"Smoke Harvey?"

"Was that his name?"

I nodded and then remembered something. "She invited you to that party, didn't she?" "What party?" "The one taking place when he died." She shook her head, puzzled. "No, I only heard about it afterward. She was pretty upset. Told me she wasn't sleeping at night due to the situation. Anyway, she ended up not taking the vacation. Said she felt too guilty to face the family, so maybe I didn't know the extent of her guilt. I tried telling her you have to forgive yourself. I mean, one time I was asked to watch a neighbor's cat when they went to Hawaii -one of those long-haired jobs straight off a Fancy Feast commercial. Thing hated hated me. Every time I went into the garage to feed it, it jumped onto the screen door and hung there by its claws like Velcro. One day, by accident, I pressed the b.u.t.ton to the garage door. It hadn't gone up three inches before the thing motored out of there. Left track marks. I went outside, searched for hours, couldn't find it. A couple days later, the neighbors came back from Maui and found it flattened on the road, right smack in front of their house. Sure, it was my fault. I paid for the thing. And I felt terrible about it for a while. Had nightmares where the thing was coming after me with rabies-red eyes, claws, the whole shebang. But you have to move on, you know. You have to find your peace." me. Every time I went into the garage to feed it, it jumped onto the screen door and hung there by its claws like Velcro. One day, by accident, I pressed the b.u.t.ton to the garage door. It hadn't gone up three inches before the thing motored out of there. Left track marks. I went outside, searched for hours, couldn't find it. A couple days later, the neighbors came back from Maui and found it flattened on the road, right smack in front of their house. Sure, it was my fault. I paid for the thing. And I felt terrible about it for a while. Had nightmares where the thing was coming after me with rabies-red eyes, claws, the whole shebang. But you have to move on, you know. You have to find your peace."

Maybe it had to do with her b.a.s.t.a.r.dized birth and impoverished Los Toldos upbringing, the trauma of seeing Augustin Magaldi naked at fifteen, shoving to great political heights the wide load of Colonel Juan, the twenty-four-hour workdays at the Secretaria de Trabajo Secretaria de Trabajo and the and the Partido Peronista Feminino, Partido Peronista Feminino, looting the National Treasury, stockpiling her closet with Dior- but she had, at some point over the years, become uninterrupted asphalt. Somewhere, of course, there had to be a crack in her where a tiny seed of apple, pear or fig might fall and flourish, yet it was impossible to locate these minuscule fractures. They were constantly being sought and filled. looting the National Treasury, stockpiling her closet with Dior- but she had, at some point over the years, become uninterrupted asphalt. Somewhere, of course, there had to be a crack in her where a tiny seed of apple, pear or fig might fall and flourish, yet it was impossible to locate these minuscule fractures. They were constantly being sought and filled.

"You have to lighten up, kiddo. Don't take it so hard. Adults are complicated. I'm the first to admit-we're sloppy. But it doesn't have anything to do with you. You're young. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because later, that's when things get really tough. The best thing to do is keep laughing."

One of my pet peeves was when an adult imagined they had to encapsulate Life for you, hand you Life in a jar, in an eyedropper, in a penguin paperweight full of snow-A Collector's Dream. Obviously Dad had his theories, but he always expounded on them with the silent footnote that they weren't answers, per se, but loosely applied suggestions. suggestions. Any one of Dad's hypotheses, as he well knew, applied solely to a smidgin of Life rather than the entire thing, and Any one of Dad's hypotheses, as he well knew, applied solely to a smidgin of Life rather than the entire thing, and thinly thinly applied at that. applied at that.

Eva checked her watch again. "Now I'm sorry, but I do want to make it to my spin cla.s.s." I nodded and moved out of the way so she could close the door. She started the engine, smiling at me like I was a tollbooth collector and she wanted me to lift the barrier so she could drive on. She didn't immediately reverse out of her parking s.p.a.ce, however. She turned on the radio, some jittery pop tune, and after a second or two of digging through her purse, unrolled the window again.

"How is he, by the way?"

"Who?" I asked, even though I knew.

"Your pa." pa."

"He's great."

"Really?" She nodded, tried to look casual and disinterested. Then her eyes inched back over to me. "You know, I'm sorry about that stuff I said about him. It wasn't true."

"It's okay."

"No, it isn't. No kid should hear those things. I'm sorry about it." She was giving me the once over, her eyes climbing my face as if it was a jungle gym. "He loves you. A lot. I don't know if he shows it, but he does. More than anything, more than -I don't even know what to call it-his political hooey. We were at dinner once and we weren't even talking about you and he said you were the best thing that ever happened to him." She smiled. "And he meant it."

