“Of course not.” I wondered if that counted Vince. I couldn’t keep a secret from him even if I wanted.
Bridget handed me the program and pointed to a photo of a young woman with a championship grin—slightly crooked teeth, but all charisma and charm. “Varenka White.” Bridget took a deep breath. “That’s who DeVoster raped.”
Even though my guess had been right, I found it hard to mesh my image of Varenka White with the media’s “female athlete” who had behaved as if she had nothing to lose—she’d gotten drunk and stayed at DeVoster’s party, even after some of her teammates begged her to leave. Varenka White? She had everything going for her. She was the second leading scorer of a Top Twenty team, an Academic All American, and (if you could believe the sportscasters) the player that all the other players went to for advice. She was also strikingly beautiful. Her honey blond hair was the type that most white girls try to replicate with a bottle. She was a slender-framed 6’5” with high cheekbones and huge eyes the color of a cloudless October sky. If her beauty and skill hadn’t made her a fan favorite, her story would have. Varenka had been adopted from Russia when she was eight, and she’d quickly embraced her new country. Now she mentored younger adoptees like herself.
“I don’t know what she was thinking.” Bridget shook her head sadly. “Not that I’m blaming her,” she added quickly. “Were you at our first game?”
I nodded.
“Then you saw what this has done to her.”
Orchid had kept track, so I knew that Varenka had taken only five shots from the floor. None of them went down, and we’d barely come away with the win. “Maybe she just had an off night,” I said.
“She’s been like that in practice too, and she just phoned to ask if she could be excused from the meeting today.” Bridget’s face creased with worry. “I asked one of the other girls to sit with her, so she won’t be here today either.”
“Which one?”
“Kate Timmens. She lives across the hall from Varenka. They’re from the same town.”
I flipped back a page in the program. Timmens was a backup center, a hefty brunette. Like Varenka, she was 6’5”.
Two tall white girls excused from the team meeting. “Where were they last night?”
Bridget pushed her chair away from me and frowned. “None of my girls had anything to do with DeVoster’s death.”
“If you want my help, you need to answer my questions.”
Bridget pressed her lips together.
“Surely the police have already asked about Varenka’s whereabouts?”
“Both girls were at home in Independence—with their parents.”
Not the world’s best alibi. “Have the police confirmed that?”
“They’ve harassed Varenka, if that’s what you mean. They showed up at her apartment while I was at your place and reduced her to tears.” Bridget’s tone suggested that she’d like to give the cops a taste of their own medicine.
I’d need to tread lightly when I questioned her players. “Did anybody see them in Independence,” I asked, “besides their parents?” Even if someone had, Independence was not far from Iowa City. Who knows what the girls might have done while their parents were sleeping?
“Mara.” Bridget said my name as if it were a command. “I need you to believe my girls.”
I tried to make my tone match hers. “The sooner your players are ruled out as suspects, the easier their lives will be.”
She edged her chair back toward me. “There are only four who don’t have good alibis and fit the witness’s description.”
I pulled a pen from the inside pocket of my jacket and flipped through the program again. I checked off three black players and the one white player who was short enough to be off the hook.
“Our starting center and our top reserve are out with ACL injuries.” Bridget’s knee brushed against mine as she reached over and turned a page. I felt a flood of warmth, but Bridget was all business. She pointed to two tall white girls, and I checked them off. Neither could have sprinted across a parking lot.
“I guess their injuries turned out to be lucky,” I said.
“Lucky?” Bridget raised her eyebrows.
“They’re not suspects,” I said.
“As far as I’m concerned, none of my players are.” She took the program from me and closed it. “You should also know that the freshmen who quit the team left long before we got the incriminating sweats.”
I remembered Orchid moaning and groaning when the three rookies left.
“We’ve got only nine healthy players,” Bridget said, “and one of them is Varenka. We get other injuries, we get in foul trouble, we’re sunk.”
I was about to say something encouraging when Bridget announced that the gray team was off the hook. As a diehard fan, I knew that the gray team was a bunch of guys that ran the opponents’ plays against the women, but the phrase always made me picture a band of little old ladies dishing and driving.
“One of them had a birthday last night,” Bridget said. “They were all at some frat house until the wee hours of the morning. So were our three male managers. There were lots of witnesses.”
I thought carefully about my next question. “So, besides Varenka and Kate, who else do the police suspect?”
Bridget reached for a pen on her desk. She tapped it absently in her hand before tucking it behind her ear. “Jessie March and Win Ramsey.”
You couldn’t live in Iowa City without hearing about Win Ramsey, starting point guard—the tallest floor general Iowa has ever had. She led the Big Ten in scoring, assists, and steals. “Where were they?” I asked.
“At home in bed.”
Healthy choices don’t always pay. If they’d been out closing the bars with all the other students, they’d have alibis.
“Jessie got called for a technical, right?”
“It was her first college game.” Bridget said.
Iowa had been up three with mere seconds left when Jessie got called for a block and then threw an elbow at the player she’d collided with.
“She always have a temper like that?” I asked.
“It was a rookie mistake.”
