A Score to Settle

by Donna Huston Murray

  "Bo Shifflett's another receiver," Teal clarified for me. We seemed to be leaning toward the wives of offensive players on either the giving or receiving end of the ball, men whose team functions were similar to Tim Duffy's. I could scarcely wait to learn the reasoning behind Teal's guest list, but patience was still a virtue, last I heard.

  "Angela Dionne?" Barbara suggested. "She'd probably love an afternoon away from her own kids."

  "Sure," Teal agreed with less enthusiasm.

  "Is Robert Frye married?" I inquired. The flaky but beloved team owner. "Go straight to the horse's wife's mouth?" I added under my breath for Teal.

  "Horse's ass would be more like it," she murmured back.

  "Bobby Frye?" Barbara giggled in response to her own thoughts. "I don't think he even has a girlfriend," she laughed outright, and Michelle couldn't help but join her.

  Before visiting hours ended, there were five or six other acquaintances of Michelle's on the list. By then I had no idea whether they had been targeted by Teal or mentioned by Barbara, but one thing was certain: Saturday was going to be an interesting day.

  AN ANSWERING MACHINE message told me Doug intended to pick up his own dinner and go straight to the hospital again, so I heated a few stuffed grape leaves in the microwave and scraped a carrot for myself as an afterthought. The grape leaves smelled like mowed grass, but I liked the filling just fine.

  Next I sat down with Michelle's green phone book and set about inviting people to the baby shower. As any telemarketer can tell you, early evening is when you catch people at home.

  "You mean one o' them white bread with no crust cucumber sandwich kinda showers? That the kinda thing you mean?" one woman named Luella Hixson inquired.

  "Well...yeah. I suppose you could put it that way," I admitted.

  A hoot of laughter assaulted my ear. "Count me out, sister," Luella snorted. "Lord, you white people slay me, you really do." The connection broke.

  I crossed off Luella Hixon, but the overall response was promising. All I had left to do was pick up a gift somewhere and an assortment of those frou frou decorations no shower can be without. Wine might have been good for loosening tongues, but Barbara had vetoed the notion. "Not in front of the baby," I believe she put it, and she was right. Michelle couldn't indulge for the duration, so it wouldn't be polite to tempt her.

  However, Michelle was not presently home, and I had picked up a bottle of my winter beverage, red wine–one glass at dinner, mostly on weekends. After one evening alone in a huge strange house, I felt I deserved any sort of warmth I could muster.

  When the phone rang beside my left elbow, I nearly knocked over the whole bottle of merlot.

  "Hello," I barked.

  "Uh," came the familiar voice of my daughter. "Mom? Is that you?"

  "Sure is. Sorry, but you startled me. I thought you were a salesman."

  "Um, Mom?" my daughter began. "How long do you cook frozen pizza in the microwave?"

  "Didn't Nana make dinner?"

  "Um, yes. But Garry and me, Garry and I, um, we're still hungry."

  I told her to read the directions on the box.

  "So how's everything going? Is Nana's friend nice?" By then I had surmised that Rip was out at a meeting.

  "Gracie? Oh, yeah. She's just like Nana." Not a particularly comforting thought.

  "What are they doing?" as in right now!

  "Oh, they're just watching an old cowboy movie. It has a blond actor in it and a little kid with bad teeth."

  "Shane?"

  "That's the one. It's really boring, Mom, but Nana and Gracie are leaning forward with their hands up at their mouths like they're half ready to cry."

  "They are half ready to cry. I've seen that movie. Why don't you and Garry take your pizza to your rooms and start your homework?"

  "You mean it?" Usually pizza wasn’t allowed past the dining room, not until Garry's neuro-muscular synapses finished practicing and Gretsky learned to use a napkin. Chelsea's bedroom carpet was white–need I say more? But I had drunk a little of the wine and my thirteen-year-old daughter had actually picked up the phone to call me, and...and aren't we all allowed to feel mellow from time to time?

  "Wow, Mom. Thanks. Do you think when I'm finished my English I can, like, borrow the TV back?"

