Read Online The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes - Free Book Online Page A

took advantage of the fact that well-bred girls with glossy manes rarely tell an adult to butt out.
    â€œYou know where I could find her?”
    â€œMs. Sutton has the schedule cards,” she said, watching the game intently.
    â€œMs. Sutton?”
    â€œLaura, the one with the French braids.”
    One of the girls who played hard and well was really the teacher.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    A small office opened off the right-hand side of a basketball court. I figured Ms. Sutton was not going to make a sudden appearance because the game was tight and her team needed her. She was a well-organized teacher, with four index card files on her desk, neatly marked by class. I snitched Elsie’s card from the freshman file, and I’m sorry for any inconvenience that may have caused Ms. Sutton. I wish she played on my team at the Y. She was short, even for a setter, but spunky. She made a couple of fairly impossible digs, and even spiked a few, which is tough for a shorty.
    I checked my wristwatch. In half an hour Elsie McLintock would pass from English block to Social Studies block. That gave me thirty minutes to find out whether a block was a building or a unit of time, and what Elsie looked like.
    The block business was easy. I went back to the building with the diagram and found English block listed in the legend at the bottom of the map. Identifying Elsie was trickier. They didn’t have student photos posted. It looked pretty futile until I realized every classroom had a phone.
    I located Elsie’s English class, room 121, with little trouble. All English classes were in the English block, all language classes were in the Language block, all math classes were in another red brick house, and so on. I found an empty room across the hall, took the receiver off the hook, and punched 121, wondering who I’d reach. Sometimes internal phone systems have a code. You know, you have to dial nine first or something. The buzz in Elsie’s classroom was so loud it startled me.
    Elsie’s teacher, a chubby, balding man, crossed the room and I ducked behind the door.
    â€œSorry to interrupt,” I said quickly. “Elsie McLintock to the office, please.”
    â€œSarah?” the deep voice said.
    I made a monosyllabic neutral response. It’s so easy to lie on the phone.
    â€œI really can’t have these interruptions.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said very sincerely. “Please send her right away. It’s urgent.”
    As the girl left the room I followed her.
    She was small. Tidy. Light brown hair fell in a well-cut curve to her shoulders. She wore a gray denim knee-length skirt and a pastel flower-patterned shirt. Two gold bracelets clinked on her wrist.
    â€œElsie,” I called.
    She turned. At least I’d gotten the right one.
    â€œYou don’t need to go to the office.”
    â€œBut Mr. Chesney said—Who are you?”
    â€œJerry Toland hired me to find Valerie.”
    â€œHumph,” she said, or something like it.
    â€œCan we go someplace and talk?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll be late for American Studies.”
    â€œDo you know where Valerie is?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you care?”
    She gave me a look. “Well, of course. She’s my friend.”
    â€œThen we need to talk.”
    â€œThere’s the lounge,” she said reluctantly.
    â€œFine,” I said.
    She led the way to this immense multileveled cushioned room, done in soothing blues. I didn’t see why any of the kids went to class when they could snooze on deep blue velvet couches. We sat on one of them. I ran my hand over the smooth plush.
    â€œWhat did you say your name was?” Elsie’s folks must have told her not to talk to strangers. I passed over one of my business cards. They seem to have a calming effect, although for eighteen bucks you can get three hundred printed to say you’re the President.
    The girl gave me the once over and I