Chapter 8: So This Is The End My Friends?

As Vince Lombardi’s accountant said (I’m assuming), “Money isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.” Heck, every time I go to wipe my ass it costs me fifty dollars until it makes a man want to install a bidet.

“We’re cut off!” Gladys lamented.

“Cut off?”

“Yes…Cut…Off!”

I didn’t think it possible but these words stung as much outside as they did inside a barroom. Perhaps even more so. I could always stumble home and find more alcohol; money was a much more precious commodity.

When Gladys had stumbled in disheveled and white-faced I was worried. When she went straight to my office, opened the fridge, cracked a Natty Ice and collapsed in a leaky beanbag chair I was shattered; like seeing Superman searching for ‘roaches’ under seats at the end of a Phish concert.

I quickly wrapped things up with Debra Townes promising to meet again before or right after the police press conference. I, then, retreated to my office where it took both hands and all my strength to unearth Gladys from the beanbag chair. I helped her navigate through the now near ankle deep hail of ‘beans’ that had blown out and, now,  covered the floor. Next I deposited her in my desk chair from whence she began her tale.

“Cut off…,” she reiterated and took a decent-sized pull on the Natty Ice. Her blouse had come out of her skirt during the beanbag fiasco, but she paid it no mind. “They’re calling in our line of credit. We’ll have to close down…immediately.”

‘They’ meaning the Green Mountain Savings and Loan and that "line of credit" bein the only thing keeping us upright these past two and a half years. “Why? Why now?” I asked, confused.

“Who the Hell knows,” said Gladys with surprising candor as she pulled the ubiquitous bun loose from the back of her head. The gun metal gray and silver strands fell down Medusa-like. Snakes alighting on her shoulders.

“Did you talk to Henry?” I asked, referring to Henry Chase the rotund, happy-go-lucky bank manager who handled our account. I’d gone to school with Henry and talked him out of trouble junior year in high school when his “City College of Business” fake ID nearly got him arrested in a Rutland package goods store. Remembering that, these days he was happy to extend our line of credit to get us through the rough patches.

“No, they brought the Old Man outta moth balls to deliver the news. Hank just stood behind him with his finger up his ass which is no mean feat for that fat bastard,” she spat. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this new, foul-mouthed Gladys, but when she downed the rest of the beer, crushed the can and motioned for another like a biker’s booze-bag I figured now wasn’t the time to question it.

The Old Man was Riley Chase, Henry’s grandfather, Bank President and a Founding Father of our humble little town. According to the older crowd he was once a strapping young buck that drove the ladies wild. Now he was 88 going on 120, weighed 87 pounds in nightshirt with candle and had the bone density of sparrow with spina bifida. At Town Council meetings Mayor Wes Willard decreed that his standard somnambulant state to be a vote in agreement with his and no objection was put forth in deference to saving time. “You met with Riley Chase,” I blurted out, stunned.

“Yup, the Crypt Keeper himself.”

“He hasn’t been down to the branch since the Johnson administration.”

“Yeah,” snorted Gladys, “Andrew Johnson…”

“And what did he say?”

Gladys cracked the can and sucked the foam off the top like a pro, then continued. “He said our deal stipulated that if we exceeded our line it kicked in a clause that allowed them to call the loan at any time. We needed to re-apply for a new line every time we wanted an increase to avoid that. Hank Chase was helping us out, but in the end it screwed us.”

“Sonuva bitch!” I exclaimed.

“Exactly,” said Gladys, taking a long pull. “We got anything stronger round here?” She rose from my chair and started searching the shelves and file cabinets for a bottle, I’m sure, she always assumed I was hiding.

I rarely drank the hard stuff. Max Lipper had brought over whiskey one late November night when he was feeling blue about his kid from his first marriage snubbing him for the holidays. We drank “Thanksgiving Specials”- Wild Turkey with a splash of cranberry juice- but I was pretty sure he had taken the bottle with him. Nonetheless I let Gladys search because I needed a minute to let the news settle in.

So, that apparently was how it ended. On the one hand I sensed relief. Derf, a quitter of many jobs, once said there were few feelings better than giving notice and I was realizing he had a point. I felt lighter, like after a post-Chinese food bowel movement. On the other hand I was angry that the end was premature - a feeling, sadly, I was all too familiar with – and not a by-product of my own inevitable apathy. At his age Riley Chase hardly gave a damn about our two-bit newspaper. He spent most of his time up at the 9-hole Artfield Country Club dozing, drinking Old Fashions and trying not sit on his sack. Someone wanted us done in and knowing Hank Chase was too soft they brought the old man out of dyspeptic dementia long enough to do the deed.

As Gladys continued her quixotic search for the bottle of Applejack she thought I’d hidden, I returned to my desk chair to mull things over. So far I’d learned Curly Carson was an alcoholic, the police investigation was definitely hiding something, the chief may have a gambling problem and between the Episcopal minister, the dump on my car and someone using the bank to shut us down perhaps I wasn’t as beloved in this town as I always believed I was around last call at Pete’s Pub.

I reached across the desk for my own beer and accidently bumped the mouse. When the screen came back to life I noticed the email icon flashing against the generic beach background screensaver that Windows chose for a man who views the beach like Roman Polanski does a Sweet 16- it’s hot, sticky and, frankly, no one wants to see me there. I opened the email to find the police press conference was scheduled for the next morning- Friday 10:30 AM. In government politicians generally schedule release of bad or controversial news late on a Friday then hope something more newsworthy deflects attention over the weekend…call it the Gary Condit-9/11 Effect. Chief Bowden had a weekend place up at Lake Champlain. With the weather turning warmer I figured he’d give a short statement that wrapped up the police theory nicely, fend off a few questions with non-answers then hightail it out of town until Monday. Considering we were belly-up it was a plan that just might work. Glen Hubbard told me that the kid who’d come back to replace Miss Iceland wasn’t exactly the second coming of Mike Royko and the stringers sent out from Boston, Montpelier and Concord would swallow whatever Bowden told them in hopes of getting out of a place I’d heard a guy from the Boston Herald call, “not the end of the Earth, but you can see it from there…”

I was sitting there with a hopeless Native American after the Battle of Wounded Knee hundred-mile stare when Gladys gave up the ghost on the Old Grandad, straightened up and addressed me, “What the fuck are we gonna do?”

