Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  I answered in the middle of the next ring.

  “Mara, I’m so glad I caught you.”

  It was Neale. She never called me in the morning.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about how we left things.”

  We? She was the one who left. And if she was so sorry, why hadn’t she called yesterday?

  “I wished I’d stayed,” she said. “I miss you.”

  That was more like it. “Me too.” I imagined that she’d already gone running, that she was sitting flush-faced in front of a huge glass of orange juice. “How was the party?”

  “A schmooze-fest.”

  In other words, exactly what she wanted. I wondered if she was really sorry about her early departure.

  “How was your time with the team?” Neale asked. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

  I watched Bridget eat her cereal, and I thought about my promise to keep mum about her players. “Not really.”

  “Oh come on, you must have discovered something.”

  “Sweetheart,” I said, “I’m really glad you called, but this isn’t the best time.”

  Silence from her end.

  I’d never put her off before. Even though I hadn’t meant to, I’d given Neale a taste of her own medicine, and, to be perfectly honest, I’d enjoyed it.

  Before either of us could speak, Bridget’s cell phone began playing “Funky Town,” and she answered it. She’s used to making herself heard over the roar of Carver-Hawkeye area, so let’s just say that sotto voce is not her strong suit.

  “Who’s that?” Neale asked.

  I saw no reason to lie, so I told her that Bridget and I were working on the case.

  “The case?” Neale’s voice was equal parts ice and sarcasm. “I won’t keep you then. Call me when you can spare the time.” She hung up on me just as Bridget finished with her caller.

  I was feeling less than grateful to Alexander Graham Bell.

  “Coach’s brother died. She’ll be back for Thursday’s game.”

  As Bridget gazed at her half-eaten breakfast, Vince’s hairdryer started its steady whine. Our privacy would soon be over. “Have you been in close communication with Varenka’s parents?”

  Bridget picked up her dishes and took them to the sink. “Do me a favor. Please. When you talk to Varenka, don’t mention her father’s drinking—or your visit. Try not to upset her any more than she already is.”

  The phone rang again.

  “I should go.” Bridget headed toward the living room.

  “Wait.” I headed after her. “The machine can get it. I need to ask you something else—just one more thing.”

  We eyed each other as the phone kept ringing. Her long-sleeve T-shirt bore a faded picture of Rosie the Riveter. I imagined Bridget flexing her arm like Rosie.

  Vince’s hair dryer fell silent, and the phone stopped ringing. I tried to focus on my question. “About Kate,” I said. “Why would she—”

  “Mara! Are you there?” Anne’s voice squawked on the machine.

  Why hadn’t I noticed that the volume was cranked?

  “I’d rather say this in person, but…”

  Right then, I should have flung myself at the machine and turned the volume down. But I froze.

  “I totally appreciate your concern,” Anne said. “It’s really sweet, but maybe you could phone just a little less often? Sometimes your calls create bad energy between Orchid and me. I hope you understand. And I’m fine—really—don’t worry.”

  A dial tone filled the room. Could I be more completely humiliated? I couldn’t bring myself to look at Bridget, but I saw her feet move toward mine and I felt her hand on my shoulder. Briefly.

  “You wanted to ask me something?” she said quietly.

  I wanted to hug her for ignoring what just happened.

  “Something about Kate?” she prompted.

  But she hadn’t really ignored it. That touch on my shoulder. What was that about?

  “You said ‘why would she?’ and then the phone—”

  “She practically accused Jessie of killing DeVoster,” I blurted. But I regretted my words as soon as they were out. Bridget glowered and scratched her eyebrow. I could see her giving Kate a lecture on the importance of presenting a unified front as the poor girl struggled to complete yet another pushup.

  Bridget sighed. “I’m guessing that Kate has it really bad for Varenka.”

  I thought about Kate’s eagerness to protect her teammate.

  “I don’t know it for a fact,” Bridget said.

