Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  “Why?”

  “A class project.”

  She wasn’t as chatty as the first time we’d talked. “A project,” I repeated.

  Varenka made two shots in a row, and finally, Jessie focused on me. “I’m making an audio collage for Intro to Women’s Studies. A critique of all the support DeVoster’s received. Lots of material, unfortunately.” Jessie tugged at the towel that was draped around her neck and mopped her face. “But I didn’t send that cassette to the paper.”

  She turned her attention back to Varenka, who started shooting from the other side of the basket. Shelly shifted sides as well. Staring at me, her face tight, she missed a rebound. As she chased after it, I tried to think of a way to discover what Jessie knew about the rape without betraying Varenka’s confidence.

  “Jess,” Bridget said, “I’d like a moment with Mara.”

  The freshman all but sprinted to the locker room, the other two coaches trailing behind her.

  I wondered if Bridget really wanted to talk with me or if she simply wanted to prevent me from questioning Jessie.

  “You look beat.” She put her hand on my shoulder as if I were some player who needed a pep talk. “How about you let me make you dinner?” The offer seemed guileless enough. Faint laugh lines sprouted from her eyes as she smiled, and a beauty mark nestled in the curve of a dimple.

  But Anne was in jail. “I can’t,” I said, “not while—”

  She squeezed my shoulder and released me. “Orchid told me about Anne.” Bridget’s face clouded. “I’m really sorry. The whole team is.”

  She seemed sorry, but I had my doubts. Anne’s arrest took the heat off the Hawkeyes. “You can see why I can’t—”

  “You gotta eat sometime,” Bridget said. “Besides, Shelly and Orchid have organized the team on Anne’s behalf.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I wasn’t the only one trying to help Anne.

  “They’ve created a legal defense fund,” Bridget continued. “They’re calling our season ticket holders, Women’s Center donors, your station’s donors, and anybody else they can think of who’ll contribute.”

  I’d always considered Orchid so flush I hadn’t realized she’d have trouble with the lawyer’s fee. I wondered how much cash I could spare and kicked myself for not keeping better track of my finances.

  “Yo, Shell,” Roshaun called as he walked past us, corn-rows jutting out of a Hawkeye stocking cap.

  Shelly grinned at him and snagged a long rebound. Organizing all those phone-calls—she was a lot more together than I’d thought.

  Roshaun gestured for the ball and nodded at Varenka. “Me and Shell are grabbing some pizza. You wanna come?”

  Varenka hesitated.

  Shelly pitched the ball to her boyfriend, who made an up-and-under shot that was nothing but net. “Shell’s buying,” Roshaun said.

  “You wish.” Shelly swiped at the ball and tossed it to Varenka, who rewarded her with a small smile.

  “Come on,” Bridget said to me, “you deserve a break too.”

  * * *

  Bridget’s breath rose like smoke signals in the darkness as she prodded the steaks on the grill. I had no idea why she insisted on braving the cold, but I felt deliciously pampered at her dining room table, watching her through the sliding glass doors to her deck. In my hand was a Killians Red, and spread before me were the makings of a feast: a loaf of sourdough, a bunch of grapes, and a colorful vegetable salad. I smiled when Bridget came back inside, her face pink with the cold, the steaks sizzling on a plate. She set them on the table and eased out of her coat.

  “I can’t remember the last time I had steak,” I said. It was true. Anne and Orchid served strictly vegan fare; Neale favored complicated pasta dishes; and my own repertoire hinged upon the sale items in my grocer’s freezer section.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Bridget said. “You’ve been more than generous with your time.”

  The clock in her kitchen said 7:30. I couldn’t linger too long if I wanted to track down some more answers before the evening was over.

  “Just relax and enjoy.” Bridget nodded toward the steaks, and I speared one onto my plate.

  For a moment, I closed my eyes and simply savored the scent of charcoal. When I opened them, Bridget was watching me. I sliced through my steak and tried to think of something to say. Her aquarium gurgled as she ripped a piece of bread from the loaf. Then her phone rang.

