Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Keith had noticed a table of teachers — all still on staff at Galena High — and took the opportunity to go over and say hello.

“Nobody get up,” he said, leaning in. “Just wanted to come over and see who was taking advantage of the free meal.”

His hand was on the edge of a chair where Bill Bragg, longtime coach of Galena Pirates football, sat next to his wife, Kelly. Both were in their early fifties, Bragg a husky guy, undeniably handsome despite a butch haircut, thick wild eyebrows, and an eternal five o’clock shadow; Kelly an athletically slender gal with short brown hair, pretty hazel eyes, and a million-dollar smile. Bill was in a blue sport coat and a gold necktie — vaguely school colors — and Kelly a tan turtleneck sweater and tweed slacks.

English teacher Ken Stock, a more quiet kind of handsome but always somewhat dashing, wore a blue blazer with a red pocket square and a white shirt with no tie, while his wife, Mary — an art teacher, with short golden-brown hair, brown eyes, and an almost-under-control weight problem — wore a navy dress with a turquoise Native American necklace.

“Sit, sit,” Bill said, gesturing to an empty chair beside him.

“Aren’t Chris and Tyler sitting there?”

“Why,” Ken said dryly, “are they invisible?”

Smiling, shaking her head, Mary said, “From the second the music starts up, those two are on the dance floor.”

Keith sat. “I hate to give you reprobates any encouragement, but I guess you should know what a kick these grown-up kids get out of having their favorite teachers do them the honor.”

“You said it yourself,” Bill said, an arm around the back of Keith’s chair. “It’s a free meal.”

Kelly said, “These are wonderful young people, really. Class of ’09, always one of my favorites. Your daughter was a wonderful point guard.”

The gym teacher also coached girls’ basketball.

“Well,” Keith said, “she was disappointed she didn’t land a scholarship offer. Just not tall enough for college ball.”

With a wry grin, Ken said, “So what do you think, Keith? Are you happy to have Krista join the family business?”

“She’s a good cop,” Keith said, “and she’s making an excellent chief. She has a real sense of what Galena is about — that you have to keep the tourists safe and happy, but never forget about the local community.”

“Karen must be so proud,” Mary said. His late wife and Mary had been good friends, working together on several local charities, often through First Methodist.

“I’m sure she is,” Keith said, though he hadn’t been to church since Karen’s death, and always harbored only the vaguest belief in an afterlife and a supreme being. For him this world was enough to deal with.

Serious now, Ken said, “You know, Krista was a good writer. One of my best on the school paper. I hope she’s keeping a hand in.”

Keith shook his head. “I know you tried to encourage her, but I think writing reports is about it.”

Ken cocked his head. “Hasn’t she been going with Jerry? I thought maybe they’d make a two-person writers’ colony. He’s very serious about his work.”

“No,” Keith told the English teacher. “That ship sailed or sunk or however a writer would put it. Look around — Jerry’s here somewhere, with a girl who may be one of your current students.”

Bill’s shaggy eyebrows rose and he grinned like a friendly bear. “Yeah, I saw him with Jasmine.”

“Jasmine Peterson?” Mary asked, frowning. “Isn’t she a senior?”

“She graduated last year,” girls’ basketball coach Kelly said. “She’s waitressing right now, saving up to go to college. She’s a bright girl.”

Keith smirked. “Not if she’s dating Jerry Ward she isn’t.”

Everybody smiled at that.

Bill said, “You tell Krista we’re proud of her.”

Ken said, “I’ll second that.”

“Hear, hear,” Mary said.

And Kelly was nodding.

Keith stood. “Can I stand you folks to a drink?”

Ken smiled. “Can you stand us, period?”

More smiles, but they accepted the offer. Keith took orders — pinot noir and chardonnay respectively for Mary and Kelly, a couple of Blue Moons for the guys.

The cash bar (their host wasn’t that generous) had a line, so Keith took the opportunity to find the men’s room. It was down a side hall. He was just about to go in when he noticed two figures down a ways, a pretty blonde in a red dress and a dark-haired handsome man, in heated, animated conversation.

Astrid Lund and David Landry.

Not close enough for Keith to hear anything, but the heat of it carried, all right.

When he emerged after a brief visit, neither Astrid nor David was around. Perhaps a momentary flare-up was over; or maybe he’d caught the tail end of a more protracted one...

Just outside the banquet hall, a short male figure in a dark well-tailored suit, which may have cost even more than David Landry’s, approached Keith with a smile. If this was one of his daughter’s classmates, the guy certainly looked older than most — he was bald on top and graying at the sides. His gray-blue eyes behind black-and-gray designer-framed glasses conveyed a seldom-blinking confidence.

“You don’t remember me,” he said. His voice had a radio announcer resonance.

“I’m afraid I don’t. Are you sure you remember me? I’m Keith Larson.”

“Krista’s dad,” he said, nodding. “I’m Alex Cannon. I was president of the Young Democrats.”

Nodding back, Keith said, “I do remember you.” Ten years ago, young Alex Cannon had dark hair down to his shoulders.

Cannon said, “Krista was my vice president one year.”

Keith offered up his least smiling smile. “Yes, Alex, but I’m afraid you were too radical for her tastes.”

He chuckled. “I’ll leave it to others to decide whether I was ahead of my time or behind it. Anyway, now I’m an attorney in—”

“Chicago,” Keith said. “I’m well aware of you and how successful your career has been. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. You were always friendly to me, although I’m pretty sure you thought I was a little creep.”

“Nonsense,” Keith said, although that was spot-on. It was Karen who had been supportive of whatever her daughter’s interests were, even when they had drifted briefly into radical politics.

“Well,” the attorney said, with the kind of smile he no doubt gave a client right before billing him outrageously, “I just wanted to say hello.”

The attorney was just going when Keith said, “We have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Cannon.”

“We do? And I’m still Alex to you, Mr. Larson.”

Keith didn’t offer his first name in return, saying, “I have a buddy on the CPD Homicide Bureau who collared a client of yours.”

The rarely blinking eyes narrowed. “Your friend’s name would be...?”

“Barney Davis. Used to work with me over on the Iowa side. Your client was named Salerno, as I recall.”

“... That’s right. I got him off. He was found not guilty.”

“Which isn’t the same as innocent.”

“True. But the bottom line, Mr. Larson? I would appear to be a better defense lawyer than your friend is a homicide detective.”

The smile, polite now — barely so — was followed by a nod, as Cannon shot into the banquet hall.

The line at the bar had thinned, and Keith made two trips, conveying the drinks to the teachers’ table, including another Diet Coke for himself. For another fifteen or twenty minutes, he spoke to the educators about local sports and next year’s prospects. Then some well-intentioned reminiscing about Karen, sparked by Mary Stock, made him uncomfortable.

He waited for the right moment, found it, and excused himself.