X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“I doubt it. I mean, not that I know, but we can certainly find out. Let me check with Mrs. Showalter. She retired just last year, which is when I came on. She might know one or two faculty members, and if she doesn’t, I’m sure she can suggest someone who does.”

26

I was introduced to the former history teacher/football coach by phone. Drew Davenport, who’d agreed to take my call, had been on the faculty at Burning Oaks High during the relevant years. He had no recollection of Ned or Lenore. He sparked to my mention of Shirley Ann Kastle, but had nothing new to add. He referred me to a guy named Wally Bledsoe, who owned a local insurance agency and supposedly knew everything about everyone.

Bledsoe worked Saturdays and invited me to stop by his office in greater downtown Burning Oaks. Like Drew Davenport, he drew a blank when it came to the three, but said his wife had graduated from Burning Oaks High School in 1958. Not perfect, but I’d take what I could get. When I chatted with her by phone, she told me she’d hated high school and had happily repressed all her memories thereof. As it happened, however, she sang in the church choir with a woman whose sister was a 1957 graduate. By the time I found myself standing on Marsha Heddon’s front porch, ringing the bell, I was appreciative of the virtues of small-town life.

She’d apparently been awaiting my arrival because she opened the front door before the sound of the chimes faded. By my ten-digit accounting system, she was close to fifty, but looked twenty years younger. Her youthful appearance was the function of her being wonderfully round, with flushed cheeks, bright blue eyes, and plump lips. Her wrap-front dress framed extravagant curves that she seemed happy to possess.

When I introduced myself, she interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Deborah told me all about it. A reunion coming up and you’re looking for the lost.”

“Not quite. I’m hoping for information on three kids who were at Burning Oaks with you.”

“Oh. Well, I can probably do that, too. Come on in.”

I followed her past the living room and through the kitchen to a glassed-in back porch that had been attractively furnished with a white wicker love seat and matching armchairs upholstered in a sunny yellow fabric.

“This is the Florida room,” she said as we sat down. “My hobby’s interior decorating.”

“Must come in handy. You did this yourself?”

“Well, I didn’t upholster the furniture, but I did everything else. This used to be a mudroom, full of junk. You couldn’t even walk through without bumping into something. Now we’re out here all the time.”

“It’s cozy. I like the yellow.”

“Thank you.” She paused to fan herself, flapping one hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m overheating. Whew! Now, tell me who you’re looking for.”

I gave her the three names. “You remember them?”

“Not Lenore so much, but the other two of course. Who didn’t know Shirley Ann? She was a goddess. Two years ahead of me from elementary school on up.”

“What about Ned?”

“I’m not sure anybody knew him well. He was one of those guys you see on the street and you can’t remember his name to save your soul. There’s only so much room at the top of the heap. The rest of us are fill dirt.”

I laughed because I knew exactly what she was talking about. “I hope none of my high school classmates are saying that about me. Bet they are, now that I think about it. I didn’t even date.”

“The thing about Ned? He had no impact. He wasn’t popular. He wasn’t funny. He wasn’t a class officer, didn’t play in the marching band. Not an athlete, didn’t win science awards. No talent or skill that I recall. Just a gray guy taking up space.”

“According to the yearbook, he was in Our Town.”

“But he didn’t have a big part. That’s my point. When the script says ‘crowd murmurs,’ you have to have somebody there to mill around onstage. It’s kind of like dog food. You can only have so much real meat and the rest is by-products.”

“Got it,” I said.

“You want a cup of coffee or anything? I don’t know what’s wrong with me for not asking in the first place.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Go on.”

“Our Town was where it started. Shirley Ann was cast as the female lead. No big surprise. She was good at everything and just as nice as she could be. Completely down-to-earth. She was going steady with this guy named Bobby Freed. There were two Bobby Freeds in our class. Spelled differently—the other one was F-R-I-E-D—but they sounded the same, so there was Big Bobby and Little Bobby. She dated Big Bobby. He was on the tennis team, captain of the swim team, class president. You know the type. He was a hunk. Stuck on himself, but who wouldn’t be?”