It occurred to me, while driving back to town in Neil's truck, that this was exactly the spot in horror flicks where plucky females, often played by J. Ross Nelson, came to a nasty end.
You know the kind of scene I'm talking about—where the idiot woman goes into a dark basement alone, having left the fifteen-inch kitchen knife in the foyer next to the telephone table. The kind of scene where movie patrons yell helpful advice at the screen when they realize a bloodbath is coming.
Under most circumstances, such a thought would not have spooked me, but leaving Neil alone at the river with the boys, and a body, did not sit well. And the gnawing suspicion that Rhonda had been on the right track left me even more unsettled.
As a diversion, I grabbed a random cassette from the box on the dash and plugged it in. I was immediately caught in the rhythm of Paul Simon. He and his bodyguard accompanied me safely back into town, where I resisted the urge to head straight to the trailer and crawl back into bed.
I also resisted the urge to sit in the parking lot awhile before going inside, since Stu had a clock on us and would be calling the sheriff soon himself if I didn't check in.
The lights were low, and the program was well under way. Groups of people were seated at long trestle tables scattered around the gym. Onstage, awards were being given to who had traveled the farthest to attend the reunion. Since Gerald Messner wasn't up there, I assumed he'd flown in from the West Coast, not from his villa in France.
I stood in the doorway, sorting through the crowd, trying to find Stu, and finally spotted him at a table along the wall, seated with most of the reunion committee members and a bunch of others I vaguely recognized. Del, Junior, and the Adlers were all there. So was Debbie Fischbach, seated in the middle between Stu and Lisa Franklin Hauck-Robertson.
Stu glanced up and saw me, his eyebrows rising in a silent query. I shook my head slowly. No, it wasn't a wild-goose chase. No, the boys weren't wrong. No, there was nothing we could do for Doug.
He locked eyes with mine for a long, solemn moment which was broken by the laughter of the crowd. Then he turned back to the stage, a stiff public smile on his face.
As someone got an award for having eleven children and thirty-five grandchildren, I dialed 911 on the pay phone in the lobby. I said what I had to, thanked the dispatcher kindly, and rejoined the All-School Reunion.
Stu carefully looked the other way, and since there wasn't a spare chair beside him, I found one behind the booklet table and wearily sat down, hoping for a minute to regroup before facing anyone.
"Where have you been?" Junior whispered, sharply annoyed, pressing a hand into the small of her back. I hadn't seen her standing in the dark, behind the table. She still had months before delivering, but I swear she was getting bigger by the minute. And testier. "You were supposed to be here early to help. We've been absolutely swamped."
Evidently, she had not been mollified by Stu's cover story, and I could not defend myself without giving away more than I wanted to. "Sorry," I said, "something came up that couldn't be avoided. But I'm here now. Why don't you sit and I'll take over for the rest of the evening."
I was no longer in a reminiscing mood anyway, and the booklet table was a good vantage point from which to follow Neil's advice to keep an eye on things.
Junior was miffed. "Not much left to do now," she mumbled, sitting down.
The program dragged on for what seemed like hours, though it was probably only forty-five minutes, during which nothing of interest happened, either on the stage or off. I jumped at every shadow the lobby, expecting the sheriff to appear suddenly and ask for Debbie. Onstage, assorted speakers droned, and I tried not to remember the reason for my anxiety.
At one end of the committee table, Gina clung to the arm of a comically stiff and wide-eyed Ron Adler. Del, who was sitting alone a few chairs down from them, methodically dismantled an empty beer cup and added the pieces to the growing pile beside her. At the other end, Stu leaned over and said something into Debbie's ear, but did not look in my direction. Debbie repeated what Stu had said to Lisa, who laughed quietly and shot a glance at me.
From her table, a few yards away, Rhonda motioned to me surreptitiously. I ignored her. She got up quietly and squatted next to Del for a whispered conference. Del caught my eye, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged.
As the speaker droned, Rhonda made her way back. "It won't do you any good to ignore me," she said, peeved.
"Ignore you? What do you mean?"
"Cut the bullshit, Tory," she said, eyes narrowed. "Something's up. Spill it."
I sighed. Stu wouldn't look at me, Neil was stuck at the river with a couple of adolescents and a dead body, Del sat there shredding every piece of paper she could get her hands on, and Rhonda was trying to play tough guy.
"Listen, I'll tell you as soon as I can," I said, opting for truth, "but you'll just have to be patient."
A blur of activity at the gymnasium door caught my attention. This is it, I thought. This is where the evening gets really interesting. And awful.
But no tan-uniformed officers stepped in to break the terrible news gently to Debbie. Instead, Benny Nelson, sweating and obviously agitated, burst into the room, down the aisle, and the stage. He grabbed the microphone from a startled oldster who was accepting an award for being the earliest attending Delphi graduate.
The high whine of feedback filled the suddenly silent room.
"Everybody stay calm," he said in a rush, "I have terrible news for you all."
Oh shit, I thought. Oh shit.
Finally Stu looked my way, but there was nothing we could do now. He placed a gentle hand on Debbie's shoulder. Rhonda grabbed mine in a death grip.
"I knew it. I knew it," she whispered fiercely.
"My wife, the woman you knew as Janelle Ross, is missing," Benny said mournfully.
Everyone was silent. We knew that already.
"And now I'm afraid she may be dead," Benny continued.
This time there was a collective and audible gasp in the room.
"What did I tell you?" Rhonda asked, letting go of my shoulder.
"You need to split up into groups," Benny ordered, "and spread out along the river to search for her. And you need to start right now, before it gets completely dark."
"What for?" someone hollered. "We're a whole lot more apt to find her shacked up in some motel with Coach Fischbach."
Debbie closed her eyes, frozen in humiliation.
"That's just it, you idiot," Benny shouted back. "She isn't in some jerkwater motel with your jackass coach."
"What makes you so sure?" the same voice hollered back.
"Because..." Benny said, a glint of malice in his squinted eyes, and hollow sorrow in his voice.
I knew what was coming and stood up quickly, trying to get around the table and to Debbie's side before Benny could finish his sentence.
"...I just came from the river and your football coach ain't going to be shacking up with no one ever again."
People were beginning to whisper furiously. Some stood up. Benny didn't notice the commotion. Or he didn't care. "Your coach is dead. He drowned, you asshole. That's why we need to search for Janelle. She could be hurt. Or dead too."
This time the room erupted in a welter of noise and agitated conversation. From the corner of my eye, I saw that the deputies had finally arrived. One made for the stage in a purposeful stride, and some helpful soul headed the other two in Debbie's direction.
Stu grabbed the nearly catatonic Debbie and held her tightly, twisting away, using his body as a shield to protect her from the sudden crush of curious commiseration.
Rhonda stood shocked and immobile. Gina buried her head on Ron's chest. Del stared at them in disgust. Lisa stood, looked from Stu to me and back again.
"You knew," she said, so quietly that I don't think anyone else heard. Then her eyes rolled back and she wilted, smacking the back of her head on the table as she collapsed, unconscious.