The Hayloft: a 1950s Mystery (6 page)

Sylvia had stopped me in the hall as I was
walking to my homeroom in the cafeteria, before being dismissed for
the day yesterday. She was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak
afternoon. I told her that sure, I would meet her in the morning.
She didn’t state a purpose, and I doubted that she had another
intrigue brewing. I was getting used to rising with the sun, unlike
my days at Atherton where I had slept as long as possible and
underachieved my way to grades not high enough to satisfy my
parents. I told my aunt and uncle that I was going in to do
homework.

The auditorium was dark as I entered. I
looked at my watch. I was early. I carefully made my way down the
aisle and onto the stage. It was almost pitch black in the wing. I
remembered where the switchbox was, but finding it blind was
something else. I felt my way, keeping my hands in front of me. I
was getting close when I tripped on a piece of a set and fell onto
my hands and knees on the wooden floor. Hard.

Swearing under my breath, I crawled the final
few feet to the wall in an undignified manner and located the
switch. Being able to see improved my spirits. I wandered onto the
stage and looked out at the empty auditorium. The balcony loomed
above the orchestra section, ominous in the shadows. The balcony
from which Ralph had fallen.

I tried to picture how it had happened, but I
couldn’t. Of course, there was a low wall in front of the balcony.
Nobody would fall over it unless he was drunk—or pushed. Even then,
the distance of the fall was not necessarily enough to kill a
person, unless he landed on his head.

One of the doors to the auditorium opened. I
suddenly realized that I was a sitting duck in the middle of the
stage. Or at least a standing duck. I breathed easier when I
recognized Sylvia and Natalie.

As they came down the aisle, Sylvia said,
“You look like the stage manager from
Our Town
. Are you
going to start emoting?”

“Sure,” I said. But an actor I was not. “I
can recite ‘The Jabberwocky’ for you.”

The girls laughed, and Natalie said, “We’ll
keep you in mind. The senior play is coming up.”

I lifted them up onto the stage, which gave
me a feeling of power and preserved their modesty, and we went to
the dressing room.

“Who called this meeting?” I asked.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for
helping me,” Natalie said. “You saved my life.”

She said this with a straight face and then
she gave me a big hug. I wasn’t used to getting hugs from girls,
and I enjoyed it to the fullest. And made it last as long as
possible. Then Sylvia gave me a hug.

“I didn’t realize this was such a big deal,”
I said. “What’s going to happen to Barney?”

“Oh, he’ll bounce back,” Sylvia said. “He’s
made of rubber. But I don’t think he’s going to be challenging
anybody to play nim again soon. If he does, all they have to do is
use Nat as a consultant.”

Natalie beamed and said, “Dr. Natalie, nim
master.”

I was feeling good now. I said, “And so the
mystery of nim has been solved by the Terrific Trio.” I da-da-ed a
short musical coda.

Sylvia said, “Now that we’ve got that out of
the way, I’ve got another project you two can help me with.”

“Oh oh,” Natalie said. “Watch out for Sylvia
when she has a project.”

Sylvia ignored Natalie and said, “It’s Mr.
Plover, the ninth grade science teacher. As everyone knows—or at
least everyone who had him—he is incompetent. His teaching method,
if you can call it teaching, is to distribute worksheets that he
prepared ten years ago outlining each chapter of the textbook. The
outlines contain blanks to fill in. You can fill in the blanks by
skimming the chapter because the sentences on the worksheet are
taken directly from the book. That’s the homework. In class, all he
does is go over the worksheets. A second grader can do the work;
you can get an A in the class without learning a damn thing, not to
mention that it’s more soporific than sleeping pills.”

“What’s soporific?” Natalie asked.

“Something like sophomoric,” I said.

“I’ve been trying to get him fired for three
years,” Sylvia said, ignoring both of us. “You wouldn’t believe how
hard it is to get a teacher fired. Because of tenure, you have to
jump through a million hoops. Dr. Graves didn’t want to hear about
it. Neither did the school board. However, there was a school board
election in July. Finally there’s a member who’s willing to support
me.”

