Lethal Play

by Loretta Giacoletto

  She told him and waited for Winchester to make the notation before continuing. “Then Matt makes the team but does he play? No, he warms the bench.”

  “You don’t say, for how many games?”

  “Only a few—I know, it’s all so stupid but Matt was miserable and Rex was calling the shots, and I wasn’t myself, the me I used to be and will never be again. I finally agree to meet him at Show Me, the Sunday before his death. It’s late, it’s cold and dark. We wind up sitting in the back seat of Sunny’s Lincoln; she’s out of town.”

  “You mean Mrs. Meredith.”

  “Who else but. Anyway, Rex promises to start Matt, play him at least twenty minutes each game. Naturally, there’s a catch, a big one. Rex expects to have his way with me, a one-time deal that very night.”

  “His way with you, could you be more specific?”

  “I’m talking about sex, Detective.”

  “And just like that you caved in?”

  “Not exactly, first we had some wine—please don’t look at me that way. It’s not like I drank the whole bottle by myself. Yes, I may have been a little woozy, especially when my soccer mom mentality kicked in to override every shred of common sense. And yes, I’m ashamed to say I did agree to his despicable proposal.” She fought back unexpected tears, dug her nails into the palms of her hand. “This was not about making love; it was about submitting to blind ambition. Needless to say, from my perspective the entire episode proved thoroughly disgusting.”

  “And how did Mr. Meredith perceive it?”

  “Rex? He enjoyed every minute of my misery.”

  “So he wants a replay on Tuesday and that’s when you decide to kill him.”

  “Please, you’re getting ahead of my story. Besides, I’m a soccer mom, not a cold-blooded murderess … uh, murderer, whatever the proper terminology. Either way it doesn’t apply to me. The next game Matt starts. But how can he score if nobody passes him the ball?”

  “Another meeting with Rex.”

  “Right, only this time I go with the idea of telling him off, even reporting him to the soccer commission. But Rex doesn’t listen. He turns mean, slaps me around, and even punches me. No knight in shining armor comes galloping to my rescue, Detective. It’s just me and Rex in soccer purgatory. He gives me a choice of the cold ground or his warm SUV so we climb in the back seat. I won’t bore you with every detail.”

  “Trust me, I won’t be bored. The devil is in the details.”

  “And Rex was possessed by the devil. If you must know, the assault dragged on for at least thirty minutes before Rex rolled away from me.”

  Francesca stared into space, detached herself from the moment and then spoke in a robotic manner.

  “‘Damn, pardon my Eye-talion but that was simply delicioso,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make a note of this evening so I never forget it. Be a sweetheart and get my clipboard from the front seat, will you.’

  “Get it yourself,” I told him.

  “With that, he grabbed a handful of my hair, yanked so hard I thought he’d pull out the roots from my scalp.

  ‘Don’t make me ask twice,’ he said.

  “I started to cry and was bending over the front seat when he smacked me on my derriere. At that moment something snapped within my brain—maybe the need for self-preservation or self-respect or both. While Rex was giving me another smack, I grabbed not only the clipboard but the keys from the ignition.

  “‘Hustle, slut,’ he said. ‘We still have time for an encore.’

  “‘You want an encore,’ I said. ‘How’s this for an encore.’

  “I whopped the clipboard over his head, not once or twice but three times a charmer. At first he went quiet and then let out an agonizing yell. He threw his head back against the seat, started to moan. The clipboard and keys were still in my hand when I gathered up my clothes and then scrambled into the dark. I hurried to my SUV and was fumbling with the door when he came stumbling out. He seemed confused, with blood from where I bashed him dripping into his eye. He turned around in a circle before he finally saw me.

  “‘Wait up,’ he yelled. ‘Damn you, bitch. Stop playing games with me.’

  “‘You want games, how about this one?’ I yelled, holding up his remote and wiggling it.

  “His voice softened when he said, ‘Give me the keys and we’ll forget tonight ever happened.’

  “‘Like hell, I told him.’

