Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  Krista indicated her cell phone on the table. “I’ll be recording this.”

  “Fine. Anything I can do to help.”

  “You’re aware this is an inquiry into Astrid Lund’s murder.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you up for answering a few questions about Saturday night and early morning?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This is an informal interview.” Which was her way of saying he would not be read Miranda rights.

  His grin was a little uneasy. “I’m starting to feel like a suspect.”

  “We just need to establish a few things so we can eliminate you in that way, and also to see what you may know or may have seen.”

  “All right.” He shifted in the chair, leaned forward, resting his forearms on the wooden table. “Astrid Lund was a gifted young woman, who in my small way I helped to get off to a start. I was fond of her. You can bet I’ll do anything I can to help you here.”

  “That’s appreciated, Mr. Hope.”

  His grin, a charming thing, lost its uneasiness. “I’m not your teacher now, Krista. You can call me Chris.”

  “All right, Chris. Before we get into the specifics of Saturday evening, why is it you say you gave Astrid her start? I understand she almost certainly considered you an influential teacher of hers. But she was president of student council before she got into drama, outgoing and very popular already.”

  He frowned just a little, as if she’d struck him a glancing blow. “She was, but. . . you knew her pretty well, didn’t you, Krista? I got the impression you’d been friends since forever.”

  “That’s right,” Krista said, a little thrown that the questioning was turning back on her. “Since childhood.”

  “She was a tubby little thing then, wasn’t she? Didn’t she blossom fairly late?”

  “Yes. But she made up for lost time.”

  Chris laughed. “Yes, she ran through her share of boys. I don’t think she was very popular with some of the other girls. You two had a falling out, didn’t you, over that Jerry Ward, boy reporter?”

  “Yes.” How had the grill-er become the grill-ee?

  “Well, you may recall I always went out of my way to talk to students, one-on-one, and see what had drawn them to drama, or music, if they were going out for the musical that the two departments mount together annually. To see what a student hoped to accomplish. To derive from the experience.”

  “I remember,” she said. “I was not outgoing.”

  “No, you weren’t. Not shy exactly, and I would say fairly self-composed. But drama allowed you to express yourself, come out of your shell.”

  “Astrid wasn’t in a shell,” Krista said.

  “She was as a girl, though, wasn’t she? In grade school? In early middle school?”

  “That’s right. I guess I hadn’t really thought of that.”

  Chris gestured with an open hand. “Well, inside the lovely young woman, who seemed so self-confident, was the unhappy overweight child who often overcompensated for a lack of self-worth. She could speak in public, but it was contrived, artificial, wooden. In drama, we worked toward a naturalness, a composure that, frankly, Krista, you already had. And where did it lead Astrid? To great success as a performer, which is what a newscaster is. That’s where it led.”

  And to her murder, Krista thought.

  “Which is why,” Chris went on, “her role in Into the Woods was a perfect sort of coming-out party for the realized woman she would become—Cinderella.”

  Krista smiled at the drama teacher. “We’ll save why I made a good Little Red Riding Hood for later.”

  “Why wait? Someone among us may be pretending to be Grandma when she or he is actually a monster.”

  They both got quiet. Glib conversation had turned into something troubling. . . and accurate.

  Krista asked, “Did you have a chance to speak with Astrid at the reunion?”

  “Yes, briefly,” he said. “A lot of people wanted to talk to her, and I would have liked to’ve had some quiet, quality time. We did talk about getting together soon—not reunion weekend, but soon.”

  “Soon meaning. . . ?”

  “She said she was working on a story, an investigative piece that would be bringing her back to Galena. She’d give me a call ahead of time so we could arrange a lunch or drink or something.”

  “What story?”

  “She didn’t say. Not a hint.”

  “Astrid left the event rather early.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I noticed her going. The band was still playing. I don’t know exactly when that was.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Tyler and I stayed around till last call and beyond—mostly in that lounge, but also there’s a little area by a fireplace where a lot of the ‘kids’ sat and chatted. I don’t imagine we headed out till well after two a.m.”

