Lethal Play

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “You’re my child until the day I die and then you’ll be one very sad orphan.” Perri started emptying the bags, inspecting the price of each item before putting it away.

  “I see you re-organized my kitchen shelves,” Francesca said.

  “Don’t thank me; I couldn’t bear the pig sty any longer. Besides, I was half out of my mind with worry. The least you could’ve done was to call.”

  “I forgot to charge my cell phone last night.”

  “Did you ever consider using a pay phone? Don’t tell me you walked out this morning with no money in your purse.”

  “Okay, I won’t. By the way pay phones are practically obsolete, gone the way of dinosaurs and electric typewriters and bouffant hair.”

  “I’m going to ignore the sassy remarks because you’re under so much stress. Now, what about the wretched police interrogation? Obviously they didn’t beat a confession out of you. Speaking of confessions, I have one of my own. Those nasty pictures in your camera, somehow I deleted them. Don’t ask me how. I don’t have the faintest idea.” Perri wiggled her fingers in the air. “They’re gone—poof.”

  “Dear god, the camera in my bedroom, how could you.” Francesca’s temples started to throb. She pressed her fingers against them, tried sending herself into another dimension. Nothing worked, Perri rambled on.

  “My feet were freezing, in spite of turning up the thermostat. I was looking for some warm socks and didn’t think you’d mind. Really, Francesca, those pictures were quite shocking and not how you should remember Ben. Had I known, I would’ve … uh, never mind. Now about the police …”

  “I had nothing to confess,” Francesca said through clenched teeth. “We had a nice talk and then I left.”

  “Just like that, my, my, my.” Perri snapped her fingers. “About this Rex Meredith, according to my sources, he was quite the ladies’ man.”

  Her sources translated to one, Vince Valente. “Oh really, I hardly knew Rex,” Francesca said, stretching her arms overhead. “So, what’s for supper tonight?”

  “I heard Rex Meredith did certain favors for the ladies if they did certain favors for him.”

  “What kind of favors, Perri?”

  Another mouth in the mix, Matt’s, the sound of his voice telling Francesca more than she wanted to hear.

  “How should I know, sweetie.” Perri grabbed his face between her hands and kissed both cheeks. “Your mother and I were just making small talk.”

  He stepped away from Perri and turned to Francesca. “What kind of favors, Mom?”

  “Matt, I—”

  “You didn’t cut any deals with Coach Meredith, did you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Matt’s lip curled into a sneer. “And the detectives, three home visits and today a trip to the precinct was just small talk? I wish to hell you’d stayed out of this.”

  “Don’t talk to your mother in that tone,” Perri said. “She hasn’t been herself.”

  “That’s right. My real mom wouldn’t have bargained with the devil, in this case Coach Meredith. My real mom wouldn’t have sold me out because she didn’t think I was good enough to play for a shit-ass prick like Coach Meredith. You think I didn’t know what a bastard he was? What was going on behind the scenes? Every player knew, including his own son. You should’ve had more faith in me, Mom, and I should’ve had less in you. I’d’ve worked things out in my own way, on my own terms.”

  “Matt, I’m sorry. I only meant to help.” She was talking to his back and then to the slamming door. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” she said to Perri before Perri could say it to her.

  “I beg your pardon,” Perri said. “Don’t blame this monumental blunder on me, or any of your others for that matter. But … since we’re still on the subject, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Not a thing, not a damn thing. So, what’re we having for supper this evening?”

  Whatever Perri prepared that evening, Francesca didn’t stick around to eat. Instead, she drove to the West County Mall and spent hours trying on clothes, none of which fit in spite of the calories saved from having skipped her first meal in ages. When she finally returned around ten, the lights downstairs had been dimmed and upstairs they appeared as slivers from under the bedroom doors. She considered knocking on Matt’s door, confronting him about Ted Logan’s non-existent brother, but that would’ve introduced another concern, one Francesca wasn’t prepared to undertake. Why had Matt lied to her and where was he on the night Rex met his death.