“It sounds like a worthy goal,” I said,
although I had never considered trying to get a teacher fired. “But
what do you want us to do?”

“Nat, I would like you to think back to your
experience in freshman science class. Write down what you remember
about the class, what you learned, and why you haven’t taken a
science class since.”

“You want me to write an essay?” Natalie
asked, opening her eyes wide.

“Precisely. About three hundred words should
do it.”

Sylvia turned to me as Natalie started
grumbling, and said, “Gary, you were a reporter at Atherton. I
would like you to interview freshmen who are currently taking Mr.
Plover’s class and find out if his teaching methods are the same as
they were three years ago. I’m sure they are, but we need
supporting evidence.”

“I’m not doing any newspaper work here.”

“This isn’t for the newspaper. This is to
present to the school board.”

I knew that Dr. Graves wouldn’t stand for me
presenting anything like this to the school board. I said, “I’m
keeping a low profile.”

“That’s fine. I’ll present it to the school
board. All you have to do is gather some information.”

“I don’t know any freshmen.”

Sylvia looked irritated. “Mr. Plover’s room
number is 105. Hang out beside his door when a class lets out and
collar students. You’re big, and you look authoritative. They’ll
talk to you. I don’t have to tell you not to breathe a word of why
you’re collecting the information. But remember: we’re trying to
make a better school.”

I had more objections, but nothing Sylvia
wouldn’t bulldoze over. I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Sylvia smiled and said, “That’s more like
it.” Her tone softened. “Sorry, Gary, I didn’t mean to sound like a
general. But this is important to me. And you were such a big help
on nim, I know you’re the right person to do this. But what can we
do for you?”

“Find him a girlfriend,” Natalie said,
giggling.

That hurt, since Natalie was my number one
pick in that area.

“Did you have a girlfriend at Atherton?”
Sylvia asked.

“I didn’t go steady. I…played the field.”
Actually, I hadn’t dated all that much, but I wasn’t going to admit
it. Nobody at Atherton had stimulated my hormones like Natalie. I
said, “Maybe there is something you can do for me.”

“Name it,” Sylvia said.

“Well,” I said, wondering where to start. My
relationship with the girls had strengthened, and I was ready to
divulge my secret. Or at least one of my secrets. “I haven’t been
completely honest with you. You see…Ralph Harrison was my cousin.
And I’m staying with his mother and father.”

“My God,” Natalie said. “Your cousin. Now
that you mention it, you do look like him.”

“It’s been what—six months since he died—and
I’m kind of over the worst of it,” I said, not wanting things to
get too soppy. “But I’d like to find out more about how he
died.”

“I didn’t realize that you and Ralph were
related,” Sylvia said, making it sound like an apology for not
knowing everything. “We were given the party line on how he died.
Nobody saw it happen. He was alone in the auditorium. He fell off
the balcony. His head hit the back of one of the seats. He broke
his neck and the seat.” She recited the facts in a singsong voice,
as if she didn’t necessarily believe them.

“Why would he be alone in the
auditorium?”

Sylvia shrugged. “You were alone in the
auditorium a little while ago.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Maybe Ralph was waiting for somebody,”
Natalie said.

“I guess that’s possible. But who? A
girlfriend?” Ed had mentioned a girl named Ruthie.

“He was going steady with Ruth, I believe,”
Sylvia said. She looked at Natalie.

Natalie hesitated and then said, “Ruth Allen.
Ruth is a junior now. She’s on my cheerleading squad. Did you go to
Ralph’s funeral? She was there. A lot of the members of our class
were there.” She shuddered. “That was the first funeral I ever went
to.”

“I was sick,” I said. “I had the measles. I
had spots all over me. I wanted to go, but I wasn’t allowed to even
get out of bed.”

“There were a lot of people at the funeral,”
Sylvia said. “Ralph was very popular. He played football and
basketball, and he liked to party.”

“I wonder if anybody talked to Ruth,” I
said.

“There was a police investigation,” Sylvia
said. “They probably talked to her. They talked to all of us who
knew him.”

“Come out on the stage,” I said. “I want to
look at the balcony.”

