Mrs. Bennett sighed. “Our sons love basketball. My husband wishes they shared his fondness for football, but what can you do? You can’t force kids to follow in your footsteps.”
My dad learned that the hard way. He’s a minister on Sundays and a dairy farmer on the other days. My brother headed west to program computers. And me…well, in Dad’s mind, dreams of performing onstage were akin to running away with the circus. Truth be told, he would have been more comfortable with the circus. The smell of animal poop was something he understood.
After shooting a couple of hoops, Coach Bennett turned and headed in our direction. The closer he came, the bigger he got. The incredible hulk had nothing on this guy.
“Is everything okay?” he asked his wife while looking down at me from his over-six-foot height.
His wife smiled. “Paige was in the neighborhood looking at the Miller’s house. She’s been having trouble getting a hold of the Realtor, so I was answering a few of her questions about the place. I even thought you could have the boys help cut the yard. Having a house empty on the street after Greg’s murder makes me nervous.”
“He wasn’t murdered here,” Coach Bennett assured me.
“Your wife mentioned it happened at your high school.”
“Not my school.” When the coach put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, I couldn’t help noticing how big his hands were. The man could easily choke someone to death with them. Gulp. I took a step back. If I had to make a quick getaway, I needed as much of a head start as I could get.
The coach didn’t seem to notice my concern. He just laughed. “Thank God Greg got whacked at Prospect Glen, otherwise the cops would be all over me.”
“Greg and Curtis had a misunderstanding not too long ago.” Mrs. Bennett gave her husband a nervous smile.
“Misunderstanding my ass,” the coach bellowed. For the first time I noticed a slight slur to his speech and the shine in his eyes. The hulk was hammered. “The man was screwing my program. He convinced my best player he’d have a better chance of getting a college scholarship if he pranced around like a fairy and wore makeup.”
As someone who did both the prancing and the makeup wearing, I took exception to that.
Judging by her tense frown, his wife did, too. “Not everyone wants to play football for the rest of their life, dear.”
“Drew Roane was going to help us get to state this year.” Coach Bennett took a step away from his wife and raised his voice. “Now that Greg Lucas is out of the way, the kid will come back to the team where he belongs. I’ve talked to the kid’s father. Drew will be at practice tomorrow morning even if his father has to drag him by his frilly little dance tights.”
“Sounds like Greg’s death was the best thing that could happen for you.” Not the smartest thing for me to say, but I couldn’t help it. Drew deserved a chance to make his own choices about his after-school activities. I had high school friends still going to therapy because their fathers forced them out of the arts and into the macho male-child mold.
Coach Bennett’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I had something to do with that jerk’s death?”
“No.” At least, not to his face. I was pissed. I wasn’t stupid. “I was making an observation. Your football team will be a lot better because of the murder.”
“My football team was great to begin with. I can coach anyone. Do you hear me?” His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as his eyes bugged out. He took a step forward and swayed dangerously on his feet.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Mrs. Bennett’s face go white. Clearly, she hadn’t considered the possibility of her husband’s involvement in his colleague’s murder. By the way her lip was trembling, I’d say she now believed he could have done it.
As a matter of fact, so did I. It was time to get out of here.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said, backing away. “Have a nice evening.” I bolted back to my car and motored into the fading light.
Pretending to real estate shop and being nosy had worked up an appetite. I drove through at McDonald’s and picked myself up my version of a balanced, healthy meal—a salad and an apple pie. Driving back home, I debated whether to call Detective Mike and let him know about my encounter with Coach Bennett.
By the time I pulled into Millie’s driveway, daylight had ended. I’d also eaten the apple pie and decided against sharing the details of my evening until I had something more substantial to report to Mike than the coach’s serious rage issues. McDonald’s bag in hand, I trucked up to the front door. The door swung open before I could put the key in and a figure in black came racing out.
Directly at me.
Heart thudding, I squeaked and jumped back. My arms windmilled, and I toppled into the bushes as the person in black raced past me down the steps. By the time I disentangled myself from the shrubbery, the person was gone.
I raced inside and hit the lights, hoping they would scare anyone else who might be lurking inside. Going into the house felt dangerous, but I had to. Aunt Millie might be in there.
“Aunt Millie?” I yelled, racing through the living room toward the kitchen. Millie was tough, but the intruder might have had a weapon. Millie had to be okay. She just had to. “Hello?”
Flipping on the lights in the kitchen, I let my eyes slide over the room. No Millie. I pulled a knife out from the butcher block and went to search the rest of the house, turning lights on as I went. Millie wasn’t in any of the downstairs rooms. Taking the stairs two at a time, I started searching the bedrooms. No. No. No.
A sound at the end of the hall made me suck in air. Somebody was in my room. I felt for the cell phone in my jeans pocket and heard the sound again. Oh God. Someone was whimpering. Millie.
My feet started moving before my brain could stop them. I raised the knife, hoping to God I wouldn’t have to use it, and pushed open my bedroom door. I kept my back to the wall as I hit the light switch and blinked as the room sprang into Technicolor.
