more to add. That’s how it is.”
“You weren’t on the police force then, were you? How can you be so sure it’s all in the report?”
J.C. drank his beer and waved his hand for another. A young woman in red slacks who doubled as server and bartender sauntered over, winked at them both, and took away the empty bottles.
“It’s there,” J.C. said, scowling not so much at Charlie as at the rest of the dining room, the other half dozen people in it, the gaudy sunset beyond the windows. “I know it’s all there because no one gave a shit about that goddamn fire.”
Charlie ordered a bucket of steamer clams and they went to work on them and a loaf of hot bread that was included. Neither spoke for several minutes.
“Look, Charlie,” J.C. said then, “the insurance guy who came down after the fire, he was a jerk, you know?”
Charlie shrugged. “Actually he’s pretty good.
He’s got a nose for arson.”
“Maybe so, but he’s a jerk. That was too soon after all the trouble here. People who could talk just wanted to talk about the trouble. People who couldn’t talk about that just plain couldn’t talk about anything. He thought they were being evasive. Evasive, hell! They just didn’t give a shit.”
“What trouble was that?” Charlie asked and knew immediately that this was what J.C. wanted to talk about, all he wanted to talk about.
“See? That’s how you’re different from that other one. People’d bring it up and he’d close his notebook, say thanks, and go away. It was in the papers. You probably saw it and forgot already. They haven’t forgotten here.”
His voice had become low, almost menacing. He looked up from his bowl of clam juice and bread, cast a quick, wary glance about the room, and lowered his voice even more. His story was interrupted repeatedly by the busboy removing shells, the woman in red slacks bringing more clams, other customers who greeted him, the arrival of more beer, his own long silences as he pondered what to say or stopped to eat again. It took him over an hour.
Two sisters, Beth and Louise Dworkin, had moved to the coast ten years ago, he said. Beth was fifty-three, Louise forty-three. Neither had ever married. They had been schoolteachers in Sacramento until they moved to Orick to start their own boarding school for children up to the sixth grade. Some children were left with them for a week at a time only, some for a season, some a year.
“They hired a music teacher, another teacher to help out, a bus driver for field trips—just like any school. And they made out like bandits, that’s for sure. Then the trouble started.” J.C.’s dark blue eyes looked black and dull.
“Around Christmas most of the kids went home, but a bunch of them stayed on up there over the holidays. A week before Christmas, four years ago, one of the little girls, eleven years old, was found wandering in the woods stark naked and crazy as a bedbug. Gibbering, screaming. A bunch of college kids spotted her. Two of the guys took off after her. She was really crazy, fighting, screaming. Anyway, she got loose and ran to the cliff and went over the side.”
The college kids had gone to the police, and about the same time the Dworkin sisters had called to report the little girl’s disappearance. Their shock at hearing about the death was complete, and they talked about sending the rest of the children home and closing down the school for a while, or maybe even forever, but people talked them out of it. Other children were acting strangely, but the doctor called it hysteria. Beth had developed severe headaches, and he said that was stress related. With Christmas at hand, sick kids, a sick teacher, it was more than the doctor could cope with, and he was due for a couple of weeks in Hawaii, so he tended to dismiss all the symptoms as hysteria, effects of the unfortunate death that no one was responsible for. It would pass, he reassured Louise, as soon as the new term began and things got
“You weren’t on the police force then, were you? How can you be so sure it’s all in the report?”
J.C. drank his beer and waved his hand for another. A young woman in red slacks who doubled as server and bartender sauntered over, winked at them both, and took away the empty bottles.
“It’s there,” J.C. said, scowling not so much at Charlie as at the rest of the dining room, the other half dozen people in it, the gaudy sunset beyond the windows. “I know it’s all there because no one gave a shit about that goddamn fire.”
Charlie ordered a bucket of steamer clams and they went to work on them and a loaf of hot bread that was included. Neither spoke for several minutes.
“Look, Charlie,” J.C. said then, “the insurance guy who came down after the fire, he was a jerk, you know?”
Charlie shrugged. “Actually he’s pretty good.
He’s got a nose for arson.”
“Maybe so, but he’s a jerk. That was too soon after all the trouble here. People who could talk just wanted to talk about the trouble. People who couldn’t talk about that just plain couldn’t talk about anything. He thought they were being evasive. Evasive, hell! They just didn’t give a shit.”
“What trouble was that?” Charlie asked and knew immediately that this was what J.C. wanted to talk about, all he wanted to talk about.
“See? That’s how you’re different from that other one. People’d bring it up and he’d close his notebook, say thanks, and go away. It was in the papers. You probably saw it and forgot already. They haven’t forgotten here.”
His voice had become low, almost menacing. He looked up from his bowl of clam juice and bread, cast a quick, wary glance about the room, and lowered his voice even more. His story was interrupted repeatedly by the busboy removing shells, the woman in red slacks bringing more clams, other customers who greeted him, the arrival of more beer, his own long silences as he pondered what to say or stopped to eat again. It took him over an hour.
Two sisters, Beth and Louise Dworkin, had moved to the coast ten years ago, he said. Beth was fifty-three, Louise forty-three. Neither had ever married. They had been schoolteachers in Sacramento until they moved to Orick to start their own boarding school for children up to the sixth grade. Some children were left with them for a week at a time only, some for a season, some a year.
“They hired a music teacher, another teacher to help out, a bus driver for field trips—just like any school. And they made out like bandits, that’s for sure. Then the trouble started.” J.C.’s dark blue eyes looked black and dull.
“Around Christmas most of the kids went home, but a bunch of them stayed on up there over the holidays. A week before Christmas, four years ago, one of the little girls, eleven years old, was found wandering in the woods stark naked and crazy as a bedbug. Gibbering, screaming. A bunch of college kids spotted her. Two of the guys took off after her. She was really crazy, fighting, screaming. Anyway, she got loose and ran to the cliff and went over the side.”
The college kids had gone to the police, and about the same time the Dworkin sisters had called to report the little girl’s disappearance. Their shock at hearing about the death was complete, and they talked about sending the rest of the children home and closing down the school for a while, or maybe even forever, but people talked them out of it. Other children were acting strangely, but the doctor called it hysteria. Beth had developed severe headaches, and he said that was stress related. With Christmas at hand, sick kids, a sick teacher, it was more than the doctor could cope with, and he was due for a couple of weeks in Hawaii, so he tended to dismiss all the symptoms as hysteria, effects of the unfortunate death that no one was responsible for. It would pass, he reassured Louise, as soon as the new term began and things got
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