"...I'm here to tell you, if it weren't for my family, I wouldn't be here tonight–probably couldn't be here tonight. So listen up kids. I want you to treat your family as well as you treat your friends, and treat your friends as if they were family...”
"Ouch," Didi yipped, probably because I had kicked her.
"Ask him,"
"Ask him what?" she hissed back.
"The question I gave you. For just in case. Hurry up."
"Why can't you just, ouch, oh all right."
Didi raised her hand, but she didn't wait to be called upon. Doug finished a sentence, something about "...and you'll have a rich and rewarding life," and she interrupted as deftly as a professional interviewer.
"Excuse me, uh, Doug," she began with only a slight glance toward the television camera aimed her way. "Can you please tell me–if you're going to run a pick play, which is better–lining up in trips? or motioning into it?"
Doug took a breath to mask his surprise. Then he said, "Go with the motion, Didi. Give the defense something extra to think about."
Laughter sliced through the tension, stifled the yawns, and relaxed the entire gathering, or so I thought. For sure the change of subject relaxed me. Pretty soon I was even sitting up in my chair.
A large teenaged boy, probably a football player, piped up next, "What's it feel like playing in the NFL?"
"Wonderful, if you don't mind the bruises." And so the questions and answers continued until Rip sidled over to bring the program to a halt. Forty minutes by my watch, and it took about half that time for the sizzling in my ears to recede.
Rip reclaimed the podium. "Now there is one more announcement some of you have been waiting patiently to hear: the winner of the Bryn Derwyn mascot contest. So now for the very first time allow me to present the one, the only–Bryn Derwyn Dragon!"
A trio of boys in a rented Chinese dragon costume slithered from the nearby locker room door. Their antics, both deliberate and accidental, stirred up a chorus of chuckles and chatter from the audience.
Rip called for a hip-hip-hooray for the donors who made the gym possible, and again for the contractors who did such a fine job. The "head" dragon raised gloved fists to lead these cheers, and finally the crowd rose and began to disassemble.
Doug was mobbed by kids and dads, of course. The women mostly mooned from afar. Cousin Ronnie ushered our older folks out of traffic to wait for Rip and me. A flurry of friendly women patted my hand and murmured their appreciation of Doug's remarks, especially the "treating family like friends" and vice versa remark, which, much to Didi's disappointment, was all that made it onto the eleven o'clock news.
During the ten minutes it took Rip and Doug to wrap up their conversations I amused myself watching people. Off and on there was Didi, visually separating the single men from the herd like a virtual-reality cowgirl looking for somebody to brand.
But mostly my eyes wandered back to a young man of a certain age who was monitoring every movement made by our daughter. The boy was still slender, soft and fair, with thick-lashed eyes and a stylishly sloppy haircut that kept him from being too beautiful. I figured he shaved maybe twice a week.
And, unless I missed my guess, he would have Chelsea's name and phone number before his next shave.
Some answers are much easier to come by than others.
DEAR READER—IF YOU enjoyed A SCORE TO SETTLE, here are two reasons to post a brief review on the product page of the online bookseller of your choice (while it’s still fresh in your mind). Fellow readers will greatly appreciate your advice, and it’s the easiest way to make an independent author very, very happy.
Interested in being the first to hear about a special bargain, a new release, a tempting contest, or maybe just some good news? Please join my email list HERE (gift involved).
Many thanks! Donna
Acknowledgments
I AM IMMENSELY GRATEFUL to Billy Driber of NFL Films, not only for the generous information about his amazingly workplace, but also for shooting the perfect cover photograph. Kudos also to Daniel Middleton of Scribe Freelance for the beautiful finished product.
Once again, many many thanks to Patty and Kurt Kunkle of Chesapeake, Virginia, for their hospitality and indispensable input.
Thank goodness, Hench, my in-house football expert and University of Pennsylvania color commentator, switched to play by play for the duration. I’m grateful—and amazed—that his patience survived the whole process—twice!
