Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  “Because she lied to you.”

  “Of course.”

  “And because you have feelings for her.”

  “Oh please,” I said. “Get back to Richard.”

  “Ah,” Vince murmured. “You don’t deny it. You deem the dyke delicious despite her duplicity.”

  Richard was probably rolling his eyes if he was paying any attention at all to Vince’s strained alliteration.

  “At least now,” Vince said, “you have one less thing on your to-do list.”

  As I pondered his comment, I listened to Xena’s battle cries and flexed my fingers to keep them warm.

  “You’re not going to keep playing detective after she lied to you?”

  “I’m not doing it for her,” I said. “I want to make sure that Anne isn’t falsely accused.”

  Vince sighed.

  “I also care about some of the players.”

  “Let’s hope that one of them didn’t go all Aileen Wuernos.”

  “You always know how to cheer a girl up, Vince.”

  Our call-waiting clicked.

  Get it,” I said. “It might be Neale.” My heart racing, I drove all the way through West Liberty before Vince got back on.

  “Sorry, Mar-Bar. It was just the cellist from Richard’s quartet.”

  I sighed.

  “Patience,” Vince said. “She’ll call.”

  I took a curve and nearly rear-ended a slow-moving pickup. With my luck, I’d be stuck behind it all the way to Bridget’s.

  * * *

  Her condo was on the far west side of Iowa City, where many of the “single family dwellings” were larger than entire apartment buildings. When Bridget opened her door, she gave me a tentative smile and said my name—part greeting, part question. I gazed at her fleece shirt and plaid flannel pants. She was all comfy for the evening, but she wasn’t going to stay that way unless she had a really good explanation. “Why didn’t you tell me the real reason the freshmen left?”

  Bridget’s mouth dropped open and she froze.

  “I thought you wanted me to help you.” The wind tore through my hair, and the cold burned my cheeks.

  “Come inside.” Bridget turned her back to me and padded up the stairs.

  I followed her until we stood in her living room, inches apart. “What’d you do?” I asked. “Tell all your players to keep quiet about Varenka and Jessie? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  Bridget turned from me again. She collapsed onto her sofa and buried her head in her hands.

  “Did you?” I stood over her, my arms folded across my chest.

  “You don’t understand—”

  “You’ve got that right. Why ask me to find the truth and then lie to me?”

  The phone bleated, and Bridget practically threw herself at it. Phone in hand, she strode toward the picture window, her back to me again. She had solid hips, solid legs—a swagger. Ready to conquer the world even in her PJs. Surrounding her were a few orchids and mounds of plants I didn’t recognize. All high maintenance, no doubt. Regular plants wouldn’t be enough of a challenge.

  Whoever was on the phone wasn’t giving Bridget a chance to speak. As she made a couple noncommittal murmurs, I checked out her living room. A vaulted ceiling, a state of the art TV, an aquarium, and a leather couch with matching chairs. I drifted toward her kitchen. Granite counter tops. Assistant basketball coaches make a lot more money than lowly DJs. Still, except for the fish tank and the plants, the place had an empty feel. Maybe Bridget’s ex had taken a lot of stuff when she left.

  “I had no idea.” Bridget paced back and forth. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t happen again.” She glared at me. “I need to go,” she said. “I’ve got company.”

  Whoever was on the other end gave her another earful before she made some soothing noises and hung up.

  “What were you doing harassing the Whites?” Before I could answer, she barreled on. “You asked Varenka’s mother for an alibi?” Bridget’s face was flushed with indignation. “Did you stop for one minute to think how Varenka would feel if she knew her parents were being treated like murder suspects?” She threw her arms in the air. “I can’t believe this.”

  Call me crazy, but I don’t like being chewed out as if I’m some bungling ref. “Did you know that her father’s been drinking more than a frat house?” I said. “He was three seconds from passing out as he gloated over DeVoster’s death.”

  “Do you expect him to be sorry?” Bridget snapped.

