Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  “All over. I’ve had lots of cool opportunities. And I get a full scholarship—just like the girls.”

  The girls. Despite her insistence that she was a part of the team, Shelly didn’t seem to see herself that way. “What are your responsibilities outside of practice?”

  “Me and Chante are in the office a lot. We do most of the correspondence with potentials. They think they’re getting personal letters from Coach C, but really, me and Chante write most of them. One a week.”

  “Sounds like an important job.”

  She shrugged and smiled.

  “Bridget mentioned that your number of potentials has gone down since the rape.”

  Her smile faded. “I’m not really a numbers person.”

  An obvious lie, given that she kept stats, but I let it go. “You’re Varenka’s roommate?”

  “We share an apartment.” She started straightening a stack of papers.

  “You’re both from Independence?” I said, “and Kate Timmens too?”

  Her nod was barely perceptible.

  “You three must be close.”

  Shelly shrugged again.

  I was losing our game of one-on-one. “What about the night Varenka was raped, were you and Kate at the party?”

  “I wasn’t.” She glanced at me and started separating a stack of papers. “I don’t like big parties. I don’t like going, and I don’t like hearing about them.”

  I tried another tack. “Were you with Varenka after she was raped?”

  Shelly swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yeah, me and Kate and Win. They live across the hall.”

  “Can you tell me a little about that night?” I tried to keep my voice gentle.

  “Like what?” She absently tapped some papers against the desk even though their edges were already aligned.

  “How was everybody feeling?”

  “Upset.” She stood and started moving stacks from the table to the floor.

  I’d asked a stupid question, but I couldn’t just let it go. “Crying?” I said. “Angry?”

  Shelly simply kept transferring the paperwork, slamming each stack to the floor. When she finished, she said, “Coach said there were some lists you needed?”

  “I also need your perception of the team’s dynamics since the rape.”

  She met my gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “How has the team gotten along since it happened?” I said. “Has anybody been especially outspoken about it?”

  “What does it matter?” she said. “None of the girls killed DeVoster.”

  “I’m just trying to eliminate them as suspects.” I stood, but she still towered over me. “I’m on your side, Shelly. Your team’s side.”

  She narrowed her eyes, stony faced.

  “Come on,” I said, “the cops have already questioned Varenka once.”

  Shelly’s eyes widened.

  “Early this afternoon,” I said.

  “But Varenka was in Independence with Kate when…” She trailed off.

  “They have only Varenka’s parents to vouch for them,” I said, “so the police are suspicious.”

  “The cops think Varenka killed DeVoster?” Shelly’s voice was shrill. “Wasn’t it enough that they treated her like a criminal after the rape? Now she’s a murder suspect?” Shelly plopped back into her chair, her face a mass of worry.

  “You could help her,” I said, “if you told me a bit about your team dynamics.”

  She heaved a sigh. “We’ve all been angry. We’re a team. We pull together.”

  “Has anyone seemed especially angry?”

  “We’re not the only angry ones,” Shelly said. “How did you feel when you heard about his redshirt?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Some of his own teammates think he should have been put behind bars.”

  I thought about the red-haired dunker I’d seen on TV earlier that day. “What about Tyler Bennet?” I asked. “What did he think?”

  Shelly bit her lip and glanced at her watch.

  “What year is he?” I asked.

  “Junior.”

  That gave him a motive. Next year, DeVoster’s redshirt year would have been over, and Bennet would have lost his starting spot.

  “I don’t know him real well,” Shelly added. “He seems nice, but Roshaun says he keeps to himself.”

  “Roshaun?”

  “My boyfriend.” She looked at me expectantly. “You know,” she insisted, “he’s an intern at the station, a manager for the men’s team. You might let him interview—”

  “Gotcha,” I said, knocking my hand against my forehead. “Coach Stokes says you were at his parents’ the night DeVoster was killed.”

  Shelly’s face grew pinched again. “I wanted to get out of town after the redshirt thing. We left right after the men’s game.”

  “Has it been awkward—you two being together?”