  “Did you see anything at the reunion that caught your attention where Astrid was concerned? An argument maybe? Anything at all?”

  “No. In fact, I was struck by how classmates of yours would, frankly, suck up to her. She’s kind of famous and was obviously even more beautiful now than then.”

  “Would you happen to know where you were the second week of August?”

  “I do. I don’t have to check a calendar or anything. I attended the National Teacher’s Council of Language Arts in Atlanta. That covers the language arts as well as journalism, debate, and drama. Anything to do with the written or spoken word. Big affair.”

  “Did Tyler Dale go along? He’s not a teacher, I know, but—”

  “He did, yes. Turned his shop over to his assistant manager and went along. During the days, when I was in various meetings and seminars, he went shopping and to museums and films. In the evenings we had. . . I almost said a gay old time.”

  His grin was a dazzler, and infectious.

  “We took in some plays,” he continued, “and hit some music venues. Grabbed some great barbecue.”

  “Was anyone else from GHS at the conference?”

  “Yes. Ken—you remember Mr. Stock, teaches English, advisor on The Spyglass.” That was the school paper. “His wife Mary didn’t go along, probably because art isn’t one of the disciplines the NTCLA includes.”

  Ken Stock, who’d been among Krista’s favorite teachers, confirmed that.

  Sitting where Chris had been, the dark-haired, dark-eyed head of the English department seemed far more somber. He wore a black polo with a red alligator logo, good-looking if not as overtly handsome as the drama teacher.

  “Astrid was my editor, you know,” he said. “A lot of people, the kids, her other teachers, could see how well she presented herself. That made her a natural for drama, you know, and to shine on the student council. But I was the one who saw her writing ability. Now, she didn’t have your artistic flair, Krista.”

  Krista, flattered, also noticed that when it came to being interviewed, these teachers seemed prone to turn the tables.

  “What Astrid had,” he was saying, “was a concise clarity of style. And an eye for detail, too. Plus. . .” He smiled, though still quite serious. “. . . she had a real built-in bullshit detector. She could see through people. Knew just what probing question to ask.”

  “Had you kept in touch?”

  “No.” Another sad smile. “That’s one of the realities of the teaching profession. You cast these kids like seeds into the water. They seldom come back to thank you or catch up, but trust me, Krista. . . it’s not expected. That’s not why we do this. For praise. For thanks. It’s for the satisfaction of getting kids ready to go out into the world.”

  “Did you talk to Astrid at the reunion Saturday night?”

  “I said hello, and mentioned how proud I was of her. She smiled and said something like, ‘Wonderful to see you again,’ and that was all. She had a lot of kids swarming her. That’s natural. Who has gone farther? Next stop would’ve been national TV, don’t you think?”

  “I do. What time did you
head home?”

  “Not till the band stopped playing. Bitter end, I guess. Bittersweet end. Mary and I visited with a few kids, and then headed home.”

  “Didn’t stop in at the bar?”

  “No. We’re not big drinkers, Mary and I. And we were both pretty tired. It was a long, fun evening.”

  His wife, Mary, the art teacher, agreed. She looked even sadder than her husband. Attractive, just a tad overweight, she wore a tan pantsuit that went well with her short golden-brown hair and expressive brown eyes.

  “I didn’t know Astrid well,” Mary said. “She had talent, though. A nice eye for color. But she only took the one class, her sophomore year. GHS limits the amount of classes in the arts a student can take—you may recall that. She went into drama and was in journalism, too, but you probably know that. Ken is still the advisor on The Spyglass.”

  “Did you speak with Astrid at the reunion?”

  “No. We exchanged smiles from a distance. I’m afraid that’s about it.”

  “Did you witness any awkward encounters or arguments involving Astrid and one of her classmates, or with anyone?”

