Chapter 10

Martin had shared enough with Shirley during lunch to lay out the disgusting history of Frank Talbot’s disgusting deeds. She was very interested in what he had to say, but didn’t seem particularly surprised. Martin asked if she knew Frank or had been in school when he was a new teacher. “Oh, I knew him,” she answered wryly. “Never had the pleasure of being his student, however. I graduated in the spring of 1973, just before he started teaching.” Martin was too focused on the task at hand to ask how Shirley knew Frank, and proceeded to lay out his ideas for researching the old newspapers.
Martin and Shirley weren’t quite sure what exactly they would be looking for, but they agreed to review each issue, beginning in the spring of 1973, close to the time when Frank’s hiring was announced. They decided to look for any little story about school activities, unsolved assaults, unanswered accusations, etc. Front page, police reports, school news. Anything that would raise a red flag to someone who knew the real Frank Talbot.
Martin and Shirley also agreed that they had to be a little careful in doing their digging on Frank Talbot. “We don’t want Clark getting suspicious. You got that, Martin?” she asked as they approached the door to the Sentinel building. “The less he knows about our motives, the better. Which means I can’t look like I’m helping you that much.” Martin’s hope for help died. “You can’t help me?” he asked pathetically.
Shirley gave him a disgusted look. “I said I can’t look like I’m helping you. Think of it as theatre, Martin. You bring me in as if I’d just be interested in looking at the advertisements from 30 years ago, or something.”
“I get it,” Martin replied, relieved and nodding. “I’ll bring papers in, 20 or 30 at a time, and bring you some that I think you’ll find…um…interesting, funny.”
“Make that 10 at a time, Martin,” she corrected him. “Any more than that will make a mess out of my system out there.”
So Martin spent the better part of the day bringing in Sentinels, 10 at a time, and casually dropping some off at Shirley’s desk. After pointing something out, she’d ask him if she could just look through them as she answered the phones. “It’s so quiet, Martin, I need something to keep me awake,” she said and gave him a wink.
And it went on like that for the rest of the afternoon. Between the 2 of them, they made it through about 30 issues and figured they could get through another 60 between the 2 of them the next day. They’d each made notes about anything they found, and agreed to compare notes at 7:00 p.m. at Risky Dick’s the next evening. “Have you been there, Shirley?” Martin asked her as they got ready to leave for the day. “No,” she answered, “but I’ve always wanted to peek in. Is it as gross as everyone says it is?”
“Gross?” Martin replied, surprised and a little offended. “Of course it’s not gross! Would I go there if it were gross?”
“Only if you didn’t have a choice,” she shot back. And he could hear her laugh as she walked out the door and started her 1970 Volkswagon Beetle.

Martin swung by Wild Bill’s to fill up with gas before going home. He hadn’t seen or talked to Sharla since the incident with Talbot on Saturday night, and he’d been dying to talk to her for the past 2 days. He thought about calling her up on Sunday morning to see if she still wanted to go into Forest Lake, but chickened out. He just knew that their trip to the Wal-Mart to buy curtains and a new bedspread was cancelled, so he didn’t even bother to call her about that.
And then there was the fact that he just knew that she knew that he had figured out what had happened with Talbot and probably was too embarrassed to see him.
When Martin pulled up by Wild Bill’s gas pumps, he saw Sharla’s red Ford pick-up. He slowly filled his Mazda with gas, taking his time and trying to figure out what to say to her. He took a full 5 minutes to wash his windshield and check the air in his tires, and he still didn’t have a good opening line. So he decided to just go in and do whatever it took to get Sharla to open up to him and lean on him in her hour of trouble.
When Martin walked through the door of the station, he expected Sharla to be sitting on a stool or something behind the register, shoulders slumped, hair covering her face. Instead, Sharla was in her trademark hoodie and short shorts, hair pulled back in a ponytail, her bangs brushing her eyelashes, standing behind the counter with her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s about time you came in here,” she said to him in a tone that bordered on sassy. “I thought we had plans yesterday. What happened to you?”
“Well, Sharla, um, I don’t know, um, I thought you’d probably be too ashamed to see me,” he answered her, halting and confused.
“What would I have to be ashamed about?” she demanded.
“Well, you know, Frank Talbot…” he replied, embarrassed himself.
“Humph! Frank Talbot! He should be ashamed, not me, Martin,” she said, in an angry, but hurt voice.
Martin looked down at the counter and knew she was right. He wanted to kick himself for being such a dope and tried to figure out the right thing to say. Instead, he said nothing. Sharla jumped in to fill the silence. “Martin, you were probably right to think that I didn’t want to see you yesterday. I didn’t want to see anyone. But it would have been nice if you would have called to see what was up.”
The station was perfectly quiet, and Martin knew that Sharla was going to be closing up soon. “Sharla, do you want to have dinner with me at Risky Dick’s? I want to hear the full story, from you, about what happened when you left high school.” She smiled at him and said, “Okay, but who’s picking up the tab?”
“Maybe Don,” Martin answered, relieved, and helped her close up the gas station for the day.