  "Maybe after Shane, but say please and try to pick something Nana and Gracie would like, too. They're supposed to be on vacation."

  "Oh, they're on vacation," Chelsea told me. "You don't have to worry about that."

  So, of course, that was exactly what I worried about, even as I turned on Doug's computer and settled down to learn a bit more about the Tomcats whose wives were invited to Teal's on Saturday.

  Pretty much of what I found chugging along on Doug's old computer read like the sports page, just illustrated and in color. Statistics, who went to what college, notable accomplishments this season, injuries. Also, expert predictions for the upcoming week–including point spreads.

  I did not kid myself that others who were reading the same material were doing it to lower their blood pressure. Football pools circulated among Bryn Derwyn's faculty and throughout just about every other business I'd ever encountered. Risking a few bucks on a media-informed guess helped to make dull games matter and provided water-cooler conversation ad infinitum. Too bad my watering-hole was the kitchen sink.

  I did find one human-interest article about Tim Duffy and Doug’s college rivalry. Both quarterbacks had come out of the University of Michigan, and of course both now played for Norfolk's professional team.

  Apparently Tim had been red-shirted as a freshman then suffered a knee injury as a fifth-year senior, which opened the gate for the precocious first-year quarterback, Doug Turner.

  Duffy had been drafted in the sixth round by the Oakland Raiders and played with fair to moderate distinction for three years before being selected by the Tomcats in the expansion draft.

  The same year, last year, Doug was chosen right out of Michigan in the Tomcat's first shot at the regular draft. Rumor had it that owner, Bobby Frye, had been tempted by the potential press the continuing rivalry would generate; but other sources reported that head coach, Jack Laneer, was enthusiastic about Turner's prospects and requested him without any regard for their personal history.

  Tim had started for Laneer last season, but Doug got top billing this year. He was healthier, smarter, and niftier, and from a spectator's viewpoint, just plain more fun to watch. That probably sounds a little prejudiced, but the Tomcats' first season record was 5 and 11 and so far this year it's 7–7.

  Before my eyes quit on Doug's glaring monitor, I read up on Willet Smith, the thirty-three year old QB the Tomcats acquired for insurance. Smith had hopes of catching such record-holders as Joe Montana and Dan Marino before rotator-cuff problems slowed him down. But he was still a savvy playmaker and a fan favorite. Also, as yet, neither Duffy nor Turner had been pulling in super-star salaries, so Smith's monetary expectations didn't deplete the overall budget too badly. And pretty soon he would be due to retire anyway.

  While I was online, I also checked on Robert "Bobby" Frye, learning only that he was a venture capitalist and Chairman of the Board of Supratech, a holding company for several cutting edge technology companies. The picture that accompanied the item didn’t add much.

  The sound of the television in the family room made me jump off the seat of my chair.

  "Doug?" I called.

  "Oh, hi, Gin," he called back. "Didn't know where you were."

  I shut off the computer then took a chair across from him. He looked like hell–eyes puffy from fatigue, shoulders slouched, hands hanging between his knees.

  "Everything okay with Michelle?" I asked.

  Doug had put in a video of Sunday's game with the Hombres; even at low volume I recognized the announcers' voices and the commercials. He stared at the set as if listening to a eulogy.

  "Michelle?" I prompted. "Everything okay?"

  "What? Oh, yeah. She asked me to a
sk you to pick her up around ten-thirty or eleven tomorrow."

  "Wonderful. That's great news."

  Judging by the creases on his face, Doug didn't seem to think so.

  "Isn't it?" I asked.

  "What? Sure."

  "So what's the problem? You look...down."

  Doug turned toward me and blinked, so I repeated my question.

  "The police pulled me out of practice today," he said.

  "Only you?"

  "No."

  "Well, then."

  Doug cut me off. "They got pretty rough, Gin. Especially about my rivalry with Tim. Dammit. There was no rivalry. Not on my part, but try and tell that to the cops. Listening to them you'd have thought I hated the guy just because we played the same position."

  "Didn't you?"

  "Hell, no. Why should I? I beat him out in college, and I beat him out in the pros. Why the hell should I hate him?"

