Buzz Kill

by Beth Fantaskey

  But I still didn’t move. I was listening to Chase talk to the dog again, more softly and with obvious affection. “Sorry you’re stuck here alone, buddy. Maybe somebody’ll come claim you soon?”

  For a second, I forgot about how Dad would object and got excited, thinking I might actually have a shot at adopting Baxter. Then I started wondering how long Chase had been dog sitting—and bringing in the mail. Was there a chance he’d known about Hollerin’ Hank’s demise before the rest of us? Maybe even played a part in the crime?

  No. That’s even more far-fetched than thinking Viv and Mike might be guilty.

  And yet, shouldn’t Chase have been more eager to talk with Detective Lohser? At least admitted that he had a key to the victim’s house?

  Yes. But he’d acted as if he’d barely known Mr. Killdare—

  Chase’s voice broke into my thoughts again. “That’s enough food.” It sounded like he was standing up. “Let’s go upstairs and clean you up.”

  I glanced at the staircase—too close to us—and nudged Laura. “Come on. Let’s go before he comes in here.”

  She nodded, clearly eager to bolt. “Yeah.”

  We started backtracking, then, like demented toddlers on our hands and knees. It seemed impossible that Chase wouldn’t hear us. But once we got going, there was no turning back.

  Fortunately for us, Baxter did not want a bath. There was a pretty big struggle going on in the kitchen as a football player wrestled a dog that had to weigh at least eighty pounds.

  “Settle down,” I heard Chase urge just as I turned and scrambled the last few feet to the door. Laura was hot on my heels, her frantic breath hitting my neck while I fumbled with the knob. Then we thudded across the porch and tore into the night.

  I looked back only once, but I was pretty sure I saw a shadowy figure on the porch, watching us sprint away.

  “You . . . think . . . he . . . saw us?” Laura panted when we finally slowed down after about four blocks.

  It was the farthest I’d run in years, so I could barely talk, either. I bent over and clutched my side. “Jeez . . . What . . . do . . . you . . . think, Miss . . . Pink Shirt?”

  We got quiet then, except for some wheezing, until we were within sight of my house, at which point Laura asked something that I’d been musing on, too. “Why didn’t we just admit to being there?” She could speak normally by then, while I was still struggling a little. “Chase is just a kid, like us. I don’t think he would’ve called the police or anything.” She sounded sort of disappointed. “Maybe we could’ve hung out even.”

  “I don’t think Chase hangs out with anybody—except my dog,” I reminded her, forcing myself to talk as if my breath was coming easily, too. “And something told us both to hide. Some instinct we were probably smart to follow.”

  Because Chase might be keeping some big secrets?

  Laura seemed to consider that, and we stopped talking again, me distracted by other thoughts. Memories of things I’d noticed as we’d crouched in a room cluttered with remnants of Mr. Killdare’s “glory days” as a player and coach. I hadn’t been able to make out details of the countless framed clippings, but many had featured images of guys in football uniforms. And there’d been a shiny plaque, too, the gist of which had been fairly clear, thanks to the moonlight streaming through the curtainless windows. I’d been able to read “Volunteer,” “Appreciation,” “Coaching Excellence,” and “Mason Treadwell Academy.”

  Had there been more to Coach Killdare than I’d thought?

  I ran down a mental list for my teacher, the way I’d just done with Chase, enumerating everything I knew about Hollerin’ Hank.

  Loud yeller. Friendless—except for the mysterious BeeBee. Former owner of world’s greatest dog. Apparently, volunteer. Sticking my hand in my pocket, I checked to make sure I hadn’t lost the envelopes and postcard I’d taken during what I considered an increasingly embarrassing retreat. Man plagued by health problems? Guy with bachelor tastes—yet chicken-themed kitchen accessories . . .

  All at once, I grabbed Laura’s arm, stopping us in our tracks as I recalled one more detail from the den, which hadn’t really struck me as odd until that moment.

  “Do you think it’s weird,” I noted, “that a man who had virtually nothing you could call décor—except a bunch of guy crap, like old clippings—not only owned a clock shaped like poultry, but also had a bookshelf full of carefully arranged European-landmark knickknacks?”