I nodded and pretended to be entranced by her left front tire. For some reason, I didn't love discussing Dad with random people who had nectarine hair and careened between insults, compliments, terseness and compa.s.sion like a driver three sheets to the wind. Talking about Dad with these kinds of people was like talking about stomachs in the Victorian Age: inappropriate, gauche, a perfectly sound reason to look through them at future a.s.semblies and b.a.l.l.s.

She sighed resignedly when I didn't say anything, one of those adult throw-in-the-hand-towel sighs that indicated they didn't understand teenagers and were delighted those days were far behind them. "Well, take care of yourself, kiddo." She was rolling up the window, but stopped again. "And try to eat something once and a while-you're about to disappear. Have some pizza. And stop worrying about Hannah Schneider," she added. "I don't know what happened to her, but I do know she'd want you to be happy, all right?"

I smiled stiffly as she waved at me, reversed (her brakes sounded as if they were being tortured), then barreled out of the Faculty Parking Lot, her white Honda the limousine to carry her through the poorest pig-pungent barrios barrios where she'd wave from an unrolled window to the hungry, enchanted people in the streets. where she'd wave from an unrolled window to the hungry, enchanted people in the streets.

I'd told Dad he didn't need to pick me up. When Milton drove me home on Friday, we'd arranged to meet at his locker after school and I was now a half hour late. I hurried up the stairs to the third floor of Elton, but the hall was empty apart from d.i.n.ky and Mr. Ed "Favio" Camonetti standing in the doorway of his Honors English cla.s.sroom. (As many people enjoy hearing details of the hot and heavy, I shall quickly mention: Favio was Gallway's hottest male instructor. He had a bronzed, Rock-Hudsony face, was married to a plump nondescript woman who wore pinafores and appeared to think he was just as s.e.xy as everyone else did, though personally, I thought his body resembled an inflated raft suffering from a clandestine pinp.r.i.c.k.) They stopped talking as I walked past.

I walked up to Zorba (where Amy Hempshaw and Bill Chews were vined together in an embrace) and then the Student Parking Lot. Milton's Nissan was still parked in his a.s.signed s.p.a.ce, so I decided to check the cafeteria, and when I found no one, Hypocrite's Alley in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Love, the center of St. Gallway's black market, where Milton and Charles sometimes rubbed noses with other frantic students trafficking illegal Unit Tests, Final Exams, Straight-A Student Notes and Research Papers, trading s.e.xual favors for a night with the latest copy of The Tricksters Bible, The Tricksters Bible, a 543-page ghostwritten manual on how to swindle one's way through St. Gallway, categorized by teacher and text, method and means. (A few t.i.tles: "A Room of One's Own: Taking the Makeup Test," "Toy Story: The Beauty of the TI-82 and the Timex Data Link Watch," "Tiny, Handwritten Diamonds on the Soles of Your Shoes.") As I made my way along the dark corridor, however, peering in the small rectangular windows of the seven musical practice rooms, I saw shady figures huddled in the corners, on piano benches, behind the music stands (no one practicing any musical instruments, unless one counts body parts). Not one was Milton. a 543-page ghostwritten manual on how to swindle one's way through St. Gallway, categorized by teacher and text, method and means. (A few t.i.tles: "A Room of One's Own: Taking the Makeup Test," "Toy Story: The Beauty of the TI-82 and the Timex Data Link Watch," "Tiny, Handwritten Diamonds on the Soles of Your Shoes.") As I made my way along the dark corridor, however, peering in the small rectangular windows of the seven musical practice rooms, I saw shady figures huddled in the corners, on piano benches, behind the music stands (no one practicing any musical instruments, unless one counts body parts). Not one was Milton.

I decided to try the clearing behind Love Auditorium; Milton sometimes went there to smoke a joint between cla.s.ses. I hurried back up the stairs, through the Donna Faye Johnson Art Gallery (modern artist and Gallway alumnus Peter Rocke '87 was deep in his Mud Period and showing no signs of surfacing), out the backdoor with the EXIT sign, across the parking lot with the scabbed Pontiac parked by the garbage dump (they said it was the jam jar of a long-lost teacher found guilty of seducing a student) quickly making my way through the trees.

I saw him almost immediately. He was wearing a navy blazer and leaning against a tree.

"Hi!" I shouted.

