The Wrong Quarry Read Online Free PDF

a glorious giggling array of slender legs and high hair and perky breasts, nipple nodules fighting tight fabric. And speaking of tight, so were my shorts.
    There, I’ve done it. You’ve lost respect for me.
    Now Vale motioned toward the parents, bringing them— us—in around him, huddling. He was a born director, this guy.
    “Now,” he said, over-enunciating, “Sally has handouts for the recital next month, with instructions and guidelines and everything you’ll need for the trip. It’s an overnighter, so we need not just drivers but chaperones. Everybody understand that? Good!”
    He was damn near hamming the sibilant effeminacy. He seemed obviously gay, maybe too much so. That could be a good cover for a heterosexual male to get close to impressionable, malleable young girls without alarming their parents.
    Vale went on with more information about the upcoming recital in Hannibal next month, answering questions about wardrobe and food allowances and so on. This took about fifteen minutes, after which the girls began to emerge from their respective wings, all bundled up in fall and winter coats, the junior high girls still giggling, the high school girls paired off in confidential conversations.
    Some girls went on out to meet parents waiting below in cars, while others joined parents from the recital trip committee, though a few lasses lingered in private confabs while parents waited patiently. My presence among this dwindling contingent had been noted by Vale, who was approaching me with a wary smile.
    “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said. Not quite so overtly gay. “You must be one of the dads I haven’t met yet.”
    “No, actually—”
    Betty Stone, who’d been at my side through the meeting, said brightly, “This is John Quarry, Roger. He’s a journalist, doing a story about small towns and the arts for a St. Louis paper.”
    “The Sun,” I said with a nod.
    Nice of her to come to my rescue.
    Vale smiled, teeth very white under the thick dark mustache. His tan may have come from a bottle, judging by its orange-ish tinge.
    “Welcome, Mr. Quarry,” he said, and extended his hand.
    I shook it. Firm. Confident.
    Betty, rounding up her two girls, gave me a smile accompanied by a twinkle in her dark eyes that said, Aren’t I nice and worth knowing ?
    I nodded at her, she nodded at me, and then she was gone, and suddenly so was everybody else, except for the little blonde, who was still circling in her white tights. She seemed vaguely irritated, but she was extremely pretty, her features delicate. Even her pert breasts seemed irritated, nips pointing scoldingly at me.
    “Will you be needing anything more tonight, Mr. Vale?” she asked. Her voice was high and young, her expression pouty.
    “No, thank you, Sally. You’ve been most helpful.”
    “I’m glad,” she said, just vaguely snippy.
    She went off somewhere, and Vale grinned. The contrast of dark mustache and white teeth was almost startling.
    “Sally’s a little possessive,” he said quietly, a priest reflecting on a troublesome parishioner.
    “Girls will be girls,” I said.
    “Won’t they? So, Mr. Quarry, how can I help you? We could set up a time to talk.”
    “If you’re free now, we can get this out of the way. If you can spare, say, half an hour?”
    “I can do that. If you don’t mind sitting and talking to me when I’m still all sweaty.”
    I shrugged. “I can wait while you shower.”
    “No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
    “Very generous of you.”
    Little Sally, swathed in a white fur coat, moved through without a word and exited into the night.
    “Cute kid,” I said. “What’s she, a senior?”
    “Yes. Very talented. She’s my right hand.”
    He went over and, with a twist, locked the deadbolt. I’m no genius with lock picks, but I could have opened that thing in thirty seconds.
    He returned and said, “We can talk in my quarters.”
    Interesting way to