how rumors get started and look what happened to me.”
“It isn’t gossip, Sloan. I’m asking for information.”
“Why don’t you ask Iris? She’s the one you should be talking to.”
“I did, but she says she was drunk and doesn’t remember.”
“Why worry about it? You know Troy isn’t interested in her. The tape’s just some dumb thing they did. Like a prank or a joke.”
“But why would someone claim he was screwing her if he wasn’t? I heard Fritz was in on it, too, which is really pathetic if you ask me.”
“I agree, but just because people say something doesn’t make it true. Anyway, why come to me? I’m in the same boat you’re in.”
“I don’t know who else to ask.” Poppy’s gaze was intense and pleading. “When you get the tape back, will you let me know? I can come over anytime.”
“Poppy, just drop it, okay? You know how those guys are.”
“You think if I asked Bayard, he’d tell me? He was the cameraman, wasn’t he?”
“Well, yeah, but still . . .”
“I’ll feel like such a fool if I walk into this party with everybody knowing something I don’t. Like I’m the butt of the joke. Swear you’re telling me the truth?”
“Promise,” Sloan said. She glanced at her watch.
Poppy took the hint and stood up, saying, “I better let you go. Thanks for clearing the air. Let me know when you get the tape back.”
She leaned over impulsively and gave Sloan one of those awkward hugs where one party is seated and the other bending down to the embrace. Sloan patted her back, feeling acutely uncomfortable. She pulled herself out of the rocker and walked Poppy through the foyer to the front door. She made a show of waving as Poppy slid into her car and took off. When she finally closed the door, she leaned on it briefly, feeling thoroughly undone.
Troy pulled into the driveway at one o’clock and gave a brief toot on his horn. She flipped the thumb lock on the front door and pulled it shut behind her, her gym bag in hand. When she reached the truck, Troy leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. She hopped in and slammed the door.
Sloan said, “You’ll never believe what just happened. Poppy showed up and she’s grilling me about the tape. I didn’t know what to tell her.”
“Shit.” Troy groaned and pretended to bang his head on the steering wheel. “She’s been on my case for days and what am I supposed to say? I can’t remember the half of it except it wasn’t good.” He indicated the gym bag. “You have the tape?”
“Not with me. I’m not an idiot. What if Austin grabbed it and went right back to treating me like shit? Let’s see if he keeps his word.”
“I wouldn’t worry if I were you. It’s summer. You can’t shun someone you’re not going to see for three months. Everybody’s bored with it anyway.”
“Good to know,” she said. “Not that it’s a comfort at this late date.”
Troy put the truck in gear and took off. As he drove through the front gates of the Ravine, he said, “You’ve got balls threatening Austin. He’s a crazy son of a bitch.”
“How else could I get him off my back? It’s the only leverage I had.”
“He must have loved that.”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it? What I don’t get is why you guys made it in the first place. Talk about gross!”
“It wasn’t meant to be serious. We were just horsing around.”
“It doesn’t look like ‘horsing around.’ You and Fritz are buck naked and Iris is stoned or drunk. It looks like full-on sexual assault.”
“Austin said it was supposed to be a spoof. I couldn’t see the harm.” When he reached upper State Street, he slowed for a light.
She looked at him in disbelief. “Honestly? You screw the poor girl when she’s completely out of it and you can’t see the harm?”
The light turned green and he proceeded through the intersection, heading for the 154. “I guess it got out of hand. Anyway, she wasn’t that far out of it.”
“Yeah, right. I could tell.”
“It’s true. What you saw was edited, all the bloopers taken out. We were cracking up the whole time, laughing our asses off. None of us could keep it together. Like in one take, Fritz dropped the joint in his lap and about set fire to his pubic hair. Then Iris fell on her ass trying to do a striptease. I was laughing so hard I had beer spewing out my nose. We thought it was hilarious.”
“Oh sure. Hardy-har-har. What happened to the cuts? Because none of that shows up in the copy I have.”
“Bayard worked on edits. He must have taken out the hokey stuff.”
“Oh, come on. That’s bullshit. What I saw was horrible. Troy, if the cops get hold of that tape, you and Fritz will end up in jail. Austin doesn’t come off that well, either. He’s sitting by idly in a coat and tie, lording it over you, like he’s too good to participate. But then you hear him
refer to himself as an ‘auteur.’”