Other friends and friendly folks helped me understand lots of things I really needed help understanding: Karen Lynch, Dr. Frank Manfrey, Catherine Howley, and Linda Mackie, Ellie Smith, Norma Sheward, and Paige Rose.
The following people provided anything from the perfect spot for a stadium to the perfect pastry to describe it: Denise Nebb, Rosanne Murdock, Carol and Bill McConaghy, Carol Cepregi, Peter Johnson, Jim Frazer, and Al Bagnoli.
Extra special thanks to John Dean and Alec Dakin for shooting and editing the video I needed for my Intuit Small Biz Big Game contest entry. My wise daughter thought they would be perfect for the job, and as usual she was right!
Donna
Honorable Mention in genre fiction, Writer’s Digest 2015
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU: Lauren Beck’s friends, phone, home, credit and credibility are gone, severed with surgical precision by an enemy intent on framing her for murder. Is it one of the insureds she was hired to investigate? The fellow employee she upstaged? Does the daughter of her landlady and dear friend, Corinne Wilder, hate her even more than she thought? Whoever targeted her should beware. A former cop and cancer survivor knows how to fight for her life.
SNEAK PEEK!
A Ginger Barnes Cozy Mystery #7
LIE LIKE A RUG
Chapter 1
RYAN COOPERMAN WAS fifteen going on thirty to life, and he was mine for the next couple of hours. I was just waiting for his mother to come out of my husband’s office. He was trying to stare the skin off my nose.
Had he been a less formidable opponent, Muhammed Ali perhaps, I’d have told him “Stop it” forcefully enough to return the favor, but since this was the infamous Terror of Bryn Derwyn Academy, I chose to assert my authority in a more mature manner. I struck up a conversation about upholstery.
“Kind of worn,” I remarked, rubbing my finger along a thinning edge of cording. We were seated on two blue sofas separated by a coffee table strewn with recent yearbooks. I had selected the furniture myself only two years ago, but the reception area of even a fledgling private school like Bryn Derwyn gets plenty of use.
“Maybe burgundy and light blue would look nice next time.” A committee would probably redecorate now that the school had a larger community body, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to show this surly mutt that he couldn’t get to me.
Of course, it was possible that I simply knew too much about him; for example, why he had been expelled from his previous school.
Ryan Cooperman had stolen a pair of hundred-dollar running shoes from a kid who had saved months to buy them. The proud owner, a track star who made the mistake of boasting about his purchase, had initialed the heels with big block letters; but that didn’t deter Ryan, who simply unloaded his booty (for $20) on a runner from another school. Subsequently, the two track teams had a joint meet, the victim recognized his stolen property, and the new owner fingered our boy as the thief.
Ryan’s only remark at his expulsion hearing: “The kid shouldn’t have bragged.”
I also knew that his Bryn Derwyn Academy application had been accompanied by three testimonials stressing his intelligence, young age, and willingness to learn from his mistake.
Unfortunately, the letters were true. Getting caught had taught Ryan to hurt others without incurring such a high price. Teachers were now insulted via double entendres, female classmates teased to tears. Plus in and of themselves none of his many physical pranks merited expulsion; they simply earned him the title of Least Loved Student.
“Wha
t do you think?” I inquired mildly, referring to the upholstery.
The homely teenager sneered with exactly the deprecating superiority I had expected, so I countered with my Cheshire smile. Men, especially young men, hate that even more than they hate upholstery conversation, and this afternoon I would need any advantage I could manufacture.
For as soon as my husband finished talking to the boy’s mother, Ryan and I would take a train into Philadelphia for a meeting with Federal Judge Gerald Rolfe. Rip regularly tapped Bryn Derwyn board members for their professional expertise—that was part of the deal—and when Ryan’s latest questionable endeavor came to light (call it the second-to-last straw) Rip immediately thought of Gerry. A father of five boys as well as a hard-nosed proponent of justice, he was the ideal person to scare the hell out of an arrogant, self-involved erstwhile criminal.
