Murder by Mascot

by Mary Vermillion

  “Feel like horsing around?” Gary’s bright and energetic tone told me that a cheesy human-interest story was in the offing. “You can win the opportunity to play a game of HORSE with your favorite men’s or women’s Hawkeye basketball player.” He explained that there would be ten lucky winners, and he listed a bunch of places you could buy $5 raffle tickets. “All proceeds will go to the Crisis Center and its food pantry,” Gary said. “Play HORSE with the Hawkeyes and help the hungry.”

  After that alliterative frenzy, I pulled onto the street.

  “Yesterday,” Gary said, “I had the opportunity to talk with Hawkeyes Tyler Bennet and Jessie March.” As the two hoopsters discussed the pantry and the growing numbers of people who needed it, I considered the possibility that they’d worked together to end DeVoster’s life. Neither had a rock solid alibi. Tyler had only his girlfriend, and Jessie had only her teammates—Kate and Win. Granted, Kate despised Jessie, but she still might have lied on the rookie’s behalf for the sake of the team. And, of course, both Jessie and Tyler had been involved with Varenka. Jessie had been one of the few people to cast blame on Tyler, but maybe that had been intended to throw me off. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I needed more than wild guesses.

  Gary asked Tyler and Jessie how many players would participate in the fundraiser.

  “All the guys,” Tyler said. “It’ll be fun to play HORSE with our fans. We enjoy getting involved with the community.”

  “In this game of HORSE,” Gary said, “everyone wins.”

  Including Eldon Bly. What a transparent attempt to polish his program’s tarnished reputation. I wondered how Bridget felt about her players being used as PR pawns. The interview with Jessie and Tyler had clearly been designed to reveal a common bond between the two teams. One great big happy family.

  I parked in front of Varenka and Shelly’s apartment and tried to recover a question that had been forming at the edges of my consciousness. But it was gone. Across the street, a worn basketball net fluttered in the wind, taunting me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Like the door to her apartment, Varenka’s eyes were barely open. “What do you want now?” she asked in a slow scratchy whisper. “What’s happened?” Alarm crept into her voice.

  She’d been through so much, and here I was, waking her up and scaring her. As I assured her nothing was wrong and went through a litany of apologies, Varenka loosened her grip on the door and opened it a bit further. Her fingernails were painted a soft pink. A sign, perhaps, that she was taking good care of herself, that she would be OK. “This won’t take long,” I said. “I just need to ask you a few questions about Ryesha Anderson.”

  Varenka gazed at me blankly.

  “Roshaun’s younger sister. She was a cheerleader.”

  “Why do you want to know about her?”

  I’d been prepared for this question. “I’m contacting all the cheerleaders to see what they know about DeVoster.”

  Varenka nodded and gestured me in. We both remained standing next to the dining room table. On its surface, a stack of books towered behind a nearly empty bag of Doritos. She apologized for the mess, and I assured her it was no big deal. “About Ryesha?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know her very well.”

  “She’s in a group photo in your room,” I said. “Were any of the people in that photo close to her?”

  Varenka went to her bedroom and returned with the picture. Grasping the frame with both hands, she gazed at it and sighed. “She probably spent some time with Tyler Bennet. He and Roshaun used to be kind of tight.”

  My heart quickened. What if Lexie was wrong and Tyler already knew what DeVoster had done to his friend’s sister?

  “I think she mostly hung out with other cheerleaders.”

  I held out my hand, and Varenka gave me the picture. Most of the cheerleaders in it were white, but none of them were tall.

  “Shelly could answer your questions better than me,” Varenka said, “but she’s not here right now.”

  “Where is she?”

  Varenka’s brow furrowed. “What time is it?”

  I glanced at my watch and told her that it was 5:30ish.

  Her frown deepened. “She’s probably at the arena. I think she was going to rebound for Win. Or maybe Jess.”

  “If you want to talk to her today,” Varenka said, “you better hurry. Shell has a flight to catch this morning. To Michigan, I think. She’s going to her great-aunt’s funeral.”

  “What time does her plane leave?”

