Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  She’d picked a heck of a time to finally see things my way.

  Orchid nibbled her toast and gazed at the cell phone in her lap. I left the kitchen and headed upstairs.

  “I’ve managed to clear my schedule,” Neale said. “I could come see you this weekend.”

  This weekend seemed years away. I sat in the middle of my unmade bed and pulled a flannel sheet over my legs.

  “Mara?”

  “The police are questioning Anne for the second time,” I said. “Her lawyer says she’s going to be charged.”

  Silence on Neale’s end.

  “With the murder of that basketball player.” I pulled the sheet around my shoulders. The penguins on it looked carefree and happy—downright jaunty. “I just found out.” If only Neale would say something comforting. “I’m still trying to figure out what to do.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re going to be busy finding the real killer, so next weekend isn’t a good time.”

  What was up with the anger? “I’d love to have you visit, but—”

  She cut me off. “But Anne is more important.”

  “She’s about to be falsely accused of murder,” I said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  Outside, an engine rattled like a sickly machine gun.

  “I didn’t want to say this over the phone,” Neale said, “but you and me—it’s just not working.”

  A car door slammed shut.

  Was Neale actually dumping me? “You haven’t given us a chance,” I said. “We’ve hardly seen each other since you moved to St. Louis.”

  “I know. You deserve a lot more time and attention than I can give you.”

  Her voice was annoyingly calm. How dare she make me sound so needy—so high maintenance?

  “I need more space than you can give me.”

  She sounded like she was reading from an outline she’d made, a list of reasons why we needed to break up, an itemized account of our incompatibilities.

  “You’re settled in Iowa City,” she said, “but there’s nothing for me there.”

  She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but I wanted to scream at her.

  “Besides you, I mean.”

  That bit of tenderness hurt the most of all. I thought about Neale’s eyes in the moonlight, the way she clasped her fingers around the back of my head, pulling me toward her waiting lips.

  “Mara?”

  Nothing good ever comes of arguing with someone who wants to break up with you, but I couldn’t help myself. “We could make a long-distance relationship work if we both really wanted it.”

  “But we don’t,” Neale said. “You want what you had with Anne.”

  Did I? I recalled my ex’s most frequent complaint: you never want to stay home and just BE. My throat ached with the tears.

  “Let’s face it,” Neale said gently. “You’re still not over her.”

  I started crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I walked over to my dresser to get a tissue. Next to the box was Neale’s hairbrush, a few strands of her bright wavy locks caught in its bristles. “I need to go,” I said.

  “I had fun with you,” she said, “I want you to know that. I care about you, and I want us to stay friends.”

  I closed my eyes. Was she going to tote out all the other end-of-relationship clichés?

  “I mean it,” she said.

  Maybe she did. I dug deep within myself, trying to find some part that wasn’t bruised, but all I could see was Anne behind bars—way beyond my reach.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Despite a week’s worth of newspapers at my feet, I kept knocking on the door of Apartment 1. I’d already struck out with the other tenants in Varenka’s building, and my knuckles were killing me. I gave them a break and started pounding with my fist. If I tried long enough and hard enough, someone would have to answer the damn door.

  They would.

  Answer.

  The door.

  I paused and listened. Nothing. Not so much as a footstep or a murmur. The hallway’s only light came from an exit sign. Then I heard it.

  A toilet flushing. From inside number 1.

  I pummeled the door with such abandon that when it finally opened, I almost fell onto the tenant, a tiny woman with a black sleeping mask atop her white hair and half an unlit cigarette dangling from her wrinkled lips. “Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to knock like a decent person?” Her voice was a cross between a croak and a bark, smoke-ravaged, but loud. “I ain’t buying anything.”

  When I explained that I wasn’t selling, she screwed up her face and asked me if I was one of them Jehovah’s Witnesses. I assured her that I wasn’t, that I just wanted to ask her questions about the night Dave DeVoster was killed.

  “I already talked to your people last night. Hadn’t been home two minutes and I get the third degree—what had I heard? what had I seen?—never mind that I was bone tired from eight hours in the car with my second-cousin Eddie. Talks about nothing but his blood pressure and his bowels, that one does.”

  At least I wouldn’t have trouble getting this woman to open up. “You talked to the police last night?”

  “That’s what I said. In my day, folks listened when people talked.” She pulled a lighter out of her robe pocket and lit up—all without removing the cigarette from her mouth.

  “And you were out of town before?” I prompted.

  “Wasn’t no vacation. My uncle keeled over from a stroke, and me and Eddie had to make arrangements and take care of his things in Indiana. Talk about an ugly drive.”

  “Were you here the night DeVoster died?”

  She puffed on her cigarette and screwed up her face again. “How come you don’t got a uniform?”

  I explained that I was simply a concerned citizen whose close friend was being scapegoated for the murder.

  “You trying to find the real killer?” she asked.

  I nodded and smiled weakly, hoping she wasn’t a devoted DeVoster fan.

  “I like a girl with gumption.” She stepped away from the door and ushered me in.

