“A Desert Eagle is a gun, in this case, a .357 Magnum. They’re made in Israel. Dr. Flake just bought one. He may be able to solve the spotted owl controversy single-handedly. Right now he’s threatening to practice on the religious statuary up at St. Mildred’s. I told him he’dbetter not, or I wouldn’t lend him my Browning high-power nine-millimeter semiautomatic.”
“You’ve got a
gun
?” I shrieked. Vida, I noticed, paused in her typing, but briefly.
Ben gave me a disgusted look. “Of course I’ve got a gun. Do you think I’d wander all over the Mississippi Delta or the Arizona desert without a gun?”
I was flabbergasted. Of course our dad had owned guns, and had done some hunting before he decided that too many of his fellow hunters couldn’t tell a cow from a deer—or each other. “What are you afraid of,” I demanded, “the Ku Klux Klan and the Mormons going after your parishioners?”
“I’m more afraid of my parishioners.” Ben chuckled, then shook his head. “No, it’s not people that worry me so much as animals. Snakes, mainly, in Arizona. Anyway, Dr. Flake asked me to go shooting with him. He’s quite a guy. Not what I’d expect to find in Alpine.”
I’d met Peyton Flake twice, and had to agree with Ben. The new doctor in town was not much over thirty, and a graduate of the University of Chicago’s medical school. Flake was a lanky six foot three with a ponytail, rimless glasses, and a careless beard. His professional uniform seemed to consist of faded blue jeans and a rumpled denim work shirt. His untidy appearance, not to mention his somewhat flamboyant personal habits, had aroused a good deal of criticism, but his medical expertise was slowly starting to win people over. Doc Dewey sang his new partner’s praises.
I was still reeling from my brother’s revelation that he roamed the reservation with a cocked and loaded handgun when I saw Ginny and Carla come into the outer office carrying a couple of cartons. I recognized them as containing
The Advocate
’s official Christmas decorations. They were, I recalled from my previous Alpine Yuletides, a pathetic lot. Marius Vandeventer, who had founded the newspaper almost sixty years ago, had been many things. Most of them were admirable, but he hadn’t been overly keen on Christmas. Icringed as Ginny pulled out a two-foot-high tree made from aluminum foil.
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Hoffman, calling from the Blanchet attendance office in Seattle. As we caught up with each other over a gap of almost twenty-five years, I scrawled a note to Ben.
He nodded, then made a notation of his own:
BHS chaplain—Bill Crowley—fellow seminarian
.
Mrs. Hoffman and I finally got down to business. Offhand, she recalled two or three Carols in the class of ’87. I could hear pages turning. Maybe it was easier to look through the yearbook than to rely on computer records.
“Here’s Carol Addams, tall, blond girl—it helps to look at their senior pictures—got a scholarship to some school back east, graduated in biology, got married last summer, and lives in Maine. Or is it Vermont? It’s so hard to keep track of these kids, but her youngest brother is a junior this year.…”
It occurred to me that—at least as far as Blanchet High School was concerned—Clarice Hoffman was almost as valuable a resource as Vida was for Alpine. But of course it was Mrs. Hoffman’s job to keep track of students, at least while they were attending the school. It was she who took the calls from parents reporting on sick, tardy, or otherwise absent teenagers, and she who had read—and heard—every excuse in the book.
“Janovitz,” she was saying, “but she spelled it Carole, with an
e
. You said this one doesn’t?”
“Uh … right.” I hadn’t told Mrs. Hoffman why I was trying to track down a 1987 graduate named Carol. If there was no connection between Blanchet and the body by the river, then there was no need to unduly alarm the
“You’ve got a
gun
?” I shrieked. Vida, I noticed, paused in her typing, but briefly.
Ben gave me a disgusted look. “Of course I’ve got a gun. Do you think I’d wander all over the Mississippi Delta or the Arizona desert without a gun?”
I was flabbergasted. Of course our dad had owned guns, and had done some hunting before he decided that too many of his fellow hunters couldn’t tell a cow from a deer—or each other. “What are you afraid of,” I demanded, “the Ku Klux Klan and the Mormons going after your parishioners?”
“I’m more afraid of my parishioners.” Ben chuckled, then shook his head. “No, it’s not people that worry me so much as animals. Snakes, mainly, in Arizona. Anyway, Dr. Flake asked me to go shooting with him. He’s quite a guy. Not what I’d expect to find in Alpine.”
I’d met Peyton Flake twice, and had to agree with Ben. The new doctor in town was not much over thirty, and a graduate of the University of Chicago’s medical school. Flake was a lanky six foot three with a ponytail, rimless glasses, and a careless beard. His professional uniform seemed to consist of faded blue jeans and a rumpled denim work shirt. His untidy appearance, not to mention his somewhat flamboyant personal habits, had aroused a good deal of criticism, but his medical expertise was slowly starting to win people over. Doc Dewey sang his new partner’s praises.
I was still reeling from my brother’s revelation that he roamed the reservation with a cocked and loaded handgun when I saw Ginny and Carla come into the outer office carrying a couple of cartons. I recognized them as containing
The Advocate
’s official Christmas decorations. They were, I recalled from my previous Alpine Yuletides, a pathetic lot. Marius Vandeventer, who had founded the newspaper almost sixty years ago, had been many things. Most of them were admirable, but he hadn’t been overly keen on Christmas. Icringed as Ginny pulled out a two-foot-high tree made from aluminum foil.
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Hoffman, calling from the Blanchet attendance office in Seattle. As we caught up with each other over a gap of almost twenty-five years, I scrawled a note to Ben.
He nodded, then made a notation of his own:
BHS chaplain—Bill Crowley—fellow seminarian
.
Mrs. Hoffman and I finally got down to business. Offhand, she recalled two or three Carols in the class of ’87. I could hear pages turning. Maybe it was easier to look through the yearbook than to rely on computer records.
“Here’s Carol Addams, tall, blond girl—it helps to look at their senior pictures—got a scholarship to some school back east, graduated in biology, got married last summer, and lives in Maine. Or is it Vermont? It’s so hard to keep track of these kids, but her youngest brother is a junior this year.…”
It occurred to me that—at least as far as Blanchet High School was concerned—Clarice Hoffman was almost as valuable a resource as Vida was for Alpine. But of course it was Mrs. Hoffman’s job to keep track of students, at least while they were attending the school. It was she who took the calls from parents reporting on sick, tardy, or otherwise absent teenagers, and she who had read—and heard—every excuse in the book.
“Janovitz,” she was saying, “but she spelled it Carole, with an
e
. You said this one doesn’t?”
“Uh … right.” I hadn’t told Mrs. Hoffman why I was trying to track down a 1987 graduate named Carol. If there was no connection between Blanchet and the body by the river, then there was no need to unduly alarm the
Similar Books