  “Early was all she told me.” Varenka paused and looked up as if she was trying to remember the exact departure time. “You know,” she said, “it might have been a regular aunt who died. I can’t remember exactly.”

  * * *

  I braced myself for another wild goose chase as I pulled off Hawkins Drive into the parking lot across from Carver-Hawkeye. It was only 6:00 a.m., so I could have parked in the nearly empty lot next to the arena, but I wasn’t taking any more chances with the parking police. I steered my Omni into a well-lit spot and took a long drink of cold coffee. Labrys barked and whined until I let her out. Big mistake. She raced away from me—away from the arena—toward the makeshift shrine that surrounded Marilyn MonHerky. I was glad that the dog was still spry after my fender-bender, but I was less than thrilled to see her doing her business on a black and gold bouquet. By the time I caught up with her, she was wagging her tail as if expecting praise for the desecration. Dead leaves skittered across the sidewalk, and I imagined the killer stalking me.

  “Come on, girl,” I said softly, hoping she’d follow me back to the car. Instead, she grabbed a small stuffed Herky with her mouth and dropped it at my feet.

  OK. I could work with this. I picked up the soggy bird and flung it toward the parking lot. Labrys dashed after it, and I took a few steps forward before she returned. I’m no softball star, but little by little, throw after throw, we made it back to the car.

  The dog wasn’t about to forfeit her freedom, however. I tossed the bird on the back seat, but Labrys simply cocked her head. Ruing the fact that I hadn’t brought any doggie treats or a leash, I grabbed my cell phone and slammed the door. At least I wouldn’t have to enter the stadium alone. Huge deserted buildings creep me out.

  So much so that I delayed our entrance by examining the big gouge on the driver’s side of my front bumper. No way would I be able to afford fixing it and the pickup. In fact, I should have taken my chances with the police and let my insurance company pay for his damage. My premiums would have risen, but I’d have something to donate to Anne’s defense. Hindsight can be downright discouraging.

  As Labrys and I waited to cross Hawkins Drive, a Cambus droned past us toward “The Hawk,” a monstrous metallic sculpture of our mascot, swooping down on some hapless prey. Its wings were silhouetted against the football team’s practice bubble. Labrys sniffed at a tree to my right: the Chris Street Memorial, a tree planted in honor of a basketball player who’d been killed in a car accident some ten years ago.

  When the traffic finally cleared, Labrys and I crossed against the light. The sky was turning a murky white behind the cage-like metal bars that crowned Carver-Hawkeye Arena. They made me think of Anne in jail, so I picked up my pace, hissing at Labrys when she paused to check out Elvis Herky.

  The doors to the right of the bird were Exit Only, so we headed toward the South Entrance. Its doors were all locked. Through their glass, I could see that the arena lights were on, but there was a concourse and 40-some rows of seats between me and the basketball court. If Shelly and Win—or Jess?—were down there on the court like Varenka thought, they wouldn’t hear me tug and pound on the door. The wind whipped through my hair and stung my cheeks as Labrys and I retraced our steps. We were just past the exit doors when a car crept through the parking lot. “Come on,” I said, “Let’s see how they get in.” Labrys abandoned a gold hydrant, and we negotiated a cluster of bare trees and bushes, hustling past the West Entrance.

  I
froze.

  Tyler Bennet sauntered toward the Ticket Office door. His red hair was unmistakable even in the semi-darkness, and if he turned around, he’d be able to identify mine too. I didn’t want him to know I was there, and I didn’t relish the idea of being in the nearly empty stadium with him—not when I still suspected him of killing DeVoster. I held my breath, praying that Labrys wouldn’t bark. At the door, Tyler paused, and my heart beat a manic conga. He glanced to his left, but not all the way around, and entered. I exhaled and started shivering. Labrys licked my hand, bounded in front of me, stopped, and waited. Time to forge ahead.

  Unfortunately, the door that had opened for Tyler remained firmly locked for me—even after I yanked on it three or four times.

  Now what?

