Seventeen minutes after I arrived at the police department and asked to see the chief, I was sitting across the desk from her. In the interim, I read a free color brochure, complete with photographs that covered the department history and its current makeup, which consisted of one police chief, an administrative assistant, one lieutenant, three sergeants, and eight patrol officers. In addition, there were three school resource officers, five dispatchers, two community service officers, an animal control officer, and a code enforcement officer.
Chief Ivy Duncan was in her late forties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She was attired in the usual black short-sleeved uniform with her chief of police badge, her Burning Oaks Police Department patch, a pin that said CHIEF on each side of her collar, her name tag, two pens in her shirt pocket, and the tools of her trade attached to her belt, which creaked every time she moved. I’d been a sworn officer for a two-year period early in my career, and I can assure you the getup looked better on her than it ever did on me.
I’d given her one of my business cards, which she studied while I stood across the desk from her. From her expression, I couldn’t tell whether she felt antagonistic or kindly disposed toward private investigators.
She tossed the card on the desk and leaned back in her chair. “Welcome to Burning Oaks. What can I do for you?”
I sat down without invitation and put my shoulder bag on the floor by my feet. Psychologically speaking, I didn’t want to tower over her. I wanted us eye to eye like we were equals. Her more than me.
“I’m wondering how I could obtain a copy of the autopsy report on a woman who died here in 1961. Her maiden name was Redfern, first name Lenore. She married a man named Ned Lowe. She died of a drug overdose from what I’m told.”
“If you’re talking about an autopsy close to thirty years ago, that file would be in storage. Burning Oaks is a small town. We rely on contract pathologists, most of them located up in Bakersfield. No offense, but asking one of my staff to track that down would be a pain, and what’s the point?”
“What about the investigator’s report?”
“I doubt they’d make that available, but even assuming you laid hands on it, paperwork like that would be useless. In those days, officers weren’t as well-trained. Case notes were sketchy and sometimes incoherent. Some of the spelling errors are downright comical. Generally speaking, no agency’s going to open their files to scrutiny by someone outside law enforcement. We could get our butts sued. People are entitled to privacy, even dead ones. Especially dead ones.”
“Is there anybody here who might actually remember the case?”
“I’ll be happy to ask around, but it doesn’t sound like it would have generated much buzz. What’s the husband’s name again?”
“Ned Lowe.”
“And he’s still here in town?”
“He left four months after his wife’s death.”
“They have kids?”
“One. A little girl who was three at the time. She’s married now and living in Santa Teresa.”
“You have a copy of the death certificate?”
“I don’t.”
“Write to Sacramento. Maybe you’ll discover something pertinent.”
“Thanks. I should have thought of it myself.”
• • •
I returned to my car and made notes, although I noticed I was feeling sheepish. Chief Duncan had been polite, but she’d made it clear we weren’t going to sit around discussing old news. She didn’t know the case and wouldn’t speculate. If I’d thought about it, I’d have known how little encouragement I’d get. I rubber-banded the cards and returned them to my bag.
I checked the map for Burning Oaks High School and headed in that direction. I wondered if Pete Wolinsky had had better luck than I was having. For the first time in my life, I wished he were in the car with me. We could have compared notes or bounced around ideas about how to get what we were after. For all the corner-cutting he did, he was a wily old bastard and doubtless had a million clever tricks up his sleeve.
I parked on the street down the block from the high school and walked to the entrance, passing the football stadium, which was empty. There was a curious lack of activity, but it wasn’t until I reached the double doors and pushed that I realized the building was locked and dark. I stared, perplexed. Shit, this was Saturday. I backed up and scrutinized the facade, but there were no signs of life. Well, now what?
I returned to my car and circled back to the public library. I parked and went in. The prekindergartners were gone and the comfy chairs were filled with a different set of patrons. Most of the tables were now empty. Saturday afternoons were meant for movies, the local mall, and the park. I wasn’t sure what else small-town kids did these days.
I caught sight of Sandy Klemper showing a high-school-age student how to thread microfilm through a machine. She glanced up and smiled, raising a finger to let me know she’d seen me. I waited at the desk.
“Back again,” I said.
“I see that. Are you having any luck?”
“I was until I realized it was Saturday and the school’s locked up tight. You have copies of the yearbook?”
“The Clarion? We do,” she said. “Are you looking for classmates?”
I shook my head. “These kids were all ten years ahead of me.”
“What year did you graduate?”
“Nineteen sixty-seven, but not from here. I went to Santa Teresa High. The yearbooks I’m interested in are 1955 through ’57.”
Her expression shifted. “Why the sudden interest in Burning Oaks High School? I had a man in here a few months ago looking at the same years.”
“Pete Wolinsky. That was actually a year ago. He was a friend of mine.”
“I wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was nice; a bit weird-looking, but we ended up chatting for a long time. Did you know he was a detective?”
“I did. We trained together at the same agency.”
“Wow. Guess you could have quizzed him and saved yourself a trip.”
“I would have if I’d had the chance. He died. I’ve been asked to follow up on a case of his.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant.”
“No way you could have known.”
“Still, I shouldn’t have commented on his appearance. That was uncalled for.”
“He wouldn’t have taken offense,” I said. “You want to point me in the right direction? I can find the yearbooks on my own.”
“No need. I’ll round them up for you.”
“Thanks.”
I took a seat.
When she reappeared, the yearbooks she carried included 1954 and 1958 in addition to the three I’d asked for.