  “The cops have questioned him,” I said. “Did Mrs. White tell you that?”

  Bridget retreated to the couch and started jiggling her leg. She gazed at her phone as if she’d never seen it before.

  “He made threatening calls to DeVoster.”

  “He has an alibi.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Real iron-clad.”

  The room was silent except for the aquarium’s burble.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said. “Why did you lie to me?”

  Her eyes met mine but darted away. “I wanted to protect my players’ privacy.”

  I turned to go.

  “They have so little,” she said, “especially since the rape.”

  I headed toward the stairs, and she followed me.

  “I didn’t keep anything important from you,” she said.

  I whirled around. “You don’t know that. Jessie had a fine motive for killing DeVoster.”

  “You don’t really suspect her.”

  I started down the stairs. The sooner I was out of there, the better.

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me explain. Please.”

  I wanted to make a dramatic exit, but I also wanted the truth.

  “Take your coat off,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Just tell me why you lied.”

  As she headed toward the couch, I wanted to tell her how insulted I felt—how betrayed—but instead I simply trailed after her.

  “At least sit down.”

  I perched on the arm of an easy chair.

  “You have no idea what it’s like,” Bridget said, “the negative recruiting. All another coach has to do is suggest that their team is ‘more like a family’ than ours, and it’s over. Once you get a reputation as a gay program—”

  “What does this have to do with me?” I asked. “I’m not going to sabotage you.”

  Bridget leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “You’re not going to tell your housemate or your girlfriend?”

  I thought about my phone call to Vince, but that was because I was angry about Bridget’s deception. “They’re not going to hurt your team.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “You think they won’t tell anybody?”

  “Not homophobes.” How had she put me on the defensive? I was the one who’d been wronged. “You should have told me about it,” I said. “I wouldn’t have told anyone if you’d asked me not to.”

  Bridget kept jiggling her leg. “What happened between Jessie and Varenka has nothing to do with the murder, trust me.”

  Trust me. That was rich. She sure didn’t trust me. And she had no interest in learning the truth about DeVoster’s death—not if it would hurt her team’s reputation, or—God forbid—crack open a closet or two. I was outta there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m no fan of the alarm clock, but it sure beats dog breath. Labrys licked my cheek as Vince said, “Mar-Bar, wake up. There’s something you’ve got to see.” He flipped on my lamp.

  I tried to push Labrys away, but it was a no-go. Through one barely opened eye, I could see that it was still dark. Vince rustled a newspaper with no consideration for my delicate pre-coffee condition. “Go away,” I mumbled.

  Vince wrenched the dog off my bed and sat on it himself.

  “Both of you.” I shut my eyes tight. Since when did he get up earlier than me?

  “It’s Anne,” he said.

  I jolted to attention and pushed mys
elf into a sitting position.

  “She’s in the paper,” he said. “It’s not good.”

  I fumbled on my nightstand for my glasses. Vince handed them to me along with the paper. “He had it coming,” says Director of Women’s Center. That was the headline. I gazed at Vince in disbelief. Anne was usually so careful when she talked to reporters.

  “Read the whole thing,” he urged.

  Then I noticed the byline: Lexie Roth. Causing trouble for Anne again. The murder of controversial Hawkeye basketball star Dave DeVoster has prompted mixed reactions in Iowa City. The opening was objective enough. I skimmed until I found Anne’s name: Director of the Women’s Center, Anne Golding, has a different take. I went back to the previous paragraph.

  Head basketball coach Eldon Bly said, “Words can’t express how much D (DeVoster) will be missed both on and off the court. His last months were difficult, but he handled them with dignity. I’m proud to have coached him.”

  Complete bullshit. I returned to Anne and her “different take.”

  During the memorial service for DeVoster this evening, Golding has organized an alternative memorial for rape victims. “If DeVoster was a rapist,” said Golding, “then he had it coming. It’s a perfect example of karma.”

  “The headline is so misleading,” I said. And so damning. I imagined a cadre of cops saying We should take a closer look at this Golding. “Is she trying to get Anne thrown in jail?” I shook with rage.