  The next morning Francesca overslept. If Matt had given his usual knock, she didn’t hear him and when she strolled into the kitchen, Ria almost bumped into her on the way out.

  “Later, Mom,” she said, throwing a kiss. “I’m running late.”

  At the table sat Perri, stirring sugar cubes into her coffee. “Well, it’s about time, missy.”

  Not the missy bit again, or another orphan lecture. “And a good morning to you, Perri.”

  “Don’t even think about sitting down without your cuppa. I’m through waiting on you.”

  “I’m not in the mood for coffee anyway.”

  “You will be after I have my say. For starters, last night your son packed his bags and moved out.”

  Francesca opened her mouth, only to be interrupted by Perri’s next words. “Just shut up and let me finish. Although Matt was obviously upset yesterday, he still needed you, his mother. But his mother couldn’t take the heat so she skipped out—God only knows to where. And what about that precious cell phone, the lifeline between you and your children? Turned off so you could play ‘poor me’. Well, boo-hoo, this mother is not crying for her self-centered, only daughter.”

  Francesca’s mouth went dry but she managed a few words. “Where is Matt?”

  “Staying with Vince until you get your head on straight, his words not mine. And another thing, quit dumping on Ria because the child is getting damn tired of looking after you. You’re the grown-up, Francesca. Even if you don’t measure up, it’s time you started acting the part.” She stood up, lifted her chin, and hobbled out the kitchen. “As for me, I’m going out for the day and don’t ask where. I have my own agenda and it doesn’t include you.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Two days later in the precinct meeting room Winchester was creating an intricate desktop display of dominoes, his way of mulling over the Meredith case. When the telephone rang, he answered it with his name and seconds later flattened out the domino string with a single sweep of one hand. “Sweet Jesus,” were the next words out of his mouth, followed by a series of uh-huhs ending with, “Call somebody from the Juvenile Division. We’ll be right over.”

  As if on cue, Reardan walked in, coffee spilling over the side of his mug and onto shoes in need of polish. One look at the collapsed dominoes prompted him to ask, “What now?”

  “Another hanging at Show Me, this time an attempted suicide. Fortunately, the kid blew it.”

  “The kid, you’re talking about one of the players?”

  “First responders didn’t know which one, only that he was wearing a Pegasi uniform. What a soccer statement.”

  Reardan rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m getting too old for this.”

  Winchester grabbed his overcoat off the rack, shrugged into it, and spoke from over his shoulder as he went out the door. “Let’s go. Somebody from Juvey’s meeting us at Children’s.”

  By the time they arrived at the hospital, Ms. Skin the Color of Caramel was waiting in the main corridor of a restricted wing. Quinella Armstrong presented a kick-ass figure in her cranberry pantsuit and Prada stilettos that added another four inches to her five feet eight inches, making her at least three inches taller than Reardan. She stuck out her plump hand to him and said, “Detective, good to be working with you again.” And to Winchester, who still had two inches on her, she gave the perfunctory nod reserved for one-time friends. “Hello, Guy.”

  She’d let her hair grow longer and added some lighter st
reaks. Winchester liked the new look, the casual flip around her shoulders. Their breakup from two years before had left an indelible mark on him, after Quinella dug one of those four-inch heels into the topside of his foot. He returned her nod and maintained the formal demeanor befitting a seasoned detective. “You’re familiar with the Meredith case?” he asked.

  “Enough to conduct a preliminary interview, although I don’t expect it will happen today. I’ve already spoken to the doctor. He said the boy should make a complete physical recovery but for now he needs rest, and we should come back tomorrow.”

  “Just our luck,” Reardan said. “What about the parents?”

  “That would be us,” said one half of an approaching couple. “I’m John Logan and this is my wife, Stella. Of course we blame ourselves for this.”

  “He means Ted’s state of depression,” Mrs. Logan added.

  Logan, Logan, Ted Logan, Winchester couldn’t place him on the list of potential suspects. Nor could he recall Mallory or Brewster commenting on the Logan kid. He raised his brow to Reardan, got a blank response, meaning Reardan didn’t know any more than he did.

