“They’re going to question all of us,” she heard Hilda saying.
"Us?” Mary Holden exclaimed. She was a stunning fif-teen-year-old with strawberry-blond hair, long, long. "All the girls?” She said. “Why us?” She also said, not unreasonably, it seemed.
“Search me!” Jeannie said, giving a cute shrug.
“Did you see that guy?” Hilda murmured.
“What guy?” Jeannie countered.
“Well what’s his name, the State Policeman—he’s in charge of everything—” Hilda added.
“Oh—Surcher. Captain Surcher. Didn’t you hear?”
“Oh, sure I did—”
“Now you know.”
“Well, I knew—”
“Is that true?”
“You’re teasing me—”
“Well don’t say you knew—”
“I did know!”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Listen, honey bee—”
“Oh, stop it!” Marjorie uttered, suddenly, all through with her main course. “Can’t you stop it?” She said.
Surprisingly enough, they did so. But they stared at their plates, their glasses, all around them, glumly.
“I mean, the poor kid is dead,” Marjorie told them in quiet tones, like a sober mentor. “What can you do about it?” She added, buttering another roll, suddenly.
“Well why do they have to question us?” Peggy Linski asked, in very subdued tones. She was also a fifteen-year-old, but pure blond. And well formed.
“Just think about it,” Marjorie now said, munching the roll, “Can’t you just try giving a little old think about it?” She paused. “Hmmm?” She paused again, “Let’s all do that.”
“I guess,” Hilda said, after a while, “I guess they’re looking for clues,” she told them.
“Clues?” Jeannie burst out, “CluesV She threw out, “Do they think we did it?”
“Listen, no!” Hilda told her, “Are you a dodo?”
“That’s probably it,” Mary Holden said accidentally.
“What is?” Jeannie queried, not in her friendliest tone.
“Well I mean,” said Mary, “See—” Mary said.
“We might give them some cluesГ Hilda finished for her.
Jeannie stared at her.
Marjorie reached for her dessert, a healthy portion of Boston Cream Pie. She plunged into it. She loved it inside her mouth. She munched slowly. Her eyes, once again, closed for a long moment. Warm.
“If you don’t understand,” Hilda said to Jeannie, “Ask the Captain.” And she sipped her Coke.
Jeannie thought about it.
A burst of muffled laughter came from a table near them. They all turned to stare there. It died away . . . presently.
13
Tiger, back in his office of Guidance/Counseling after the very long lunch hour and urgent consultations of one kind and another throughout that hour, sat quietly, staring straight ahead, musing, as often was his custom, at this time of day, in any event. Now how would the school get over this mess? Out of it? Was there any way out of it? Would even his great talents for straightening things out
Pretty Maids A U irt a Row 57 be taxed? And how could one view such an event philosophically? The Philosophy of Education was replete with a formidable battery of responses, the most useful, of course, in the circumstances, as always, being the normal curve of probability or distribution, use the term you prefer. Would any of the others do? In the circumstances? The architects of the myriad concepts may not have envisaged such a circumstance. Tiger knew that. Let alone a way out of it. The thought muffled him. Tiger, in that moment, sat muffled by it. He struggled until he heard his voice, his train of thought, once again, within himself. He went on with it. As always, on with it. For life, he knew, and so well he knew, would be nothing, nothing at all, without it. He thought of it. Captain Surcher. He was impressed with the man. He was certainly very different from what he had expected. He was bright, his IQ certainly would register—at a very rare level, without a single doubt of it, allowing even for the usual bifurcating deviational error to a coefficient say of sigma minus twenty, no less, or more, for that matter. Allowing for that, even. Tiger murmured aloud, almost. Not only bright, but formidable. Very formidable. How was it he had never met him before? Tiger wondered. He knew practically everybody of any consequence whatever throughout the length and breadth of the entire area, Kitston included, of course, in view of his many and varied activities, at the high school, and elsewhere. How was it their paths had never crossed? Strange. Unfortunate. Very unfortunate, Tiger thought. A man worth knowing. Well, he was in charge of things and he would certainly see that everything humanly possible would be done to apprehend the culprit, to bring him to Justice, without a doubt of it. And a lot of good that would do poor Jill Fairbunn! Tiger, in a deeper mood, couldn’t help reflecting. No, it would do nothing at all for that poor, disastrously deceased, ex-Head Cheerleader. He knew. That little honey. He mused, merely using a figure of speech, a mode of expression, so to speak, for of course she was a fine size, and he knew it. That little old honey-bunch of a girl, Tiger further mused now, again figuratively. That sweetheart, further yet he mused, almost murmuring aloud. He saw her, that lovely girl. That magnificently formed girl. Never to be seen, or admired, or spoken to again. Never. That girl. Tiger floundered, hit hard by it He sighed, and shook his head, slowly. Would Surcher and his crew find the culprit? If he didn’t—what next? Or, rather, and the thought staggered, Who Next? Tiger pondered, falling further. Was he, in fact, someone from the school? A student, probably? As Surcher seemed to think? In fact, seemed just about convinced? Tiger wondered. Who could he viewed as someone capable of such a flagitious act? Again, Tiger floundered. It was some problem. He saw Jill Fairbunn as she was during football games, lively, full of energy, tremendous energy, leading those lusty cheers which always helped Sawyersville rack up the score, a lust for life, that was it, no doubt of it. Tiger thought, thinking also of his tremendous football team, admired throughout the State, no less, let alone the Conference! He saw her in the hallways, gay, full of life, swinging along so cheerfully, blooming with life, and her love of it, the most popular girl in the entire high school, and no doubt of it, with the possible exception of Marjorie —and—one or two others. He saw her in Civics class, where she was the liveliest mind of all, with the possible exception of course of Rochelle, attentive, yet full of remarks, and questions, stimulating them all to think, and examine things so often just taken for granted. He saw her in Health Education class, where she had one of the healthiest and most open attitudes toward for example sex education than any of them, an area which could certainly create problems for a lot of kids, if the class didn’t have at least a sprinkling of girls like Jill, like she had been. Tiger reminded himself. He saw her in the plays he directed, for she was quite the thespian, or had been. Tiger again had to remind himself, playing her roles with such intense realism and zest, without a doubt of it. He saw her in the Guidance/Counseling Office. Stop. Tiger’s eyes burned, he almost moaned, his head shook from side to side, he was suffering. Never, never again. It seemed incredible. Impossible. Never. He was near anguish. But never. The full impact of that hit him. It spread through him. For who, now he thought, Who—of all those who had known her, had come in contact with her, had had anything at all to do with her—including her parents without a doubt—Who knew more what that really meant—than he did? How could they? Any of them. He bore the brunt of it. Only he knew the full significance and agony of it. Gone. Forever.