Shelly glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
I tried to spot Labrys in the bleachers, but all I could see was her tail. I hoped she’d come when I called her so we could get the hell out of there.
“If she doesn’t get here soon,” Shelly said, “I’m going to take care of a few things in the office before I have to leave for the airport.”
I found it hard to believe that dedicated Shelly would bail on a player—even a late one—and I wondered if she’d really been planning to meet Jessie. But it seemed like a strange thing to lie about. I dribbled the ball and took another shot. It nicked the edge of the backboard and bounced into the stands.
“You’ve lost your touch,” Shelly said.
I was losing something—maybe my mind—because I was trying to think of a way to get Shelly to talk about the night she or Roshaun—or both of them—killed DeVoster. I couldn’t bear the thought of Anne sitting in jail while Shelly flew the friendly skies.
She made no move to get the ball. “I think I’ll head to the office now. You can keep shooting if you want.”
“I’ll come with you. I left a notebook up there.”
Shelly frowned. “I haven’t seen one.”
She didn’t want me to come with her. That made me all the more eager. “I really need it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
Shelly squared her shoulders and headed off the court.
I shook off my jacket, following her and calling to Labrys, who—bless her little doggie heart—trailed after me.
As we passed the weight room, I noticed that the gymnast had been joined by some wrestlers and Tyler Bennet. I tried to catch his eye, but he was concentrating on his biceps. No one saw me with Shelly.
What did it matter? She didn’t know that I suspected her. I was safe, perfectly safe. I kept telling myself that as we neared the elevator. When its doors slid open, Labrys hesitated before following us in. I wasn’t too enthused about the elevator myself. Its black walls sported gold panels—total Hawkeye claustrophobia. I kept my eyes on the emergency phone as we made our ascent to the third floor.
The doors opened on a dark hallway, but Shelly knew where the lights were. Their fluorescent hum added to the steady whoosh of the stadium’s ventilation. The whole third floor sounded like the inside of a seashell. Labrys examined a potted tree while Shelly unlocked the door to the women’s basketball offices. Once inside, I glanced down the hallway that housed Bridget’s. It was dark.
“You gonna look for your notebook?” Shelly nodded toward the corner desk where I’d interviewed most of the players.
I glanced at the bulletin board above it and made a show of shuffling through a stack of papers. Something seemed off. “No luck yet,” I mumbled.
“I work there almost every day. I told you, I haven’t seen it.”
Labrys poked her nose at Shelly’s hand, but she ignored the plea for attention.
“It’s really great how you organized that fund-raiser for Anne Golding.”
Shelly gave me a small smile and looked away.
“You know her well?” I asked.
“She helped our team.” Shelly absently stroked Labrys’s head. “It was the least I could do.”
That was for sure. Anne was taking the rap for Shelly and her boyfriend. “Do you think she did it?” I asked.
“Of course not.” Shelly stood and checked her watch.
I squatted and pretended to look underneath the desk.
“Maybe it’s in the locker room,” she said. “I do homework down there sometimes. I might have accidentally grabbed it with some of my stuff. I’ll go look.”
“What about your work here?” I asked, still squatting.
“It’s not going anywhere.”
I gazed at an army of dust bunnies and told myself that it would be a good idea to follow her to the locker room. I’d have more time to ask questions. And it’s not like I’d be alone with her. The locker room was kitty corner from the busy weight room, and I’d have Labrys. As I grabbed the desk to hoist myself up, the bulletin board once again caught my eye. There was no poster of the cathedral in Barcelona, no exchange student, no photo of Shelly and her co-manager in their Santa hats, no team in the Bahamas. No trace of Shelly at all.
* * *
When we entered the locker room, Shelly hurried past the trophy case and into the players’ lounge. I hung back, clutching my jacket, as she strode around the U-shaped couch. At the end closest to me was a monstrous suitcase, monogrammed SS. Shelly Swanson. It was taller than the back of the couch and broader than Labrys from nose to flank. The dog sniffed at a matching carry-on that was stuffed to the gills. I wondered why Shelly had brought her luggage into the lounge.