  Quinella took charge, introduced herself first and then Reardan and him.

  “We should talk,” Reardan said, glancing around for a possible location.

  “I already made friends with the head nurse,” Quinella said. “Follow me.”

  They did, to a conference room down the hall. She opened the glass-paneled door and motioned everyone inside to a long table. Reardan hogged the end chair, which gave Winchester no choice but the seat next to Quinella and across from the Logans. As soon as Reardan spied the coffee machine, he got up and helped himself.

  “Anyone else?” he asked. No one responded so he sat back down.

  Quinella folded her arms on the table. From underneath, Winchester felt her leg rub against his. He moved away, pushed his chair back and crossed his leg while she laid out her game plan to the Logans. Her eyes never left them but the heel of her stiletto dug into Winchester’s other foot, the one he’d planted on the floor.

  “As an officer in the Juvenile Division, my role today is that of observer,” Quinella was saying. “But tomorrow when your son is feeling better, I will be the one questioning him. Of course, you’ll want to be there too.”

  Mrs. Logan shed some tears; Mr. Logan put his arm around her shoulders. A nice touch, Winchester figured her for a former high school cheerleader, maybe Homecoming Queen. Still looking good but shedding a few pounds would’ve given her designer jeans a better fit. As for Mr. Logan, his comfort stretch denims with spandex offered no room for further expansion. After all these years he still spelled Nerd, with a capital N, and must’ve felt damn lucky when he hooked up with the girl of his dreams.

  “I know this is tough,” Quinella continued, “but at least your son is alive.”

  “Perhaps we should start from the beginning,” Winchester said. “Mrs. Logan?”

  “Please, call me Stella, everybody does.” She looked at her husband; he gave the okay for her to proceed. “This morning started no differently from any other morning. After Ted drank his power shake, he kissed me goodbye and left for school, at least I thought he did. But later when I went to the garage I noticed the Durango was gone. Since it had been there earlier, I could only surmise Ted must’ve taken it.”

  “He has his driver’s permit,” Nerd said, “which doesn’t mean I’m excusing what he did.”

  “This is so unlike Ted,” Stella said. “Naturally, I felt more confused than angry. I was about to call John but then the telephone rang. When the policeman identified himself, I nearly collapsed. My first reaction was: Ted wrecked the SUV; he’s injured himself or someone else. Or worse, you know what I mean. Thank god, those officers patrolling Show Me discovered Ted before … before …”

  “Before he kicked the bucket,” Nerd said over her sobs. “I mean literally from under his feet. He’d already wrapped the noose around his neck.”

  “Perhaps someone else put it there,” Stella said though a sniffle.

  You wish, Winchester thought.

  “The rope must’ve left a nasty mark,” Reardan said. “Whatever possessed your son?”

  “We have no idea. John and I had been going through a rough period, actually we were considering divorce. But Ted got so upset we decided to give our marriage another try.”

  “Of course, we told him right away,” Nerd said. “He seemed relieved.”

  “Not just relieved, elated.”

  Winchester uncrossed his leg; Reardan drummed his fingers. “About the soccer uniform,” Reardan said, “any idea why Ted was wearing it?”

  Neither parent answered.

  Quinella’s leg again, rubbing against Winchester’s. He jabbed his knee in her waiting thigh. It didn’t budge. “As far the troubled marriage,” he said. “By any chance did the late Rex Meredith factor into it?”

  A cluster of hives popped up on the pores of Nerd’s face. He spoke through barely visible teeth. “I resent your line of questioning.”

  “Just answer the question, please,” Reardan said. “Or you can, Mrs. Logan … Stella.”

  Nerd gave her another okay.

  “I’m not proud of this … I mean my affair with Rex.” More tears fell from her cheerleader eyes. She leaned against Nerd’s soft shoulder. “It began with a bang and ended in a whimper.”

  “But earned your son a starting position with Pegasi,” Winchester said, ignoring Quinella’s under-the-table foreplay. To resist just encouraged more.

