Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  She didn’t seem to mind. “I was in bed—just like I told the cops.”

  I was happy the police had questioned her, but my happiness didn’t last long.

  “You need to cast your net wider,” Lexie said. “Varenka White isn’t the first woman DeVoster raped.”

  My stomach lurched. “You know that for a fact?”

  She nodded. “But I can’t reveal my sources.”

  Now she developed journalistic ethics? I struggled to keep my voice calm. “How many?”

  Lexie started to say something, but stopped.

  Just what I needed—a stubborn journalist and a vast network of anonymous suspects.

  * * *

  Vince and I didn’t need to worry about our binoculars attracting attention during the memorial service. Carver-Hawkeye Arena looked like a birder’s convention. Most eyes were riveted to the stage at one end of the floor, where a row of men in suits flanked a podium and the world’s largest black and gold bouquet.

  “That florist had to be straight,” Vince mumbled.

  A sharp-nosed woman next to him told him to can it. Like us, she stood at the railing that lined the arena’s top floor, pinned there by the many fans who’d been too late to get a seat.

  Down on the floor, the Athletic Director leaned over the podium and praised the university’s long and venerable tradition of scholar-athletes. The service wasn’t about DeVoster. It was about damage control and image.

  I focused my binoculars on the media section where Lexie was scribbling and saw that a burly security guard was also watching her. If only she had been on the list of people who’d received a pair of incriminating sweats. If only she were close to someone on that list.

  Lexie pulled her hair away from her face and looked up from her notebook. The crowd watched DeVoster highlights on gigantic screens, but Lexie scrutinized the arena’s floor. It was filled with rows of folding chairs that were in turn filled with hoards of student athletes supposedly mourning the loss of a fallen brother. There were a lot more men than women.

  Bridget and a remnant of her team were wedged in between the football players and the male gymnasts. Bridget herself was on the end of a row, clad in a silvery silk shirt and a handsome black jacket and pants. She glanced into the stands as if she’d felt me watching her through my binoculars. I wondered what it was like for her to sit there on display in front of all the DeVoster supporters. Probably the Athletic Director—or even the university president—had demanded the presence of all the coaches and teams. If so, then Bridget had followed orders only part way. To her left were the other two assistant coaches and Shelly. In front of them were Win, Jessie, and three other players. Varenka and Kate were not among them. Maybe Bridget had brought half her team so Varenka could stay away without being noticeably absent. Me, I would have boycotted the whole charade, but I admired the way that Bridget worked the system. I also admired her control. Except for her hands, which were clasped on her knees, she didn’t betray a trace of emotion.

  You couldn’t say the same for the folks blowing their noses around me. A veritable flock of Canadian geese. They were generating a lot of heat too. I removed my coat and tied it around my waist. Vince was grinning, his binoculars trained on the middle of the floor. On the wrestlers. “You’re supposed to be watching the men’s basketball team,” I hissed.

  Vince turned and peered at me. “Don’t tell me you weren’t checking out Bridget Stokes.”

  I scowled at him.

  “What?” he said. “Didn’t get enough of her at breakfast?”

  Vince is incapable of anything softer than a stage whisper, so his comment prompted several glares and shushes.

  On stage, a university bureaucrat pontificated about respect and safety and the Campus Climate Committee.

  “Sounds like a gathering of meteorologists,” Vince said.

  A man to my right told us to shut up. He had on enough cologne for an entire frat house.

  I returned to my binoculars, meaning to watch the men’s team myself, but my gaze fell upon the DeVoster clan. Ultra blond, every last one of them, they filled three rows in front of the stage across the aisle from the men’s team. There were plenty of children—Dave’s nieces and nephews, I guessed. One boy, around ten years old, was so lost in his own sadness that when his mother put her arm around his shoulders, he crawled right into her lap. I could guess how the boy felt. Even though I’d been 35 when Glad was murdered, I needed solace, sanctuary—a safe, quiet space where I could work through the layers of shock. Someone I knew and loved was gone forever—that was hard enough to grasp. But harder still was the fact that another human being had purposefully ended my aunt’s life.