If the Hawkeyes protected the ball half as well as Bridget protected them, they’d be national champions. “Was Jessie close to Varenka?”
“Everybody loves V.”
I squelched a wave of irritation. “Is she dating anybody? Or was she before…”
Bridget stood and flicked her eyes flicked toward the clock that hung above her desk. “My players keep their private lives private.”
I stood too. If Bridget were taller, I’d think about suspecting her.
Chapter Six
Given Bridget’s evasiveness, I was having second thoughts about sleuthing, but they vanished when I saw the sign above the locker room door—Women’s Basketball Personnel Only. Bridget punched in the secret code on the keypad. There I was—a former benchwarmer who abandoned ninth-grade hoops for the debate team—about to enter the inner sanctum.
At the end of a long hallway was a trophy case. If you were a new recruit, its bountiful hardware would either inspire you to greatness or scare you shitless.
When we took a left at the trophies into the players’ lounge, they glanced our way, but other than that, there were few signs of life. Most of them slouched on a huge leather U-shaped couch, their legs extended toward a Hawkeye logo that was woven into the carpet, their eyes glued to a football game on a big-screen TV. The only girls who weren’t watching had no alibis. Win Ramsey sat at a computer at the side of the room, her hands dwarfing the keyboard. Her deep brown hair was pulled back into the obligatory ponytail, and her face was spattered with freckles. Jessie March, the hot-tempered freshman, sat on the floor, her back against the back of the couch, facing away from the TV, away from her teammates. If she hadn’t been so intent on a huge sketch pad, she would have been staring straight at me. She and Win both had flushed faces, so I figured they must have been the ones shooting with
Shelly. I was scanning the room for her when Bridget touched my elbow. “Make yourself at home. I need to check in with the other assistants before we start.”
She headed toward the back of the room where two lanky black women stood, studying the team. Sue and Evette—both a decade younger than Bridget—had played their college ball as Hawkeyes. Sue didn’t look the least bit pregnant in her turtleneck and Levi’s, but neither she nor her partner fit the witness’s description. I needed to focus on someone who did.
As Jessie took a long swallow of water, I flipped through my program. In her photo, she had a huge grin, but it didn’t quite reach her brown eyes. Her bio informed me that she was from Des Moines, last year’s Miss Iowa Basketball, an art and women’s studies major. I skipped over her high school stats and gazed at the girl herself. Except for her flushed face, she was anemically pale like me. Her auburn hair was pulled back and wound into a tight bun—same as in the photo. I wondered how it felt to be the only freshman. And I wondered if she always distanced herself from the other players.
From the TV, a woman gushed about her deodorant. Shelly squatted next to Win and wrote something on a clipboard. They leaned close and whispered, their eyes darting my way. I felt awkward standing against the wall, but it would have seemed intrusive to sit on the couch as if I were part of the team. I headed toward the coaches.
Sue was saying something about how you could always count on Shelly.
Bridget turned toward me. “We figured that since you already know Shelly you’d want to talk to her first.”
Shelly hadn’t engaged in much personal chit-chat at the station. She hung out in the break room only when there were Krispy Kremes or when the other interns were asking about my sleuthing adventures. Other than that, Shelly’s entire social repertoire consisted of rehashed basketball games and the latest sale at the Coral Ridge Mall. “She wasn’t very forthcoming this afternoon,” I said. “Maybe I should start with someone else.”
“No one else knows all the players as well as Shelly,” Bridget said. “She’ll open up once she understands you’re here to help them.”
Next to the TV, Shelly opened a high cupboard and snagged a couple bottles of water. The girl was tall. “What about her alibi?”
“The cops already cleared her,” Bridget said. “She was at her boyfriend’s house in Waterloo.”
An hour-and-a-half drive from Iowa City. As Shelly reached for some more bottles, I thought about how she might have snuck out in the middle of the night while her boyfriend was sleeping.
Bridget seemed to read my suspicion. “The police checked with the boyfriend’s mother. She got an emergency call around 2 a.m. It woke up her son and Shelly too.”
“Shelly shares an apartment with Varenka,” Sue said. “They played high school ball together.”
“With Kate Timmens.” Bridget pointed to a photo behind her.
In the photo, Kate was snaring a rebound, face grim, elbows flying. The wall was lined with gold-framed action shots. One for each player, I figured. But none for Shelly. Her place was behind the scenes, where nobody noticed her, but where she might notice plenty. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll start with Shelly.”
Bridget nodded and surveyed the room.
Shelly offered Jessie another water, but the freshman shook her head.
“Ladies,” Bridget said. “Let’s get started.”
Hennah Jennings, an African American with long braids and a baseball cap, pointed the remote at the TV, and it blinked off. As the coaches and I moved toward the screen, Jessie scooted on the floor until she was facing it. Her legs jutting straight out, her back still against the couch, she didn’t see Hennah scowl and edge away from her. Win stayed at the computer, but turned her chair toward the front of the room. Shelly handed her a bottle of water and stood next to her. All eyes were on Bridget, wide with worry and shock. A pale girl with a knee brace chomped a wad of gum. Her chewing was the only sound in the room.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard that the police have questioned Varenka about Dave DeVoster’s death,” Bridget said.
