by Sara Hammel
Evie explained to me that her mom was just tired. She needed a break. She’d be back. I never met her, but from what Lucky said it didn’t really sound like her mom had wanted kids at all. I think she went to Oregon or someplace that was far away from St. Claire.
I hung back while Evie began to load her plate. Right then, tennis camp villain and little twerp Tad Chadwick decided he needed seconds. He and his crew—Marcus Reilly and Fat Stan, who wasn’t overweight but whose nickname lived on because he’d been chunky in third grade—fell in behind Evie, which was bad news. I moved closer to eavesdrop.
“What do you do?” Tad was saying. “You’re here every day but I never see you do anything.” (Cue loud, cackling laughter from Marcus and Fat Stan.)
Evie said nothing. She was tensed up, turning red. She reached for a carrot stick, bypassing the crinkle-cut potato chips. Tad was on a roll. “Well, I guess you do something. All I see you do is eat and stare at people! Evie skeevy.”
He laughed hysterically at his own brilliant rhyme. Tad was the son of Boston Brahmin, old money whose ancestors had allegedly come over on the Mayflower. He had the arrogance and self-assuredness that came with that privilege. He had curly brown hair, shocking blue eyes, and was, annoyingly, very good-looking and probably always would be.
I wished there was something I could do, but Evie told me a long time ago that when anyone made a big deal out of Tad’s harassment, even to stick up for her, it only made things worse. She finished creating her ham and cheese on rye and we walked toward the little eating area in the pool lobby where there were a few tables—when summer tennis camp wasn’t in session, parents could sit and watch their kids taking their swimming lessons or members could relax with their coffee—but it was packed, so Evie had to sit on the steps that led up to the pool lobby. I sat with her while she ate. Normally she’d slip me some potato chips—she always got extra for me, because my mom was on a health kick and wasn’t exactly handing out delicious snacks to me on a regular basis—but thanks to Tad she only had carrots today. She gave me one and I munched on it as she ate her sandwich. Things were going okay until Tad finished his latest sandwich and tried to get down the stairs we were sitting on.
“Thar she blows!” he shouted, making sure the campers and counselors, who were still picking at their lunches, were listening to his clever little take on a literary masterpiece. “We’ve got ourselves a big one, mateys.”
I turned to see him standing one step above us, holding his arm up and pointing an air spear at Evie. “Get out of the way, Moby, or I’ll have to harpoon you.”
Marcus cracked up at that. As if that moment couldn’t get any more hideous, Serene was watching, too, and while she didn’t step in, I saw a flicker of sympathy on her face. I saw Will, the senior coach, tense up like he was ready to intervene if necessary. Tears were welling up in Evie’s eyes as she scrambled to get away, upsetting her plate and dropping the uneaten crusts of her sandwich on the floor. I fought every instinct I had to take Tad Chadwick down. I was younger than both of them, but I’d been called scrappy more than once and I didn’t give up easily. I didn’t know if Evie would ever eat lunch again after this.
The thing is, Evie is fat. That’s what everyone said. She would be tall when she grew up, and she might be beautiful, according to my mom, but only if she quits eating. I didn’t really see her eat that much except for the occasional Twinkies binge when things get really bad, but something must be going on for her to be that size. That’s what the grownups said. For the two years she’d been hanging around here with Lucky, she’d stayed plump.
My mom and her dad agreed we were a good pair. It’s been so great for Chelsea to have a friend like Evie, my mom had said to Lucky one night when he was staying late and she was closing up the club. Someone to keep her company. They’re like two peas in a pod, those two. It’s sweet, really. Even Lucky, the most absentee parent ever, had to concur. Chelsea has saved Evie’s life this summer, he said. I think she’s the best friend my daughter’s ever had. My heart soared when I heard that, because it meant we could hang out all summer, and maybe even have a sleepover or two at my place.
Now, it killed me that I couldn’t back Evie up, but I had to respect her wishes to stay out of it. Tad never bullied me, and aside from a few snotty remarks here and there to various other kids, he saved his ire for Evie. I walked with her as she retreated back to her safe place behind Court 5, and I thought about how I could possibly soothe the feelings in her that had just been scraped over with a cheese grater. It was going to be a long, hot summer.
After
We were hot on Ashlock’s heels as he continued to move through the club after watching the elites. Evie and I caught up to him as he reached the end of the lobby, when he stopped again to survey the café area below. Off to the left was the pool and the aerobics-floor-slash-basketball-court. Speaking of which, we could hear the thumping of house music coming from an exercise class. Ashlock walked down the stairs, following the sound, and we followed him. We hung back to see where the detective was heading, which was straight to the scene of the crime: the pool. This was devilishly good news for me and Evie; we could sit on the pool lobby’s comfy sofas and watch what the detective was up to without raising a single eyebrow. We perched on the gray love seat and, as we gazed out over the pool area, we were presented with an interesting sight.
Ashlock was on his hands and knees at the deep end of the pool, looking more wildly out of place than ever among the crowd of half-naked kids, moms, and a few teens. This was where Annabel’s body had been found. The Stormtroopers had combed the deck forever, so I couldn’t imagine what he was looking for.
