The limp had all but disappeared as Francesca followed her into the family room. She waited for Perri to get settled into her recliner before taking a seat on the sofa.
“Ready, Francesca.” Perri closed her eyes, as if waiting for a salon shampoo. “Fire away.”
“For starters, I want … no, what I mean to say is: you need your own place, your own life.”
She opened one eye, leveled it at Francesca. “This is about Ria, isn’t it? How thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean to arouse the green-eyed monster lurking deep within your psyche.”
“Don’t berate yourself, Perri.”
“You always were a tad jealous of me.”
“So you’ve been telling me for as long as I can remember. But now I’ve reset my sights and directed the focus on your well-being. For starters, I will help you find a condo in suburban St. Louis. Or, I will put you on a plane back to Florida. Either way, by the end of April, you will have your life back.”
“So this is the thanks I get.”
“Yes, from a self-centered daughter who’s trying to jumpstart whatever remains of the life she’s neglected too long.” Francesca handed Perri the newspaper’s real estate section. “I’ve circled a few condos in your price range.”
Perri sniffed. “You hate me, I can tell.”
“If that were truly the case, I should think you’d be glad for an excuse to leave.”
“At least Matt and Ria love me, my cooking too.” Perri blew her nose. “I may have overreacted at times, Francesca, but it was out of love and for your own good.”
“We’ll check out the condos today, this morning.”
“My foot’s been tingling. I think it’s swollen.”
“It looks fine to me. The ride will do you good.”
“Whatever you say, but we must stop for lunch, my treat of course, considering the financial predicament Ben thrust upon you. Now, what are you planning to wear? Please, not that baggy outfit again, the one you think hides a multitude of sins.”
*****
Later the same morning in a restricted area of Children’s Hospital Guy Winchester stepped off the elevator and nearly plowed into his partner. Traces of doughnut glaze clung to the frown monopolizing Reardan’s mouth. He jerked his head to the wall clock and with his usual coffee breath, sent out a sparse mumble. “It’s nine fifty-five.”
“We agreed to meet at ten,” Winchester said. “Top of the morning, Sam.”
“Only if you’re a leprechaun.”
“Do they come in assorted colors?”
“Enough with the blarney; tell me you came up with something fresh.” Reardan led the way down a carpeted corridor of blank walls and closed doors.
“Patience, Sam. At this point it’ll depend on what Quinella pulls out of our soccer boy. She said we can observe in the kid’s room, provided we let her do the talking.”
“She said?” Reardon stopped. “You’ve already seen Quinella?”
Winchester didn’t feel like going there, as in last night, which really hadn’t ended until four in the morning. “Yeah, downstairs … I stopped for coffee.” He held up his to-go cup. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“Just don’t come whining to me when she busts your balls, again and worse than before. Speaking of the she-devil …”
She’d stepped from an intersecting hallway, wearing an emerald green version of yesterday’s pantsuit and spoke with words oozing like syrup from a maple tree. “Ah-h, Detective Reardan, I was beginning to wonder if you’d show.”
“Why would you think otherwise,” Reardan said. “After all, I am lead detective on this case.”
“And I was just yanking your chain, shame on you for thinking otherwise.” She winked but failed to crack his sour mood. “As promised, the Logans brought their lawyer, one I’ve not met until today, which tells me he knows nothing about criminal law. They’ve already circled their wagons around Ted’s hospital bed and the boy must be feeling better because he wants to go home.”
“Any word on when the shrink plans to release him?” Winchester asked.
“My guess is tomorrow, but only under a controlled environment and with scheduled therapy sessions.”
“Hopefully for the entire family,” Reardan said.
“Amen to that. Shall we get started? Oh, and one more thing—”
“We’re only here to observe,” Winchester said.
“Why thank you, Detective, for taking those words right out of my mouth. Now if you’ll follow me, please.”
