Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I awoke on my couch, my eyes were swollen and my nose was stuffy. Vince still hadn’t called me back, but Labrys stood guard over me. Firmly stationed in between the couch and the coffee table, she edged her face closer to mine until they were inches apart. My one loyal friend was a dog that belonged to my ex. My ex who was in jail on a murder charge.

  I eased myself into a sitting position and patted the coffee table until I found my glasses. Labrys sniffed at the wadded Kleenexes surrounding the base of the sofa. As I began picking them up, she charged to the door, barking. A second later, the bell rang. I shoved some of the tissues in my pocket and rushed to the entryway.

  It was Shelly. The girl who’d wanted to bolt out of my office just the day before. She kept her eyes on Labrys, who was pulling out all the stops—joyous yelps punctuated with a few crotch sniffs. No guard dog, Labrys. As Vince says, she’s a lover, not a fighter. After Shelly refused my offer to take her coat or get her something to drink, I suggested that she pet Labrys. This soothed the canine, but it didn’t do much for Shelly. Still avoiding my gaze, she shifted her weight from side to side until I felt like I was on the deck of a lurching ship. When I suggested that we sit, she nodded and squared her shoulders as if she were about to face a firing squad. Once settled in Vince’s chair, she eyed the Kleenex strewn on the floor.

  “You have something you want to tell me?” I asked.

  “No, but I don’t see any other way.” Her face was tight with worry.

  My curiosity was on level-orange, but I managed to keep quiet and let her follow her own pace.

  She wriggled out of her coat and rested it on her lap. She was clad in sweats and, given that it was a little after 2:00, probably on her way to practice. “You can’t tell anyone this,” she said.

  Labrys wandered over and placed his front paws on her lap.

  “The only reason I’m telling you is so you’ll leave Varenka alone.” Shelly’s scowl told me that she knew about my latest interview with her roommate.

  Part of me wanted to justify it—I hadn’t wanted to hurt Varenka; I’d only wanted to help Anne. But another part of me knew that my desire to save Anne was so strong that I no longer cared about anyone else. Shame kept me quiet.

  “I know where her parents were that night,” Shelly said. “My mom told me. Varenka’s dad woke her and my dad up in the middle of the night, yelling and banging on their door.”

  “What time?”

  Shelly pressed her lips together and stroked Labrys. “After 2:00, a little after.”

  Right after the bars closed, I thought. “Drunk?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Shelly nodded. “He said it was my dad’s fault, what happened. He said my dad pushed Varenka into going to Iowa. But that’s not true.” Shelly raised her voice and looked at me. “Varenka always wanted to be a Hawkeye. My dad helped her. I can’t believe Mr. White…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “My dad tried to calm him down, but he just kept yelling and then he—” Shelly dropped her eyes. “Then he punched my dad.”

  I thought about Varenka’s father seething at the season opener, and later at his own home, wanting to toast DeVoster’s death. It was easy to imagine Mr. White hitting someone. Not surprising that it had been Shelly’s father—Varenka’s high school coach, the man who had stolen away some of her admiration, the man who was like a father but couldn’t protect her after all.

  “My mom said my dad’s nose was bleeding. She said she never wanted me around Mr. White again. But later, when I talked to Dad, he said it was no big deal, that she was overreacting.” Shelly sighed.

  I wondered if she’d tried to patch together her own version of the fight, or if she’d realized that it would be a losing game—trying to decide which parent was withholding the most truth.

  “After my dad got Varenka’s dad in some kind of hold, Mom wanted to call the police, but Dad talked her out of it. He said it would only hurt Varenka and her family if people knew. He didn’t even want Varenka’s mom to know, but my mom said she’d be worried. So they called her—Varenka’s mom—and she came over.”

  That left only three suspects: Jessie March, Tyler Bennet, and Lexie Roth.

  “When she got there, Mr. White was still talking trash to my dad, but Paulette—Varenka’s mom—eventually managed to calm him down.”

