Buzz Kill

by Beth Fantaskey

  My heart was pounding, too—but I wasn’t ready to see Chase. “No,” I told Dad firmly. “Tell him thanks for bringing back the shoes. But I don’t want to talk.”

  Dad opened his mouth, as if he finally couldn’t stand not knowing what was up. But then he glanced at Laura and Ryan and must’ve judged that it still wasn’t the right time. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll tell him.” He started to close the door, but paused. “Millie . . . Do I need to talk to Chase?”

  I knew he was thinking the same thing Ryan just had. Did Chase go too far?

  “No. It’s okay,” I promised. “We just had a . . . fight. That’s all. Nothing that requires paternal intervention.”

  When my father left us without another word, my friends stayed quiet, all of us listening to Dad and Chase confer downstairs. I couldn’t make out what they said, but a minute later, I heard the front door close.

  Laura turned to me, confused. “Millie, why not talk to him? What is really going on?”

  I couldn’t explain more, though. Instead, I finally turned to my laptop—moving the screen so only I could see it—and typed “Colton Chase Albright fatal accident” into Google, fingers flying so I couldn’t back out. Less than thirty seconds later, I found an article from the Philadelphia Inquirer about the drug-addled son of a prominent cardiac surgeon who’d walked away from an accident that had left a state lawmaker’s daughter dead.

  “He murdered my little girl . . . admits she was reluctant to get into that car . . . I’ll see Colton Albright in prison, then hell . . .”

  The rage and agony of a grieving father were palpable in the quotes, and I quickly clicked off the site, sick to my stomach again.

  What if somebody had taken my mom like that? What if a drunk driver, not a disease, had claimed her life? I would never, ever forgive that.

  “Millie, are you okay?” Ryan edged closer. “Why are you so pale?”

  “Yeah,” Laura agreed. “And what are you doing on the computer?”

  Before I could answer—even try to explain why I was acting so weird—the doorbell rang again, and as if on cue, we all got up and went to the top of the stairs. Laura seemed excited, while Ry was obviously still in big brother, protective mode.

  “Dad, tell Chase I really don’t want to talk to him now,” I hollered down. “Seriously!”

  But as my words faded away, I realized Chase hadn’t returned. My dad was talking to someone else. Namely, Detective Blaine Lohser, who was informing him, “I have a warrant here, authorizing us to search your property, Head Coach Ostermeyer.”

  “What?” I heard disbelief in my father’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

  I couldn’t see Detective Lohser, but I could easily picture the smarmy smile that was no doubt forming under his dated scrub brush of facial hair when he said, “We have reason to believe the weapon used to murder Henry Killdare is buried behind your house.”

  Chapter 77

  “What are you doing?” I demanded, tugging on Detective Lohser’s arms, which were crossed over his chest. We were standing in Dad’s and my dark backyard, and a team of police officers was digging, under lights, in what used to be my mother’s veggie garden. “This has gone far enough!” I cried, way too loudly.

  “We got a tip, kid.” Detective Lohser repeated stuff he’d said earlier when he’d barged into our house, waving papers under our noses. He didn’t bother looking at me. He was watching that team of cops intently. “We think it’s legit.”

  “This is crazy,” I insisted, hauling on his sleeve again. “Stop it!”

  “Millie!” My father spoke sharply, but his arms were gentle as he came up behind me and wrapped them around me, like a paradoxically comforting straitjacket, and walked me back from Detective Lohser before I could pull him to the ground. Then, when we were a few steps away, my father did something he hadn’t done since I was a little child. He kissed the top of my head, sort of rocking me and saying softly, “Quiet, Millie. It’s going to be okay.”

  I wanted to believe him, but I hadn’t had such a bad year since my mother’d been diagnosed with cancer. My senior year so far was a disaster, and going downhill faster than an Olympic bobsled. I’d had a first kiss and gotten my heart broken on the same night. And if anyone—some pathetic guy pretending to be a detective—separated me from the man who could be distant, but who was, on that chilly October night, continuing to hold me, as if I were six again . . .