The girls nodded glumly.
“There’s no need to worry. She was with her parents.”
“Where is she now?” Jessie asked.
Win shot her a dirty look, and several girls exchanged glances.
“Resting,” Bridget said. “Kate is with her. They’ll both be at practice Monday.” She gazed at her players until they all met her eyes. Then she nodded toward me. “This is Mara Gilgannon. Some of you may have heard her on KICI.”
Blank looks all around. Alternative radio is not usually popular with the jock crowd.
“She is also an experienced investigator with a strong record of success.”
Now there was some spin. Sure, I’d solved my aunt’s murder, and I had an inquisitive spirit, but Bridget was making me sound official. Like there was a bevy of killers in prison ruing the day they’d met me.
“Tomorrow, I want you all here at 9:00 a.m. so Mara can interview you,” Bridget continued.
The girls eyed me, game faces all around.
“You’ll give her your full cooperation. Honesty is key.”
Jessie frowned and gazed at her sketch pad.
“When you’re not being interviewed, you can use the time for lifting or studying, or you can shoot until the men show up.”
Sue leaned toward me. “The guys practice in the early afternoons, and we’ve got late.”
I wondered if the two teams crossed paths every afternoon. That couldn’t be pleasant.
“You’ll stay until Mara has talked with all of you in case she has any follow-up questions.”
“They don’t need to do that.” There was no graceful way of saying that I wanted each player to leave after I questioned her. “I don’t mind following up with a few phone calls.”
The gum chewer stopped mid chomp. The team’s eyes darted between me and Bridget as if they’d never seen anyone challenge her before. And Bridget couldn’t very well argue with me since she’d just ordered her players to give me their full cooperation.
Win Ramsey bailed her out. “When is Coach C coming back?”
“I talked to her this morning.” Bridget’s voice softened. “Her brother is doing worse.”
Meaning, I supposed, he would soon die, and they would soon have their head coach back. Most of the players gazed at their shoes. A wiry girl with cornrows began biting a fingernail.
“What are we supposed to tell prospectives if they ask about…” Jessie hesitated.
Bridget surveyed her team and crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ll get to that soon. I don’t want to take up Mara’s time with routine team business.”
If murder was routine business, then I was ready for the WNBA. I started to protest, but Bridget cut me off.
“Shelly, why don’t you make sure Mara has everything she needs.”
The manager hustled to the front of the room. There was something about recruiting that Bridget didn’t want me to hear.
* * *
Shelly retied her shoe as I studied the reception area that led to the coaches’ offices. The main desk was piled high with paper, and so was the floor behind it and the smaller desk in the corner where we were seated.
“It must take a lot of paperwork to keep a basketball team running.” I wanted to put her at ease. “Do you help with all this?”
She nodded and squared her shoulders.
It probably took a lot of willpower for her not to slouch.
“About that interview last year,” she said, “the one I missed. I was going through a rough time.”
So rough that she’d been out bar crawling.
“I’m usually really responsible. Just ask the coaches.”
“They’ve been singing your praises.”
Her boxy face relaxed, and she squared her shoulders again.
I wanted to ask which player seemed most upset about Varenka’s rape, but that didn’t seem like a smart way to start. “I’m a big fan
,” I said. “But I don’t know much about how a basketball team works. What’s your role?”
Shelly smiled. “I’m kind of the head manager because I’ve been doing it all four years.”
“Bridget mentioned that there are three male managers…”
“Three guys and me and Chante.” She pointed to a photo on the bulletin board. “That’s us last Christmas.”
Shelly and a tiny African-American woman grinned at the camera, all decked out in Santa hats. I crossed Chante off my list of suspects.
“We get things ready for practice,” Shelly said. “Mark the floors, get the balls out, the clocks ready. And during practice, we run clock or keep stats. We have to know as much about the game as the players do.” Pride energized her, and she moved to the edge of her seat. “The guys run drills. They’re stronger and faster, so they give the girls more of a challenge.”
“You must have played in high school.”
“Yeah.” She folded her hands together in her lap and gazed at them.
Since she didn’t seem eager to talk about her playing days, I switched topics. “What about traveling? Do you go to the away games?”
“All the tournaments. Two Thanksgivings ago we played in Denver, and we got to go skiing. I was scared at first, but now I’m dying to go back. Last year we played in the Bahamas.” She pulled another photo from the bulletin board.
I held it carefully in my hand, studying the team members as they relaxed on the beach. It was hard to tell who was who amidst the sunglasses and straw hats. As I returned the photo, I glanced at Shelly’s bulletin board. Next to a flyer for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes was a small poster of a huge four-towered cathedral. La Sagrada Familia, it said. Barcelona. “Have you played in Spain?”
“I wish.” Shelly grinned. “That’s where Maria lives.” Shelly pointed at a photo of a lovely girl with cascading dark hair. “She lived with my family my junior year of high school—an exchange student. I can’t wait to visit her. We email almost every day.”
Our conversation was drifting from the Hawkeyes. “Where else have you traveled with the team?”
Murder by Mascot Page 5