Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks
Page 1
HOOSIER HOOPS AND HIJINKS
Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime
Edited by
Brenda Robertson Stewart and Tony Perona
Blue River Press
Indianapolis
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks © 2013 Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013945327
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover designed by Jennifer Rae Black
Packaged by Wish Publishing
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Distributed in the United States by
Cardinal Publishers Group
www.cardinalpub.com
All stories contained in this book are purely fictional and any resemblence to actual facts or individuals is unintended and purely coincidental.
eISBN 9781935628781
Blue River Press
www.brpressbooks.com
This book is dedicated to all Hoosier basketball players,
whether they play in vacant lots, high school gyms,
college courts or professional arenas.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The editors would like to thank the Speed City Indiana chapter of Sisters in Crime for their support and commitment to this project, Hank Phillippi Ryan for her generosity in writing the introduction and Adriane and Tom Doherty of Cardinal Publishers for their support. Most of all, we would like to thank the authors for their stories about Hoosier hysteria, hijinks and madness surrounding the game of basketball in Indiana.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
Hank Phillippi Ryan
THE ART OF THE GAME
Diana Catt
SNOWPLOWED
Tony Perona
BLEEDING PURPLE
D. L. Hartmann
THE MISSING MEDALLION
M. B. Dabney
HOOSIER BUSINESS
Sherita Saffer Campbell
REQUIEM IN CRIMSON
Brandt Dodson
GIVE AND GO
Marianne Halbert
THE ODDS ARE ALWAYS UNEVEN
Sarah Glenn and Gwen Mayo
MURDER IN THE DAWG HOUSE
D. B. Reddick
FALLEN IDOLS
Andrea Smith
ONE GOOD SHOT
S. M. Harding
BREAKING AND ENTERING
Sara Gerow
UNCLE VITO AND THE CHEERLEADER
M. E. May
DEADLY BET
Suzanne Leiphart
MORE THAN THE GAME
Barbara Swander Miller
THE BIG SLOWDOWN
Terence Faherty
REDEMPTION
Brenda Robertson Stewart
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
INTRODUCTION
Hank Phillippi Ryan
The seconds tick by. The suspense is unbearable. The pace is excruciating. The bad guys are on the hunt. The good guys are fighting back. Screams arise from the innocent onlookers—while uniformed law enforcement officers scramble to keep the peace.
A shot rings out!
Oh wait. No. It’s not a thriller. It’s the final buzzer.
You are about to be introduced to Hoosier Hysteria. It is not an affliction listed in the medical journals—though it is not only chronic, long-lasting and incurable, but it’s also contagious.
The first symptoms? Calling “travelling” on innocent pedestrians. A longing for Friday nights in high school gyms. And inability to count by twos—two, four, six, eight—without adding “Who do we appreciate?” And the ability, even for the geometry-impaired, to gauge the arc of a perfect rainbow three-pointer. Soon you’ll start picking your brackets, contemplating the Milan Miracle, discussing one-on-one versus zone. You learn there are no double entendres connected with French Lick. And you will rise in reverence when anyone mentions the name Larry Bird.
Yup. It’s basketball fever. As only Indiana can provide it. Thank goodness there are no extant photographs of me as a Pike Junior High cheerleader, with a little white wool skirt and a bulky sweater with a fuzzy red P on the front. I learned to chant Deefense, even when, I now admit, I wasn’t quite sure what that was. But you could not grow up happy in Indiana without being a player, a helper, a coach or a fan. Or all of the above.
But as you will read, sometimes Hoosier hysteria—on paper, only, of course!— turns a bit more sinister than a missed free throw or a blown overtime. What could be the true consequences, these stories ask, of rooting for the wrong team? Wanting to win just a little too much? Or making a wrong bet or keeping the teams’ big secret?
It’s only a game, you say? Don’t you believe it. After that final buzzer, these stories reveal, it may be the games are only beginning. And they are games of revenge, of retribution, of collusion, of conspiracy, of greed and power and love and honor.
And murder.
When it comes to Hoosier Hijinks, not everyone plays by the rules. And that’s what makes it irresistible.
— Hank Phillippi Ryan
Investigative reporter Hank Phillippi Ryan is on the air at Boston’s NBC affiliate. Her work has resulted in new laws, people sent to prison, homes removed from foreclosure, and millions of dollars in restitution. Along with her 28 EMMY’s, Hank’s won dozens of other journalism honors. She’s been a radio reporter (at Indianapolis’ WIBC), a legislative aide in the United States Senate, an editorial assistant at Rolling Stone Magazine, and began her TV career at WTHR in Indianapolis in 1975.
The author of six mystery novels, Hank’s won two Agathas, the Anthony, the Macavity for her crime fiction and The Mystery Writers of America’s Mary Higgins Clark Award for The Other Woman. She is the 2013 president of national Sisters in Crime and on the national board of Mystery Writers of America.
