Chapter Fourteen
Tyler Bennet’s reputation for politeness had been greatly exaggerated. He stood in front of his door, propping it open an inch or two, denying me even a glimpse of his apartment. And this was after I explained that I was trying to help Varenka.
“We’re not together anymore.” He interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. The slow staccato mingled with the potpourri of sounds from other apartments: a blaring TV, a thumping bass, and a whining food processor. “It’s loud out here,” I said.
He simply shrugged.
The top of my head came to the middle of his chest. I craned my neck slightly and asked him for a drink of water, hoping he’d invite me inside. But he shut the door in my face and retreated—presumably to get my beverage.
Vince peeked his head around the corner of the stairwell. “Are you crazy?” he hissed. “Why would you want to go in there?”
I shushed him, and as Bennet’s door creaked open, Vince ducked back into the stairwell.
Bennet resumed his position in front of the door, and I tried not to be distracted by the white particles swirling around in the water he’d given me. Iowa City tap water. I’d have to buck up and take a swig if I wanted to ask him any questions. “What happened with you and Varenka?” I asked. “Why’d you break up?”
“None of your business.” His freckled face reddened.
“Did she ever say anything to you about the night DeVoster—”
“That’s between me and her.” He reached for the doorknob.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Of course, you want to protect her privacy—especially with all the media hoopla. In fact, some people see Lexie Roth as a strong suspect.”
“The reporter?” he said. “How come?”
His question surprised me. “Because of all she’s written. The stalking. The protest.”
He cracked his knuckles again, and I pretended to sip my water.
“Did DeVoster ever say anything about her?” I asked.
“I pretty much ignored him when we weren’t on the court.” Tyler pressed his lips together.
“Maybe you overheard something.”
“Nope.” Down the hall, a phone rang. Tyler scowled at me and rubbed a hand over his receding hairline.
“He never complained about any of Varenka’s teammates bothering him? Or maybe Varenka’s parents?”
Tyler dropped his eyes.
“Did you know them very well?”
“Nah.” His gaze remained on his humongous sweat-sock clad feet.
“Varenka’s dad is really torn up—”
“Of course he is,” Tyler snapped. “I gotta go.” He extended his hand for the glass.
“Where were you the night DeVoster died?” I asked.
“This is harassment,” he growled. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”
A bluff if ever there was one. “You must be worried that they suspect you. You dated Varenka. And you wouldn’t have gotten much playing time your senior year with DeVoster back on the court.”
Tyler clenched the doorknob. His other hand was a tight fist.
Vince appeared in the doorway to the stairwell, holding a Domino’s Pizza box aloft, then lowering it dramatically in front us. “Excuse me,” he said, “did you order a pizza?”
Could Vince’s timing be worse? I’d nearly goaded Bennet into blurting important information, but now his anger was diffused. He simply asked “the pizza delivery man” what apartment he wanted. Vince gave Bennet’s number, Bennet insisted that he hadn’t ordered a large Italian sausage, and Vince asked if he could use Bennet’s phone to check the order.
That, I had to admit, was an impressive bit of trickery.
But Bennet simply returned with a cell and folded his arms across his chest.
While Vince faked a call to Domino’s (“Girlfriend, this pizza isn’t getting any warmer”), I studied Bennet. He was thin compared to other ballplayers, but far from scrawny. His shoulders nearly spanned the doorway. A vein that pulsed atop one of his hands was nearly as wide as my pinky. I imagined his huge palms pushing against DeVoster, his long fingers gripping DeVoster’s neck.
By the time Vince hung up, I was almost grateful for his interruption.
“A thousand apologies,” he said, giving the phone back to Bennet. “I’m so sorry I interrupted your tête à tête.”
“She was just leaving.” Bennet’s voice was firm.
When Vince and I reached my car, he took a deep bow and tossed me the empty pizza box.
Chapter Fifteen
So much for Sunday as a day of rest. After questioning an entire women’s basketball team, three parents, and (as Vince put it) “a terse and inhospitable male athlete,” I psyched myself up for yet another interview, this one without my thespianic bodyguard. Vince was enjoying the evening with Richard while I drove through the dark streets of Atalissa, Iowa—lonely and exhausted—seeking Gina Hofmeyer, a freshman who’d quit the team.
The streetlights in her neighborhood revealed a few harvest displays—bales of hay decked with gourds, pumpkins, and an occasional cutesy scarecrow. A corner yard featured a huge bare tree with a yellow ribbon tied around it. When I finally spotted her house number, I saw a basketball hoop at the far edge of their driveway. Gina would have had to shoot the three from the middle of her front yard. If I were lucky, she’d be lolling on the couch in front of ESPN, or at the very least, one of her parents would be home, drowsing after a cholesterol-laden Sunday dinner.
The woman who answered the door was anything but drowsy. She held a huge bowl of batter in one arm, and she was beating it furiously with the other. “Come on in. Pardon me if I keep at this batter. If you let up for a sec, your cake is never quite as fluffy—know what I mean?”
