Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  Kate’s face soured.

  “Tell her,” Win said.

  The downstairs bass pounded to a stop.

  Kate sighed, her shoulders caving. “J-jessie was there. L-like Win said.”

  Win glared at her teammate. “What were you thinking—trying to get Jessie in trouble?”

  Kate refused to look at either of us.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You two and Jessie all willingly sacrificed perfectly good alibis in order to shield Varenka’s parents?”

  “She was real worried about them,” Win said, “and we agreed we’d tell the truth if any of us became serious suspects.” She shot Kate another scorching look.

  Unless I’d just been treated to an elaborately staged scene, Jessie March had a fairly solid alibi, compliments of a woman who wanted to hurt her. That left Lexie, the Machiavellian reporter, or Tyler, the world’s most sensitive male athlete, to take Anne’s place in jail. I tried to tell myself that narrowing my list of suspects was a good thing.

  * * *

  One more brick wall and I could build a mansion. My remaining suspects were nowhere to be found, Vince and Orchid weren’t answering their phones, and my junk food larder contained only one fun-size Snickers. Talk about a misnomer. The less chocolate, the less fun—it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. Unwrapping my tiny ration, I lay on my couch and stared at the ceiling. An army of dead bugs huddled in the center of my light fixture. Across the room, Labrys whimpered in her sleep, oblivious and uncaring.

  I pressed the redial button, and Orchid’s phone rang in my ear. But there was no answer. No answers and no one to talk to—that was me. For all I knew, Anne had been transferred to some maximum-security prison five states away, and Neale had taken up with a beautiful, young thing with a fetish for heartless, workaholic cops. At least Neale and I hadn’t moved in together, not like me and Anne—or Bridget and her ex.

  Bridget.

  There was somebody I could call—somebody I should call. She deserved to know that I’d cleared all her players. In fact, I’d be remiss if I didn’t phone. Swinging my legs to the floor and sitting up straight, I dialed her number.

  And got a busy signal. I should have interpreted it as a cautionary omen, but I didn’t. Instead, I decided to drive back to Bridget’s and give her the good news in person.

  * * *

  By the time I got there, I’d lost some of my enthusiasm. Would I look silly? It had barely been two hours since we’d bid each other adieu, yet there I was standing on her doorstep, my hand mere inches from her doorbell. I recalled our awkward silences and stepped back. As the branches of a pine tree rustled against her condo, a cold gust whipped my jacket open. I wasn’t dressed for outdoor dithering. Retreat or advance? Which was it going to be?

  I needed to ask more questions about Lexie and Tyler. There was no doubt about that. And Bridget had offered me a sympathetic ear. What was more, she had revealed a rift between her mentor and herself. She’d sacrificed the appearance of their united front: she’d betrayed her beloved Coach. Why? No reason—unless she had done it for me.

  My own motivations received a less thorough scrutiny, and thus the doorbell tolled for Bridget.

  Her raised eyebrows snapped me back to reality. It was half past 10:00 on a weeknight, and I was dropping by unannounced. She was already in her pajamas—flannel pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, worn thin with age—and her dark curls were shiny and wet from a recent shampoo. I sputtered something about how I just happened to be driving by, and Bridget’s eyebrows rose further. “I have some good news,” I said.

  At that, she stepped aside and ushered me in. My glasses steamed over as I followed her up the stairs. At the top, I took them off, and everything blurred. I’ve always felt oddly incomplete without my glasses. Usually, I can’t talk on the phone or even think without them. Not that I always do a bang-up job with them on. They were half-clear when I returned them to my face, so I could see Bridget’s feet as she helped me with my jacket. “How about another Killian’s?” she said.

  I remained next to the chortling aquarium as she popped open two beers. When she handed me one, my glasses were nearly back to normal. If only I could say the same for myself.

  “Take a load off,” Bridget headed to the couch, “and tell me this good news.”

  I glanced around the room. On the TV, two basketball players were frozen mid-play. The shorter one had just flown past her defender in the lane. Across from the TV was an easy chair with some notebooks on its seat. “You were working, weren’t you? I should go.”