“If it’s here,” she said, “it’ll probably be back by the computers.”
I’d almost forgotten we were supposed to be looking for my notebook. “Thanks for checking,” I said. “I know this is a difficult time for you.” It would be even more difficult if I could get her to incriminate herself. “Is Roshaun going to the funeral with you?”
Shelly nodded, her eyes fixed on the computers.
Labrys began biting the carry-on.
“Does he think Anne Golding is guilty?”
Shelly scowled as she opened and shut a drawer underneath the computers.
Maybe I should try a lighter approach. “It looks like you packed enough for both of you.” In fact, it looked like she’d packed enough for their entire teams. Then it hit me. Maybe she was packing up for good. Maybe that’s why her bulletin board was empty, and her suitcases, bulging. Maybe she’d brought them into the locker room so she could gather her basketball things before she left.
“I’m a heavy packer,” she said.
I considered how much Vince usually packed for two or three days, and I told myself to quit being silly. But what if I was right? What if Shelly was fleeing and I’d never have another chance to discover the truth about DeVoster? What would happen to Anne then? “How long will you be gone?” I asked.
She opened a cupboard above the computers and didn’t answer me.
“RoShaun’s interview with the Kobe Bryant author is Monday,” I said, “so I guess you’ll be back by then.”
Labrys chomped the handle of the carry-on and tugged it toward me. I was about to chide her when I noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the bag’s side pocket. Shelly’s itinerary? If only I could get a look at it.
“Sorry,” Shelly said. “I don’t know where else your notebook could be.” She gazed at me, so there was no way I could check the paper.
“Do you think I could trouble you for one other thing?” I said. “I’m dying of thirst.”
“No prob.” Shelly came around the other side of the couch and pulled a bottle of water out of the cupboard next to the big screen TV.
That wouldn’t do. I needed her out of the room. “Sorry to be a pain, but do you have anything with sugar? I haven’t had breakfast.”
Shelly raised her eyebrows.
Although she was used to handling the players’ requests, maybe I was a different story. “Please?”
“We don’t have anything with sugar,” she said, “but there might be some Gatorade.”
As she disappeared into the locker room proper, I reached for the paper. It was lodged behind a billfold, so I grabbed that too. I thrust both into my jacket inside pocket, and when Shelly returned with a bottle of bright red Gatorade, I stood between her and Labrys. The dog kept nipping at the bag, and I didn’t want Shelly to notice her missing things.
She loosened the lid and handed the bottle to me. My only other encounter with Gatorade was via those commercials that feature various hues of the beverage oozing out of athletes’ pores. I tried not to think of the blood on DeVoster’s face, and I took a sip. It was no vanilla latte, but I thanked Shelly and took another drink. Then I asked to use the restroom.
Shelly snuck a look at her watch. “There’s one in the locker room. Far left corner.”
Edgi
ng past her, I hoped she wouldn’t ask why I was taking my coat, but I needn’t have worried. She seemed oblivious—even to the dog’s noisy obsession with the damn carry-on.
I raced past a row of tall wooden lockers, each adorned with a player’s name and photo. When I reached the bathroom stall, I threw open the door and locked it behind me. I set my Gatorade on the floor and hoped that the fluorescent light blinking above me wouldn’t die before I could check the paper. I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and, hands shaking, unfolded it.
It was an itinerary. Shelly had purchased a one-way ticket to Barcelona. She was fleeing the country.
I studied the United Airlines logo as if it held the key to her secrets. Her flight left the Cedar Rapids airport at 8:00 a.m. My watch said 6:35. I took a deep breath and forced myself to think through the timing. It took about half an hour to get to the airport from Iowa City. The plane would start boarding around 7:30. Shelly would need to leave soon.
So I needed to do something quick. Get her to confess or at least make her miss her flight. Jamming the itinerary into my jacket pocket, I pulled out Shelly’s billfold and unsnapped it. As the dark leather fell open in my hand, I saw her driver’s license, her student I.D., a debit card, and a Visa.
