“Sure.”
Trevor scanned the names, and wasn’t surprised at Smeltzer’s absence. Trevor called the police station. Barker wasn’t available, but Trevor left Smeltzer’s name with an officer.
“You think he had something to do with Bobby’s death?” Alice asked when he’d hung up.
“I don’t know. But he’s one of the few people I see benefiting from it.”
Alice’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “I do not like that man. I know you don’t, either.” Alice spoke past Trevor’s shoulder.
Dr. Lumley’s eyes were ringed with dark circles. A basketball player, she topped Trevor by a couple of inches, but this morning she seemed somehow smaller.
“I don’t what?” she asked.
“Like Barry Smeltzer.”
Lumley looked back and forth between Alice and Trevor. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Trevor thinks he killed Bobby.”
Trevor held up his hands. “I just thought Crandall’s death might stop the fitness center project, and Smeltzer would like that.”
“What do the police think?”
“They’re looking into it.”
Grasping her briefcase to her chest, Lumley disappeared down the hallway.
“Poor Sheila,” Alice said. “This has been so hard for her, with George and all.”
“George Packard?”
Alice turned pink.
Trevor waited.
“Sheila was George’s advisor. The way his accident was handled…it was pitiful. The football coach told him to drown his sorrows elsewhere. George dropped out of school and never came back.” She shuffled some papers on her desk. “Sheila always felt responsible. That’s why she asked to be at the head table for the fundraiser. She was afraid George would feel…awkward.”
Trevor understood the pressure some coaches put on college athletes. You got hurt and there was nothing more they could take from you, it was all over. Don’t let the locker room door hit you on the way out.
Trevor thanked Alice and was walking down the steps when Dr. Wenger barged up. Trevor sidestepped to avoid him.
“Sorry,” Wenger said.
Trevor studied the man’s face—gray, but with fire in his eyes.
“You all right?” Trevor asked.
Wenger’s nostrils flared. “I just left the president’s office. She wants to put off the fitness center project until Bobby’s murder is solved.”
“That makes sense.”
“Of course it does. But that English professor thinks it’s an answer from God that we should shelve it completely.”
“Smeltzer?”
“I’ve put years into this project. Years. Does he think it’s easy recruiting athletes when other universities have better facilities? He has no idea how much work it’s been to raise money, to organize this fundraiser, to get Crandall to come with all his stipulations—” He clenched his jaw, and stalked into the building.
Trevor watched him go. Something had clicked, and while he didn’t like what it told him, he knew it was a possibility. A serious one.
He sent a quick text to Claire, then went back to the athletics office, where Alice peered at him over her glasses.
Trevor pointed down the hallway. “He back there?”
She nodded, and he knocked on Wenger’s door. No response.
Trevor opened the door. Wenger sat at his desk, staring at the wall that held his trophies, several signed baseballs, and a bat. Trevor shut the door. Wenger gazed at him with watery eyes, and Trevor’s stomach dropped.
“You didn’t mean to kill him, did you?” Trevor said.
The tears in Wenger’s eyes spilled over.
Trevor spoke kindly. “One of his stipulations was no alcohol at the fundraiser, wasn’t it?” But Geena had spoken about the wine flowing freely.
Wenger swiped at his cheeks. “How can he expect that? When people pay five hundred dollars they don’t want powdered lemonade. They don’t want water!” He pushed his fists against his forehead. “He was going to pull out, said he wouldn’t support the fitness center because I’d broken my word.” He raised his eyes to Trevor’s. “How did you know?”
“Geena said he picked a fight with his fiancée…something had made him angry, and I thought maybe he’d confronted you about the alcohol. Did you follow him when he left?”
“I got into his car. I thought I could talk to him, change his mind, but he wouldn’t listen. He stopped at the park and told me to get out. I did, but I’d had too much…there was too much…” He closed his eyes. “He called somebody, I couldn’t hear who. I got back in the car. I just wanted him to listen.”
“What happened?”
Wenger closed his eyes. “He was acting strange, like he was drunk. Could he have been drunk?”
Trevor shook his head.
“I got so…angry, I just…” He held his hands in front of him. His large, strong hands. “Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he stop me?”
Trevor pulled out his phone, hoping for a text from Claire. Things could go really bad, really fast. “I think Smeltzer spiked his lemonade. He wanted people to think Crandall had been drinking.”
Wenger’s eyes sparked, and he pressed his hands against the desk, rising to his full height. “I should have known! He’ll stop at nothing to derail this project!”
Trevor took a step back.
“How do you know all this?” Wenger said. “Why are you asking me these things?”
Trevor reached for the doorknob as Wenger rushed him, pinning him against the wall, his arm against Trevor’s throat. “Don’t you want the new fitness center? You know how much we need it!”
Trevor grabbed at Wenger’s arm, but the older man was too strong, and spots danced before Trevor’s eyes. He slid his hand along the wall until his fingers wrapped around a trophy. He swung it, catching the side of Wenger’s head just enough to loosen his grip. Trevor ducked and grabbed the bat off the wall, holding it as if he were waiting for a pitch. “Stop.”
