Krista smiled at the drama teacher. “We’ll save why I made a good Little Red Riding Hood for later.”
“Why wait? Someone among us may be pretending to be Grandma when she or he is actually a monster.”
They both got quiet. Glib conversation had turned into something troubling... and accurate.
Krista asked, “Did you have a chance to speak with Astrid at the reunion?”
“Yes, briefly,” he said. “A lot of people wanted to talk to her, and I would have liked to’ve had some quiet, quality time. We did talk about getting together soon — not reunion weekend, but soon.”
“Soon meaning...?”
“She said she was working on a story, an investigative piece that would be bringing her back to Galena. She’d give me a call ahead of time so we could arrange a lunch or drink or something.”
“What story?”
“She didn’t say. Not a hint.”
“Astrid left the event rather early.”
He nodded. “Yes, I noticed her going. The band was still playing. I don’t know exactly when that was.”
“When did you leave?”
“Tyler and I stayed around till last call and beyond — mostly in that lounge, but also there’s a little area by a fireplace where a lot of the ‘kids’ sat and chatted. I don’t imagine we headed out till well after two a.m.”
“Did you see anything at the reunion that caught your attention where Astrid was concerned? An argument maybe? Anything at all?”
“No. In fact, I was struck by how classmates of yours would, frankly, suck up to her. She’s kind of famous and was obviously even more beautiful now than then.”
“Would you happen to know where you were the second week of August?”
“I do. I don’t have to check a calendar or anything. I attended the National Teacher’s Council of Language Arts in Atlanta. That covers the language arts as well as journalism, debate, and drama. Anything to do with the written or spoken word. Big affair.”
“Did Tyler Dale go along? He’s not a teacher, I know, but—”
“He did, yes. Turned his shop over to his assistant manager and went along. During the days, when I was in various meetings and seminars, he went shopping and to museums and films. In the evenings we had... I almost said a gay old time.”
His grin was a dazzler, and infectious.
“We took in some plays,” he continued, “and hit some music venues. Grabbed some great barbecue.”
“Was anyone else from GHS at the conference?”
“Yes. Ken — you remember Mr. Stock, teaches English, advisor on The Spyglass.” That was the school paper. “His wife Mary didn’t go along, probably because art isn’t one of the disciplines the NTCLA includes.”
Ken Stock, who’d been among Krista’s favorite teachers, confirmed that.
Sitting where Chris had been, the dark-haired, dark-eyed head of the English department seemed far more somber. He wore a black polo with a red alligator logo, good-looking if not as overtly handsome as the drama teacher.
“Astrid was my editor, you know,” he said. “A lot of people, the kids, her other teachers, could see how well she presented herself. That made her a natural for drama, you know, and to shine on the student council. But I was the one who saw her writing ability. Now, she didn’t have your artistic flair, Krista.”
Krista, flattered, also noticed that when it came to being interviewed, these teachers seemed prone to turn the tables.
“What Astrid had,” he was saying, “was a concise clarity of style. And an eye for detail, too. Plus...” He smiled, though still quite serious. “... she had a real built-in bullshit detector. She could see through people. Knew just what probing question to ask.”
“Had you kept in touch?”
“No.” Another sad smile. “That’s one of the realities of the teaching profession. You cast these kids like seeds into the water. They seldom come back to thank you or catch up, but trust me, Krista... it’s not expected. That’s not why we do this. For praise. For thanks. It’s for the satisfaction of getting kids ready to go out into the world.”
“Did you talk to Astrid at the reunion Saturday night?”
“I said hello, and mentioned how proud I was of her. She smiled and said something like, ‘Wonderful to see you again,’ and that was all. She had a lot of kids swarming her. That’s natural. Who has gone farther? Next stop would’ve been national TV, don’t you think?”
“I do. What time did you head home?”
“Not till the band stopped playing. Bitter end, I guess. Bittersweet end. Mary and I visited with a few kids, and then headed home.”
“Didn’t stop in at the bar?”
“No. We’re not big drinkers, Mary and I. And we were both pretty tired. It was a long, fun evening.”
His wife, Mary, the art teacher, agreed. She looked even sadder than her husband. Attractive, just a tad overweight, she wore a tan pantsuit that went well with her short golden-brown hair and expressive brown eyes.
“I didn’t know Astrid well,” Mary said. “She had talent, though. A nice eye for color. But she only took the one class, her sophomore year. GHS limits the amount of classes in the arts a student can take — you may recall that. She went into drama and was in journalism, too, but you probably know that. Ken is still the advisor on The Spyglass.”
“Did you speak with Astrid at the reunion?”
“No. We exchanged smiles from a distance. I’m afraid that’s about it.”
“Did you witness any awkward encounters or arguments involving Astrid and one of her classmates, or with anyone?”
“No. Quite the opposite. I would say... and I don’t mean to sound unkind... but there was quite some fawning over her. You asked about awkward encounters or exchanges, and while I didn’t see any of that, I could tell the young woman was embarrassed by the attention. It’s as if... nothing.”
“What?”
“Well, as if she resented, and that’s a harsh word, but she didn’t seem to like having people who hadn’t been friends coming up to her and acting like friends. Because she was somebody special. Of course, she was. Somebody special.”
“I understand your husband attended a teacher’s conference in Atlanta. The second week of August.”
“Yes, he loves that kind of thing. I’m not as social as Ken, I’m afraid.”
“What did you do while Ken was away?”
“Nothing. Well, painted. Watercolor is my passion.” She sat forward and gave Krista the saddest smile in the world. “Do you mind my saying... how proud I am of you? Did your mother know you’d made chief?”
Mary and her mother had been such good friends.
“Yes. She was gone soon after, but yes.”
“That makes me so happy,” she said, terribly not.
Next up was Coach Bragg. He was a big, blue-cheeked man who almost overwhelmed the hardwood chair opposite Krista. Inducted several years ago into the Illinois Football Coaches Hall of Fame, Bill Bragg was a legend in this part of the world — his Pirates had won three state 1A championships.
“This is a terrible thing,” Bragg said.
The fifty-something coach — his salt-and-pepper butch almost bristling, his thick, wild eyebrows threatening to fly off his face — wore a white sport shirt with a royal-blue-and-white Pirates logo, a little bowlegged buccaneer with an eye patch, a cutlass, a skull-and-crossbones hat, but no parrot.
“I mean,” he went on, “that’s obvious, but my God, is it sad. And frightening! The things people do to each other.”
“How well did you know Astrid? Was she ever a student of yours?”
“Yes, in Driver’s Ed. She was quiet. Pretty girl. Guess that’s obvious, too. Learned quick. Smart. Didn’t panic easy. Lots of kids panic behind the wheel, at first.”