  Labrys barked and leaned closer toward Shelly. She hadn’t met my gaze once during the last part of her story, and her face was slightly flushed. Was she embarrassed and pained on Varenka’s behalf? Or Mrs.White’s? I wondered about her use of the woman’s first name. “Were you and Paulette close?”

  Shelly tried to push Labrys away, but the dog would not be moved.

  I tried throwing Uggles, her eviscerated stuffed bunny, across the room, but it had no effect. “Sorry,” I said, “she’s one co-dependent canine. If she senses emotional turmoil, she’s off to the rescue.”

  “I’m not in emotional turmoil,” Shelly said evenly.

  I wanted to touch her shoulder—comfort her—but I didn’t. “About you and Paulette,” I prompted.

  Shelly rested a hand on Labry’s back. “She always had something nice to say about my game even when no one else did.”

  In other words, even when the coach—Shelly’s own father—lavished all his praise on other players.

  “She’d be humiliated if she knew that I knew about what her husband did.”

  I was stuck in one hell of a tangled web. People “protecting” each other against the truth until its thread was completely unraveled. “When Paulette concocted her false alibi, you think she was trying to keep Varenka from discovering what her father did to yours?”

  Shelly nodded.

  “What about Kate and Win?” I asked. “Do they know what happened between Varenka’s dad and yours?”

  “None of the girls do.”

  “Then why’d they go along with the fake alibi?”

  “They could tell Varenka wanted them to. We’ve all been wanting to do something for her. You know, help her get back to normal.”

  “Did any of you think about why Varenka would want such a thing?”

  Shelly squirmed, her eyes on Labrys. “She just wanted to make things easier for her parents. She didn’t want them treated like suspects. They’d been through enough.”

  “And why wasn’t Win included in the alibi? Why leave her with none at all?”

  “That was her idea,” Shelly said. “She said she wanted a simpler story to tell the police.”

  She may have also had her doubts about the Whites. If they had been involved with DeVoster’s death, anyone who’d lied on their behalf would be an accessory. Win had her own family to think of. I could sort of understand her actions. And Kate’s and Shelly’s too. Young and naïve—and in Kate’s case, in love—they were trying to help their friend. But Varenka’s mother? I stared at Shelly until she met my eyes. “Paulette asked her own daughter to needlessly cast suspicion on herself?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that.” Shelly scooted to the edge of her chair. “Varenka told her mom that she and Kate didn’t have alibis.”

  A daughter protecting a mother who thought she was protecting the daughter. My head hurt. “Varenka knows about her father’s drinking,” I said.

  “She’s never said anything about it.” Shelly’s voice was defiant, but her brow furrowed.

  I thought about Varenka’s mom—her pride and dignity, her desire to hide her husband’s problem. I thought about Varenka hiding her own desires, hiding from the truth of what DeVoster had done to her. “Maybe she didn’t want you to know about it,” I said gently, “or maybe she didn’t want you and her teammates worrying about her any more than you already were.”

  Shelly started to protest, but I cut her off. “She knows,” I said, “and now you know she knows. Why not tell her the rest?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t.” Shelly stood. “I promised my dad.”

  I rose too although I might as well have rema
ined seated for all the good it did me. Shelly still towered over me, glaring.

  Labrys whimpered, perhaps uncertain about which of us was most in need of her ministrations. I knelt next to her and stroked her side. “These lies aren’t helping anyone.” I waited until Shelly met my eyes. “Don’t you see? Varenka is afraid that her dad killed DeVoster.”

  Shelly’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. Pain? Worry? Defeat?

  “A drunken fight is nothing compared to that,” I said. “You’d be doing Varenka a favor if you told her the truth.”

  “Some favor.” Shelly scoffed and struggled with her coat. “If you tell her, I’ll deny it.” She was out the door before I could ask a single question about my other suspects.