“First I think we should try to dial it back to PG,” I started. “I’m glad you’ve loosened up, but I find your cursing disorienting…and, well, that’s what the beer’s for. Both at the same time tend to cancel out and I can’t face this situation sober.”

“Sorry,” she said, brushing smooth the front of her blouse. She placed her beer down on the corner of my desk and tried again. “So what are we going to do now?”

I sat there pondering which to the untrained eye probably looked like someone trying to pass a stone. I could overthink anything into inactivity so I wanted to keep it brief. I’d gotten into this first for the story, then for Miss Iceland and finally to honor the memory of Ted Sheehan, the Carson’s and this town. Of course, now the romantic angle was gone from what I could tell and as for those other reasons I’d have almost certainly grown weary of them and qualified my giving up in due time. It’s what I do unfortunately. But now it was personal. They’d poked the bear, or at least the lethargic hairy guy who’d spent most of the winter sleeping.

Now, however, it was spring and between the shot of Vitamin D from the sun and just enough alcohol I had the energy and inhibition to make a snap decision. “Are we paid up on this place? Rent, heat, electric, telephone…?”

“Yes.”

“OK then…usually I’m not that picky, but this time I wanna know who’s screwin’ me. Let’s try to round up the troops, such as they are, and find out what’s going on,” I declared, trying to rouse myself, as much as Gladys. Then I stopped and remembered one expense I would have to do away with. “Guess I gotta fire the receptionist, huh.”

“Oh no,” said Gladys, faking sadness. “Not your ‘unusually long shower’ girl.” Giving “unusually long shower” air quotes to indicate some old witticism of mine she’d been saving up to bite me in the ass…which come to think of it was part of that ‘shower’ scenario if I remember correctly.

“It’s war now…we all have to make sacrifices,” I said facetiously. “Plus, those were the only showers I came out of feeling dirtier.” Although I didn’t mention it the receptionist wasn’t one my fantasy girls. My age having reduced me to using office supply catalog models and the women on FOR SALE real estate signs as more believable substitutes. “By the way what’s her name anyway?”

“Winifred,” Gladys answered in, what it took me several seconds to realize was, all seriousness.

“Uh…OK…well, that takes a little of the sting out of it.”

“If it helps,” she added, “I caught her and her boyfriend making out by the dumpster the other day while the phone was ringing off the hook in here.”

“Thanks,” I responded. “That does help. I mean if I’m involved in the PDA it’s a beautiful expression of love…when it’s other people, it’s just disgusting.”

I let Winnie down easy, not that it mattered. She simply shrugged, emptied the candy dish into her purse and walked out with a smile. I wasn’t the firing type, but I figured she’d be fine. In fact with a body like that, I considered if she screwed up her life that was on her.

Back in this office area Gladys was back at her desk and already working the phones. Charlie Grissom, our comb-over photographer, was already in and Gladys indicated she’d take care of notifying the rest of the staff in due time. That left me to bring in the outsiders. I returned to my office, grabbed another beer and made a mental note that if Gladys was to continue her newfound imbibing we were going to need more stock and perhaps a bigger fridge.

Sitting down I realized this wasn’t going to be easy. The problem was cellphones. To a young person their phone is a device that brings the world to them or helps them escape it. To a middle-aged person with a wife, kids and a job the same phone is just a watch that yells at you. Thus, while time had swelled my list of friends and acquaintances things like longer working hours, helicopter-parenting and a lack of anywhere to hide had shrunk their usefulness in a crisis.

I took a desultory pull on my Natty Ice and began to have second thoughts. It was, to say the least, deflating. Anyone connected to the police was out for obvious reasons. Derf would be in for a sack of White Castles and a trip to simulcast, but if his work record was any indication the help he could provide would be minimal. I phoned some softball buddies, a couple of Pete’s Pub regulars and my reporter friend Glen Hubbard, but like a Larry King wedding vow their commitment was tepid and imminently changeable.

In the main office I could see Gladys working the phones, but couldn’t imagine she was having much more success. After all, in this Internet age the saving of a small town press with mostly part-time employees was a hard sell. Gladys and I had agreed to meet here tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Unfortunately, I was starting to think that our matching hangovers and the expected sparse turnout would then make shutting things down the only logical conclusion. I nodded to Gladys, drained my beer and started for home where a Tree Tavern frozen pizza (yes, they still make those) and some Muriel Spark awaited. I flung the can at an empty plastic garbage can caught the edge and tipped it over into a tower of back issues that collapsed with a mocking flourish. “Well, that’s just about right,” I thought…and was gone.

Next morning I woke late and dressed slow. Shave?...why bother. I’d parked the Falcon out front under a light because I really couldn’t take another visit from the Mad Shitter at this point. Like its owner it wheezed and coughed its way into action and I headed for town. As I drove I mused that like Billy Joel’s “Brenda and Eddie” I’d gone from the “high to the low to the end of the show…” Or, more correctly, from the middle to the bottom to a state of limbo from which everyone, no doubt, would assume I’d recover. Perhaps Neil Young was right, I thought, maybe it was better to burn out than fade away. However, considering he was now 70 and clinging to an ill-advised “Godfather of Grunge” gimmick I decided to seek counsel elsewhere.

It was already 9:20 when I eschewed the main drag and decided to park around back so as to avoid being seen in my death throes. Additionally, I figured it would be easier to load my personal belongings into the Falcon by pulling right up to the backdoor that accessed the office area. The dumpster against our back wall was already filled with crap indicating Gladys, Charlie and anyone who might have stumbled in, probably by accident, was already in the process of burying the corpse.

I tossed my coffee cup in the dumpster and managing to stay upright on a mix of caffeine and Zoloft I pushed through the door.

“Where have you been? You’re late,” intoned Gladys testily. I thought this rather harsh until my eyes adjusted to a whole new world. Gone were the paper stuffed milk crates, the overflowing garbage cans along with the crumbling furniture and lopsided bookcases. The walls too had been cleared of the plethora of push pins holding up long useless notes and outdated calendars; though I was happy to see my velvet “Dogs Playing Poker” print had held its place of prominence. The desks were arranged in a loose circle creating a War Room type set up. There was even a couch with pillows for late nights. I felt like one of those women on HGTV who see their room makeover and scream “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” (of which Derf once commented it seemed easier these days to give your wife an orgasm by redecorating the bedroom than screwing her in it).