  “Don’t be silly. I was about to call it a night anyway.”

  I kept my eyes on the screen.

  “The player with the ball,” Bridget said, “she’s predictable. Likes to go left.”

  “What else can you tell?” There. After I shared my news, we’d have something to chat about while we finished our drinks. I took a huge gulp.

  Suddenly, the hoopsters vanished, and a Seinfeld rerun flashed on the screen. George Costanza’s mother brayed until Bridget managed to find the off-button. Then, excruciating silence. Finally, Bridget extended her beer toward mine. “To good news.”

  We clinked bottles, and I sat on one end of the couch. She sat in the center, literally on the edge of her seat. Her elbows rested on her knees, and her head twisted toward me. Except for her beer and pajamas—and her eyes on me—she was in her usual coaching stance. I took another drink and told her that she didn’t need to worry about me troubling her players or Varenka’s parents anymore, that even though I couldn’t go into the details, I’d verified all their alibis.

  As I talked, all I could think about was Anne behind bars, alone and afraid. “That leaves me with two suspects,” I said, “Lexie and Tyler.” Much to my chagrin, my voice cracked. “Everybody worships Tyler, and Lexie has managed to deflect suspicion away from herself and onto Anne.”

  “Mara?” Bridget’s voice was gentle.

  I squeezed my hands around my beer and blinked back tears. “Neither of them was home tonight,” I said. “I looked for Tyler at the Arena, and Lexie at the Daily Iowan office, but they weren’t there either.”

  She touched my arm, and I started crying. “What if I can’t figure out who did it?” I sputtered through the rest. Anne could be convicted and imprisoned. Anne, who had tried to help Varenka, who had worked her whole life against violence.

  “Ssh,” Bridget took my beer, wrapped an arm around me, and pulled me toward her.

  The waterworks were really going now. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She stroked my hair and guided my head to her shoulder. The day’s events spiraled through my mind: Varenka sobbing and blaming herself, Orchid panicking and desperate, Anne in jail, Neale calling it quits—and me, unable to do anything about any of it. I dabbed at my nose and eyes with my Kleenex and tried to catch my breath. Bridget’s shoulder was soft, and I became aware of her own breathing, her chest slowly rising and falling under my head. I could hear her heart beat. Even though I’d been crying, I fancied that I could smell a trace of her shampoo, earthy and musky. And even though I could have used another Kleenex, I didn’t want to leave her arms.

  But what to do with my own arms? Tentatively, I reached a hand and rested it lightly on her thigh. My heart started thumping, and as she placed her free hand on mine, a current surged through my entire body. She kissed my forehead, and I lifted my face to hers. In that moment, our lips nearly touching, I wanted nothing so much as to kiss her. But she pulled away and handed me the box of Kleenex.

  What had I been thinking? My swollen nose and bloodshot eyes must have been a real turn-on. Not to mention my messed up life. I’d been getting hot and bothered while she’d been playing good Samaritan. I blew my nose, racking my brain for an exit line.

  “Mara.” Bridget’s hand was on my back again.

  I couldn’t bear to look at her, but somehow I couldn’t force myself off the couch.

  Bridget kept saying my name until I
looked at her. “I don’t want you to misunderstand,” she said.

  I looked away again, bracing myself for the whole just-friends speech. My day wasn’t simply in the toilet. It was in the deep, dark recesses of the sewer.

  “I like you a lot…”

  My face burned with embarrassment as I waited for the big but.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you,” Bridget said. “I find you fascinating.”

  Why, oh why, couldn’t she be merciful and get this over quickly?

  “I’ve had a crush on you for a long time.”

  What?

  “Since that time you interviewed me about Title Nine. You tried so hard. No way was I taking your bait, but you kept rephrasing your questions.”

  That interview was a long time ago—had it been before I’d met Neale?—while Bridget had probably still been with the tenure-seeking feminist.