  Chapter 18

  When I got home, my dad was in his favorite chair, talking quietly on the phone, so I crept up to my room, where he probably assumed I’d been all night, reading. Sitting at my desk, I shoved aside my Nancy Drew novels and drew my laptop front and center.

  “You might’ve had a cool convertible ‘roadster,’” I told Nancy, who was looking at me, wide-eyed, from the cover of The Clue in the Crumbling Wall. “But you didn’t have the Internet.” I returned my attention to the screen. “Now watch—and learn—how a twenty-first-century sleuth works.”

  Opening Google, I typed in “Hank Killdare”—only to discover that being unpopular enough to get murdered in real life perversely made one the toast of cyberspace. I had to scroll through about fifty links to news stories about his death before I even got to the personal stuff.

  Unfortunately, none of that seemed particularly useful. Pretty much every one of the hits was related to some old football game that he’d either coached or played in.

  Then, just when I was about to give up, a truncated, choppy blurb caught my attention.

  Hank Killdare . . . Volunteer of the Year . . . Mason Treadwell Military Academy . . . Football . . .

  I recognized the reference to the award I’d seen back in Mr. Killdare’s den and clicked on the link, curious about Hollerin’ Hank’s connection to a school for hardcore delinquents, about fifty miles from Honeywell. I knew all about Mason Treadwell, because my dad used to threaten to send me there when I started skipping classes in favor of lurking in the public library. The prospect had genuinely worried me—until I’d learned that Treadwell accepted only boys.

  Even after that, though, I’d taken note of the academy when it earned mention in the news, which happened a lot. There was always some kid defecting—and about two years before, one boy had stabbed a “classmate.”

  “Come on,” I muttered, getting impatient with a little hourglass draining digital sand on my screen. “This might be big.”

  What if Hollerin’ Hank hollered at the wrong kid when he was volunteer coaching? Namely, a DELINQUENT, STABBING KILLER who got out of Treadwell and came after him for revenge?

  I wasn’t going to learn anything this evening, though, because the link was obviously dead, and after a few minutes, I returned to Google and typed in “Chase Albright” just to see what might come up.

  And what I found definitely intrigued me even more. Because if Coach Killdare was a prominent presence in cyberspace, it was as if the Chase Albright who went to my school didn’t exist at all.

  Chapter 19

  “What do you mean there was nothing about Chase on the entire Internet?” Laura whispered, as French class was starting—and the subject of our discussion was sitting less than ten feet behind us. “Everyone’s somewhere in cyberspace!”

  “Well, there are stories about him playing football here,” I conceded, glancing over my shoulder to see that Chase had his nose buried in his textbook. Studious suck-up! Teacher’s pet! I turned back to Laura. “But it’s like he didn’t exist before he came to Honeywell. All the other Chase Albrights are, like, accountants, doctors—and a preschool soccer prodigy in England.”

  Laura smiled archly. “Why’d you Google him, anyway?”

  I knew what she was thinking—that just like every other girl at Honeywell, I was attracted to Chase. However, before I could remind her that I had legitimate reasons to check him out—suspicions about him and his key to Coach Killdare’s house—Mademoiselle Beamish snapped at both of us in her overblown f
ake French accent, “Mee-leh-CENT! Loh-RA! Taisez-vous!”

  I was terrible at French, and for a second I thought our somewhat burly instructor—she was an assistant wrestling coach, for crying out loud—was going to tase us for talking during class. Honestly, the way Laura—who could actually speak the language—jumped, it seemed possible. Then I realized she was reacting—or overreacting—the way she always did when I got her in trouble.

  I must’ve looked pretty alarmed, too, though. Both Viv and Mike were cracking up at me, even though I doubted Mike had understood our teacher, either.

  I started to stick out my tongue at them, then judged that to be too childish even for me, who was wearing a Snoopy T-shirt that day, and faced forward as Ms. Beamish said, “Choisissez un partenaire et discuter de ce que vous voulez.”

  Needless to say, I didn’t understand that long diatribe until Laura suggested, “I guess we’ll partner up to talk, huh?”