THE ART OF THE GAME
Diana Catt
He’d held tickets for the same two stadium seats for ten seasons, but only used the one at the row’s end. An empty seat on one side and an aisle on the other buffered him somewhat from the crowd. He wished he could isolate himself even more and often considered buying up more seats. But it wouldn’t be necessary after this season. He’d found her again.
Arlie Messing’s intense resistance training over the summer was paying off. New muscle mass affected more than her appearance. After the first three games of the season she was leading her team in scoring percentage and steals. Her junior year as a Purdue Boilermaker promised to be her best since senior year at Roncalli High School. Life was good.
Sometimes before dropping off to sleep, Arlie allowed herself the luxury of imagining her basketball future. An illustrious career at Purdue could open the golden gates to a spot with the Fever. Or maybe she’d be a coach. Professional women’s team? College women’s team? High school girl’s team? Who knew what lay ahead. For right now, though, she was thrilled to fire up the Boilermaker steam.
The fourth game of the season, the first game at home, was approaching. Mackey Arena filled, and the crowd stomped and cheered with enthusiasm. Arlie’s heart beat to the bounce of the ball and she immersed herself into the action. Her teammates worked their magic and the plays Coach called ensured their victory. The Lady Boilers rocked the night.
The next morning, Arlie was up early for her usual workout followed by team practice. She and her teammates were still riding high from the previous night’s win when Coach had them watch a film of their next oppon
ent, Bowling Green. Arlie felt the buoyant attitude of her teammates drop a notch as they studied the talent on the video. They ran their drills with the dedication to win.
When Arlie returned home, exhausted and ready to plop down in front of the TV, she found a mailing tube leaning against the front door. She opened the package, thinking someone had sent her the latest Lady Boilermaker poster. Instead, the roll of paper that shook out had her image hand-drawn in charcoal. It portrayed her sitting on the player’s bench, with her long, dark hair pulled back and a towel draped around her neck. She held one end of the towel in her hand, ready to wipe off the tiny beads of sweat that dotted her forehead and upper lip.
Arlie stared in amazement, remembering the exact moment captured so precisely on the page. Her deep breathing to counter the last hard drive to the basket, the icy cold of the water she sipped, the coarse nap of the towel on her skin; the artist had captured her exact essence at that point in time. She glanced at the bottom for a signature. It was signed A Fan.
Sweet. If she bought matting and a frame, this would be a perfect birthday gift for her mom, her biggest fan. Arlie phoned David Pico, an art student friend.
“Hey, Picasso. I need your expertise.”
“Anything for my favorite b’ball star.”
“Somebody sent me a drawing. It’s good. I’d like to send the artist my thanks, and I thought you might recognize the style. Got time to stop by, take a look?”
“Will you buy lunch?”
“How ‘bout a cup of coffee?”
“I’m there in ten.”
When David arrived, Arlie had coffee made and the sketch spread out on the dining room table. Her roommate, Jillian, was admiring it.
“A Fan? Why didn’t they just sign their name?” Jillian asked. “Somebody has a crush on you, Chica.” She held up her iPhone and snapped a picture of the sketch.
David whistled and picked up the sketch by the top corners. He studied the picture, then looked between the image and the model. “Not a beginner. Look at the shading and the detail. No accidental smudging from stray charcoal particles. I don’t recognize the style, but I have a professor who knows all the local artists. He might know who drew this. Want me to show him?”
“He can check my facebook page,” Jillian said. “I just uploaded it.”
“Sure, but no rush,” Arlie said to David. “I’m going to drop it off at Mickley’s to get framed.”
David continued to gaze at the sketch. “Let me mount it, Arlie,” he said. “I’ve got a small project for my metallurgy class and I can use this for it. I think it’ll make a splash.”
“Hey, I don’t want to impose. I can pay.”
“OK, we’ll work something out. But this..,” he nodded slowly, “I’ve got just the thing. It’ll be perfect, trust me. I’m the artist in your life.”
“Well, looks like you’ve got competition,” Jillian added with a shrug, pointing to the sketch. “Just sayin’.”
There was a home game tonight and his excitement swelled as tip-off time drew near. He double checked his items: notebook, pencil, back-up pencil, binoculars, cash. He was ready to head out the door for Mackey. Then, one last glance at the faded sketch thumb-tacked to his apartment wall. The tilt of her chin, the way she held her shoulders for the pose with the ball resting on her hip, the contour of her biceps. Though she’d changed her number and uniform style, he’d found her. The changes were a message to him and he needed to let her know he understood.
Arlie was pumped for tonight’s game, intending to earn revenge against Bowling Green. A former teammate from high school days, Vannie Lutteman, was one of BGSU’s starting five. Arlie and Vannie fist bumped during warm-ups and Arlie’d felt a warm surge of her old Rebel pride. But, when waiting for the referee’s whistle to start the play, she was all Boilermaker and ready to hammer down.
The teams battled for the lead throughout the game, which turned into a knock-down, drag-out overtime. Arlie took an elbow to the eye under the basket in the final seconds, but her shot tied the score. Then she hit the game winning free throw and the crowd went wild.