When we were on the stage, I pointed into the
shadows toward it. “The balcony isn’t all that high. Do you think
somebody falling off it would get killed?”

“If he landed on his head,” Natalie said.
“But he looked okay. I mean, the casket was open. He didn’t have
any visible injuries. He just looked like he was asleep.” She
shuddered.

“I’d like to talk to Ruth,” I said.

“I can introduce you,” Natalie said.

“No you can’t,” Sylvia said. “Remember that
you two haven’t met.”

I had an idea. I said, “Why don’t I show up
at cheerleader practice this afternoon, pretending that I’m writing
a story for the Carter Press? That will kill two birds with one
stone. I can introduce myself to you, Natalie, and then we will
have officially met. It’s too difficult to remember to ignore you,
anyway. Then you can introduce me to Ruth.”

“I doubt if Ruth will tell you if she had an
assignation with Ralph in the auditorium,” Sylvia said.

“Even if she just tells me what she told the
police, I’ll be happy.”

“Since you’re a reporter, why don’t you
really write a story about the cheerleaders for the Press?” Natalie
asked. “I’d like to get some publicity for the squad. The football
players get all the glory.”

“I can’t do that,” I said, quickly. I’d
better explain. “Er, I’m concentrating on my studies this year. I
don’t plan to do any actual writing. Just pretend.” It sounded
lame.

“How many people know that you’re Ralph’s
cousin?” Sylvia asked.

“You two and Dr. Graves. I’d appreciate it if
you’d keep it quiet for the time being.” And Ed Drucquer. But I
didn’t mention him.

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”
And I had a hunch I’d find out more about Ralph’s death if people
didn’t know I was related to him.

Then I remembered something else. Dr. Graves
had stopped me in the hall yesterday and asked me how I was doing.
Then he had asked me whether there was anything I wanted to tell
him. The way he said it made me realize that I’d better come up
with something. Fast.

I said, lightly, “It’s show and tell time.
I’ve told you about me. But I don’t know anything about you two.
Tell me about your, ah, families.”

“Not much to tell,” Natalie said. “I have two
parents and an older sister who’s in college.”

“What does your father do?”

“He owns an Oldsmobile dealership.”

“I have one older brother,” Sylvia said. “And
the usual number of parents. My father is chief editorial writer
for the Buffalo Express. My mother is a nurse.”

“So your dad writes the editorials.”

“He writes some and assigns others to members
of his staff.”

My aunt and uncle had the Buffalo Express
delivered. I would have to start reading the editorials.

“What about your family?” Sylvia asked.

“I have two younger brothers. My father works
for the mayor of Buffalo, but I’m not exactly sure what he does.
Something to do with politics.” That sounded intelligent. “My
mother is what Good Housekeeping Magazine calls a homemaker. She
has the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.”

“How is your father doing?” Sylvia asked.

“My father?”

“You said he was sick.”

I remembered the story I had made up to
explain why I was here. “Well, he’s…getting better.”

“Does that mean you’ll be going back to
Atherton?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. I can’t be
changing schools every five minutes. And I like it here.” That was
less of a lie than it would have been a few days ago.

“Sylvia says you play basketball,” Natalie
said. “That’s good. We need all the help we can get. And you write.
Do you write anything besides news stories?”

“I write limericks. A buddy and I wrote
limericks about members of our class at Atherton. We published a
book and sold it in the cafeteria for a nickel a copy, proceeds to
the class treasury.”

“Were they dirty?” Natalie asked.

“Of course not.” My tone of voice suggested
otherwise. However, it wasn’t writing limericks that had gotten me
into trouble.

The girls smiled. Sylvia said, “Write a
limerick about Nat.”

“Right now?”

“Well, how long does it take you?”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. But remember that
views expressed in limericks don’t necessarily represent those of
the management.”

I had written a limerick on the spur of the
moment for Dr. Graves, so why not Natalie? I hemmed and hawed for a
minute and then said:

“
There is a young lady named Nat,

Who’s neither too thin nor too fat.

She’s cute as a kitten

And keeps the boys smitten,

But a kitten turns into a cat.”

“Not bad,” Sylvia said. “And your fingers
never left your hands.”