“You went to high school here. You must know who the druggies are.”
“Why don’t you ask your buddy Ronnie Sheck?” she suggested. He was a drug dealer she’d introduced me to. See, it wasn’t so far-fetched that I thought she’d know meth addicts.
“Ronnie Sheck? I’ve only met him once. We’re not exactly buds.”
“Well, he knows more about local meth addicts than I do. You should ask him.”
I stared her down. “So you’re really not going to tell me?”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“How many people were in your high school graduating class?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“There were twenty-eight hundred in mine, and I knew who the meth addicts were.”
Okay, that was a huge exaggeration. Maybe there were twenty-eight hundred kids in my whole school—or at least one of the schools I went to, but I think I made my point.
“Well, I guess you’re just smarter than I am,” she said.
I was getting nowhere. I might have to try Ronnie Sheck after all. Though I doubted he’d tell me who his clients were. I mean, drug dealers had a secrecy thing, you know, like attorneys.
“So, if you didn’t go to Reverend Hessel’s church then why were you at the pancake supper?”
She didn’t say anything for a few moments. I could tell she didn’t want to tell me. That was interesting. Finally, she said, “I’m friends with Carl Burke. I thought he might be there.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Carl is Reverend Hessel’s stepson. Was, I mean.”
“So you know Hessel’s family?”
“Yes, I just said that.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Did someone offer a reward I haven’t heard about?”
“My grandmother is paying me.”
Sort of. Maybe.
Opal studied me like I was a math problem. I could see that she’d rather not tell me anything at all but then someone would. Eventually. And it was probably better if I heard it from—
“Reverend Hessel came here about three years ago. He wasn’t a reverend then. He was plain old Chris Hessel. He came from Chicago. At first, he said he had relatives in the area, but that turned out not to be true. It didn’t matter though, becausehe’d already started ingratiating himself to everyone at the church. And Ivy Greene was already head over heels—”
“IvyGreene?” I asked, a little appalled.
“Carl’s mother. She didn’t take her husband’s name. Either time.”
“You mean shewantedto be Ivy Greene?”
“Seriously? Your name is Milch.”
“So. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, it does. Milch means a mammal that gives milk.”