  I adjusted my binoculars and forced myself to focus on the present. Darren DeVoster stroked his wife’s hair as she cried into his shoulder. His lips were pressed so tightly together that they nearly disappeared. He refused, I imagined, to lose more control than he already had. He may have lost his son, but by God, he would not lose faith in his own power, his own clout, his belief that other people were at his beck and call. In interview after interview, Darren DeVoster made it clear that he expected the police and the university to act swiftly. A big or else lingered behind his words. He was wealthy, he was powerful. He would get his way. From this man, Dave had learned that the world was his for the taking, and from the crowd in the arena, he had learned that he was the world—a 20-year-old hero who could do no wrong as long as he put the ball through the hoop.

  Raging against society was Orchid’s thing. Taking action, that was mine. I focused on the men’s basketball team, searching for something—anything—that would help me keep Anne out of jail, but all I saw were game faces and tailor-made suits. With his red hair, Tyler Bennet was easy to spot, sitting in the second row next to Roshaun. If Bennet felt any glee over DeVoster’s death, he wasn’t showing it. As he listened to a university choir, his pale face was expressionless except for an occasional twitch when the sopranos hit an extra high note.

  Looking through my binoculars was starting to give me a headache, so I let them hang around my neck. Vince pulled out his phone and started texting. I thought about Neale hanging up on me. It wasn’t like her to be a drama queen. Or to be jealous. Maybe something was wrong. I should have called her back right away even though I was angry.

  As the choir’s final chords evaporated, I started to reach for my own phone, but then Tyler Bennet headed toward the podium. Surely he hadn’t volunteered to give a eulogy. Coach Bly must have drafted him. It was a clever move, one that would allay any suspicions about the new starter.

  Bennet stood in front of a microphone that was a good two feet below his mouth. He leaned over and tried to raise it, but it simply whined and dropped closer toward the ground.

  A tiny man dressed all in black sped to his rescue and wrestled with the recalcitrant mic. As it continued to hum and whine, two more techies dashed on stage and finally got the mic within range of Bennet’s mouth.

  He laced his fingers together and twisted his palms outward, no doubt ready to crack his knuckles, but he stopped himself and cleared his throat. His speech, which gave new meaning to the word monotone, praised DeVoster the team-player. Dave helped his teammates not only with their game but also with their academics and their personal lives. He helped Bennet through Calc II and loaned him money when he couldn’t afford to fly to his grandfather’s funeral.

  If these stories were true, they must have taken place before DeVoster raped Varenka. I couldn’t imagine Bennet accepting DeVoster’s help afterwards. Of course, a few short minutes ago, I couldn’t have imagined Bennet eulogizing his teammate.

  But what happened after the speech didn’t surprise me in the least. As Bennet left the podium, Coach Eldon Bly met him at the edge of the stage and patted his back. Cameras flashed madly, lighting up the floor of the arena.

  “Front page, above the fold,” I whispered.

  “We’ll be seeing a lot of that shot,” Vince agreed.

 
When Coach Bly reached the podium, a few people clapped before remembering they were at a memorial service, not a pep rally. Not that Bly himself remembered. The opening of his speech sounded like a thesaurus entry for the word victory.

  Seeking refuge from his rhetoric, I scanned the media section with my binoculars. Lexie was no longer taking notes. Instead, she seemed to be studying someone, her gaze fixed, her brow furrowed. She sure wasn’t paying attention to Bly’s platitudes about the heart of a champion, but she was watching someone near the stage—someone on the men’s basketball team. Tyler Bennet? If only she’d start investigating him and leave Anne alone.

  At the podium, Eldon Bly praised his dead player’s triumph over adversity, referring to the rape charge as “a rough start to DeVoster’s senior season.”

