Vulgar Boatman by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online

papers behind a chest-high counter. I gave her my name and told her I had a nine-thirty appointment with Dr. Larsen. This seemed to fluster her, and she consulted with another woman who was seated at a desk, typing. She, in turn, jerked her head at a third woman, who was talking into a telephone. Finally the white-haired woman came back, smiling triumphantly, and beckoned me to follow her.
    I went around the counter, weaved among some desks, and was ushered into an office. My guide cleared her throat and mumbled, “Ah, Dr. Larsen…”
    A woman was working at a computer terminal, her back to us. She turned and smiled. “Yes?”
    She was, I guessed, thirty. She had long blond hair, worn loose around her shoulders. She had elegant cheekbones, a dimple in her chin, and when she stood up I observed that her aquamarine knit dress complemented both her eyes and her figure.
    I had for some reason assumed that Dr. Larsen would be gray, overweight, and male.
    “I’m Brady Coyne,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
    Her smile faded instantly. To the white-haired woman, who hovered uncertainly by my elbow, she said, “Thank you, Emma,” and Emma scurried away, closing the door behind her.
    Dr. Larsen gestured at a chair and said, “Won’t you sit down?”
    I sat, and she sat beside me. “Dr. Larsen—” I began.
    “Let me be candid with you, Mr. Coyne. Somebody from Tom Baron’s organization called me this morning. I have been instructed to cooperate with you. I don’t mind cooperating. I would have cooperated in any case. But I don’t like being instructed. Bullied. The students and staff at my school are very upset about what happened. This is a new experience for all of us. I am trying to help everybody deal with this reality. But I do not want policemen and private investigators prowling around in my school, asking questions and disrupting things. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t call me ‘doctor.’ My name is Ingrid. I was hired because I have a doctorate in education, and the school board thinks it’s classy for me to be called ‘doctor.’ I do not happen to agree.”
    “Well, then, Ms. Larsen—”
    “Ingrid will be fine.” She permitted herself a small smile.
    “Okay. Ingrid, then. I’m not a cop and I’m not a private eye. I’m an attorney. I’m not investigating anything. I’m trying to find Buddy Baron. Tom Baron says you might be able to help.”
    “Well I certainly haven’t seen Buddy lately.”
    “But you knew him.”
    “I knew him. He graduated last June, after a fashion.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “Buddy earned a bunch of phantom graduation credits from a drug rehabilitation place in Pennsylvania last spring. I always liked the boy, and I know he had lots of academic potential. But except for computers, he had no interest in school. His record reflected that. One of my jobs is to be sure that a Windsor Harbor High School diploma means something. Under normal circumstances, Buddy Baron would have been required to return here for a semester before he could have qualified. Certain individuals thought these were not ordinary circumstances.” She shrugged. “I’m a public servant. So I made an exception of Buddy. He graduated.”
    “Look,” I said. “I don’t want to snoop around or anything. I’m just trying to get a line on Buddy. He’s been missing since the girl was killed. She was his girl friend.”
    She peered at me. Three parallel vertical lines were permanently etched between her eyes. Ingrid Larsen, I guessed, frowned a lot. “How do you expect me to help you, Mr. Coyne?”
    “Brady is fine. I don’t really know. Tom Baron said you might be able to.”
    “Tom Baron is not a magic word in this office.”
    “I understand. I didn’t mean—”
    “You’re his attorney, right?”
    “Right.”
    She nodded, as if that proved something.
    “Look,” I said. “I’m sure that a pretty young woman has to be tough as nails to get to be principal of a high