At Ease with the Dead by Walter Satterthwait Page B

those reports for you.”
    He was back within ten minutes, carrying an old cardboard file and a slip of paper. Handing both of them over, he told me I was welcome to take the file with me so long as I returned it in good condition. “The reports don’t really have any intrinsic value,” he said, “but they belonged to my father, and I’d rather that nothing happened to them.”
    I said I’d be careful, and that I’d return them tonight or tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, he told me, would be fine.
    As he walked me to the front door, I thanked him for breakfast and, once again, for all his holp. He said it had been his pleasure. Just as I was about to leave, another question occurred to me.
    â€œAfter Lessing’s death,” I said, “did your father keep sponsoring field trips for the university?”
    He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He did. One of the other geology professors took them over. Jordan Lowery.”

8
    I stopped at the motel to make sure the Subaru was driveable, then turned the Chevy around and dropped it off at the rental place. I walked back to the motel.
    In the room I glanced through the cardboard file. The paper sheets were yellow and dry, so fragile I was afraid they might crumble in my hands. Dennis Lessing’s handwriting was tiny but immaculate. I read a sentence or two at random. “The shales throughout the Chinle formation are arenaceous and calcareous. They have a noticeable argillaceous content only in division C.”
    I flipped carefully through the reports. Lessing had neglected to scrawl clues for me in the margins. I decided to put off reading the rest till later. When I could pop some corn, crack open a beer, kick back, and really enjoy that prose.
    The address Halbert had given me for Brian DeFore was a retirement home. I found its number in the phone book and dialed it. A woman with a pleasant voice, very Texas, said that I could visit Mr. DeFore any time before “fahve P.M.” I asked how to get there and she told me.
    I looked at my watch. Twelve o’clock. If I wanted to close this thing out today, I was going to need some help. I looked in the yellow pages, found Grober’s number listed under “Private Investigators.”
    When I dialed it I reached a recording. A woman’s voice, sultry and smoky, magnolias and mint juleps: “This is the Grober Detective Agency. At the sound of the tone, please leave a message. One of our operatives will return your call as soon as possible.”
    One of our operatives: a nice touch. Into the phone I said, “Phil, this is Joshua Croft. I’m here in town for a day or two and I thought—”
    A sudden whining noise knifed through the receiver, and then buttons clicked, and then Grober’s voice came tumbling over the wire, bluff and hearty. “Hey, Josh, how you doin’? Where you at?”
    I gave him the name of my motel and asked him, “When did you get the answering machine, Phil?”
    â€œWhile ago. Great, huh? Hey, listen to this.”
    Suddenly I was on hold and a merry Muzak version of “Dixie,” piccolos and violins, was tinkling in my ear.
    Grober came back on the line, chuckling. “Great, huh? Redneck assholes around here, they love that shit.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Listen, Phil, you working on anything right now?”
    â€œUh-uh. Was. Runaway. Fourteen-year-old. Found him too, but when I bring him home, kid’s father decides he doesn’t want him back.” He chuckled. “Had to muscle the guy to get the rest of my cash. Whatty ya got?”
    â€œI need some records checked.”
    â€œWhat records?”
    I told him about the UTEP yearbooks, the photographs of the geology field trips.
    â€œShit,” he said. “Nineteen twenties? They’re all snuffed by now, probably.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “But if they’re not, the Alumni Office may have their