Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  I started to tell her that I was, but my throat and eyes burned. “You could have been killed.”

  She had saved her partner’s life and the lives of a man and his five-year-old son. What started out as a domestic dispute turned deadly when the man, who’d just lost his job, lost his head as well and decided to put himself and his family out of their misery. His wife somehow locked herself in the bathroom with a cell phone. When Neale and her partner arrived, the guy had a gun pointed at his kid’s head. He kept saying My old man worked there his whole life. He’d never handled a gun before, so it wasn’t long before he managed to shoot Neale’s partner in the shoulder. Twenty minutes later, she’d talked the distraught man out of his gun and got her partner to the ER. For weeks after her heroics, my dreams had been filled with bullets. They lodged in my arm, exploded out of my computer screen, spurted out of my toothpaste.

  Neale leaned back toward me and took my hand. “It’s part of my job. You knew that when we got together.”

  I pulled away. “You were in Aldoburg then.”

  “You knew I wasn’t going to stay there.”

  Aldoburg, Iowa is a sleepy town of 5,000. I’d grown up there, and I’d met Neale there. She’d been fresh out of the Academy, determined to become a crack homicide detective without relying on the reputation of her father, the Chief of Police in Chicago. Together she and I solved the murder of my Aunt Zee’s partner, Glad. For me, the investigation had been about keeping Zee safe, finding justice for Glad, and giving back to the women who’d taken me in when my parents couldn’t handle a 16-year-old baby dyke. But for Neale, it had all been about her career.

  “Why didn’t you want me to come to your award ceremony?” I asked.

  Neale crossed and re-crossed her willowy legs. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to come,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy yourself.”

  My muscles tightened, and I squeezed the arm of the couch.

  “It was no big deal, Mara. They just slapped the medal on me, and then I had some beers with the guys.”

  “The guys who don’t know you’re a lesbian,” I said.

  Neale stood. “We’ve been over this. I keep my private life private. Cops can be really homophobic.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “What do you want from me?”

  The doorbell rang, but I didn’t move. I’d taken so much for granted with Anne: hearing her laugh on the phone with her mother, helping her chop onions and garlic for dinner, finding my clean socks all balled up and knowing she had done it. Rituals and rhythms too sweet to call routine.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Do you want me to get that?” Neale asked.

  I shook my head. We needed to finish what we’d started. I held my fingers to my lips.

  The bell rang again and again. Somebody started pounding.

  I rushed across the living room, my stocking feet sliding on the hardwood floor, and yanked the door open. Beyond the frost on my storm door was Bridget Stokes. I opened the door and stuck my head out. It had been over a month since we’d last spoken. After I interviewed her about Coach C’s twenty-fifth year as Head Coach, we’d gone out for coffee. Despite Bridget’s refusal to dish about Hawkeye athletics, I enjoyed my time with her—in fact, if we’d been single, it might have been one of those is-this-a-date-or-isn’t-it? scenarios—but neither of us had tried to contact the other since then.

  My fingers felt like ice on the metal door as I ushered Bridget in. When she pulled off her stocking cap, her short dark curls went wild with static electricity.

  Neale headed toward us.

  I’d have to introduce them, and I had no idea what to call Neale. My soon-to-be ex? Where was Miss Manners when you needed her?

  Neale extended her hand. “I’m Neale Warner, Mara’s girlfriend.”

  That dilemma was solved—for the time being.

  “Bridget Stokes.” She pumped Neale’s hand and identified herself as an assistant coach of the women’s basketball team. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to Mara in private.”

  Neale raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s important.” Bridget unsnapped her coat.

  Neale’s eyes bored into mine.

  Well, well, well. I’d waited for Neale Thursday night and most of Friday, and now the shoe was on the other foot.

  “I’ll make some tea.” Neale took her time heading to the kitchen.

  “Have you heard about the murder?” Bridget whispered.