He was smiling, and yet as I neared, I realized he wasn't smiling because he saw me, but at something in the conversation because the others were there too: Jade sitting on a thick fallen branch, Leulah on a rock (holding onto her braided hair as if it were a ripcord), Nigel next to her and Charles on the ground, his giant white cast jutting out of him like a peninsula.

They saw me. Milton's smile curled off his face like unsticky tape. And I knew immediately, I was a boy band, a boondoggle, born fool. He was going to pull a Danny Zuko in Grease Grease when Sandy says h.e.l.lo to him in front of the T-Birds, a Mrs. Robinson when she tells Elaine she didn't seduce Benjamin, a Daisy when she chooses Tom with the disposition of sour kiwi over Gatsby, a self-made man, a man engorged with dreams, who didn't mind throwing a pile of shirts around a room if he wanted to. when Sandy says h.e.l.lo to him in front of the T-Birds, a Mrs. Robinson when she tells Elaine she didn't seduce Benjamin, a Daisy when she chooses Tom with the disposition of sour kiwi over Gatsby, a self-made man, a man engorged with dreams, who didn't mind throwing a pile of shirts around a room if he wanted to.

My heart landslided. My legs earthquaked.

"Look what the cat dragged in," said Jade.

"Hi, Retch," Milton said. "How are you today?"

"What the f.u.c.k's she she doing here?" asked Charles. I turned to look at him and saw, with surprise, that simply due to my close proximity his face had turned the angry shade of Red Imported Fire Ants (see doing here?" asked Charles. I turned to look at him and saw, with surprise, that simply due to my close proximity his face had turned the angry shade of Red Imported Fire Ants (see Insecta, Insecta, Powell, 1992, Powell, 1992, p. 91). "h.e.l.lo," I said. "Well, I guess I'll see you late - " "Hold on a minute." Charles had stood up on his good leg and begun to hobble toward me, awkwardly, because Leulah was holding one of his crutches. She held it out to him, but he didn't take it. He chose to hobble, as veterans sometimes do, as if there is greater glory in the hobble, the shamble, the limp.

"I want to have a little talk," talk," he said. he said.

"Not worth it," said Jade inhaling her cigarette.

"No, it is. It is worth it."

"Charles," warned Milton.

"You're a f.u.c.king piece of s.h.i.t, you know that?"

"Jesus," Nigel said, grinning. "Take it easy."

"No, I'm not not going to take it easy. I-I'm going to kill her." going to take it easy. I-I'm going to kill her."

Although his face was red and his eyes bulged from his face in the manner of a Golden Mantella, he was on a single leg, and thus as he leered at me, I wasn't afraid. I knew very well if it came down to it I could push him over with very little force and spirit away before any of them could catch me. At the same time, it was highly unsettling to think I was the reason his features contorted into the wrenched expression of an infant in a delivery room; why his eyes were so narrowed they looked like cardboard slits you stick pennies or dimes into, thereby donating to Kids with Cerebral Palsy, so so unsettling that the thought actually crossed my mind maybe I unsettling that the thought actually crossed my mind maybe I did did kill Hannah, maybe I suffered from schizophrenia and had been under the influence of the malevolent Blue, the Blue who took no prisoners, the Blue who ripped people's hearts out and ate them for breakfast (see kill Hannah, maybe I suffered from schizophrenia and had been under the influence of the malevolent Blue, the Blue who took no prisoners, the Blue who ripped people's hearts out and ate them for breakfast (see The Three Faces of Eve). The Three Faces of Eve). It could be the only reason why he hated me so, why his face was so wounded, scrunched up and b.u.mpy like tire treads. It could be the only reason why he hated me so, why his face was so wounded, scrunched up and b.u.mpy like tire treads.

"You want to kill her and end up in juvie hall for the rest of your life?" asked Jade.

"Bad plan," said Nigel.

"You'd be better off hiring a bounty hunter."

"I'll do it," said Leulah, raising her hand.

Jade stubbed out her cigarette on the bottom of her shoe. "Or we could stone her like they do in that short story. When all the townspeople descend and she starts to scream."

" The Lottery,' " I said, because I couldn't help myself (Jackson, 1948). I shouldn't have said it though, because it made Charles gnash his teeth and jut out his face out even more, so I could see the minute s.p.a.ces between his bottom teeth, a little white picket fence. I felt his broiler-hot breath on my forehead.

