Francesca blinked away a well of tears. She took her place at the end of the long line of mourners waiting to shake the hand of Sunny Meredith and other members of Rex’s immediate family. If he even had any, she wasn’t sure. Some of the soccer parents she knew; Ria could’ve identified the rest but Francesca had discouraged her from coming.
“But, Mo-om, you might need me,” Ria had said while Francesca was getting ready.
“Not this time, honey. I’ll be okay. Besides, I’ve got Matt.”
Losing one parent was bad enough but no child should have to endure the loss of a mother unable to cope. Francesca vowed she would make it up to Ria, as soon as she revived her old self, or a reasonable facsimile of the person she’d once been.
Tributes to the memory of Rex Meredith filled the Heavenly Stadium parlor, and provided Francesca an excuse not to make eye contact with those waiting to pay their respects. As the line inched toward the casket, she reviewed a visual history of Rex the Soccer Player: growing up with his youth teams, his high school and collegiate teams, a display of his colorful jerseys. Next, Rex the Adult: his amateur league career, the arrogant posturing already evident. Then, Rex the Coach of Pegasi United: two tables lined with six years of local, regional, and national trophies, badges, awards, and more photographs. There were enlarged snapshots too: framed memories of Rex hugging his standout players, a few not familiar to Francesca. Perhaps they’d decided not to return this year. Kids who had peaked too early and then burned out, Ben would’ve said, a common hazard to any sport. The tribute ended with Rex the Family Man: his wedding photo with Sunny, their exotic vacations including a Hawaiian cruise, Rex teaching soccer moves to Payton the peewee, Payton the toothless and Payton the teen, Rex smiling, his arms around Payton and Angel Delgado. They were smiling too.
Francesca felt a tap on shoulder. She turned her head far enough to see a mom from Pegasi and before that, Thunderbolt.
“How are you?” Pat Stegman whispered while stroking Francesca’s arm. “Isn’t it just terrible about Rex? Did you hear the latest? The police believe Rex may have been murdered. Poor Sunny, I don’t know which is worse: murder or suicide.”
“Suicide, definitely,” her husband said in a low voice. “With murder she can collect the insurance without a problem.”
“Sh-h, Alan.” The woman applied more sympathy strokes. “My apologies, Francesca, don’t take whatever he said personally. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Not really. Talking makes me queasy. Sorry, don’t take it personally.”
Message received. Pat dropped Francesca’s arm and inflicted her drabble on someone less queasy.
The line moved forward until Francesca’s turn came to assess the undertaker’s skillful rendering of Rex Meredith. She couldn’t bring herself to examine his face but did notice the wedding ring adorning his finger. He’d taken it off on the second night too, but in death the ring had been returned to its rightful place. Sunny was shrouded in black, the only person standing alongside the casket, guarding the remains of one unfaithful. Francesca led with her head, intending to brush her cheek against Sunny’s, but she hadn’t counted on Sunny being Sunny. Rex’s widow placed both hands on Francesca’s shoulders and whispered in her ear.
“I know Rex had the hots for more than one idiotic, misguided, sex-starved slut. After I bury him and resolve some financial issues, you and I must get together for a long sit down.”
Francesca felt the blood leave her face. She stepped back, turned around, and started to leave but Sunny stuck out her arm.
“Please, I’m not through.” Again, she held her lips to Francesca’s ear. “Your mascara is smeared. Be a dear and fix it before you leave.”
Francesca’s fingers were trembling when they held a tissue to her nose. With eyes downcast to a patterned carpet, she hurried from the Heavenly Stadium. A quick stop in the ladies room confirmed the mascara damage, one she repaired with a finger rub of saliva. Too bad a bit of spit couldn’t repair her damaged soul, the shame and guilt she couldn’t escape. Outside, she found Matt edging away from a circle of Pegasi boys talking to Detectives Winchester and Reardan. What gall, showing up at the wake of their coach; what better time to throw an unsuspecting mourner off guard. She acknowledged the detectives with a perfunctory nod while applying a firm grip to her son’s arm.
