“Would you step outside with me for just a minute, Preston?”
We walked through the patio toward the quad.
“I’d forgotten you’re taking journalism,” I said.
Happy, proud of himself, full of himself, he said, “I’m writing features this semester for the newspaper.”
“So I hear.” We stopped outside my door. “Doing some deep background research?”
“Yeah, the article is going to be amazing, blow the lid off this place when people see it.”
“Blow the lid off this place, or destroy a person?”
His smile fell. Defensive now, he said, “I’m writing an exposé.”
“Exposé? So, is it a corrupt person you’re exposing, or a corrupt situation?”
“Corrupt? No. I mean, not corrupt. But it’s interesting.”
“Juicy. Lurid.”
“Absolutely. This could be my tornado, Miss M.”
“You need to tread carefully, my friend. Journalists report on tornadoes, they don’t create them.”
He furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”
“Zev Prosky called me a few minutes ago.”
His eyes grew wide.
“He told me you were asking about a client of his.”
“How did he know it was me?” he asked, visibly shaken.
“Ethical journalists leave their names and their affiliations. Was there a particular reason you didn’t identify yourself?”
“No. I don’t know. But how did he know it was me?”
“I don’t know if Mr. Prosky is any smarter than you are, Preston. But he has a hell of a lot more experience than you do. It took him one phone call.”
“But why did he call you?”
“He thought you might have malicious intentions,” I said, watching him grow more upset.
“Preston, how did you even find Sly’s mother’s name?”
“It’s on his birth certificate.”
“Dear God.” I had to look away from him. “I don’t want to know what possessed you to look for his birth certificate.”
“You know, I mean, it was interesting. Lew was talking the other day about the guy who lost the competition to Sly, saying this other guy wouldn’t even have been a contender if his mother didn’t have this big art gallery. And Sly said something about not having a mother. I thought that was interesting.”
“So, you found out who she is, and where she is?”
He held up his hands. “It is interesting.”
“What else did you find interesting?”
“The guy who lost out. I went and asked him how he felt about losing.”
“You talked to Frank Weidermeyer?”
“Sure.”
“How did you locate him?”
“He hangs out at this coffeehouse in Ventura. A lot of the art crowd hangs there. I know this girl who knows him-he used to go here-and she took me up there to meet him.”
“There aren’t very many people who know that Sly’s mother is incarcerated for murder. Did you happen to mention that to Frank Weidermeyer?”
“I might have.”
I cocked my head, looked at him, tried to read something there. Youth, yes. But guile? Hard to say.
After an uncomfortable moment he amended his answer: “I mean, yes.”
“Did you see the graffiti on the gallery doors yesterday?”
He nodded, he had.
“Did you know that someone, maybe the guy with the paint can, shot me yesterday?”
Defensive, he said, “But it was only a pellet gun.”
“Only…?” I didn’t quite know what to say for a moment; how many people knew it was a pellet gun? I wanted to pop him across the side of his head to see if it rattled.
“Miss M?”
I took a breath and waited for him to get wherever he was headed.
“This isn’t going to, you know…”
“You might be too busy for a while to accept that internship,” I said, answering the question I thought he could not bring himself to ask.
“Busy doing what?”
“Studying the libel laws. You should focus on the language about malicious intent. While you’re at it, you might take a look at conspiracy to commit a felony.”
The kid looked horrified.
I said, “The police chief found the cap to the spray paint can. Great set of fingerprints; those cans are tough to open. If those aren’t your prints-”
“They aren’t, they aren’t.” His voice squeaked. “I promise you, they aren’t.”
“I was going to say, don’t count on the owner of those prints not to talk about who fed him information and who stood watch for him while he defaced public property. This community does not tolerate vandalism.”
“But I didn’t do-”
“I think that what you should be worried about, then, is what you knew. And when you knew it.”
I walked away and left him. I was so angry, it was the only safe thing for me to do. When I strode off I had no plan about going anywhere in particular, I was just getting away from that kid’s well-earned meltdown. Muscle memory took over, I guess; when I looked up I found myself outside my classroom, and found Trey Holloway standing beside the door, apparently waiting for me. When he saw me, he walked to meet me, but hesitated, deterred no doubt by the fierceness of my expression.
I could see Trey’s resemblance to his father, the even features, the deep brown eyes. But the son was better-looking, more approachable than the father. More like his mother.
“Ma’am?” Tentatively, Trey offered his hand. “I was told I might find you here.”
“Hello, Trey,” I said, offering my hand in response.
“I wanted to apologize to you,” he said. “On two accounts. I’m sorry about the way my brother spoke to you the other day. In the best of circumstances he’s a loose cannon, but since Dad passed away, he’s been out of control.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” I said, unlocking the studio door and holding it for him to enter. “I hope your brother is all right.”
His smile was full of heartache. He said, “With Harlan, all right is a relative description. We got him back on his medication Monday night. Takes a while for the drugs to kick in, but we hope he’ll be calm enough by Saturday to come to Dad’s funeral in Gilstrap.”
I wondered who won the coin toss for the privilege of holding the service, the Methodist church of Park Holloway’s family or the Lutheran church his children attended. Something suddenly struck Trey as funny-his face brightened with a wide grin and he seemed to struggle against laughing aloud. He managed to maintain his composure, but he was still smiling when his focus came back to me.
“What?” I said.
“My dad was a major klutz. No athletic ability whatsoever. So he gets a two-funeral send off, and both of them are held in gyms.”
“The gym was the only indoor space on this campus that was big enough,” I said.
“Same with Gilstrap. No matter how folks might have felt about Dad, no one in town will miss his funeral,” he said. “We’re holding it in the high school gym.”
Sudden tears came to his eyes and the smile faded; grief pushes all emotions to the surface and leaves you helpless to their whims.
Giving himself time to recover control, he slipped off his suit coat, folded it over his arm, and loosened his tie. He said, “I don’t know how my dad wore this rig every day of his life.”
We went into the classroom and took seats at student work stations.
“My mom told me you’re making a film about Dad,” he said, draping his jacket over the back of his chair. “Were you planning to come up for the services?”
“No. After Monday, I think I would just be a distraction if I did.”
“I thought you might want to film it. I saw your cameras at the service this noon.”
“We’re getting the news feed from your local network affiliate station. I don’t need to put myself in the frame.”
He was clearly not disappointed that I wouldn’t be there.
“Trey, because of something that happened on Monday after that dust-up with your brother in the Gazetteer office, I think I need to know just how loose a cannon Harlan is.”