up straight.
“My little pal is taking it hard.”
He could see that. He could not remember her name. Then it came to him. With frizzy hair hanging out of her wool cap, a coil of it sprung over her spectacles, Natalie looked pathetic one moment and combative the next.
“I shouldn’t have left her. Excuse me.”
Alone, he took quiet steps toward the others. Attorney Rollins, wearing dark glasses instead of the amber ones, nodded almost imperceptibly. It was more a wince, as though he felt much about him was misunderstood. Rita O’Dea was a luxurious mushroom of fur, her glossy boots only half-zipped because of the heft of her calves. She stared at Dawson out of gorgeous black eyes full of cold interest. Paige Gately gave him a glance, and the Bauers ignored him. He approached Fran Lovell so softly that she did not see him until he stood beside her.
“What are you doing here, Fran?”
“I have a right, don’t I?” she replied, reacting as if she had been dug in the skin. Her drab coat belied her position at the bank. She looked more like a teller who, haunted by tallies that did not balance, rarely ventured out of her cage.
“I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“Good. I’m glad I can still surprise somebody.” She furrowed her brow. “Why weren’t you one of the bearers?”
“It wouldn’t have looked good for the investigation.”
“What investigation? What are you doing?”
He regarded her quizzically. “You have a suggestion, Fran?”
“I’m sorry,” she said at once, the tone propitiating. “It’s just that I forget you’re a detective. A good one, I’m sure.”
The undertaker and his assistants shrank back from the casket and everyone else inched closer as the minister, Bible in hand, assumed his position. Head lowered, the bald spot in his hair shone like wax. Dawson listened to the words but did not sort them out. Nor did he pay attention when Sue, her voice ringing over Natalie’s sobs, read something she had written. His mind was heated with unexpected shapes that bore no quick relation to reality, and he turned his head in a brief confrontation, his green eye pitted against the disarming blue of Bauer’s. When the minister tossed dirt spang on the metal casket, it sounded like a minor explosion.
“That was beautiful,” Fran Lovell said as people began turning away. Her cheeks were wet. “Can we go to Lem’s for coffee? Please?”
“Later,” he said. “Do you mind?”
She did, keenly, but he was already slipping away, angling between the heaviness of Rita O’Dea and the rigidity of Paige Gately. He intercepted Sue before she could speak to the minister. She looked at him and said, “It’s over. She’s gone.”
“Yes,” he said, his throat sore. “Her car, the Mazda, belongs to the county now. They’ll auction it off in time, but I’ll try to get you the money from it. Reimbursement for the funeral.”
“That’s not what’s on my mind, nor Natalie’s.”
He had a pen and a pocket notebook out, some of the pages dog-eared. “I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“Bradley.”
He jotted in the notebook. “Nice name. Ordinary in a distinguished way.”
“We don’t think there’ll ever be an arrest.”
“There’ll be one. You have my word.”
Natalie had posted herself near the casket, a flower in her mittened hand. She glared at him.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She doesn’t think your word is good enough.”
• • •
The high school was a block of brick and glass, two stories above ground and one below, a walkway descending to the entrance. To Dawson, it would always be the new high school, for it had been built on a knoll behind the old one a few years after his graduation. The old one had replaced the original, Punchard High, which became a junior high and now, greatly refurbished, was the seat of town government. The smell of the new high school held a trace of the old. To Dawson, it suggested morning mouth and marijuana.
The
“My little pal is taking it hard.”
He could see that. He could not remember her name. Then it came to him. With frizzy hair hanging out of her wool cap, a coil of it sprung over her spectacles, Natalie looked pathetic one moment and combative the next.
“I shouldn’t have left her. Excuse me.”
Alone, he took quiet steps toward the others. Attorney Rollins, wearing dark glasses instead of the amber ones, nodded almost imperceptibly. It was more a wince, as though he felt much about him was misunderstood. Rita O’Dea was a luxurious mushroom of fur, her glossy boots only half-zipped because of the heft of her calves. She stared at Dawson out of gorgeous black eyes full of cold interest. Paige Gately gave him a glance, and the Bauers ignored him. He approached Fran Lovell so softly that she did not see him until he stood beside her.
“What are you doing here, Fran?”
“I have a right, don’t I?” she replied, reacting as if she had been dug in the skin. Her drab coat belied her position at the bank. She looked more like a teller who, haunted by tallies that did not balance, rarely ventured out of her cage.
“I’m surprised, that’s all.”
“Good. I’m glad I can still surprise somebody.” She furrowed her brow. “Why weren’t you one of the bearers?”
“It wouldn’t have looked good for the investigation.”
“What investigation? What are you doing?”
He regarded her quizzically. “You have a suggestion, Fran?”
“I’m sorry,” she said at once, the tone propitiating. “It’s just that I forget you’re a detective. A good one, I’m sure.”
The undertaker and his assistants shrank back from the casket and everyone else inched closer as the minister, Bible in hand, assumed his position. Head lowered, the bald spot in his hair shone like wax. Dawson listened to the words but did not sort them out. Nor did he pay attention when Sue, her voice ringing over Natalie’s sobs, read something she had written. His mind was heated with unexpected shapes that bore no quick relation to reality, and he turned his head in a brief confrontation, his green eye pitted against the disarming blue of Bauer’s. When the minister tossed dirt spang on the metal casket, it sounded like a minor explosion.
“That was beautiful,” Fran Lovell said as people began turning away. Her cheeks were wet. “Can we go to Lem’s for coffee? Please?”
“Later,” he said. “Do you mind?”
She did, keenly, but he was already slipping away, angling between the heaviness of Rita O’Dea and the rigidity of Paige Gately. He intercepted Sue before she could speak to the minister. She looked at him and said, “It’s over. She’s gone.”
“Yes,” he said, his throat sore. “Her car, the Mazda, belongs to the county now. They’ll auction it off in time, but I’ll try to get you the money from it. Reimbursement for the funeral.”
“That’s not what’s on my mind, nor Natalie’s.”
He had a pen and a pocket notebook out, some of the pages dog-eared. “I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“Bradley.”
He jotted in the notebook. “Nice name. Ordinary in a distinguished way.”
“We don’t think there’ll ever be an arrest.”
“There’ll be one. You have my word.”
Natalie had posted herself near the casket, a flower in her mittened hand. She glared at him.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She doesn’t think your word is good enough.”
• • •
The high school was a block of brick and glass, two stories above ground and one below, a walkway descending to the entrance. To Dawson, it would always be the new high school, for it had been built on a knoll behind the old one a few years after his graduation. The old one had replaced the original, Punchard High, which became a junior high and now, greatly refurbished, was the seat of town government. The smell of the new high school held a trace of the old. To Dawson, it suggested morning mouth and marijuana.
The
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