Buzz Kill

by Beth Fantaskey

  I could vividly recall the tent at my mother’s funeral and was glad that she was buried in a different cemetery. One that I didn’t visit as often as I should.

  Okay, one that I hadn’t visited in five years, in spite of my dad urging me to do it. I just . . . couldn’t.

  “What if we’re the only students?” Laura’s voice broke into my guilty thoughts. “The only mourners at all?”

  “We might be,” Ryan noted, ducking his umbrella under some low branches. “I don’t know if any other guys from the team are going, even.”

  Although I’d known that most players hadn’t exactly liked Mr. Killdare, I was surprised by that. At the very least, he’d won them championships. “Really?”

  Ryan bent down again because this part of the cemetery didn’t seem very well maintained. “Yeah. Mike told—more like warned—everybody to stay away. He’s still so pissed about losing his quarterback spot that he wants the whole team to boycott the service.”

  I stopped walking for a second. Interesting. Mike is furious enough to threaten his teammates. Was he perhaps angry enough to KILL?

  “Somebody’ll show up,” I said with confidence. But in truth, I hadn’t heard anybody talk about attending, even though you could miss half a day of school without any penalty. What did that say about Mr. Killdare? “And I have to go,” I reminded my friends. “Ms. Parkins says secrets come out at funerals. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  Laura jumped over a puddle. “Do you think BeeBee will show up?”

  I tried to jump, too—and fell short, so my right foot got soaked. “I hope so. Not that we’ll necessarily know who she is.”

  All at once, I felt Ryan’s hand clasp my arm, and I looked up from under my umbrella to see the funeral tent just a few yards away.

  My first thought was, Okay, maybe Laura is right. It is weird for us to be here. Because not only was the service already underway, but only about thirty people had turned out.

  I took a moment to scan the mourners—or the obligated, as seemed more likely in Mr. Killdare’s case—searching for familiar faces or someone who might call herself BeeBee. And there was a woman in a plainly cut maroon suit who looked to be about Mr. Killdare’s age, and who stood alone with her head bowed.

  Does she look like a world traveler? Somebody who’d . . . er, “be with” Mr. Killdare? Send him postcards signed “Love”?

  It was hard to tell, so I kept searching the gathering, identifying Principal Woolsey, who stood next to my father, and Ms. Beamish, and a few other teachers. And at the very edge of the tent was another person from school. Chase Albright, who’d ignored Mike’s “warning” and stood alone, looking very mature in a dark suit that somehow came across as more expensive than my, Laura’s, and Ryan’s cobbled-together outfits, all combined.

  Feeling eyes on me, I found that Detective Lohser was, of course, there, too—and staring in my direction.

  Pretending to ignore him, I resumed surveying the crowd—only to stop short at the sight of long blond hair cascading from under a very chic funereal black hat. Although her face was partly obscured, I would’ve recognized my archnemesis anywhere. Especially since, unlike me, she’d had the presence of mind to bring a reporter’s notebook, which she held discreetly in her left hand.

  Darn you, Vivienne Fitch!

  Chapter 27

  I’d mentally prepped to face the memorial service, but standing at the edge of Coach Killdare’s grave, my chest tightened as a minister in a black suit intoned a prayer and memories came flooding back.

  My mother’s casket being lowered . . .

  I glanced at my father, who also seemed unnerved—but mainly by my presence. He kept giving me curious looks, as if to ask, “Why are you here?”

  I averted my gaze, hardly able to bear seeing my dad in a sober suit beside an open grave. The scene was too familiar, almost like Mom had died yesterday, instead of about eight years in the past.

  Both Ryan and Laura seemed to understand what was happening to me, and Ry clasped my arm, whispering, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said softly as the minister wrapped up the world’s longest prayer. Then I shrugged free, knowing I had to pull myself together, if only because I couldn’t let Viv see me looking weak. She kept peeking at me from under the brim of that little hat, no doubt sensing I was struggling and hoping I’d fall apart.