  "Because of Coren."

  The man reeled, just reeled. Then, eyes ignited, he stood as if preparing to lunge at me and grab my throat.

  I held up a hand. "That's what Michelle is worried about, Doug. Michelle. Not me."

  Doug began to move around a little, trying to calm himself down. Even if they hadn't discussed it out loud, he had to realize Michelle had been hospitalized largely because of fears regarding him and Tim Duffy's murder.

  Keeping myself collected safely on a side chair, I began to work my way into Doug's confidence, asking first whether Michelle would be more scared or less if she knew the whole story.

  Doug set his hands on his hips and fixed his eyes on something internal.

  "Why don't you run it by me?" I suggested.

  The eyes locked onto mine. "Better yet, why not go straight to the D.A.?" he taunted. "Douglas Collin Turner, is it true you blamed your sister's suicide on Timothy Duffy?"

  I swallowed my shock, pretended to stay calm.

  "Did you?" I pressed.

  Doug's fury erupted. "No! I did not blame Tim Duffy for my sister's suicide. She was wild all her life, willful and irresponsible," he shook his head as he tried to find the words to describe the woman who was gone. "Beautiful, smart." He shook his head some more and leaned an arm against the bookshelves.

  "Coren was always one extreme or the other," he said, glancing back at me. "Jello," he said with a sigh. "She hated the texture of gelatin, said it made her throw up. So finally it did. That sort of thing." He wagged his head, shaking off tears.

  I nodded that I understood.

  He began to pace. "Two years ago she became obsessed with a guy. A nice guy. I thought, 'Great. She's finally going to be okay.' They got engaged, signed up a church, planned a big reception, the whole bit."

  "What happened?"

  "He dumped her."

  I opened my mouth to say something sympathetic but discovered that my throat had locked up.

  Already I'd heard more than enough, but Doug needed to finish so I took a deep breath and hugged my knees. If he could live through it, the least I could do was listen.

  "Turned out the guy really wanted kids." Doug planted his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I mean really wanted kids. Coren couldn't have any."

  "But..."

  "But what does that have to do with Tim?"

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  Doug raised his eyes to the ceiling before scorching me with his frustration. "Tim and I were rivals all right. At least he saw it like that, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it."

  I rustled in my chair, squirmed really.

  Doug left off glaring at me, flipped a hand. "Tim's last year at Michigan, his big chance to show off for the scouts. Along comes little snot-nosed Doug Turner, and guess who steals the spotlight?"

  "I thought Tim got hurt."

  "He also got better, but by then it was too late."

  So far Doug's scenario sounded like an earlier version of their experiences with the Tomcats. Neither story explained why the police would suspect Doug of hating Tim, entirely the reverse.

  "So what did your sister have to do with it?"

  Doug's breathing tightened. "Coren? She came to visit me at Michigan. I took her on the rounds of the post-game parties, just showing her off, you know? She got loaded, Tim saw an opportunity and went for it."

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  "He gave her VD, Gin. Tim Duffy was the reason Coren couldn't have any children."

  My hand flew protectively to my throat. "On purpose?" I asked. "I mean did he know?"

  Doug shrugged and waved his head ambiguously. "Gonorrhea and chlamydia are easier to detect in men than women. For one thing, I'm told it hurts like hell to pee. So yes, Tim was most certainly aware that he had those venereal diseases when he...met...my sister."

  Not good. Not good at all.

  I murmured something about Tim being a sleaze, if not worse. "Did he at least warn Coren so she could get treatment?"

  Doug shook his head no. "Coren blacked out that night. She wasn't even positive she and Tim had sex."

  "How convenient," I thought aloud.

  Doug scowled at my sarcasm.

  "Anyway," he continued, "Coren went back to school and continued the same sort of behavior, even laughing when I nagged her about using protection. 'Always,' she insisted. 'Always.' That's why she overlooked her own symptoms so long; she really believed nothing was wrong."

  Denial, I decided, probably coupled with the arrogant optimism of youth.

