Twenty-Four

Not long after Trent left, I had a text from someone named Arthur Crone, with the teachers union, saying he'd had a call from Bonnie and wondered if now was a good time to call. I texted back: Yes.

"I did some checking," he said moments later. "You don't have to worry about this lawsuit. It's flimsy to begin with anyway. But we've got your back on this. Won't cost you a penny."

"Did you already tell Bonnie?" I asked.

"No, she asked me to look into it and then I went directly to you. You want me to let her know?"

"Leave it with me. And thanks."

The moment I was done with Arthur, another text. This one was from Jack. He had been to the bank and had the ten thousand in cash for the boat. I replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

When I returned the yearbooks to the office, I asked Belinda if the school had addresses on file for former students.

"Name?" she asked.

"William Finster. Billy. The one I mentioned earlier, that I ran into."

She tapped away on her computer. "We've got one, but it's old."

"I'll take it anyway," I said, bringing out a pen and a small pad from my pocket.

Belinda gave me an address on Sycamore Drive. I scribbled it down. Uncharacteristically for her, she asked, "What are you looking for him for again?"

"I might engage his services," I said. "When I ran into him he mentioned something about doing renovation work. Should have got his number from him at the time."

That was enough to satisfy Belinda. I hoped.

Now that I had an address, what was I going to do with it? It was likely outdated, and even if it was current, what was the plan? Knock on his door and ask him to reconsider? Sneak Trent's gun out of his desk and shoot Billy through the head?

Yeah, there was an idea.

"Belinda," I said, "can I bug you for one other thing?" She looked at me expectantly. "Still have an address for Anson Reynolds?"

"There's a name I haven't thought of in a while," she said, turning to her computer and tapping away. "Not too long after he died, his wife sent us a change-of-address in case there were any benefits forms or anything to pass on. She sold their house and moved into an apartment. Here we go. On Golden Hill." She wrote an address and phone number on a notepad sheet and handed it to me.

"What's her name again?"

"Grace."

Before she could ask, I offered a reason. "This Billy and a couple of his buds were wondering what happened to their coach, didn't know he'd passed, and were thinking of sending his wife a note about, you know, how they had nice memories of him."

"Isn't that nice."

After the last bell went, and as I was heading for the door that would take me out to the parking lot, I passed Herb's room. The door was open and I glanced in as I walked by. He was sitting at his desk, scrolling through his phone.

I stopped, went back, and walked straight in without knocking. I was at his desk, standing in front of him, before he raised his head. He reared back slightly, my presence clearly startling him.

"Richard," he said.

"We need to clear the air, you and I."

Herb moved his tongue inside his left cheek. "Okay," he said slowly.

"You're pissed I told Trent and the police what Mark LeDrew said about you. That somehow I impugned your professionalism. If you had any, that might be the case. Way I see it is, I did more than save your life. I gave you a heads-up. There might be more Mark LeDrews out there. If I were you, I'd be thinking about that, about all the kids I've mocked and humiliated and put down. I'd be looking over my shoulder. What goes around comes around. You might think I've got some score to settle with you, but I don't. I'm only a messenger. Deal with it."

I walked out.

I decided to pay a visit to Grace Reynolds before I did anything else.

If it was her late husband, Anson, who'd abused my blackmailer, that was something I would like to know, and not just to clear myself in his eyes. The truth needed to be exposed to the purifying power of sunlight if it helped those who'd been wronged.

I wasn't na?ve enough to think a conversation with Anson's widow would provide me any real answers. It wasn't like I could flat out ask her if she'd ever suspected he had exploited his students sexually. What I wanted to know and what she was likely to divulge were two entirely different things. But I thought, maybe by talking to her, I could get a better sense of who he was and how she felt about him.

It didn't seem fair to drop in on her unannounced, so I called first. Told her who I was, that my course load at Lodge High was shifting, that I was going to be taking on some physical education classes for which I was not in the least qualified, and wondered whether it was possible she had saved any of her husband's lesson plans from when he taught.

If my story raised any suspicions on her part, it didn't come across on the phone. "Well, you're welcome to drop by, but I don't know what I might have," she said, and then told me where she lived, which of course I already knew.

She lived on the first floor of a three-story apartment building that would have been built in the first half of the last century. A plain red-brick structure that backed onto a commuter line. Grace buzzed me in right away and met me at the door to her place.

"I put on some coffee," she said. "I should have asked if you liked coffee. Do you like coffee? If you don't, I can make tea. I might even have some beer in the back of the fridge but it would be pretty old."

I said coffee was fine.

We sat in her very small and crowded living room. I had the sense that when she downsized from a house to this place, she hadn't wanted to part with much, so the space had enough furniture for two living rooms.

We engaged in some general small talk as we drank our coffee. The weather we'd been having, how the traffic seemed worse every year.

"I didn't have a chance to pull anything out for you," she said. "But I did save some of Anson's school stuff."

Considering my cover story, I should have been delighted, but I was also a little worried. I wondered how many boxes of material I'd have to lug out of here to maintain appearances.

"I'll show you," she said, putting aside her coffee and leading me down a short hallway. The unit had two small bedrooms. The first one we passed was clearly where she slept. A pink chenille bedspread, a dozen throw pillows, a painting of the ocean you might find in any hotel room in America.

The door to the second bedroom was closed.

"I have to put my shoulder into it," she said, turning the knob and pushing. Something on the other side kept her from opening it wide. Once there was a two-foot gap she stepped aside and let me look in.

Sweet mother of God.

The room was filled, almost to the ceiling, with dozens—more likely hundreds—of boxes. Banker boxes, liquor boxes, shoeboxes even. And other items randomly scattered about, like a small fake Christmas tree, a pair of ice skates, drapes rolled up in a heap, more throw pillows without covers. Somewhere in the back, I could see handlebars that I was guessing were attached to an exercise bike.

"His lessons would be in one of these boxes somewhere," she said. "I labeled some of them, but not all. But you're welcome to have a browse."

"Well," I said. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me. Could take a while."

"I thought you might say that. I should have told you over the phone, but I guess I was just happy to have someone come see me."

I smiled. "Why don't we go back and finish our coffee before I get started."

When we were back in the living room, Grace said, "You might be the first person from Lodge I've seen since Anson passed."

I said, honestly, "I feel badly I never came by to see you. I don't even think I went to the funeral, and for that I apologize."

"Oh, don't feel bad about that. There was no funeral."

My eyebrows went up. "No?"

"Considering everything, I couldn't do it. Couldn't handle the questions."

I wondered what she meant by that. "I wasn't even aware that Anson had been sick. It seemed like one day he was there, and one day he wasn't."

She nodded slowly. "Everyone was pretty good about keeping their promise."

"I'm sorry. What do you mean?"

"About how Anson passed. It's been long enough that it's easier to talk about now." She sighed, got up, and as she headed for the kitchen asked, "Can I get you something stronger than coffee?"

"I'm okay."

I heard a refrigerator open, the sound of some ice cubes being scooped up and dropped into a glass, and when Grace returned she had a small tumbler filled to the top with something clear. She took a sip and sat back down.

"Anson killed himself," she said.