  “When he started toward me, I locked his SUV with the remote on his key ring. And to make double sure, he wouldn’t follow me, I sent the key ring sailing into the bushes.

  “He folded his arms across his chest, and said, ‘You will pay for this, Soccer Whore—big time—as will your mama’s boy. The two of you can kiss that collegiate soccer career a good-fucking-bye.’

  “I was so terrified my heart almost exploded. While Rex ran into the bush in search of his keys, I started praying and pumping Sybil’s accelerator.”

  “Sybil?” Winchester asked.

  “Our SUV, Detective. She’s part of the family.”

  He started writing in his notebook.

  “S-y-b-i-l, one ‘l’ not two, although I’ve seen it spelled both ways, I believe less is better.”

  “You mentioned hitting Mr. Meredith.”

  “With his clipboard, yes, but I didn’t smash his face to a pulp, not like it appeared in those photographs. Did I tell you he slapped me, more than once? I have photos too.”

  “Really,” Winchester said. “Now those I’d like to see.”

  “Of course, as soon as I get them printed. Anyway, as Sybil carried me away from the parking area, I checked my rearview mirror and saw Rex still searching for his keys.”

  Winchester gestured with one hand, coaxing her to continue. “And then what?”

  “And then nothing, all I could think about was getting away. Did I mention my heart?”

  “Lucky for you it didn’t explode.” His face gave her nothing. He pushed back his chair but remained seated. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I must ask you not leave the St. Louis area without permission from our department. Naturally, we’ll be in touch should any more question arise.”

  “That’s it? I can go now.”

  “Unless there’s something else you’d like to share.”

  “I can’t imagine what, but I’ll call if I think of anything.” She got up, and took her time walking to the door.

  “Oh, there is one more thing, Mrs. Canelli. What was Mr. Meredith wearing when you left him?”

  She felt her ears heat up. “As I recall, only his socks, now if you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run.”

  One small victory, Francesca had told both detectives as much as they needed to know, not one word more. And Winchester must’ve believed her; he didn’t even ask about the clipboard. She strolled out to the parking lot, climbed into Sybil, and turned the ignition key. Nothing happened, not one sound emitted from the engine.

  “Come on, Sybil, no pouting. Everything I told the detectives about you was the absolute truth.” She turned the key again. “Dear god, what next? Don’t answer that.” She dropped her head to the steering wheel, waited for some kind of miracle. Within the minute a tap on the driver’s window forced her to look up. Detective Winchester again, did he think her incapable of leaving without his intervention. She pressed the window button, which didn’t obey her command so she opened the door.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “Nothing I can’t handle with a phone call.”

  “Failure to respond could mean a dead battery. Is it original to the vehicle?”

  “I suppose so. My husband always handled the car maintenance.” She dug in her wallet for a stack of plastic cards, shuffled through at least fifteen before finding the right one. Winchester seemed in no hurry to leave so she made it easy for him. “Thanks for your concern. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  “You do know if the battery can’t be recharged, your vehicle will have to be towed.”

&nbs
p; “I’m aware of that, Detective. I’m not as helpless as you may think.”

  “Nor would I be so naïve as to ever underestimate you, Mrs. Canelli.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Guy Winchester left Francesca Canelli rattled and slouched behind the steering wheel of her vehicle. Sybil, she’d called it … her … the clunker. Since when did SUVs take the place of family pets? Oh well, to each his own, or her own. Damn, already he was thinking like the misguided, guilt-ridden soccer mom, which in this case wasn’t necessarily a negative. In fact, putting himself inside her head could work to his advantage. Inside the station, he grabbed a Coke from the fridge before heading for the sergeant’s office which also served as a meeting room. Jim Mallory and Arnold Brewster had already made themselves comfortable, in chairs swiveled away from other people’s cluttered desks. Both detectives had been observing his interview from behind the two-way window and Winchester was interested in their take on Francesca Canelli. Had either of them caught his departing slip-up: asking what the deceased was wearing when she left him, not when she last saw him—a goof he’d later correct by converting into a positive, if Mrs. Canelli was still hanging out in the suspect category.