  “No. Quite the opposite. I would say. . . and I don’t mean to sound unkind. . . but there was quite some fawning over her. You asked about awkward encounters or exchanges, and while I didn’t see any of that, I could tell the young woman was embarrassed by the attention. It’s as if. . . nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, as if she resented, and that’s a harsh word, but she didn’t seem to like having people who hadn’t been friends coming up to her and acting like friends. Because she was somebody special. Of course, she was. Somebody special.”

  “I understand your husband attended a teacher’s conference in Atlanta. The second week of August.”

  “Yes, he loves that kind of thing. I’m not as social as Ken, I’m afraid.”

  “What did you do while Ken was away?”

  “Nothing. Well, painted. Watercolor is my passion.” She sat forward and gave Krista the saddest smile in the world. “Do you mind my saying. . . how proud I am of you? Did your mother know you’d made chief?”

  Mary and her mother had been such good friends.

  “Yes. She was gone soon after, but yes.”

  “That makes me so happy,” she said, terribly not.

  Next up was Coach Bragg. He was a big, blue-cheeked man who almost overwhelmed the hardwood chair opposite Krista. Inducted several years ago into the Illinois Football Coaches Hall of Fame, Bill Bragg was a legend in this part of the world—his Pirates had won three state 1A championships.

  “This is a terrible thing,” Bragg said.

  The fifty-something coach—his salt-and-pepper butch almost bristling, his thick, wild eyebrows threatening to fly off his face—wore a white sport shirt with a royal-blue-and-white Pirates logo, a little bowlegged buccaneer with an eye patch, a cutlass, a skull-and-crossbones hat, but no parrot.

  “I mean,” he went on, “that’s obvious, but my God, is it sad. And frightening! The things people do to each other.”

  “How well did you know Astrid? Was she ever a student of yours?”

  “Yes, in Driver’s Ed. She was quiet. Pretty girl. Guess that’s obvious, too. Learned quick. Smart. Didn’t panic easy. Lots of kids panic behind the wheel, at first.”

  “Never took her under your wing?”

  “No. Now, Kelly did, Kelly knew her well. You should talk to her about that.”

  His wife, Kelly, the girls’ gym teacher and basketball coach.

  “Coach, did you interact with Astrid at the reunion?”

  “I never ‘interacted’ with her in my life. I didn’t speak to her at the shindig, or nod at her or anything. We barely knew each other. I noticed people making a fuss. That’s it. Still, a fine-looking young woman. What a damn waste!”

  Krista knew some man would say that sooner or later. That it was somebody from Bragg’s age group was no surprise.

  “What time did you and Mrs. Bragg head home?”

  “Ummm, I would say around one in the morning. We hung out awhile with your classmates in the lounge there, threw a few back, had some laughs, shared some old times. A lot of those grown men were my boys on the Pirates. Senior year they were state runners-up.”

  “Would you happen to know where you were the second week of August?”

  “I do know. But I’d have to think to be exact about the this-and-that of where we went and what we did. Kelly and I have a cabin on the Mississippi, up in Wisconsin, near Prairie du Chien. Spend our summers there. Beautiful country. Go biking, some nice trails.”

  She tried to imagine this big man on a bike. “You didn’t go on a trip, a vacation?”

  “That is our vacation. We just kick back. Talk to Kelly about it. She’ll fill you in.”

  Kelly Bragg, in her vague fifties like her husband, said much the same thing about Prairie du Chien and their cabin on the river. They rarely went anywhere else during the summer. And during the school year, they stole weekends up there, when football and basketball season allowed.

  “Do you remember what you did, specifically, the second week of August?”

  “Well, I believe that was the weekend we had company. A friend of Bill’s, another coach, stayed with us at the cabin, I think. I’d have to check my calendar, but it was in August. Why do you ask?”

  This was the first any of the interviewees had inquired about the significance of the second week in August. And the Logan murder had not yet been connected to Astrid Lund’s in the media.