The chore of escorting the teenaged miscreant to his downtown appointment had fallen into my lap the usual way—I volunteered—but that didn’t mean I was happy about it. Married to the head of an understaffed, under-endowed private school, I was dangerously susceptible to suggestion, especially when Rip got that crooked little wrinkle between his eyes, as he had last night at dinner.
“Why tomorrow?” he groused, giving his mashed potatoes a wicked poke, “when everybody—and I mean everybody—is tied up with the mid-year faculty meeting?”
“Any reason I can’t take Ryan to Gerry’s office?” I foolishly wondered out loud.
Rip’s face had widened with endearing astonishment, but he tried not to sound too eager. “No reason at all. Can you spare the time?”
Unfortunately, we both knew I could.
So now it was Tuesday afternoon, the second day back to school after New Years. Ryan and I were locked in a generational faceoff, while Rip was busy correcting Mrs. Lawrence Cooperman’s view of reality as it applied to her son.
Finally, the office door opened and a woman emerged. A winter-pale champagne blonde with no defining edges, Ryan’s mother had chosen the stunned-speechless response to Rip’s ultimatums when tears might have demonstrated a better grasp of the situation.
I did my best, her expression apologized to her son.
Not good enough, Ryan’s tightly pressed lips complained. Glaring angrily, he deposited his book bag at her feet.
“We better get going,” I remarked with a glance at my watch.
“After you,” Ryan replied with a pseudo charming sweep of his hand.
I narrowed my eyes. Behind me the nimble teenager could duck out of sight in a second. Searching the school would cause us to miss our train and also Ryan’s appointment with Judge Rolfe. To prevent this I crooked my arm around his bony elbow and aimed him toward the door.
We were Felix and Oscar, the oddest of couples, me a thirtysomething substitute authority figure with an acorn cap of nutmeg hair. I was dressed in leather boots, brown wool slacks, a fuzzy turtleneck, and an overcoat.
Ryan, my virtual opposite, wore an expensive, multicolored down jacket over the school-required khakis, white collared shirt and emblemed green pullover. My height, about five foot six, he would never be considered a handsome boy—too much nose, too little chin, and a thick crop of wooly brown hair chopped into a wedge below his ears and bleached unevenly on the surface by both bottle and sun. He looked like an exotic, ungainly baby bird until he fixed you with those laser like black eyes.
As I was not about to taxi him home after what was essentially a punishment, I told Mrs. Cooperman I would let her know where and when to meet our return train.
Her flicker of hesitation reminded me that she had a much younger daughter to care for, so I caved in and mentioned the local train station I knew to be more convenient for her than for me. At eleven and thirteen my own kids would be okay without me for a couple hours. They were also quite used to an erratic dinner schedule.
I jostled Ryan to get him moving. Left, right. Left, right. Joined as artificially as an usher and a wedding guest, we marched forward like two thirds of a Three Stooges routine.
Loose on last-period errands, half a dozen other students paused to watch. I couldn’t guarantee any were Ryan’s friends, but they comprised an audience, so he smirked and wiggled his fingers good-bye over his shoulder. Three steps back mother dear tortured the strap of her Coach bag and bit her lip.
“Mrs. Barnes,” she called just as we reached the door. She had extracted a twenty-dollar bill from the purse and now hurried to press it into my hand—for train fare.
Ryan snatched at the money, but I grabbed it back.
“Thank you,” I told the boy’s mother. The gesture had been an attempt to take some responsibility for her child, and I felt a pang of pity for the woman. No spine, this habitual screw-up for a son, and a husband too infatuated with his corporate success to care a fig about either of them. It was all in Ryan’s file, not that the knowledge suggested any easy solution. If this afternoon’s outing worked, anybody ever connected to Ryan would throw up his hat and cheer.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I added. “And please call me Ginger, or Gin.” Ryan snorted at this, but his mother’s features softened.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m Krystal.”
I was mentally answering, “Of course you are,” when a sob and a ragged gasp of breath drew everyone’s attention to the inner edge of the lobby. One of the teachers, Geraldine Trelawny, scurried by crying and biting her fist. She disappeared into the women faculty’s rest room so swiftly we observers had to check each other for signs of a group hallucination.