Ted Logan was propped up in bed, his neck displaying the telltale rope burn, his head turned toward a wide window revealing an overcast sky that matched the grim atmosphere in the room. The past twenty-four hours had racked havoc on Ted’s disheveled parents, in spite of their coordinated sportswear from Nike. The Logans exchanged nods with Winchester and Reardan, but before Quinella had a chance to introduce them to the Logans’ lawyer, Winchester was already shaking the man’s hand. “Detective Reardan and I have met Mr. Baxter before,” he said. “His son plays for Pegasi too. Goalkeeper, as I recall. ”
Clark Baxter smiled, exposing a mouthful of teeth encased in clear plastic braces. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“Not likely to forget a member of POP,” Winchester said. “I see you’re having some orthodontic work done.”
“Excuse me, Detective,” the Logan Nerd interrupted, pointing to two chairs in the corner. “You and your partner can sit over there.”
“Not before we say hello to Ted,” Reardan said. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s just a formality.”
“Of course we don’t mind,” Stella said. “Detectives Reardan and Winchester, this is our son Ted. As you know, he’s been through a terrible ordeal so please don’t—”
“We’ve already met.” This from Ted, he turned his head in Reardan’s direction but avoided any eye-to-eye contact.
“At Coach Meredith’s wake, I remember now,” Reardan said. “You start as a forward for Pegasi, right?”
“I saw you play last Saturday,” Winchester added. “Nice game.” He paused for a response and getting none, finished with words on the brink of sounding hollow. “Today, we’re just here to observe.” He followed Reardan to their assigned corner, mumbled as they sat down. “I hate playing second string in these Juvey cases.”
“Me, I’m used to it,” Reardan said from the corner of his mouth. “With five girls at home, their mother hen rules the roost.”
Quinella’s turn came, and none too soon. After smoothing out the material clinging with an audacious arrogance to her hips, she clicked her high heels over to the window. “If you all don’t mind, I’ll just close those drapes. It’s such a gloomy day outside.”
“Leave the curtains alone,” Ted said. “I just want to get this over.”
“Oh, I am so happy you feel up to talking.” Quinella pulled up a chair and sat beside him, close up and personal, with her back facing the Logans and Clark Baxter. Winchester and Reardan she kept within her peripheral range. “I know how difficult this is for you and your parents, but about the awful ordeal yesterday morning, could you please tell us in your own words exactly what happened.”
He turned his head toward Quinella, again avoided eye contact. “Mom, could I have some water.”
“Let me.” Quinella handed him a plastic hospital bottle from the bedside table. “I do like these straws. There’re so pliable, don’t you think, Ted.”
Ted sipped, and sipped again. On the third sip Winchester crossed his leg and checked out the bottom of his loafers. Time to get the Ferragamos resoled.
“Feeling better, Ted?” Quinella asked. “Good. Now about yesterday morning—”
“I know this seems pretty stupid,” he said, “but I just didn’t believe Coach Meredith could’ve died that way.”
“What way?” Quinella asked.
“Just because there was a rope tried around Coach’s neck doesn’t mean he had to die.”
“He strangled, Ted.”
“But h
e was standing on a water cooler.”
Winchester shook his head, just barely, for Quinella’s benefit.
“Now I am confused,” she said. “How’d you know about the water cooler?”
He shrugged. “From the news, I guess.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I must’ve heard it through the grapevine.”
“Not good enough.”
He sucked on the straw again. “I’m not sure who told me, maybe Jeff Manuel.”
“He’s another forward,” Nerd said, to which Quinella shushed him with a finger to her lips.
“Go on, Ted.”
“Jeff’s uncle works for the Clayton police.”
“My goodness, Clayton is my home base. Perhaps I’m acquainted with the uncle. What’s his name?”
Ted rubbed the rope burn, all the better to help him think. “Nah, I don’t think it was Jeff who told me. Maybe somebody told him and he told somebody else who later told me. I don’t remember anymore.”
“Okay, let’s get back to yesterday morning. Why wait so long? Coach Meredith has been dead for weeks, and I’m sad to say, most likely the victim of premeditated murder. Why reenact such a morbid scene, at risk to your own safety?”