“Come on, Matt. Let’s get out of here. Ria’s home alone and I’ve developed a terrible headache, one that won’t stop until I get some relief.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Winchester said as she and Matt walked away.
Francesca didn’t look up. Was he talking to her or Matt? Neither of them had responded, and only when they climbed into Sybil, did she ask what the detectives wanted.
“It was kind of weird,” Matt said, looking straight ahead. “I mean, finding out Coach Meredith’s plans for me.”
“But I already told you. Evidently, you weren’t listening.” Francesca sighed. “Now, exactly what did the detectives say?”
“Something about the team roster Coach had been revising at home. For what it’s worth, he’d scribbled a bunch of stars next to my name.”
CHAPTER 15
Night driving, Francesca hated those glaring headlights of approaching traffic, the beady red taillights urging her forward, the unfamiliar roads leading her into darkness, maybe to the Valley of Death where Rex would be lurking. Enough, dammit, enough! She pinched her cheek, waited for the welt to rise between her thumb and finger. Good, tomorrow the slut would have the bruise she deserved. As for this evening, she’d dedicated her ongoing state of mental suffering to POP, Parents of Pegasi.
Scattered snowflakes sent the windshield wipers into motion as Sybil transported her into the newer suburbs of St. Louis County. The area west of Interstate 270 boasted elaborate homes on larger lots with younger trees, many no pricier than hers in Richmond Heights, or those in Brentwood or Clayton, the established suburbs offering the convenience of a fifteen-minute drive to the heart of St. Louis. And Ben’s old downtown office, she still hadn’t arranged for the delivery of his photos and awards.
Following the directions she printed off the Internet, Francesca turned right into Chateau Estates, a Rodgers subdivision developed by Kevin Rodgers and his brothers. The pleasant drive through rolling hills of planned landscaping mimicked her vision of the French countryside and soon brought her to a house Ben would’ve loved, the Normandy-style house Kevin shared with his wife Lucy and their three kids.
Adam Rodgers met Francesca at the door and hung up her coat in the guest closet. Considering his cushy surroundings, the Pegasi defender gave the impression of a nice kid, one not too full of himself. He led her down the curved staircase to the lower level, a decorator’s dream designed for casual entertaining on a large scale. Blazing logs crackled in a massive stone fireplace, warming the backsides of a handful of parents who milled around, sipping drinks while discussing the fate of Pegasi United and the yet-to-be-named coach who undoubtedly would lead their boys to another victorious season.
“How about you, Dave?” one man asked. “You were Rex’s assistant since the git-go.”
Francesca didn’t think grown men still blushed but Ian’s father proved her wrong. The tall and gangly Dave Shepherd wore his clothes as if they still belonged on wire hangers. He spoke with eyes examining the floor.
“Well, I hadn’t really given it much thought,” he said. “Of course, I’d be honored, which is not to say I’m qualified.”
“You played soccer, didn’t you?” asked another.
“High school, yes, but that’s as far as I got.”
He glanced in Francesca’s direction and projected a Mr. Average Joe smile, but what did she know. After Rex, she no longer considered herself a good judge of character. But Ian’s demeanor had impressed her so she gave his father a pass.
Some parents Francesca recognized from the tryouts although matching names with the right faces had never been her strong suit. Again, Ria had volunteered to accompany
her, the offer promptly refused because it was a school night. Besides, Ria needed her sleep more than she needed Ria at her side.
Francesca slid onto a stool at the long bar and Kevin Rodgers shoved an information packet into her hand, a welcomed excuse to review the contents instead of making small talk. One sheet listed the players’ names. Besides Matt and Eric Stegman, she noticed two other new boys—Seth Bellman and Kyle Dorsey. As for the POP list, its confirmation of more than one single parent provided Francesca some degree of comfort, knowing others stood alone with her. She was scanning the room when Lucy Rodgers clanked metal against glass, bringing everyone to attention.
