Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  I admitted that it didn’t. “Did any of your teammates seem especially upset about the rape?”

  She reached for her tea and leaned her face over its steam. “W-we were all st-stunned.”

  “Any differences of opinion?”

  Kate shook her head and set her tea back on the coffee table. Her hand was shaking.

  “I heard that some of the girls weren’t exactly sure that Varenka had been raped.”

  Kate glared at her trembling hand. “J-jessie t-tell you that?”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was asking a question or making a statement. I drank my tea, hoping that I’d finally hear why the freshman was on the outs with her teammates.

  “She’s a t-trouble causer.” Kate reached behind her head and tightened her ponytail. “And she has a b-bad t-temper. A really bad temper.” For the first time in our conversation, Kate held my gaze.

  “Are you suggesting that she killed DeVoster?”

  “She said he deserved to d-die.”

  “None of your other teammates said something like that?”

  “N-not like Jessie. Y-you should have heard her.”

  I could hardly base a murder investigation on tone of voice. “Is she close to Varenka?”

  Kate folded her arms over her chest and stood. “Varenka is n-nice to everyone. She’s the only one who can stand J-jessie and her big head.”

  I rose from the couch, stymied. None of Kate’s teammates liked Jessie, but Kate was the only player eager to cast suspicion on the freshman.

  Chapter Eleven

  It took some convincing to get Kate to leave me alone with Varenka, but there I was, sitting in a rocking chair across from Varenka’s bed. She was huddled under a massive pink comforter, her hands clutching the top of it to her chin, her knees drawn to her chest. Her eyes were swollen with crying, and her breath was uneven as if she’d just gotten herself under control. The last thing she needed was some stranger asking her questions. And let’s be frank, I was less than thrilled about delving into her pain. If only I could find a gentle way to start the conversation, maybe things would go smoothly—no crying on her part, no guilt on mine.

  Her room smelled strongly of vanilla. Except for the standard beige carpet, it was femme all the way. The furniture was white with bubblegum pink trim, and the lampshades and curtains were a deeper pink, the same as her comforter. There was even a rosy ruffle around the top of a cage that presumably housed some small animal.

  “My hamster,” she said. “Hello Kitty.”

  I was surprised she’d been watching me. “My housemate has guinea pigs,” I said.

  “Hello Kitty sleeps during the day.” She looked like she needed to do the same. Gray-purple bags weighed down her bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m not sure when pigs sleep.” How long could we chit chat about rodents? I took a deep breath, trying to think of a question that wouldn’t upset her too much. “It seems like your teammates have rallied around you.”

  She smiled faintly and released her hold on the comforter.

  “But there seems to be some tension between Jessie and the rest of your team.”

  She hung her head, and her face vanished behind her hair.

  “You know anything about that?” I asked.

  “She’s cocky, that’s all.”

  “I heard that she might have killed DeVoster.”

  Varenka’s head shot up. “Who said that?”

  I didn’t want to create more tension between the players, but if I wanted Varenka’s honesty, I needed to return the favor. “Kate.”

  “This is all my fault,” she whispered.

  “Do you think Jessie did it?” I asked.

  “Of course not!” She hugged her comforter as if it were a life preserver.

  “Why do you think Kate said that?”

  Her face puckered, and she pulled the comforter over her mouth.

  “I’m sorry to upset you. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  There was a rustle from the hamster cage, and Varenka turned her gaze toward it.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Jessie did it either.” I had no logical reason for dismissing the freshman as a suspect. I simply liked her.

  “Who do you think did?” Varenka asked.

  I’d hoped to be the one asking the questions, but at least we were talking about the murder.

  “Come on,” she urged, straightening herself against the headboard.

  I decided to start with the person who would be least likely to upset her. “Lexie Roth.”

  “Right.” Varenka laughed bitterly. “And lose the fun of writing about him every single day?”

  “You don’t think too highly of her,” I said.