  But I didn’t rule out Varenka’s parents strictly on the basis of Shelly’s tale. After she left, I did an online search and got the names and numbers of all five bars in Independence, Iowa. I was on the phone with the last of them when Vince barged in the front door and dashed up the stairs, with Labrys barking at his heels.

  “You gotta a loud office there, Miss,” said the scratchy voice on the other end of the line. “What kinda survey didja say this was?”

  I wanted to follow Vince up the stairs and tell him about Anne and Neale, but I couldn’t put Jodine Tallman on hold. “I’m with the American Wellness and Leisure Institute.” I honeyed my voice until it oozed with good will and professionalism. “We’re conducting a study on the drinking habits of rural men.”

  “What for?”

  No dupe, this Jodine. I needed something that would get her talking. “Our hypothesis is that men who consume alcohol in bars are less prone to health problems than men who drink in their own homes.”

  “Say what?” Jodine yelled at someone to turn down the damn jukebox.

  I repeated my “hypothesis,” and Vince thudded around upstairs. What was he doing home in the middle of the afternoon?

  “That sounds about right,” Jodine said. “How many questions you got?”

  “Just a few,” I answered. “How many patrons do you usually serve on a weeknight?”

  “That depends on the special. We got Monday Millers, Tuesday tonics, Wednesday…”

  I like alliteration as much as the next girl, but what I like even more is when an interviewee gives me a smooth segue to a question I really want to ask. “What about Fridays?” I asked. “How many patrons do you usually serve then?”

  “Friday is our best night on account of Friday Freebies. 5:00-6:00, everybody gets a free draw, and then most folks stay put.”

  “Until close?”

  “Nah, only a few stay ’til then. Kids mostly. But legal. I don’t serve them underage.”

  “Of course not. Were you there at close this Friday?”

  “Me and my granddaughter, Leona.”

  “What about patrons?”

  “This past Friday was a bit unusual. We had a problem.”

  I felt a prickle of excitement. “What kind of problem?”

  “It ain’t gonna matter for your study.”

  This woman was really putting my bullshitting abilities to the test. “It might,” I said. “Part of our hypothesis is that bartenders know how to handle problem drinkers better than regular citizens.”

  “Amen to that,” Jodine said.

  “So what was the problem?”

  “A man who’d recently fallen off the wagon got sloppy drunk.”

  So far her description fit Mr. White.

  “I woulda never served him, but Leona, she didn’t know his story.”

  “An honest mistake,” I said.

  “That’s right, and we didn’t want to make any more, if you get my meaning. We don’t want no accidents coming out of our place. I took his keys—he’d left them right on the bar—and offered to drive him home, but he was stubborn as a mule. Kept saying I’d stolen his car and he was calling the police. I told him to go ahead so they could lock him up for public intox. Then he just grunted and stumbled off.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Labrys and Vince thundered down the steps. Vince held a few hangered suits in front of him as if they were a battle-shield. I silently motioned him over. He paused and signaled me to wind it up.

  “Ordinarily I woulda,” Jodine said, “but I knew this man and his wife, and I didn’t want to add to their troubles.”

  Vince pantomimed impatience, tapping his foot and checking his watch. Labrys wagged her tail.

  “You say they were having trouble?” Vince headed to the door, and I went after him. “What kind of trouble?”

  “You don’t really need to know that for your survey, do you?”

  Vince held his watch up and mouthed that he was late.

  I held up a finger. One minute. “It might help create a context for his excessive drinking.”

  Sorry, Vince mouthed, and he was out the door

  I peered through its window, and Labrys pawed at its bottom. I hoped she had no urgent need to go out.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Jodine said.

  Vince carefully placed his suits in the backseat of Richard’s car.

  “How old was the man?”

  “Forty, forty-five.”

  “What about his height?”

  “Tall as they come. Used to be quite a cager back in the day.”

  Richard’s car pulled out of the driveway.

  I’d verified Shelly’s story and eliminated Varenka’s parents as suspects, but my triumph felt small. There was no one to share it with.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Varenka trailed the other players as they rumbled down the floor on a fast break. Given her tearful admission earlier that morning, I was impressed that she’d even shown up for practice. But Bridget had higher expectations. “Come on, V! Quit standing around. Make a cut!”