“Jesus. Why don’t you do us all a favor and destroy the damn thing?”
“Good plan. I will. Better for everyone, including me.”
“Just don’t tell Poppy.”
“What if someone else spills the beans?”
“Then I’m fucked.”
“Could I say something on another subject? You know I had nothing to do with that anonymous note, don’t you? I’d never do such a thing to you.”
“Of course not. I never believed Austin’s claim. I forget now how he ended up pointing a finger at you, but once the idea was out there everyone seemed to fall in line. Not that it matters now, but it did take me out of the running for the Climping Memorial Award.”
Sloan said, “Oh, me too if the faculty suspects I’m guilty. I might be innocent as all get-out, but I’ve been tainted by the accusation. Everybody hates a snitch. Faculty opinion is bound to be affected, proof or no proof.”
The minute the words came out of her mouth, Sloan felt a tiny exclamation point light up in her brain. It hadn’t occurred to her to explore the issue of why the anonymous note was sent to the school in the first place. She’d been so caught up in defending herself that she hadn’t considered the motive or what was at stake. It suddenly dawned on her that Austin was the obvious beneficiary. Five juniors had been nominated for the Albert Climping Memorial Award, Austin among them. Patti Gibson and Betsy Coe weren’t strong contenders. Sloan could hold her own, but Troy was the impressive candidate in light of his community service. He did school-based mentoring of underprivileged boys. He volunteered time at the homeless shelter and he assisted in a program to provide holiday meals to families in need. In exposing Troy and then pointing an accusing finger at her, Austin had effectively knocked both of them out of the running.
She was tempted to run the idea by Troy to see what he thought of it, but decided to keep the notion to herself, in part because she wasn’t sure there was a way to confirm her hunch. The charge was serious and she needed to consider the implications. She wasn’t sure what action she might take even if she was right, but it made sense to explore the notion before she did anything else.
She stared at the road ahead and something heavy settled in her chest.
21
Friday, September 22, 1989
On my way through town after I left Margaret Seay, I stopped off at a bookstore, thinking a book was the perfect gift for Rosie, whose birthday celebration was coming up that night. A book has no unwanted calories and you don’t have to worry about sizes as long as the subject matter appeals to the recipient. Rosie’s life was about cooking. Also, bossing people around, but I didn’t think a book on bullies would be appropriate. I spotted a cookbook devoted to Hungarian cuisine and a quick riffling through the pages revealed recipes every bit as repulsive as the dishes she favored. I pulled out my credit card and gladly paid two dollars extra for the gift wrapping.
After that, I drove to the office, where I let myself in, locked the door, and armed the periphery. As was so often the case, my sense of progress was ever so faintly undermined by murmurings of another sort. At some point during the past couple of days, something had come into my consciousness that I hadn’t properly registered. I couldn’t for the life of me recall where I was at the time. I remembered a dim sensation of recognition, but my attention had been fixed elsewhere and I hadn’t grasped the significance. I knew the revelation wasn’t connected to Margaret Seay or to Sloan. An echo had reverberated in my brain without my catching the implications. I sat down at my desk, swiveling in my swivel chair, which made wonderful squeaking sounds. I closed my eyes, hoping to quiet the chatter in my head. It’s difficult to tune into that sixth sense with all that babbling that goes on.
What had I heard that I hadn’t taken in at the time?
In moments of doubt, my strategy is to go back and review my notes, which is what I did now. Information is odd. Facts can look different according to how you line them up. Sometimes I shuffle my index cards and then place them in a random sequence, unrelated to the order in which I’ve collected them. Sometimes I lay them out like a hand of solitaire or pretend I’m telling my own fortune with a Tarot deck. This time, I reorganized the cards according to subject matter, making one pile for the notes I’d taken about the tape, another pile for my notes about the cheating scandal, and a third pile about the shooting.
I picked up the stack of cards that pertained to the tape, which was the crux of my investigation. Then I sorted them according to the principal players: Iris Lehmann, Fritz McCabe, Troy Rademaker, and Bayard Montgomery. I turned them over one by one, letting my eyes drift down through the material I’d recorded in my self-generated shorthand after each of the conversations.
I sat up, embarrassed by my belated appreciation of what should have been obvious at the time. In describing the motivation for the tape, they’d all used the same words and phrases. It was a lark. We were laughing our asses off. Who the hell uses the word “lark” unless the discussion is about birds? I didn’t think any of the four realized they were echoing each other’s comments or they’d have paid greater heed to their accounts.