“Coach got me started in soccer, without him I’d’ve been just another lawn fairy playing on some rec team. I owed it to him, and myself, to feel what he must’ve felt in those last minutes.”
“So, how did you feel?”
“Lonely and then the police showed up.”
“Lucky you.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Armstrong. It’s not like I was planning to kill myself.” He glanced in the direction of his parents. His father squeezed his mother’s hand. Tears rolled down her face. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m really tired.”
“Just one more question please, why the Pegasi uniform?”
He focused on the window again, took his time answering. “In case I did mess up, that’s how I wanted my parents to remember me.”
With that, Stella Logan sent forth enough tears to end the interview.
Damn. Winchester made a reluctant exit with Reardan and Quinella. He stood with them into the hallway, listening to Ted Logan’s voice blast through the door.
“Shut up, Mom. Just shut your damn fucking mouth. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, even more than I hated him.”
“Dear me,” Quinella said, fanning herself with a flutter of fingers. “I do believe that boy’s got himself a heap of problems.”
“Don’t they all,” Reardan said. “Still, he might be telling the truth.”
“But not the whole truth, Detective, and for that I must take responsibility. Perhaps we should’ve started with my prayer.”
“Yeah, I wondered why you omitted the Almighty’s blessing,” Winchester said as they walked three abreast down the hall, Quinella in the middle.
“Somehow, the Almighty didn’t seem quite appropriate in this particular setting.”
“You mean with the lawyer present.”
“Was that simpleton for real or what?” Quinella put one hand on her hip. “Some legal counselor, he didn’t open his mouth during my entire interview.”
“As I recall from my notes, Clark Baxter specializes in taxes.”
“And probably donated his time to the Logans because of their mutual soccer connection,” Quinella said. “Lordy, these people spent more time choosing the right clothes than the right lawyer. They ought to get their priorities straight.”
Reardan cleared his throat, reminding them he was still in the mix. “Any new ideas, folks? I’m not going back to the precinct without some fresh meat to chew on.”
“What about those kids who didn’t return to Pegasi this year?” Winchester opened his notebook, flipped through some pages. “Oliver Billings, Zach Stilworth.”
“Mallory and Brewster didn’t get shit from them,” Reardan said as he pushed the elevator button. “Let’s dispense with another home visit and bring them into the precinct instead.”
Quinella rubbed her hands together. “More youths, yes indeed. I so enjoy working this case with you two very fine detectives. Shall we discuss our upcoming strategy over lunch?”
They stepped into the elevator and Reardan checked his watch. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.”
“Perfect. What with the Lenten season and all, I am positively starving, as I’m sure you are too, Detective Reardan.”
“Since when do Baptists fast during Lent?”
“Consider me the exception, I like being part of the in-crowd, a carry-over from my Rosati Kain days these hips can’t seem to shake.” To Winchester she licked her lips. “What about that place in Soulard, the scrumptious catfish.”
“Boomer’s? Yeah, that’ll work if we take the patrol car,” Reardan said. “Parking stinks on Fridays.”
*****
Road construction and an accident on Highway 40 extended what should’ve taken fifteen minutes to thirty plus, during which Reardan, Winchester, and Quinella tossed around a myriad of ideas, most centering on various combinations of soccer players—present and past.
“Mallory talked to the other White Castle boys: Zach, Oliver, Parker, and Ian,” Reardan said while he maneuvered a winding detour. “All tell the same story. They consumed a ton of sliders there on a Monday afternoon. February 25, one day before Rex M met his demise. Also, Ian and Ted were at White Castle the night before—Sunday evening, around nine-fifteen.”
“As was Francesca Canelli,” Winchester said, still looking through his notes.
“You think there’s a connection?” Reardan asked.
“More like a coincidence.”
“Ain’t life a blast,” Quinella said. “The way a series of innocent coincidences can lead to one deadly consequence. So who do you want me interviewing next?”