  Reardan had positioned himself at the writing board, as always prepared, this time with a soda in the left hand and colored pen in the right. He started to construct a potentially elaborate chart pertaining to the Meredith case. So far, only one name had been printed on the board, that of Francesca Canelli. “I take it Mrs. Canelli found her way out of the parking lot,” he said.

  “Negative, her battery went dead. She’s waiting for either a jump or a tow, whatever works best for an SUV on its last leg.”

  “Poor Sybil,” Brewster said. “You think money’s a problem for Mrs. Canelli?”

  Winchester lifted his shoulders. “She’s not a merry widow with mucho bucks, that’s for sure. But from what I’ve observed about soccer folks—whether upper middle class or struggling wannabes or somewhere in between—they all obsess over potential athletic scholarships for their kids. I’m not talking any old university, but the best of the best. Hell, it’s not like these people don’t have other options.”

  “Yeah, it seems like yesterday when I finished paying off my own student loans,” Mallory said. “Hey, wait a minute, it was yesterday, give or take a few weeks. Actually more like last year, a mere twenty years after earning my degree.”

  The door swung open, helped by the hip of a clerk toting their carryout lunch. Scowling, she walked around the room, tossing wrapped sandwiches into the detectives’ opened hands. “Watch the crumbs,” she said. “I’m neither your mother nor your housekeeper. In other words, don’t expect me to clean up your garbage.”

  She was close to exiting the door when Mallory saluted her back.

  “I saw that, Detective Mallory,” the clerk said without turning around.

  “Which proves my point: you must be somebody’s mom.”

  She responded by flipping him the bird he’d earned.

  “So, Winchester, whadaya think about our soccer mom,” Mallory said after the door closed. “Is she guilty of murder or just plain stupidity?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but I think Mrs. Canelli knows more than she’s telling.”

  “What’ve we got thus far, Sam?” Brewster asked through a spray of food.

  Reardan licked mayo from his fingers before wiping them on trousers already stained with grease and powdered sugar from the morning donuts. “Well, to recap, what we know and the general public doesn’t know is this: Rex M suffered three non-consequential blows to the head, which Mrs. Canelli now admits to having administered with his clipboard, no less. Incidentally, Winchester, where is the aforementioned clipboard.”

  He slammed his fist on the chair’s arm. “Damn, I forgot to ask.”

  “We’ll catch her next time, and there will be a next time,” Reardan said. “I’d like to see those photos she claims to have taken too. Judging from her reaction to the deceased’s photos Mrs. Canelli may or may not have known about the subsequent beating he took. In all probability, he was either stunned or unconscious before getting strung up.”

  “Which accounts for the minimal struggle before suffocating,” Winchester said.

  “Correct. From the nature of the crime and the dramatic impact it made, I’m thinking this involved one physically powerful individual or several lightweights working in tandem or any combination thereof.” Reardan brushed the crumbs dotting his jacket onto the floor. “It seems the deceased possessed a knack for garnering favors from any and everyone, especially those connected with the game of soccer. Some parents, we already know what they contributed—construction, plumbing, stonework, orthodontics, cars and SUVs.” He printed a legible list of names on the board: Rodgers, Elliot, San Pedro, Aquinas, and Greenwood. But in return these people all received something of value: the opportunity for their kids to play on a championship select team.”

  “Right, not one of these parents seemed bent out of shape.” Brewster said. “And let’s not forget Clark Baxter. Since when does a black lawyer from the ghetto produce an all-state goalie?”

  “When he marries a white woman who played college soccer,” Winchester said. “What about the other parents?”

  “We’re still working on them.” Reardan printed more names, including Logan, Gravot, and Manuel. He pointed to the last name. “This Post-Dispatch driver made Francesca Canelli a widow when he ran into her husband who, according to eyewitness accounts, was jogging with his head up his ass.”

  “Evidently, all is forgiven between the two moms,” Winchester said. “They sat side by side at Saturday’s game.”

  “Ain’t soccer wonderful,” Mallory said.

