some railroad guy.”
“Do you know if Andrew and she got together?”
“Not that I know of—but I don’t keep track of Andrew’s goings-on. It’s not easy on him, living back at home at his age, but he’s saving up to buy a house. I told him he can come and go as he pleases, just to be quiet if it’s too late.”
Just then Mr. Stickler walked in, a solid man wearing a barn coat and a John Deere hat. “Andrew here?”
Claire stood up and shook his hand. “No, I’m Claire Watkins.” Then she made herself say it: “Acting sheriff.”
“That so?” He took off his hat and she saw the white line across his forehead: farmer’s tan. “What can we do for you?”
“She was just asking about Andrew. That poor Tammy Lee was killed,” Mrs. Stickler broke in. “I told her Andrew was home with us on Friday night.”
Mr. Stickler nodded slowly. “That’s right. We all went to bed after the news. Same as usual.”
“He couldn’t have gone out again?” Claire asked.
“Might have, but I doubt it. I don’t sleep that sound anymore. But some nights he don’t sleep so well either. He gets up and goes for a walk. It’s been hard on him, being back here, readjusting.”
“Has he seen Tammy Lee, as far as you know?”
“Don’t really know. But if he did, it was just for old times’ sake. He had just starting going out with some new girl—seemed to be quite interested in her. Guess she’s smart as a whip. Didn’t say who she was.”
Claire felt a jolt as she realized who they were talking about. She thanked them and walked toward the door.
Mrs. Stickler said, “Sorry to hear about Tammy Lee. She wasn’t a bad girl—just had a lot of gumption. She would have settled down, I’m sure.”
Meg sat on the edge of her bed with the phone in her hand. She was going to call Andrew and tell him she wanted to see him tonight. Even though she knew they shouldn’t meet.
She put the phone down and wiped tears away. It felt like someone else was being taken away from her before she even had a chance to know him. Like her dad. She picked up the last picture she had of her father before he was killed.
In it, Dad and she stood happily together, just back from trick or treating. She had been a ballerina. Looking back, she saw that it had been a ridiculous choice, but she had been going through a pink phase, a girly phase. Her mom had been too busy to come up with much of a costume, so her dad had run out at the last minute, when all the costumes were gone, and bought three pink slips that she wore one on top of the other. He had made her a tiara out of tin foil. She’d thought she looked beautiful.
Her mom had come through in the hairdo and make-up department, pulling her dark hair back in a tight bun that gave her a headache and putting on pink lipstick.
In the picture her tall dad was holding her hand: a bedraggled ballerina, slips drooping, a puffy purple jacket over her outfit, and a crown that sat sideways on her head.
But she looked so happy.
She had a full bag of candy and for the last few houses her dad had let her run up all by herself, as if she was old enough to be on her own, and ring the doorbell and yell, “Trick or treat!”
Her dad had pretended he could hardly carry her bag of candy, it was so full.
After he had died, Meg let the bag of candy sit in its hiding place under her bed until, months later, her mom made her throw all the dried-up, rotten candy away.
Meg put the picture back on her bedside table, then picked up the phone and dialed Andrew’s cell number. He answered after three rings. “Stickler.”
“Watkins. I guess I should say Meg.” Hearing his voice, she knew how much she wanted to see him again.
“Hey.” His voice lit up. “We still on for tonight?”
“Just to talk.” Meg said. “I’d like to meet you tonight—just to say goodbye for a while.”
There was a long silence, then he said in a low voice, “Whatever.”
“Where’s Meg?” Claire asked when
“Do you know if Andrew and she got together?”
“Not that I know of—but I don’t keep track of Andrew’s goings-on. It’s not easy on him, living back at home at his age, but he’s saving up to buy a house. I told him he can come and go as he pleases, just to be quiet if it’s too late.”
Just then Mr. Stickler walked in, a solid man wearing a barn coat and a John Deere hat. “Andrew here?”
Claire stood up and shook his hand. “No, I’m Claire Watkins.” Then she made herself say it: “Acting sheriff.”
“That so?” He took off his hat and she saw the white line across his forehead: farmer’s tan. “What can we do for you?”
“She was just asking about Andrew. That poor Tammy Lee was killed,” Mrs. Stickler broke in. “I told her Andrew was home with us on Friday night.”
Mr. Stickler nodded slowly. “That’s right. We all went to bed after the news. Same as usual.”
“He couldn’t have gone out again?” Claire asked.
“Might have, but I doubt it. I don’t sleep that sound anymore. But some nights he don’t sleep so well either. He gets up and goes for a walk. It’s been hard on him, being back here, readjusting.”
“Has he seen Tammy Lee, as far as you know?”
“Don’t really know. But if he did, it was just for old times’ sake. He had just starting going out with some new girl—seemed to be quite interested in her. Guess she’s smart as a whip. Didn’t say who she was.”
Claire felt a jolt as she realized who they were talking about. She thanked them and walked toward the door.
Mrs. Stickler said, “Sorry to hear about Tammy Lee. She wasn’t a bad girl—just had a lot of gumption. She would have settled down, I’m sure.”
Meg sat on the edge of her bed with the phone in her hand. She was going to call Andrew and tell him she wanted to see him tonight. Even though she knew they shouldn’t meet.
She put the phone down and wiped tears away. It felt like someone else was being taken away from her before she even had a chance to know him. Like her dad. She picked up the last picture she had of her father before he was killed.
In it, Dad and she stood happily together, just back from trick or treating. She had been a ballerina. Looking back, she saw that it had been a ridiculous choice, but she had been going through a pink phase, a girly phase. Her mom had been too busy to come up with much of a costume, so her dad had run out at the last minute, when all the costumes were gone, and bought three pink slips that she wore one on top of the other. He had made her a tiara out of tin foil. She’d thought she looked beautiful.
Her mom had come through in the hairdo and make-up department, pulling her dark hair back in a tight bun that gave her a headache and putting on pink lipstick.
In the picture her tall dad was holding her hand: a bedraggled ballerina, slips drooping, a puffy purple jacket over her outfit, and a crown that sat sideways on her head.
But she looked so happy.
She had a full bag of candy and for the last few houses her dad had let her run up all by herself, as if she was old enough to be on her own, and ring the doorbell and yell, “Trick or treat!”
Her dad had pretended he could hardly carry her bag of candy, it was so full.
After he had died, Meg let the bag of candy sit in its hiding place under her bed until, months later, her mom made her throw all the dried-up, rotten candy away.
Meg put the picture back on her bedside table, then picked up the phone and dialed Andrew’s cell number. He answered after three rings. “Stickler.”
“Watkins. I guess I should say Meg.” Hearing his voice, she knew how much she wanted to see him again.
“Hey.” His voice lit up. “We still on for tonight?”
“Just to talk.” Meg said. “I’d like to meet you tonight—just to say goodbye for a while.”
There was a long silence, then he said in a low voice, “Whatever.”
“Where’s Meg?” Claire asked when
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