  “It’s been kind of different,” she said, “but we’ve known each other a long time. We started managing the same year.”

  “Does he have any thoughts about who killed DeVoster?”

  “Yo, Shell.” There was Roshaun himself. He nodded at me. “Miss Gilgannon.” He stood in the doorway, his beaded cornrows at odds with the chinos and dress shirt he always wore at the station. He and Shelly made quite the odd couple. Roshaun was more than a foot shorter, wiry and graceful, with a molasses complexion. Usually all smiles and jokes, he grimly tossed a set of keys from hand to hand. “You about ready to go?” he asked Shelly.

  “She was just telling me about DeVoster’s backup,” I said.

  “Bennet,” Roshaun said. “Real nice guy.” He spoke slowly and gazed at Shelly.

  “That’s what I said.” She squared her shoulders, but dropped her eyes to the floor.

  I tried again. “Rumor has it that DeVoster wasn’t exactly well-liked by the rest of the team.”

  Roshaun stared at Shelly a moment longer before turning to me. “Jealousy,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but me and Shell got a test to study for.”

  “About Bennet—”

  “Red saves his aggression for the floor.” Roshaun edged toward Shelly’s chair.

  “What’s the buzz on your team?” I asked. “Who do they think did it?”

  “We haven’t had time for buzz.”

  “You must have some guesses about who killed him.”

  Roshaun tossed his keys in the air and caught them.

  “From what I’ve heard,” Shelly said quickly, “DeVoster messed with a lot of girls.”

  Now she offers information? When I’m questioning her boyfriend? “Do you know any of their names?” I asked.

  Shelly shook her head. “I bet he didn’t either.”

  Chapter Seven

  Some women feel sorry for themselves because they’re always the bridesmaid, never the bride. But I had no role at all in Anne’s yet-to-be-scheduled commitment ceremony—unless you counted my half-hearted attempts to help Vince train the canine ring bearer. Said ring bearer was also less than thrilled with her role. Labrys stared at the plastic ring she’d just dropped, her tongue hanging out. She sank to the floor and rested her front paws on the pillow she was supposed to carry.

  I placed the ring back on the pillow.

  “Come on, girl.” Vince clapped his hands against his thighs.

  Labrys thumped her tail once and closed her eyes.

  “No one is cooperating with me today,” I said.

  “And you call me a drama queen.” Vince squatted next to the golden retriever and scratched her head. “Those players will open up once they get used to you.”

  “What about Bridget?” I said. “There’s something she doesn’t want me to know.”

  “Mayhap she doesn’t want to waste your time with irrelevant information.” Vince sat all the way down on the floor and pulled his jean-clad legs to his chest. Labrys twisted her head and looked at him expectantly until he began stroking her back.

  “She’s really bossy,” I said. “Like she�
�s forgotten that I’m doing her a favor.”

  “Oooh,” Vince said. “Bossy can be fun.”

  I rolled my eyes. Whenever Vince wants to cheer me up, he talks about sex. Actually, he talks about sex regardless.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I think she has a thing for you. Why else would she have asked for your help?”

  “Why wouldn’t she ask me?” I snapped. “I’ve already solved one murder.”

  Vince grinned. “That may have been her conscious motive, but I bet her subconscious is seething with desire for you.”

  “She’ll just have to seethe,” I said. “I’m already taken.” But I wondered if that was true. When Neale left, neither of us had said a word about our next visit.

  “Monogamy,” Vince said. “So overrated.”

  Our phone rang, and I motioned him to get it. I’d been waiting for Neale to call all evening, but I didn’t want her to know that.

  Vince picked up the phone and shook his head no. “I’m the lady of the house,” he said in his deep baritone, waggling his eyebrows at me.

  Damn telemarketers—they raise your hopes and dash them to the ground. Why hadn’t Neale called? She always phoned to say she’d made it home safely.

  “I beg your pardon,” Vince continued toying with the hapless soul on the other end of the line. “I don’t take care of that bill. You’ll want to talk with my boy toy. He should be home soon. He just stepped out to purchase a little something at the Pleasure Palace.” Vince hung up the phone and laughed. “Another one bites the dust. Truly, I am a master at deterring phone solicitors.” He maneuvered into his favorite chair, a Lazy-Boy surrounded by magazines and boxes of Pop Tarts. “You’re lucky to have me.”

