Queen,” Bonnie was on the honor roll and was active in numerous school activities. She and her mother are members of the First Presbyterian Church, where Bonnie sang in the Youth Choir. This energetic and beautiful young woman is a familiar figure to a great many citizens of our town, and it is hoped that her widely recognized appearance may prove useful in locating her.
Anyone with information about the abduction or present whereabouts of Bonnie Saxon, Linda Latham, or Sandra Dunlap is urged to contact the authorities at once.
She was gone.
Dead.
Whoever wrote the story didn’t know it, but somebody had pounded a stake through her chest. Killed her.
Larry knew he should go on, but he didn’t have the heart.
He checked his wristwatch. Three o’clock. It was early to quit. If he stopped now, he would need to come back tomorrow.
He didn’t care.
He made a copy of the story and shut off the machine.
Twenty-four
When the bell rang, the students began to file out of the classroom. Lane slowly gathered her books from the rack under her seat so it wouldn’t be obvious to the others that she was remaining.
No point letting the whole world know she was staying to help. Some of the kids would think she was brown-nosing. Not that I care what they think, she told herself. Still, it seemed wise to keep a low profile.
Jessica stopped in the doorway and looked back at her.
Lane slid her stacked books toward her chest as if preparing to stand.
“You’re leaving?” Mr. Kramer asked.
“No, uh-uh. Not if you have something for me.”
Nodding, he smiled. “I have a job, if you don’t mind a little manual labor.”
“No, that’d be fine.” She glanced toward the door. Jessica, frowning, turned and walked away.
“Come on up here,” Kramer said. He reached into his briefcase but kept his eyes on Lane as she approached.
She hoped she looked all right. Jim had certainly thought so. During the lunch period, he’d snuck his hand under the loose bottom of her blouse several times before she finally lost her temper. “If you don’t like it,” he’d said, “you shouldn’t wear that kind of thing.”
The white pullover blouse had a cowl neck, short sleeves, and a hem that reached just to her waist. It wasn’t meant to be tucked in. Neither, however, was it meant as an open invitation for Jim to explore the bare areas just out of sight above her belt.
That morning, when Lane chose to wear the blouse and her short denim skirt, she hadn’t been thinking about Jim’s reaction. Her mind had been on Mr. Kramer. She’d wanted to look good for him. And maybe just a little sexy.
If Kramer appreciated her outfit, he gave no sign.
He turned his attention to his briefcase as she stepped around the back of the table. He pulled out a file folder, turned toward her and opened it. Inside was a stack of eight-by-ten pictures.
“Whitman?” she asked, peering at the upside-down face of the top portrait.
“Very good.”
“I used to play ‘Authors’ a lot when I was a kid.”
“How would you like to hang these up? Give the kids something worthwhile to gaze at while they’re daydreaming.”
“Great,” Lane said. “Where do you want them?”
He pointed out a strip of corkboard high on the front wall between the chalkboard and the ceiling. “Think you can manage that? You’d have to stand on the stool, I’m afraid.”
“No problem,” Lane said.
“Fine. Just fine. I’d give you papers to correct, but all I’ve got are essays. I really have to do those myself.”
“Oh, this’ll be okay.”
He took a clear plastic box of thumbtacks from his desk drawer and gave it to her along with the folder of pictures.
“Any special order you want them in?” Lane asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” He brought the stool from the corner of the room.
It was as high as Lane’s waist, with metal legs and a disk of wood for a seat. Each room seemed to have just such a stool. Teachers often perched on them, but Mr. Kramer never used his, preferring to sit on the front table when he addressed the class.
He carried it to the far end of the chalkboard. “Maybe I’d better hold something.”
Lane handed the pictures and tacks to him. He stood beside her, watching, frowning slightly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to fall.”
“I’m sure you know what Burns said about the best-laid plans and schemes.”
“Promise you’ll catch me if they ‘gang a-gley’?”
“I’ll give it my best.”
She stepped onto a rung, planted her other knee on the seat, and braced herself against the chalkboard as she got to her feet.
“You okay up there?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She looked down at him and managed to smile. Her position
“Try one, see how it goes.” He passed the Whitman picture to her. Lane took it in her left hand. She reached her right arm across the front of her body, and Mr. Kramer dropped two tacks into her palm.
She raised the picture and pressed it flat against the corkboard. Holding it in place with one hand, she shoved a tack into its upper right corner.
And knew what her blouse was doing. She knew that she’d made a mistake when she selected it. But she’d thought she would be correcting papers, not climbing onto a stool and leaning forward with both arms extended and Mr. Kramer below her.
The hem was brushing the skin of her back at least an inch above the top of her skirt. Lane couldn’t see the front. She didn’t have to. She could well imagine the way it must be hanging away from her body. If Mr. Kramer happened to be looking in the right direction, he could probably see all the way up to her bra.
The knowledge gave her a hot, crawly feeling.
She pushed the other tack into place, lowered her arms and looked down at the teacher.
He nodded. “So far, so good,” he said, smiling. He gave her a photograph of Mark Twain.
“I can probably manage,” Lane said, “if you want to go ahead and correct the papers. Just give me the box of tacks and set the pictures on the chalk tray.”
“Sure you don’t want me here as a spotter?”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
He handed the tacks to Lane, then removed the short stack of pictures from the folder and propped them up on the chalk tray. He didn’t leave.
The hell with it, Lane thought. No big deal.
She went ahead and lifted Mark Twain up to the cork-board.
“Get him right there next to Walt. Maybe overlap the edges a little. You could use the same tack for both.”
He isn’t paying attention to me, anyway, she told herself.
