O Is for Outlaw

ago. I may be close to retirement, but I'm not suffering from senile dementia not yet, at any rate."
    "Could you fill me in?"
    "I could if I understood what this had to do with the district attorney's office. It sounds fishy as all get out. What'd you say your name was? Because I'm making a note of it, and I intend to check."
    I hate it when people think. Why don't they just mind their own business and respond to my questions? "Mrs. Kennison."
    "And the reason for the call?"
    "I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to say. This is a legal matter, and there's a gag order in effect."
    "I see," she said, as if she didn't.
    "Can you tell me what Mr. Magruder wanted?"
    "Why don't you ask him?"
    "Mr. Magruder's been shot. He's in a coma at the moment. That's as much as I can tell you without being cited for contempt of court."
    That seemed to work. She said, "He was trying to track down a former Mate High School student."
    "Can you give me the name?"
    "What's your first name again?"
    "Kathryn. Kennison. If you like, I can give you my number here and you can call me back."
    "Well, that's silly. You could be anyone," she snapped. "Let's just get this over with. What is it you want? "
    "Any information you can give me."
    "The boy's name was Duncan Oaks, a 1961 graduate. His was an outstanding class. We still talk about that group of students."
    "I take it you were the school librarian back then?"
    "I was. I've been here since 1946."
    "Did you know Duncan Oaks personally?"
    "Everybody knew Duncan. He worked as my assistant in his sophomore and junior years. By the time he was a senior, he was the yearbook photographer, prom king, voted most likely to succeed "He sounds terrific."
    "He was."
    "And where is he now?"
    "He became a journalist and photographer for one of the local papers, the Louisville Tribune, long since out of business, I'm sorry to say. He died on assignment in Vietnam. The Trib got swallowed up by one of those syndicates a year later, 1966. Now whoever you are and whatever you're up to, I think I've said enough."
    I thanked her and hung up, still completely unenlightened. I sat and made notes, using the cap of the pen to scrape the peanut butter from the roof of my mouth. Was this an heir search? Had Mickey taken on a case to supplement his income? He certainly had the background to do P.I. work, but what was he doing and who'd hired him to do it?
    I heard a tap at my door and leaned over far enough to see Henry peering through the porthole. I felt a guilty pang about the night before. Henry and I seldom had occasion to disagree. In this case, he was right. I had no business withholding information that might be relevant to the police. Really, I was going to reform, I was almost sure. When I opened the door, he handed me a stack of envelopes. "Brought you your mail."
    "Henry, I'm sorry. Don't be mad at me," I said. I tossed the mail on the desk and gave him a hug while he patted me on the back.
    "My fault," he said.
    'No, it's not. It's mine. You're entirely right. I was being obstinate."
    "No matter. You know I worry about you. What's wrong with your voice? Are you catching cold?"
    "I just ate something and it's stuck in my teeth. I'll call Detective Aldo today and tell him what I've found. "
    "I'd feel better if you did," he said. "Did I interrupt? We can do this another time if you're hard at work."
    "Do what another time?"
    "You said you'd give me a lift. The fellow from the body shop called to say the Chevy's ready."
    "Sorry. Of course. It's taken long enough. Let me get my jacket and my keys."
    On the way over to the body shop, I brought Henry up to date, though I was uncomfortably aware that even now I wasn't being completely candid with him. I wasn't lying outright, but I omitted portions of the story. "Which reminds me," I said. "Did I tell you about that call to my place?"
    "What call?"
    "I didn't think I'd mentioned it. I don't know what to make of it." I laid out the business about the thirty minute call from Mickey's place to mine in late March. "I swear I never talked to him, but I can tell the detectives didn't believe me."
    "What was the date?"
    "March twenty-seventh, early afternoon, one-thirty. I saw the bill myself."
    "You were with me," he said promptly.
    "I was?"
    "Of course. That was the day after the quakes that dumped the cans on my car. I'd called the insurance company and you followed me over to the shop. The claims adjuster met us there at one-fifteen."
    "That was that day? How do you