  I sighed, and he gave me a sympathetic look. “Don’t fret, Mar-Bar. She’ll call.”

  “Our parting wasn’t exactly sweet sorrow.” I scooped the plastic ring off the pillow and sat on the futon-couch across from Vince. I draped an afghan across myself. Even in sweats, I was cold because we couldn’t afford to move our thermostat out of arctic range.

  Outside, a couple dogs barked, but nothing was getting a rise out of Labrys. “I just don’t get her,” I said. “Why do we keep seeing each other if our relationship isn’t going anywhere?”

  “Because it’s fun?”

  Silly me, I’d forgotten I was talking to a man whose longest relationship could be counted in months. “I don’t understand anyone,” I said.

  Vince bent over and grabbed a box of chocolate Pop Tarts. “Let’s break out the treats,” he said. “Somebody’s throwing herself a pity party.”

  I glowered at him.

  “What’s with all the hyperbole?” he asked.

  I stared out my front window. The house across the street was dark. “Did you know Anne wants to have a baby?” I asked.

  Vince set the Pop Tarts back on the floor. “Turkey baster?”

  I nodded.

  He clasped his hands together. “We’ll be honorary aunties.”

  “The first I heard about it was this morning at brunch,” I said.

  “You know Anne,” Vince said, “she probably wanted to get all centered about it before she told anybody.”

  He was trying to be nice, but his remark stung. “I’m not just anybody.”

  Labrys edged closer to Vince and whimpered.

  “Anne never wanted kids when she was with me.”

  Vince stroked his goatee, a sure sign that he didn’t know what to say.

  “Orchid is going to be a terrible parent,” I said. She and Anne had been together for a year and a half, but I still couldn’t believe that my sweet, gentle Anne—with her Zen-induced serenity and carefully balanced chakras—had wound up with the chronically angry and self-righteous Orchid Paine. Anne didn’t care about money, so she couldn’t have been drawn to Orchid’s trust fund. What was it? Their shared passion for remodeling?

  “Permission to point out the obvious?” Vince asked.

  I pretended that I hadn’t heard him.

  “You’re obsessed.”

  I started to protest, but Vince moved toward me, putting a finger to my lips. “Shush. You follow their relationship more religiously than my mother tracks her soaps.”

  “Now who’s exaggerating?”

  “Not moi,” he said. “You talk about Anne and Orchid way more than anything else—including Neale.”

  “I do not.”

  Vince sat next to me and held his hand out to Labrys.

  “I’ve known Anne a lot longer,” I said. “I see her more.”

  Vince rubbed the dog’s head.

  “She wants to get pregnant,” I said. “She never wanted to do that with me.”

  “Mar-Bar, you don’t even have houseplants. What would you do with a baby?” He put his arm around me, but I pulled away.

  “That’s not the point.” But what was?

  The phone rang.

  This time it would be Neale. We’d make up and exchange sweet nothings. Then I’d tell Vince all about it and he’d see that I talked about Neale good and plenty. “Get it,” I hissed.

  Vince feigned a wounded look and headed to the phone. Labrys followed him, her tail wagging.

  I’d ask Neale if she wanted me to come down next weekend. It wasn’t such a bad drive—especially if the weather was good.

  Vince picked up the phone mid-ring, his back to me.

  Neale was always good about chatting with Vince before asking for me.

  “Richard!” Vince exclaimed.

  There was no justice. Vince’s default date called just to say hi, but my girlfriend of a nearly a year and half couldn’t take the time to check in before she went drinking with her band of brothers. Maybe we were through. My eyes burned and my lip trembled.

  Labrys whirled around and studied me.

  Soon, Anne would be pregnant, and Orchid would be shopping for politically correct baby clothes. A tear rolled down my cheek. Before I could reach for a Kleenex, Labrys lunged at me and licked my face. She pinned me to the futon, her front paws on my shoulders, her hot doggy breath too close for comfort. It was no use trying to push her off, so I resigned myself to her slobbery ministrations.