“Welcome to your new home,” said Gladys. “We’ve got a month to find the bastards who killed Sheehan and screwed us. We’re ready if you are.”

A small roar of approval went up and for the first time I registered that 15-20 friends were clustered along the wall prepared to offer their support. “And there’s another 8 to 10 folks who couldn’t be here this morning, but wanna help,” added Gladys as she saw me scan the assembled. 

“Check it out, bud,” it was Max Lipper calling out to me from next to a full-size fridge standing next to my office where once a rusting over-stuffed file cabinet held sway. “All your favorites,” he intoned as he pulled open the doors to display frozen pizza, boxes of Stouffer’s mac-n-cheese, salsa, dips and, of course, a 30-pack of Natty Ice. “Don’t know how you drink that swill, but God bless,” he added, closing the doors and pointing to a shelf next to it. “Plus we picked up these for you at some dead lady’s estate sale.”

“V.S. Pritchett, Pat Barker, Kingsley Amis, Nadine Gordimer…,” I rattled off the names from spines of well-worn paperbacks. “Too bad the old bag’s dead…She sounds like the woman of my dreams.”

Just then Gladys leaned in, grabbed my arm and said, “You may wanna hold out for something a little younger…” and turned me toward the backdoor. There Miss Iceland snuck in and was taking a place among the gathered.

When I turned back Gladys was wearing a, what I always thought was oxymoronic, shit-eating grin. “So how’d I do?” she queried.

“What can I say, I guess I’m all in,” I replied and her grin just got shittier…

Chapter 7: Of Ed McMahon And Air Supply

            “He owes you money? Are you sure you got the right guy?”

            “I think I can remember who owes me money,” Derf answered, assuredly.

            He had a point. He’d always been the owe-er, seldom, if ever, the owe-ee. Like a list of 80s heavy metal hair bands that aged gracefully, one of folks in arrears to him was short. On the contrary Derf was into everybody for something. A walking advertisement for the reinstitution of Debtor’s Prison I could swear when we lived together he once received a letter from Publisher’s Clearing House saying he owed Ed McMahon $10,000,000. I pressed for more information.

            “So how did this happen?”

            “Well I’d just cashed for six bills on a show wheel off a bridge jumper at Sam Houston,” he began, cryptically. “Meanwhile he just went bust when the top of his tri-key got blind-switched at The Red Mile. So he hit me up for C-note and then disappeared.”

            “Oh well, that clears it all up,” I said mid-eye roll, and then tried a more specific tack. “When did this happen?”

            “About 5-6 weeks ago I’d guess.”

            “And how’d you meet?” I questioned while scrambling to take notes on a beer can-ringed Post-It.

            “What can I say? He was there at the dog track three nights in a row,” Derf added. “Losers of a feather, eventually, flock together.”

            I’d seen this particular phenomenon in action. Anytime Derf entered a Boston area racetrack or OTB he was greeted like Norm walking into Cheers complete with a witty rejoinder. Slouching his 6-foot 5-inch frame through the crowd bestowing his benevolent betting benediction on all and sundry- May the horse be with you- like some sort of Pope of Degenerate Village.

            This was all too freakish. It had to be connected to Sheehan and Carson, but how? I drained the remnants of the Natty Ice and tossed the empty. I overshot the blue recycling basket, but it landed in the regular trash which was just as good since I knew from working late that the 4’9” Spanish cleaning lady just dumped both baskets into a larger can and tossed the whole contents indiscriminately into the dumpster out back. “What time will you be here Thursday?” I asked, not wanting to waste any more time on the phone when there was drinking and brooding, in that order, to do.

            “Do they still have that dog track in Pownal?”

            “Yes, but no live racing. Simulcast only.”

            “That works,” he announced, agreeably. “I’m doing a demo near there at one. How ‘bout I meet you at the track say 3:30?”

            “You’ll be done by then?” I questioned, but felt stupid before the words even left my mouth.

            “Usually I put in three good hours a day. I mean what are they expecting…I’m not a machine.”

            “Indeed…they probably don’t know how lucky they are,” I replied. “OK, see you there and if you can recall anything about your exchanges with Bowden let me know. We might have whole thing going on up here.”

            Derf signed off and I grabbed another Natty Ice. From the front I could hear the door open and Naomi- screw it, that’s what I’m calling her- speaking, “He’s in the back, check his office.” Her nonchalant tone made me assume it was Gladys back from her errand so I didn’t bother to hide the beer. She’d long ago accepted that drinking on the job was part of my muse, as if I were Charles Bukowski with (slightly) better hygiene. However just as I popped the top through the door from reception came a complete stranger.

            It was a woman who could best be described as bland; to the female form she was what Air Supply was to classic rock. A veritable plain rice cake of a woman. Of middle height and slender build she wore a formless denim dress beneath a faded black raincoat. Her middle-parted and coal black hair fell limply on each side with the top of an alabaster white ear poking out left and right. She looked under-nourished, underfed, anemic and wore an expression that led me to believe the Oxford English Dictionary might want to consider “miserablesucks” for their upcoming edition…like Shelly Duvall on Day 3 of a juice fast.

            “Hi, are you Luke Williams?” she began as I groped for a flat surface to ditch the cocktail. Finding none I switched hands for no good reason and she went on. “A police officer named Andrew said I should talk to you. I’m Debra Townes…uh, Monica Carson’s mom.”

            “Oh crap!” was my first thought then considering the situation I offered Gladys’ desk chair which was the only one not piled high with paper, books or boxes. She accepted and sat at the very edge of the seat like Kayla used to do on my sofa, but for different reasons.

            Now if Pascal was correct and all men’s problems did stem from an inability to sit in a room quietly alone then I’d be the happiest S.O.B. around. Solitude was my jam, so to speak, but it was becoming obvious if I wanted to continue this investigation I’d be "jammin’" out less in the coming days. Barton’s revelation and Derf’s Bowden connection were about all I could handle at that point, but it was obvious more was coming.