  “I just want this to be over.” Varenka rested her head on her knees again.

  I gazed at the jumble on her vanity. A jewelry tree rose out of a clump of photos. There was Varenka with Kate and Shelly back in high school, sweaty and grinning, holding aloft a state championship trophy. Another picture was a wacky group shot featuring many of her current teammates and a bunch of cheerleaders. Varenka was cross-legged on the floor. Making bunny ears behind her head was a petite chocolate-colored girl with pom-poms atop her braids. In the largest photo, a young pigtailed Varenka stood shyly between her mom and dad. They were in front of a colorful building with onion shaped domes somewhere in Russia, perhaps when Varenka had first met her adoptive parents. Next to the photos was a framed collage that featured WNBA players—Svetlana Abrosimova, Elena Baronova, Camilla Vodichkova, Maria Stepanova. All Russian.

  “Kate made that for me last year,” Varenka said. “We’ve been friends ever since I first came to America. Because of her stutter, she spoke slowly, and I could understand her.” Varenka smiled slightly, revealing overcrowded teeth.

  When she wasn’t ravaged by grief, she was someone you’d look at twice. The first time you’d be wowed by her beauty, and the second time, you’d notice a few so-called flaws—crooked teeth, droopy eyelids—but they’d only make her all the more interesting.

  “Kate is protective of you,” I said.

  Varenka’s smile faded. “We look out for each other. All of us. The whole team.”

  Despite her depression, Varenka could muster plenty of energy on behalf of people she cared about. I hoped she didn’t still care about her ex-boyfriend. “What about Tyler Bennet?” I said. “Does he look out for you?”

  “Ty would never hurt anybody,” she said firmly. Her hamster emerged from beneath a pile of shavings, nose twitching furiously.

  “Why did you two split?”

  “We didn’t have much in common.”

  An unlikely dilemma given that they were both Division I basketball players.

  She must have read my skepticism. “We were never super serious.”

  “But you remained friends?”

  She nodded and glanced at her hamster.

  “Did you talk to him about the rape?” There, I’d said the R-word, and she hadn’t fallen apart. She simply stared at her hamster running in his wheel. It was in major need of WD-40. “How did Tyler feel about DeVoster before the rape?”

  “Tyler’s not a violent guy.”

  Our conversation was going nowhere fast—just like the squeaky hamster. “I understand your hesitance to point fingers, but someone killed DeVoster. You’ve got to help me if I’m going to help you.”

  “Maybe his death had nothing to do with me.”

  “Why else might someone have killed him?”

  “How should I know?” she snapped. “He and I didn’t have a deep soulful talk before he raped me.” Her hamster kept squeaking. Varenka threw her comforter to the foot of the bed and struggled with the locks on his cage. When she finally rattled it open, she nudged the fur ball off his wheel and removed the offending machinery. Then she collapsed on the far side of the bed. The back of her pajama top said GIRLS RULE.

  I thought about giving her a break and leaving, but then I’d have to bother her some other time
. “Just a couple more questions,” I said gently.

  She idly spun the wheel with her long fingers.

  “No one wants to talk about recruiting or the freshmen who left,” I said.

  The hamster stuffed his pouches with food from its bowl and disappeared back into his nest. Varenka turned further from me, and her shoulders started heaving. “It’s all my fault,” she said. “We can’t recruit anybody because of me.”

  I grabbed a box of Kleenex from her vanity and moved to her side of the bed.

  “I’ve wrecked our season. I’ve wrecked the whole program.”

  “Ssh. That’s not true.”

  “I was so stupid.”

  “Listen,” I said. “It’s not your fault. You were the victim.”

  She gave me an odd look—puzzlement?—and kept crying. I wanted to put my arm around her, but I was afraid that might upset her more.

  “I drank too much.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “It still wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but they don’t mean it. I’ve let everybody down.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I handed her another Kleenex.

