Gunshy, page 4
Adoration and impotent fury–these are the emotions Janice Younger most commonly awakens. She neither inspires, nor is accustomed to meeting, indifference.
Which is why I will treasure the look of startled blankness that passed over Fox's face for a long, long time.
In a heartbeat, he had placed her. I like to think it was the resemblance to Marian that clued him in.
"Mrs. Younger," he said, with Fox-like gravity. She extended a hand and lay it tremulously along his sleeve, face uptilted, green eyes dewy and soft.
"Janice. Please."
"Janice," Fox repeated, and something in his tone persuaded me that he had utterly forgotten her given name. He stepped back from the basket, neatly slipping away from her hand, and glanced over to me, cobalt eyes a trifle wide. "Jennifer, this is–"
"Oh, Jenny and I are well acquainted," Janice assured him. "She and Marian are such good friends! So much in common!" She smiled dazzlingly up into his face.
"I see," Fox said, and even Janice caught the dry note on the edge of his voice. She smiled again, a little wistfully, dropped her eyes and stepped aside.
"I don't want to keep you," she said, demure now and almost as grave as he. "I know you're a very busy man. I just wanted to make sure that you knew you were always welcome at the house. Stop by anytime."
Fox inclined his head. "Thank you," he said seriously. "You're very kind."
She copied his gesture, bowing her head as chastely as a nun, and went one more step aside before throwing me another hard green glance.
"Good-night, Jenny," she said, too sweetly.
"Good-night," I said evenly, and followed Fox up Baking Needs.
He paused in the flour section and bent to pick up a sack of cornmeal, then stood holding it in his hand while he fished the gold-rimmed glasses out of his breast pocket, opened them with a practiced flick of the wrist and slid them onto his nose.
"You don't go by–Jenny–do you?" he asked, voice excruciatingly even as he frowned down at the recipes printed on the brown paper sack.
"Jennifer, or Jen, if I get a choice." I shrugged. "I don't usually get a choice. Most people just assume 'Jenny.' It's not really worth fighting about."
He nodded, pulled the glasses off, folded and stowed them in one fluid motion, then bent and put the cornmeal back. He turned to face me across the cart.
"I met her for five minutes this afternoon," he said, and it was bewilderment in the eyes. With Fox, you have to watch the eyes. "When I went to see Marian."
"Guess you made an impression," I said, trying for lightness. He shook his head, eyes level on mine and not moving.
"The first time I visited Marian," he said, as if it explained something, "back in October. I met her father. It seemed to me that he was living there."
I shrugged. "If it doesn't bother them, I don't guess it should bother you."
I don't always think before I talk, a trait that's gotten me in so much trouble in my life you'd expect I'd've learned better by now. Fox's eyes widened, shock showing along the edges of bewilderment, and I glanced aside, feeling like a certified heel.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, then sighed sharply and forced myself to look back at him.
"See," I said, taking refuge in the patient, non-judgmental secretary-voice I'd learned years ago; "it's nothing personal. It's just . . . Some people collect dolls, OK? Janice collects men." I shook my head, unsure of what else I should say–what he wanted me to say. "Everybody knows it."
"Everyone except the new collectible on the block," Fox commented with unexpected bitterness. He put a hand up to comb the hair off his forehead. "Thank you."
I hesitated, wondering if this were sarcasm; if I had–another of my specialties–failed some arcane test of friendship and was now dismissed . . .
"No," Fox said gravely. "I mean it, Jennifer. Thank you." He went to the back of the basket, put his hands on the bar, and paused.
"I'm new around here," he said, and offered me one of his slender smiles. "I'd appreciate any help you can give me."
I smiled, absurdly relieved, and turned to walk beside him again. "I'm nothing but a flatlander, myself," I told him, and grinned. "There's a story about a guy who moved to Maine with his wife when they were in their twenties. Ten or twelve years later he meets an old Mainer who wants to know if he's a native. And the guy says, 'No, my wife and I are from Away. But my children were born here. They're natives.' To which the old Mainer replies, 'Ayuh. And if yer cat had kittens in the oven, would you call 'em muffins?' "
Fox stopped the basket, eyes wide and dancing. He didn't laugh–I hadn't really expected him to laugh, I told myself–but the smile seemed a shade wider than usual.