I checked my watch, wondering where the day had gone. It was close to five and I’d hoped to grab a bite to eat, shower, and change clothes before the birthday party. I gathered up my cards and rubber-banded them together. I grabbed my shoulder bag and shoved the cards into the depths while I searched for my keys. I went through the ritual of arming the system and locking the door, and then I headed for my car, thinking what a pain in the ass my security measures had become.
I could have initiated the upcoming conversation with any of the four, but Troy had been the most amenable. Besides which, he and Kerry were not far away, a stone’s throw from Sea Shore Park, which sits on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The proximity to the ocean should have made the location desirable, but the houses were built in the 1950s and mirrored one another with a depressing similarity. Exteriors were stucco, painted Easter egg colors that had long since grown dingy. The roofs were shake and the trim was plain, peeling paint in most cases. Aluminum window and sliding glass door frames were pitted by the salt-laden sea air, which also wreaked havoc on the condenser coils in ancient air-conditioning units I could hear from two doors away. The front yards were small and flat. In most cases, the drought had left them bald, with sparse tufts of grass here and there.
It crossed my mind that Camilla and Jonah lived in the same area, but I let that slide.
I parked my car and as I approached the Rademakers’ front door, I picked up the cooking scents of half a dozen dinners wafting from nearby houses. I stood on the porch and knocked. There was a brief wait and then Troy answered the door. He’d showered and changed from his navy work coveralls into a T-shirt and shorts. He was barefoot.
His look was blank, not exactly welcoming. “Oh. You.”
“Sorry. I know it’s not an ideal time to stop by, but I have a question that will only take a minute.”
He stepped out on the porch and pulled the door shut behind him. “What’s this about?”
“The tape.”
He said, “Shit.”
Bored or annoyed, I couldn’t tell which.
“Mind if we sit?”
He didn’t seem happy about it, but he gestured to two white molded plastic chairs of the sort I’d seen sold in drugstores.
Once settled, I reached into my bag and pulled out my cards. “I’ve been going over my notes and came up with something that struck me as odd.”
“You couldn’t have called to tell me about this—whatever the fuck it is?”
“I thought talking face-to-face was a better idea,” I said, inwardly wincing at his use of the F-word. Ordinarily, I don’t object to it, but this was jarring, given his former friendliness. I couldn’t understand what had changed. This was not the same Troy I’d spoken with two d
ays before. That guy seemed open, honest, and decent. Obviously, I was treading on dangerous ground, but now that I was here, I didn’t have much choice but to plunge ahead. I turned over the first card.
“At the McCabes’ Tuesday night when Fritz talked about the tape, he referred to it as a hoot and a game. To quote him, you guys were just ‘horsing around.’ Interview with Iris, you guys were just messing around. Wednesday when you and I talked, you called it a hoax, a spoof, and a mockumentary.”
Troy glanced at his watch.
“When I talked to Bayard, he said the tape was essentially a practical joke.”
“Okay.”
I held up the cards. “Three of you used identical phrases. You said ‘it was a lark.’ And, ‘we were laughing our asses off.’”
He stared at me. “So what?”
I studied him as I spoke. “It was a cover story, wasn’t it?”
I waited and when he said nothing, I went on. “I don’t know which of you came up with the idea, but it’s clear you coached each other so if a question was ever raised, you could all claim you were goofing around. I think you talked Iris into the idea as well. Back then, she was drunk, stoned, or both, but now—by some miracle—she’s singing the same tune you are.”
He was silent, staring at the porch paint. I waited, thinking he was wrestling with his conscience. He finally raised his eyes to mine. “You know what? I’m done talking to you.”
“Why is this suddenly a problem? If I’m wrong, just tell me I’m wrong.”
“We will not have this conversation. I told Kerry you’d stopped by the shop and she didn’t like it. At all. She says you don’t have any right to question me about this stuff.”
“I’m sorry she feels that way. Lauren McCabe thought you might be helpful.”
“Helpful to Fritz maybe, but she doesn’t give a shit about me. She’d throw me to the wolves if she thought it would prove useful to that sniveling son of hers. You can tell her to shove ‘help’ up her ass. In the meantime, I’d like you to get the hell off my property.”