“Let’s take them alphabetically, for no particular reason: first Billings then Eliot then Stilworth,” Reardan said. “Guy, call Mallory, have him schedule the boys for this afternoon.”
“After three-thirty,” Quinella said, “so as not to interfere with their schooling.”
“How considerate of you,” Winchester said.
“Now, now, let’s play fair, gentle detective. It’s not like these boys are guilty of anything other than patronizing White Castle, leastways not yet.”
By the time they arrived at Boomer’s, the parking lot was jammed, just as Reardan had predicted so he drove around to the side and commandeered a no parking zone.
“Lucky break,” Quinella said, stepping out of the back seat.
“Lucky you, considering those shoes,” Reardan replied.
Inside, the restaurant offered few unoccupied tables and booths but Lacey the hostess and co-owner smiled when she saw Quinella first and then Winchester. “Haven’t seen you two for ages, the usual corner booth?”
“Whatever works best for you,” Winchester said, ignoring Reardan’s know-it-all snicker.
Their waitress came around with tall glasses of sweet iced tea and took identical orders, the Friday special: fried catfish, French fries, coleslaw, and hush puppies. “Take plenty of time,” Reardan told her. “We have business to discuss.”
After she left, Winchester leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Any more thoughts on the father-son combo: Dave and Ian Shepherd?”
Reardan scratched his chin, sucked air through his coffee-stained teeth. “There’s only one problem: they’re so damn squeaky clean.”
“Nothing wrong with squeaky clean,” Quinella said.
“Which is why I’m willing to put the Shepherds on hold, at least for now. As for the other boys, I can hardly wait to see where they’ll lead us.”
“Maybe nowhere,” Winchester said. “We could be whistling Dixie.”
“Or Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,” Quinella said.
When their waitress returned, she brought three platters of food, so generous they could have fed six hungry laborers. Reardan grabbed the catsup bottle, slapped its bottom
and covered his pile of golden fries.
“Say hello to another round of bad cholesterol,” he said. “The wife’ll kill me.”
“Not unless you tell her,” Winchester replied, both hands squeezing the juice of lemon wedges over his entire plate.
“Hush,” was the only word from Quinella’s mouth before it accepted a forkful of fish coated with crusty corn meal.
Winchester bit into a hush puppy and smacked his lips, an invitation for Reardan and Quinella to join him in dispensing with the formalities. With that, they attacked their food in silence and with equal intensity.
Winchester’s plate was almost empty when he happened to glance toward the entrance. He lowered his fork, wiped his mouth. “Mama Mia, of all the gin joints in this town, Boomer’s is the last place I ever expected to see our fair lady.”
Reardan looked up but the expression on his face didn’t change. “Damn, this Lenten Friday has got to be one lucky day.”
“Yes, indeed, God has blessed us,” Quinella said, adding a ps-st to Lacey as she passed by their table. “Those two lovely ladies awaiting your assistance, could you seat them next to us?”
“It would be my pleasure. Should I mention at your request?”
“And ruin the surprise, absolutely not.”
“You are so bad,” Winchester said after Lacey hurried over to the entrance.
“Ain’t that the truth, but I just can’t help myself,” Quinella said. “Nor would you have me any other way.”
*****
After an unproductive morning of condo shopping, Francesca had left the restaurant selection to Perri’s peevish discretion. Long waiting lines had ruled out her first two picks, after which the aimless driving and Sybil’s faulty heating system only served to increase Perri’s anxiety.
“Just pick a place, Francesca, any place, I am positively weak and on the verge of starvation. Don’t even ask about my blood sugar level bottoming out because I feel faint.”
“Shall I swing by the Emergency Room?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Missy,” Perri leaned her head back, then forward with renewed vigor. “Wait a minute, how about that seafood wannabe off South Broadway.” She snapped her fingers. “Boomer’s, or something. Although the menu lacks imagination, my sensitive stomach should be able to tolerate a small portion of their shrimp and pasta.”
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