"I like him–the old Mainer."
"So do I. Unfortunately, there's less and less of them. Maine kids think it's cool to dress like ghetto kids and listen to rap music." I shook my head. "What's rap got to do with Maine? But they see it on MTV and it's not what's around here, so it must be the way to go."
"Welcome to the homogenized society," Fox said, reaching up for a bottle of maple syrup. "We worked hard for this."
"Yeah?" I considered him. "You remember why?"
*
We continued the tour at a leisurely stroll. Fox talked about the police station job and the rare mess he'd found in place.
"I wonder about this consultant," he said, shaking his head. "He specified a Windows LAN–" He threw me a glance, one eyebrow up. "Local–"
"–area network," I finished. "I know."
"Right. He specifies Windows, which a child on the street can tell you needs at least four megabytes of RAM to run properly–and I have at least half of them with two megs– one RAMless wonder–someone cooked the hard drive in that one, too . . ." Another headshake. "And one copy of Windows for Work Groups."
I blinked. "One?"
"I did a recount," he assured me gravely. "One it is. And then I had to explain to the chief of police why I couldn't just install it on all the machines."
I laughed. Fox walks tall–Air Force brat–and in fact matches my own six foot, but Chief Twitchell is big, loud and belligerent where Fox is quiet and incisive. I'd have paid twenty bucks for a front row seat during that donnybrook.
"Who won?"
Fox stopped the basket and took on a couple cans of coffee. "I asked Carl to order in half-a-dozen more."
"Wow."
"What I can't understand is this consultant–John Custer. I'm told he came with the very highest credentials–yet he orders in trashed machines, inappropriate machines, one copy of the software. What on earth was the man thinking?"
"He was thinking 'easy money,' " I told him. "People from Portland are always coming up-country to make a killing from the locals."
He looked at me. "Another one of those things everybody knows?"
"No, this is one of the things only flatlanders know and Mainers think you're rude to mention," I said. "Portland's a city, see? So it stands to reason that all good things proceed from it. Of course, if you want the best you need to go to Boston."
"I'll remember that."
"See that you do."
We finished out the paper goods aisle in silence, then turned into Pet Food.
"How are things at the paper?" Fox murmured.
"Same as always. There was a hit-and-run out by the high school that the State cops don't think they're going to get lucky on. Sixteen years old. In a coma at Waterville Hospital." I shook my head, and pushed the grimness aside with a pure effort of will.
"That's the hottest scoop–except for the fact that the owners are giving a black tie affair at the Mill. Command performance for all employees." I sighed. "The press room guys are going to all have to rent tuxes–might rent one, myself." I made a detour across the aisle.
"I have a tux," Fox said as I reached up to pull down Jasper's favorite brand of cat food.
I threw him a grin over my shoulder. "Won't fit, but thanks."
He raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, it fits quite well."
I turned carefully, half-a-dozen cat food boxes trembling in my arms. "What's a computer geek doing with a tux?"
Fox widened his eyes in what I strongly suspected was utterly bogus innocence. "I had to attend an awards banquet."
"And so naturally you bought a tuxedo," I said in a tone of broad enlightenment just as the top three boxes jumped ship. Fox leaned forward, caught them, and dropped them into his basket.
"I have room for the rest, too," he murmured.
"Thanks," I said, and dumped them in, helter-skelter. "It's cheaper to rent a tux than buy one."
He shrugged. "Kathy liked it," he said, which is the third time I've heard him say his dead wife's name since October. "My own mother was pleased to proclaim me 'entirely presentable'–a rare compliment. It was a giddy moment."
I grinned. "Sure it was. And you schlepped this tux all the way to Maine?"
"One never knows," Fox said virtuously, "when the duties of society will overtake one."
