“You come on back around six. That’s usually the time Deke comes in.” He put his arms on the counter and leaned over them. “Want a tip?”
“Sure.”
“He’ll probably have his lady-friend with him. Miss Corcoran, the librarian up to the school. He’s kinda been sparkin her since last Christmas or so. I’ve heard that Mimi Corcoran’s the one who really runs Denholm Consolidated, because she runs him. If you impress her, I reckon you’re in like Flynn.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
Weeks of apartment-hunting in Dallas had netted me exactly one possible, which turned out to be owned by a man I didn’t want to rent from. It took me three hours in Jodie to find a place that looked fine. Not an apartment, but a tidy little five-room shotgun house. It was for sale, the real estate agent told me, but the couple who owned it would be willing to rent to the right party. There was an elm-shaded backyard, a garage for the Sunliner… and central air-conditioning. The rent was reasonable, given the amenities.
Freddy Quinlan was the agent’s name. He was curious about me-I think the Maine license plate on my car struck him as exotic-but not unduly so. Best of all, I felt I was out from under the shadow that had lain over me in Dallas, Derry, and Sunset Point, where my last long-term rental now lay in ashes.
“Well?” Quinlan asked. “What do you think?”
“I want it, but I can’t give you a yes or no this afternoon. I have to see a fellow first. I don’t suppose you’ll be open tomorrow, will you?”
“Yessir, I will. Saturdays I’m open until noon. Then I go home and watch the Game of the Week on TV. Looks like it could be a heck of a Series this year.”
“Yes,” I said. “It certainly does.”
Quinlan extended his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Amberson. I bet you’d like Jodie. We’re good people around here. Hope it works out for you.”
I shook with him. “So do I.”
Like the man said, a little hope never hurt anybody.
That evening I returned to Al’s Diner and introduced myself to the principal of Denholm Consolidated and his librarian lady-friend. They invited me to join them.
Deke Simmons was tall, bald, and sixtyish. Mimi Corcoran was bespectacled and tanned. The blue eyes behind her bifocals were sharp, looking me up and down for clues. She walked with the aid of a cane, handling it with the careless (almost contemptuous) dexterity of long use. Both of them, I was amused to see, were carrying Denholm pennants and wearing gold buttons that read WE’VE GOT JIM POWER! It was Friday night in Texas.
Simmons asked me how I was liking Jodie (a lot), how long I’d been in Dallas (since August), and if I enjoyed high school football (yes indeed). The closest he got to anything substantive was asking me if I felt confident in my ability to make kids “mind.” Because, he said, a lot of substitutes had a problem with that.
“These young teachers send em to us in the office like we didn’t have anything better to do,” he said, and then chomped his Pronghorn Burger.
“Sauce, Deke,” Mimi said, and he obediently wiped the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin from the dispenser.
She, meanwhile, was continuing her inventory of me: sport coat, tie, haircut. The shoes she’d taken a good look at as I crossed to their booth. “Do you have references, Mr. Amberson?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did quite a bit of substitute teaching in Sarasota County.”
“And in Maine?”
“Not so much there, although I taught for three years in Wisconsin on a regular basis before quitting to work full-time on my book. Or as much full-time as my finances would allow.” I did have a reference from St. Vincent’s High School, in Madison. It was a good reference; I had written it myself. Of course, if anyone checked back, I’d be hung. Deke Simmons wouldn’t do it, but sharp-eyed Mimi with the leathery cowboy skin might.
“And what is your novel about?”
This might also hang me, but I decided to be honest. As honest as possible, anyway, given my peculiar circumstances. “A series of murders, and their effect on the community where they happen.”
“Oh my goodness,” Deke said.
She tapped his wrist. “Hush. Go on, Mr. Amberson.”
“My original setting was a fictional Maine city-I called it Dawson-but then I decided it might be more realistic if I set it in an actual city. A bigger one. I thought Tampa, at first, but it was wrong, somehow-”
She waved Tampa away. “Too pastel. Too many tourists. You were looking for something a little more insular, I suspect.”
A very sharp lady. She knew more about my book than I did.
“That’s right. So I decided to try Dallas. I think it’s the right place, but…”
“But you wouldn’t want to live there?”
“Exactly.”