  I glanced over at Chase and found that he was watching me, too, but with something that looked like sympathy. For a moment, I was not only surprised to see that expression in his eyes, but unsure how he’d have any clue as to what I was going through.

  Then I realized that even if I didn’t know much about Chase, my story was common knowledge. For a long time, I’d been poor, motherless Millie Ostermeyer—a label that still sort of stuck.

  Don’t be that pathetic kid, Millie. You’re on an investigative mission, not throwing a pity party.

  Squaring my shoulders, I forced myself to face the casket—just as the minister addressed all of us, asking, as if he’d run out of stuff to say, “Would anyone like to come forward and offer a few words about the man whose life we celebrate today?”

  Funerals are pretty quiet to begin with, but that invitation caused a phenomenally profound hush to descend upon that cemetery. The kind of silence that I imagined existed in outer space. Even the birds seemed to shut up, and while I could see that Principal Woolsey was clearing his throat in his nervous way, he was managing to do it soundlessly, like he didn’t want to be singled out to speak on behalf of a man who—let’s face it—he’d probably loathed.

  I sneaked a hopeful look at the woman in the maroon suit, but she was hanging back, too.

  And although my dad certainly wasn’t shy, he didn’t jump into the spotlight, either—though for once I wished he would. Go up there and say great stuff about Mr. Killdare, because Detective Lohser’s listening and Viv is taking notes!

  I was pretty sure Dad waited because he was a stickler for protocol and would let family—or at least somebody not best known for fighting with Hollerin’ Hank—go first. Still, I tried to psychically will him to step up to the plate—until somebody finally broke that horrible, awkward silence by saying, in a calm, cool baritone, “I’d like to say a few words.”

  It probably wasn’t appropriate behavior, but it seemed like Laura couldn’t keep herself from hopping up and down. “Chase!” she kind of gasped. “Chase is going to talk!”

  Chapter 28

  It wasn’t anything Chase said during his brief tribute to Coach Killdare that served as the key to unlock a big door to my puzzling, ultraprivate classmate’s past.

  No, it was something that passed between Chase and the woman I’d potentially—and, I was pretty sure, mistakenly—identified as BeeBee, as he stepped away from the grave and she stepped forward to speak, that caused a light bulb to go on over my head.

  It was just a simple gesture—a woman resting her matronly hand on a boy’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze, as if to say, “Well done, son.” But once I found out exactly who that woman was—when she gave her eulogy—that touch, and the way they’d locked eyes, spoke volumes.

  I fully intended to confront Chase with my suspicions—huge as they were—but first I had an even bigger fish to fry.

  “You guys go on back to school,” I told Laura and Ryan after the minister officially dismissed us all. “I’ve gotta talk to Vivienne.”

  Chapter 29

  Though not too many people had turned out for Mr. Killdare’s funeral, those who did were, unlike me, obviously not squeamish about sticking around a wet cemetery, chewing the fat during a break in the rain. Even Chase was talking for a change, with the woman who’d patted his shoulder, while my dad—after finally stepping up to laud his former colleague—was in politician mode, glad-handing everybody, with the exception of Detective Lohser, who hovered alone near a grave, like a ghost that had slithered up to ruin what was quickly becoming a pretty decent party. Viv, meanwhile, had Principal
Woolsey cornered, interviewing him in a way that I knew was too aggressive to get results.

  Psychopath! I thought, watching Viv jab her pen at our poor, flinching principal, practically stabbing him. Honestly, it was like I was witnessing the shower scene out of—well, Psycho. He’ll never talk if you threaten him!

  And, sure enough, when I got within earshot, I heard Mr. Woolsey say, hands raised to ward off the near blows, “I don’t know what more to tell you, Vivienne. When I said, in my eulogy, that he was an effective coach, that’s what I meant!”

  “Viv, for crying out loud, leave Mr. Woolsey alone,” I urged as soon as I was close enough to intervene. “You’re scaring him!”