As long as I had Shelly’s plastic, she wasn’t going anywhere.
I opened the checkbook cover below the cards and discovered some wallet-sized photographs encased in plastic. Roshaun. A middle-aged couple that looked like her parents. A young woman with lovely flowing hair.
Wait a minute. It was the exchange student from Barcelona. Shelly wasn’t simply running away. She was going to visit her old friend.
I flipped through the rest of the photos: Varenka, Kate, Win, group shots of the team, and what looked like grandparents. Shelly was leaving these people for good—almost everyone she’d known and loved in her twenty-some years. My throat tightened, but before I could get too choked up, Labrys’s nails tapped against the floor and stopped outside my stall. I crouched down and looked beneath it. Only paws. But in case Shelly stood off to the side, I spun the roll of toilet paper and flushed the toilet. As it roared, I tucked the billfold back into my jacket pocket and summoned my acting abilities. I needed to convince Shelly that I had nothing to hide, that I had no agenda other than going home ASAP and getting some sleep.
My hand was on the lock when I heard a creak. A building sound or Shelly’s sneakers? I tried looking through the crack between the door and the rest of the stall, but I saw only a sliver of Labrys and some shelves. What I needed was a better view. The toilet didn’t have a lid, so I’d have to stand on the rim. If only I’d listened when Anne tried to talk me into doing yoga, I could have gracefully ascended the porcelain and balanced there, strong, stable, and centered. But, alas, I’d be lucky if I escaped with dry feet. I enhanced my odds by donning my jacket and thus freeing both hands. Placing one foot on the toilet seat, I grabbed onto the toilet paper dispenser and heaved my other foot onto the rim. With a wobble, I stood and peered over the top of the stall.
Shelly stared right back, her eyes narrowed, her arms cradling her carry-on. “You took my billfold.”
“Why would I do that?” I said. “Don’t be silly.”
“You’re the one who’s standing on the toilet.” She seemed puzzled—as if she had no idea I was scared shitless of her.
Then it struck me. She didn’t know that I’d linked her with DeVoster’s murder. Maybe she hadn’t noticed her missing itinerary either. I could still act my way out of this. “It’s so embarrassing,” I whispered. “How can I even look you in the eye?” With that bit of melodrama, I jumped off the toilet and removed Shelly’s billfold from my jacket. I extracted her IDs and credit card, shoved them in the back pocket of my Levi’s, and climbed back up on the toilet.
Shelly hadn’t budged.
“I can’t help stealing things,” I said, “and then I feel so ashamed. I want to lock myself away.”
Her brow furrowed.
Perhaps my performance was less than Oscar caliber. “Please,” I said, “just leave me alone. I’m so humiliated.”
“OK,” Shelly said. “Just give me my billfold.”
I tossed it far away from the stall, and Labrys charged after it. Shelly set her bag on the floor and followed a few steps behind. She was a smart girl, so it would take a miracle for her not to check the contents of her billfold. A miracle or a big distraction. I let out a wail. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t help myself. I’ve taken things ever since I was five. It all started with my grandma’s talcum powder. And it kept getting worse. I stole something from every single member of my Brownie troop.”
Shelly had no interest in my fictionalized kleptomania. She removed her billfold from Labrys’s mouth and soon discovered the missing items. “You still have my credit card and my driver’s license.” She headed back toward me with Labrys on her heels.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’ve tried therapy and medication, but nothing helps. I live to steal.”
“Why didn’t you take my money?”
That was a fine question. “Cash doesn’t interest me,” I lied.
“I want my things back,” Shelly said. “If you don’t give them to me, you’re going to be sorry.”
It was an empty threat. She was too large to crawl underneath the stall, and if she tried, I could hit her with the Gatorade bottle. Although I was trapped, I was safe, and time was on my side. “What’s up with the one-way ticket to Spain?”
Shelly slid her hand into the side pocket of her carry-on. She crouched next to it, her eyes fixed on me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have tipped my hand, but it was too late now. “You’re fleeing the country because you killed DeVoster, aren’t you?”