Wenger’s lip curled and he took a step forward just as the office door opened. Officers Torre and Gills rushed in, cuffing Wenger. His shoulders slumped and he dropped to his knees, pulling the cops down with him.
“I’m sorry,” Trevor said.
Wenger wouldn’t look at him.
Barker stepped between Trevor and his mentor. He tilted his head toward the door. “You can go, Trevor.”
Trevor took one last glance at his coach before squeezing past the cops.
“Hey,” Barker said, stopping him. “You did good.”
Trevor gave him a tight smile, and left.
***
“So what was in Crandall’s drink?” DeWayne asked. Their group had met up so Trevor could fill them in. “It couldn’t have been alcohol.”
“Date rape drug,” Trevor said. “GHB.”
“Unfortunately,” Claire said, “not hard to find on a college campus.”
“So it was Wenger I saw running away?” Shaun asked.
“Your scooter’s light scared him off.”
Shaun’s face clouded. “I could’ve stopped him if I’d gotten there sooner.”
“Maybe,” Trevor said. “But probably not.”
“So now what?” Austin asked.
“The project gets shelved indefinitely, Wenger and Smeltzer go to jail, and Crandall’s family—and the town and university—pick up the pieces.”
Geena sniffled. “He was a nice man.”
Austin squeezed her hand.
The friends sat for a while longer before drifting apart—Claire and Geena to a dorm floor meeting, Shaun to a study session.
Austin, DeWayne, and Trevor looked at each other.
“Wanna work out?” Austin said.
“What?” DeWayne said. “In our
old, outdated fitness center?”
“Sounds good to me,” Trevor said. “Let’s go.”
Disguise
David P. Wagner
It was obvious from the beginning that Poisoned Pen Press was different, and not just because they actually would read a manuscript sent directly from an unknown like me. Along with the rejection of my first book, I actually received (gasp!) suggestions on how to make my writing better, and encouragement to try again. That never would have happened in a normal publishing house. But for me, PPP is not a publishing house, it’s a publishing home.
—D.P.W.
***
The priest nodded a silent greeting to the uniformed guard and stepped through the metal doorway back into Italy. Even before the gate clanged shut, he was across the intersection into one of the narrow streets that made up the section of Rome known for centuries as the Borgo. The quarter’s history was as long and complicated as any in the city, starting as a burial site during the time of the Etruscans. Now its feel was medieval, giving this side street a scruffy shabbiness, but he preferred walking along it to the clean, wide boulevard Mussolini had cut through the Borgo in the twentieth century. At each corner he caught a glimpse of the wall that connected the Vatican to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. Once an escape route for popes, its walkway was now one of the many lesser-known tourist attractions in the city. Perhaps when things were less hectic in his life he would take the tour himself.
Maybe hectic wasn’t the correct way to describe his work over the past weeks. It had been slow and steady labor, boring at times, but he’d always kept his eye on the final objective. There were days when it seemed like he’d reached a dead end, and he would have to return to his normal assignments, but he’d stuck with it, and now it had paid off.
At the end of the street he passed four tables on the pavement outside a restaurant. Despite the evening chill, one was occupied by two couples who lingered over a half-empty bottle of red wine. They watched the priest pass, one woman giving him a smiling nod before saying something to her companion. Foreign tourists, he concluded, pulling his jacket tighter. Romans would be sitting inside on a night like this. He turned right and walked through one of the twin arches that breached the wall to allow cars to pass. At this hour the traffic through the wall was light, and it was even lighter where he now walked, a back street that ran between the wall and the rear of the auditorium.
He had no trouble crossing Piazza Pia to reach the sidewalk next to the wide moat that protected the castle. Its imposing ramparts were illuminated by lamps spaced at intervals on the grass of the moat. A feral cat walked slowly in front of one, casting a leonine shadow on the stone walls and causing the priest to stop and watch. After a moment he continued, turning onto the pedestrian street that during the day was filled with tourists. At this hour the tables of souvenir vendors were shut down and only a few souls walked along the cobblestones.
Across from the castle entrance he stepped under the gaze of two angels and onto an ancient pedestrian bridge. Thanks to periodic cleaning, and carefully positioned spotlights, the bridge wore its seventeen centuries well. Beneath one of Bernini’s statues a boy and girl squeezed together as they watched a branch float by in the dark water below. She raised her lips toward her companion, but then spotted the white collar of the man passing them, blushed, and quickly returned her eyes to the river. The boy frowned and tightened his grip around her waist. The priest laughed to himself and continued on.
The street on the other side of the bridge was crowded with cars, despite the hour, and the man checked his watch while waiting for the traffic light to change. A pack of motorbikes screeched to a stop with impatient, low-pitched growls as he stepped quickly across the Lungarno and into the maze of streets that made up the Ponte quarter of the city. Cars parked next to the building forced him to walk down the middle of the street, but none passed to squeeze him to the side. Five minutes later he reached a building of indeterminate age on a darkened alley and pulled a key from his pocket. At eye level next to the entrance, eight buzzers lined up with eight names encased in plastic. He inserted the key and the wooden door swung open.
