And while it might just’ve been my imagination running completely amok, when I considered the degree to which ruthless Viv and her mindless, brutish henchman Mike had both despised Mr. Killdare, I had to admit, I kind of wondered whether they weren’t discussing . . . murder.
But teenagers—even heartless, soulless, cold-blooded ones like Viv—didn’t do that.
Did they?
Chapter 8
“One more bite, Ostermeyer! One more bleepin’ bite!”
“But I can’t,” I tell Hollerin’ Hank Killdare. “I’m gonna be sick!”
I’m sitting at a table in Sir Loin’s castle-themed steak house, and he’s stalking around me, a stopwatch in his hand, a scowl on his face, and a look in his watery, bloodshot eyes that says I’m the world’s biggest disappointment.
“Do it, Ostermeyer!” he growls, jowls flapping. “It’s only sixty bleepin’ ounces! This is your chance to achieve immortal glory!”
I feel really nauseated, but also like I have no choice, so I jab my oversize knife and fork into a steak that seems to keep GROWING, and hack off a fatty, rare slab that looks as big as a full-grown opossum.
“There’s no way I can eat this,” I tell myself. Yet my shaky hand is making its way to my mouth—only to stop suddenly when Coach Killdare turns his back on me, and I can see WORMS crawling out of a hole in his head—a writhing tangle of sugar-coated, neon gummy worms—and I drop the giant utensils, just as everything I’ve eaten . . .
“Millie.”
The sound of Ryan’s voice sliced through the nightmare, like an oversize knife through a porterhouse, and I opened my eyes, lifted my heavy head, and tried to focus, happy to discover that there wasn’t a massive hunk of beef on the table—the desk—in front of me.
“Thanks for waking me up,” I said groggily, not only because he’d interrupted my nightmare, but because I was drooling in homeroom.
At least I was grateful until I saw that Ry was holding something under my nose.
A copy of the Honeywell High Gazette, featuring a picture of me in my polyester uniform, bent over a fair-haired quarterback’s shoes and doing exactly what I’d almost just done in my dream.
But worse than that was the headline for one of two accompanying stories, both written by Vivienne Fitch:
“Killdare Slaying: Police Question Assistant Coach.”
Chapter 9
“Vivienne Fitch, you will not get away this,” I snarled at the girl who was sitting smugly in a metal office chair, her arms crossed and wicked amusement in her eyes, clearly not regretting publishing a libelous story about my father and a borderline libelous photo of me. “You have gone too far this time!” I warned her.
Then I turned on the Gazette’s fresh-out-of-college faculty advisor, Mr. Sokowski, who, unlike Viv, was shaking a little in his chair. I raised the paper, pointing to page one. “And how could you let this run? I should sue this whole stupid school!”
“Millicent, please calm down,” Principal Woolsey finally spoke up, no doubt because I’d raised the specter of litigation. He peered nervously around his office, where Mr. Sokowski had wisely dragged Viv’s and my argument, and it seemed like he was afraid I had lawyers hiding behind his dying ficus plant. “Please,” he begged. “Lower your voice.”
“No, I won’t—”
But before I could accuse Mr. Woolsey of negligence, too, Viv took control of the meeting, advising me, “You are not going to sue anybody, Ostermeyer. The photo depicts a legitimate moment in a newsworthy event—and was the best-quality shot I got, since Fat Pete—”
“Big Pete,” I said, defending the custodian’s dignity. Maybe I was starting to think we’d really dated. “It’s Big Pete.”
Mr. Woolsey cleared his throat and absently adjusted items on his desk, including a photo of him—alone—on some kind of tropical vacation and the shiny name plaque that optimistically proclaimed him “Bertram B. Woolsey, Principal.” He sounded more like a student, though. “You two . . . Please . . .”
Viv ignored us both. “It’s the best image I got, since Fat Pete blocked my view of the actual body.” She shrugged. “And as for the story, there’s nothing remotely libelous there, either. Your father was questioned. And the quotes from Detective Lohser are all verbatim.”
