The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

at my house Friday evening. Why don’t you come?”
    Willie was fairly low on my list of people I expected to be invited to a party by, so I must have showed some surprise.
    “Actually, it’s my brother’s party. Dennis.”
    Dennis was a senior. I hadn’t officially met him and didn’t have any classes with him, but I knew him by sight. At least he was in my age range. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I hemmed and hawed. Willie said it was a casual party and I could just drop in any time. He gave me the address.
    ***
    When I got home from school, I went to my room and pulled the folder containing the mysterious limerick out of a drawer in my small desk. I compared the first line of the limerick to the line I had typed on Dr. Graves’s typewriter, using a small magnifying glass.
    At first, I didn’t see any differences. But on closer inspection, it became clear that the “s” in nosy was darker at the bottom than the top on the sheet containing the limerick. This wasn’t true of the “s” from Dr. Graves’s typewriter. I noticed several other differences, including smudging of a few letters in the limerick. The differences were more pronounced than those that might be caused just by cleaning the typewriter. Clearly, the samples had been typed on different machines.
    I felt immediate relief. Dr. Graves wasn’t threatening me. At least, not directly. But if he didn’t write the limerick, who did? I had no idea. Or, perhaps, Dr. Graves had typed it on another typewriter. Not likely, but possible. I could worry myself to death. I decided to try to forget the whole thing.
    ***
    The rest of the week was hard, but bearable. Sylvia was still isolated, except for several of us boys and one or two girls who apparently didn’t care what Natalie and her ilk thought. I drove her to school and home afterward. On Thursday, she conducted a student council meeting without incident. The teachers didn’t speak out publicly either for or against her. At least, they tolerated her.
    Friday evening, I ate dinner with Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff. I casually mentioned that I might drop by a party that evening, not quite asking permission. When Aunt Dorothy asked whose party it was, I told her, but she didn’t know the Rice family. It was probably just as well. I had behaved myself for two weeks, and I had an urge to get out and let off steam before my teenage hormones exploded. They were okay with me going. Uncle Jeff told me not to drink and drive.
    The party was at a small farm a few miles away. I didn’t have any trouble finding it, even though it was dark when I arrived. I parked on the front lawn where a number of other cars were scattered. When I got out of my car, I could hear rock and roll music coming from inside, even though the windows were closed. I knew I was at the right place.
    I didn’t think anybody would hear me if I rang the doorbell, and the door was unlocked, so I walked in. The music instantly became much louder. I followed the sound to the living room where cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. A fire in an old brick fireplace produced more smoke, most of which went up the chimney.
    Several couples were dancing on a hardwood floor, darkened with age, doing some version of the swing or dirty bop. The music was coming from a phonograph playing 45 RPM records. The girls who were dancing wore skirts with several crinolines underneath, which flashed when they spun. I saw a couple of poodle skirts.
    The boys, who outnumbered the girls, were dressed as their version of juvenile delinquents: blue jeans, T-shirts with rolled-up sleeves and a cigarette pack on one shoulder. A couple of them wore black leather jackets. Most wore their hair long. I immediately felt out of place with my short hair and neat clothes, especially because I didn’t recognize anybody.
    Then Willie materialized from someplace near the table that had been set up as a bar and grabbed me by the arm. He had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth and had obviously been drinking. He pulled me over to the table where I recognized his brother, Dennis, larger and stockier than Willie, but with the same hair.
    When Dennis spotted me in tow of his brother, I stuck out my hand and said, “Gary Blanchard.”
    He shook my hand and said, “You’re the new kid. Have a beer.”
    He pulled a bottle out of a tub filled with ice, opened it deftly, and handed it to me. I took a sip. It was cold and slid down easily. One