  Her walls and ceiling were stained from decades of cigarette smoke, but the rest of her place was cheery enough. A bright afghan covered her couch, and photos of smiling children dotted her walls. “Have a seat,” she said, “and I’ll tell you exactly what I told the cops.”

  She pulled a pack of Camels out of her robe and offered me one. When I declined, she offered me some coffee. And then some toaster strudel.

  “I’d just like to hear about the night of the murder.”

  “Frozen waffle?”

  I shook my head. What I really needed was some Visine.

  She plopped next to me on the couch and leaned in close. “I didn’t know it was the night of the murder when it happened,” she said. “Me and Eddie were up practically the whole night. First, he had to do his laundry—two weeks worth, I swear to God, and the dryers here take forever. Then he had to pack.” She paused for a puff.

  I knew better than to interrupt.

  “Then he had to study the map and mark our route. Then he needed a snack. You get the picture?” She barely waited for me to nod. “It was close to 2:00 when we finally got to bed, but I couldn’t sleep on account of them girls upstairs.”

  My heart quickened. The apartment directly above belonged to Varenka and Shelly. And Shelly had been with Roshaun.

  “They weren’t blaring their music—not like most young people these days—just walking around.” She leaned forward and flicked her cigarette over a pristine ashtray. “But they’re big girls, so they’re loud—and I mean loud. Tromp, tromp, tromp—like elephants above my head. So I said to myself, just this once, I’ll go up there and ask them to quit their pacing.”

  “Did you?”

  She held up one hand, and with the other, took a long drag.

  “I was putting on my robe, when—wouldn’t you know it—I knocked a jar of face cream off my dresser and woke Eddie
up even though he was out here on the couch. So he tagged along after me for protection.” She rolled her eyes. “I told him these girls are real nice, but he said you never know. And I said, maybe you don’t, but I do. Then—”

  “You both went up there?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  I shouldn’t have interrupted. “Please,” I said, “go on.”

  She put out her cigarette and folded her hands in her lap. I was just about to ask her again when she spoke. “The one who answered the door was real apologetic. She has a stutter, poor thing.”

  Kate Timmens. Who was supposedly in Independence with Varenka’s parents watching To Kill A Mockingbird. “A brunette?” I said, “Kind of moosey?”

  “That’s the one. Eddie asked her if she’s a basketball player, and I said of course she is—weren’t you listening when I told you about all the Iowa players in my building. He ignored me—just like always—and then he asked the girl for an autograph. For his granddaughter, he told her. I said not to bother—just to please quit pacing—but she was a real sweetheart. Invited us in and everything.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  “A pretty blond lying on the couch—real out of it. And a dark-haired girl.”

  The blond had to be Varenka. “Did the dark-haired one have a Southern accent?”

  “Straight outta Dixie.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t assume that the blond was Varenka. “Did you happen to see their signatures?” I asked.

  “See them? I got them. Eddie’s not the only one with grandkids. I’m saving my autographs for Christmas.” She headed to her dining room table and retrieved a poster of the women’s basketball team. There were John Hancocks scrawled across the jerseys of three players: Varenka, Win, and Kate.

  They had airtight alibis for DeVoster’s murder, yet they’d lied about their whereabouts. I had a pretty good idea why.

  * * *

  “I know where you really were that night,” I said, “so you can quit trying to protect your parents.” Varenka started to protest, but I cut her off. “I had a very enlightening chat with your downstairs neighbor. She loves the poster that you and Kate and Win signed for her.” I pulled out a chair and seated myself at the table. “At the exact same time that someone else was murdering DeVoster.” Varenka looked so young in her waffle-weave pajamas. Her lip trembled as she gazed at the eggs she’d barely touched, and her eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t care. She and her friends had lied, and Anne was in trouble. “I can see only one reason why you made up a story about being at your parents. You think one of them did it.”

  “No!” Varenka leapt to her feet. “It was my mom’s idea. She was afraid I’d be a suspect.”

  I stood too, trying to decide if this was yet another lie.

  “She said I didn’t need any more trouble.” Varenka spoke quickly. “She’s the one who made up the story. She even checked the TV Guide to see what movies were playing.”

  “Your mom asked you to lie.”

  “To protect me.” Varenka’s voice was defiant, but her brow furrowed.

  I didn’t want to cause this young woman any more pain, but I needed the truth. “What did she want to protect you from?”

  “The cops.”

  “But didn’t she know that you have a good alibi?”

  Varenka studied me, biting the inside of her lip. Then she darted past me to the door and pulled it open. Her message was clear, but I didn’t budge.

  “Do you know that Anne Golding is at the police station about to be charged with DeVoster’s murder?”

  At one of Varenka’s temples, a vein pulsed manically.

  “A woman who helped you is in big trouble.” I said. “Now it’s your turn to help her.”

  “Maybe she did it. How should I know?”

  “You don’t believe that,” I said quietly.

  “She convinced me to press charges.” Varenka’s eyes darted around, and she shut the door. “I said it wasn’t really rape—just a horrible mistake. But she kept saying it was. She said he deserved to be punished. She said I could stop him from hurting other women.”

  Varenka’s words sounded like testimony against Anne. That thought hardened me against her.

