Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  That was probably true. Shelly had organized a fundraiser for Anne, but I couldn’t take any chances. “Tell me now,” I said. “Or you’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’ll send other proof too,” she said. “Everyone will see that Anne had nothing to do with it.”

  Now who was bluffing? The malfunctioning light hummed, and Shelly’s cards floated in the toilet like miniature rafts. “You don’t have much time,” I said, “if you want to catch your flight.”

  Labrys sniffed loudly—presumably at Shelly’s luggage. I was too worried about the pepper spray to risk a peek.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” she whispered. “It was an accident.”

  I thought about the bruising on his neck and back, his smashed-in skull. All the blood.

  “You don’t believe me.” Shelly’s voice quavered. “But I was only planning to confront him. I was trying to help the team.”

  It sounded like she’d moved away from the stall, so I squinted through the door. She sat on a stool, biting her lip, close to tears. Labrys abandoned her quest for roast beef and padded toward Shelly.

  Suddenly, I had an idea. “You were trying to help the team by committing murder?” I asked. “Didn’t you realize that Varenka and her parents would be prime suspects?”

  “I told you,” Shelly said, “I didn’t mean to kill him.” She bit her lip harder and clenched both her fists. “I thought I could trick him into confessing on tape.”

  My stomach lurched. That was what I’d done to my Aunt Glad’s killer. And when Shelly had been an intern at KICI, she’d often asked about it. Bigmouth-me, I loved to tell my own story so much, I never thought about why Shelly wanted so many details. It was my fault that she’d killed DeVoster, that her life was ruined, that Anne was in jail. Tears burned my eyes, and Labrys bounded toward me and started pawing at the stall. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my throat. “I’m OK, Labrys,” I said softly. “I’m fine.” I needed the dog to focus on Shelly, but Labrys could see through my lie. Her paws remained firmly planted inches from the stall. “Why didn’t you just tape him then?” I asked. “Why’d you kill him?”

  Shelly stared into space, and Labrys edged toward her.

  “I tried to get him to admit what he did to Varenka and Ryesha, but he said they wanted it. He said—” Shelly stopped and hung her head. “He said terrible things, and he kept laughing at me, but none of what he said was a 100% clear confession, so I lied and told him that Ryesha was going to come forward.” Shelly raised her eyes. They remained fixed and vacant as her story spilled out. “He went ballistic—started coming at me—so I sprayed him. He shrieked and grabbed his eyes. He crumpled to his knees, but then he got up and lunged at me again. I was scared, so I pushed him. Hard as I could.” Shelly paused and squared her shoulders. “His neck hit the beak and snapped. It was a horrible sound.” She clasped her fingers together in her lap. “On the way down, his back crashed into the bird’s knee and his head smashed against the elbow—the one raised in the air. When he landed on the cement platform, his head hit the corner. His blood splattered on the bird’s dress.” Shelly shivered.

  I wondered how many times the scene had replayed in her head. But now was not the time for sympathy or compassion.

  Shelly demanded her cards again, her tears long gone. If anything, unburdening her secret seemed to have strengthened her resolve.

  “Why did you think he’d confess to you?” I asked. “Why was it your job to incriminate him?”

  Shelly tried to meet my eyes, but she couldn’t. “I take care of the team,” she said. “It’s my job.”

  I didn’t like goading her, but there was no other way. “Why didn’t Roshaun step to the plate? It was his sister DeVoster raped.”

  “I wanted to do it,” Shelly snapped. “I made him let me.”

  “Why?” I said. “Was it for the glory? After four years of fetching drinks and towels, you deserved some, didn’t you? Shelly’s time to be the star.”

  She shook her head, her lip trembling.

  “Why then? So you could kill DeVoster and make it look like an accident?”

  “No,” Shelly cried. “Weren’t you listening? I wanted him to live, so I could ruin his life just like he ruined my—my roommate’s life—and Ryesha’s.”

  Shelly’s hesitation made me wonder if she was being completely honest. Why hadn’t she simply said Varenka’s name?

  “I wanted everyone to know what really happened at his parties.”