  But if it were true, her team had more lesbian drama than The L Word. And I had more angles to investigate. Kate and Varenka. Perhaps DeVoster’s murder had been a team effort.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As I entered the radio station, I said a silent prayer of thanks that Orchid’s door was shut. Our offices are right across from each other in a narrow hallway, and when both our doors are open, I hear every stroke on her keyboard, every squeak of her chair, every tirade against patriarchy and hegemony. Anne says our office arrangement is bad feng shui. Talk about an understatement.

  I shut my door, determined to avoid Orchid before I went on the air. I had no idea whether she knew about the message Anne had left for me, and I didn’t want to find out. No, scratch that. I wanted to know whether Orchid insisted that Anne make the call, but Orchid wasn’t about to share that with me. Mostly, I just didn’t want to see her. I was already running behind, thanks to a fruitless detour past Varenka’s apartment building. After two canvases—first Vince’s and now mine—we had yet to talk with the other tenants.

  Peeling off my coat, I slumped into my chair and clicked on my email. My screen saver, a caricature of the immortal Shakespeare, gave way to a page full of new messages—half of them marked urgent. Right. I opened the day’s program guide and realized that after the noon news, I was scheduled to interview the coordinator of Herkys on Parade. I imagined myself asking fun-filled questions like How will your project continue “taking the Hawkeye spirit to the streets” now that one of the birds has been used as a murder weapon?

  Exhaust spewed out of the parking garage across the street. I didn’t exactly have a room with a view. Nor did I have much space on my desk. On one side of my computer was a stack of evaluation forms for the interns I supervise and, on the other side, a tower of books I needed to read—or at least skim—before interviewing their authors. There’s only one thing you can do when you’re woefully crunched for time. Get thee to a coffeemaker. Even if it means risking a run-in with your boss.

  * * *

  My mug was half full when Orchid stormed into the mailroom, her peace sign earrings belying her true nature. She dropped her hemp book bag to the floor and yanked at the envelopes in her mailbox. “We need to talk.”

  I braced myself for a rant about boundaries, about my need to let go of Anne and move on. Psychobabble 101. I was utterly unprepared for what came out of her mouth.

  “Eldon Bly called.” She squeezed an armload of mail against her ample chest. “He said you’ve been harassing his players.”

  “I’ve only talked to one—”

  “He said that the university shouldn’t support such insensitive journalism.” She dropped her mail on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. “Do you have any idea how tight our budget is? We can’t afford an enemy like him.” She started tossing unopened envelopes into the recycle bin.

  Tyler Bennet must have complained about me to his coach. Either he was a big baby or I was close to the truth.

  Orchid tore up a flier before it too went into the bin. She was furious with me—there was no doubt about that—but she was probably even angrier at Bly. She’d never let some good old boy tell her how to run her station. At least I hoped not. Otherwise, she could use Bly’s wrath as an excuse to fire me without being the heavy, without upsetting Anne.

  “Bridget asked me to see what I could find out about the murder,” I said. “She’s afraid that some of her players might be suspects.”
<
br />   Orchid ripped open a package, and pulled out a tiny cassette tape. Barely looking at it, she shoved it in her bag. For once, she had nothing to say about the women’s basketball team.

  “Since some of the evidence points toward Anne, I thought I could help—”

  “Anne doesn’t need you,” she snapped.

  Behind her stood Roshaun and Shelly, wide-eyed. So much for teaching our interns about office courtesy and professional demeanor.

  For a moment, we all stood silent, Shelly with her head peeking around the doorframe, and Roshaun just inside the doorway.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I was wondering if you all had decided about the Waddell Jones interview. I need his book if I’m going to do it.”

  Orchid and I exchanged tense glances.

  “You know,” Roshaun said, “the one about Kobe Bryant.”

  “We decided that it wouldn’t be right for you because of the parallels—”

  Orchid cut me off. “I’ve changed my mind.” She shot me a nasty smile. “The interview is yours. I believe Mara has the book in her office.”