I checked the front page again, skimming Viv’s two articles. One was a straightforward account of how Mr. Killdare had been found murdered. It seemed factual, although it irritatingly referred to me as “too distraught to offer comment.” And the second story . . . I scanned it and had to admit that it was technically correct, too. My father had been interviewed extensively—but only because, in my opinion, Detective Lohser had it in for him. It was clear from Lohser’s quote: “We are interviewing everyone who had access to the storage area and knew the victim.”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t as damning as I’d first thought. And yet, thanks to the headline and a lead that played up Dad’s on-field interrogation, my father did end up looking like an honest-to-gosh suspect.
That was purposeful on Viv’s part.
“You’re just mad because my dad beat yours for mayor—and I beat you out for a Pacemaker last year,” I grumbled. “You can’t get over that stuff—or anything else. You drown in the past like you’re freakin’ Kenny Kaluka in Lake Wallenpaupack.”
Viv rolled her eyes. “Oh, please! Not that again! Who even thinks about that?”
You do, you grudge-carrying witch.
All at once, I recalled Viv’s conversation with Mike outside the theater. The one that had made me wonder whether she knew something about Mr. Killdare’s death.
Maybe YOU should be interrogated.
“This should’ve been my story,” I said, watching her closely. Suspiciously. Then I tried to appeal to Mr. Sokowski, but he averted his eyes, like a man who didn’t want anything he said to be repeated during a lawsuit, so I addressed Viv again. “I found the body.”
Viv seemed confused by what I thought was practically Aristotelian logic. I discovered the corpse, ergo the story is mine. Ipso facto. Corpus delecti. Agnus dei. Forever and ever, amen. But Viv obviously hadn’t studied Greek philosophy. Or maybe she had discovered a small flaw in my reasoning, because she cocked her head and noted, “So . . . Where’s your article, Millie? Hmm?”
“I didn’t know you were doing a special edition—behind my back,” I pointed out. “I thought I had all week to file a story.” We usually went to press on Fridays, so the paper came out on Monday morning. “I thought—”
“You obviously didn’t think at all,” Viv countered, without drawing any comment from the adults in the room. It seemed as if Principal Woolsey and Mr. Sokowski had faded—or maybe crawled—away, leaving me and Vivienne to settle a score that dated back to that elementary school costume contest. “Why didn’t you ask if we planned a special edition, given how big this story is? Huh?”
All right. Maybe she had a point. I felt myself deflating a little, like a balloon animal a few hours after a carnival. Viv must’ve sensed my uncertainty and she pounced, adding, “Since you dropped the ball, I am going to cover this story exclusively, Millie. Every development.” She smiled—unsweetly. “But don’t feel bad. I’ll let you interview me when I win a Pacemaker this spring. And for real journalism.”
I tried to object.
“But—”
Mr. Woolsey finally interrupted, if only to suggest, “Are we certain that we need to get the school paper overly involved? The local media will keep everyone in the community abreast of developments, while the grief counselors suggest not dwelling on the horrific details.”
For the first time ever, Viv and I seemed to be on the same wavelength. We both shared looks, like, Grief counselors? For a man who wasn’t even missed for a week?
Then I quickly returned my attention to Mr. Woolsey—gladly ending that moment—to find him adjusting his tie with pale, almost feminine fingers. “Perhaps,” he concluded, “for the good of student and faculty morale, it’s best left . .
. underemphasized.”
I could’ve sworn he’d been very close to saying “forgotten,” and I studied our principal more closely, wondering why he might want the story swept under the proverbial rug—and recalling, yet again, that list of suspects I’d made.
Mr. Woolsey’s life was going to be a lot easier with Mr. Killdare out of his gym and off the football field. Especially since my even-tempered, sensible father had already taken over as head coach. But surely a guy named Bertram B. Woolsey, whose hands looked unfit for wielding crochet needles, let alone bludgeoning . . . Surely he couldn’t have summoned the mental or physical strength to . . .
Right?
Then a girl who I did think had the capacity to kill gave Mr. Woolsey a dose of reality. “This is the biggest story in the school’s history—discounting, of course, the fact that the place gives people cancer—”
“Hey!”