“In case I’ve neglected anyone here, I do apologize most profusely,” Lucy called out. “Please, help yourself to beer and soda in the fridge.” She dumped some peanuts into a ceramic bowl and then handed Francesca a diet soda. “I took a chance this might be your drink of choice.”
You mean it shows? Damn those ten extra pounds Francesca had accumulated while trying to keep up with the kids. Today on your lips, tomorrow your hips, her mother would’ve said, another reason for Francesca ignoring her offer to help out. To the left of her elbow, salty snacks called her name. Not this time, you little turds in disguise. With a determined swivel of her barstool, she turned one hundred eighty degrees to face the noisy group whose enthusiasm was growing with each drink.
One couple, hand in hand and sporting a winter tan sought out Francesca. After introducing themselves as John and Stella Logan, they thanked her for giving their son Ted a ride home from Show Me.
“I knew your husband,” John said. “You have our sympathy.”
Francesca got teary-eyed and was relieved when Stella changed the subject to their Ted. Teddy this and Teddy that, Stella went on ad nauseam until Francesca asked about the older brother.
“No, no, no. You’re confusing us with another family,” Stella said. “Teddy’s our one and only.”
Not according to Matt, damn. Francesca let the conversation lag until the Logans gave up and moved on. Since when did Matt resort to lies? Stretching the truth until it snapped was a privilege reserved for his mother, the soccer slut. This wake-up call was long overdue. She’d been neglecting her motherly duties and needed to reclaim her position, as soon as she felt up to the challenge.
Kevin Rodgers called for order with a clank-clank, this time on behalf of POP president, Carl Greenwood. Wasn’t he the car dealer? No, Francesca was not interested in trading up. Down maybe, if she decided to postpone her return to the workforce. But who would want the-aging-not-so-gracefully Sybil, no dealer in St. Louis, that’s for sure, which is why some clever entrepreneur introduced those wholesale auctions in Florida.
“Everybody shut up!” someone finally shouted and the room went quiet.
To honor the memory of Rex Meredith, Carl suggested a moment of silence. Francesca took the high road; she asked God to forgive Rex, and her. The remaining seconds she used for a quick count, thirty-five bowed heads, all except Carl’s. He glared at her, as if she’d committed an unforgivable faux pas. She left his gaze and watched a series of heads pop up. POP, it was beginning to make sense.
“Sunny sends her regrets,” Carl said, holding up his forefinger, “but has assured me she’ll be back with us in a few weeks.”
After tracking down the sex-starved slut, Francesca thought. Applause, applause, Francesca too since Carl’s authoritative gaze indicated he wasn’t cutting her any slack. He then introduced the new members, starting with her representing Matt, followed by Pat and Alan Stegman, Harry Bellman, and Rena Dorsey. Naturally, he didn’t comment on the two unfortunates Rex cut from the team or those two ingrates who opted not to return, a dumber than dumb decision according to buzz circulating the room.
“Now for the reason I called this meeting.” Carl flashed his have-I-got-a-deal-for-you smile. “We were supposed to discuss the possibility of an interim coach but it seems that Show-Me Enterprises not only relieved us of that task but has sent a spokesman to make the announcement.”
More buzz, the draining glasses and raising brows before Carl restored order. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Ed Frazier, Vice President of Community Relations. Ed is the man behind Show-Me’s scene, the person who provides Pegasi such generous support for travel, uniforms, tournament fees, annual banquet, and coach expenses.”
Until that moment Francesca hadn’t noticed the only man wearing a sport jacket and tie, standing off to the side with Kevin Rodgers. Gray-haired Ed Frazier stepped forward, perused his audience in a deliberate manner, and spoke with the authority of a seasoned decision maker. He gave a few minutes to Show-Me’s soccer commitment before getting to the meat of his talk.
“I want to thank all of you, the parents who are behind these young athletes—our future Olympians, collegiate players, and coaches of the next generation of select soccer. Like all of you, Show-Me Enterprises mourns the loss of Rex Meredith but we feel the best way to honor his memory is by continuing to produce a winning team.”
