A Violent End at Blake Ranch (10 page)

She catches the look on my face and laughs. “Yes, I know what you're thinking. Some of them stay that way.”

We both laugh.

“Did Nonie have a boyfriend?”

“Not that I know of. That doesn't mean she didn't. It's amazing what kids can get up to, no matter how much you try to keep an eye on them.” She narrows her eyes, caught up in the past. “I'm thinking back, and I can't say that Nonie was one of the precocious ones sexually. Some of these girls . . .” She shakes her head. “Let's just say there are a couple every year who could do well with a chastity belt. I pray that my girls aren't in that category.”

I like Lottie. She's outspoken but without a hint of malice. “Any idea how Nonie would have had contact with any man outside her family or her classmates?”

“I don't know in particular. But I know some of the girls babysit at that age. And of course there are the men teachers.”

When I get up to leave, she tells me to wait. She leaves the room and comes back with a plastic ziplock bag full of cookies.

“I'll take it,” I say. “They may be the best cookies I ever ate.” I hope Loretta doesn't hear that I said that.

I thank her for her help. She really has been helpful, especially with her suggestion that Nonie might have known something she claimed somebody would pay her to keep quiet. That fits with what the Curtis couple told me. More than ever I want to get my hands on that psychiatric evaluation. If Nonie bragged to her fellow students, she might also have bragged to the psychiatrist—maybe including names.

CHAPTER 8

Nonie's school records indicate that she had two male teachers—the math teacher, Alvin Haley, and the science teacher, Otto Schneider.

“Alvin is still with us,” Jim Krueger, the school principal says, “but Otto left halfway through that same year.”

We're in Krueger's office. I've told him I want to find out who Nonie's male teachers were. Krueger is a good principal, popular with students and teachers alike. To look at him, with his paunch and a sparse crop of hair that he combs over, you might think he could be the object of ridicule, but he's known as a fair man, and that goes over well.

“Why did Otto Schneider leave?”

“He said it was either get out of teaching or end up murdering one of the kids. He said he realized right away that he wasn't cut out for teaching. I wasn't principal at the time. I was a coach, and we used to talk some.”

“You know where he went?”

Krueger settles back in his chair patting his remaining strands of hair, thinking. “That's been a while. I seem to recall he went to work for a chemical company down on the coast. I don't remember which one. Kind of left the school in a lurch for a teacher. I ended up taking one of his classes, though the only science I knew was what I got in my year of ‘jock science' when I was in college.”

Krueger tells me he doesn't know anybody who might have kept up with Schneider. “He was from Bobtail and took the job here because we were hiring. Maybe somebody from there knows what became of him. Why are you asking about Nonie's male teachers? Is there some suggestion that she was interfered with?”

“Not as far as I know. It's something I'm following up on.”

“I was going to say, if you looked to Schneider for that, I think you'd be better off looking elsewhere. If I'm not mistaken, he played for the other team, if you know what I mean.”

That gets my interest. “Is there any chance that Nonie found out he was gay and tried to use it against him?”

Krueger ponders the question and shakes his head. “I don't know how she'd find out. He was a quiet guy, kept to himself. He wasn't here that long.”

“Any rumors that he might have been interested in any of the boys? If she'd found that out . . .”

“Look, you know as well as I do, if there had ever been the slightest hint, there would have been an uproar.”

Not only that, but if Nonie had been intending to blackmail him when she returned home, she would have been disappointed, since he'd been gone from Jarrett Creek for a long time.

Before I leave to go talk to Alvin Haley, I tell Krueger I'd like to get a look at Nonie's school records.

“I'll have her file ready for you tomorrow. Older records are kept in another building,” Krueger says.

Alvin Haley's last class ends at four o'clock, and I find him in his classroom, sitting at his desk, head in his hands.

“Excuse me.”

His head jerks up. “Yes? What can I do for you?” He's a small man with an old-fashioned crew cut and wire-rim glasses. I can tell he's trying to figure out where he knows me from.

I introduce myself. “Wonder if I can have a minute of your time?”

“What's this about?”

“I want to ask you about one of your former students, Nonie Blake.”

“Oh yes. I heard what happened. Let me get a chair for you,” he says. “Those student desks will break your back.” He's back in a minute with another chair like the one he's sitting in. “I don't know what I can tell you,” he says, fussing over the position of the chair as if it matters. “I hardly knew the girl.”

I sit down and cross my ankle over my knee. “You had her in your math class when she was in the eighth grade?”

“That sounds right.”