  Could we say passive aggressive? And selfish? She was letting Roshaun put himself in a bad situation just to piss me off. But I kept my anger under wraps. Once Orchid returned to her lair, I’d send Roshaun on his merry way, book in tow, and I’d grill Shelly about the Sapphic proclivities of the Hawkeye hoopsters. This round of sleuthing would be on the station’s dime.

  * * *

  “I can only stay a minute,” Shelly said. “I’ve got class.” She stood next to my file cabinet, a backpack slung over one shoulder, a bottle of apple juice in one hand and a violin case in the other. Her Doc Martens added a couple inches to her height, and her down coat enhanced her broad shoulders. I felt positively Lilliputian.

  But what I lacked in size I made up for in persistence. “Coach Stokes told me about Varenka and Jessie.”

  “What about them?”

  “Their relationship,” I said, “the real reason the freshmen left.”

  Shelly bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at me. She glanced toward my closed door. In the hall, someone groused about the copy machine.

  “If you think I’m trying to trick you, call Coach Stokes.” I nodded at the phone on the corner of my desk.

  Shelly set her drink and her violin on the floor. Before she punched in the number, she turned her back on me. I hoped that Bridget would urge her to tell the truth and that she’d actually do so before Orchid caught me in the act of sleuthing. When Shelly hung up, I invited her to sit, but she remained standing.

  “It’s not like they’re in love,” she said.

  Was this simply the interpretation of a straight girl who didn’t want to believe that her roomie was a lesbian?

  “It was a one-time thing. Varenka got all freaked out, so Jessie moved on.”

  I thought about the shortstop Orchid had mentioned. “To a softball player?”

  Shelly shrugged.

  “I heard Kate has a crush on Varenka.”

  Shelly’s glare was on high-beam. “Who told you that?”

  Now it was my turn to shrug.

  “Kate is a really gentle person. She’d never kill any—”

  “Is she in love with Varenka?”

  “How should I know?” Shelly leaned over to pick up her stuff.

  “I guess I’ll ask them.”

  “No!” She returned to her full height empty-handed. “Varenka’s in enough pain already. It would hurt her to know that Kate is pining away after her.”

  “She doesn’t already know?”

  Shelly sighed. “She can be kind of naïve.”

  So could we all, I thought, when it came to love.

  “If you ask her about it,” Shelly said, “you’ll just make their friendship weird. Varenka needs all the friends she can get right now.”

  “How long has Kate been pining?”

  “She didn’t attack DeVoster.”

  Since high school, I guessed. Poor unlovely, stuttering Kate longing for beautiful Varenka.

  Shelly shifted her backpack to her other shoulder and stared at the postcards on my bulletin board. They were from all over the world, part of my late Aunt Glad’s collection. “What’s the longest you’ve ever been in another country?” she asked.

  Talk about changing the subject. I decided to play along. Maybe she’d let her guard down and answer some more of my questions. “A couple months,” I said. “I was an exchange student in Tokyo one summer.”

  “Were you homesick?”

  “A little,” I said, “but it was worth it.”

  Shelly picked up her stuff. “Just to set the record straight,” she said. “Kate’s crush, or whatever it was, is history. After Win had a talk with her, Kate got things under control.” I started to ask a question, but Shelly cut me off. “Before the rape, Kate stopped coming by our apartment so often. She’d gotten rid of her crush.”

  I’d learned the hard way that crushes don’t go away that easy. But I thought about Win with her mother and sister back in West Virginia. Win who desperately wanted to go pro. Win with no alibi. Maybe she’d figured her team would have a better chance at a championship with DeVoster out of the picture.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sleet didn’t keep anybody away from DeVoster’s memorial service Monday night. Vince and I dodged several clumps of humanity—sorority girls, older couples, entire families—as we made our way through the parking lot toward Carver-Hawkeye Arena. Vince stepped in a puddle and moaned. “My one night without rehearsal, and you drag me into this inclemency. Lexie and her entourage might not even show.”

  “They’ll be here,” I said. “People like her are as predictable as hummus at a lesbian potluck.”

