Chapter 6

It was eight-thirty in the evening and Otto Kramer still worked in his ice-cream store. It was a warm spring night and the moths and other bugs clung tightly to the screen door, trying to get to the brightly lighted interior of Otto's Ice Cream Parlor. Otto replaced his old cash register tape with a new one. He didn't really need a cash register, could have gone on with the old cash box he'd had originally, but several years ago his accountant had told him a machine would be easier for tax purposes.

The screen door opened and Paul Moran came in by himself. Otto smiled when he saw him; he liked Paul Moran very much, even though he never knew exactly why. Some people you liked, some you didn't, but this young man was one of the people Otto Kramer liked. When he had first come into the shop several years ago, Otto called him Mr. Moran because he knew he worked for the newspaper. But Paul stopped him.

"That's what my mother always called me," he had said.

"Your mother called you mister?" Otto said, not believing it.

Paul shook his head. "No. And nobody else does. I'm Paul."

Otto was proud to call him Paul. Newspaper writers were important people.

"Hello, Otto."

"Hello, Paul."

"I'm about half-loaded. Hand-pack me a quart of vanilla to take home, please."

"Best thing in the world for drinking too much," Otto said, scooping ice cream into the cardboard container.

"That's what everybody says," Paul said a little fuzzily. "Personally, I think abstinence works a hell of a lot better."

"But that is always behind you when you're afraid of a hangover."

"Ja!" Paul said. "Unfortunately."

"Why were you drinking, Paul? Were you unhappy about something?"

"No. Nothing serious. Stan Hopkins and I just decided to have a few; that's all."

"Why were you drinking with him?" Otto said. "We work at the same place. Friends. You know."

"He's a nobody, Paul. You shouldn't waste your time with a boy like that. You're engaged to a very important girl now. You are going to be a man of substance."

"No, I'm not," Paul said. "I'm going to marry a girl because I want to and I won't get any of her father's money because I'm a Democrat ... and because I don't want it. I don't judge my friends by their bank accounts."

"Ja, I know," Otto said, smiling, as only a middle-aged man with a Prussian face could. "I just made a joke."

Paul laughed quickly, probably realizing he should have earlier.

"You're my friend," Otto said, "so I know you don't go around kissing the bottom end of important people. You are a man who likes people."

"Sure, we're friends, Otto, but you're one of my rich friends."

Paul stopped halfway down the counter of ice-cream freezers and picked up a book that was lying there and looked at its cover.

"Contemporary European History by McNalt," Paul said. "Some kid."

Paul held the book in his hands and studied the cover. "Must be a J.C. student. Younger kids don't study contemporary European history." He opened the cover of the book to the flyleaf.

Otto put his ice-cream scoop back into the container from which it had originally come. He brought his right hand up and touched the back of it to his forehead. Why didn't Paul put the book down and forget about it?

"Evette Warwick," Paul said. "Does she come inhere, Otto?"

"Who's that?"

"She's a college girl. A girl here in town."

"A lot of kids come in here," Otto said. Did Paul believe him? He didn't know. He didn't want Paul to know how he lusted after her. He would lose stature if Paul knew he whined after the town tramp. He didn't want Paul to know he was a weak man; he wanted him to keep the image of a strong-hearted Prussian who hated Hitler and loved the United States.

"Girl I used to know," Paul said. "Funny finding a book of hers her." Paul turned back to Otto. "Well, good night, old buddy. Pray for me. No hangover in the morning."

"I'll pray, old buddy," Otto said in a thick accent, something he hadn't had for many years.

"Auf Wiedersehen," Paul said softly and left the store.

Otto went to where the book lay open on top of the freezers and looked down at it. In bold handwriting was a girl's name, Evette Warwick.

Something always happened to teasers. Some thing always happened to them. He wondered if it could be true with this girl. Could it be? It couldn't be possible in the United States of America. Terrible crimes didn't happen here. But then he remembered a factual detective magazine someone had left in the store once. Brutal crimes did happen in this country but it was always in Detroit or New York or Chicago; never in Thornton, California.

Of course, there had been the girl kidnapped on Lover's Lane two years ago, and there had been the man killed by a husband's shotgun blast only last year....

No, Thornton was no different than any place else in the world. Evil was everywhere.

It was possible, even here.

If she didn't change her ways:

Someone might kill Evette Warwick.