Small Town Spin

by Walker, LynDee

  She gave me a critical once-over. “A mutual friend?” She appeared to soften a bit.

  “Grant Parker and I work together.”

  “Is that a fact?” She grinned the way women do when Parker walks into a room, and I knew I’d found my in.

  “We’re close.” I smiled. “He went on and on about how hospitable the folks around here are.”

  “Did he, now?”

  I nodded.

  “I do pride myself on my manners,” she said, fluffing her already-pouffy hair. “I’m Norma. Welcome to Mathews.”

  “Thanks. I’m wondering if some of TJ’s teachers might talk to me.”

  “I don’t know,” she still looked guarded, but she reached for the phone on her scarred wooden desk and dialed a number.

  She dialed three different people, the layers of pity in the smiles she flashed me between calls getting thicker each time. “This is just such an emotional subject for our faculty.” She shook her head as she cradled the phone.

  “I understand,” I said, sure it didn’t help that I was an outsider. I offered a last smile and moved toward the door, sniffling. She cracked.

  “Wait!” She brandished a tissue box, picking up her phone again. “I know who you can talk to.”

  I took a tissue and wiped my nose as she murmured into the handset. She turned back to me, grinning.

  “If you’ll just go down this hallway to the back doors, follow that stairwell outside them down, and take a left at the foot of the stairs, you’ll find the gym. Coach Morris will talk to you. He’s used to reporters. And he and Lyle don’t get along.”

  “Disagreement over a story?” I asked, wondering if the coach distrusted the press.

  “No. Coach Morris used to be my sister’s husband.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her sometimes.”

  No drama there. “Thanks for your help.”

  The school was eerily quiet for the middle of the day. It took me a minute to remember what the Okersons had said about it being spring break.

  I found the gym easily, but Coach Morris proved more difficult. After lapping the basketball court and checking the equipment room twice, I flagged down a couple of lanky boys with bat bags slung over their shoulders.

  “I’m looking for Coach Morris?” I leaned on the wall as a sudden wave of dizziness hit, making me wish I was closer to the bleachers.

  “He’s probably in his office.” One boy gestured to a side hallway. “It’s in the locker room. We can get him, if you like.” He poked the second boy, who trotted off that way.

  I smiled a thank you before I ambled to the bleachers and sat. The boy tugged at the bottom of the basketball net, watching me with a curious expression. Looking toward the hallway where the other boy had gone and finding it empty, I studied the kid in front of me. Straight teeth, clear skin, good hair. And a baseball player.

  “Did you know TJ Okerson?” I asked, knowing the answer from looking at him.

  “Everyone knew TJ.” He plucked at the white strings.

  “So I hear. How well did you know him? He was a pitcher, right?”

  The boy nodded. “A great pitcher. I pitch, too, but no one could touch TJ. His dad’s arm is legend. Some days, I wished he’d stayed in D.C.”

  “I bet it’s hard to compete with a guy like that.”

  He met my eyes for the first time since I’d mentioned TJ’s name, his tone flat. “There’s no way to compete with a guy like that. Can’t be done. There’s only standing in his shadow and waiting for him to get hurt.”

  Holy shit. I held the boy’s eyes for a long minute. He didn’t blink.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” a deep voice from the far end of the bleachers broke the tension and I turned. “I’m Terry Morris.”

  “Nichelle Clarke,” I said, smiling and putting out a hand.

  “You can go on home, Luke,” the coach nodded a dismissal at the kid and he shrugged and wandered toward the outside door, glancing back at me once.

  I focused on the man who probably knew TJ as well as anyone, wishing I felt better and trying to put Luke’s steely gaze out of my thoughts for the moment.

  “Thanks for talking to me,” I said. “I don’t think I’m the most popular girl in town today.”

  “Norma tells me you’re the gal who wrote the story about TJ in the Richmond paper. Any enemy of Lyle’s is a friend of mine.” Morris smiled. He was good-looking, probably in his early forties with light brown hair, a warm tan, strong jaw, and nice smile.