  “I need to get that,” she said. “It’s probably Carol.” She motioned for me to eat as she headed to an end table a few paces away and picked up the phone.

  I reached for the bread and tore a piece for myself.

  Bridget’s frown deepened as she listened to whatever Coach C had to say. “Don’t worry,” Bridget said. “Our girls are off the hook. There’s been an arrest—Anne Golding.”

  Bridget met my eyes and started pacing. “Varenka was upset, but she practiced today. She’ll be good to go on Thursday.”

  I assumed that Bridget meant the upcoming game against Creighton. I wondered if she was really as confident as she sounded or if she was simply trying to lighten Coach C’s load.

  “I’ll finish breaking down the film,” Bridget said. “Please, just take care of yourself.” She hung up, frowning, and returned to the table. “Carol’s only daughter isn’t coming to the funeral. Her own uncle, her mother’s brother—and she can’t make the time. She never can. Carol hasn’t seen her granddaughters in over a year.”

  It had been nearly that long since I’d seen my parents, and I wasn’t planning on visiting them any time soon. Bridget’s family must actually enjoy each other’s company.

  “I wish I could be there. She’s always been there for me.” Bridget shot me a glance and then stared at her plate as if there was something she wanted to say.

  I picked up my silverware and carved a piece of steak, but it seemed rude to eat when Bridget still hadn’t touched her meal.

  “I was in the first class she recruited at Iowa,” Bridget said. “We were juniors when her husband died.”

  “I remember him.” How could I not? He was featured in each year’s program—his greenhouses and the bouquets he brought to the locker room before every game. “A heart attack, right?”

  Bridget nodded. “Things really changed after his death. It was like Carol’s whole world vanished except for basketball. Garnet—that’s her daughter—she was about sixteen. Never came to another one of our games.”

  I wondered where Bridget was going with all this.

  “Carol loves her players. She’d do anything for them, but she doesn’t get what it’s like—the closet.” Bridget met my eyes again. “She doesn’t remember what it’s like to have a life outside basketball.”

  And she’s straight, I thought.

  “She’s not homophobic. She just wants everybody to keep their personal lives off the court.”

  “Then why does she flaunt her heterosexuality?” The way I saw it, Coach C was partly to blame for what happened to Varenka. “Why is she always pictured with the granddaughters she never sees? Why is there a half-time story about her dead husband nearly every time you guys play on TV?”

  Bridget was staring at me now. “Carol’s not in control of the networks.”

  “No, but she has a lot of power over her players. So do you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I didn’t want argue, but I couldn’t get Varenka out of my head. “You could help your lesbian players feel good about themselves.”

  “What should I do? Take them to a pride parade?” Bridget pushed her chair away from the table. “In your world it’s cool to be openly gay, but in mine, its career suicide.” She took a deep breath and stared at the floor. “Do you know what’s going to happen if I’m named head coach when Carol retires?” Her voice was soft, her anger seemingly spent. “We’re going to have trouble recruiting because a lot of parents won’t want to surrender their daughters to a big, bad lesbian.”

  �
�But your record. Your experience—”

  “Mara,” Bridget said, “even Pat Summitt worries about the lesbian issue.”

  The winningest basketball coach ever. Maybe Bridget was right. She and I lived in two different worlds. I couldn’t imagine my talents and accomplishments counting for so little, and my identity—or ignorant ideas about it—counting for so much. “I’m sorry.” I wanted to offer Bridget something more than an apology, but if I told her I no longer suspected Varenka’s parents, she’d fume because I’d suspected them in the first place. And if I told her I’d established solid alibis for all but one of her players, she’d stew about my suspicion of Jessie and scramble to protect the rookie.

  Bridget pulled her chair back to the table. “I didn’t invite you over to argue,” she said. “Eat.”

  A bit of blood had gathered where I’d cut my steak. My appetite was gone, but I needed to keep up my sleuthing strength and I wanted to show Bridget that I appreciated her efforts. I sipped my beer. It had been such a pleasant evening. Then Coach C had to call, and Bridget had to take a bullet-train down memory lane.