The entrance hallway was dimly lit, partially hiding its need of a good sweeping. He walked directly to the back where cement stairs began their climb to the upper floors. In the center of the stairwell a metal cage bolted to the pavement rose up and out of sight. He pushed a button and a motor groaned to life high above the elevator shaft, causing the heavy cable hanging against the wall to curl slowly upward and disappear. The car arrived, its wood box held together by a metal frame, and the priest got in and chose his floor. From inside the cage he watched as the stairs and floors dropped past him. As always the motor gave the impression that it was reaching the limit of its age and endurance, but it did its duty and grinded on.
When he got to his floor the key chain was back in his hand. Like many apartment doors, this one was equipped with double locks, including a heavy deadbolt. He turned a T-shaped key several times until satisfied that it was open, then fumbled for the smaller key. As he did, he heard a door behind him open.
“Did you get what you needed?” The voice was young and feminine.
The priest smiled, but did not turn around, continuing to work on the lock. Finally it opened.
“If you want to come in and have a glass of wine, I’ll tell you.”
Perhaps this would be the night that he would get to know his lovely neighbor better. Most of their conversations had been in the hallway or out on the street; only in the last week had she come into his tiny apartment, and then only to ask his advice. She was thinking about becoming a journalist, but she wasn’t sure if it was the right profession for her. What did he think? She seemed genuinely troubled, and he’d been glad to help. He’d told her about what had brought him to his calling, his studies, and now the satisfaction that came with the work. He also talked about the frustrations, and explained his latest assignment, if that was the right word for it. She was fascinated, asking questions and listening intently to his answers. He didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed the attention.
He held the door open and she walked in. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. Her short hair was wet, like she’d just been in the shower, and as usual she wore no makeup, not that she needed it. He stole a look at her jeans as she passed. He motioned toward his one comfortable chair and walked to the kitchen, an extension of the small living room. She sat on the edge of the chair, her knees touching, and her eyes darted around the room. Fortunately the apartment was relatively neat, and the door to the bedroom was closed. A shelf held a small TV, and the other furniture in the room was a table with a chair, and a wooden desk on which sat his computer, a battered laptop. The desk chair was the twin of the one at the dining table.
“Typical bachelor quarters,” he said while he pulled off his suit jacket and folded it over one of the chairs. “All I have is a Frascati. I hope that’s all right.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.”
As he walked to the kitchen he pulled off the white collar and tossed it onto the chair. It fell to the floor but he made no attempt to pick it up. Instead he rubbed his neck where it had chafed the skin.
“You’re going to get in trouble with that.” She was looking at his black, collarless shirt.
“It’s a chance I had to take, and now that it’s done I don’t need to wear it again. Nobody ever stopped me.” His hand waved at the white ring on the floor. “The guards never asked me for identification when they saw I was wearing that.”
“I don’t mean trouble with the guards. I mean trouble later.” She slipped her hand from the sleeve of the oversized sweatshirt and pointed heavenward.
He laughed, pulled the bottle from the small refrigerator, and fumbled in a drawer for a corkscrew. “I’m glad you’re here so I don’t have to celebrate alone.”
A row of white
teeth bit softly down on her lower lip. It was an affectation he’d noticed before, usually when she was spurning his advances. She was staring at the computer as if she’d never seen one before. Her eyes jumped back to him.
“Are you going to write your story now?”
“I have the last piece of the puzzle,” he answered. “So I’m ready to write.” He opened the wine and poured it into two glasses he’d taken from a drying rack above the sink. After passing one glass to her he held up his. “To the Church, may this help to change its ways.”
As he took a drink she looked blankly at him. The stare continued after he turned the desk chair toward her and sat down.
“To the Church,” she said finally, taking the smallest of sips from her glass. “And who was it? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Why should I mind? It will be public knowledge in a matter of days.”
He told her the name, and from her blank look he decided she’d never heard of the man. But there was no reason she would have known him, the machinations of the Curia stayed inside the walls of the Vatican. As it had been for centuries, nothing was more mysterious to the average Roman than church politics. It was difficult enough for Italians to follow their own government.
Suddenly the girl tossed down her wine, put down the empty glass, and got to her feet.
“I should leave. Thank you for the wine.”
He stood up. “But you just got here. I thought we might—”
“No. I really must go. I’m sorry. It was kind of you to ask me in.”
“Have you decided to become a journalist? Did telling you about my work help?” He was trying to keep her there, but judging from the look on her face he knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“I…I’m not sure. But thank you for your help.”
After he closed the door behind her he sat at his desk, the wineglass still in hand. What a strange creature this pretty, young neighbor was. Shy, unquestionably. But it went beyond that. When she’d walked into his apartment tonight he thought it was finally his chance. She knew all about what he did, but had always steered the conversation away from herself. Such a refreshing change from all those self-centered women he knew. But it wasn’t over yet. This latest assignment had taught him patience, and it appeared he would need a good deal of it with this neighbor. He smiled and took another drink of wine before opening his laptop.
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