  That can’t happen. I can’t lose my dad, too.

  Resting against my father’s reassuringly broad chest, I also watched the police officers, not understanding.

  What did they think they’d find back there? Who was this “tipster”?

  “Don’t cry, Millie,” Dad whispered, kissing my head again. I was cognizant of people gathering in the alley behind our yard, checking out the commotion and lights, and wondered whether Laura and Ryan had hung around for moral support, or if they’d listened to my father and gone home. I hoped they were still close by. “It’s going to be fine,” Dad promised. “There’s nothing here.”

  I hadn’t even realized that my breath had gotten shaky. That I was struggling to bottle up tears of frustration and anger, both for me and for my dad—who was obviously very wrong, because moments after he assured me that there was nothing to be found in our yard, one of the uniformed officers, who was digging like a gopher, announced loudly, “Found it.”

  My dad was clearly stunned. His arms around me locked up, like he had rigor mortis. Releasing me, he stepped woodenly back, handing me over to Ms. Parkins, who had arrived at some point and must’ve been waiting in the wings for the proper time to help. She didn’t cradle me like my father had, but she did rest a small but strong hand on my shoulder. Meeting her eyes for a second, I saw that she was grim but calm.

  At least this, between me and Ms. Parkins . . . This really is going to be okay.

  Then I turned back to the disaster unfolding in the garden, just in time to see the gopher cop hand a plastic bag to Detective Lohser, who brandished it like a trophy, holding it up for inspection. Which was kind of bizarre, because—even in that pretty dark yard—it was quite obvious that the object he held was, indeed, a . . . trophy. One of those big, weighty ones with a guy holding a victory torch. An object that, if wielded in anger, might be heavy enough to bash in a skull.

  “Oh, hell,” Dad muttered. He turned to me and Ms. Parkins and, for the first time I could remember, seemed genuinely shaken, admitting quietly, just to us, “That is from my desk . . .” He amended that statement uneasily. “Well, the desk I took over from Hank.”

  “Jack . . . ?” Ms. Parkins didn’t seem to know what to say. But there was no doubt in the question. Just confusion over who would try to frame the guy she loved. “But who . . . ?” she finally managed.

  Thank you, I wanted to tell her. Thank you for believing he’s innocent.

  There was no time to say that though. Detective Lohser was striding toward us, holding probably the first trophy he’d ever touched in his life, and telling my father, who was being circled by another officer, one who held handcuffs, “Jack Ostermeyer, you are under arrest for the murder of Henry Killdare.”

  The whole yard started to spin under the stars as my dad—seeming to realize that denial would only make things worse—wordlessly offered his hands, and those cuffs clicked shut. And I only vaguely heard the uniformed guy read my father his rights because my ears started ringing, too. But while the world reeled, I did manage to catch sight of a flash of long blond hair in the crowd that had gathered to watch Mayor-and-Coach Jack Ostermeyer being led away in manacles.

  Pulling myself together, I abandoned my father, but only because I was confident that Ms. Parkins would take care of him.

  I had other business to attend to, and I heard the rage in my voice as I stalked across the grass, snarling, “Vivienne Fitch. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter 78

  “This is none of your business!” I snapped at Viv, who
was lurking on the other side of the white picket fence that defined my family’s yard. If she thought that little fence was protecting her from me—half pit bull, half Doberman—she was sorely mistaken. And I didn’t care that a lot of lingering gawkers heard me threatening her, “Get off our property!”

  “I’m not on your property, you nutcase.” She gestured to her feet, showing me that her pedicured toes, peeking out from little windows in her suede shoes, were, in fact, on municipal-issue gravel. “This alley is public property. And this is my business.”

  “I repeat, what are you doing here?” I asked more calmly, but still with an edge to my voice.

  “I got a message telling me the cops were going to dig for gold in your backyard,” she informed me. “An anonymous text.”

  “You have to show that to the police!” I said, getting excited. “They can trace it.”