  She sawed her steak into tiny pieces, her jaw tight. Her silverware clattered as she set it on her plate, and her aquarium bubbled louder in our silence. “I’ll put some music on.” She dashed to her CD collection, which was housed in a curvy kind of sculpture next to her TV and stereo. Leaning over, she studied a few titles, pulled one out, and shoved it back in. “What do you feel like?”

  I felt like going home, forgetting all about the fact that Anne was in jail and that Neale was out of my life, and sleeping for days. “Surprise me,” I said, popping a piece of steak into my mouth.

  As Bridget returned to the table, a Debussy arpeggio washed over me, and the silence between us felt more comfortable. What didn’t feel comfortable was Bridget’s gaze.

  “It was Carol’s idea to lie to you about why the freshmen left. Not mine.”

  I put my fork down. Bridget’s admission didn’t exactly surprise me, but it took me off guard.

  “We don’t usually disagree,” she said.

  My guess was that she didn’t usually share their disagreements either.

  “I never wanted to deceive you.” Bridget’s eyes continued to hold mine. “It’s just that being second-in-command…” she trailed off.

  Was she defending herself or apologizing? “It must be tricky,” I said.

  “Tricky.” She repeated the word as if she’d never heard it before. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

  “I’d have been in the thick of things anyway because of Anne.” Anne. I needed to eat and run if I was going to do anything more on her behalf before the day was through. I picked up my fork and took another bite of steak.

  Debussy’s notes surged and receded. As the piece rolled to a close, Bridget and I locked eyes again and found ourselves in another uncomfortable silence.

  “So what’s next with your investigation?” Bridget asked.

  “I need to talk to Lexie and Tyler again.” No need to mention that I also planned to talk with Jessie.

  “Lexie will do anything to get a good scoop.”

  Just like some people, I thought, who would do anything for their team. But Bridget didn’t seem to make the connection.

  “Did you know that after the rape first happened, Carol had to call Lexie’s editor to get her to back off our girls? Lexie kept pestering them about their teammates and other athletes. Drinking habits, drug habits, sex habits. Did they cheat in class? Did they have eating disorders? Were they gay? Were they homophobic? Racist? The whole laundry list.”

  I could see why the questions had upset Coach C, but I wished that Lexie had pursued them instead of generating columns and columns of print about Anne.

  “She wanted to do some huge exposé about what she called the underside of college sports,” Bridget said. “She has zero respect for people’s privacy.”

  At last, for the first time that evening, I knew where Bridget was headed next. “I’m not going to out your players to Lexie Roth.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Bridget sputtered. “It’s just that—”

  I cut her off. “I wish I knew more about the case that the cops are building against Anne.”

  “Ask your girlfriend to find out for you.”

  I struggled to swallow a piece of steak and dropped my eyes to my plate.

  “Cops,” Bridget said, “they’re always helping each other.”

  I poked my salad and tried to think of an excuse to leave.

  “You’re girlfriend’s a cop, isn’t she?” Bridget said, “the woman I met—”

  “We broke up.” Who was I to take Bridget to task for lying? I was becoming quite the dealer in half-truths myself. “She broke up with me.”

  A new piano piece rippled through the room as Bridget’s eyes softened. “Oh, Mara, that’s rotten. What happened?”

  What had happened? I took a huge bite of bread and gazed at the tabletop. The lines in the wood grain reminded me of Neale’s subtle curves and the almost certain truth that I’d never touch her again.

  “If you ever need to talk,” Bridget said, “I have lots of experience being dumped.”

  “I’m no novice myself.”

  “Bet you never experienced this.” She waited until I met her eyes. “After my most recent ex failed to get tenure, she went to a queer theory conference and never returned. She sent her new girlfriend—one of her own students—to get her things.”

  I tilted my head to Bridget. Her story did indeed top mine.