  I nodded.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Continuing to whisper, she shoved her stocking cap into a coat sleeve and draped the whole thing over a doorknob. “What I have to say can’t leave this room.” She wasn’t asking, she was telling.

  I felt a wave of irritation and a flutter of excitement. “Do you want to sit down?” I asked.

  Bridget removed an Entertainment Weekly from Vince’s chair and sank into it. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that it was one of our girls DeVoster raped.”

  I didn’t think that she’d like to hear that I’d already guessed which one, so I simply nodded.

  “I’m concerned that the police will consider her or some of the other girls as suspects in his murder.”

  I could see where this was going. Everyone in Iowa City had heard the story about how I’d solved Aunt Glad’s murder. Bridget was hoping that I’d poke around, find the real murderer, and get her girls off the hook. Nancy Drew on demand.

  My pipes groaned as Neale ran some water in the kitchen.

  “Any reason they’d be suspects besides motive?” I asked.

  “There was a witness,” Bridget said. “He saw someone sprint through the parking lot near the place where DeVoster died.”

  “What time?”

  “A little after 2:00 in the morning.” She sighed. “Close to the estimated time of DeVoster’s death. He couldn’t identify the person, just that they were tall and white.” Bridget furiously jiggled her leg up and down.

  “Are the police sure he didn’t concoct his story in order to earn the reward?”

  “He came forward before it was offered,” Bridget said. “And he also saw that the person was wearing sweats with a glow-in-the-dark Nike basketball on the front and on the back—the exact kind Nike just sent our team.”

  “That’s circumstantial,” I said. “Lots of people buy Nike.”

  Bridget shook her head sadly. “Not these. Nike hasn’t released them on the general market yet.”

  “So it’s just your players that have them,” I said.

  Bridget’s leg took a break. “The men have them too.”

  “The men’s basketball team?”

  Bridget nodded. “Our girls each got two pairs, so the guys would’ve got at least that. Some of the players might have given a pair away.”

  That broadened the circle of suspects. I’d need to find all those sweats. “What about the witness?” I asked. “Could he tell whether the runner was male or female?”

  “Whoever it was wore a stocking cap.” Bridget’s leg began jittering again. “But the cops think it was a woman.”

  “Because of the pepper spray?”

  The radiator clanked, and Bridget sighed. “After the rape, the Women’s Center sent our girls a letter of support, along with enough pepper spray for the entire team.”

  I wondered if Anne had signed the letter. She hadn’t said anything to me about it, but clearly, she wasn’t telling me everything these days.

  “You can see why I need help.” Bridget stared at me with her unflinching blue eyes.

  One of my kitchen cupboards creaked. If Neale were willing to help me investigate, maybe it would bring us closer. “You know,” I said, “my girlfriend is a cop.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened.

  “Not here,” I said. “In St. Louis. She helped me catch my aunt’s—”

  “No cops,” Bridget said.

  “She’s not a DeVoster fan like the ones—”

  “My player doesn’t want any mo
re cops knowing about her.” Bridget looked away and took a deep breath. When she turned back to me, her voice was gentler. “You need to understand, Mara. My player was terrified about people discovering her identity before DeVoster was killed. You can imagine how she feels now. If the cops show too much interest in her, there’s no telling what his fans will do.”

  I thought about Kobe Bryant’s accuser.

  “She’s a wreck,” Bridget said. “The whole team is. But if you could find out who really did it…” She trailed off, but her eyes held mine.

  This was it. She was counting on me. I was the go-to player.

  “I know it’s a long shot,” Bridget said.

  The kettle whistled, and I could hear Neale pouring water for her tea.

  I wanted to help Bridget—I really did—but then Neale and I would have even less time together.

  “I’m asking a lot,” Bridget said. “I know that, but the team and I really need you.”

  It had been a long time since I’d felt needed.

  “Maybe you need some time to think it over.” Bridget stood.