Evie agreed. “What does he think he’s gonna find?” She was leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Man … this is surreal.”
Ashlock crawled along the pebbles on all fours, rubbing the deck with his fingers every few inches. His white fedora stayed firmly on his head, like it was glued on. Evie yawned. I yawned. This was like watching paint dry or grass grow—whatever works for you in terms of imagining how boring it was getting. Evie poked me a few moments later as I started to nod off. Ashlock was in the grass now, picking through what looked like one blade at a time. He started rubbing the ground with his fingers and then began digging one finger into the grass. We stood up and pressed our noses against the glass. I realized then he’d snapped on some rubber gloves, and he seemed to be working something out of the ground. After a minute he rose and walked slowly, deliberately, along the pool’s edge, toward the exit. He was holding something in one hand, and covered that with the other, like a big clamshell.
I turned to Evie. What the heck? She shook her head and widened her eyes, like, I don’t know! When Ashlock got close to the revolving door, Evie and I hightailed it back to the café to act like we couldn’t care less about this detective. We stood casually by the counter, pretending to check out today’s yogurt flavor, which was still boysenberry, whatever a boysenberry was. Evie reached down and tugged at the bottom of her oversize black T-shirt, making sure it was covering her belly.
We sensed Ashlock pass by us so we waited a few beats, then turned and slowly headed up to the lobby behind him. The detective was still carrying the mystery item, and he was getting some odd looks. He paused in the lobby to check out the elites again as they pounded tennis balls on Court 1. Goran was still out there, now hitting with Will.
Evie didn’t just adore Goran. She loved his skill, too, loved watching what he could do with that ball. It could be very hypnotic, if you appreciated the game of tennis. Nobody cared about what was happening on Court 4, where a handful of regular campers—including Tad—were training. They were clunky, flawed, hapless. See, the tennis class system is absolute. You’ll get along fine if you play by the rules. You’re either elite, or you’re not. Someone once asked head coach Will Temple what separated an elite from a regular player. Will, who was about twenty-eight and resembled a nerdy male model with glasses and a physique that was mor
e Statue of David than lean-and-wiry tennis machine, had replied, A champion is born, and then made. You can’t be an elite without both the talent and the training.
The champions at our club were currently sweating it up. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear I saw that detective paying particular attention to Goran, and a burning question began to nag at me: Could Goran know something about what happened to Annabel? Evie noticed too, and I caught her looking terribly sad. I worried this awful thing might turn out to be too much for her to handle.
Before
As June got under way, it was time for the annual staff pool party—one of my favorite nights of the whole year. From the minute Lucky pushed through that revolving door carrying his guitar and Patrick followed grasping a big blue cooler, it was all fun and laughter and sultry air. By the end of the night, someone would inevitably get crazy and gallop to the pool, usually fully clothed, to perform a klutzy cannonball.
This year’s bash was held on a Friday night during the second week of the season, and when I burst through that door onto the pool deck behind my mom, the smell of summer was so pungent it was like you were inhaling a whole season floating on a gust of wind. As dusk turned to night, an old U2 song in which Bono was screaming out about the streets having no name was playing on Harmony’s iPod.
Patrick was holding court on the lawn, perched on the edge of a lounge chair, still in his tennis shorts, laughing at everything Will said but never appearing to really listen; his eyes kept flitting to the door. My mom made a beeline for the other side of the pool, where her friends were hanging out. We doubted Nicholas Harper would be here tonight; he had too much going on to find time for a staff party. Gene always said Nicholas was “going places.” People loved him, even though sometimes when he was really tired he could be snappy. But that was rare. He always had a smile and a hello, and was wicked good-looking, a trait that no doubt contributed to his popularity.
So where was Evie? I scanned the pool area and finally found her. She was sitting on the long cedar bench along the back wall to the right of the pool entrance; the wide bench doubled as storage for the lifesaving equipment and pool cleaning stuff. Nearest the revolving door, the bench was bathed in light from the pool area’s overhead lamps. The far end remained in the shadows, and Evie was sitting there alone. Lucky happened to be sitting six feet or so away from his daughter, chatting with an aerobics instructor.
Evie was sitting on her hands, staring out at nothing, swinging her legs. I was going to go over and say hi, but Celia called to me then, coaxing me over to the grass with the rest of them. The crowd greeted me, and Patrick gave me a squeeze. Yeah, I got along with the cool kids, but it bothered me that Evie felt so excluded. It’s not like I didn’t have to work at it, though. I mean, my mom didn’t exactly trumpet my life story around here, but people knew what had happened to me. The basics, anyway. Sometimes new people would try to press my mom about my case, because exactly what had happened to me was still a mystery that had shocked St. Claire and surrounding towns, and remained unsolved. But my mom would always say, We’ve moved on. Next question.
Anyway, when my pals started debating who had the best serve at the club, I wandered over to Evie. I was about to greet my best friend, but that was the moment Lucky finally noticed his daughter.
“Hey, kid. What are you doing in the dark all by yourself?” he asked.