  Doug noticed my expression. "I know, but she really did black out that night at Michigan, remember? It wasn't until she landed in the hospital with a rip-roaring case of pelvic inflammatory disease–from the untreated gonorrhea and chlamydia, in case you wondered–that she finally figured out the carrier had to have been Tim."

  "What did you do?"

  Doug snorted at himself. "Stormed back to school with every intention of beating Tim Duffy to a pulp."

  "Did you?"

  This time Doug's laugh held more humor because it was directed at himself. "No," he admitted. "I just couldn't do it," he told me with the memory still in his eyes. "Duffy totally fell apart. He even cried," which according to Doug's expression was nothing one future professional football player cared to see another one do.

  I was preoccupied with another thought, so the tears didn't impress me one way or the other. "What did Tim say about the gonorrhea and that other thing?"

  "Chlamydia, one of the most common sexually transmitted diseases."

  "Yeah?" I had never heard of it.

  Doug shrugged. "Three to five million Americans get it every year, a lot of times in conjunction with gonorrhea."

  So now I knew, but I hadn't really been after the sex ed. I needed Doug to return to what Tim said about infecting Coren.

  "Tim told me he was in the middle of treatment and that he was symptom-free. In other words, he thought he was safe."

  I puckered my lips while I weighed the implied "youthful ignorance" excuse. Young people have always believed that sexually transmitted diseases only infected other people–also that condoms were too premeditated and, therefore, unromantic.

  Yet Tim and Coren had been two fairly worldly, sexually active young adults. They should have been beyond the need for youthful delusions.

  It was far easier to believe that Tim Duffy had been so jealous of Doug that he couldn't resist hurting him via his sister when the opportunity presented itself, that just for spite he maliciously seduced or drugged or just plain overpowered Coren into unprotected sex.

  Or I suppose he could have simply "taken advantage" after she blacked out. Date rape, we call that; and I found myself despising Tim Duffy. But, of course, the guy had just been shot dead and my cousin's husband made a very viable suspect.

  I shook my head. "This was Coren–your sister. Weren't you just a little suspicious that Tim used her just to get back at you?"

  Doug winced. "Would you think that of somebody you'd known for years?"

  Cer
tain people, yes, in a heartbeat.

  Naturally, my silence gave away the thought, and Doug frowned his pity on me. "Well, I wouldn't," he said. “My sister was a beautiful woman, and Tim told me the attraction was mutual. Why wouldn't I have believed him?"

  What did I know? Maybe he was right, especially if Coren telegraphed her sexual proclivities the way a woman looking for action usually does.

  However, it seemed way too coincidental that Tim took advantage of Coren's inclinations rather than anyone else she met that night–especially under circumstances that could do her serious harm. The scenario would all but scream premeditation to anyone made aware of Tim's grudge against Doug, particularly if that person happened to be sitting in a jury box.

  Had any of Tim's subsequent behavior wised Doug up to his rival's intentions? A prosecutor would surely find out and would just as surely use any damning information to skewer Doug.

  The quarterback lifted one shoulder and gazed sadly at his hands. "Both Tim and Coren were stupid and irresponsible that night. Nothing could change that." His eyes shone with emotion, and his voice struggled with the words, "but Tim didn't pour those pills down my sister's throat," he finished. "Coren did that all by herself."

  I pictured an attractive young woman, obsessive and flawed, happiness within reach. Suddenly her fiancé confesses that he wants children more than he wants her. For whatever reason—maybe he’s a callous, egocentric idiot—adoption won’t do. Or maybe he had doubts about the marriage and Coren’s confession offered him an out he was happy to take. Whatever the real reason, for Coren the result was intolerable despair. Any D.A. worth the hide on his briefcase would argue that Tim Duffy had indirectly caused her suicide, thereby providing her brother with an excellent motive for murder.

  I needed to ask my next question sometime, and now was as good a time as any. "Were you and Michelle really alone together when Tim Duffy was shot?"

  "Yes, we were," he responded, but the thought didn’t bring him any joy.

  Chapter 9

  DOUG'S DRAMATIC REVELATION left behind a hollow silence. Tomorrow night Michelle would be there to bridge our social chasm, but tonight it was up to me.