  “No.” I sprang to my feet. “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Thank you,” Bridget said. “Thank you so much.” She threw her arms around me and walloped me on the back.

  If I actually found the murderer, I’d have to wear protective gear.

  “How about you come by my office around 4:00,” Bridget said, “and I’ll tell you more. We’re having a special team meeting at 5:00, and you can meet the girls.”

  “Today?” The rest of Saturday was for me and Neale—whether we kept arguing about our relationship or made mad, passionate love. I was about to tell Bridget that she’d have to wait when I glanced over her shoulder. Neale was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, scowling and tapping her watch. I thought about all the hours that had ticked by as I’d waited for her. I thought about all the times she’d bailed on me.

  “4:00 it is,” I said.

  * * *

  As Bridget made her way out, the cold made its way in.

  “You’re meeting her at 4:00.” Neale’s voice was flat, and she stood next to my kitchen table, her hands on her hips. Her tea had a sharp peppermint scent.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but she needs my help. It’s urgent.”

  “Urgent,” Neale repeated.

  She was always tossing the word around, but she didn’t seem to like me using it.

  “It’s about that basketball player, isn’t it?”

  I wondered if Neale had made a lucky guess or if she’d been eavesdropping. “Forget about it,” I said. “Let’s get back to our talk.”

  “Is she a suspect?” Neale asked. “Or one of her players?”

  It was none of her business, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I picked up a bowl that Vince had left on the table. The milk in it was a dull pink from God-knows-what sugared cereal.

  “I suppose she wants you to play amateur detective,” Neale said.

  “I don’t play. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who solved Glad’s murder.”

  “Think about the danger. All those angry people on TV—not to mention the killer.”

  I tightened my grip on the bowl. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are you complaining about me putting myself in danger?”

  “She’s hiding something,” Neale said. “Why doesn’t she hire a professional?”

  I set the bowl on the counter and started counting to ten.

  “Are you two friends?” Neale asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Neale picked up her tea. “You could have checked with me before you agreed to meet with her.”

  “You didn’t check with me before you moved to St. Louis.”

  Neale dumped her tea in the sink and left the kitchen.

  By the time I followed her, she’d disappeared around the curve of the staircase.

  “What are you doing?” I called.

  A stair squeaked under her weight, and she popped into view. “I’m getting my suitcase. You’re going to be busy, so I’m going back to St. Louis.”

  Her voice was matter-of-fact, but I felt like she’d slapped me. “But we could still have most of tonight and all of tomorrow morning together.” I tried to keep the pleading out of my voice. “I won’t be long.”

  “You don’t know that, Mara.” Neale leaned against the banister. She seemed far away, there on the stairs. “And in the meantime, I’ll be sitting here waiting when I could be home.”

  Home. I hated it when she called St. Louis home. “Doing what?”

  She shrugged.

  “So you’re cutting our time short for nothing?”

  She met my eyes and looked away. “One of the guys is throwing a surprise birthday party for the lieutenant.”

  God forbid she should miss an opportunity to schmooze. For all I knew, Neale had been planning to leave early even if Bridget hadn’t shown up. I was too angry to speak.

  Neale smiled. “We’re both busy. Why make a big deal out of it?”

  Before I could respond to her favorite non-question, Neale disappeared behind the curve in the stairs.

  I didn’t follow her.

  Chapter Five

  The wind stung my cheeks as I dashed across the parking lot. Against a sky of gray sludge, the top of Carver-Hawkeye Arena looked like a monstrous jungle gym, all those iron beams somehow supporting the arena’s ceiling. One more thing I’d never understand. Like Neale. When she left, she gave me a quick peck on the cheek as if nothing was wrong. But I couldn’t help wondering: why not a longer kiss?

  A car door opened next to me, and a long pair of legs, shod in leather high tops, swung to the pavement. The shoes were longer than my thighs, and the owner of those shoes was over a foot taller than me. She was also a student manager of the women’s team. I knew this because last summer she’d done an internship with me at KICI. “Shelly,” I said, “nice to see you.”