            See Debra Townes had a story to tell. It was going to be sad and I was going to sit and listen sympathetically. As a reporter I should’ve been excited, but as a functioning alcoholic with a more than mild case of agoraphobia I was chagrined. Still, I’m not a monster. She had just lost her daughter. I have a conscience and since conscience is inversely proportional to ego I also had a problem moving forward. But that was a dysfunction to deal with later.

See, if I had more ego and less conscience I’d listen to her tale, file it away with the others, then nod and look sad before stripping it all down to what it was worth to me and the headline grabbing story I’d write and be on my semi-merry way. Not being of this ilk is why I had crapped out at the Boston Globe several years before though several women, my sister and mother included, would add lazy, passionless and indolent to the list. Thus I sat on a milk crate full of back issues, tucked my beer on the floor behind me and waited for her to begin.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she started, soft but steady. “They said they couldn’t give me any info at the police station. That there would be a press conference tomorrow or the next day with details. Then the Andrew fellow pulled me aside and said you might know some details.”

It sounded like they were pushing the revelatory press conference back already. Suspicious, but why…a theme, like most in life, that was becoming less and less interesting the more I encountered it. “Not sure how much I can help you,” I replied, keeping my cards close, mostly because I was confused as anyone. “It was a fairly gruesome scene I’m told.”

“I know. They wouldn’t let me see the bodies. Due to procedures, but I was probably better off they said.”

“You may want to take their advice on that. Particularly in Curly’s case. Head wounds are never clean like in the movies.”

She shifted in the chair, crossing her right leg over her left knee, the raincoat falling back and the dress riding up till I was reminded I needed chicken. “Oh, not Curly. I was done with him long ago. It’s Monica and Ted I wanted to get a last look at.”

“You knew Ted Sheehan?” Once again I was aroused, momentarily, till the tide of lethargy rolled back over me. A feeling that could also pass as the story of my sex life.

“Yes. I guess I should give you some background,” she began as the alcohol and shifting stack of papers made my perch ever more precarious. “Curly and I married right out of high school. It was a beautiful ceremony, shotgun and all, if you get my drift. By 25 we were divorced. I stayed close and we shared custody of Monica till she was 15 and entering Artfield High.”

This sounded like it was going to be long so I reached behind me and groped for the beer. I took a pull without shame because she’d already seen it, wasn’t going to stop and, least proudly, because I had no intention of wanting to sleep with her.

“That’s when I got a job over in Mount Olive, New York,” she continued while I bit my tongue on the old joke- last time I went to Mount Olive…Popeye kicked the crap out of me. “Monica wanted to stay here with her friends and though it broke my heart I left her with Curly. Ted Sheehan was the Orientation Coordinator. I met with him to make sure she’d be OK and had someone to turn to at AHS. I guess we hit it off and started seeing each other…”

“Whoa, whoa..,” I said a little too excitedly and slid off the papers.

“Oh! Are you okay?”

“No problem,” I responded, getting to a knee, beer can held overhead like the Olympic torch. “Not a drop spilled. But what do you mean you were ‘seeing’ Ted Sheehan.”

“Just getting together, sharing a bottle of wine, talking, that type of thing.” Obviously my poker face (and balance) needed work because she quickly added, “Not dating. It was nothing like that. He was just a sympathetic ear.”

“Did Curly know? Could he have been jealous?”

“That was long ago, but no, we met at Ted’s place. It was very discreet.”

“I guess it would be,” I said, thinking of Sheehan’s place at the end of that desolate road. “He was out where the corn don’t grow.”

“Oh no, not the house where the murder happened,” she interrupted. “He was still a struggling teacher then. We met at his apartment in that building next to the Episcopal Church. I’d use the back stairs. I’m sure no one saw me.”

I recalled the good Reverend getting up in my face and pressed the issue. “Wasn’t Curly attending AA meetings next door?”

“Not at that time Curly was still a practicing, as opposed to recovering, alcoholic then. It was one of the reasons I wanted to make sure Ted was looking out for Monica.”

“What about this Random Acts of Kindness Club?” I began, hoping to see how deep the Monica/Sheehan relationship went when suddenly Gladys swept into the room bun wildly askew which except for “one in the oven” was the most frightening “bun situation” I could imagine. The look on my face easily cut Debra Townes short. It was obvious…

We had a PROBLEM!

Chapter 6: Holden Caulfield At The Bat; or Of Human Blondage

     

    It’s been said that if you can’t pick out the sucker at the poker table in the first two minutes…then it’s you. In other words, if you’ve only got the info your competitors want to give, you’re sunk. Now, however, thanks to Barton, I had inside information and for some reason I wanted to run out of the room and text it to Miss Iceland with a Happy Face emoji immediately. Fortunately, I was able to refrain from such high school hijinks long enough to hear Barton out.

            Of course, my first question was how did he know this, but he instantly fixed me with a “Have you no gay-dar at all?” stare and it suddenly became clear. Next there was the whole marriage/divorce thing.

            “Ted never really talked about that. He wasn’t bisexual, as far as I know, so it’s kind of a mystery even to me.”

            “He was very ambitious from what I heard. Education was his life,” I offered, trying to get a fix on the man.

            “Absolutely, it was all he ever wanted to do. He had two Master’s, his Doctorate, was highly qualified in both Science and Math, published in multiple education journals,” Barton rattled off. “He could have been an administrator years ago, but he wanted to stay in Artfield, right the things he felt were wrong here.”

            I recalled a story told by former Dallas Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson of how he married young, not for love, but because as a no-name assistant he needed to show stability and have someone to bring to dinner parties and events. Once he got his first college head coaching job he dumped his wife because at that point wins and losses were all that mattered. He no longer had to put on a show. Vermont may be a Blue State politically, but there’s still a strong strain of Yankee conservatism socially, particularly in the more rural areas. I considered whether Ted Sheehan’s marriage was just a convenient façade.

            “What did he feel was wrong?” I asked, trying not to get ahead of myself.

            “Same as everyone, money…funding. Less emphasis on meetings and paperwork, more on the students,” he answered.

            We sat and talked about the myriad ways money is wasted on everything but the students and learning. From teacher workshops that taught how to “lead with love” (“I tried that once,” Barton cracked, “they called Family Services”) to proms that made the Court at Versailles look like a Chuck E. Cheese it sounded like a shit show of considerable proportions. I knew well old Wes Willard, Riley Chase and the rest of the curmudgeons on the town council and school board were stingy with the buck. Balancing increasing technology needs, parents expectations and payroll pressures against an ever tightening budget was a constant tight rope walk. Had Ted Sheehan lost his footing?