  “Another classmate,” Krista said, seeing no reason to keep a lid on it, “who you may recall. . . Sue Logan?”

  “Yes, I remember Sue. She was on the basketball team when you were, Krista. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes. Well, she was murdered, too. On the Thursday of the second week of last August. Very similar circumstances.”

  The hazel eyes grew large and began welling with tears. “How terrible. How perfectly. . . is the same person responsible?”

  “We don’t know. We think it likely, but we don’t know.”

  “So. . . where we were, what we did, in August. . . you were asking for an alibi?”

  Krista thought about how to answer that, then finally just said, “Yes.”

  The gym teacher sat and stared for a few moments.

  Then Krista asked, “Did you speak to Astrid at the reunion?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Just briefly.”

  “What did you say exactly?”

  “Just. . . that I was proud of her.”

  The woman began to cry.

  Krista handed her a tissue and waited for a while. Then: “You and Astrid were close, I believe.”

  “We. . . we were. I guess you could say I was a kind of. . . mentor.”

  Krista took air in and let it out. Sat forward.

  “Mrs. Bragg, I’m going to ask you about something, and if it makes you uncomfortable, I understand. I won’t ask you about it again, unless it becomes a necessary element in the investigation.”

  The gym teacher swallowed. Her eyes were red. “That sounds rather. . . ominous.”

  “There’s a rumor, and it is just a rumor. . . for now. . . that you and Astrid were seen in the shower together, in the gym dressing room.”

  The woman’s face turned white as a blister. But she did not deny it, instead saying, “The girls shower together frequently. On occasion I’m among them. If I’ve. . . worked up a sweat.”

  “This wasn’t a group of girls. Reportedly, it was just you and Astrid. You were soaping her back. Though nothing overtly sexual was seen, there was a shared intimacy.”

  Her chin came up, but trembling. “You were one of my girls. Did I ever. . . touch you or say anything to you, inappropriate?”

  “No.”

  “Every girls’ gym teacher has these kind of mean things said about her. It’s a cruel cliché. I’m a married woman!”

  “You would characterize your relationship with Astrid as. .
.”

  “It was not a relationship! She was a girl who needed support after a. . . after a troubling incident. I joined her in the shower and washed her back and comforted her. This was after an evening practice where she hadn’t shown up. Astrid came in late, after all the girls were gone and I was just getting ready to take a shower myself. She came in, crying, and I helped her. Helped her undress. Took her into the shower and, yes, I washed her and I comforted her.”

  “What troubling incident?”

  “It was what you would probably call. . . date rape.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The Coq D’or, midafternoon, was not hopping, which was okay with Keith. Drinks and casual meals shared here with Karen over the years were enough to keep him company, the kind of memories that could warm a cold, windy February day. The narrow, low-ceilinged bar, snugged away on the ground level of the Drake as if to utilize a spare hallway, claimed to have been the second such establishment to open for business the day Prohibition ended. He believed it.

  He had two dates here tonight. One was later, with a beautiful woman. The other wasn’t.

  Keith walked past the low-riding tables with their white tablecloths and red leather chairs and selected a high-backed stool at the long, half-a-wall’s worth of bar. An ancient bartender in a black vest, white shirt, and black tie nodded in recognition, though it had been a year since Keith and Karen had last visited.

  “Heineken?” the white-haired relic asked.

  “No Carlsberg?”

  “Still no Carlsberg, sir.”

  “Heineken.”

  The bartender went to get that and Keith glanced around. The familiar place comforted him—the wainscoting, the French murals, the red leather banquettes.

  The Heineken arrived and the bartender poured it. “Alone today?”

  “A friend is joining me.”

  “Not the lovely lady?”

  “Passed away last September.”

  “. . . Life is sweet, life is cruel.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Me.”

  The two men exchanged weary smiles. They didn’t make bartenders like this anymore. Of course, the old boy could be both sweet and cruel himself, as Keith had seen him treat many a customer down the bar with surly resignation.