I nodded as if I did and glanced around. The tiny living room was crammed with overstuffed furniture. A throw on the largest sofa said, “God bless this home and all who enter it.” Above the door to the kitchen was a wooden plaque that at first glance seemed like nothing more than a geometric design, but if you squinted at it, you’d see that it said JESUS. I’m never good with optical illusions, but I’m great with context clues. “Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for Gina Hofmeyer.”
The woman’s arm jiggled as she stirred her batter. “I’m Gina’s mom.” She looked up. “Becky.”
She was about my age with bright blue eyes and lipstick that hovered between pink and white. I’d never thought of myself as old enough to be the mother of a college student. Becky must have gotten pregnant right out of high school. “And you are?” She finally let the spoon rest against the side of the bowl.
“Mara Gilgannon,” I said. “I’m a journalist.”
Becky narrowed her eyes at me and wrapped both arms protectively around her bowl, so I decided to embellish the truth. “I work for the publications department of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes,” I said. “We’re doing a feature on athletes who’ve left Division I schools.”
Becky smiled. “Gina’s not here, so I’ll have to do. Put your coat on a chair and come on back to the kitchen.” She nodded toward a photo on a shelf to my left. “That’s Gina, her senior year.”
Gina was wearing her basketball uniform and enough jewelry to make a drag queen jealous—bangles, a heart-shaped locket, and sparkly earrings. She was also in full makeup, and her hair, which hung loose, had spent significant time with a curling iron. It was a photo that flaunted the athlete’s femininity. Orchid would have declared it oppressive and sexist. Me, I just found it tacky. But I was glad I’d femmed it up, opting for the form-fitting sweater that Neale had given me last Christmas instead of a baggy sweatshirt. I’d also unbraided my hair and added tortoise shell combs. I must have looked trustworthy if nothing else because there I was in Becky Hofmeyer’s tiny inner sanctum, watching her maneuver a pan of brownies from the oven.
A wave of chocolate heat enveloped me, and I closed my eyes against her rooster-patterned wallpaper.
There it was again, a reminder that I was the same age as this happy homemaker.
“I’m making lots of extra because our church is having a big bake sale next weekend. A little fellow the next town over needs a bone marrow transplant, and his folks don’t have insurance.”
They’d have to sell barrels of cookies to cover even one night in the hospital. “Do you know how I can reach Gina?”
“She’s not going to want to talk to you.”
My first obstacle. I waited, hoping for an explanation.
“That whole experience really hurt her bad.” Becky began pouring her batter into a Bundt pan.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“My little girl would just as soon forget all about it.”
The stream of batter grew thinner, and my curiosity grew sharper. Still, I managed to hold my tongue.
“I keep telling her she’s got nothing to be ashamed of. She did the right thing.”
“Surely she doesn’t blame herself for the rape.”
Becky shook her head and attacked her bowl with a rubber scraper. “Dave DeVoster would never do a thing like that.”
“Mom, can I go over to Ryan’s?” A spindly prepubescent boy stood in the doorway of the kitchen. He had a concave chest and a purplish birthmark the shape of South America on his left cheek. When Becky gave her permission, he grinned and dashed away.
“That’s my youngest, Roger.” She waited until he was out of earshot. “He had no confidence until we sent him to basketball camp.” Becky reopened her oven, and in went the cake. “Dave took Roger under his wing and showed him how to win and how to be a man.”
My stomach turned queasy.
“I tell you, that camp was worth every penny we scrimped and saved.” Becky started rinsing her mixing bowl, and steam rose from the sink. “Roger will never be a basketball star like his sister, but he holds his head up high now, thanks to Dave. Poor thing, he was beside himself when he found out about the murder.”
I struggled to find words. “DeVoster’s death has caused a lot of pain.”
“At least he’s in a better place now.”
If you believe God lets rapists into heaven. That’s what I wanted to say, but I kept mum. I could learn a lot from this woman even if we didn’t agree on DeVoster. “I bet you’re glad that Gina’s not there anymore.”
“I told her—” Becky stopped herself and started filling one side of her sink with water. A few bubbles drifted into the air.
“Whatever you tell me, I promise I won’t identify your daughter or the Hawkeyes in my story.”
“I’m no gossip,” Becky insisted.
“Of course not.”
“The Bible says, ‘the tongue is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.’”
Personally, I thought tongues were lots of fun, but I nodded somberly as she dropped a set of measuring spoons into the growing mound of suds.
“You won’t bother my daughter if I talk to you?”
“I won’t even try to contact her.” I would have crossed my heart, but Becky might have taken it as some sort of sacrilege.
She turned off the faucet and faced me. “I never wanted Gina to go to Iowa in the first place, but Roger—my husband, not my son—he said there were lots of small-town girls on the team and she’d do just fine. I said she’d be happier at Iowa State with that sweet male coach. Catholic, but a decent man.”
I forced myself to smile and nod.
Becky leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed.
“So Gina wasn’t happy at Iowa,” I prompted.
“At first she was. All she could talk about was playing with Win Ramsey—that was a big reason she wanted to go there. And she was handling the practices just fine—she’s a tough girl, my Gina. She liked Iowa City in the summer, and she was even looking forward to classes.”