  “Why not grill her tomorrow?” Vince tightened the belt on his trench coat. “Indoors. Somewhere nice and toasty.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I snapped. “The police have taken Anne in for questioning. She’s an official suspect.”

  “It could have been a formality. Wasn’t that what Anne said?”

  I picked up my pace and decided to let Vince think that Anne had actually told me about the interrogation herself. The truth was, I’d learned about it during an eavesdropping stint outside Orchid’s office door. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I was leaving work. I heard voices. I listened.

  As Vince and I crossed the street, I peered through the darkness. There was a tiny group of people with a banner near the west entrance. One of them was tall enough to be Lexie, but with my sleet-spattered glasses, I couldn’t tell. We strode past a couple guys with cigarettes, and I took a deep breath. Even though I quit smoking years ago, I never pass up an opportunity for some secondhand smoke. To my left, a man grumbled, “There should be laws against that.” He was staring at a banner that said Just Deserts. Holding one end of it was Lexie Roth, her spirally hair spilling out of her stocking cap.

  I’m an ardent supporter of free speech, but I also know tacky when I see it. Lexie’s banner wasn’t going to win her any new allies. In fact, it was garnering so much hostility that I was tempted to take Vince’s advice. I had no desire to stand next to a woman who was inspiring a riff on the B-word. Vince dashed into the arena, abandoning me to the expletives.

  Sleet stung my face as I greeted Lexie. She was familiar with my radio shows and happy to meet me. All smiles until I explained that I was trying to find DeVoster’s killer. “Why bother?”

  “To protect the innocent.” Cheesy allusions to Dragnet—that was no way to get her to open up. “The police are going to arrest somebody,” I said. “Maybe one of the female players. Or Anne Golding.” I wanted to say thanks to your reporting.

  Lexie’s brow furrowed. “Which players do they suspect?”

  “They’re considering several possibilities.” I wasn’t about to give her any information.

  “How awful.” Lexie’s frowned deepened.

  “Since you’ve been covering the story and”—I didn’t want to use t
he word stalking—“keeping a close eye on DeVoster, I thought you might know something.”

  Lexie nodded, oblivious to the woman who’d just told her that she should be ashamed of herself and the man who informed her that she should rot in hell.

  “Is there anybody in your group who’s particularly angry with DeVoster?” I asked. “Somebody with a history of violence?”

  “We all took an oath of non-violence.”

  I should have guessed that. There were several peace signs among the many buttons that riddled Lexie’s parka (Bi Pride, Go Vegan, The Only Bush I Trust Is My Own). “What about your banner?” I asked. “The one that said Castrate DeVoster?”

  Lexie shrugged. “Just words.”

  An odd sentiment for a writer. Maybe it explained her penchant for exaggeration and bias. “When you were following him, did you see anyone confront him directly or threaten him?”

  She shook her head.

  “You interviewed several members of the women’s team–”

  She cut me off. “None of them did it. They were scared of him. Most of them wouldn’t even say the guy’s name.”

  “Most?”

  “Jessie March had plenty of ugly things to say, but talk is cheap. She wouldn’t join my group.”

  Probably because she didn’t want to get kicked off the team, I thought. The girl had more discretion than Bridget gave her credit for. “Did you ever have a chance to observe DeVoster with his teammates?”

  “Why do you ask?” Lexie nudged up the sleeve of her parka and checked her watch.

  At least that’s what I thought she did. My glasses were completely coated. “Some people suspect DeVoster’s backup, Tyler Bennet.”

  A group of high school girls flipped Lexie off and told her that she sucked.

  Lexie gazed at me, holding her banner with both hands. “Do you honestly think that one of DeVoster’s teammates killed him? After the way they circled their wagons?”

  I recalled the team’s avalanche of support: D is a real decent guy, I can’t believe it, The girl must be confused, D would never do a thing like that. I couldn’t remember Bennet adding his two cents worth. Nor could I think of a graceful way to ask Lexie for an alibi, so I opted for the direct approach.