  “They treat me different now—like there’s something wrong with me.” She was sobbing so hard, she could hardly catch her breath. “Kate treats me like a baby, not wanting me to read the papers or watch the news, and Shelly, she spends all her time with Roshaun now. Her dad won’t look at me.”

  “Shelly’s dad?” I asked.

  “My coach,” she moaned. “From high school. I’ve disappointed him too.” She sniffled, and I handed her the entire box of Kleenex.

  I wished that Kate would come check on her or that the phone would ring. Anything to distract Varenka from her grief. “It’s nice that you were able to go home after the last game.” Yes, I was fishing for more scoop on her alibi, but the only way I could bring Varenka any lasting comfort was to clear her of DeVoster’s death. “I bet they were glad to see you.”

  She nodded and blew her nose.

  “Did you see any friends when you were home?”

  “I didn’t feel like it.” She took a deep breath. “Me and Kate played cards with my mom and dad, but I didn’t think I could sleep so we started watching old movies—the black and white kind. Me and my parents stayed up past 3:00 watching To Kill a Mockingbird, but Kate crashed during the trial scene.”

  That was the longest answer I’d gotten from Varenka, and it followed Kate’s description of the evening almost word for word.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Vince and I exited Interstate-380 for Varenka’s hometown, he was on his cell with Richard, mostly listening, leaving me to gaze at field after field of withered corn stalks. A cop car zoomed past, and I eased my foot off the gas. I wondered why Neale hadn’t called me yet, but before my imagination launched into warp speed, Vince hung up.

  “Richard has been busy surfing,” he declared, clasping his gloved hands in his lap.

  This was hardly news. If ever there was a geek, it was Richard.

  “He’s been checking some Hawkeye message boards. They’re all abuzz with theories about DeVoster’s demise. There’s already a huge thread about a feminist conspiracy.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Has anybody mentioned Anne?”

  His silence gave me the answer.

  “What are they saying?”

  Vince gazed out his window. We passed a dilapidated barn on his side of the road.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “They’re talking about how they’d like to teach her a lesson.”

  My adrenaline surged. “I’ve got to warn her.”

  “Richard already did,” Vince said soothingly. “The reason he called was to make sure you knew that your name had also come up.”

  “My name!” I sputtered. “I don’t even fit the witness’s description. I’m too short.”

  “They’re saying you helped Anne plan the murder.”

  “How would these—these—” I grasped for words, “libelous cretins even know we’re friends?”

  Vince sighed. “You were on TV with her,” he said. “You were at the protest together.”

  My heater made a clicking sound as if something were lodged inside it. I turned it off and pulled my coat collar up around my neck. “Who else is in on this feminist conspiracy?”

  “Who isn’t?” Vince said. “Orchid and Lexie, all the female athletic teams at the University, Hillary Clinton.”

  “Was the basketball team singled out?”

  Vince nodded, and we drove in silence for a few moments. A huge flock of birds churned tornado-like from a stand of trees before dispersing into the sky. A sign said Independence 5 miles. “You don’t need to do this, Mar-Bar.”

  I was touched by Vince’s concern, but if I acknowledged it, I’d also have to acknowledge my own fear. And the exhaustion and pain that had burrowed deep inside me after I talked with Varenka.

  * * *

  I pulled to the curb in front of the house next to Varenka’s parents’ and left the engine running. “Please,” I said to Vince, “go get us some coffee. I’ll be fine.”

  My wannabe bodyguard said nothing.

  I returned the favor and headed toward the Whites’ bungalow. Its fake wooden siding matched the gray sky. Purple and orange mums lined the foundation, and there were pots of them on the front porch too. Inside, a dog barked and clawed at the door.

  I turned toward my car and motioned Vince away.

  He simply stared back.

  When I knocked, the dog went ballistic, evoking a flood of “hushes” and “shushes.”

  Paulette White cracked the door open, and I was amazed to see how closely she resembled her adopted daughter. Paulette was a washed-out version of Varenka, her long golden hair losing its battle with white and gray, her eyes the color of faded denim.