Ryan Cooperman’s eyes glinted with amusement over everyone else’s concern. He actually laughed when I lifted his arm to hustle him along, and I began to gloat over the pleasure it was going to be to dump this kid at Gerry Rolfe’s doorstep.
Outside, an unkind breeze stung my eyes and parted my hair with an icy comb. I dug gloves out of my pockets and put them on. Overhead a depressing roof of dirty dove-gray clouds promised an early twilight without the reprieve of snow.
My tan Subaru wagon waited in the school’s front circle, so our walk was mercifully brief and silent.
“Seat belt,” I reminded my charge before shutting him into the passenger seat. Even through the window I heard Ryan’s derisive grunt.
His latest desperate bid for attention had been a departure from the usual peeing in somebody else’s sneakers/tossing a cherry bomb onto the playground syndrome. It was a moneymaking scheme involving the Internet, not coincidentally the medium in which Daddy had made his bundle. A concerned eleventh-grader confided to Rip that Ryan had been buying A papers from his fellow students for months. Five dollars cash. Any topic. The informant claimed that our young entrepreneur intended to sell these highly marketable documents via e-mail as soon as he owned a large enough selection.
Technically, Ryan would have been within his rights to re-sell material he legally owned; but since most of his customers would have tried to pass off the papers as their own, the morality of the scheme was a murkier matter—conspiracy to commit plagiarism, perhaps. Not good any way you looked at it.
As I turned out of the school driveway, he fixed me with another, more curious, stare. “You have kids, don’t you?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I answered. “Two.”
“I bet they never get into any trouble,” he goaded.
Not like you, I might have replied. Or just plain no, which would have been untrue but the safer answer. I suspected anything I said would be tailored into juicy gossip for Bryn Derwyn student consumption. But a couple years of sharing my husband’s limelight had taught me that Rip’s reputation would be much better off without the smear of Ryan Cooperman’s fingerprints on it.
“Some,” I replied ambiguously, accompanying the statement with an I’m-not-biting smile.
Ryan raised an eyebrow—and the ante.
“Boy? Girl?” he pressed, hoping to expose any exploitable weakness.
“Yes,” I answered, which garnered a laugh.
&nbs
p; “The girl as pretty as you?”
I ignored that trap.
My passenger pretended to scan the passing landscape, which consisted of large, elderly homes on mature, wooded lots. The town where Bryn Derwyn Academy was located offered a barren and boring facade in winter, but it never looked especially frivolous. Philadelphians, even the suburban ones, open their arms mostly to trusted friends. Individuality is protected inside exteriors that scrupulously conform. Such reserve preserves the luxury of choice, buys time to evaluate people, fads, anything new. Philadelphians are not cold so much as cautious, but if you stay long enough—you’ve arrived. I grew up on the wrong side of the river in a less pretentious small town, but encountering a few serious crimes has made me more circumspect, too.
The Radnor train station was on SEPTA’s R5 run, formerly the Pennsylvania Railroad’s Main Line. If you’re not a regular commuter, you park on either side of a long drive running out toward the turn off Matsonsford Road. Instructions insist that you park nose in to leave your license plate exposed. Curious as always, I wondered why until I realized the rule probably made it easier for police to spot stolen vehicles or escapees of any sort.
Amazing. Half an hour with Ryan Cooperman and I was thinking like a cop.
After dealing with the parking kiosk, I hustled my charge through the chill down to the station, which was closed to ticket sales this late in the day.
We proceeded through an arched plaster and brick tunnel to the inbound track, crunching on rock salt meant to keep the perpetual underground dampness from icing up. Brightened now by graffiti art, the tunnel was still a dungeon I’d never wish on anybody after dark. Even during daylight it felt uncomfortably isolated down there.
Ryan noticed my unease and grinned.
“So, you going to find out why Ms. Trelawny was crying, or what?” he inquired.
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