  His physique suggested he took advantage of his job as a gym teacher to keep in shape.

  I didn’t mention that I didn’t want to be the enemy of the local press. If Lyle was any good at his job, he knew the people I needed to talk to and could be a great source for me.

  “I’m going to jump right in here,” I said, reaching for a notebook and clicking out my pen. “Was TJ troubled? Did anything seem to be bothering him lately?”

  “Besides his knee? Nope.” Morris shook his head hard enough to muss his hair. “TJ was a happy kid. Smart. Gifted on the field. Nice. I don’t think anything much ever bothered him. He led a charmed life.”

  I considered the scenarios on my list of reasons for a kid like TJ to commit suicide. Aaron’s comment about the Okersons floated to the top.

  “What about his parents?” I asked. “His dad is a big deal. Did they put a lot of pressure on him?”

  “Not that I ever saw, really.” Morris held my gaze. “I mean, TJ was a perfectionist, and sure, he worried about what his dad thought. But Tony wasn’t one of those dads who came to every practice and bitched at the kid all the way through. He offered pointers. You’d almost think he was a bad parent if he didn’t, wouldn’t you? But full-on pressure? No. Luke there, the boy who was here a minute ago—he gets more of that. His daddy won a state baseball trophy for us twenty years ago, and it was the greatest thing he ever did. He rides the kid pretty hard.”

  I scribbled every word. Damn. I hate cases involving kids on either side, but on both?

  My head developed a dull ache at the thought. I put a star in the margin by that comment.

  “Tell me about TJ’s knee,” I said, remembering the night Parker had told me about his career-ending shoulder injury. It had messed him up. Maybe TJ was just young enough that a serious injury had pushed him a tiny bit too far?

  “He pulled the ligaments in the last football game of the season.”

  “Ligaments, plural?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I joked with him that he didn’t know how to do anything halfway. He wanted to play the rest of the game. I coach the offensive line. I didn’t know how bad he was hurt. That kid had a tolerance for pain like nothing I’ve ever seen. The docs said it was a miracle he could walk by the time the game was over.”

  “No kidding?” I kept writing.

  Morris nodded. “They had a physical therapist at their house three days a week for the whole winter, and he was ready to start when baseball got going this spring, but then he came off the mound funny last Thursday and twisted it. He was limping and babying it pretty good all day Friday. They’ve been on vacation this week. I told him to rest it. Hadn’t heard anything from them about what the doctors said.”

  And TJ’s dad hadn’t given me those details. Could Parker find out more? “What about his girlfriend? Any trouble in paradise?”

  Morris shook his head. “Not that I could tell, no. She’s been out of pocket for a while, but he still had a picture in his locker. Talked about her all the time.”

  Locker.

  “Has anyone been by to clean out TJ’s locker?” I asked.

  Morris shook his head.

  “May I see it?” I asked.

  “Sure, I guess. As long as you don’t take anything.” He shrugged. “Let me make sure the boys are gone.”

  He disappeared and I cradled my head in my hands and took a few deep breaths. I dug in my purse for the Advil and choked two down dry before Morris returned.


  “All clear.” He grinned.

  The locker room stank of sweat, mildew, and spray deodorant in heavy doses that even I could smell it with my stuffed up nose.

  “Right down here,” Morris said, pointing to the third row of lockers. “Number nineteen.”

  I perched on the bench in the center of the aisle, smiling at the small-town feel of the lack of locks in the locker room. Closing my eyes for a moment, I pulled the door open.

  When I opened my eyes, a beautiful girl with long brown hair and a Mona Lisa smile stared at me from the inside of the door, her photo outlined by a magnetic frame decorated with hearts.

  Girlfriend. Check.