He paused for an enthusiastic round of applause, including Francesca’s. She smiled to avoid yawning as Frazier continued.
“We are indeed fortunate to have acquired an outstanding athlete and all-round nice person to lead Pegasi United to another season of victories. This man is no stranger to soccer. He trained under players from the 1950 World Cup, and played on the St. Louis Italian/American Mens Soccer Club that won the national championship in the late fifties. As a member of the National Soccer Hall of Fame, he spearheaded a drive to organize select youth soccer in the St. Louis area and throughout the Midwest. Some of you may know him personally, others by reputation. But after a few weeks I guarantee your sons will know what he expects of them and he will know each of them and their abilities. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the next coach of Pegasi United, Vince Valente.”
Dear Vince, thank you God. A collective gasp came from all the parents, with the exception of Francesca, now bracing herself to keep from falling off the stool. She wanted to shout, God bless Show-Me-Enterprises. The Fortune 500 organization could not have made a better choice. Matt would be ecstatic when he heard the news, even though Vince was an unrelenting taskmaster and far too demanding to cut him any slack.
She held her position at the bar, watching the other parents gather around to shake the new coach’s hand. Vince could’ve passed for an aging movie star, the lines on his face an intriguing road map. Only once did he glance in her direction. Neither acknowledged the other. Their time together would come later.
“You know him?” The voice was female with a pronounced Hispanic accent.
Francesca turned and only saw the toothy smile, one that begged forgiveness she didn’t think capable of giving. She guarded her response with a simple statement. “Vince is an old friend of the family.”
“And I am Pilar, the wife of Hector Manuel.” She paused, as if waiting for the name to register. “If my being here makes you uncomfortable—”
“It does, but that’s my problem, not yours,” Francesca said. “For the sake of our boys I will put my feelings aside.”
Pilar raised her brow. “Friends?”
“Too much of a stretch, let’s just say we’re not enemies.”
“Fair enough.” Pilar stuck her lower lip out, but only for a moment. “Now, about the new coach, this Vince Valente, should I be jealous of your connection to him? I mean jealous for my son. Our dream, Hector’s and mine, is for Jeff to someday get a college soccer scholarship, not just any college, a really good one.”
Hel-lo-o, welcome to the world of soccer parents, those single-minded, goal-oriented moms and dads who sacrifice exotic vacations in the Caribbean for select tournaments in the Midwest. So many players, so few scholarships, at least Matt and Hector attended different high schools, which might make a difference since they would have different coaches pulling for them. Francesca couldn’t bring herself to crush the woman’s spirit, which would’ve meant crushing hers too. She forced a smile and spoke wit
h the absolute conviction she felt for Pegasi’s new coach. “Not to worry. Vince Valente isn’t the type to show partiality.”
Pilar’s eyes grew wiser as they narrowed. “That’s what all these coaches tell the parents.”Francesca straightened up and reached for the peanuts. “Are you referring to Rex Meredith?”
“It is not for me to speak ill of the dead, Francesca, especially since the police have ruled his death a homicide.”
“You know this for sure?”
“My brother told me. He’s a cop with the Clayton precinct.”
Francesca shoved another handful of peanuts in her mouth, almost choked when she swallowed them.
“Oh dear, I’ve upset you,” Pilar said, while patting Francesca on the back, a touchy feely that for once made sense. “It was not my intention to do so.”
Francesca coughed up a single legume into the napkin and squeaked out a thank you. What she needed was a drink to soothe her throat. “Another diet?” Lucy to the Rescue refilled her glass. Wine would’ve been better but this crowd didn’t go for the Italian D.O.C.s, her spirits of choice because of Ben, and before Ben, Al Canelli, and Vince Valente. Maybe Vince would bring more to POP than his coaching skills. A Bud Lite, that’s what Francesca would’ve settled for but couldn’t trust herself to stop after one. Another reason for not driving at night though alcohol hadn’t been a problem before Ben left. Ben, Bud, she couldn’t rely on either of them now.
“Get ready to smile for our self-appointed historian,” Pilar said.
Lethal Play Page 9