            Eventually he looked up at the digital clock mounted under the regular school-issue clock and told me he had to get ready for the incoming class. “Kids can’t read analog clocks anymore,” he said when he noticed my gaze lingering on the wall. “If I didn’t tack the digital up there they’d be looking at their phones every other minute and once that starts you’ve lost ‘em.”

            Things had certainly changed since I roamed these halls though I did notice from the stack on Barton’s desk that they were still teaching A Catcher in the Rye to sophomores.  “Still spoon feeding ‘em J.D. Salinger huh,” I observed.

            “You’ve read it?”

            “Yup, sophomore year.”

            “What’d you think?” he queried.

            “Well, after I got about 50 pages in and realized it wasn’t about baseball I kind of lost interest. And don’t get me started on the Somerset Maugham they made me read in college. Of Human Bondage, what a tease.”

            Barton wasn’t sure if I was joking or stupid, but before he could confirm that it was a little of both I un-wedged myself from the desk, thanked him for his time and was off. Outside it was the kind of gorgeous spring weather that took me back to my college days when we’d grab a Frisbee and a cooler full of beer, pop the Grateful Dead’s American Beauty in the cassette deck and drive up to the mountains debating how it was possible we were failing Western Civ.

            With those memories in mind, the scoop on Sheehan in my notes and my car delightfully feces-free I pulled out the flip phone to call Miss Iceland in a state of euphoria delightfully free of gin and/or Xanax.

            “Hello,” she said a little too formally, as if she didn’t recognize the number.

            I leaned up against a rare rust-free spot on the Falcon and dropped my bombshell. “Ted Sheehan was gay!” I exclaimed.

            It was not exactly Hiroshima August ’45. “Who is this?”

            Mr. Peabody was just waking up, but this put him down for the count. “It’s Luke, Luke Williams, from The Artfield Review, the double murder suicide…” I was running out of details and octaves in my panicking voice when she finally cut in.

            “Oh yeah, hey Mr. Williams, what’s up?” Mister Williams? I quickly looked around for my father and just as quickly felt my heart shatter like when you dropped a piece of that gum that came with baseball cards on the floor.

            She did sound distracted so I still hoped to bring her back around. “Ted Sheehan, the VP at Artfield High who was shot, was gay. He couldn’t have been fooling around with the young girl. That shoots a hole in the whole police theory. We were right something more is going on here.”

            There was a fair to middling pause before things started to register. “Gay? Son of a bitch you were right.” I was happy we were back on the same page, but her shock at my actually being correct was a little off-putting. Also she didn’t seem excited or suggest she’d be right down so we could have a romantic tete-a-tete as I was hoping.

            If my dating life proved anything, however, I was not one to take “never in a million years” for an answer so I forged on. “This opens up a ton of possibilities. Why don’t you come out here and we can work it together,” I tried.

            “I’d like to, but the paper’s sent me to cover an event at the planetarium in St. Johnsbury.”

            “Planetarium? What’s going on there…Laser Zeppelin?”

            “What…uh…no, some kind of new educational program for grade schoolers,” she said, sounding dejected.

            “That shouldn’t take long. Come to my office afterwards.” Then still feeling good added, “I’ll take you out for dinner.”

            “I can’t. I’m off the story.”

            “What? Why?”

            “I pitched our angle to my editor and thought he was on board. Then out of nowhere he called me up at home last night to say I wasn’t ready for it yet,” she went on sadly, which perversely made me feel good, until it made me feel like a bad person and things came full circle back to miserableness, as they usually do in life. “They’re having the kid that was here before me work it freelance.”

            My brain was too sober to wrap my head around these myriad machinations. I was thinking I needed to get back to the well-stocked mini fridge at the office and discuss everything with Gladys when she cut in again. “Gotta go. I’m pulling up to the place now,” she alerted me, as I began to pace while brushing paint chips from the Falcon off my ass. “Good God! There must a hundred  snot-nosed bastards waiting to get in. This is gonna be a nightmare…” And with that she clicked off and I thought, for the first time in a longtime, I might be in love.

            Driving back to the office I felt strange. When I moved back to Artfield the plan was to hopefully live another 30 years, drink beer, play ball and read everything I could get my hands on. Ambition, investigative journalism and especially women be damned. The three had brought me nothing but frustration yet here I found myself as P.G. Wodehouse used to say of Bertie Wooster, “back in the soup again”, only with no Jeeves in sight.

            It was Miss Iceland, however, that was bothering me the most. My history of getting jazzed up as regards a woman only to be crushed was legendary. Folks had been predicting my impending nuptials to every woman that passed through my proverbial transom because I talked each one up like the greatest thing since self-adhesive stamps (seriously, what took so long). The closest I’d ever come, though, was one drunken proposal to Kayla using the chorus from Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight as she drove me home from Pete’s Pub; to which she replied “…wonderful tonight? What was I yesterday…or the day before that?” Hey, at least it wasn’t You Are So Beautiful…To Me or even worse I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face, I thought.

            Miss Iceland’s fingers told me she wasn’t engaged and she’d mentioned she lived alone, but for all I knew she could be a dominatrix lesbian with a fetish for feet porn- which by the way produces the message “Did you mean Sweet Corn?” when you try to Google it…uh, you know, for a story.

            By this time I had reached the office, there were three people dead and what appeared to be a coverup taking place so I decided it was time to “put childish things aside” as Pete Gent was told ad nauseum in North Dallas Forty and get back to business. As I looked up and down a main drag quaintly devoid of chain stores and fast food restaurants I realized Ted Sheehan was onto something. I too needed to stick around and see this matter through. I’d grown up here and it was my refuge in adulthood when times got tough. Following up seemed like the least I could do and frankly “the least I could do” was generally my M.O. Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy, so I entered the Review offices in search of cheap liquid refreshment and the counsel of Gladys Nutwell.

            What’s-her-name the 19 year old receptionist sat at the front desk popping a chocolate in her mouth and looking her signature bored, but beautiful. “Not sure four out of five dentists recommend a 100 Grand bar for breakfast, but I guess when you’re young…,” I wisecracked.