  Labrys barked and ran toward a set of concrete stairs. I had nothing to lose except my footing, so I began following her down them. Under sporadically placed lights, there were piles of leaves and cigarette butts. At the end of the first flight, I looked up and saw headlights flash on Highway 6. A taxi turned onto Newton Street, zipping past its row of apartments. I was descending toward the very back of the arena. Two more flights wound around a humming generator before Labrys and I arrived at a loading dock. She scampered back and forth between garbage cans, nearly knocking over a couple of folding chairs. A smokers’ haunt, I imagined, where weary maintenance folks took their breaks. A few university vans were parked in the lot. All empty.

  I turned toward the building and gazed at the door. If it wasn’t unlocked, I’d have to cool my heels until Roshaun or his mother called me back. And I wouldn’t get to talk to Shelly until she returned from her aunt’s funeral. Whenever that might be.

  I pulled my hand out of my jacket pocket and placed it on the doorknob. Its cold metal turned easily. When I peeked inside, I saw the tunnel that led past the locker rooms to the arena floor. On my left was a Caterpillar surrounded by crates, flats, dollies, and traffic cones. On my right was a tiny office. The guy at the desk simply gave me a bored glance before returning to his paperwork. I took advantage of his apathy and let Labrys in.

  As she checked out the Caterpillar, I peered through the bars of the equipment room. Shelly wasn’t there amid the towers of towels, so we moved on. The tunnel’s walls were Hawkeye gold, and its ceiling festooned with Big Ten banners. The bright colors set me on edge. Something was off. An I-shaped window in the weight room door revealed a silver-haired guy spotting a tiny woman. She benched a laden barbell as if its weights were made of cotton candy. A gymnast and her trainer, I figured. Labrys wagged her tail at them, prancing alongside me, her nails clicking on the concrete. Click, click, click. That was it. It was too quiet. No one was dribbling. No one was shooting.

  When Labrys and I neared the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, there was no one on our end of the court. And when we stepped into the stadium proper, the court was empty. As I gazed up at the empty seats, row upon row, rising to Brobdignagian heights, I felt small. And insignificant. Looming above me were blank scoreboards and unreadable banners, an American flag that looked no bigger than a sheet of notebook paper.

  Something squeaked.

  I whirled around, but no one was there. I studied the press section and then moved my eyes back up to the concourse, tracing the railing at its perimeter. On the opposite side of the court stood a tall figure with a basketball at one hip. “Shelly?” I called.

  The figure waved and started down the steps. What if it wasn’t her? What if it was Tyler or his coach or someone else who wouldn’t appreciate my presence? I wanted to bolt, but I held my ground. “Shelly?” I called again.

  The figure paused halfway down the stairs. “Mara?”

  It was Shelly. I could make out her ponytail atop her broad shoulders.

  There was that squeak again. If there was someone else in the stadium—someone dangerous—Labrys wouldn’t protect me, not when there was spilled pop to lick off the bleachers.

  Shelly slowly dribbled the ball across the court. Except for her tennis shoes, she was in street clothes—black low-rise jeans and a tight burgundy top that didn’t quite meet the top of her jeans. These days, neither rain nor sleet nor snow can keep young women from baring their navels. Not that I dislike female navels, but surely they should be covered when the temperature dips below freezing. I wondered if Shelly would change before her aunt’s funeral, and I snapped to my senses. “I’m sorry about your aunt.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be real different not having her around.” She gave me a puzzled look.

  “Varenka told me,” I said.

  Labrys moved to a new area of the bleachers and began slurping again.

  “She said you were going to rebound for someone before catching a plane to the funeral.”

  Shelly nodded and dropped her eyes to the court’s wooden surface. It was two or three inches higher than the concrete around it. I could use those inches when talking with her, so I stepped onto hardwood.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I have some questions about Roshaun’s sister, Ryesha.” I’d need my finesse game if I wanted to tease out Shelly’s knowledge without revealing my own.

  “What questions?” Shelly held the basketball behind her back.

  I decided to give her the same lie I gave Varenka. “I’m contacting all the cheerleaders to see what they know about DeVoster.”

  Again, the squeak.