"You want to know what you did to me?" His hands trembled, and on the word did did some of his spit jumped ship, landing somewhere on the ground between us. "You some of his spit jumped ship, landing somewhere on the ground between us. "You destroyed destroyed me - " me - "

"Charles," said Nigel warily, walking up behind him. "Stop acting like a madman," Jade said. "If you do something to her she'll get you kicked out. Her superhero dad will make sure of it-" "You broke my f.u.c.king leg in three places," Charles said. "You broke my heart-"

"Charles- " "

"And you should know, I think about killing you. I think about stringing you up by your ungrateful little neck, and-and leaving you for dead." He swallowed loudly. It sounded like a rock dropped in a pond. Tears stormed his red eyes. One actually threw itself over the wall, sliding down his face. "Like you did to her."

"f.u.c.k, Charles- " Charles- "

"Stop."

"She's not worth it."

"Yeah, man. She's a terrible kisser."

There was a silence, and then Jade sizzled with laugher. "She is?" Charles instantly stopped crying. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The worst. She's like kissin' tuna."

"Tuna?"

"Maybe it was sardines. Shrimp. I don't remember. I tried to block it from my mind."

I couldn't breathe. Blood was flooding into my face, as if he hadn't spoken, but kicked me in the face. And I knew it was one of those devastating moments in Life when one had to address one's congress, pull The Jimmy Stuart. I had to show them they were not dealing with a wounded, fearful nation, but an awakened giant. Yet I couldn't retaliate with any old cruise missile. It would have to be a Little Boy, a Fat Man, a gigantic head of cauliflower (bystanders would later claim they saw a second sun) with scorched bodies, the chalky taste of atomic fission in the pilots' mouths. Afterward I might feel regret, probably think the inevitable, "My G.o.d, what have I done?" but that never stopped anyone.

Dad had a small black book he kept on his bedside table, Words of a Glowworm Words of a Glowworm (Punch, 1978), which he turned to at night, when he was tired and craved something sweet the way some women craved dark chocolate. It was a book of the most powerful quotations in the world. I knew most of them. "History is a set of lies generally agreed upon," Napoleon said. "Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way/' said General George Patton. "On stage I make love to twenty-five thousand people and then I go home alone/' moaned Janis Joplin, bleary of eye and disheveled of hair. "Go to Heaven for the climate, h.e.l.l for the company," said Mark Twain. (Punch, 1978), which he turned to at night, when he was tired and craved something sweet the way some women craved dark chocolate. It was a book of the most powerful quotations in the world. I knew most of them. "History is a set of lies generally agreed upon," Napoleon said. "Lead me, follow me, or get out of my way/' said General George Patton. "On stage I make love to twenty-five thousand people and then I go home alone/' moaned Janis Joplin, bleary of eye and disheveled of hair. "Go to Heaven for the climate, h.e.l.l for the company," said Mark Twain.

I stared at Milton. He couldn't look at me, but pressed against the trunk of that tree, as if he wished it would eat him. " 'We are all worms/ " I said carefully, " 'but I do believe I am a glowworm.' "

"What?" asked Jade.

I turned and began to walk away.

"What was that?" that?"

"That's what you call taking a moment." taking a moment."

"Did you see her? She's totally possessed."

"Find an exorcist!" Charles shouted, and laughed, a sound like poured gold coins, and the trees bore the sound up with their perfect acoustics and made it float in the air.

When I reached the parking lot, I encountered Mr. Moats walking to his car with textbooks under his arm. He looked startled when he saw me coming out of the trees, as if he thought I was the ghost of El Greco.

"Blue van Meer?" he called out uncertainly, but I didn't smile or speak to him.

I'd already started to run.

30.

The Nocturnal Conspiracy I t was one of the biggest scandals of Life, to learn the crudest thing someone could say to you was that you were a terrible kisser.

One would think it'd be worse to be a Traitor, Hypocrite, b.i.t.c.h, Wh.o.r.e or any other foul person, worse even to be a Way-out-there, a Welcome Mat, a Was-Girl, a Weasel. I suspect one would even fare better with "bad in bed," because everyone has an off day, a day when his/her mind hitchhikes on each and every thought that cruises by, and even champion racehorses such as Couldn't Be Happier, who won both the Derby and the Preakness in 1971, could suddenly come in dead last, as he did at the Belmont Stakes. But to be a terrible kisser-to be tuna- tuna-was the worst of all, because it meant you were without pa.s.sion, and to be without pa.s.sion, well, you might as well be dead.