I leaned against the opposite counter.
“I tell you, I was happy to be wrong, and I was saying as much to Roger when Gina called.” Becky grabbed a dishtowel and started twisting it in her hands. “I never heard her so upset. There’d been some funny business.”
I wondered if that was a euphemism for the rape.
“Between two of the girls.” Becky widened her eyes. “The freshman from Des Moines, Jessica March, she—what would you call it?—seduced—that’s the word—she seduced that Russian player.” Becky shivered in distaste. “The one that was supposedly raped. Varenka White. Can you believe it?”
What I couldn’t believe was my own stupidity. I hadn’t considered the possibility that Varenka might be involved with one of her teammates. But obviously, Bridget hadn’t either. “How did Gina find out about it?”
“She and two of the other freshmen—not Jessica—were out driving around and they decided to see if Varenka and Win wanted to play pickup at a park nearby. They were about to knock on Varenka’s door when they heard her crying. You know how thin apartment walls are. She was saying how dirty she felt—how guilty—how she’d never get to be a teacher and coach. Some nonsense about how she couldn’t help herself, that she might be in love.” Becky pursed her lips in distaste.
“Do they know who Varenka was talking to?”
“They didn’t stay. They’d already heard way more than they wanted to.”
Poor Varenka, believing that her life was over because she liked girls.
“That’s not the worst of it.” Becky set her dishtowel on the counter and edged toward me.
I couldn’t imagine what—in her mind—could be worse than lesbianism.
“You’re not going to believe this.” Becky’s compunctions about gossiping were long gone. “When Gina and her friends went to tell Coach, they got in trouble.”
Please, I thought, don’t let it be Bridget. “Coach C?” I asked.
“That’s who they should have talked to,” Becky said. “She’s a mother—a grandmother. She would have taken proper action. But they couldn’t reach her. So they took who they could get. Bridget Stokes.”
I tried to make sense of what I’d just learned. Bridget had intentionally misled me into thinking that the three freshmen left because of the rape. I wasn’t sure whether I was angrier at her for deceiving me or at myself for trusting her. Or for assuming that she trusted me. One lesbian to another. Surely, Bridget could have counted on me to be discreet about her players’ sexuality.
“She said they needed to be more open-minded.” Becky darted to the sink and plunged her hands into the soapy water. “She said she respects her players’ privacy unless their off-court activities compromise their game. What about compromising their morals?” Becky scrubbed a measuring cup. “She’s supposed to be a role model. I trusted her with my daughter.” Becky tossed the cup in the drainer and tackled a plate. “I bet you good money that Bridget Stokes is a lesbian. I bet you all those assistants are—every last one of them. None of them are married, and they’re not bad-looking women. Who knows, I said to Roger, maybe more of the other players are that way too.”
I bit my lip. My interviews with the players had been a big waste of time. Because Bridget had lied to me.
“Are you OK?” Becky asked. “I know it’s a horrible story. Let me make you some coffee, and we can try those brownies.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t you worry about Gina. She transferred to a nice small school. A Christian one. No official athletic scholarship, but they got her plenty of money just the same.” Becky winked at me. “Yep, my girl is just fine now.”
If only I could say the same for myself.
Chapter Sixteen
I twisted the key in my ignition, yanked my gearshift into reverse, and grabbed my cell phone. Halfway out of the Hofmeyers’ driveway, I almost collided with an SUV. I honked my horn even though I was clearly in the wrong and whipped into the street. Pun
ching in Bridget’s number, I readied myself to pummel her with rhetorical questions: Was she happy now that she’d made a fool out of me and wasted my time? Was she glad she’d made it nearly impossible for me to help her team? Was she crazy? As I listened to her phone ring, more questions surfaced: Did she really believe that any of her players’ parents thought she was straight? Why had she sought me out only to play games with the truth? What the fuck had she been thinking?
My only answer came from Bridget’s machine. Fine. I’d deal with her in person soon enough.
I turned onto Highway 6 toward Iowa City and phoned Vince, undaunted when I got yet another recording. He never answers the phone unless it’s “worth his while.” I knew exactly what would get him to pick up. I told him that I was going to stop by El Ranchero on my way home and that I wondered if he wanted anything.
“Mar-Bar! I’d like a beef burrito with an extra side of rice, pretty please.”
“How about a world where people answer the phone and tell the truth.”
“This is exactly why I screen—so I don’t have to listen to such rage. What has you all aflutter?”
Right in the middle of my tale about Becky Hofmeyer, I heard the theme song to Xena. “Are you watching TV?”
“No, my sweet, that’s Richard. He has to do something to occupy himself while I listen to your rantings.”
“I guess your default date doesn’t rate as much as a burrito.”
“I’m a man of many needs.” I pictured him winking at Richard, and I hurried through the rest of my story.
“Female athletes engaged in Sapphic activity,” Vince said. “I’m shocked. Truly shocked.”
“I’m looking for some sympathy here.”
“You must feel perfectly sullied—having to make nice with that homophobic homemaker.”
“Those feelings are buried way, way deep beneath my anger at Bridget.”
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