Free The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery by Alan Cook

Gary.”
    “If he did do a handstand, he was skillful enough so that if he had lost his balance, he would have been able to do a flip and land on his feet. He might have broken a leg, but—”
    “But not his neck. I looked at the balcony. It’s not that big a drop, as you said. I couldn’t understand how he could land on his back. He must have really been off balance. Have you carried your thoughts any further?”
    “Well, what if he wasn’t alone on the balcony. Why would he show off like that if nobody else was there?”
    “And…”
    “And what if the person he was with pushed him—hard enough so that he didn’t have time to rotate his body in midair.”
    Aunt Dorothy gasped again. “Do you think he was murdered?”
    “I don’t think anything,” I said, quickly. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
    “The police weren’t interested in pursuing it,” Uncle Jeff said. “The school administration claimed that nobody was on the balcony with Ralph, and there didn’t seem to be any way to prove it, one way or another.”
    “Attendance isn’t taken at each class,” I said, “so if somebody skipped, it wouldn’t necessarily be noticed. And it’s probably too long ago for anybody to remember whether a specific person attended a class that was in session at the time Ralph died.”
    “Do you suspect someone?” Aunt Dorothy asked.
    “No, no. As I said, I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
    “Well, I want you to stop. Ralph is dead. All this theorizing won’t bring him back. All it will do is open old wounds.”
    Aunt Dorothy snapped her mouth shut. Uncle Jeff and I both looked at her, but we didn’t say anything.
    ***
    “Check,” Uncle Jeff said as he took my rook with his queen.
    He hadn’t lost his touch. “You’ve got me,” I conceded. “I am allowed to join the chess club at school, so I think I’ll do that and brush up on my game. Then maybe I’ll be ready for you.”
    We were playing in the large living room with the grand piano at one end. Aunt Dorothy was doing something upstairs.
    Uncle Jeff smiled. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got a solid basic game. I’m looking forward to playing with you some more.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Gary, if you have any ideas you can pursue concerning how Ralph died, I’ll back you. Just don’t rile Dorothy. I was stymied when I tried to find out some things. But perhaps you’ll have more luck. From the point of view of a statistician, I would say that the odds are against Ralph dying the way he did without somebody else being involved.”
    “I agree,” I said, “but I don’t know if I can prove it. I’ll see what I can find out.”
    “Thank-you.”
    The first thought that occurred to me was the discrepancy in the stories told by Ed and Ruth. Ed said that Ruth and Ralph were breaking up; Ruth said they were getting along fine. Was it a misunderstanding or was one of them lying?
    I asked, “Do you know how good the relationship between Ralph and Ruth was when he died?”
    “It was fine, as far as I know,” Uncle Jeff said. “But as the father, I’m always the last to find out anything. I don’t know whether Dorothy has any more information. I’ll delicately query her and let you know if I learn anything different.” He smiled and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
    “Me too.” I spoke before I thought, but if my aunt and uncle smiled more this wouldn’t be a bad place to live.

    CHAPTER 9
    I sat down in the hard, wooden chair in front of Dr. Graves’s desk, as directed by Carol, the administrative secretary. Dr G was reading something while tapping his pencil. He didn’t look up for about thirty seconds, which gave me time to wonder if he were upset with me. Since he could kick me out of Carter for the slightest provocation, this was a real concern.
    What would I do then? I couldn’t go home in disgrace. I had taught myself how to juggle three balls. With practice, I could learn to