  I aimed my binoculars at the women’s team. Bridget jiggled her leg and tensed her jaw. Shelly frowned at Jessie, who was leaning over to pick something up. I adjusted my focus. At first, I couldn’t tell what the freshman held, but then she set it on her lap. A miniature cassette tape and a small recording device. Jessie was taping DeVoster’s service. Win watched, smiling, as Jessie changed the tapes. Their eyes seemed filled with the cold desire for Eldon Bly and his team to suffer like Varenka had.

  Chapter Twenty

  Two heads are not always better than one. The next morning, when I dragged into the kitchen for my first cup of coffee, Vince was at the kitchen table, combing a blonde wig that perched atop a Styrofoam head.

  “Pardon my brutal honesty,” I said, “but that I-Dream-of-Jeanie look is definitely not you.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Vince set his comb next to a box of Pop-Tarts. “It’s for you.” He slid the Daily Iowan across the table and pointed to a color photo of me and Lexie. It looked like I was helping her hold the banner that said Just Deserts.

  “Read the caption,” Vince said.

  I picked up the paper and held it close to my face. Iowa City journalists Lexie Roth and Mara Gilgannon protest in front of Carver-Hawkeye Arena minutes before the memorial service for slain Hawkeye basketball star, Dave DeVoster.

  I tossed the paper back on the table, speechless.

  Vince glided to the coffee maker and poured me a cup.

  As I began sipping it, I made mental notes about the letter I’d send to the editor of the DI. I’d demand that the paper apologize for its misrepresentation and gross journalistic negligence. Better yet, I’d ask for Lexie’s resignation.

  “That photo might make you the target of a distraught DeVoster fan,” Vince said.

  I hadn’t thought about that. My stomach clenched.

  “I’m not going to be able to accompany you on your sleuthing adventures today,” he said, “but you should be safe with a proper disguise.” He patted the wig and winked.

  I laughed so hard I nearly spit my coffee on him.

  “Careful,” he said, glancing down at his shirt. “These are my work clothes.”

  I managed to swallow my coffee, but I couldn’t quit laughing.

  He prattled on about sunglasses and a foundation that would hide my freckles.

  “Vince,” I said, “I can’t go around looking like CIA Barbie.”

  “Would you prefer a brunette wig? I think Richard has—”

  “I’d prefer that you quit worrying about me,” I said. “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

  “Very well, then,” he said. “If I can’t talk any sense into you, I’m off to work. It’s going to be a busy day at the Shelter. We have an inspection tomorrow.” He grabbed his wig and strode out of the kitchen.

  I was sorry I’d hurt his feelings, but I didn’t have the energy to make nice. Truth be told, I was a little worried myself. DeVoster had a lot of fans.

  I reached for the paper to see what else it had to say about his death. Police and Paper Receive Mystery Tape, the top headline read. Yesterday’s mail had brought them a miniature cassette tape with a recording of Dave DeVoster saying, “I don’t take no for an answer, not from some c-nt.”

  Quoth a Police Department representative: “It’s too early to tell whether the tape has any connection with DeVoster’s death.”

  I saw connections aplenty. Whoever sent the tape wanted to damage DeVoster’s reputation—that was clear. If the sender had captured the damning words before DeVoster’s plea bargain, the police and the prosecution would have received them then. But because the words surfaced only after his death, they were no doubt among the player’s last.

  I took Vince’s mug to the sink and gazed out the window. A small bird pecked at an empty feeder. As it flew off, I thought about Jessie and Win taping the memorial service. I didn’t want to believe that either girl had killed DeVoster, for their sakes as well as the team’s. And Bridget’s.

  “See you later,” Vince said, ducking his head back into kitchen. “Be careful.”

  As the front door banged shut, Labrys strolled into the kitchen and began lapping at her water bowl. I poured myself some more coffee and returned to the paper. When I opened it to finish reading the story about Lexie’s protest, I discovered that she had once again linked herself with Anne and the Women’s Center. There, on page three, under the headline, DeVoster Service Prompts Protest, was a photo of Anne at the Center’s alternative memorial for rape victims. Before I could skim the article for further misrepresentations, the doorbell rang.