  I wanted to do our semiweekly “free form” dialogue with my best friend, but all at once, I had an idea and turned slowly in my seat, thinking, If I want answers about Chase Albright, why don’t I just ask him questions?

  Unfortunately, Ms. Beamish, as usual, had similar designs on her star pupil.

  Chapter 20

  “Excusez-moi? Mademoiselle?”

  “Oui?” Ms. Beamish was just about to sit down with Chase, with whom she always “dialogued” because we had an odd number of students in class—and everyone else had friends—when she stopped her derriere in mid-descent, looking confused. “Que voulez-vous, Mee-leh-CENT?”

  “Je would like to parler avec Chase, if vous don’t mind,” I requested.

  Ms. Beamish’s square jaw dropped, and I wondered again if she didn’t harbor a small, sick crush on Chase, who was watching me and his teacher debate over him with his usual cool detachment, as if he didn’t care who the heck he parler-ed with.

  “Avons-nous un nombre pair d’etudiants aujourd’hui?” Mademoiselle asked. She looked past me, appearing to do a head count, so I figured she was asking if we had an even number of students that day.

  “Non,” I informed her. Then, although I knew Laura was going to hate me, I said, “LOH-ra needs a partner. Mais I think I would benefit from travailler avec Chase, parce qu’il est the best student in class.”

  I glanced at Chase again, and saw, for the first time ever, this tiny, tiny hint of laughter in his eyes. Then I addressed Ms. Beamish again. “S’il vous plait?”

  There was basically no way she could argue that I needed help, and Ms. Beamish, with très, très obvious reluctance, yielded. “D’accord. Mets-toi avec Chase.”

  “Gracias,” I said, watching her thread her blocky body through the desks, toward Laura, who mouthed, in very plain English, “I will kill you later.”

  Then I slid into the desk next to Chase’s, so we were really face-to-face—without a thick pane of ticket-window glass between us—for the first time ever. Well, not counting the time I messed up his shoes. And the first thing he said to me . . . It didn’t exactly get us off on the right foot.

  Chapter 21

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to keep my feet under my desk,” Chase informed me, without so much as a bonjour.

  “I told you I was sorry about that,” I reminded him.

  He seemed skeptical. “Non, au contraire, tu ne me l’as pas dit.”

  I was pretty sure he’d just disagreed, but I didn’t want to argue with him. Especially since, now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I had apologized. “Look.” I leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “I don’t really speak French—”

  “I figured that out when you said ‘gracias,’” Chase interrupted.

  I ignored the dig. “And I’m not particularly interested in learning how.” I really thought the school should offer Mandarin, if anything, and had started learning a few characters on my own, in my spare time. “I actually wanted to talk with you about Coach Killdare—”

  “Whose house you broke into,” Chase cut in again, so suddenly I was under scrutiny. I’d sort of forgotten that he probably knew that. He cocked his head, a swoop of flawless hair falling over his forehead. “Why? What were you doing there?”

  I felt my face getting red. Still, I managed to ask, with reasonable composure, “If somebody broke into his house—and I’m not saying anyone did—what would make you think it was me?”

  “Your hair is distinctive, even in the dark,” he pointed out. “And I heard you and your partner squealing each other’s names when you ran away.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t realized we’d done that. “That is kind of damning.”

  He arched his eyebrows, and for the second time in one day, I saw that he was very close to smiling. “You think so?”

  His amusement was, of course, at my expense, but it served to ease some of the tension between us—tension that I couldn’t explain—and I confessed, with a quick peek over my shoulder, to make sure Viv didn’t overhear, “I’m investigating Coach Killdare’s murder for the school paper. That’s why I broke in—and why I wanted to talk with you. You must’ve known him pretty well, if you watch his dog.”

  That brief, tentative connection we’d made broke as quickly as it had formed, and he seemed to get incredibly guarded. Still, I forged ahead. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything you’ve noticed when you were with Mr. Killdare on the football field, or when you take care of Chumley?”

  He seemed confused. “Who is Chumley?”

