Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel by Arlette Lees Page B

here?”
    “Yes. I’m in sixth. I’m the smartest kid in school, even smarter than the eighth graders. My grandfather donated the land the school sits on.”
    “Consider me duly impressed.”
    “Just don’t eat the candy bar in Miss Hanover’s desk or she’ll think it was me.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Why do you think?”
    “I see. You know where I can find her?”
    “Not until tomorrow. She’ll be here around seven thirty. You’re that cop from Boston. I’ve seen you with Jim Tunney. What are you doing here?”
    “Maybe, I’m here to steal candy bars.”
    “You don’t need one.”
    “Thanks Rebecca. Just call ’em as you see ’em. Do you know where your teacher lives?”
    “In town somewhere. Miss Brown boarded with my family. She was our teacher since I was in first grade, but she retired. Most teachers are too poor to rent a place of their own.”
    “Who’s your favorite, Miss Brown or Miss Hanover?”
    “Miss Brown was nice. She got too old to remember our names, but she’d never misspell, misspell.”
    “You noticed that too. Did you point it out?”
    “To Miss Hanover? Are you kidding? I’m stuck with her until June.”
    “Do you know her address in town?”
    “No. My parents say I’m not allowed to ask grownups personal questions. If I could I’d ask her why she’s twenty-three and doesn’t have a husband yet. My mom says if you’re not married by twenty-five, you’ll be an old maid for life.”
    “What’s Miss Hanover’s first name? I’ll look her up in the book.”
    “It’s Penelope, like the weaver in the Odyssey, but I already looked and she’s not listed.”
    “You are smart. Did you learn that in school?”
    “In the library.”
    Through the window I see a woman coming down Schoolhouse Road, her eyes swollen, her hair in a tangle.
    “You know a lady with dark brown hair and yellow rain boots?”
    “That’s my mom. I’d better go so I don’t get in trouble.”
    “Which house is yours?”
    “The grey one at the end of the road with the goat shed in back.”
    I fish a card from my wallet and hand it to her.
    “Here, keep this. Call me if you get in trouble and I’ll put in the fix.”
    She puts it in her pocket. “Thanks, I will.” I smile to myself as she heads out the door.
    Now that I’m alone, I go straight for the teacher’s top desk drawer, hoping to find a class photo or a list of student’s names and addresses. It’s locked. I’d crack it open, except I’ve already blown my cover. The other drawers contain office supplies and test papers. I drive back to the location where the boy’s body was found. I look into the ditch from the berm and out across the orchard behind it. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t find it.
    * * * *
    I’m having a hamburger and fries at Sparkey’s Roadhouse when the phone rings. Sparkey Bohannon is a big man, an okay guy, who serves a simple menu of satisfying food and runs hookers out of trailers behind the restaurant. The Chief says to turn a blind eye as long as the ladies are of age and don’t get rowdy and who doesn’t need a good poke every now and again? Who am I to argue with that?
    “It’s Jim,” says Sparkey, handing me the phone.
    “The dead boy’s parents just left Platt’s and they’re on their way to the station. Their son is Georgie Allen. They know where and when he was found, but none of the details. How fast can you get here?”
    I finish my beer in one breath, grab my keys and head out the door.
    * * * *
    Hayden and Priscilla Allen are first cousins with identical powder blue eyes and hair that resembles dandelion fluff. They’re young and undernourished, their clothes threadbare from seasons of wear and endless laundering. I express my condolences, ask questions and answer questions, take notes and let them talk. Jim sits quietly off to the side taking notes.
    They were married at fourteen in the isolated mountain community in West Virginia where they were born.