  “Not exactly, Ted always started but he used to play midfield,” Stella said, “until Rex made some changes in the lineup, to accommodate his new foster son—the immigrant, not that I have anything against Angel, but playing forward did not come naturally to Ted. My interaction with Rex began at his suggestion, to assure Ted’s continuing improvement.”

  “When did you find out,” Reardan asked John Logan.

  “Several months ago, an unexpected revelation which eventually led to our temporary breakup,” Nerd said. He caressed Stella’s hand, brought it to his lips for a kiss. “We’ve put the unfortunate affair behind us. As for Ted, he doesn’t know about it, nor did he have anything to do with Rex’s death. Ted was home that night.”

  “And where were you?”

  “At home with me,” Stella said. “How dare you suggest otherwise.”

  Nerd stood up, pulling his cheerleader with him. “Evidently there’s been a misunderstanding on our part. We thought you were concerned about Ted’s welfare. Should we have another occasion to talk, rest assured it will be in the presence of our attorney.”

  End of interview, goodbye Logans.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Reardan made another trip to the coffee machine, his third. “This much I know: the Logan kid’s involved in Rex M’s murder.”

  “You pushed too hard,” Quinella said, again pushing her leg against Winchester’s. “Without the parents’ cooperation, getting their son to open up will be challenging, to say the least.”

  “Damn, I wish we didn’t have to wait until tomorrow.” Winchester flipped his pen in the air, caught it on the way down. “By then he will have cooked up the perfect story, one that will take him out of the equation.”

  “Now don’t you go fretting, Detective,” Quinella said. “Tomorrow, the ball will be in my court, which means I’ll be asking the questions and the two of you will be cooling your heels, nice and quiet in the background.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Two days had passed since the precinct interview, one day since Matt cut himself loose from her. At fifteen, how could he do this to his mother, adding one more clog in the grief she couldn’t seem to shake. Francesca’s brain was functioning on overload, the house seething from an uncomfortable quiet, and then the phone rang. She wasn’t given an opportunity to answer with the usual greeting.

  “Francesca? Sunny here,” the caller said, as if there were any doubt, not with that grating voice. “Have you
heard the latest?”

  What? That everyone knew about the soccer slut. “I don’t think so.”

  “In that case, we should meet for coffee again,” Sunny said. “Shall we say in an hour?”

  “Not a good time,” Francesca whispered as she looked over to the recliner where Perri had drifted off for her morning nap. “My mother’s visiting.”

  “Is she a widow?”

  “Well … in a way.”

  Perri opened one angry eye. She and Francesca had hardly spoken since the row over Matt.

  “In other words, divorced and then widowed, a state of being in desperate need of its own word,” Sunny said. “We should come up with one, hm-m, divorced widow. How about didow?”

  “Interesting.”

  “So, bring the didow along. She does drink coffee, right?”

  “Yes, but she broke her foot. Getting around is so complicated.”

  “Say no more, I’ll be right over.”

  “But …” There was no point in talking to a dial tone. Sunny had already dismissed her with a press of the end key.

  “You’d better make fresh coffee” Perri said. “And be sure to clean out the pot first.”

  A task Francesca had already performed after breakfast. She opened the pantry cabinet and after selecting a fresh gourmet blend of caramel and pecans, deposited five generous scoops into the coffee filter.

  “So, who’s coming over?” Perri asked.

  “Sunny Meredith, Rex’s widow.”

  Perri gave her the look, a reprimand mixed with maternal pride. “Francesca, how incredibly wicked of you. Does she know you did her late husband?”

  “No, and I would appreciate your not telling her.”

  “What do you take me for?” Perri said as she limped away. “If she decides to shoot you, she’ll have to shoot me too.”

  Francesca stared into space, the only sound coming from the coffeemaker. It was still perking when the doorbell rang. Sunny already, she must’ve been cruising around the neighborhood. Francesca went to the door, opened it expecting to see Sunny and instead received an unexpected and equally unpleasant surprise. Winchester and Reardan again, would they never let up.