  I picked through the rest of the contents, not finding much of anything but normal teenage athlete stuff. Deodorant, three baseball gloves, socks, jockstrap (I didn’t pick that up). A bag hung from the hook in the back and I started to open it before something in my peripheral vision pulled my eyes up. Toward the back of the shelf in the top of the locker lay a piece of lime green paper. I pulled it down. It was curved, crumpled on one edge, with huge block letters printed on one side.

  Wednesday night, Cherry Point beach, get your party on before the season starts. Go Eagles!

  A flyer for the party TJ had gone to. Who invited him? I turned the paper over looking for a name. There wasn’t one.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s much here to see.” I put the flyer back where I’d found it, peeking into the bag. Dirty socks, a pair of cleats, and a set of knee pads. Strike three.

  “He was a good kid,” Morris said. “I sure am going to miss him. He won games, yeah. But he was just nice to have around. Why in God’s name would he do something like this? Could it have been an accident?”

  I shook my head. “The police don’t think so, I think because of the number of pills that were missing. No one takes a whole bottle of Vicodin unless they’re trying to hurt themselves.”

  Quoting Sheriff Zeke felt put on, but I could see the pain on Morris’s face, and I didn’t want to add my suspicions to it without more reason.

  “I just don’t understand.” He slumped against the bank of lockers. “It’s so sad.”

  “It is,” I said. “Everyone keeps telling me he was such a wonderful kid. I’m sorry for your loss, Coach. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “I’m always available for a reporter who’s not sleeping with my wife.”

  So not touching that.

  I made my way back through the silent building to the parking lot and drove the two minutes to the police station, finding the old pickup in the parking lot again. Letting myself in, I sat perched on the edge of a bench in the front entry. The spiky-haired dispatcher was probably at lunch, the office quiet except for an animated discussion between the sheriff and the same agitated man I’d seen there the day before.

  “How is it possible that you can’t put a stop to this foolishness?” he asked, tugging at his red suspenders.

  “Amos, they are not breaking the law.” Zeke spaced his words out for effect.

  “Trespassing.”

  “It’s a parking lot.”

  “Invasion of privacy.”

  “In plain sight?”

  I cleared my throat and they both turned to me. The sheriff actually looked happy to see me.

  “I have other business with Miss Clarke here, if you’ll excuse me,” Sheriff Zeke said. “She’s from the newspaper. In Richmond.”

  Amos blanched, but recovered so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it, offering a hand before hustling out the door.

  “You have excellent timing,” Zeke said.

  “I try. He seems upset.”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes, but didn’t offer a comment. Since Amos wasn’t what I was there to talk about, I left it.

  “I went by the high school and had a chat with the baseball coach,” I said. “I just thought I’d stop by since I was out here and see if you’d had any new developments in your investigation.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear from the lab,” he said. “But my statement for today is that according to the story I can piece together from witnesses, we have no suspicion of foul play. No matter how much you might want me to.”

  “I don’t want this child to have been murdered. I’m just looking at every angle of the story.”

  “Or maybe trying to spin the story into something more sensational than it already is?”

  Zeke sighed when my eyebrows went up.

  “That’s probably unfair,” he said hastily. “But I’ve had twenty-seven phone calls from media outlets today. Every TV personality in the east is on their way here, and I expect they’ll be arriving in time for dinner. I’m sorry for the Okersons. But right now, I have to find a way to keep this from becoming an epidemic. A kid like TJ Okerson committing suicide gets blasted all over the TV and the Internet, and there’s liable to be a whole wave of kids who hurt themselves trying to be cool.”

  “I had the same thought this morning,” I said. “Which is part of the reason it makes sense to look for other causes of death, right?”

  “I can’t waste taxpayer money running an investigation into an open and shut case,” he said. “I’ll pay for that next election season.”

  “You’re that sure after two days with no lab results?” It sounded sharper than I intended, and the sheriff bristled. I raised one hand. “I mean no disrespect. I just think—there was a boy at the school today. Luke something. A baseball player. He seemed very jealous of TJ. Was he at this party?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not easily.”

