“No one ever wants to believe it’s a suicide. What’s this?” said Norman, reading the page of names. “Hey we know some of these kids. What is this?” he asked again, his hand rising toward his head. Wallis watched as he gently tap, tapped the back of his head.
“I don’t really know. Stanley Woermer, the man in the driveway was Ray Billings’ best friend. He dropped it. It’s a list of some sort but I have no idea what it means or if it means anything. But Ray Billings thought I would, he told both his best friend and his wife to find me if anything happened to him, anything at all.”
“Why you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Considering you’ve dealt with your share of child abusers, why are you so scared over what seems circumstantial at best?”
“Good question. Call it a gut feeling. I can usually spot the liars and I’m having a hard time finding one, as much as I’d like to. The people who knew this man best don’t believe he took his own life.”
“You’re not usually a good one for conspiracies. If it’s really good old-fashioned murder, then the crime portion is over. If it’s suicide maybe the crime involving these kids is over,” said Norman, waving the list.
“I don’t know which one is better. What should I do?”
“Are you sure this is anything to really be worried about? I don’t know. Call the police? Call these parents?” Norman’s hand started to look for the back of his head again.
Wallis wasn’t used to Norman being at such a loss for ideas.
“No, no, not yet. I don’t know where the lines cross here. That man, Stanley, he was so afraid and he said not to call anyone, not the police, not even him. And I can’t imagine the conversation with any one of these parents. What would I be suggesting? No, first I need to find Stanley Woermer and ask him what this means,” she said, taking the paper out of Norman’s hand. “Find out why me.”
“Do you think this is the kind of conversations most happily married couples have?”
Wallis smiled at Norman, leaning in to his body, placing her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. “Love you,” she said.
“I’m well aware of that,” he said, kissing her shoulder.
Wallis didn’t sleep well that night. She kept snapping awake with a peculiar feeling that what was going on in her reality was only some continuation of a nightmare she’d had while asleep and the two sides were now bleeding into each other. She waited for her heart to finally move to a slower rhythm but then the small panic that began in her driveway crept back.
“Why me,” she whispered in the darkness. “And how do I find Stanley Woermer.” It was a prayer of sorts.
The next morning she got up feeling like she had an unjustified hangover. The early morning light hurt her eyes as she dragged herself out to get the morning paper.
“Aaggh, not again,” she muttered, when she spotted the familiar yellow plastic bag at the top of the driveway. “Is it so hard to toss it a little ways toward the house?”
As she got to the top of the driveway she could see the familiar purple door just down the next street. Several cars were parked outside and the driveway was full.
Wonder what that’s about, thought Wallis.
She bent down to pick up the paper hoping no other neighbor was about to come outside to get in their car and spot her in her pajamas, her hair still wild from tossing and turning. She’d still have to wave and yell a friendly hello and she wasn’t in the mood. She picked up the paper and felt something stiff inside of the bag.
Another ad, she thought. They’d become popular, sometimes even the plastic bag was decorated with information about a sale at the local hardware store. I suppose the paper has to figure out some way to make money with the few readers it has left, she thought.
She slid the piece of cardboard out of the bag and saw it was half of a dry cleaners insert. Written on one side was a message, ‘meet me at Book People on Granite Avenue at 10:30 this morning in the European Travel section. Tell people you’re going there and come up with a good reason. Don’t attract any attention. I’ll tell you what I know. Please come.’
It was signed, S. Woermer and the ‘please’ was underlined twice. The whole thing looked like it had been written in a hurry.
Well, at least that answers one big question, thought Wallis, her stomach tightening up, warning her of something unseen.
I seem to have found Stanley Woermer.
Chapter Twelve
Wallis found the bookstore easily. Granite Avenue was only four blocks long and as she neared the corner of Patterson Avenue she saw a large wooden sandwich-board sign propped up in front of a small two-story cottage that looked worn down around all of the edges. The sign was hand-painted in over-sized letters with the words, ‘Book People’ and an outline of an open book.