“Thanks. This is great.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
I started with the 1954 Clarion, looking for Lenore Redfern, who was nowhere to be found. There was no index to the photographs and references to individual students. I suppose with a sizable student body that would be too much to expect. I leafed through page by page, finding nothing until I finally realized ’54 was before her time. I found one photograph of her in the 1955 Clarion, her sophomore year, and one picture of her in the 1956 Clarion, her junior year, ages fifteen and sixteen, respectively. Amazing how quickly I felt myself transported. I’d been out of high school for roughly twenty years and even the idea of it was making my stomach hurt.
I knew my impression of Lenore was colored by what I knew of her history, truncated as it was, but certain characteristics seemed evident. She wasn’t smiling in either photo, which left her looking pale and insecure. Even in a one-inch-by-one-inch format, her posture was poor. She was too thin and her hairstyle was a miserable combination of bangs cut too short, a spit curl on either side of her forehead, and the remaining hair held back with bobby pins. She wore a white blo
use with a small triangular scarf knotted at the collar. Same blouse, two different scarves. The photographs, of course, were in black and white, but even so, she looked pinched. It troubled me knowing the young Lenore had no idea she’d never reach the age of twenty-two.
Ned Lowe was better represented, but not by much. To my surprise, I realized he owed his entire photographic presence to Shirley Ann Kastle, who seemed to be everywhere. She was one among six junior varsity cheerleaders. In the 1954 Clarion, her junior year, she posed in her saddle oxfords, white crew socks, and her flippy little skirt, holding pompoms aloft. I spotted her photograph among members of the glee club, the pep club, the home economics club, and the drama club. Nothing that required brains or academic excellence, but she was pretty. I hate to admit how much that matters when you’re sixteen years old.
That same year, she was one of six princesses at the junior prom, where she and Ned Lowe posed with Matt Mueller and Debbie Johnston, the homecoming king and queen. Ned had given Shirley Ann a wrist corsage. Shirley Ann also appeared in the high school production of Our Town, playing the part of Emily Webb, the play’s main character, if my memory was correct. This was the Friday night cast. Having a Saturday night cast as well allowed twice the number of students to participate. I noticed that in the Friday night cast, the part of Joe Stoddard, the undertaker, was played by Ned Lowe. There were three staged-looking photographs from the production itself, and Shirley Ann appeared in two. The only picture of Ned was in the group shot of the Friday night cast, second row on the left. I leaned close, but couldn’t determine much about him except that his hair was cut very short on the sides and arranged in a pompadour on top. I found a better picture of him among the juniors: a postage stamp–size black-and-white image. He was handsome in a pouty sort of way.
I wondered what I would have thought of him if I’d gone to high school with him myself. Mentally, I stepped back and studied the class officers, the representatives to Boys State, the merit scholarship winners, and the members of student council, comparing Ned’s image to those of his classmates. He struck me as technically attractive, but marginal. I was guessing he met Shirley Ann Kastle as a result of their casting in the school play. I couldn’t imagine why she’d taken up with the likes of him.
I checked the pictures of graduating seniors in the 1955 Clarion and there he was again. By then, his smile was practiced. He’d learned that setting his teeth in a certain way created the impression of a smile without his having to experience anything worth smiling about. Beside his picture in the brief few lines accorded each student, he listed his activities as glee club and pep club. Shit, everybody was in the pep club. Under Hobby, he listed “photography.” Ambition: “to be rich and successful.” Memory: “junior prom.” Song: “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Pet Peeve: “stuck-up girls.”
There was no sign of Shirley Ann among graduating seniors. Had she died? Surely not.
I flipped back to Lenore Redfern’s photograph that same year, knowing she was a junior the year Ned graduated. What must she have thought when the semi-attractive Ned suddenly turned his phony smile on her? I turned to the 1956 Clarion, but there was no sign of her photograph among the graduating seniors.
I sat for a long time thinking about the three: Ned Lowe, Shirley Ann Kastle, and Lenore Redfern. I remembered the intensity of high school, all those hormones, like spotlights, casting events in high relief. Everything felt like forever. Love, betrayal, impossible crushes, breakups, jealousies, and yearnings. How had poor little Lenore ended up in Ned Lowe’s sights? What was the story? More important, how was I going to find out?
I did make one unexpected discovery that so startled me, I yelped aloud, thus drawing the stares of two people at an adjoining table. As I leafed through pages devoted to school activities, I spotted Ned’s photograph among members of the German club, which wasn’t interesting in and of itself. What caught my attention was an enlarged photo of the president of the organization—a fellow whose name was George Dayton.
Suddenly I understood where the fake IRS agent had come up with his alias. I’d been almost certain Ned Lowe was behind Ruth’s trumped-up audit request. It didn’t help with my current query, but at least a wee piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. I couldn’t wait to tell Ruth, who’d scoffed at my suspicions.
I closed the yearbooks and stacked them, gathered my shoulder bag and my notes, and repaired to the main desk, where the librarian was perched on a stool.
“How’d you do?”
“Not bad,” I said.
“If you don’t mind my asking, are you investigating someone in particular?”
“A guy named Ned Lowe. His wife committed suicide in 1961, and there’s a question about what went on. I thought background information would help. Would any of the teachers from the midfifties still be around?”
“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?”
I kept my mouth shut and let her run on. My job here was to supply the occasional prompt and otherwise keep out of the way.