I walked home (4.1 miles), replaying that humiliating remark again and again in my head (in slo-mo, so I could mentally draw agonizing little circles around my every instance of fumbling, holding, intentional grounding and personal foul). In my room, I broke down into one of those headachy weeps one would think think would be reserved for the death of a family member, for terminal illness, the end of the world. I cried into my clammy pillowcase for over an hour, the darkness swelling in the room, the night slinking up and crouching in the windows. Our house, the elaborate, empty 24 Armor Street, seemed to wait for me, wait like bats for darkness, an orchestra for a conductor, waiting for me to calm myself, to proceed. would be reserved for the death of a family member, for terminal illness, the end of the world. I cried into my clammy pillowcase for over an hour, the darkness swelling in the room, the night slinking up and crouching in the windows. Our house, the elaborate, empty 24 Armor Street, seemed to wait for me, wait like bats for darkness, an orchestra for a conductor, waiting for me to calm myself, to proceed.

Stuffy of head and crimson of eye, I rolled off my bed, wandered downstairs, played the message from Dad about dinner with Arnie Sanderson, removed from the fridge the Stonerose Bakery chocolate cake Dad had brought home the other day (part of the Van Meer Brighten Up Blue Initiative) and grabbing a fork, carried it up to my room.

"We're tucking you in tonight with breaking news," sang the imaginary Cherry Jeffries of my head. "It took not the police force, not the National Guard, Park Rangers, K-9, the FBI, CIA, Pentagon, not preachers, clairvoyants, palm readers, dream catchers, superheroes, Martians, not even a trip to Lourdes, but simply a brave, local area teen to solve the murder of Hannah Louise Schneider, age forty-four, whose death had been erroneously declared a suicide by the Sluder County Sheriff's Department just last week. A gifted senior at the St. Gallway School in Stockton, Miss Blue van Meer, who happens to have an I.Q. that will knock your pants off, 175, flew in the face of adversity from teachers, students, and fathers alike when she deciphered a range of nearly imperceptible clues leading her to the woman's killer, now in police custody and awaiting trial. Dubbed the Schoolgirl Sam Spade, Miss Van Meer has not only been a regular on the talk-show circuit, from Oprah Oprah and Leno to the and Leno to the Today Today show and show and The View, The View, also gracing the cover of this month's also gracing the cover of this month's RollingStone, RollingStone, but she's also been invited to the White House to dine with the President who, despite her tender age of sixteen, asked her to serve as a U.S. Amba.s.sador on a thirty-two-country Goodwill Tour promoting peace and world freedom. All of this prior to her matriculation at Harvard this fall. Christ. Isn't that something else, Norvel? Norvel?" but she's also been invited to the White House to dine with the President who, despite her tender age of sixteen, asked her to serve as a U.S. Amba.s.sador on a thirty-two-country Goodwill Tour promoting peace and world freedom. All of this prior to her matriculation at Harvard this fall. Christ. Isn't that something else, Norvel? Norvel?"

"Oh. Uh, yes." "It just goes to show you that this world isn't falling apart too bad. Because there are real heroes out there and dreams really do come true."

I had no choice but to do what Chief Inspector Curry did when facing a dead end in one of his investigations, as he did on p. 512 of Conceit of a Unicorn of Conceit of a Unicorn (Lavelle, 1901), when "every door remains bolted and every cas.e.m.e.nt firmly latched, concealing the wickedness at which we, my esteemed Horace, may only fitfully turn our discouraged minds to, much as the lean mongrel wandering our city of slate and stone, poking through rubbish, fraught for a careless sc.r.a.p of mutton dropped by an unwary merchant or solicitor on his journey home. Yet, there is hope! For remember, my dear lad, the starving dog misses naught! When in doubt, (Lavelle, 1901), when "every door remains bolted and every cas.e.m.e.nt firmly latched, concealing the wickedness at which we, my esteemed Horace, may only fitfully turn our discouraged minds to, much as the lean mongrel wandering our city of slate and stone, poking through rubbish, fraught for a careless sc.r.a.p of mutton dropped by an unwary merchant or solicitor on his journey home. Yet, there is hope! For remember, my dear lad, the starving dog misses naught! When in doubt, return to the victim! return to the victim! He will light your way." He will light your way."

I pulled out a neon pink five-by-seven note card and wrote out a list of Hannah's friends, the few names I knew. There was the late Smoke Harvey and his family who lived in Findley, West Virginia, and the man from the animal shelter, Richard Something, who lived on the llama farm, and Eva Brewster, Doc, the other men from Cottonwood (though I wasn't sure one could cla.s.sify them as friends, more acquaintances).