  I recalled Shelly’s reaction when I’d asked her about the party where Varenka was raped. No way had Shelly been there. She didn’t like big parties. She didn’t even like hearing about them. I’d attributed her vehemence to anger on her friend’s behalf, but maybe there was more to it. A lot more.

  “Did DeVoster ever do anything to you?” I asked.

  Shelly’s lip trembled.

  Labrys whined and edged toward her.

  Shelly’s eyes brimmed with tears. When she finally spoke, I could barely hear her. “I never told anybody until it was too late. If I’d told Varenka, she never would have…” Shelly started crying in earnest, her shoulders shaking.

  I had about two seconds to absorb Shelly’s revelation before Labrys leapt at her, tongue out, eager to offer solace, knocking Shelly right off her stool and onto the floor. I burst out of the stall, leapt over the fallen stool, and sped out of the locker room.

  Labrys wouldn’t keep a big girl like Shelly down long. I sprinted to the weight room and threw open the door. “Help,” I yelled, “I need help in the women’s basketball locker room.”

  The female gymnast and some of the wrestlers paused mid lift.

  “Please,” I said. “The woman who killed Dave DeVoster is about to get away.”

  That got Tyler Bennet’s attention. He dropped his weight to the mat and ran after me. Everyone else followed suit, thundering toward the locker room. When Shelly burst through the door—her luggage and Labrys trailing behind her—she was greeted by a rock-hard wall of jocks.

  Chapter Thirty

  By the time I left the police station, the last thing I wanted was to answer more questions. But as the song says, you can’t always get what you want. The cement area in front of the station was filled with journalists. A shaggy cameraman perched atop a huge cement planter and tried to film me as I no-commented my way through the crowd. Someone leapt from behind Law Enforcement Herky and thrust a mic in my face. I dodged it only to run smack into Lexie Roth. “What did Shelly Swanson tell you before she was arrested?” Lexie had one hand poised above a notebook. With the other, she lowered her muffler and brushed a spiral of hair out of her face. “Come on,” she hissed. “I helped you.”

  I wanted to repay her, but I didn’t want to encourage the reporters that were jockeying for position between us. And I didn’t want to destroy any more of Shelly’s privacy than I already had.

  “Where’s your dog?” Lexie asked.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “The one that was with you,” Lexie said. “I want a photo.”

  I’d dropped Labrys at home before going to the station to give my statement, but if I told Lexie that, a herd of photographers would follow her to my door. “Maybe tomorrow.” I strode past, ignoring an avalanche of questions. Truth be told, I had plenty of my own. I knew that the cops had released Anne—I’d asked and asked until they told me—but I didn’t know how she was doing. And I had no idea what happened to Shelly after her arrest. No idea how Bridget and her players were taking the news.

  My watch said 3:36. Practice time. And I was sure the Hawks would be practicing—no matter what was happening with their manager—because they had a game the next day. The show must go on. We thespians have nothing on Div. I athletes.

  The parking lot behind the police station was jammed with news vans. My Omni was lodged in between two of them, encrusted with frost. It took me a couple minutes to pry the door open and start the engine. My defroster wheezed, and I discovered that I
didn’t have a scraper. Or my driver’s license. I’d have to scrape my windows with my only credit card.

  Someone rapped on my window.

  I couldn’t see who it was because of the frost, but I assumed it was a reporter and locked my doors.

  “Mar-Bar! Open up. We’re perishing out here.”

  I opened my window a crack. Behind Vince were Orchid and Anne, all grins. I jumped out of the car.

  When I extricated myself from the inevitable group hug, I gazed at Anne, every inch of her. “Are you OK?” I asked.

  She nodded. The circles under her eyes looked like ripe plums. “What about you?”

  I shrugged. It was all in a day’s work, rescuing my ex from the long arm of the law.

  Orchid rested a mittened hand on my shoulder and thanked me. She was about to say something else when Vince cut her off.

  “Did I train Labrys right or what?” He started bouncing up and down—from the cold or his own misguided pride, I couldn’t tell. “She’s going to be famous.” He swept his arm around the parking lot at the news vans. “All these stations are going to want footage of the heroic canine and her amazing trainer.” He was so enraptured with his future fame that he didn’t notice the rest of us exchanging amused glances.