  Mr. Woolsey probably should’ve been offended, but—as I’d predicted—he was mainly relieved. “What can I do for you, Millicent?” he asked, eyes still darting nervously in Viv’s direction. “Hmm?” He dug into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Do you need a pass to return to class?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I actually had plenty of passes, some presigned “Bertram B. Woolsey” in a distinctive florid script, having “borrowed” a pad full of them when I’d been in his office for a halfhearted lecture about missing French trois the previous year.

  “Millie, what do you want?” Viv snapped while Mr. Woolsey continued to pat himself down. “I’m trying to work here.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about, Viv,” I said. “I want you to back off this story, because I did find the body, and I’m fully capable of covering the murder—starting with an article about this service. That’s why I’m here.”

  I really wanted the chance to summarize the eulogy my father had delivered, because while he hadn’t gone first, he’d eventually said some pretty nice stuff about Mr. Killdare and had even gotten a little misty—if only over a victory they’d shared in 2010.

  But Viv crossed her arms, challenging me. “Where’s your notebook? Huh?”

  Of course, I should’ve brought a pad and pen, but I pointed to my head. “I have more up here, saved away, than you can ever dream of having in your precious notebook.”

  “All you’ve got up there is a tangled rats’ nest,” Viv sniped.

  Ignoring her, I appealed to Mr. Woolsey on the grounds that I’d just rescued him, and he was, if only technically, in charge of the school. “Please, Mr. Woolsey. I am finally trying to do something academic here—trying to ‘achieve my potential,’ as defined by the American education establishment—the way you’re always telling me to do,” I reminded him. “Please . . . Tell Viv that I’m on the murder story now. That, at the very least, I’m covering the service.”

  Bertram Woolsey looked like he might pee his suit pants to be put on the spot like that, but then a light seemed to dawn in his eyes, and to my utter shock, he turned to Viv and said, “I believe Millicent is correct, Vivienne. Let her cover the service.” He addressed both of us. “And then, honestly, I think the Gazette will have said enough.”

  “I’ll decide when we’ve said enough,” Viv snapped. She narrowed her eyes at me. “And this had better be one heck of an article, Ostermeyer. I want every detail you’ve got ‘in your head’ on paper. And believe me—I’ll know if you mess up, because I actually took notes.”

  Then she stalked away, headed down the path toward school, and I turned to thank Mr. Woolsey for his support. But he was gone, too, walking toward my father, who was talking to a couple I didn’t recognize, so I just stood there for a moment, reveling in my small victory. Only gradually did it dawn on me that Mr. Woolsey had no doubt backed me up because he was sure I’d fail. Maybe even blow off the whole thing.

  He really wants this murder swept under the rug. And who better to screw it up than Millie Ostermeyer, who might read Plato, but who skips classes and eschews all organized activities?

  “You are wrong this time, Bertram B. Woolsey,” I grumbled. “So wrong . . .”

  “Are you talking to yourself?”

  At the sound of a familiar—but totally unexpected—voice, I turned slowly, refusing to be embarrassed. But I couldn’t hide my surprise when the person who’d come up behind me suggested, “Do you want to walk back to school together?”

  I didn’t answer Chase right away. Instead, I blinked at him about five times, considering that offer. Then I blurted out something that had been bugging me for most of the memorial service, thinking I was most likely to get an honest answer if I caught him off-guard.

  “So,” I inquired, point-blank. “What the heck did you do to get locked up in a boarding school for criminals?”

  Chapter 30

  “I knew you’d figured it out, as soon as Mrs. Blackmoor stepped up to speak,” Chase said, opening his umbrella and holding it over both of us. The rain had started again, and I’d left my umbrella back at the service. It was inappropriately cheerful, covered with yellow smiley faces and the admonition “Rain, Rain, Go Away” in a curly font, so I’d stashed it behind a headstone and promptly forgotten it. “I saw you looking between the two of us, the wheels turning in your head,” Chase added. “I knew you got it.”

  He sounded grim, even for a guy who’d just been at a funeral. But he smelled FANTASTIC jammed in next to me under that umbrella.

  Enough, Millie! He’s a juvenile delinquent!