            “Want one?” she said, looking up and I’m not sure registering who I was.

            “No thanks. I just look at one of those or a Goldenberg’s Peanut Chew and the fillings start leaping out of my mouth. Besides I’m trying to watch my girlish figure.”

            “Oh, don’t worry it’s Fun Size, see,” she offered, holding up the tiny wrapper.

            “Yeah, that’s what I told my last girlfriend, ‘It’s not small, honey, it’s Fun Size.’ That didn’t work out well either.” She tilted her head like a well-endowed Labrador Retriever and I looked into the back office which was unkempt and empty.

            “Where’s Gladys?”

            “Oh, she had to run out to the bank. She didn’t say when she’d be back.”

            The reception desk was shockingly uncluttered, but for her personal phone and a single “While You Were Out” slip. I gave her a second, even tried to lead her with my eyes, like some kind of Clever Hans trick, to the message, until silence gave way to awkwardness and all my memories of High School and pretty girls started to breach the dam of repression. “Is that for me?” I asked, pointing decisively as it was clear she was more a visual/kinesthetic than auditory learner.

            “Right…uh some guy named Derf called,” she said, finally handing over the pink square.

            “Thanks,” I said, taking the paper that read only “Dirph” with a smiley face dotting the “i”. “You’re doing a heckuva job.” She shrugged as she bent over the desk for another candy and regret over my tone was instantly assuaged by the knowledge that my sarcasm had no effect on cleavage such as that.

            Back in my office I popped a Natty Ice and rummaged the desk drawers for a snack. Finding an ancient jar of peanut butter and a fistful of cracker packets left over from a long ago aborted soup diet I settled in. Gladys running an errand to the bank concerned me. She ran the place and rarely left her post. If she did it was at lunch. Not to mention leaving-I wanna say Naomi-the receptionist in charge was not her ultra-efficient style. We weren’t exactly heading up NORAD here, but still having Ms. Breasty McRacksome at the helm was akin to putting a 10 year old in charge of the Space Shuttle.

            I tried smearing peanut butter on a stale cracker with a letter opener, gave up and used my finger. I put a second cracker on top, popped the sandwich in my mouth and took a long pull letting the beer swirl around my mouth washing the sticky snack from between my teeth. As I did, I gave up for the moment on worrying about Gladys’s errand, Miss Iceland’s aloofness and where exactly the investigation was leading me and why I even cared so much. Then I picked up the phone and dialed Derf.

            Derf generally called for only two reasons. First to set up our yearly weekend at the races in Saratoga and, second, to settle a bet. Many nights I’d been woken to hear:

“Is Brown in the Ivy League?” “Yes.” “Crap.” Click;

“Who kidnapped Patty Hearst?” “The Symbionese Liberation Army. “Son of a…” Dial tone;

“What was the name of Tennessee Tuxedo’s sidekick?” “Chumley.” “Mother…” Silence.

            “Luke!” Derf answered, surprisingly upbeat.

            I paused for the inevitable inane trivia question, but when it failed to materialize I waded in. “Hey Derf. What’s up?”

            “I need to ask a favor.” My wallet immediately shriveled up like testicles at a Polar Bear Plunge. “My brother-in-law hooked me up with a job as a food merchandiser…”

            Never one to let a little thing like work get in the way of gambling he paused to let the ‘job’ part of the statement sink in. “What the hell’s a food merchandiser?” I asked, jumping in.

            “I hand out samples in supermarkets for a new product, Amalfi’s Gourmet Sausage,” he said, unenthusiastically. “I’m like the Abe Froman of Northern New England. They have me in six stores in three days up near you and I need a place to crash Thursday and Friday night. Can you put me up?”

            If I had any style this would’ve cramped it, but lacking same I had no ready excuse so I stalled. “Doesn’t a big intestine stuffing concern like this give you travel expenses?”

            “Yeah, but it came last week in the form of a per diem check and let’s just say me and Javier Velasquez didn’t remember the stretch at Suffolk Downs being quite that long.”

            “Sure, no problem,” I buckled.

            “Thanks and I’ll hook you up with all the sausage you can handle.”

            “As long as that’s not a euphemism,” I added, drolly, “I’m onboard.”

            I was calculating what this was going to cost me in dinners, reading time and other sundry matters when he suddenly changed the subject. “Hey, what happened up there? I heard there was a triple murder or something?”

            The Boston papers must’ve picked up the story from Burlington or Montpelier. Three dead in the sticks is hardly worth the news print in major cities these days so Derf probably didn’t know the details and I wasn’t about to fill him in as my Natty Ice warmed. “I’ll tell you about it when you get up here.”

            “How come it’s not on your website?” he questioned as the sound of banging keys came faintly over the line.

            “Cause we don’t have one. Try the Burlington Bee site,” I responded, looking for an exit.

            He typed away and I figured I’d stick around long enough to get his opinion of Miss Iceland whose photo was in the byline. But before I could ask he was strangely distracted by another picture altogether. “Hey who’s this guy about half way down the page…beneath the ad for Canadian Prozac?”

            Since no photos were allowed at the crime scene I recalled they ran a shot of Harry Bowden decked out in his dress blues. “That’s our police chief here. He’s been real hush-hush on the whole investigation. Why do you ask?”

            “Cause I know that dude,” he said, incredulously. “He owes me money!”

Chapter 5: Someone Hates My Car

    By next morning the paper was on its way to press, Miss Iceland was back in Burlington and I was where I was at my best- on the couch with a coffee, a stack of dollar store Oreos and a volume of Alan Sillitoe short stories. As I dove into the tale of how a 1950s British working class hero was not something to be, despite what John Lennon sang, I pondered putting my own life into novella form. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Drunkard leapt to mind as a possible working title when my phone rang.

            This was, for me, a record breaking third out-of-office phone call in less than 24 hours and as I angrily jammed the torn piece of newspaper I used as a bookmark into place I pondered how I was supposed to get anything done with all these interruptions. I checked the flip phone display before answering. It was my sister. “What’s up?” I started in with immediately while realizing Caller ID had rendered the art of exchanging pleasantries practically moot.

            “Hey. Andrew wanted me to call you.”