“As I understand it, she refused to do homework. You recall that?”

He looks startled. “Who in the world told you that? I'd completely forgotten.”

“Lottie Raines remembered it.”

“Of course, it stands to reason she'd remember.”

“Why is that?”

“She quit teaching when she got married, so she only had four or five years of classes to remember. When you've taught as long as I have, the students start to blend into one big wriggling mass of chaos in your mind. Except for the exceptional students, of course, and they're rare.”

“So nothing about Nonie stands out for you?”

“Now that you mention the homework situation, I do remember because it was unusual. Sometimes you get students who won't do the homework because they're ashamed to admit they can't do it, or because their home situation is a problem. But as I recall she wouldn't do it because she got it in her head it was beneath her.”

“Do you remember how it came up?”

“She announced it the first time I handed out a homework sheet. I remember she said it loud enough so all the students could hear her, that she wasn't doing homework. I told her that was fine, but she had to understand that it was part of her grade and if she didn't do it, I'd grade her down.”

“What did she say to that?”

“Said she didn't care.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the ridge of his nose. “This is coming back to me. I remember being surprised. Something like that hadn't happened to me before—I was a new teacher. I didn't know whether to take her seriously. I didn't know her, so I thought maybe she was trying to impress her classmates. I asked some of her teachers from the previous year, and they said they hadn't had that problem.” He puts his glasses back on. “But she was serious. Never turned in homework. 'Course she was only in my class for a few months before she . . . well, you know.”

“I understand she was a good student.”

He nods and lets out a sound of exasperation. “Like I said, I was new to teaching. If something like that happened nowadays, I'd probably ignore it until I tested her. Then when I saw that she tested out on the material, I'd let the homework slide.”

“Did she defy you in other ways?”

He rubs his hand back and forth across his jawline, thinking again. “If she did, I don't recall it. I've learned that there are a couple of students every year who have trouble following the rules or need to act out for one reason or another.”

“Did you ever have a talk with her outside of class?”

“I'm sure I must have asked to speak to her after class about the homework issue, but if you mean outside of school, no.”

“One of the other teachers mentioned hearing her brag about things that other students didn't believe. Do you recall noticing anything about her relationships with other students?”

“Like I said, if I did at the time, I don't remember.”

When I get back to what we grandly call headquarters, which is no more than a big front room with two jail cells in back, Bill Odum is still there. He usually leaves at five. He's got a funny look on his face.

“What's up? Why are you still here?”

“A call came in that I thought I ought to tell you about in person.”

“Uh-oh. Who from?”

“From Sheriff Hedges in Bobtail.”

I sit down at my desk. It's odd for Hedges to call me. I worked with him on a case a while back and liked him, but I haven't had any business with him since. “What did he want?”

“He said the state is doing this program where they're assigning rookie cops to small towns. He thought since we're shorthanded we might like to have the help, so he put in a request for one of them. He said it was a long shot, which is why he didn't tell you anything in advance. He was calling today to say we're getting one of the rookies. A woman.”

“Woman?”

“Yes sir, and . . .” He screws up his face. “The thing is, it's an attempt to get more minority cops in small towns. She's a Mexican. I mean, Hispanic, I guess they call it.”

I'm struck temporarily mute, and Odum and I stare at each other. As sheriff of the county, Hedges has the right to appoint the police chiefs of the towns in his jurisdiction, so I guess that means he can assign deputies, too.

“That will be interesting,” I say. “When did he say she'd be here?”

“Next week.”

I cast an eye around the room. Somehow I think a woman is going to find it less than eye-catching. The spare desk is stacked with the filing I haven't had time for, with boxes against one wall full of the same. There are no pictures in the room, just framed documents from the state and an official photograph of the governor. I start laughing.

“What's funny?” Odum says.

I tell him my first response, that the state of the room would be unacceptable to a woman.

“You know that's sexist, don't you?” he says, grinning, with a twinkle in his eyes.

I sigh. “So if I don't tidy up, I'm a slob, and if I do, I'm being sexist. I guess we're going to learn a few things from this experience. Did Hedges say how long she was going to be with us or how her salary is getting paid?”

“He said the state is funding the program, but he didn't say how long she'd be here.”

“Did he tell you her name?”

“He didn't say, and I didn't think to ask.”

“That's all right. I'll call Hedges and have him fill me in.” I nod toward the spare desk. “At the very least we ought to clear that desk so she feels welcome.”

I'm home, and it's almost six o'clock when my cell phone rings and the caller identifies himself as Dr. Richard Buckley.