  Labrys barked furiously and dashed to the door. I was less eager, given my morning breath and my seen-better-days flannel jammies.

  I was even less eager when I saw Orchid.

  As I opened the door, Labrys nearly knocked her over, whining and licking her face. It was then that I noticed her tears.

  I pulled the dog off her, filled with panic. Where was Anne? What had happened?

  Orchid stood there in the freezing cold, trying to speak, but whatever she needed to tell me, she couldn’t bring herself to say.

  I invited her in, but she didn’t budge. Finally, I reached for her shoulder and propelled her into the living room.

  “The police have taken Anne in for questioning,” Orchid said, “for the second time. Cecile Lodge thinks she’s going to be charged.”

  I tried to make sense of Orchid’s words. Cecile Lodge was a high-profile defense attorney. Surely, it wouldn’t come to that. Anne arrested and on trial.

  “Cecile is the only one who can see her,” Orchid said.

  I snapped out of my shock. “I’ll get you some coffee, and you can tell me what happened.” Orchid doesn’t drink caffeine, but I needed to do something. I needed to steel myself before I heard more. My hands shook when I poured the coffee, and they were still shaking as I returned to the living room with two steaming mugs.

  Orchid sat in Vince’s chair, her tears under control, her eyes vacant. She seemed unaware of the dog’s chin on her knee.

  I held a mug in front of her until she took it with both hands.

  “What I said to you yesterday,” Orchid said, “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know. Just tell me about Anne.”

  “You didn’t take me seriously,” she said. “You’re still going to find out who killed DeVoster, right?”

  My fear rose with Orchid’s desperation. She often ordered me around, but never once had she asked me for anything before—not so much as a piece of advice. And now she wanted reassurance? What kind of case had the cops built against Anne?

  “They searched our place.” A tear rolled down Orchid’s cheek.

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  I glanced at the clock on my end table. 8:56.

  “It was early,” Orchid said. “They woke us up.”

  “They didn’t find anything,” I said stupidly. Of course, they had. Or why would Anne be in jail?

  “There were the sweats—the kind like the murderer wore. Anne had just washed the pair that the team had given her.” Orchid set her coffee atop the magazines that covered Vince’s end table. “There was also lots of pepper spray,”
Orchid continued. “Opened and unopened.”

  “But that’s circumstantial.” I knew my protest was pointless, but I couldn’t help it.

  “They found her finger prints at the crime scene. On the bird.” Orchid’s voice was swollen with tears. “I told the police that I took her photo there with her nieces, that hundreds of people must have touched that bird, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  Orchid looked around for a Kleenex, so I handed her a box. She set it on her lap as if she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  I felt sick and dizzy.

  “They also found a small cassette at our place,” Orchid said. “It had DeVoster’s voice just like the one they’d received. I told them I got it at work, but they wouldn’t believe me about that either.”

  “I’ll tell them,” I said. “I remember exactly how it happened. We were arguing and you threw it in your bag.”

  Orchid met my eyes and shook her head. “Anne took it out and set it on our kitchen table. She was looking for something.”

  The tape would have Anne’s prints. I tried to get my mind around that fact, but I was besieged with if-onlys. If only the police weren’t so eager to make an arrest. If only the team hadn’t given Anne those sweats. If only I hadn’t been fighting with Orchid when she received that cassette.

  Sunlight spilled through the window, illuminating the tip of Labrys’s tail. I wondered if Anne could see the sun from her interrogation room. A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard.

  “Cecile says that once the police identify Anne’s prints on the tape, they’ll charge her.” Orchid’s lips trembled. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  * * *

  I kept myself calm by visualizing a to-do list. Convince Orchid to eat something. Check. Arrange for someone to take my shift at the station. Check. Decide who to question next. I was tackling that item when my phone rang. It was Neale, saying we needed to talk.