Oh no. Killer lay on the floor. A dark streak of red colored the top of his pompon head. He looked up at me and whimpered. The sound broke my heart.
Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I knelt down next to him. I may not love the vicious little beast, but I didn’t want him to die and end up as part of Millie’s petrified pet collection.
I stroked Killer’s neck, and he tried to lick my hand. Either that or he was trying to bite it. Either way, I took the movement as a good sign. There was a gash on Killer’s head. I ran to the bathroom, ignored the poodle watching my every move, and grabbed a wet washcloth. Back in the bedroom, I dabbed Killer’s wound and tried to get a better look.
The bleeding had stopped, but a huge bump was already forming on Killer’s head. I dialed Millie’s number. She was giggling at someone in the background when she answered. The merriment stopped the minute I told her what had happened to Killer. She promised to call the vet and come right home. She disconnected, and I called Detective Mike. I was pretty sure investigating home invasion wasn’t part of his homicide detective job, but I was completely freaked and I didn’t want to talk to a stranger. Mike sounded confused as I told my story, but he promised to be right over.
Knowing backup was on the way made me feel better, but my legs were still wobbly as I fetched a bowl of water for my patient. The minutes dragged by as I waited for help to arrive. Finally, I heard footsteps downstairs and my aunt yell, “Paige? Where are you?”
Killer perked up at the sound of Millie’s voice and tried to stand. I held him down and yelled, “We’re in my bedroom.”
Feet pounded up the stairs and down the hall. I heard Millie gasp from the doorway as she saw me on the floor holding Killer’s head in my lap. Dr. Wilson from next door was right behind her. Millie must have called him from the car. I wished I had thought of that. The man wasn’t a vet, but he knew how to treat open wounds.
Killer’s tail thumped against the carpet, and he tried to get to his feet. Millie knelt on the floor and ge
ntly pushed Killer down as he licked her face and whined. My aunt sniffled and wrapped her arms around me in a death-grip hug.
“Thank God you’re not hurt,” she said as she squeezed even tighter. I felt like I was going to pop. After another hard hug, she turned and gave the doctor a pleading look. “Is Killer going to be okay?”
I stood up and sat on the bed so Dr. Wilson had room to examine Killer. The apple pie I’d eaten rolled in my stomach. If Dr. Wilson gave Killer a bad prognosis, I was going to hurl.
The short, balding doctor looked at Millie and said, “Your boy took a knock to the head. The cut isn’t deep, which is good. I’d recommend taking him into an emergency clinic to get some X-rays. Head wounds can be tricky.”
Millie wrapped Killer in a blanket, and the three of us awkwardly carried the dog down the hall. When I was a kid, I thought poodles were always cute and little. Killer weighed a ton. It took everything I had not to drop him as I felt my way step by step down the stairs. Once we got him out the door and onto the stoop, Millie hurried over to her pink convertible and pulled it up to the door. Dr. Wilson settled Killer in the backseat just as Detective Mike’s Mustang pulled into the driveway.
Millie revved her engine. “I’ll call you from the clinic. We’ll probably be there a while before I know anything. Lock all the doors and don’t wait up.” And she zoomed off.
“Rough night?” Detective Mike slammed his car door and walked over to where I was standing on the front step.
The kindness and concern in the detective’s tone made my eyes start to burn and my throat itch. I didn’t want to cry, but the stress of the evening combined with genuine caring was making that hard.
Through a constricting throat, I said, “Coming home to an intruder and an injured dog isn’t part of my normal Friday-night ritual.”
“Can’t imagine it is.” The detective pulled out his cop book and nodded toward the house. “Let’s go inside so you can tell me about it.”
Dr. Wilson gave Mike his contact information and went home. Mike and I went inside. I was going to sit in the living room until I remembered the lack of furniture. Instead, I made a beeline for the kitchen because that’s where the caffeine was. Heading for the fridge, I took one look at the empty space in front of it where Killer typically stood guard, and my lip started to tremble. I reached for the fridge door and a tear escaped down my cheek. Then another.
I walked to the kitchen table, took a seat, and buried my head in my hands as I started to cry. Killer was in the doggie hospital fighting for his life. Aunt Millie would be heartbroken if he died. Hell, I’d be heartbroken.
A hand touched my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. That made me cry even harder. Finally, after a lot of tears and hiccups, I took a shuttering breath and raised my head.
Mike looked down at me with a small smile. “Feel better?”
Not particularly. Now instead of just sad and freaked, I could add embarrassed to the list. Yippee.
“Sorry about that,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. My breathing was still high and uneven, and my hand was streaked with mascara from wiping the tears off my face. It was hard to have dignity when you looked like a zebra.
Mike sat across from me. “Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight.”
So, I did just that. I started with walking up to the front door and ended with Killer riding off in Millie’s hot pink makeshift ambulance.
When I was done, Mike looked down at his notes and frowned. “Did you forget to lock the front door when you left this evening?”
I chewed my bottom lip. “No. I’m sure I locked it.”
Mike pushed his chair back, walked over to the back door, and turned the handle. Locked. “The front door didn’t show signs of forced entry. Are there any other exits besides this one?”