  “Let’s forget the parents for a moment. It’s the players I keep thinking about,” Winchester said, “especially the disgruntled ones in a sweat over their potential scholarships.”

  “Yeah, which brings us back to you-know-who.” Reardan started a new column with Matt Canelli’s name. “Now, he’s riding high with Vince Valente in charge of the team, which was not the case with Rex M.”

  “So maybe the murder was a family affair,” Mallory said, “Mama Canelli and sonny boy, one helping the other.”

  Reardan entered her name a second time, in parenthesis beside Matt’s.

  “Speaking of sonny, what about the deceased’s widow,” Reardan said. “Is she too perky or what?” He gave Sunny Meredith a separate column.

  “And the foster kid, Angel Delgado?”

  “I haven’t come up with one negative on him or his alien mother, who, by the way, entered this country legally with his mother,” Winchester said. “And this from Angel’s own mouth: he wants to continue living in the Meredith house.”

  “And why not, the kid never had it so good,” said Brewster. “So maybe Rex M did have a soft side.”

  “Not when he attacked Mrs. Canelli,” said Winchester.

  “If he attacked her, show me the photos,” Brewster said. “Now where was I. Oh yeah, I did some checking with the three boys Rex M cut from his team. Nothing there, at least nothing that jumps out. As for the two players who didn’t come out this year, Zach Stilworth and Oliver Billings, maybe we should dig a little deeper.”

  “Because?” Reardan asked.

  “For now, call it intuition.”

  “Good enough for me.” Reardan expelled a quiet but satisfying burp and added their names to the list.

  “Nice printing,” said Mallory. “You do the nuns who taught you proud.”

  “Yeah, I still carry their high expectations on my scarred knuckles.” He wiggled his fingers. “Back to the players and parents, those who don’t have an obvious gripe against our vic, anybody stand out?”

  Three sets of eyebrows shot up. Winchester, Mallory, and Brewster thought for a half minute and then Brewster spoke. “Well, there’s the plumber’s kid, Parker Elliot. Prior to Rex M’s death, he showed up at the soccer game with a bandaged nose, broke it the day before.”<
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  “You suspect child abuse?”

  “Nah, both parents were working at the plumbing shop when it happened. Supposedly, the kid was hanging with his buddies, said he bumped the honker.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Well, I don’t think Rex M did it if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Anybody else we should add to our list?” Reardan asked while writing Parker’s name.

  “Nobody comes to mind,” Winchester said, “other than Dave Shepherd, the assistant coach who never got one ounce of glory for his efforts. Or any of those perks the deceased enjoyed.”

  “Nor the vacated coaching position, thanks to Vince Valente,” Reardan said. “What’s the word on Shepherd’s kid, Ian?”

  Brewster shrugged. “We talked to the dad and son over burgers at the White Castle near Show Me. They alibied each other but the story seems a tad rehearsed.”

  “Any more so than the one we heard this morning?” Reardan asked.

  “No way,” Brewster said with a laugh. “Francesca Canelli’s performance could easily qualify her for the precinct’s best actress award.”

  “As lead performer or in the supporting category?” Mallory asked.

  “Only time will tell,” Reardan said.

  CHAPTER 23

  First Sybil, Francesca had to wait for the installation of a new battery the old girl couldn’t do without. Then Perri, Francesca had to make a detour for the Italian staples Perri couldn’t do without. To compensate for the horrific morning and since she was already on The Hill, Francesca treated herself to a beef sandwich reeking with garlic and eaten on the way home. She finally walked through the kitchen door at two-thirty, according to the wall clock. Her mother had been snoozing in the recliner, but now fluttered her eyes wide open as if escaping from a bad dream. She flipped the chair forward, eased both feet onto the floor, and dragged her bum foot into the kitchen. Francesca braced herself for an interrogation she anticipated equal to Winchester’s, well not quite.

  “Well it’s about time, missy.”

  “I’m not a child,” Francesca said, sliding the grocery bags across the counter toward Perri’s waiting hands.