  “You were so damn cute and persistent.”

  How had I not noticed Bridget’s crush?

  “I’d like to see if we could have something together, but it hasn’t been that long since Felicity left me, and you—just today, well, you…”

  “Got dumped.” I finished the sentence for her.

  “Mara.” She brushed her fingertips along my jaw line and smiled. “Rebounding is for basketball.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You have more love-interests than suspects,” Vince said.

  I didn’t bother arguing. I was just glad he was home when I’d returned from Bridget’s. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he’d apologized profusely for abandoning me and that he’d brought me a peace offering in the form of a triple chocolate torte. We dug into it as I explained my investigative dilemmas.

  “If I were you,” Vince said, “I’d ask Lexie to write a story about how the women’s team is trying to raise money for Anne’s defense.”

  I licked some frosting off my fork and thought about it. Lexie would be all over a human-interest piece like that, and Anne would get a lot more donations.

  Vince launched into his Haley Mills imitation. “It’s a scathingly brilliant idea,” he said. “Weren’t you planning to show up at her place super early tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “The story could be your excuse. Then you could subtly ease into interrogation mode.”

  Subtlety isn’t my strong suit, but I had to admit, Vince’s plan was pretty decent. “I wish I knew what to ask her.”

  “What about your other suspect—the guy who used to play behind DeVoster?” Vince pushed his empty plate away. “Didn’t you say she was watching him at the memorial service?”

  “She didn’t want to talk about him, though.”

  “Lois Lane was just guarding her story. She’ll talk if you offer her some scoop.”

  “I don’t have any.” I did, of course, but it was about the women’s team. And that, I wasn’t going to share with anyone, not even Vince.

  “Make something up,” he said. “Tell her that what’s-his-name is taking steroids.”

  “Tyler Bennet.”

  “No, wait. I know.” Vince grabbed his fork. “Bennet and DeVoster were having a torrid affair, and things went south.”

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes. “Two guys who hardly spoke to each other.”

  “In public,” Vince protested.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mar-Bar. You’ll have Anne out of the slammer before you can say habeas corpus.”

  “I hope so.”

  He leaned across the table and helped himself to the frosting on my plate.

  “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He hates getting up early, but I figured he’d make an exception, given my status as a recent dumpee.

  “I’ve got to be at the Shelter extremely early tomorrow. And I want to be well-rested. The head inspector is to die for.”

  The Shelter’s annual inspection. I’d forgotten. I picked up our plates and took them to the sink.

  “Ask Bridget,” he said. “It’ll be a bonding experience. Savor the rosebuds while ye may.”

  “Vince,” I said, “it hasn’t even been 24 hours since I was dumped.” But I wondered how much time would need to pass before Bridget no longer considered me on the rebound.

  * * *

  Vince nearly walloped me as he swiveled in the passenger seat, flicked on my car’s interior light, and peered into the rearview mirror. “After losing so much sleep, I’m going to look positively drab. That inspector won’t give me a second glance.” He stroked his goatee. “Have you noticed any silver in my beard?”

  “Stop it,” I snapped. “I need to see if there’s a car behind me.”

  “Trust me.” Vince turned the light off. “There’s not. It’s 4:00 a.m. We’re the only fools who aren’t abed.”

  “You’re awake enough to complain.” I reached for my travel mug and sipped my coffee. I needed the brew in my system ASAP, but it was too hot to gulp.

  “It’s so early—Lexie Roth isn’t going to be able to remember her own name,” Vince said, “let alone answer your questions.”

  “We’ll be sure to catch her.”

  “In a bad mood,” Vince muttered. “You’d think an ambitious reporter would live in town where the action is. How much further?”

  “Just a couple miles.” We’d driven past the south edge of Iowa City about five minutes before and were immersed in total darkness. No streetlights, no stars.

  “How are we going to see it?

  “It’s past a curve.”

  “Mar-Bar, this road has more curves than J-Lo.”