  * * *

  I told myself that visiting the crime scene would help me prepare for my interviews the next morning, but really I’d gone simply to take my mind off Neale. Vince had insisted on coming along, but he needn’t have worried about me being alone. When we pulled into the parking lot, the lights of several police cars strobed the night. I drove deep into the lot before finding an empty space.

  The darkness was filled with chants and shouts, but I couldn’t make out any words, only garbled anger coming from the area around the Herky where DeVoster had breathed his last. The offending bird was brightly lit, but you could barely see it—there were that many people. I headed toward the crowd, shivering. Soon Vince and Labrys were at my side, the dog straining against her leash, eager to chase a terrier that yapped and darted in and out of the crowd’s periphery.

  “Everybody and his dog are here,” he said, “literally.”

  On the far side of Marilyn MonHerky, a mass of Hawkeye faithful waved signs that said FIND DEVOSTER’S KILLER and AN EYE FOR AN EYE. Clad in black and gold, they chanted, “Lie, lie, you killed our guy,” presumably at the smaller group on the other side of Herky. This group, mostly women, stood silently, holding signs that said RAPE DESTROYS LIVES and TAKE BACK THE NIGHT. I wondered if Anne was among them, but I couldn’t spot her.

  Signs on both sides of Herky read JUSTICE FOR DEVOSTER. Neither group was too close to the bird because of the crime scene tape. If I hadn’t known that all such tape is black and gold, I might have thought that it was designed to bolster our Hawkeye spirit.

  The cops that surrounded the crowd kept mumbling into their walkie-talkies and eyeing each other nervously. A bow-legged one occasionally lifted a bullhorn and shouted at the crowd to break it up and go home, but all he got in response was heckling. “Stop dicking around,” shouted a voi
ce from the bumblebee side. “Go catch the killer.”

  A cherubic looking toddler in a stocking cap with bunny ears tugged at the bottom of her mom’s coat. “Mommy, can we get some popcorn?”

  I saw more kids—on both sides of the crowd—as Vince and I worked our way toward Herky. Three boys who were playing tag nearly upended an elderly woman who held a sign that said WE MISS YOU DAVE.

  Herky was waist-high in flowers and black and gold kitsch. A toddler tried to place a miniature basketball atop the makeshift shrine, but it rolled back to his feet. His father picked it up and shoved it in between some gold mums and a game program. On the sidewalk in front of the statue, votive candles flickered on framed photos of DeVoster and high tops of all sizes. There were also empty pop cans, but they were probably just litter.

  Labrys sniffed at a sneaker and squatted. I yanked her chain, and just barely kept her from desecrating the sacred space. “Vince!” I thumped him in the chest. “Do you want to start a riot? Watch the dog!”

  He reluctantly abandoned some frat boys he’d been ogling and dragged Labrys toward a huge pine at the back of the crowd.

  As Labrys did her business, I pointed at the dark side of the tree. “The killer might have hid there, waiting for DeVoster.”

  “Unless it was a chance encounter,” Vince said. “It seems unlikely that anyone would choose to attack DeVoster here.” He gestured toward Marilyn. “She’s one well-lit bird.”

  I watched the cars streaming into the parking lot and lining Hawkins Drive. “It’s hard to see her from the street,” I countered. If the murder had been premeditated, then I could narrow my list of suspects by discovering who was privy to DeVoster’s running habits.

  “We should have brought hot chocolate,” Vince said. “I’m catching my death in this cold.”

  Labrys yanked on Vince’s arm and started barking.

  “She votes for staying,” I said.

  “Of course she does. She has fur.” Vince sulked as the dog lead us back into the crowd. A gaggle of undergrads were engaged in a game of protest one-upmanship. “I’ve marched in Take Back the Night since I was twelve,” said a girl with black lipstick.

  A skinny guy with wheat-colored dreadlocks smiled smugly. “My moms brought me when I was a baby.”