I walked him into the Spartan living room where the French doors were currently allowing bugs and any other critters to move right in. Bonnie and Clyde sat in the middle of the room ready to greet them. “These doors were closed when I left the house.”
“Were they locked?”
Good question. “I didn’t check before I left. Aunt Millie normally leaves them locked, but she had some furniture removed today. The pieces might have been taken out through those doors.”
Mike examined both doors, took a couple pictures with his phone, and then closed the doors to keep the marauding mosquitoes out. “No forced entry. I’m guessing they were unlocked, but I’ll double-check with your aunt.”
I gave Mike a lot of credit for not mentioning the two lifeless pugs sitting in the middle of the living room floor. The man had focus. We went upstairs to my bedroom, and I let Mike go in first. I’d already seen my quota of blood for the day.
“Yours?” Mike pointed toward the bed, where I’d ditched the knife I’d been packing.
I nodded. He laughed. Then Mike looked down at the floor and stopped laughing. Putting on a glove, he leaned down to pick up something off the floor. In his hand was an ornate, cast-iron bookend of a wolf hound that looked suspiciously like an oversized rat. It was also the weapon used to put Killer out of commission.
Mike bagged the bookend and walked around the rest of the room taking pictures. “Is anything missing in here?”
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t even thought to look. Walking around the bloodstain on the white carpeting, I took inventory of the room. Shoes were in the closet. What little jewelry I had was still in its box on the dresser. Everything looked in its place.
Wait. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it looked like my laptop had been moved. And hadn’t there been more paper in the wicker garbage can when I left?
I flipped open the laptop. Nothing looked broken. Leaning over, I rummaged through the garbage. Earlier, while waiting for the Internet to kick out dirt on my suspects, I’d doodled the list of suspect names on a piece of paper along with a bunch of hearts, flowers, and other shapes. I’d pitched the paper on my way out the door. The paper was now gone.
“What’s wrong?”
If I told Mike about the missing paper, he’d want to know what was on it. He wasn’t going to be happy with the answer. But not telling him would limit his ability to find the person who almost killed Killer.
“There’s a piece of paper missing from the garbage.” I felt stupid saying it. I mean, only wackos monitor their garbage.
Mike raised an eyebrow. Yep, now he thought I was an OCD nut. “How do you know that?”
I explained my doodling earlier and tried to ignore the way the vein in his neck started to throb. “Look at it this way, whoever broke in here and took the piece of paper must be worried about my looking into the murder,” I said, trying to direct his attention toward solving the crime instead of throttling me.
“And that’s a good thing?”
Only if it distracted him from yelling at me. “Maybe. This could help you track down the real killer. That’s got to be better than scaring the crap out of a teenager who didn’t do anything wrong.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. The movement shifted his sports coat, and I could see his gun peeping out from underneath the gray fabric. Gulp. The man had been so nice to me that I had forgotten he even had a gun.
He stared me down, and I decided to backpedal. “I know you have to question Eric. It’s your job.”
“You’re right.”
“And there are a few pieces of evidence that point toward Eric.”
“Right again.” He smiled.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “You also know he isn’t the only one out there with a motive. Dana and Larry are acting suspicious, and Coach Bennett has a huge temper when he drinks. You should have seen him tonight when—”
Oops. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Mike unfurled his arms and slowly walked toward me. “You saw Coach Bennett tonight?”
Not trusting myself to speak ever again, I nodded.
“Where?”
“Outside his hous
e.”
The vein in Mike’s neck looked like it was going to burst. “What the hell were you doing outside of the North Shore High School football coach’s house?”
Sighing, I admitted, “I was pretending to look for real estate. The house two doors down is for sale. Mrs. Bennett was really helpful answering questions about the place.”
Mike’s cheek twitched. “You talked to the coach’s wife?”
Nodding, I said, “The coach showed up while we were talking.” When Mike didn’t explode, I walked him through the coach’s drunken discussion of the murder and his violent reaction before I left.
To his credit, Mike didn’t yell. He just shook his head and said, “You might want to rethink accusing someone of murder the next time you try something like this.”
“Next time?”
“The way I see it, the only way to stop you is to arrest you.”
Eeek.
“Which I’m not ready to do.”
Phew.
“Yet.” He gave me a grim smile. “Just promise me you’ll stay inside tonight with the doors locked. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.”
Mike walked around the house one last time making sure doors and windows were locked as he went. He gave me a warning to stay indoors, and then folded himself in his car and drove off.
I turned the lock on the front door and went into the kitchen for a snack. Halfway through my second bag of microwave popcorn, Millie called. Killer was in X-ray. The vet thought he was going to be okay, but they’d know more after the pictures were taken. Regardless, Killer would be staying at the clinic overnight and so would Millie. That left me alone in the house.
On a normal day, alone was good. Alone meant I could sing at the top of my lungs, hog the remote, and run around in my underwear. Well, I never did the last one, but I liked knowing it was an option. Today, alone felt scary. I didn’t want the remote or a Risky Business moment. I wanted company.
Murder for Choir Page 11
