“In here, then,” the boy said. He ushered them into a small living room. The carpet was bright green, the walls pastel green with small white flowers. It looked like the sort of place where the Christmas tree stood for a long time, gathering small red packages beneath it.
Caleb sat down in one of the large, stuffed chairs which faced the sofa. “Nice place,” he said. “Lived here long?”
“All my life.”
“Lucky you,” Caleb added with a big smile. “Lot of people from Northfield live out this way?”
The boy smiled. “Not many. They mostly live farther north.”
Frank glanced at a family portrait. It was of a man and his son.
“That’s my dad,” the boy said.
“Where’s Mom?” Caleb asked.
“She’s dead,” the boy answered. “In childbirth.”
“So it’s just you and your dad who live here?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said. He looked at Frank. “Don’t you want to sit down?”
“No, thanks.”
The boy took a seat on the sofa, his eyes darting nervously from Frank to Caleb. “I’ve never had the police come around here,” he said.
As he watched the boy squirming on the sofa, Frank suddenly felt a deep sympathy for everyone who had not yet gone through the later stages of life. They were a mystery, a wilderness that could hardly have been more visible in Stanford Doyle’s eyes. He looked as if he’d just emerged from a protective shell.
“You like this area?” Caleb asked amiably.
“I’ve never lived anywhere else,” the boy said. His voice was weak, almost plaintive, and as he spoke he lowered his eyes slightly. It gave him a look of lingering innocence.
“Northfield, that’s a pretty expensive place,” Caleb said.
“Yes, it is.”
“Been going there long?”
“For the last two years.”
“What are you now? Junior? Senior?”
“I graduated,” Stan said.
“When was that?” Caleb asked.
“Last month,” the boy said. “I’m supposed to be going to college in September.”
“Which one?”
“Emory.”
Caleb smiled broadly. “Well, that’s wonderful? Right, Frank?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. He paused a moment, then pushed ahead, since there was no other way. “I guess you have some idea about why we’re here.”
The boy said nothing.
“Angelica Devereaux,” Frank added.
The boy nodded slowly.
“She was in your graduating class.”
“Yes.”
“We’re trying to find out a little about her,” Frank said. “How well did you know her, Stan?
“A little.”
“No more than that?”
“We talked sometimes.”
Caleb leaned forward slightly. “Well, that makes you sort of special.”
Stan looked at him. “Why?”
“The way we hear it, she didn’t talk to anybody over at Northfield.”
“That’s right,” Stan said. “She didn’t.”
“But she did talk to you?” Caleb asked pointedly.
“Not much.”
“Yeah, right. A little, like you said.”
“She didn’t really have any friends at the school,” Stan said. “I don’t know why.”
“But that’s pretty strange, don’t you think?” Caleb said. “I mean, a pretty girl like that?”
The boy shrugged. “That’s the way she was.”
“What way?” Frank asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How would you describe her?”
“Well, she was very pretty.”
“Beyond her looks,” Frank said. “Her personality.”
“I don’t know about that,” the boy said. “I really don’t. I mean, we weren’t close.” He glanced out the front window to the close-cropped lawn. It was turning brown along its edges, and the heat which blazed down upon it seemed to be sucking at its essential life.
“The thing is,” Caleb said. “Here we have a real pretty girl who’s been in a school for quite some time, and yet nobody knows anything about her. “ He looked at the boy piercingly. “Does that make any sense to you, Stan?”
“That’s just the way she was,” the boy said again.
“Shy, you mean? Aloof?”
“I guess, “ Stan said. “She acted like she didn’t really want anybody to know her.”
“Did you know she had a phone in her room?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“She only made three calls from that phone during the last three months.”
Stan looked at Frank vacantly.
“They were all made on one day, May fifteenth.”
Still no reaction. The boy stared at Frank.
“And they were all made to the number at this house.”
Stan’s lips parted. “To me? She tried to call me?”
“You didn’t get these calls?”
“No.”
Caleb looked questioningly at Frank, then turned to Stan. “You didn’t know she was trying to get hold of you?”
“No, I didn’t,” the boy said frantically. “I swear I didn’t.”
“Do you have any idea why she might have been trying to reach you?” Frank asked.
Stan shook his head vigorously. “I hadn’t talked to her since the play.”
“You were in the play?”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank took out his notebook. “She called you three times on May fifteenth,” he said. “You have no idea why?”
“I don’t,” the boy said emphatically. He looked helplessly at Caleb, then back at Frank. “I swear to you, I don’t know about these calls. Maybe she just got our answering machine, and didn’t leave a message.”
That was possible, Frank thought. The call would register even if she didn’t say anything.
“Did you know she was pregnant?” he asked.
The boy drew in a quick breath. “What?”
“Angelica was pregnant,” Frank told him. “Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Takes two, of course,” said Caleb pointedly.
Stan’s eyes closed slowly. “I didn’t know she was pregnant,” he said. “I swear I didn’t know that.”
“She found out on May fifteenth,” Frank said, “the same day she called you.”
“Now when you think about it,” Caleb said, “when you get news like that, there’s a couple people you might