All things considered, it was a paltry list.

Nevertheless, I decided to begin, somewhat confidently, with the top, a member of the Harvey family. I hurried down to Dad's study, switching on his laptop and typing Smoke's name into the People Search on Worldquest.

There was no record of him. There were, however, fifty-nine other Harveys, also a record of one Ada Harvey in Findley registered on one of the advertising links, www.noneofyourbusiness.com. Ada, I remembered, was one of Smoke's daughters; Hannah had mentioned her during the dinner at Hyacinth Terrace. (I remembered, because her name was one of Dad's most beloved books, Nabokov's Ada or Ardor Ada or Ardor [1969].) If I paid just $89.99 * m e Web site, I could not only obtain Ada's home telephone number, but her address, birthday, background check, public record report, National Criminal Record Search, as well as a satellite photo. I ran upstairs into Dad's bedroom and took one of his extra MasterCards out of his bedside table drawer. I decided to pay the $8.00 for her phone number. [1969].) If I paid just $89.99 * m e Web site, I could not only obtain Ada's home telephone number, but her address, birthday, background check, public record report, National Criminal Record Search, as well as a satellite photo. I ran upstairs into Dad's bedroom and took one of his extra MasterCards out of his bedside table drawer. I decided to pay the $8.00 for her phone number.

I returned to my room. I wrote out a list of detailed questions on three other five-by-seven note cards, each neatly labeled at the top, CASE NOTES. After I'd reviewed the questions three, maybe four times, I slipped downstairs to the library, uncapped Dad's fifteen-year-old George T. Stagg bourbon, took a swig straight from the bottle (I wasn't yet completely at ease with shamus work, not yet, and what detective didn't dip the bill?) and returned to my room, taking a few moments to collect myself. " 'Youse got to picture the steel bed the stiff is on an' make that your manner, broads,' " Sergeant Detective Buddy Mills demanded of his relatively bashful all-male police force in The Last Hatchet Job The Last Hatchet Job (Nubbs, 1958). (Nubbs, 1958).

I dialed the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"May I please speak to Ada Harvey?"

"This is she. Who's callin' please?"

It was one of those scary, antebellum, I-do-declare Southern voices, purdy, feisty and preternaturally elderly (all wrinkle and quiver no matter the age of the person).

"Um, h.e.l.lo, my name is Blue van Meer and I- "

"Thank you very much, but I'm not interested-" "I'm not a telemarketer-"

"No, thank you, much obliged- " you, much obliged- "

"I'm a friend of Hannah Schneider's."

There was a sharp gasp, as if I'd stuck her in the arm with a hypodermic needle. She was silent. Then she hung up.

Puzzled, I pressed Redial. She picked up instantly-I could hear a television, a soap opera repeat, a woman, "Blaine," then, "How could could you?" - and Ada Harvey slammed down the receiver, hard, without a word. On my fourth attempt, it rang fifteen times before the operator recording came on informing me my party was unavailable. I waited ten minutes, ate a few bites of chocolate cake and tried a fifth time. She answered on the first ring. you?" - and Ada Harvey slammed down the receiver, hard, without a word. On my fourth attempt, it rang fifteen times before the operator recording came on informing me my party was unavailable. I waited ten minutes, ate a few bites of chocolate cake and tried a fifth time. She answered on the first ring.

"The nerve- nerve-you don't stop I'm goin' to call the authorities-"

"I'm not a friend of Hannah Schneider's."

"No? Well, who the heck are you then?"

"I'm a stude -I'm an investigator," I amended hastily. "I'm a private investigator employed"-my eyes veered onto my bookshelf, landing between The Anonymous The Anonymous (Felm, 2001) and (Felm, 2001) and Party of the Third Degree Party of the Third Degree (Grono, 1995) - "by an anonymous third-degree party. I was hoping you could help me by answering a few questions. It should only take five minutes." (Grono, 1995) - "by an anonymous third-degree party. I was hoping you could help me by answering a few questions. It should only take five minutes."

"You're a private investigator?" she repeated.

"Yes."

"Then the Lord wears pantaloons and saddle shoes-how old are you? You sound no bigger than a minute."

Dad said one could dig up a great deal about a person from his/her phone voice and from the sound of hers, she was in her early forties and wore brown leather flats with tiny ta.s.sels on them, ta.s.sels like miniature brooms sweeping the tops of her feet.