  Which would give them the identity of the tipster, who was probably responsible for burying the trophy. But Viv was shaking her head and making a mock pout. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse, holding it up high, like she wanted me to jump for it. “Sorry,” she said right before I really did leap at the fence. “But I already deleted it.” Dropping the phone back into her bag, she waggled her fingers at me. “It’s gone bye-bye.”

  “You can’t . . . They could still retrieve it . . .”

  I was sputtering—and Viv wasn’t about to help. “I’m here as a reporter, Millicent,” she advised me. “The texter contacted me because she knows I write for the Honeywell Gazette—objectively, unlike some people. I wouldn’t give up my source even if the police subpoenaed me, let alone turn over my contact voluntarily!”

  “Millie . . .”

  I turned to see Ryan opening the gate, letting Laura and himself into the yard.

  Of course they’d stayed for me, and although my evening was pretty crappy, I couldn’t help thinking that, between me and Viv, only one of us had friends on her side.

  “What’s going on?” Ry asked. “Huh?”

  “Viv, here”—I jabbed a finger at my nemesis—“claims she’s covering my father’s framing for the Gazette. But I think she’s full of bull.”

  As I said that, I wasn’t sure what kind of bull, exactly, I thought Viv was filled with. But all at once, I was struck by this sneaking, if slightly insane, suspicion that Viv might’ve planted the trophy herself—and called in the tip. That there’d never been an anonymous text at all.

  I still think she might’ve killed Coach Killdare, in a rage over that video.

  And she’s furious about me and Chase, not to mention can’t let go of her dad’s failure to beat mine in that old election.

  What if she saw a way to take down my whole family?

  I was thinking all that, but was still pretty shocked when meek, mild Key Club officer Laura Bugbee, who’d apparently had enough of Viv, too, said, “You probably sneaked over here and buried that stupid trophy in Millie’s yard yourself. You’ve always been jealous of her and her whole family!”

  “You are all deranged,” Viv said with a sniff. She looked down her nose at Ryan. “I thought you, at least, had some sense, even though you hung out with these two. But I guess not.”

  Unlike most football players, Ryan wasn’t in Viv’s thrall and couldn’t have cared less about her opinion of him. “You should follow everybody else and head home,” he told her, so I realized that most people had wandered off. “Don’t you have a car wash to run tomorrow morning? To buy new pompoms?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I get a story,” Viv shot back. She pulled a notebook out of the bag that held the cell phone I still wanted to get my hands on. “I’m not leaving until I have what I need.”

  I’d been too upset to even think about covering the night’s events for the paper, but when Viv made that announcement, I realized that once again I had an advantage over her. One that I wouldn’t squander. “Gee, Viv,” I said. “I’m going to write a story, too. And”—I gestured around the yard, where police officers were still sniffing around—“I just happen to be inside the fence, with all the quotable people who actually know something.”

  For once, Viv seemed at a loss for words, and two red spots formed on her cheeks. “I’m going to get good quotes from people who saw your dad get led away,” she finally grumbled. “And the police will never talk to you.”

  I didn’t wait to watch her chase after the last few rubberneckers meandering down the alley. Although I didn’t have a notebook handy, I turned to drill the remaining police officers for every bit of information my memory could handle before they got away. And I would get facts.

  “We’ll help you,” Laura promised, grabbing Ryan’s arm and tugging him toward the house. “We’ll get you a pen and paper. Then we’ll try to find out what’s up with your dad. Where he’s at, and when he’ll be home.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but absently, because I’d suddenly noticed one last person standing in the alley, at the very corner of the fence.

  Chase. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, and I saw a loop of leather around his left hand. As our eyes met, I caught, in my peripheral vision, Baxter’s wrinkly head popping up over the fence, like he’d forgiven me for the bubble bath and wanted to say hello.

  I was in a hurry, but I took a few steps in their direction, drawn to both of them. Especially, of course, to Chase, who gestured to the gate, asking, “Can I come in, Millie? I’d like to help, too.”

  Part of me really wanted that. And part of me wanted Chase to be there when everybody else left. It would’ve felt amazing to be able to just rest against him if I was alone later, as I expected. I had a feeling that my dad wasn’t coming back anytime soon, if he even returned at all, that night.