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you here,” I said, “but I couldn’t reach Roshaun and I wanted to catch you before you left town.”

  Shelly moved the ball back in front of her and bounced it hard with one hand, then the other. “Ryesha and I aren’t friends. I didn’t start dating Roshaun until after she left.”

  Crap. “Who was she close to?”

  “Nobody, really.”

  Double crap. “Has Roshaun ever said anything about why she left?”

  Shelly’s gray eyes drilled into mine. “He thought it was a race thing. Ryesha was the only black cheerleader. The only black person in most of her classes.”

  So, I thought, Ryesha had given her brother part of the truth, and he had mistaken it for the whole. “Do you know when he’s going to be back in town?”

  “He’s got class this morning.” She checked her watch and gazed past me toward the tunnel.

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  Shelly’s brow furrowed. “Jessie.”

  Labrys bounded over and sniffed the ball. Shelly raised it above her head and stepped off the court. “Let’s keep the dog off the hardwood,” she said, nodding me toward the concrete and tossing me the ball. Labrys dashed after it, but not before I could throw it back. Canine keep-away.

  When the ball smacked into my hands the second time, it occurred to me that I was playing basketball—sort of—near a Division I court. Giddy from too much coffee and too little sleep, I asked Shelly to hold Labrys’s collar, and I dribbled toward the nearest hoop for a layup.

  Labrys barked as I chased after my miss.

  “If you find her a big patch of yummy spilled pop,” I said, “she’ll stay off the court. Then you can shoot with me until Jessie gets here.”

  As if to prove me right, the dog began licking the floor.

  “Let’s play HORSE,” I said.

  Shelly released Labrys and folded her arms over her chest.

  “Come on.” I took a shot from near the free throw line and made it. “One game.” When would I have this opportunity again? Even Anne in her jail cell wouldn’t begrudge me this chance to pretend to be a Hawkeye.

  Shelly sighed and strolled back onto the court. “I’ll rebound.”

  Once more I heard the squeak, but I wasn’t so nervous now that I’d found Shelly. I dribbled the ball. “It’ll be more fun if we both shoot.”

  “Sorry.” Shelly paused near the three-point line.

  Then I remembered what Jessie told me about Shelly. When she started managing the Hawks, she had vowed never to shoot again. A drama-queen kind
of vow, if you asked me. I dribbled out past the three-point line and squared up to the basket. As the ball left my hands, arcing toward the rim, I remembered something else. The story Roshaun’s mother told me about the last time her son and Shelly visited. They’d been awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night, she’d said. About the time of DeVoster’s murder. She hadn’t said that—I’d made the connection myself. Maybe that’s why I missed her lie, the one about the next morning when she watched Roshaun and Shelly playing HORSE in her driveway.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  My trey dropped through the net and bounced a couple times before Shelly retrieved it and sent me a bounce pass. Reliable, responsible Shelly. She was tall and white with access to the telltale sweats. She had a motive. And now she had no alibi. Had she killed DeVoster? Or had it been Roshaun? One thing I knew for sure—his mother had lied for them. And I could guess why. Not simply because she loved them, but because she also loved her daughter, Ryesha, and she knew what DeVoster had done to her.

  I dribbled the ball furiously. Theory, mere guesswork. It would take more than that to get Anne out of jail.

  “You going to shoot or not?” Shelly scowled and tugged at her ponytail. Her hands were the size of softball gloves.

  The squeak pierced the quiet. I tightened my grip on the ball and glanced around.

  “It’s the ad signs.” Shelly pointed at a scoreboard. “They squeak when the ads change.”

  The sign next to the slot for the Visitor’s score looked like a Venetian blind opening and closing as a real estate ad metamorphosed into a Wendy’s promo—burger, fries, and Coke.

  “I don’t think they ever stop,” Shelly said, “not even when the place is empty.”

  Sweating badly, I wanted to remove my jacket, but I couldn’t bring myself to set the ball on the floor. I hugged it to my chest and pondered my situation. No one was watching me and Shelly. I was on my lonesome with a woman twice my size who might have committed murder. “When is Jessie supposed to get here?” I asked.