            “Really?” I replied thinking this sounded very CIA back channel-ish like I was about to be asked to broker an arms deal with the Mujahideen.

            “He said to tell you the State Police detectives came out this morning, reviewed the evidence and signed off on the department’s theory of the murders. As soon as the mandatory toxicology reports come back from Montpelier Chief Bowden will issue a statement,” she said very matter-of-factly. Then added, “oh and you and your little floosy should stay out of Johnny Java’s and the Episcopal Church.”

            “Floosy?” I answered, cocking an eyebrow then un-cocking it since I was on the phone. “Well you know the plan was to meet Scott and Zelda for some bathtub gin but the speakeasy was closed. And why shouldn’t I go to the coffee place or the church for that matter.” The first part of her message came straight from the Chief. It was this latter part of the message that I found most curious.

            “Listen, you don’t like those pretentious drinks anyway and you wouldn’t know a scone from a hole in your ass so just stay away,” she started. “Plus I heard you and your friend scared old Pastor Brooks right out of town. Stop trying to impress Blondie and do like I’ve been telling you. Go on the internet and don’t be too choosy…Rueben-esque is not a deal breaker.”

            “OK, we’re done here,” I started, but by the time I was finished there was a scream, a cry and then a dial tone on the other end.

            Well, that ruined my morning so I downed the last cookie, took the coffee to the bedroom and got dressed. Clean-wise I was down to a Nehru jacket and a pair of my Dad’s old Bermuda shorts so I pulled a Kris Kristofferson found my cleanest dirty shirt, pulled on yesterday’s jeans- that at this point were up to being last week’s jeans- and headed for the Falcon.

            An internet search the night before had yielded the info that Ted Sheehan was indeed divorced. The filing date was six years ago and as far as I could tell from subsequent searches there were no children involved. The reason for parting was not part of the public record, but the fact that Monica Carson was a nubile senior the year it went down had me intrigued.

            The plan was to hit Artfield High first and dig amongst some of my contacts on the staff for anything they might know about this supposed Ted Sheehan-Monica Carson relationship. I’d parked around back to avoid Helen and pretty much any neighbors. A chatter, I am not. Then just as I was about to put the key in the car door- because on the Falcon you still had to do things like that- I saw and smelled it. On the hood, amidst the rust and chipping paint, a large, fragrant turd.

            It was clear someone had placed or shat- I believe that’s correct, however I did not anticipate having to conjugate the past participle of the verb ‘to shit’ at this point in my life so bear with me- it there on purpose. This because it occupied point (0,0) had the hood been one of those X,Y charts that students are forced to work with in Freshman Algebra. In fact if the perpetrator had gotten up there to do it in say muddy shoes I could’ve calculated the slope-intercept of such an effort using the formula y=Mx + b…or in this instance maybe y=Mx + bm would be more appropriate.

I had no idea who would do such a thing. What I did know was it was intentional, it was human and they were apparently going for a bow before running out of steam. None of my exes would’ve wasted this kind of effort on me and I hadn’t given Miss Iceland any reason though it was still early in our acquaintance. Besides I couldn’t imagine anything coming out of that apple of an ass but rainbow sherbet.

Between the difficulty in trying wrap my head around such an act and the smell I decided it was time to take action. I went to the nearby recycling bin, grabbed a piece of cardboard and flicked the offending pile into the bushes. I’d ponder the whys and    what-fors later and since the Falcon couldn’t look any worse I eschewed trying to find a hose, fired her up and headed out.

On my way to the high school the smell began seeping in through the holes in the dashboard where things like a radio and glove compartment door used to be. I was thus forced to open both front windows which required a pair of pliers and the flexibility of a gymnast while trying to give at least a minimal nod to the rules of the road.

            I reached Artfield High a little after 9:30 AM and chose a spot in the rear of the student lot in range of a security camera hoping to catch the Midnight Pooper in the act. Though I realized this wasn’t likely given normal digestion time. Plus based on the size and firmness noted earlier he/she appeared to be reasonably healthy of colon so I’d probably have to wait them out.

            The high school itself was fairly large relative to the town population since it was a regional school drawing also from more rural communities to the North and East. However despite its stately lawns and blasé brick exterior, inside it resembled nothing so much as the bar of a Bangkok brothel. Now I assume there is a dress code designed to guide the fashion choices of the 14-18 year old girls in attendance, but apparently enforcement was, to be kind, lax. Bare midriffs, Daisy Dukes, yoga pants, mini-skirts, tiny tank tops it was like Pat Robertson's version of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Of course I could never feel sympathy for those creepy male teachers who slept with female students, but considering what passed as “school appropriate” clothing I was stunned one of their lawyers had never tried entrapment as a defense.

            I showed my ID, signed in at the office and got a visitor’s badge. I realize 9/11 and Sandy Hook were the reasons for these precautions, but I also felt it was an equally good idea to keep track of any indiscriminate men walking around these halls. I could only imagine the leering of middle-aged outside contractors. The corridors had cleared by now with the ringing of the late bell and I quickly made my way to the gym to see what info I could shake out of Lip.

            Max Lipper was the fittest, tannest 60 year old Jew this side of Boca Raton. He spent his days playing basketball, volleyball and what have you with students and his evenings participating in practically every adult sports recreation league Artfield and the surrounding areas had to offer. When he wasn’t pitching in a softball league or posting someone thirty years his junior low in the paint he could be found on a stool at Pete’s Pub sipping Absolut and cranberry and hitting on anything that moved.

            “I can’t believe you’re still teaching,” I said, sneaking up from behind as he set up plastic cones for that period’s activities.

            “My 33^rd glorious year,” he replied, turning around and grinning ear-to-ear. He then bypassed my outstretched hand in favor of a giant bear hug.

            “So I guess you were grandfathered in on Megan’s Law?” I joked.

            “I miss you, bud. When you coming back to play with us?”

            “With my knees forget it. You have a better chance of seeing me here teaching than on a softball field.”

            “You don’t want that,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “Those that can do and those that can’t teach.”

            “Yeah and those that can’t teach, teach gym.”

            We could of busted balls and told war stories all day, but the first kids were trickling out of the locker rooms so I figured I better get to the point.

            “Bud, can you help me out? What did you know about Ted Sheehan?”