"Very true," I was able to concede gravely in a moment or two. "However, this affair might be more profitably considered as a masquerade. The Wimsy Voice, its employees, hangers-on and et ceteras are not haute ton."
"Yet an opportunity to wear a tuxedo should not lightly be set aside."
I took a second to consider him: Pointy face serious as always, eyes . . . Intent. Something important was going on–or Fox thought so. And I very much wished that I knew what it was.
"Odds are the party's going to be horrible," I told him, which was the truth as I believed it. "The Twins don't tend to think very highly of anybody who'll work for them."
"I'd never join a club that would have me as a member," Fox murmured. I nodded, with a faint grin to Groucho.
"God only knows why they've taken it into their heads to throw a staff party–but it's the wrong party and it's a couple years too late. You'd be bored to death."
He tipped his head, watching my face. "Will you be bored to death?"
"Well, naturally." I sighed. "But it's my job–I have to go. It doesn't mean I have to let you offer yourself up as a human sacrifice."
His lips twitched. "But I might be amused. After all, I don't work for the paper."
"And so might actually be considered human by the real people. It's a possibility," I conceded, and chewed my lip.
"You really want to go to this thing?" I asked finally.
He met my eyes square. "Yes."
"Be it on your head, then," I said dubiously. "I don't want to hear you say I didn't warn you."
"You won't," Fox promised, and smiled.
6
"This is Rand Funeral Home," Thomas Rand's bland voice informed me Sunday evening. "I have an obit."
"Just a second." I opened a new file on the computer, settled the receiver more comfortably between ear and shoulder and wriggled my fingers over the keyboard. "Go ahead."
"Angel Bolduc," he said. "Sixteen. Died Saturday evening at Waterville Hospital of injuries sustained in a traffic accident."
I took it down and all the rest, my fingers mindlessly typing what my ears heard: how Angel had been an honor student, a star player on the varsity ice hockey team, an active member of the Wimsy DARE chapter, and part-time front desk clerk at the Mill. Survivors included her parents, two sisters, maternal grandfather and paternal great-grandmother. A brother, Jonathan Charles, had died last summer.
"Of an overdose of drugs," the bland voice said, momentarily becoming a shade less bland. "The family asked that be included."
I cleared my throat. "Sure," I said, and typed it in.
"In lieu of flowers," Mr. Rand continued, "donations may be sent in her name to the Wimsy chapter of DARE."
I typed that, too, then the visiting hours, the day and time of the funeral.
My fingers came to a rest and I cleared my throat again. "I'd like to read this back to you," I said, "to make sure I haven't missed anything."
"Thank you," Mr. Rand said with unaccustomed courtesy. "I would appreciate that."
I ran the file to the top and began, squinting a little at the wavery, soft-edged letters. At the end of the obit, I closed my eyes entirely.
"Very good," said Mr. Rand. "I may have another later on this evening. How late can I call?"
"Tomorrow's page closes at eight," I heard myself say, calm and professional. "If I know there's an obit coming, I can ask the editor to hold it 'til nine."
There was a thoughtful pause. "That won't be necessary," he decided. "If I don't get back to you before deadline, I'll call it in for Wednesday's paper. Good-night."
"Good-night," I said numbly. Eyes still closed, I cradled the phone, then just sat there, feeling empty and peculiarly light-headed.
Honestly, Jennifer, I told myself, get a grip. Kids die all the time. In fact, kids die so often and of such varied causes that I'm sometimes astonished so many do live to grow up.
But this was–different. A kid walking home from school along a stretch of road she'd probably walked every single day; a good kid, a bright kid, obeying the traffic laws, maybe thinking about her homework, or her boyfriend, or the DARE extravaganza she was helping to organize for the high school, when out of nowhere . . .
"Problem, Miz Pierce?"
I started, eyes snapping open and focusing on Bill Jacques' blunt face. He crossed his arms on the rickety divider that separated Sue's desk from mine. "You're looking a trifle peaked, if you don't mind my saying so," he commented.