Viv spoke over my protest. “There’s no way the Gazette—meaning I—am going to downplay it.” Then she turned on her high heel and walked out of the room. But apparently she wasn’t quite done with me yet. Apparently there were certain things that even Vivienne Fitch wouldn’t say in front of a teacher and an administrator, and I found her waiting for me when I left a few moments later, after stopping to grab a handful of Werther’s Originals from a bowl on Mr. Woolsey’s desk.
“What do you want now?” I demanded, rounding a corner to discover Viv lurking there, like a very aptly named booby trap. “What?”
“Just in case I wasn’t clear, back in Mr. Woolsey’s office,” she informed me. “Your streak of dumb—and I mean really dumb—luck is over, Ostermeyer. I am going to win a real Pacemaker—the one for investigative reporting, not lame, weepy features. And in the process, I plan to make sure that your dad doesn’t walk away from this, if he’s involved—as I suspect. Not like how he got off scot free for building a death trap of a school.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. And not just because I had a mouth full of candy, which I spat into my hand so she’d hear me very clearly when I advised her, in a growl, “You have just declared war, Vivienne Fitch. And you will be incredibly sorry you just said that about my father.”
She didn’t seem scared. She just smiled in her superior, evil way, then stalked off again, while I watched her with narrowed eyes, certain that she was underestimating me.
I wasn’t the most ambitious student. I didn’t join clubs or worry unduly about grades. I definitely wasn’t Ivy League bound like Viv. Instead I planned to backpack around the world after high school. Or maybe take a nice nap.
But I really, really didn’t like it when my family—or what was left of it—got attacked. My dad and I didn’t have the greatest relationship. I was pretty sure some days he thought I was too much like Mom, and therefore painful to even look at. Other times, I knew I drove him nuts just by being . . . me. And I didn’t get my father, either. Didn’t get why he was so into “playing by the book.” But Dad was mine to complain about. And I was the only one who could accuse him of anything.
Standing in the hallway, I popped my candy back into my mouth, crossed my arms, and continued to watch Viv, thinking, We’ll see who controls this story, Vivienne Fitch.
I also kind of wondered if my archrival, who knew my propensity for accidentally one-upping her, might just want to keep me from investigating because she was afraid I’d dig up some dirt on her.
Then, although school wasn’t exactly over, I went to my locker and grabbed my backpack because I had someplace to go—and someone to consult about how to solve a murder.
Chapter 10
“Millie, these are unusual choices for someone even with your eclectic tastes,” Ms. Isabel Parkins observed, swiping her library checkout laser gun over the bar codes inside How to Solve a Murder: The Forensic Handbook and Do-It-Yourself Detective. “I can only assume this sudden interest in detection has something to do with you finding Mr. Killdare’s body.”
“Yes,” I said, placing Inside the Mind of a Psychopath and The Psycho Killer Next Door on the counter, too. “It might also have something to do with besting Vivienne Fitch.”
I could tell that my librarian-slash-confidante was intrigued. Her dark eyebrows arched over her funky, retro cat-eye glasses as she swiped two books I should’ve read years ago, to better understand my enemy. Even if Viv hadn’t killed anyone, she was definitely, at the very least, borderline psychotic. Ms. Parkins slid the books back to me, noting, “Don’t tell me you two are in a race to solve a murder!”
“Something like that,” I said, holding back five books that I was suddenly a little embarrassed to be borrowing. “Viv wants to write every story about Mr. Killdare’s murder for the school paper—and, by the way, pin the whole thing on my dad.”
Over the years, I’d blurted out a lot of surprising things to Ms. Parkins, from my plan, at age ten, to walk a tightrope I’d strung between my second-story bedroom window and an oak tree in my backyard to my confession that I was starting to grow hair in unusual places. Inevitably, she responded with a book recommendation, be it a biography of the Wallenda family, which had probably saved me a broken leg by convincing me that I didn’t know squat about “tension” and “slack,” or the classic What’s Happening to Me? A Guide to Puberty, which had spared me a talk with my father that would’ve been more painful than shattered limbs. Never once, though, had she looked startled the way she did when I mentioned my dad being connected to a murder.