  “Wait,” she said. “It gets better—or worse. The new girlfriend actually wanted to interview me for her dissertation. She wanted to know how the recent shift in my relationship status had impacted my lesbian identity paradigm.”

  Bridget’s laugh was as easy on the ears as Debussy. I couldn’t help but join in. And later, after we’d downed several scoops of chocolate ice cream, I sure didn’t feel like leaving.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kate’s cell phone all but disappeared as she cradled it in her hands. “W-w-in is using the phone in her b-bedroom.” She glanced across her living room at the closed door and then at the Iowa Hawkeye quilt behind her. For once, Kate’s dark hair fell loosely about her shoulders, but the rest of her was wound tight. “There’s n-not much t-time before we’ll have to call it a n-night.”

  “I’ll make my questions quick, then.”

  “Varenka wanted to help, but she was upset w-with her p-play in practice. She went to b-bed early.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw the sign on her door.” After leaving Bridget’s, I’d gone to Varenka’s to check in on her—to tell her that her parents were off the hook and to see what more I could learn about Jessie—but that talk would have to wait, as would the talk with Jessie herself.

  “Shelly did a great j-job s-starting this phonathon,” Kate said. “Once she p-puts her m-mind to something, it’s a d-done-deal.”

  Could we say avoidance? “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to ask about the rumors circulating about Varenka’s rape.”

  Win’s low drawl emanated from the other room, and below us, a bass thumped relentlessly.

  “I’ve gotten p-pledges for a thousand d-dollars.” Kate rested her phone on the sofa between us. “Do you know how much the lawyer will c-cost?”

  I didn’t. Orchid’s line had been busy every time I’d tried it. I was pretty sure, however, that a thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket. “About the rumors,” I said.

  “I never heard any.” She stretched toward the coffee table and flipped through her pages of phone numbers.

  “Do you know who Varenka discussed the evening with?”

  Kate raked her eyes over me. “Not her parents.”

  So that’s what she was about. Protecting Varenka’s parents. “I’ve already ruled them out.”

  “B-but Varenka said—”

  “I got some new information after I talked to her. When she wakes
up, will you tell her?”

  “What n-new—”

  I cut her off. “Did she ever talk to you about what happened?”

  Kate shook her head and frowned.

  I wondered if she was lying or disappointed that Varenka hadn’t confided in her.

  “She m-might have said something to J-jessie.”

  Exactly what I’d been hoping to hear, yet I had to consider my source. Who knew how long Kate had carried a torch for Varenka before Jessie stepped in and stole her heart. “Did Jessie ever say anything about it?”

  “W-we don’t talk.”

  A beep issued from Win’s room, and the door opened. “Man, I could never be a telemarketer. I’m 0-5 on my last calls.” Caw-alls. Her long, lazy vowels ground to a halt when she saw me. “Miss Gilgannon.” She made my name sound like an accusation.

  “Kate and I were discussing what Jessie might have known about the rape.”

  As Win studied us, she placed her hands on her hips, and the worry lines on her forehead deepened. “That’s hard to say. But I do know that Varenka tried real hard not to discuss it with her folks.”

  “Her parents are already in the clear,” I said.

  Win let her hands relax at her side.

  “But Jessie’s not,” I added.

  Win’s freckled face tightened, and Kate dropped her gaze to the floor.

  Win stepped toward her teammate. “Did you know Varenka’s mom and dad were off the hook?”

  Kate glanced at me. “J-just n-now,” she said, “I found out just n-now.”

  “And you never told her about Jessie?” Win’s voice shot up nearly an octave. “What were you thinking?”

  Kate’s face pinkened as Win gave her a withering look.

  I was completely lost.

  Win whirled toward me and pushed up the sleeves of her flannel shirt. “Jessie was with us that night. She stopped by right after the folks who wanted our autographs.”

  If this were true, then the rookie had an alibi. “How long after?” I asked.

  “Like a minute.”

  I checked to see if Win’s eyes darted around the room, but they bore right into mine.

  Then she turned to Kate. “Tell her.”