  “Baxter,” I corrected myself, feeling my cheeks get warm again. “I kind of named him.”

  Chase didn’t respond—except to give me a weird look—so I added, “Seriously, is there anything you can share? Especially about a woman named BeeBee? Or Mr. Killdare’s health?”

  “No.”

  The answer wasn’t exactly rude, but it was remarkably flat, leaving no room for follow-up, and so we found ourselves staring at each other as if neither one of us knew what to say in any language. Or maybe we were finally really sizing each other up, something we didn’t have time to do in the few seconds it took to transact a movie-ticket sale.

  Was it weird that neither of us was acknowledging that we had a tiny, preexisting relationship and saw each other on a fairly regular basis?

  And what was that expression on his face right then? Was he finding me lacking in more than just French vocabulary? It seemed that way, judging from how he frowned as his gaze roved over my pale, round cheeks, my bulldog nose, and my greenish eyes.

  While I . . . I was examining his straight aristocratic nose, his strong jaw, and full lower lip.

  Darn it! Focus, Millie!

  Getting ahold of myself, I suddenly remembered the football game I’d witnessed the previous fall in which Chase had stopped Coach Killdare from giving my father a bloody nose or black eye, and for some reason I said, “Tell me, at least, what you said to Coach Killdare, about a year ago, during the football game when he kicked Buzz. You grabbed his arm and stopped him from hitting my dad. Can you at least tell me that?”

  “You want to know what I said a year ago?” Chase asked, his expression unreadable. “Seriously? And you honestly want to hear everything I know about Mr. Killdare?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking we were finally getting somewhere. “Yes, I do.”

  He leaned forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Okay. Here goes.”

  Then Chase Albright proceeded to unburden himself—in about three straight minutes of rapid-fire French, of which I understood not a word. It was just a big blur of “nous” and “vous” and “voulez-s,” and it all flew totally over my head.

  “Does that help?” he asked, sitting back when he was done.

  “You are an el jerko,” I informed him, standing up, even though dialogue time hadn’t ended. Ms. Beamish was staring at me, clearly not happy, while I could feel my cheeks getting angry red. “And if you don’t know what that means, it’s Spanish for ‘jerk.’”

  Then I turned on my heel—onl
y to feel someone grab my wrist. I wheeled around, so surprised that I didn’t even pull free, but Chase quickly let go, like he realized he shouldn’t have done that. But it wasn’t so much the fact that he’d touched me—again—that sent me off balance. It was the expression on his face. The sincere apology that I could see clearly in his eyes.

  “Je suis très désolé,” he said. It was still French, but somehow not rude, like before. Maybe because he was talking softer and slower. “Je te souhaite bonne chance, mais il ne faut pas que je sois impliqué dans cette enquête.”

  I might’ve sucked at French, but my memory really was almost photographic, and I made a point of listening carefully to every word Chase said, locking each one away in my brain. And when I finally got a chance to translate later that night, I got even more interested in the mystery of Mr. Killdare’s death—and, I had to admit, more intrigued by an el jerko who, it seemed, had both wished me luck with my investigation and advised me that he couldn’t be “implicated.”

  Wasn’t that a word people used when they’d done something bad?

  Chapter 22

  “I thought you were investigating Coach Killdare’s murder,” Ryan noted as he did me the favor of driving me to my shift at the theater in his beat-up Honda. “For the paper. Or to make Viv crazy. Or maybe because you’re just morbidly and relentlessly curious.”

  “I am all of the above,” I said, a little confused given that I’d been bending his ear about that very topic for the last ten minutes.

  “Then why do you keep talking about Chase?”

  I nearly broke my neck, I swiveled my head so fast. “What?”

  “You say you’re looking into Mr. Killdare’s death—but you keep bringing up Chase,” he repeated.

  “In a negative way!” I reminded him. “Because Chase knows stuff he’s not telling!”

  Ryan turned the corner onto Market Street and parked in front of the Lassiter Bijou. Shifting to face me, he said gently, “Millie . . . I, of all people, know what it’s like to be into guys who are out of reach, living here, where almost nobody else is gay, or out, at least.”