That’s odd.
Or maybe I was imagining things, because she quickly recovered and said, “I’m sure that even Vivienne”—Ms. Parkins was well versed on Viv’s capabilities, as she was a subject of frequent discussion—“can’t really cause trouble for your father. Especially since the Gazette, while definitely a quality paper, is the voice of a high school, not the whole community.”
“Oh, don’t underestimate Viv—or the reach of the Gazette,” I said. “The print version might only be read by a bunch of students and teachers. But the online edition gets about thirty thousand hits a week during football season.” I shrugged, not getting the whole fascination with football, but explaining, “You know how Stingers fans are. They can’t get enough of the team, even after they move away from Honeywell. We get comments and e-mail from people in, like, Sri Lanka who still follow the Stingers.”
“Yes,” Ms. Parkins said quietly. “Football is king around here, for better or for worse . . .”
She seemed to drift off, biting her bright-pink lower lip. She was one of those women who could successfully wear fuchsia lipstick, a lime-green cardigan, and three cocktail rings, each with a huge faux jewel. If I’d worn that outfit, I would’ve been judged psychotic and probably carted away. But Ms. Parkins could carry it off.
“Umm . . . Ms. Parkins?” I finally said, to bring her back from what was obviously a mental vacation from the library. And not a relaxing one, judging from the look on her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes . . . Yes,” she reassured me, pulling herself together and smiling. “And I’m sure your father will be fine.”
“Yeah, sure,” I agreed, not certain why we were talking about Dad again. Then, because I needed to get going, I placed the books I’d been withholding on the counter, trying not to seem embarrassed. “This is all for today, I guess.”
It was to Ms. Parkins’s credit that she didn’t mock me. “Classic Nancy Drew!” she said, with genuine appreciation in her voice. “Now, she’ll teach you how to solve a mystery.”
I told Ms. Parkins a lot of stuff, but I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t really checking out a bunch of dated, corny books about a teen sleuth to learn how to solve a crime. I had a deeper, secret reason for wanting to revisit those old novels. A motive that I’d never confide to anybody because it was something I’d shared only with my mom.
Chapter 11
“While he or she may be socially adept, the true psychopath has no genuine concern for the welfare of strangers, friends or family.”
“Je
ez,” I muttered out loud, tossing aside The Psycho Killer Next Door after reading only five paragraphs. The author had already described Vivienne Fitch to a “t,” so why bother with the remaining three hundred pages?
Then I fumbled blindly around on my bed for my Double Deluxe, extra Bungee sauce, from my favorite restaurant, Bungee Burger, while I used the other hand to grab Do-It-Yourself Detective. Opening to a random page, I took a bite of my sandwich and read, “Methodical legwork is still the best way to solve a crime.”
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a methodical person—wasn’t even reading the book in order—and I ditched the detecting guide on the floor, too, in favor of The Hidden Staircase, the first Nancy Drew I’d read with my mother, when she’d gotten sick. That had been our thing. Curling up together and me reading the stories to her.
I hadn’t thought about those books much since her death—until I’d decided to dabble in “sleuthing” myself and impulsively grabbed a bunch at the library, thinking it might be fun to refresh my memory about how a teenager went about solving a crime. But as I held that old novel by its iconic yellow spine, all of a sudden I lost my appetite.
Everything about this book reminds me of Mom.
Forcing myself to choke down what felt like a hunk of lead on my tongue, I pushed away my dinner and set The Hidden Staircase on my messy desk, next to my cell phone.
I guess I’ll have to do this my way, without help from experts—or Nancy Drew.
I didn’t really have a plan, but I found myself picking up my phone and, on impulse—maybe because I felt restless and claustrophobic in my room—texting Laura and Ryan:
Meet me corner Arch & Maple in 15.
Then, while I waited for their replies, I started searching a pile of clothes on my floor for a black shirt suitable for a break-in.
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