  “I don’t believe there’s an official list of who was at the party. I haven’t heard the Bosley kid’s name.”

  I stared, waiting for him to say something else. Like, “I’ll look into that.”

  He returned my somber gaze without so much as a twitch of his lips.

  Looked like I’d be the one checking out young Luke. A mustachioed deputy in a uniform that matched Zeke’s and a wide-brimmed hat came through a side door, pausing and giving me an interested once-over. I tucked my pad and pen back into my bag.

  “Thanks for your time, sheriff,” I said as I stood, not wanting to leave on a sour note. “Again. Good luck tonight.”

  “You’re not staying for the show?” Zeke asked.

  “I’ve seen it.”

  The farther I was from Mathews when the satellite trucks invaded, the happier Bob would be. I was sure I had messages stacking up at the office, and my Blackberry had been binging email arrivals all afternoon. Professional courtesy forbade me from outright ignoring them, but being sick and trekking around Mathews all afternoon were excellent excuses for putting them off.

  5.

  Soup and suspects

  After a five-minute chat with the elderly receptionist at the local newspaper office (Lyle wasn’t there), I left a message and took a copy of that day’s final edition home. I wanted to know what else was news in Mathews County.

  I got Aaron’s email about the car stereo thefts and the detergent and sent Bob a four-inch blurb about each for Metro from my Blackberry before I aimed the car toward Richmond.

  Dead tired, I turned into my driveway an hour and a half after I left the Mathews Leader’s office. I examined the flowerbed next to the mailbox, noticing that my hyacinths were pinking up, before I saw the black Lincoln parked under the low-hanging tree in the neighbor’s front yard. I smiled.

  “Joey?” I coughed over the last half of the word as I let myself in through the kitchen door. The first time I’d ever laid eyes on Joey, I’d come home from a long day to find him in my living room, waiting with a story tip. Apparently, the Mafia doesn’t consider an invitation necessary. After that first scared-shitless encounter, he’d saved my life once and shown up to talk increasingly often. We’d developed a slow-growing relationship of sorts. He wasn’t exactly a “good guy,” but I’d been unable to find evidence that he was a bonafide bad guy,
either. The only thing I’d nailed down was that he was good to me. Years of up-close-and-personal with the worst of society had blessed me with a good creep radar, and Joey didn’t set it off. Since he liked to stop in without calling (and clearly, I had shoddy locks), I’d given him a key shortly after Christmas.

  “Straight to bed.” I heard the low, warm voice from the hallway before I saw him, and my stomach flopped. Since we’d never been to bed together, I figured he was worried about my illness. I hoped, anyway. It’s impossible to feel sexy with a nose full of yuck.

  “Is that an order?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.” He stepped into the kitchen, his olive skin dark with scruff along his jaw, his full lips parting over a smile. I really was sick, because my pulse didn’t even flutter. “You sounded horrible on the phone. And no offense, but you don’t look two steps out of a funeral home.”

  Great. I smoothed my hair back and then gave up, too sapped to be self-conscious. Darcy yipped and pawed my ankle and I scratched behind her ears, dizziness washing over me when I bent down.

  “Whoa.” I grabbed the back of one of my little bistro chairs and hauled myself into it. “Hang on, Darce.”

  “Bed. You need rest. I can’t believe you drove your car.” Joey shook his head, a line creasing his brow. “I already took Darcy outside, and I fed her, too.”

  I smiled a thank you, staring after he turned away.

  Damn, he looked good. His suit jacket was slung over the back of the other kitchen chair. He stepped to the stove in a perfectly-tailored charcoal vest and pants, his cornflower blue shirt making his skin glow warmer in the soft light. I marveled at the fact that this man was in my house. Cooking.

  “This story is the kind you don’t skip out on,” I said.

  “I saw it. Sad stuff.” He lifted the lid off a pot and stirred and I caught a whiff of something delicious through the sinus fog.

  “What is that?”