  “So what did you do to end up in prison school?” I asked, returning to the big question. After all, we both knew most of the story. It had started clicking together when the woman in the maroon suit, Mrs. Claire Blackmoor, had introduced herself as the “president”—meaning “warden”—of Mason Treadwell Military Academy, the place my dad used to threaten to send me. The school where that kid had gotten stabbed a few years before.

  And as Mrs. Blackmoor had talked about what a great influence Coach Killdare had been on the guys at Treadwell, I’d seen her glance again at Chase, and all the pieces had fallen into place.

  Chase had attended a boarding school, as the rumors at Honeywell claimed. And it had been “exclusive”—in the sense that it was open only to kids adjudicated by the courts.

  The only thing I didn’t know for certain was whether Chase had watched Coach Killdare’s dog as the price for keeping that secret under wraps, or if Mr. Killdare had been a sort of mentor, helping to rehabilitate him.

  I glanced up at Chase, bumping into him, and thought, delinquency or no delinquency, Laura would’ve given her right eye to be in my place. Or maybe her left, because I was walking on Chase’s left, and she would’ve wanted to see him in that suit and tie, and take in his eyes, more blue-gray right then, like they were mirroring the cloudy sky . . .

  “So, Chase,” I prompted, realizing that I was getting off-track again. “What did you do? How’d you end up at Treadwell?”

  “Millie . . .” He put his free hand on my arm, stopping us in the middle of the cemetery. There was nobody else around—nobody aboveground—and as we turned to face each other, I realized that, discounting the times I hung out with Ryan and one terrible school dance that I’d attended with a forgettable boy named Nolan Durkin, I’d never been squeezed that close to a guy my age. And I hardly knew Chase. Nobody knew him.

  Weird.

  “Yeah?” I asked when he let go of my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry if I came off heavy-handed when I asked you not to nose around in my life,” he said. “And—again—I was kind of a jerk to you when you tried to talk in French class. But I like my privacy—like to just be left alone—and I’m going to ask you again . . . Please don’t tell anybody what you know about me.”

  Chase Albright was hot. He was mature and well-spoken, not to mention charismatic and enigmatic, which was a fairly lethally attractive and hard-to-resist combination. I had a feeling that he got pretty much everything he wanted from girls, whether that meant promises to keep his secrets or . . . other stuff. But I still wasn’t sure that I owed him anything, and I refused to commit. If he was prone to, say, taking guns into schools and going on shooting sprees, I was going to warn my frie
nds. “Just tell me what you did,” I suggested. “Then we’ll talk discretion.”

  Chase didn’t seem happy with that. I could see that his jaw was tense, but he nodded. “Okay. Fair enough.” We started walking again, but he didn’t spill his guts right away, saying instead, “You’re a tough girl, aren’t you? Terrible at French, but tough.”

  Although I was pretty sure I heard grudging admiration in his voice, I wasn’t certain if that was a compliment. When I looked up at him, though, I realized that he was as close to smiling as I’d ever seen him. “Thanks . . . I guess,” I said. “Now start talking already.”

  That faint smile vanished, and he suddenly looked miserable—and lost in some past that he obviously didn’t like to revisit. Then he sighed and said quietly, “Okay . . . Here goes.”

  Chapter 31

  How was it that everything Chase confessed to me confirmed my earliest suspicions about him—that he was a rich, privileged, arrogant snob—and worse things than I’d imagined, too . . . And yet, as he told his story, I mainly felt compassion? Not for the kid Chase was describing in the past tense, but for the tortured guy who was walking next to me then, being very careful to keep the umbrella over my head, even if it meant he got wet.

  “God, I partied every night,” he muttered, dragging one hand through his damp hair. It wasn’t a boast like some kids made about getting drunk or high. He sounded appalled. “Me and my friends . . . We had enough money and connections to get anything we wanted. We didn’t even bother with our parents’ liquor cabinets. We did harder stuff.”

  He didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and I didn’t press him. I was pretty naive about that sort of thing, but I wasn’t cloistered. I saw TV shows about rich teenagers and the powders they snorted and the liquids they injected. I supposed poor and middle-class kids did that stuff, too, but there weren’t as many shows about them.