  “But she was wrong,” Varenka said. “I couldn’t stop him, and now my dad—” She stopped herself.

  “What?” I said. “Your dad is what?”

  “Worried about me.” She gazed at her stocking feet and blinked back tears.

  I decided to take a risk. “I already know about his drinking.”

  She met my eyes, briefly, and started crying. “It’s my fault. If only I hadn’t started drinking that night. I promised him I never would, but I broke my promise, and look what happened.” Varenka’s breath was jerky, her shoulders heaving.

  Dave DeVoster had found himself a girl who was drunk for the very first time. I wanted to tell Varenka it wasn’t her fault, but I knew she wouldn’t believe me. And I needed to help Anne. “Why were you drinking?” I asked gently. I handed her a napkin in lieu of a Kleenex, and she blew her nose.

  “I was upset. Confused. After me and Jess…” Varenka leaned against the door. “That was so stupid.” She tried to catch her breath, but started sobbing again.

  She didn’t seem to notice when I went to the kitchen and poured us both a glass of water. Adding some ice just to give her some space, some time to cry, I wondered how Varenka really felt about Jessie—and more important, how Jessie felt about her.

  When I placed the glasses on the table, Varenka just stared at them. I sat and took a long drink, but she remained at the door. “Your roommate said you were freaked out about being with Jessie.”

  No response.

  “She said it was a one-time thing.”

  Varenka’s lip spasmed.

  “Jessie wanted more, and you didn’t?”

  She shrugged, and a tear rolled down her face. “She didn’t understand. I want to be a coach. Have a family.”

  So they both wanted more, but Varenka was scared. I felt like crying myself, but that wouldn’t have done either one of us any good. “Do you think Jessie is in love with you?”

  Varenka brushed her tear away. “Everybody’s seen how she is with that softball player.”

  “When did she enter the picture?”

  “I don’t know.” Varenka leaned over, her hair completely hiding her face.

  I wondered if she’d found out about the softball player the night she’d decided to try drinking. If that were true and Jessie knew it, the freshman might have blamed herself for what happened with DeVoster. A go-to girl like Jessie March might have decided to make things right. “Is that why you were drinking?”

  Varenka remained motionless.

  I didn’t want to keep pushing her—I didn’t want to make her relive that horrible night—but maybe there was some detail within it that would help me discover the truth, that would enable me to establish Anne’s innocence. “Was DeVoster giving you drinks?”

  She nodded, leaning over further and clasping her hands behind her neck. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “He was grabbing at me, and when I pulled away, he said I was a dyke. He said it over and over.” Varenka took a deep breath. “I wanted to show him…”

  Not as much as she’d wanted to show herself, I suspected.

  “He hurt me, but I didn’t say anything.” Varenka lifted her head for a moment. “I didn’t want him to think that I—” She tried to meet my eyes and started crying again. “I never said no—not even once—so no matter what Anne says, it couldn’t have been rape.”

  If DeVoster weren’t already dead, I would have killed him myself. “Did you tell Jessie about how it happened—what he said to you?”

  “No!”

  It was possible, I thought, that DeVoster himself had told someone—had bragged about his methods—and that eventually, Jessie had heard about how he’d manipulated Varenka.

  “I never told anyone,” she insisted.

&
nbsp; “Not even Anne?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Not about what he called me. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  * * *

  Blinking back tears, I gripped my steering wheel and gazed at Varenka’s apartment building. Just as I was ready to go back inside and insist that she let me sit with her, my phone rang. I snatched it right up. What if it was Anne calling to say the cops had made a horrible mistake? Or Neale saying she had?

  “She’s been charged.”

  Even through the static, Orchid’s words were unmistakable, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I felt sluggish and terrified, like I couldn’t wake myself from a long nightmare.

  “Cecile says she’s holding up OK.”

  I squeezed the steering wheel harder and tried to summon some words. “What about bail?” I asked.

  “The hearing is tomorrow, but …” Orchid started crying.

  I wanted to say something comforting, but all I could think about was the day of the week. What was it? Yesterday I’d gone to work. That was Monday. This was Tuesday. When had I first learned about DeVoster’s death? During the weekend. Saturday. Everything was moving too fast.

  “Cecile thinks bail will probably be denied.” Orchid took a deep breath. “Because of the violent nature of the crime.”

  I was already feeling so numb that this last horrible fact barely registered.

  “Anne will be in jail until her trial,” Orchid said.

  The despair and panic in her voice frightened me.

  “Cecile says it could be months,” she moaned.

  “Are you sure she knows what she’s talking about?”

  “Of course,” Orchid snapped, “I hired the best.”

  My nose tingled, and my eyes burned with tears.

  When Orchid asked if I’d learned anything helpful, I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d eliminated three suspects, but I had no idea whether that would encourage her or help Anne. I wondered if Cecile had her own private investigator, but that question, I knew, would not hearten anybody. “I’ve made some discoveries,” I said, “but I don’t know what they mean yet.” My throat was so tight I could barely mumble a good-bye and a promise to check in.

  After hanging up, I rested my head on the cold steering wheel and cried, quietly at first, but then louder as I struggled against wild merciless sobs.