Free Death at Charity's Point by William G. Tapply Page A

“Do you mind?” I said.
    “No. Go ahead.”
    I lit the cigarette. “Did his suicide surprise you?”
    “Oh, well, sure it did. I mean, no offense, but isn’t that kind of a dumb question?”
    “Yes. I guess it is. What I meant was, when you heard that his death was caused by suicide…”
    “Can you imagine,” she interrupted, “ anyone you know killing himself not surprising you?”
    “You’ve got a point,” I said. “Okay, then, what about George’s other friends? I’ve met some of them. Mr. Baker, the baseball coach. Mr. Elliott, of course, and Mr. Binh. I met Miss Prescott briefly.”
    She looked at me expectantly. “What about them?”
    I waved my hands. “I don’t know. Anything that would help me understand this.”
    Jenny Wolcott stared at the hole in the leaves over her head toward the sunlight that streamed down on her. She didn’t speak for what seemed like several minutes. Finally she said in a low voice, “I don’t think those people knew him at all. He never talked about them. I thought I knew him. I thought I was the only one.” She turned to look at me. “Now I’m not so sure of that. Maybe no one knew him. Anyhow, it doesn’t much matter, now, does it?”
    I stood up. “I guess you’re right, Miss Wolcott. I’ll let you get back to your work. I appreciate your time.”
    “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
    “That’s okay. I enjoyed talking with you.” I lifted my hand to her, then headed back for my car. My digital watch read 4:37. I calculated that, if I took my time, I could pass by Gert’s at a little after five. A bit early. Still, I could nurse an Old Fashioned or two, and then, fresh-baked striped bass…
    I sauntered across the lawn, enjoying the clean air with its hint of salt water and May flowers. I hadn’t learned much to help Florence Gresham. Life at The Ruggles School went on, closing in on whatever void George Gresham had left in it, and I supposed the most responsible thing I could do for Florence would be to help her fill in her own void. If I hadn’t discovered any definitive reasons for this solitary man to end his own existence, I certainly didn’t feel I had uncovered anything that could contradict the verdict of suicide, either.
    As I approached my car, I saw that a knot of perhaps a dozen young people had gathered in the parking lot, blocking my way. There seemed to be a great deal of loud conversation and arm-waving. I started to walk around them when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
    “Take some literature, mister.” It was a command, not a request. I do not, as a rule, take kindly to commands. I turned and faced a young man dressed in what appeared to be Army surplus fatigues—high boots, with baggy pants tucked in, a camouflage shirt, and a cartridge belt around his waist. I noticed that there were no cartridges in the loops. He wore a wispy adolescent goatee and a snarling grin. His head had been shaved bald.
    I shook my arm where he gripped me, and he dropped his hand. His other hand waved some sort of pamphlet in my face. I took it from him.
    Its title read Do You Know Where You Stand? in bold red letters. Beneath the title, in neon red against the black background of the cover, a large red swastika glowed. I held the pamphlet away from me with two fingers and dropped it to the ground as if it were a dirty diaper.
    “Not interested,” I said. I rolled my shoulders to get around him. He stepped into my path, still grinning, his dark eyes glittering like a cornered rodent’s. The other young people began to crowd around us. They wanted a confrontation, I thought. I wanted no part of it.
    “Afraid of the truth, mister?” said the bald kid softly.
    “Move,” I said.
    He held his ground. “I know your type,” he said. “Feed the niggers, vote for the commies, give your money to the Jews. Well, it’s gonna happen, and it’s gonna happen here, and you’d better be ready for it. So why don’t you just pick up that literature you