  But Chase had kept a huge secret from me. A life-and-death secret. And maybe what he’d done back in Philadelphia really was unforgivable, and he should be punishing himself forever.

  Chase kept standing at the fence, waiting for my answer.

  “No,” I told him, shaking my head. “Not you. Not now.”

  I gave them both one last, conflicted look, then ran across the yard and took the notebook that Laura was offering. And, of course, Viv was right. The officers were reluctant to talk with me. But I was a good reporter, and—as a student of philosophy—I knew how to confound people with logic, and before long, I got two of them to crack and give me some decent quotes. Or maybe they talked because I bugged them until they’d do just about anything to make me go away.

  Regardless, I actually learned quite a bit that night. Enough to write a good article.

  But there was one detail that I didn’t put in my story.

  One factoid that I just socked away in my brain so I could mull it over later.

  Namely, the way Viv had slipped and called her “anonymous” texter “she,” in a world where, let’s face it, most people still usually defaulted to “he.”

  Was Viv referring to someone that she knew?

  Or did Vivienne Fitch use “she” because she was subconsciously implicating herself?

  Chapter 79

  I sat in my glass booth at the theater the night after my father’s arraignment—apparently we were now a family that understood what “arraignment” was—staring blankly at the dark street, eyes open but seeing nothing.

  Chase knows what “arraignment” means. He’s been through that. Has sat in a courtroom and maybe heard the word “manslaughter” applied to himself. What a horrible word. “Manslaughter . . .”

  “Will you be watching the movie with Chase tonight?”

  I shook my head, snapping out of my trance to realize that a wrinkled hand was slipping money through the slot. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Murphy.” I banked her neatly folded five-dollar bill in my till and slid her a cardboard ticket. “I don’t even know if Chase is coming tonight. And I don’t think we’re going to watch any more movies together.”

  “No?” Chase’s alternate date sounded profoundly unhappy, and I realized that I probably shouldn�
��t be burdening a little old lady with my romantic disappointments.

  “It’s, like, theater policy,” I added. “I really am supposed to man the snack bar while the film plays.”

  Mrs. Murphy made a sad face. “But I brought both of you cookies.” She pulled a plastic bag out of a tote that advertised her support for public broadcasting. “Chocolate chip—still warm!”

  If ever there was proof of how down I felt, it was my response to that. “Thanks. But I don’t think I could eat anything tonight.”

  I had barely choked down my dinner, even though Ms. Parkins had brought me and Dad homemade lasagna. But how could I eat when my father had aged about seven years overnight? The night he’d spent in a jail cell because they hadn’t been able to get a district magistrate to set bail late on a Saturday night. And when he’d finally come home, about two hours before my shift, his shoulders had hunched in a way I’d never seen before.

  “Hey, you’ve got that game with the Fruitville Eagles this Friday,” I’d reminded him, trying to cheer him up by invoking one of his favorite rivalries. “That’ll be fun, huh?”

  But Dad and Ms. Parkins had shared a grim look, and my father had told me, “I resigned from coaching, Millie. I can’t really lead the team under the circumstances.” Then he’d added, “I may have to relinquish my post as mayor, too. I’m meeting with the borough council tomorrow.”

  Sitting in my uninsulated booth, I shivered.

  Would my father really be jobless within twenty-four hours?

  What would happen to us?

  And had I ever really thought that writing a few positively spun stories for a high school newspaper could help anything?

  “Enjoy the movie,” I told Mrs. Murphy, suddenly desperate to do my job better in case we Ostermeyers needed to live on my minimum-wage salary. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Millie,” she said with a smile. I wasn’t sure how she knew my name, since I didn’t have a tag on my uniform. Had Chase mentioned it the night we’d watched The 400 Blows? Or did he and Mrs. Murphy talk about me when they sat together? The older woman seemed to read my thoughts. She noted as she shuffled off, “I hope you’ll change your mind and join Chase if he comes tonight. He’s such a lovely boy, and says such nice things about you.”