  Over his shoulder, I saw some reporters coming our way. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’d like to take you two out for dinner later,” Orchid said, “to celebrate Anne’s freedom and your sleuthing.” She nodded toward me.

  “Alas,” Vince said, “I have a prior engagement with the delightful man who inspected the Animal Adoption Center today. We received extraordinarily high marks by the by.” He gave me another hug. “But tomorrow I want all the details about how you caught that murderous manager.”

  “She’s not a murderer,” I said. “It was self-defense.” But I wondered if the cops would see it that way. Despite Anne’s freedom, I didn’t feel like celebrating—not with Shelly in so much pain and trouble. I turned to Orchid and asked for a rain check on the dinner. She and Anne both looked relieved.

  And I was fine with that. I really was. For once, their desire to be alone didn’t hurt me.

  * * *

  It was nearly 6:30 when I entered Carver-Hawkeye for the second time that day. From the top of the stadium, I could see Bridget consulting with the other two assistants. Coach C was back—the only one on the floor with silver hair. The players I’d come to know best—Varenka, Kate, Jessie, and Win—were scrimmaging against the gray team. Shelly’s arrest had no doubt triggered more guilt for Varenka, but she seemed unhampered and focused, driving past a guy with cornrows. I thought about Roshaun and his mother. According to the evening news, they’d been arrested as accessories. Dave DeVoster had shattered a lot of lives.

  As I started down the stairs, Coach C blew her whistle, and everybody huddled together before heading to the locker room. I called Bridget’s name. She whirled toward me, pausing for a moment—her face too far away for me to read—and motioned me to wait. I didn’t mind. I’d had more than enough of the locker room.

  I slipped into a row and thought about Shelly standing at the top of the arena, basketball resting on her hip. She was probably taking in the stadium one last time before heading to Barcelona, or wherever, and trying to start a new life. Maybe there was a part of her that was glad I’d stopped her, happy that I’d kept her near her family and team. At least that’s what I told myself.

  * * *

  When Bridget reemerged from the locker room, I wanted to dash down the stairs and hug her, but there were two managers on the court, removing tape. Besides, for all I knew, she was furious with me for uncovering her head manager’s secret. So I stayed put as she took the stairs two at a time, arms pumping and whistle swaying across her chest. Her navy sweatshirt deepened the blue of her eyes, but they told me nothing.

  “How’s Shelly?” I asked.

  Bridget glanced toward the managers on the court.

  I wondered if they were always so quiet.

  “Let’s talk somewhere else,” she said.

  I walked up a few steps and stopped. I understood her need to keep our conversation private, but I’d been waiting for answers all afternoon.

  The ad sign made its eerie squeak.

  Bridget hesitated. Then she climbed toward me until she stood on the stair right above mine. “I talked with her parents and her lawyer, Cecile Lodge. She doesn’t think the prosecutor will press charges.”

  I was speechless. I’d imagined a lot of best-case scenarios but not that one.

  “There’s a videotape,” Bridget said. “Roshaun hid behind a tree and filmed the whole thing.”

  An audio and a video. No wonder Shelly had confronted him in such a brightly lit area. “So the tape shows that it was self-defense?” I asked.

  “Not only that.” Bridget leaned against the gold railing in the middle of the stairs and folded her arms across her chest. “It makes DeVoster look exactly like the rapist he was.”

  I thought about Darren DeVoster’s reaction to the tiny part of the cassette that Shelly and Roshaun had already sent to the media.

  “Lodge thinks that once DeVoster’s family knows what’s on the tape, they’ll beg the prosecutor to drop the charges.”

  The ad sign squeaked again.

  “How did Shelly and Roshaun find out about Ryesha?”

  Bridget checked the court. The managers were gone. She glanced toward the top of the arena and then gazed at her shoelaces. “Lodge said that Shelly wanted the coaches to know the full story, but…”

  “I already know that DeVoster raped Shelly,” I said quietly.

  Bridget sighed.