  I introduced myself and told her that Coach Stokes had asked me to try to find DeVoster’s killer. “So Varenka and the team can have closure,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether she knew that her daughter was a top suspect, and I didn’t want to be the one to deliver the news.

  The dog barked louder as Paulette opened the door and let me in.

  My glasses fogged up, but I was glad to be inside after driving in an icebox.

  “Sit, Henry,” she said.

  Henry was a medium size mutt with a missing back leg. He let out one more yip and obliged.

  “Don’t mind him,” she said. “He just wants out. We were about to go running, weren’t we, boy?”

  I couldn’t help but gaze at where his fourth leg should be.

  “He gets on just fine with three, don’t you Henry?” She patted his head with cigarette-stained fingers. Then she straightened up to her full height—over a foot taller than me. Her mouth had the wrinkles of a heavy smoker. “The coaches have done a good job protecting Varenka’s privacy,” she said.

  “I’ll do the same. You have my word.”

  “I’ve been so afraid for her. Some people think DeVoster can do no wrong. And now that he’s dead…”

  Henry started inching to his feet, and she snapped her fingers at him. He lowered his rear and started whining.

  “I want to help your daughter,” I said. “I won’t repeat a word of our conversation to anyone but the coaches.”

  She grabbed a leash that hung on a coat tree, and Henry perked right up. He clawed at the screen door and started yipping again.

  “I understand that Varenka was dating Tyler Bennet.”

  Paulette attached the leash to Henry’s collar, but he kept barking.

  “Dammit, woman. Can’t you keep him quiet?” Mr. White swayed into the room, a bottle of Bud dangling from one hand, his face red. “First, the cops barge in here and call me a liar, and then this fool dog barks his head off.”

  Henry upped the volume.

  Paulette scowled, her mouth a piece of dried fruit. “Hush, Zach. I’ve got company.”
<
br />   He swung his gaze around the room and blinked at me. “What’s she want?”

  “Nothing. She’s just a friend.”

  Zach took a swig. “Never saw her before.”

  “I’m a friend of Varenka’s,” I said.

  He raised his bottle above his head. “Then let’s drink to the death of Davey DeVoster. May he rot in hell.” Zach stumbled. “Get the girl a drink, Paulette. The sonofabitch is dead.”

  “She’s trying to find out who did it,” Paulette hissed.

  Zach gave me the once over and chuckled. Then he drained his bottle. “Lemme know when you find out, so I can throw the guy a party.”

  “No one’s throwing any parties,” Paulette said. “Let’s get you settled back in front of the TV.” She handed me Henry’s leash. “Scratch his head. It keeps him calm.”

  Zach demanded another drink as she led him toward the back of the house. It was probably a common trek. The tall, muscular man had no beer gut to speak of, but veins had etched curving roads across his nose and cheeks.

  Henry butted his nose against my hand, so I scratched him. His panting muffled faint protests from Zach, but after all the commotion, the room seemed strangely quiet. In a far corner, next to an impressive cluster of ferns and houseplants, the pendulum of a grandfather clock ticked hypnotically. It was easily the most expensive item in the room. A scarred wooden coffee table was adorned with a huge vase of their own mums. The sofa doubled as a cat’s scratching post, and one of its corners rested on a woodblock that had been finished to match the other legs. “Your kind of sofa, Henry.” The dog wagged his tail against a nearly empty laundry basket and an easy chair where Paulette had been folding clothes. At the top of her pile was something black and gold. Zach was still grumbling at Paulette, so I stood and unfolded it.

  A sweatshirt with a glow-in-the-dark Nike basketball on the front and the back. Below, still on the pile, were the matching pants.

  I slung my backpack off my shoulder and pulled out the papers that accounted for all the sweats. Not surprisingly, Varenka had given her extra pair to her parents.

  And one of them had already worn the new gear.

  “I’m really sorry you had to see that,” Paulette said.