The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

punishment, I was kicked out of the National Honor Society and given thirty days’ detention.”
    “Didn’t the students support you?”
    “Some did. The president of the student council—your counterpart—told me he would have helped me put the paper together if I had asked him. That would have gone over like a lead balloon.”
    “This sounds like a first amendment issue. Freedom of the press and all that”
    “Maybe, except for one thing.”
    “So you weren’t expelled right away.”
    “That’s what I’m coming to. You see, I libeled a sweet, innocent freshman girl.”
    “Libeled?”
    “Yeah. I said false things about her, like that she was a call girl.”
    Sylvia tried to suppress a smile. “You were really naughty.”
    “I was. And I regret it now. Anyway, her mother threatened to sue me and the school, and for all I know, President Eisenhower if I remained at Atherton, even though all copies of the magazine had been destroyed by that time. I took a quick course in what constitutes libel and found out that it has to be malicious. I wasn’t trying to be malicious—it was all in fun—so I might have won. But my parents and the principal weren’t willing to find out.”
    Sylvia jerked her thumb. “So you were gone.”
    “Right. But here I am. Ready to transport you to school, perhaps not in the style in which you’d like to become accustomed, but at least the radio and heater work.”
    I suddenly remembered the piece of paper with the limerick on it. I felt a desire to show it to Sylvia. I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to her without explanation. I waited for her reaction.
    She read it, quickly. “Did you write this?”
    “No, I found it in my locker this morning.”
    “Who wrote it?”
    “Somebody who writes bad limericks.”
    “How many people at school know that you write limericks?”
    “You and Natalie.”
    “I couldn’t write a limerick if you held me over a pit of boiling oil. Neither could Natalie.”
    “Wait. Dr. Graves knows. The first day I was here he mentioned it. My father or my aunt must have told him. I wrote a limerick for him.”
    “Do you really think Dr. Graves wrote this?”
    “Who else could have done it? Mr. White must have told him about our conversation.”
    “Mr. White, as in the janitor who found Ralph?”
    “Yes.”
    “Dr. Graves used to be an English teacher. This looks like a threat to me. Gary, he doesn’t want you nosing around into how Ralph died.”
    “But why not?”
    “Because if Ralph has been murdered, that would be bad publicity for the school. Or, in the worst case—”
    “Dr. Graves murdered Ralph, himself.”
    We looked at each other for a while, not talking. Finally, I said, “What should I do?”
    “Take it to the police.”
    I shook my head. “I can’t. Everything we’ve said just now is pure speculation. If I start accusing Dr. Graves, what is for sure is that he would kick me out of Carter faster than you can walk.”
    “There might be fingerprints…”
    “I can’t take a chance. Whether or not his prints are on here, the result is the same for me. I’m out.”
    “So what are you going to do?”
    “Hang on to this. Place it in a folder and not touch it, anymore, in case there are prints on it. See if I can prove that Dr. Graves wrote it.”
    “And watch your ass.”
    “And watch my ass.”
    Sylvia stood up from the bed and said, “I need a hug.”

    CHAPTER 14
    I drove Sylvia to school early, before the crowds arrived, and walked her to her homeroom. Nobody was there. She said she had work to do to make up for yesterday and that it was all right for me to leave her by herself. I think she was still trying to protect my reputation, what was left of it. She said she could handle Natalie and the others.
    The route to my homeroom in the cafeteria went past the administration area. As I walked by, I glanced through the glass door to see if anybody was in there. The place looked empty. I couldn’t see into the office of Dr. Graves from the corridor. I tentatively tried the door. It was locked. What I wanted to do was to type something on the typewriter in his office and compare it to the type of the limerick. I would have to try another time.
    As I turned away from the door, I saw Carol, the administrative secretary, coming down the corridor. She smiled at me and said, “Hi, Gary. Are you looking for Dr. Graves?”
    I smiled back. “Hi, Carol. Yes. But I can come back later.”
    “He won’t be in this