  Vince grabbed a comforter from the foot of my bed and draped it around my shoulders.

  I pulled it tightly around me. “That so-called reporter is going to be sorry she ever took pen to paper when I’m through with her. She’s probably the one who killed DeVoster, and now she’s trying to frame Anne because of the whole Women’s Center thing.” I tossed the paper on my quilt. “Can we say sensationalism? She doesn’t deserve to write for a high school paper.”

  Vince sighed. “Will you stop hyperventilating if I bring you some coffee?”

  “I’m not hyperventilating.”

  He hefted himself off my bed, adjusted the tie on his robe, and exited with Labrys in tow.

  My clock said 6:35. Anne was probably up. If she’d already seen the paper, she’d need some moral support. I leaned toward the phone on my nightstand. I’d tell her not to worry, that no one could seriously suspect a pacifist like her of killing someone, that I’d figure out who really did it.

  As I began to punch in her number, the phone’s beeps pierced the morning quiet. I stopped mid-number. I wanted to help Anne, but I also wanted to show Bridget that I wouldn’t be used. If I kept investigating, I’d need her cooperation—I’d have to make nice with Bridget despite her cavalier attitude toward the lies she’d fed me. I gazed out my window. Behind bare tree branches, the sky was a fiery pink scar. What choice did I have? Anne was in trouble.

  I finished punching in her number, and as Orchid’s voice came on the machine, Vince and Labrys returned with the coffee.

  “Hi, Anne,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that I saw the paper and I’m thinking of you.” I glanced at Vince’s hair jutting out in all directions. It’s hard to leave a message with someone watching. “I hope you’re OK. Call me.”

  Vince held a mug toward me, but I didn’t take it. “What if she’s already in jail?” I said.

  “She’s probably still sleeping.” He sat on the edge of my bed.

  I could feel the coffee’s steam on my face. I took a mug and inhaled. Hazlenut. I took a sip.

  “That’s right,” Vince said. “Drink it down. It’ll restore your sanity.”

  “She could be in jail as we speak,” I insisted.

  “Or she could be doing yoga with the ringer off.” Vince waved one hand, fanning the steam that rose from his own mug.

  “Anne never turns the ringer off. Only when—” I stopped. If there was one picture I didn’t want in my mind, it was Orchid making love with Anne. “Maybe they’re fighting,” I said. “I bet Orchid took umbrage with Anne’s ‘if.’ ‘How could you say if he raped her. Of course he raped her.’ I can just hear her.”

  Vince sipped his coffee and rested it in his lap. “Are you going to ride in and save the day?”

  I was about to call him on his sarcasm when the doorbell rang.

  Labrys started barking, and Vince and I both raised our eyebrows. None of our friends would dream of disturbing us so early on a Monday morning. I twisted around and looked out my front window.

  Bridget.

  “She can’t stay away from you.” Vince hovered next to me.

  “Do the words personal space mean nothing to you?”

  Vince jerked back. “Come, Labrys,” he said. “We’re not wanted here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Bridget and I had a fight last night.”

  “Already?”

  “About DeVoster.”

  Bridget rang again.

  “Shall I get it while you freshen up?”

  “I don’t need to freshen up, and I don’t want to see her.”

  “Wrong on both counts,” Vince said.

  * * *

  After I threw on some clothes, I returned to the living room and found Bridget standing near Vince’s chair, still in her coat. Her eyes were a listless blue-gray like the circles beneath them. For a moment, I felt sorry for her.

  “About last night—” she said. “You were right. I should have been straight with you.”

  An odd choice of words, but it was nice to have an apology.

  “I made a bad call,” she said.

  In sashayed Vince with two cups of coffee, his silk robe trailing behind him. He handed them over and batted his eyes.

  “Thanks,” I said. “See you later.”

  After he slunk away, Bridget and I stood in silence. She hadn’t driven across town at the crack of dawn simply to apologize. “What’s up?”