  “I’m not going to talk to the press about her,” I said. “I didn’t this afternoon even when I was mobbed.” I wasn’t sure what I wanted most: to know what happened or to know that Bridget trusted me.

  “It happened last April.” Bridget’s voice went flat. Maybe that was her way of distancing herself from a painful story. “By June, she realized she was pregnant.”

  I sat on the arm of a chair. A rape and an unwanted pregnancy. That’s what Shelly had been dealing with while she interned at the station. Her “tough situation.” No wonder she hadn’t been her usual responsible self.

  “She miscarried in July,” Bridget said.

  The same month she blew off that interview, I thought, the same month Neale and I saw her drunk downtown.

  “She went to Roshaun for comfort, but she didn’t tell him about DeVoster—not until after Varenka…” Bridget trailed off and took a deep breath.

  “Shelly told me that she blamed herself for what happened.”

  Bridget nodded. “She was overwhelmed with guilt that night, so she went to Roshaun’s—they were dating by this time—and she told him everything, including a phone call she’d made to DeVoster after she figured out she was pregnant. He denied responsibility, of course. Called her all sorts of vile names and told her—this is a quote—‘she was two drinks easier than most bitches.’” Bridget paused. “This last part got Roshaun thinking about his sister. How her grades dropped after her night with DeVoster. How she quit her sorority and never went back to college after her first year. So he called her.”

  I could only imagine his rage when she finally told him what happened. A lot of it must have been directed at himself. For not figuring things out sooner. For not protecting his little sister.

  “He wanted to kill DeVoster,” Bridget said, “but Shelly talked him out of it. She said the law would have to punish DeVoster now that he’d raped someone like Varenka.”

  Someone white, I thought. A popular athlete. But Shelly had been wrong.

  “You know the rest.” Bridget stood. “Lodge thinks they’ll be released soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

  It made me sad to think of them in jail for even a single night. I met Bridget’s eyes. They were tired, but still unreadable. “What about you?” I asked. “How are you doing?”

  Bridget gave me a sad smil
e. “I’ve been wondering the same thing about you.” She held out her hand to help me up. We stood inches apart, our fingers clasped together.

  Epilogue

  Win and Varenka received a thunderous standing ovation as they headed to the bench. Because of their double doubles, the Hawkeyes were a minute away from beating their top intra-state rival, the nationally ranked Iowa State Cyclones. Over the past month, the two seniors had led us to a 5-0 record.

  “We’ll be ranked in the top ten after this,” Orchid said. “I’m sure of it.” She grabbed a fistful of Anne’s organic popcorn.

  Win and Varenka got high fives from everybody on the bench, including Assistant Coach Sue, whose pregnancy was really showing. Orchid had been right about the triplet thing.

  Varenka slid her kneepads down to her shoes and took a seat at the end of the bench next to Shelly. It was the manager’s first home game back with the team.

  Anne leaned across Orchid, her hand cupped at her mouth. “Just think,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, Shelly would be miles and miles away from all of this, working at a ski resort in Andorra.”

  Andorra, it turns out, is the country where Shelly had been planning to flee. I’d never heard of it before, but Vince (who hadn’t heard of it either, but who lives to Google) informed me that it’s an itsy-bitsy nation on the border of Spain and France. It has the largest ski resort in the Pyrennes, a huge thermal spa, zero unemployment, and—most crucial to Vince—duty-free shopping. What are we doing here? he’d said. He’d begun trying to persuade Richard into traveling there with him by saying You can bet the leader of Andorra isn’t a homophobic C-student from Texas.

  The crowd roared as Jessie stole the ball and ran the entire court for an easy layup. When the noise died down, I heard a woman in back of us gushing about Shelly. “She’s the one—the one who got him on tape before she killed him.”

  Before Shelly and Roshaun were arrested, they’d wisely mailed a copy of their videotape to Lexie Roth. Her stories had been picked up by the AP, and the few days that Shelly and Roshaun spent in jail became a cause célèbre for rape victim advocates across the country. Yet because the Daily Iowan protects the confidentiality of rape victims, Shelly herself was not named as one. Nor was Ryesha or Varenka or any of the other four women who’d come forward after reading Lexie’s article.