plans for later, and he thought I needed to keep my strength up, I figured I’d better be ready for whatever he had planned.
Maureen wandered off again, and Rafe lowered his eyes back to the sugar packet. It was unusually coy of him—he doesn’t normally mind confrontation. When I commented on it, he told me, “Tucker didn’t like me to begin with. To him, I’m still that eighteen-year-old punk he arrested for trying to beat the crap outta Billy Scruggs, but now he has to be polite to me. And not just that, but I got Felicia killed—”
“You did not!”
If anyone had gotten her killed, other than the man who shot her, it was me. I was the one who had suggested that she could volunteer for the job of keeping surveillance on him.
He put a finger across his lips. “From where he’s sitting, I did. If it hadn’t been for me, Felicia would still be alive. He ain’t wrong.”
Perhaps not. But that didn’t make it Rafe’s fault.
“Don’t make no difference,” he told me. “He don’t like me. What happened the other night didn’t help. And one of these days, Tucker might be the only thing standing between me and another bullet. When that happens, I don’t want him to step outta the way because he’d rather see me dead.”
No. I didn’t want that, either.
“I’m trying my best to stay on good terms with him. Life ain’t making it easy.”
No, it wasn’t. “Just focus on dinner,” I told him. “If Tucker wants to talk to you, he can initiate a conversation. Hopefully it’ll be a polite one. If he just walks by without acknowledging you, then we’ll just be grateful he didn’t cause a scene.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He looked up when Maureen stopped by the table again, and deposited our drinks. “Food’s coming up in a few minutes.”
Rafe nodded. “What happened to the baby?” I asked, since she—and Yvonne as well—were still MIA.
Maureen nodded toward the kitchen. “Still back there. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”
I had my mouth halfway open to say we were fine when Rafe got in ahead of me. “How old are you, Mo?”
“What kind of question is that to ask a lady?” I wanted to know, but Maureen just chuckled.
“Too old for you, sugar.”
When he just grinned, she added, “I just celebrated the big five-oh back in February. Why?”
“Just wondering whether you went to Columbia High the year Kent Jurgensson taught Latin there.”
Maureen’s face closed. “I didn’t take Latin.”
“But you were there that year?”
She tossed her neck, so the beehive swayed. “What if I were?”
“Just wondering whether you remember what happened.”
“We all remember what happened,” Maureen said. “Old Mr. Wilkins left, we got a new teacher, and he only lasted a year because he and one of the students got up to something they shouldn’t have after hours.”
“Do you know which student?” Rafe asked. If Maureen’s delivery had bothered him, he didn’t let it show.
“How would I know that?”
“It was a pretty big deal. Jurgensson lost his job. I imagine people were talking.”
She didn’t answer, and he added, “There was no police report filed, though.”
“Why d’you wanna know?” Maureen demanded. “It’s old news. Ancient history. Why drag it out again now?”
Rafe’s tone was as calm as Maureen’s was agitated. “It might pertain to a case I’m working on. A murder case.”
He let that sink in for a second before he added, “I just want to have a conversation with whoever it was. I’m trying to track down Jurgensson. Depending on the relationship, his…” He hesitated, “victim might have some idea where Mr. Jurgensson ended up after he left here.”
“It was a long time ago,” Maureen said again, but she sounded less confrontational now. Maybe it was the mention of the murder case, maybe the fact that Rafe was doing his best to be reassuring. “But I guess it can’t hurt to tell you. The boy’s name was Trent. Noah Trent. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” I echoed.
Maureen nodded. “Dead. Buried at Oak Street cemetery, if you want to check.”
“That likely won’t be necessary,” Rafe said. “Recently?”
“Ten years ago or so. Suicide.”
I winced. So did Rafe, if very faintly. “Thanks, Mo.”
“Don’t mention it,” Maureen said and walked away.
I made a face at her retreating back. “Ouch.”
Rafe nodded. “This job don’t usually make you popular.”
No, I could see that. “So Jurgensson’s victim isn’t your serial killer. If he’s been dead for ten years, he couldn’t have killed the woman this week. Or the one last year,