He stuck out his lower lip like Maurice Chevalier and shook his head.
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You have a directory of people who work here? Maybe she’s in there.”
The taller one thought about that.
“I think they got a directory in the office. But we don’t have one here.”
He looked like a man who’d just solved a problem.
“If I can go to the office, I can look at the directory. Or maybe Rosaline’s working there and that’ll be that,” I said, brightly
That made them both unhappy.
“This is the Southampton High School,” said the shorter one, as if that explained everything.
“Right. I went here,” I said. “Well, not here, at the other school on Leland.”
“That’s the middle school. This is the high school.”
“Right. I went to middle school in the Village. In the building they turned into Town Hall.”
I knew I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to recoup.
“I got an idea,” I said. “One of you stays here to control the entryway. The other escorts me to the office, where we’ll either check the directory, or we’ll get to see Rosaline Arnold, which I can tell you is worth the experience.”
Their unhappiness descended into gloom. Resistance hardened across their faces.
“I got another idea,” I said, quickly. “Call the office on your cell phone,” I pointed at the phone hanging off the tall one’s belt. “Ask them if Rosaline is there and if she’ll come out and get Sam Acquillo.”
Then I stood back a step and raised my hands, as if to say, problem solved. The tall guy bought it, hoping it would get rid of me. As it turned out Rosaline was there, and willing to escort me into the inner sanctum.
The first thing you’d probably notice as she walked toward you, backlit from a big window at the other end of the hall, is the catwalk posture and pleasant swing of her hips. It caused her full print skirt to wash from side to side, which drew attention to the pleasant curves above her narrow waist and her slender ankles, nicely staged by a pair of fabric wedges. It was only when she drew closer that you’d see the sumptuous aquiline shear of her nose, an extravagance of proboscis sufficient to cause the wary to step back a foot or two when it entered a room.
“Sam Acquillo,” she said as she approached. “Still upright and inappropriate.”
“Can’t have one without the other,” I said, accepting her handshake.
“You found me.”
“Not hard. You told me where you worked.”
“I suppose you want something from me.”
“I do, but it’s also nice to see you.”
“Let’s go someplace more comfortable,” she said, pivoting lightly on her toe and heading back down the hall. I fell in behind.
“We didn’t have comfortable places when I went to high school,” I said.
“Let’s say relative comfort might be a better description.”
The faculty lounge never had the exotic allure for me that it did for the other kids at school. I don’t know what they thought was going on in there. Maybe it was the word “lounge,” which described types of rooms in restaurants and hotels that you weren’t allowed to go into. I figured we were all a lot safer when our teachers were congregated in there, distracted from their official duties, temporarily less of a peril.
My friend Billy Weeds and I broke into the school one night and had a chance to check out what the faculty lounge was really all about. A bunch of couches, some work tables and a refrigerator filled with Coca-Cola, which in those days you’d be as likely to score at school as a whiskey sour. But that was about it.
The place Rosaline took me to wasn’t much different. Better furniture, some pretentious-sounding books and nice-looking glossy brochures from the American Federation of Teachers. No Coke.
Rosaline swept toward a cozy seating area and settled like a swan into a dirty leather couch. I dragged over an office chair.
“Once I get into a sofa I have trouble getting up again,” I explained.
“I’ve kept track of you,” she said, smoothing her skirt across the tops of her thighs. “You look better than I thought you would, given what I’ve read.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“I don’t. For example, I don’t believe you killed Robbie Milhouser.”
“Finally.”
“Others don’t agree?” she asked.
“Only those who want the best for me.”
“Typical.”
“My condolences on your dad.”
“Thanks. But no condolence necessary. He was due,” she said. “By the way, he kept track of you, too. In the newspaper. He liked you. I think because you talked to him like he was a regular person, not just a very old man.”
“Very old men are just regular people who manage to live a little longer.”
“I know Jeff Milhouser, but not his son.”
“And you don’t think I killed him?”
“Not enough motive.”
“So if I had a motive, you think I’d do it,” I said.
She sat back in the couch and crossed her legs, in the process managing to pull the hem of the skirt up and over her knee. Her shin looked a mile long.
“Maybe.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Sorry. I wouldn’t make the best character reference.”
“Actually, you’d be a notch up from what I’ve gotten so far,” I said.
“The prosecutor is quite confident.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“She told me.”
“She did?”
“Edith Madison’s a friend of mine. The DA. She used to be in my book club.”
“Haven’t met her. Only her ADA.”
“One of her attack dogs.”
“I guess so. Cute pup.”
“How’s Ross treating you?” she asked.
“Friendly enough. The cop on the case, not so much.”
“Lionel Veckstrom?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?” I asked.
“He wants to date me.”
“Could be some interesting pillow talk.”
She threw her head back and looked at the ceiling, laughing a silent laugh.
“Never happen. Can’t bear him.”
“Did you tell Madison you knew me?”
“Yes, at great peril to our friendship. She harbors rather a dim view of your mental stability.”
“Based on our long association?” I asked.
“Based on the historical record.
“If you want to look at it that way.”
“But how you did it.”
“With style?”
“As I said, a question of mental stability,” she said.
I noticed as she tapped the arm of the couch with her long middle finger that she’d grown out her nails and painted them a deep, glossy red. Before now, I’d only seen her in baggy sweat clothes and T-shirts, hair pulled back