  Bridget held her coffee with both hands. “When Varenka sees the paper this morning, she’ll blame herself for Anne’s troubles.”

  I assumed that Bridget knew Anne was my ex. In a gay community as small as Iowa City’s, you keep tabs on the ex factor.

  “I know you’re angry,” Bridget said, “but think of Varenka. She’s just a kid. Scared and confused.”

  I thought of the young woman huddling on her bed, sobbing as I asked her questions, and I pushed the image out of my mind. “Yeah,” I said. “All those lies are hard to keep track of.”

  Bridget set her mug on the coffee table. “I know what you think,” she said. “That I’m some closet case, and I’m teaching my lesbian players to be ashamed of themselves. But that’s not it. I’m teaching them how to survive. To stay in the game.” Her voice caught, and she unsnapped her coat. “I’m proud of who I am, but I’m also proud of our program. And you need to remember, it’s not my team. It’s Carol’s…” she trailed off.

  I wondered if this was Bridget’s first time being in charge of the team—alone, without the woman who’d coached her when she was a player. That would be hard enough during a normal season.

  “Please,” Bridget said. “Give me another chance. No secrets this time.”

  Maybe she was willing to be honest with me. But was she ready for me to be honest with her? There was only one way to find out. “Finding DeVoster’s killer might not make things better for Varenka,” I said, “especially if it was someone she loves.”

  A city bus droned down the street as Bridget pressed her lips together and sunlight seeped through the window. Maybe, this very moment, Anne was opening her front door and reaching for the paper. If I kept helping Bridget, I was bound to learn something that would help Anne. I extended my hand for Bridget’s coat and invited her into the kitchen.

  * * *

  There’s something intimate about making breakfast for someone, and as I handed the box of Rice Krispies to Bridget, some of my anger melted away. But my wariness remained firmly intact. Whatever she told me, you can bet I’d double-check it. “The team’s hostility to
ward Jessie,” I said, “that’s all because of her lesbianism?”

  Bridget shook her head and doused her cereal with milk. “It’s how she handles it. She refuses to put the team first. During one of our camps, she was holding hands with a soccer player right in front of the campers—middle school girls.”

  God forbid they should see a happy and uninhibited lesbian. That’s what I wanted to say. But I slurped my Rice Krispies instead.

  “She goes to all the GLBTU meetings,” Bridget says, “even after I asked one of our veteran players—another lesbian—to talk with her about keeping a low profile.”

  I wondered who this player was, but it didn’t seem relevant to the DeVoster situation. And Bridget wouldn’t respond well to idle curiosity about her players.

  “And sleeping with Varenka—” Bridget snapped her toast in half. “She should have known better. She didn’t think about how it would affect them on the court—how it would hurt our team’s chemistry.”

  I could see Bridget’s point, but I admired Jessie’s refusal to sacrifice her freedom and her identity.

  “Jessie’s a heck of a player, but I’m sorry we signed her. Carol said she’d be trouble, but I talked her into it…” Bridget trailed off and stirred her cereal.

  She was so concerned about Varenka’s self-blame, and so absolutely unaware of her own. I resisted the impulse to reach across the table and quiet her hands. “How serious are they?”

  “I don’t know.” Her spoon clanked against the edge of her bowl. “But Jessie’s no murderer.”

  Upstairs, the shower groaned as Vince commenced his morning ablutions. “I’m going to need to talk with Varenka again.”

  Bridget frowned and rested her spoon on her plate.

  “What was your impression of her relationship with Tyler Bennet?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine that he killed DeVoster. You couldn’t ask for a nicer—”

  Before Bridget could continue singing Tyler’s praises, the phone rang. I thought about letting the machine pick up, but then I remembered that I’d asked Anne to call. On the next ring, I spotted the receiver on the counter next to Vince’s Betty Boop cookie jar and several telltale crumbs. He’d moved in with me after Anne moved out, and he still hadn’t gotten the hang of cleaning up after himself.