  Jessie caught the ball near the lane and, despite a hand in her face, sank a fade-away jumper, hanging in midair, tantalizing her defender, before releasing the ball. Such power and strength, such controlled physicality. I shivered as DeVoster’s injuries pressed themselves upon my consciousness.

  “Varenka!” Bridget shouted. “You gonna play defense today?”

  The poor girl glanced over at her coach and wiped her face with her shirt.

  I have no idea how athletes endure their coaches’ yelling and jibes. But Bridget’s antics didn’t seem to bother anyone but me. The other two assistants were doing their own share of shouting while Shelly and a male manager leaned calmly over clipboards. Shelly sighed as Varenka missed yet another chippie.

  “How many is that?” Bridget asked.

  “Five,” Shelly said.

  Bridget sighed too and took off her jacket, revealing a T-shirt that touted the team’s Big Ten championship last year.

  I wanted to reassure her that they could win again, that Varenka would get her game back once she knew that her parents were off the hook. But truth be told, the young woman would have a full plate for a good long time—especially if someone else she loved turned out to be DeVoster’s murderer.

  Varenka got beat on defense, and Bridget printed something on a clipboard. Her hand moved across the paper, fiercely and purposefully.

  Jessie sank a three. If the rookie had a guilty conscience, it wasn’t affecting her game. I hoped I wasn’t wasting my time, waiting for practice to end so I could ask her about taping DeVoster’s funeral. Then again, the alternative had been staying home and throwing myself the mother of all pity parties.

  “Box out! Box out!” Bridget yelled again. Nothing kept her down long. The day her ex left, she probably did nothing more than call a quick mental timeout and draw up a new game plan. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t get over one ex before I acquired another. If lugging emotional baggage were an Olympic event, I’d be a gold medalist.

  The players on offense—Varenka’s team—were really struggling against their teammates’ zone, tossing the ball around the perimeter, wasting clock. After Varenka launched a wild jump shot,
Bridget blew her whistle and barked the name of a drill. Varenka started to line up behind her teammates, but Bridget waved her over. Me, I would have been far from eager for a private chat with the woman who’d been verbally assaulting me, but Varenka sprinted right over. “Pass,” Bridget said. “You don’t have to do it all.” Varenka nodded. I expected Bridget to rail about poor shot selection, but instead, she rested a hand on Varenka’s waist. “You’re showing a lot of heart this practice. Keep it up.”

  Here was a side of Bridget I hadn’t noticed before. Gruffly maternal. Sure, she’d been doggedly protective of her team all along, but that, I’d assumed, had been all about wins. Now, it seemed, she cared about her players as people. That made her hush-hush homosexuality all the more puzzling. She seemed to understand her own power: one kind word from Coach, and all was right with the world. How dare she encourage her lesbian players to closet themselves? How dare she leave Varenka defenseless against the DeVosters of the world?

  I shifted in my hard plastic chair, growing angrier and angrier. If older lesbians didn’t look out for younger ones, who would? Bridget, of course, believed that she was doing what was best. What a closet case. Just like Neale.

  As the team shifted into some sort of suicide drill, the arena echoed with the squeaks of shoes against the floor. I was close enough to hear the players’ grunting and ragged breathing, but I was an observer, nothing more.

  * * *

  Practice ended, and I stopped Jessie March just as she was about to enter the tunnel to the locker room. She was glazed with sweat and noisily sucking a water bottle. When I said that I needed to ask her a couple more questions, she smiled and faced the court again. Bridget conferred with the other coaches, Varenka practiced her mid-range jumper, and Shelly rebounded for her.

  “Can we make this quick?” Jessie said. “I got class tonight.” Her eyes were on Varenka.

  “I noticed you were taping DeVoster’s memorial service.”

  She nodded, her gaze still on her teammate.