We slid out after class before Berrie could stop us.
But we weren’t in such a hurry that we didn’t stop at the café around the corner to check out their desserts.
“Let’s get them to go,” Clara said in a low voice as she smiled and waved at a group around the large table at the back. I recognized Linda and Carole from the thirty-fifth reunion group from Saturday night. Lovell Zelig was not there.
“Sure.” If we stayed, we’d need to be even more careful than usual about what we said with that group in the small café.
As the clerk handed us the bags with our goodies — a classic double chocolate brownie for me and key lime pie for Clara — Linda and Carole came up to us.
“Since you weren’t coming over to say hello, we came to you,” Linda said.
Clara indicated our outfits. “We just finished yoga. We’d bring down the tone of your distinguished group.”
“A few out-of-towners stayed over, so we’re wringing as much fun out of this time as possible,” Linda said.
It struck me that they could answer one question for us. “Did you all know about the twenty-year group’s picnic scheduled for Sunday? The people at your reunion, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. We all knew about it. Most of the twenty-year classes have one. The youngest alums party hard all Saturday night and the older ones aren’t about to climb that hill.”
So, Lovell Zelig almost certainly knew of the picnic plan, even before Josepha urged him to attend.
On the other hand, would knowing the picnic would be held on Senior Hill make him — or anyone else — more or less likely to commit a murder there?
I suppose that depended. Want the body found quickly or prefer it stay hidden longer?
My head began to throb. Possibly from lack of sugar.
“Almost decided I would climb Senior Hill because that girl running your reunion—” Carole nodded to Clara. “—was so obnoxious.”
“Debi Norris? What did she do?”
“That’s her. Made a big deal about proclaiming to one and all at the joint meeting of reunion committees to iron out any little conflicts that the hill picnic area was hers all hers and nobody better mess with it.”
The women gave simultaneous tongue clicks.
My thoughts from Saturday night about blinders lifting with these longer-term alums returned. They certainly saw through Debi.
As for their fellow classmates, it seemed another layer was removed when people connected person to person, without regard to the overblown superficiality of their teens or even the practical realities of their next few decades. They saw each other as people … perhaps with a generous bit of a soft focus.
While I mused on blinders, the conversation traveled.
“…marveling how fortunate our class has been, with very few deaths, while Mrs. Ingram was just telling us your class had that poor girl who died shortly after graduation, then three more in car accidents, two in the military, two from cancer, and now this Josepha murdered.” Carole shook her head.
Linda joined in, “We know you’re busy trying to figure out what on earth happened at the picnic yesterday. And we certainly hope you succeed quickly. It’s horrifying to all of us, but none more so than Lovell Zelig. He knows all of your class from when you were kids.”
“I always think of him as a teacher. It’s hard to remember he was also a student at North Bend,” Clara said.
“I can imagine. Since Lovell was our classmate, we knew him in a very different way.”
“Did you know he was gay?” I asked.
“It was understood, even if it wasn’t as open as it is now.” Linda smiled. “We’re not Victorians, you know. Although I’ve always thought the stereotype must be overstated or how did those Victorians have kids who had kids who had kids that eventually led to us?”
“Not to mention Victorian pornography.”
Linda, Carole, and I stared at Clara.
“What?” she asked. “I was researching it for a client.”
“On that note, I think we should let you two get on your way,” Carole said.
Linda winked. “And we’ll escape the wicked ways of these youngsters.”
Not so wicked. We barely nibbled on our goodies on the way to my house.
* * * *
“Oh, how romantic. Look who’s parked in your driveway.”
Teague O’Donnell.
Even if Clara hadn’t pointed him out and if I hadn’t noticed his vehicle, Gracie’s frenetic barking from the living room window informed me. Not only of his presence, but of his inexplicable (to her) behavior in not immediately coming in the house to pet her and to bring Murphy with him.
Her disapproval of the fact that he’d done neither was heard in every sharp bark.
My reach for the car door handle froze with Clara’s next words.
“You should tell him.”
I went with the classic “What” to stall, while my ribs tried to withstand the hammering of my heart.
Tell Teague? Acknowledge I wasn’t who most people thought I was now? That I also hadn’t been who most people thought I was when I was pretending to be the person people now didn’t know I’d purported to be? That maybe I wasn’t entirely sure of who I was underneath the layers?
“I think that’s what’s holding you two back,” Clara said.
She might be right. But how did you say, Okay, voila, now I’ll be who I really am, even though I haven’t had any practice for a decade and a half.
“I think if you tell him, you’ll find it much easier to write.”
Oh. Tell him about writing.
Of course. Because that was the secret Clara knew.
“I mean, I don’t know for sure, because I’m not a writer like you—”
I bit my lip to keep from grumbling about not being a writer at all. Wallowing in rampant insecurity wasn’t attractive, especially when she was being so nice.
“—but from what my clients have said about the impact of what’s going on in their lives, especially with their emotions, on their writing, I’m sure holding back from Teague about your writing is holding your writing back and holding back what’s between Teague and you.”
“Why?” I asked, to prove I was still conscious and not limited to what.
“Because it’s hard to have a relationship when you’re withholding something important to you.”
Tell me about it.
“Oh, Sheila, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying.” Teary, but not crying. “It’s just… You might be right, but I haven’t even told Aunt Kit yet.”
“Why?”
“Expectations. Too much help. Need to know I can do it first.” I waved a hand. “And all the other reasons I haven’t told anybody. Except you.”
She sat back. “Well, you didn’t tell me, either. I found out and started talking about it to you. I considered waiting for you to bring it up, but you don’t talk about things — important things — much.”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Only way you’ll get better is practice.”
She made it sound so easy. Scary easy. With the emphasis on scary.
“Right now, I think we better go talk to Teague before he bursts.”
He watched us with would-be patience that had far too much curiosity to really qualify.
She chuckled. “Let’s go.”