Shelly’s temple throbbed, and her face flushed.
The fluorescent light flickered wildly. If it went off, I wouldn’t be able to read her face. “I know that you and Roshaun weren’t at his mother’s the night DeVoster was murdered. I know about Ryesha.”
“Roshaun didn’t touch—” Shelly struggled for words. “He didn’t do anything.” She leaned over her bag and removed something small from a zippered pocket. “If you don’t come out and give me my cards, I’ll spray you.”
Pepper spray.
Time to call the police. I pulled out my cell. It was dead.
Labrys slobbered over the luggage, completely clueless.
“I mean it.” Shelly’s index finger curled above the canister.
I jumped off the toilet again and whirled toward the back wall. If she sprayed me, no way was I taking it right in the eyes. I closed them for good measure and pressed into the wall. Its concrete smelled of fresh paint and disinfectant.
“I’ll spray your dog.”
Why hadn’t I ever asked Neale about pepper spray? I didn’t think it would cause Labrys permanent damage, but I didn’t want Anne’s dog hurt at all. And I was afraid of how Labrys would react. What if the spray turned her crazy and she attacked Shelly? “You do that,” I said, “and I’ll flush your Visa down the toilet.”
Shelly was quiet as she considered my bluff.
If only I could risk a peek at her face. I didn’t like sparring with a disembodied voice. I flattened my palms against the wall, trying to steady myself.
“If you don’t come out now and give me all my stuff, I’m going to spray your dog, and I’m going to spray you through the crack in the door.”
Opening one eye just a sliver, I tossed the cards in the toilet. If Shelly sprayed me and I writhed on the floor in pain, she wasn’t getting any plastic. “How about if I just slide the cards out and you leave me and the dog alone?”
“No,” Shelly said. “I want you out.”
I didn’t have to ask why. She was going to have to do something to keep me from going to the police. Although truth be told, I had nothing but theories to offer them. Not even a confession.
“I promise I won’t hurt you or your dog,” she said. “If you come out with the c
ards, I won’t use the spray. I’ll lock the dog in the supply closet—”
I cut her off. “Labrys doesn’t like closets. She won’t go near them.” A lie. But I wanted to rattle Shelly.
“I’ve got a roast beef sandwich in my bag. She’ll follow that anywhere.”
So that was why Labrys was so taken with the carry-on. I wanted to cry at the thought of her in the closet and me all on my own against Shelly.
“I’ll put you in a locker,” she continued. “Since you’re short, you won’t be too uncomfortable. Don’t worry, they’re ventilated. When the girls show up for practice this afternoon, they’ll let you out.”
At 3:00 or 3:30? I’d be trapped for hours—driven half mad by claustrophobia and a full bladder—and Shelly would be well on her way to Spain.
“The Spanish police will send you back,” I said.
“Spain isn’t my final destination. I’m going to a place where that can’t happen.”
She sounded confident, but I knew she wasn’t. She’d asked me about living abroad, about homesickness. “You’re going to leave your entire life behind?” I asked.
“Roshaun is coming with me.”
Where was he anyway? Would he come barging in if Shelly didn’t meet him soon? “So you’re going to leave your families behind? You wouldn’t have to if you explained things to the police—if you told them about Ryesha.”
“They wouldn’t believe us,” she said. “But even if they did, we’d still have to deal with DeVoster’s fans and his rich and powerful family.”
That silenced me. Shelly and Roshaun could be in real danger if they stayed. Maybe they’d be better off leaving. And if I could get her to tell me what happened, maybe that—coupled with their suspicious flight—would be enough to get Anne out of trouble. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “Your cards are in the toilet—literally—so there’s no way you’re getting them unless I give them to you. If you tell me what happened, they’re yours. You can lock Labrys and me up and make your escape.”
“I’ll send a letter that explains everything once I get to—. Once I get to where I’m going. I don’t want Anne Golding to pay for my mistake.”
Murder by Mascot Page 21