I swallowed, moved my eyes back to the screen where the obit lurked, in fuzzy yellow letters, the name shimmering at the top of the screen: Angel Bolduc. I looked back at Bill.
"The kid died," I said and my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. "Angel Bolduc. Last night. Never came out of the coma."
He sighed and rubbed at the indentation his glasses had left across the bridge of his nose.
"Rough one," he said, refolding his arms. "That's the same family lost the boy back last June?"
I nodded.
"They must be out of their minds." He sighed again. "Well, nobody said the game was fair." He looked closely into my face. "You going to be OK?"
"I'll be OK," I said, though I was still feeling a tad light-headed.
He nodded and straightened, patting the top of my monitor with a light palm. "Send that over to me when you're done. I'll fill in some stuff and give her a right send-off." He turned. Turned back.
"When's the funeral?"
"Wednesday afternoon."
"That'll be Sue's, then," he said and headed back to his desk.
*
I finished my shift in a kind of gray blear and drove home in the same condition. In the kitchen, I hung pocketbook and parka on pegs, turned, and just stood there, feeling– and probably looking–like a gangly robot that's lost its programming.
"Shit." I raised both hands and combed my hair back hard from my face. When my fingers snagged on wind-knots, I ruthlessly pushed them through, welcoming the minor twinges of pain.
"Get a grip," I told myself, speaking loudly in the cold, quiet kitchen. "It's a damn' shame she died, but for God's sake, Jennifer, you didn't even know the kid."
What kind of a person do you have to be, Sue Danforth wondered from the edge of my memory, to hit somebody like that and just drive away?
It didn't necessarily follow that the person who had hit Angel was evil, or even a garden variety badass. He could have been frightened, or only criminally negligent. And the point was, it didn't matter which of those sorts of people or any other had done the deed: Angel had taken her death the instant she'd been struck. It had taken her five days to finish the business, under the best care Waterville Hospital could muster, but if the guy in the truck hadn't happened to glance down into the ditch and spot the red parka, she'd have been dead a little sooner. That was all.
When I was living in Baltimore and working at the university for the second time, I'd formed a friendship of convenience with Professor of Research and Statistics Michael DiSandro, "Stats" as he was known to his intimates.
It is not easy being the only son of an Old School Italian family, and Stats' position was made less comfortable by the fact that there was a considerable inheritance to be lost, did he fail to toe the heterosexual line. So, I "dated" Stats as required for effect, and he returned the favor on the rare occasions when I needed an escort. It was a system that worked so well that we became actual friends, though I did have to place a moratorium on statistics.
Michael DiSandro's pure passion in life was statistics. He would quote, jiggle and juggle them for hours. He'd talk variances and covariances through cocktails, dinner and the play, if left unchecked, and never could understand why no one else seemed to find his numbers as delightful and clever as he did himself.
One of the statistical lines he kept close tabs on was the mortality rate of Baltimore City children, ages six to eighteen. The project had started as an "exercise," he told me, but soon took on an urgency of its own.
"They're dying in droves out there, Jen–drive-bys, overdoses, traffic accidents, beatings, burnings, drownings, starvation, and sheer stupidity." He'd shaken his head and knocked back a slug of Walker Red. "I wouldn't be sixteen again for anything you could name. It's worse than a jungle out there. It's a war zone."
But that had been Baltimore–a big, tough, urban sprawl that sucked in lives like a black hole sucks in light. This was Maine–Wimsy, Maine, population 3,212. People were safe in Wimsy.
Wrong.
People in Maine want to believe they're safe, that murder and rape and drug dealing are problems belonging to the make-believe land of Away. There are so few murders in Maine, thirty-seven in 1988, that each one can be–and is–held up for public scrutiny and censured as the act of a monster. Rape is a little more popular–243 reported in a state-wide population of one-million-two. Drugs–drugs are worming their way in, though no one seems to know how quickly or exactly how much. Just like drugs everywhere.
The fact is that no place is "safe". People die everywhere. Not even an honor student from Wimsy High School is immune.