After the buzzer, Arlie’s mom was immediately at her side and made her sit on the bench with an ice pack on her eye. The crowd was singing Hail, Purdue and swarming down onto the stadium floor. Arlie held the ice pack in place and accepted congratulations from fans, team mates, and opponents, especially Vannie Lutteman, who also hugged her mom.
Arlie and her mom ate at their favorite Italian restaurant after the game. She fielded questions from the staff about her eye and more congratulations on the night’s win. The owner threw in an extra order of garlic bread sticks.
“Sure you don’t want to stay over?” Arlie asked her mom.
“Not tonight. Maybe next time, though,” Mrs. Messing said. “I have a couple of showings in Greenwood in the morning, and I’m meeting with a new client after that.”
Arlie arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re busy. Real estate picking up then?”
“Not so fast in Indy, but there’s a lot of activity in surrounding towns. Don’t worry. I keep my schedule free for game nights.”
The next morning, Arlie’s left eye was nearly swollen shut. She loaded up on ibuprofen, completed her workout and went to practice. The eye throbbed. Her shots missed more often than hit. At the end of practice, Coach reminded her that the next game was only three days before the big tourney in South Carolina and handed her an ice pack.
When Arlie returned home, another mailing tube rested against the front door.
She shook out the rolled paper and held up the sketch, signed this time simply AF. It was a charcoal drawing like the last one, but with a dynamic touch of blood red. It depicted Arlie seated on the edge of her team bench, confetti strings atwirl in the air around her head. Her right eye was swollen. Red droplets spilled from a wicked, gaping slash over her eyebrow and rolled down next to the number five on the front of her uniform. Her face was contorted in pain.
Arlie drew in a breath and gingerly touched her tender, swollen eye. Not cut. No blood. Left, not right. She started to wad up the paper to throw away, but thought of David. She sent him a text message. Sketch #2 arrived. Come see.
Her phone chimed seconds later with the incoming message reply. B right there.
Thirty minutes later, David and Jillian studied the sketch spread out on the dining room table and compared Arlie’s black eye to the damage illustrated in the drawing.
“Your big fan carried artistic license to a creepy level,” Jillian said. “I thought this was an artist in love. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“I showed the first sketch to Professor Mitchlin,” David said. “He didn’t recognize the style but he admired the skill.”
“Show him this,” Jillian said as she snapped a picture. “He might re-evaluate his opinion.”
“The skill’s still there. Look how the drops of red oil stand out against that charcoal,” David said. “And look at the eyes. He’s captured extreme pain in those eyes.”
“But I wasn’t in that much pain,” Arlie protested. “And I didn’t bleed. Wasn’t even bad enough to stop the game. Where’s AF getting this?”
“Maybe he’s a masochist,” Jillian said.
“I think you mean sadist,” Arlie said.
“What’s the dif?” Jillian said. “The guy’s clearly disturbed.”
“Maybe not disturbed,” David said. “Maybe he was just afraid you’d been seriously hurt when you took that jab to the eye.”
“And projected this? Why send it to me?”
David and Jillian both shrugged.
“Beats me,” David said.
“Want to call the cops?” Jillian asked.
“Lord, no. It’s just a picture. The coach would kill me if I got bad press for the team.”
“Arlie, you busted up your eye late last night and this picture was already here this morning,” Jillian said. “Not enough time for the mail. He delivered it. He knows where you live. Where we live.”
“Everyone knows where we live,” Arlie said. “You throw the biggest parties on campus. It doesn’t mean I have a stalker.”
“Want me to stay with you ladies?” David offered, rubbing his hands together. “I could crash on the couch. You could fix me breakfast. Massage my back in gratitude for my guard duty.”
Arlie rolled her eyes. “Just show this to Teach. And don’t worry, I don’t want this one back.”
He sat on the hard wooden chair and stared at the faded picture that held center stage on his wall and in his life. Number fifteen lived. And by now, she knew he’d found her.
The eye’s swelling decreased and over the next few days shades of purple, green, and yellow appeared. With her vision returning to normal, Arlie’s shooting percentages improved and she looked forward to the last home game before the tourney trip to South Carolina. On game night, in the locker room, Arlie slipped into her Lady Boilers number five and pulled back her hair into her usual pony tail. But when she glanced at herself in the mirror right before running out onto the court, she noticed the damaged eye in her reflection appeared on her right. It dawned on her suddenly that the sketch had been almost a mirror image. She recalled the ragged eye gash and the blood trail that the artist had drawn onto her jersey. Had AF hoped she’d feel pain? Was he out there watching her tonight? She tried to picture where he must have been sitting in the stadium to draw her from the perspective in the sketch. Then she shook her head. She had a game to focus on; couldn’t let some crazed fan weird her out.
Once on the court, all thoughts, other than the task at hand, vanished. Arlie became the game; the ball, an extension of herself. She felt the special joy of an ‘on’ night—feeling to the bone that the shot would go in as she released the ball. When the buzzer signaled the end of the game, the Lady Boilermakers were on top. Amidst the cheering, as Arlie left the arena floor, she couldn’t resist scanning the crowd. Was he there?