            “Not much. As Vice-Principals go I liked him cause he left us alone.”

            “Are you saying he wasn’t doing his job?” I questioned. If so, maybe he was screwing around with Monica Carson; texting and SnapChat-ing his way through a mid-life crisis.

            “No, I just mean he was good. Didn’t sweat the little stuff. No drama.”

            I’d heard that the High School could be a crazy place. In the Elementary Schools they went on Lockdown every time a kid cried. At the High School, on the other hand, any day they didn’t have to bring the cops in was considered a win. “So what was he like personally?”

            “Don’t know. Nice guy always said hello, unlike most of the administration around here. But outside of school stuff he kept pretty much to himself. Even when he was teaching he never did Happy Hour or the Holiday or year-end parties.”

            The gym class was completely in and while the clothes were actually more sedate- baggy shorts, long t-shirts- there was enough Spandex to make me wonder if turning Lip loose in here wasn’t akin to inviting Roman Polanski to a Sweet 16.

            Lip dropped the last cone in place, blew his whistle and the milling students dropped into their squad spots just like we used to in our Supertramp Breakfast in America concert shirts and shorts over sweatpants- why the latter I’m not still not sure.

            I was about to cut out when Lip had one last thought. “You know who you might want to see is Mr. Barton, 10^th grade English teacher. I heard he was friends with Ted. They always did lunch duty together. We’ve got sophomores in here now. Check the lounge or Room 130 or 131, he should be free this period.”

            Lip gave me another huge hug and I shoved off to find Barton. I knew the school fairly well from covering various functions here for the paper. The Faculty Lounge came up first with nothing between it and the gym except the Special Ed. rooms; tiny boxes where a teacher and classroom aide are crammed in with 6-8 ADHD and Oppositional Defiant students in what looks like a Texas Tornado Steel Cage match. It’s a noble job for as the humorist David Sedaris once commented, “I’m sure there are plenty of kids with legitimate learning disabilities, but aren’t a lot of them just assholes?”

            Pondering this I peeked into the lounge which was just a converted classroom with a dining table, second-hand furniture, a bank of computers and a giant, overworked copy machine that probably chewed up a rainforest of paper a day. Still it was large and brightly lit unlike the dank caverns of yesteryear, so filled with cigarette smoke that it wasn’t clear whether exiting teachers were leaving the Faculty Room or the back of Cheech and Chong’s van. Through the window I spied three female teachers: two at the table grading papers, the third feeding stacks of papers into the copier as part of what I once heard referred to as the “give ‘em worksheets till their hands bleed” theory of education.

            I continued on, made a left, then a right before winding up in the boiler room where a custodian with a key chain so heavy it could’ve been used for the Olympic hammer throw directed me to Mr. Barton in room 131. Walking in I was confronted by a man who was everything I “could’ve if I’d done the things I should’ve” as Robert Earl Keen once crooned. Approximately my age, neat, fit, well-dressed and groomed to within an inch of his life. I was exhausted just looking at him. I used to joke with Gladys at the office that I was always late because it took me two hours to get ready in the morning. Then I’d run a hand up and down my slovenly self and crack, “Do you think this just happens?” Ron Barton could say the same thing, only without the sarcasm.

            “Hi, I’m Luke Williams from The Artfield Review. Do you have a minute to talk about Ted Sheehan? This won’t take long.”

            “Sure,” he said, extending a hand and giving mine a firm, confident shake. “There were some reporters here the other day, but I was doing grief counseling in the Guidance Office and must’ve missed them. Ted was a great guy. It’s been tough.”

            He finished writing that night’s homework on the polyurethane whiteboard that had replaced blackboards in all the rooms, I’m guessing because chalk dust was afflicting too many teachers with “white lung disease”. Capping the marker he took a seat on a stool and motioned me to a one piece desk/chair in the front row. Dropping down and squeezing in I was reminded just how bad my knees and how big my waistline had become.

            “So I hear you were fairly close with Ted,” I began.

            “Close as anyone I guess.”

            “He kept pretty much to himself, huh?”

            “Personally yes…professionally though he gave everything he had to the kids.”

            “I noticed. Going through the yearbooks it looked like he was involved in every fundraiser there was. What was the name of the club he ran?”

            Barton had gotten off his stool and moved over by his desk. “The Random Acts of Kindness Club. It was one of the most popular in the school because of him.”

            “Right. They didn’t have that when I went here. Though me and a coupla guys made up the ‘Vicious Acts of Vengeance Club’…though I don’t believe we were ever sanctioned by administration.”

            He laughed politely and opened the big file drawer on the near side of his desk. “Ted loved fundraisers because they were all-inclusive. Jocks, nerds, cool kids, artsy-types they could all participate. And they were into everything,” he said as he began pulling novelty giveaway items from the drawer. “Here’s a ‘Donate To Darfur’ button, a ‘Hurricane Katrina Aid’ magnet, ‘Autism Awareness’ drink cozy, ‘Red Nose Day’ noses.”

            He held out one of the latter as if to give it to me. “No thanks. I prefer to get my red nose the old-fashioned way…alcohol.” As he shoveled the giveaways back into the drawer I looked around thinking perhaps I missed my calling. Maybe I should’ve been an English teacher, surrounded by books and saying things like “There are no stupid questions, only stupid students” or “I don’t know can you go to the bathroom?” not so much because I thought it funny, but because I felt contractually obligated.

            “Have the police released any information about the crime,” he asked, waking me from my reverie. “I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill Ted.”

            I figured this was the perfect time to leak the police theory and gauge the reaction of someone who actually knew Sheehan. “The word I’m hearing is Ted and the girl were involved and the father didn’t approve.”

            “Involved in what?”

            This was not the reaction I was expecting. I thought ‘involved’ could only mean one thing in this scenario, but Barton was clearly confused. “You know…romantically,” I clarified.

            He shook his head. “Not possible.”

            This was the standard line on shows like Dateline and 48 Hours. It was never possible the brother, cousin, son, neighbor could’ve chopped up his family with a Ginsu knife and buried them in the backyard, but of course in the end he did. So I pressed him. “Why not? Ted was single, on his own. And Monica Carson was a looker.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” he said and fixed me with a look of absolute certainty. “Ted Sheehan was gay!”