  I was having second, third, and fourth thoughts about why I’d brought Vince along, but thankfully, he remained silent until we reached Lexie’s. Gravel crunched under my tires, and my headlights flashed on the bare trees that lined her long and windy driveway. Finally, the beams revealed a tiny house nestled amid some pines.

  “All that driveway for this?” Vince said. “How utterly anticlimactic.”

  As I turned off the ignition, my car rattled and sputtered. It’s grown noisier in its golden years. I left the lights on so we could make our way to the door.

  “Here’s hoping the battery is good,” Vince said.

  As we neared the front door, the wooden porch creaked, and a sharp wind hissed through the pines. I was glad to have Vince by my side. If Lexie were indeed a killer, I didn’t want to be alone with her out in the boonies. I pushed the doorbell and studied the boxes and piles of recycling that filled Lexie’s porch. A gust opened a magazine and whirred through its pages, but I heard nothing from inside.

  “I hope she doesn’t mistake us for burglars and greet us with a shotgun.” Vince said.

  “Do burglars knock?” I rang the bell again and pounded on the door.

  “She might not be thinking clearly in the middle of the night,” Vince said. “Few people do. Take you, for instance, and this plan—”

  “Ssh. I hear steps.”

  Vince leaned toward the house. “I don’t hear a single thing except my teeth chattering.”

  I pummeled the door. “Lexie,” I called. “It’s Mara Gilgannon.”

  “You need to go Marlon Brando.” Vince tilted his head back and bellowed, “Stella, Stell-aah!” Then he shouted Lexie’s name a few times and gave up.

  The magazine pages kept rippling. What if Lexie had spent the night somewhere else, and we’d gotten up early for nothing? “Lexie,” I yelled, “we’ve got scoop about DeVoster.”

  The porch flooded with light, and the door flew open. There she stood, wearing black and gold sweats. Smack-dab in the middle of Lexie’s chest was a glow-in-the-dark Nike basketball.

  She followed my gaze and tried to shut the door, but Vince and I pushed our way in.

  “This is harassment,” she said. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Tell them to hurry. They’ll be eager to see your lounge wear.”

  The wind slammed the door shut, and we all ju
mped.

  Lexie’s eyes were puffy, and a lacy pillowcase had left its imprint across one of her cheeks. Her hair rivaled Medusa’s. “What do you want?” Lexie glanced at Vince. “Who’s this?”

  I ignored her questions. “Where did you get those sweats?”

  Lexie tried to smooth her hair out of her face. “I don’t have to answer you.”

  “True. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can phone the police and tell them about your telltale clothes.”

  “I’ll get rid of them,” Lexie said.

  “It matters not.” Vince whipped out his phone. “I’ll take a few candids before calling the men in blue.”

  “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe we’ll send a few photos to the papers. And you can have a taste of your own medicine.”

  Lexie lunged for the phone, and I lunged for her.

  “Careful,” Vince said. “This cost a pretty—”

  “Leave her alone,” another male voice said. “I gave her the sweats.”

  Tyler Bennet tightened his robe, loped down the dimly lit hallway, and eased himself onto a futon couch.

  Color me flummoxed. My remaining suspects were bedfellows?

  Lexie rushed to Tyler’s side, her eyes on me. “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I’m not promising anything. It’s your fault Anne Golding is in jail.”

  She reached for Tyler’s hand. “I was just trying to stir things up for DeVoster. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You misrepresented her,” I said, “and now she’s facing a murder charge.”

  “Ladies,” Vince said, “surely we can discuss this in a civil manner?”

  “I think the ship pretty much sailed on civil when you woke us up in the middle of the night.” Tyler cracked his knuckles and stared at Vince.

  I scanned the living room, trying to formulate a new plan. Behind Lexie and Tyler was a Degas print, one with dancers. Lexie had the body and posture of someone who’d once studied ballet. No slouching for her come hell or high water.

  Well, I could be poised too. I flipped on a floor lamp and gestured for Vince to join me on the loveseat across from the futon. The message was clear: we weren’t going anywhere until we got some answers.