  That was a lie. She’d been a great worker at first, but then she’d blown off an important interview, calling in sick and leaving me to handle it myself during one of Neale’s rare visits to Iowa City. After the interview, we’d seen her downtown drunk off her butt.

  “The girls aren’t talking to the press.” Shelly’s square face was expressionless, and she had the bland coloring of many Iowa girls—blue-gray eyes and hair just dark enough not to count as blond.

  “Bridget invited me,” I said.

  Shelly raised her eyebrows. “Coach Stokes?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure how open to be about my investigation, so I didn’t offer any further information. The wind whipped at the jean jacket I’d been too lazy to button. I pulled it tightly around me and tried not to shiver. “Maybe you could show me her office?”

  Shelly lumbered toward the arena.

  “Are you here for the team meeting?” I asked.

  She nodded and held the door open for me.

  “You’re early,” I said.

  “A couple of the girls wanted to shoot.”

  My glasses fogged over as I stepped inside, so I paused to polish them on my sweatshirt. “Do you have lots of team meetings?”

  She shrugged.

  I hoped that the rest of “the girls” would be more talkative.

  Shelly checked her watch—none too subtly—and clasped a clipboard to her chest. “Coach’s office is on the third floor. You want the elevator or the stairs?”

  Normally, I’m an elevator girl. But I wanted the time to ask Shelly a couple questions, so I opted for the stairs. They were concrete, and the railings were coated in chipped gold paint.

  “How does the team feel about DeVoster’s death?” My voice echoed in the stairwell.

  “We haven’t been together since it happened.”

  “What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Shelly was ahead of me, so I couldn’t read her face. “How do you feel about it?”

  Her thin ponytail swayed as she climbed th
e stairs. “It’s really different—knowing someone that was murdered.”

  Shelly had the descriptive powers of a typical small-town Iowan. Different was the default word for all things unpleasant. “How well did you know him?”

  She started taking the stairs two at a time, and I was short of breath by the time we reached the third-floor lobby. It had CEO written all over it. Marble floors, leather furniture, preternaturally green plants, and a sign that said WOMEN’S BASKETBALL. The letters were gold—not Hawkeye gold, but pirate-treasure gold, money gold. The gilded age was alive and well in Carver-Hawkeye Arena.

  * * *

  Bridget frowned at her computer, leaning in to it as if she were coaching the final seconds of a tie game. She jiggled her leg and started clattering away on the keyboard. Was she always so intense? The wall behind her was covered with basketball photos. There was the younger Bridget dribbling the ball, sporting the same short, dark, wavy hair—her stocky frame clad in a Hawkeye uniform, one of those tight ones from the eighties. From the looks of her arms at the keyboard, she still worked out a lot. Trying to remember if Orchid had ever said anything about Bridget’s relationship status, I scanned the desk for photos from her current life, but the only one there featured Coach C hugging Bridget back when she’d been a player. Coach C was over a foot taller than Bridget, a supremely fit 60-year-old. But because of the nonstop coverage about her brother’s condition in Pennsylvania, I knew that she’d been out of state when DeVoster died.

  I tapped on Bridget’s door, and she swiveled toward me, gesturing to a couch that matched the leather ones in the lobby. Then she whipped back to her desk, punched off her monitor, and pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

  “Nice office,” I said. It was bigger than my living room.

  “I meet with a lot of potentials.” Bridget tried to smile, but she was way off the mark.

  As she pulled something out of a file drawer, I thought about the hundreds of nervous teenagers who’d perched on the couch, flanked by their parents.

  “Thanks for coming.” Bridget rolled her chair next to me until our knees were nearly touching. “Let’s start with this year’s program.” She opened it to the players’ bios.

  I reached for it, but she pulled away. “This is all in confidence,” she said. “You won’t tell anyone?”