Evie looked at her dad and shrugged. Lucky sprang from his seat and walked over to her. He held out his hand, and she looked at him, her eyes shining as he pulled her up. “Come on. Let’s go over and hang out with the gang.”
He put his arm around her and sort of pulled her with him, and Evie nestled against him, and I saw her inhale her father’s smell and then exhale a long breath of contentment. I went along, and Lucky easily broke into the circle on the lawn.
“Hey, Lucky,” Patrick said, and grinned.
Lucky looked down and nudged one of the girls sitting on the cooler. “Move over and make room for my daughter.”
The girl shifted a few inches and Evie barely fit in the space the girl left her, but she managed to get one butt cheek on. It didn’t look very comfortable, and yet my friend appeared so happy to be included I think she would’ve sat on a rusty nail if they’d asked her to. I found a spot on the grass next to the cooler. Everyone greeted Evie like they were old friends.
“Well, well. Look who it is,” Patrick exclaimed, giving Evie his best Patrick de Stafford dimple.
“Hey there,” Celia said.
They were all drinking from those big red cups, and Lucky raised his, chugged, belched, and amid the groans of protest announced, “This, my friends, is going to be the summer of our lives. Chug if you belieevveeeee!”
Everyone yelled “I believe!” in unison, then whooped and chugged, and Evie was giggling as she drank her Sprite. She crinkled her nose at me. It was a great start to the summer, and things were looking up for my friend. Alas, it wasn’t to stay that way for long.
After
Detective Ashlock came for Patrick on a steamy August morning three days after Annabel’s body was found. Thanks to Harmony Goldenblatt, we thought Patrick might be one of the St. Claire PD’s prime suspects.
Patrick was a sitting duck teaching on Court 1, but he kept his cool. Ashlock, in his usual outfit, stood a foot away from the glass watching intently as Patrick yelled and did torture drills, which basically entailed throwing ball after ball in quick succession all over the court while the kids scrambled and worked on their reaction times, speed, and footwork.
Evie and I were in a prime location on one of the love seats facing the courts, thanks to her mad crush on Goran, who was playing on Court 3. Lucky, teaching on Court 2, soon called time for morning snack, and Patrick waved his kids toward the exit. He met Ashlock in the café as he headed for the stairs to the lobby.
“Patrick de Stafford?”
“Yeah,” Patrick answered, wiping his brow with his T-shirt sleeve. He knew exactly who this guy was.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
They settled in the tennis coaches’ office, which had a window overlooking Court 1. Detective Ashlock was sizing up Patrick, who said nothing for a solid minute or so while he studied the top of his Gatorade bottle as if it held the answers to many secrets, then smoothly loosened the cap, threw back his head, and took a long, loud gulp of the fluorescent liquid.
Then Ashlock went in for the kill.
“Where were you Monday night, Patrick?”
They had the office to themselves, with Patrick in his favorite soft swivel chair and Ashlock relegated to a stiff wooden chair. Evie and I had gotten lucky—they’d left the door cracked open, so we’d sidled up and sat down with our backs to the wall outside the door as if we were just chilling out. When we swiveled our necks as far as they could go, we could just see Patrick through the crack, and Ashlock’s shins. I knew our luck would run out at some point. But for now, we were eavesdropping with impunity. Patrick set down the half-empty bottle on the hideous gray linoleum desktop, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leveled his gaze at the detective. “I was asleep. In my bed at my parents’ house in Natick.”
We heard Ashlock let out an mmmhmm, which actually came out as a half grunt, half sigh. “And what time was that?”
“I don’t know. About eleven until eight in the morning, when I dragged my butt out of bed to come here.” Patrick stared at the tennis courts, which were empty during snack time.
“Uh-huh,” the detective said, and I pictured him writing everything down in his notebook. “What were you doing before eleven p.m.?”
Talk about pulling teeth. I was starting to think Ashlock’s strategy was to bore his subjects into confessing. Like, just for something to do, they’d give it all up: Okay, okay. I did it, man. I killed Annabel. Now, like, stop annoying me, please. It was, interestingly, the same way Patrick beat his opponents on the New England tennis circuit. He had no distinctive serve, no killer forehand; he didn’t ha
ve Goran’s natural gift. He’d just keep hitting back, over and over, until his foe made an error or grew exhausted. Until he beat them down.
“I was at the movies.” Pause. “By myself.” Patrick leaned forward. “Let me ask you, Mr. Detective: Why are you hassling a guy who’s never had so much as a parking ticket? I mean, give me a break, I’m not a murderer. I’m a tennis player.”
He was holding his own. Patrick definitely had some suburban-style street smarts. He’d been around here most of his life, and we all knew his story. Patrick came from a family with something like six kids. Rumor had it his dad spent what savings they had on Patrick’s tennis training before he turned ten. So, as soon as Patrick was old enough to work off his tennis fees at the club by teaching at various camps and clinics, Gene put him on the payroll.
Patrick shook his head angrily and continued, “I’m not the person you should be worrying about. There’s a murderer running around St. Claire and you’re not doing a thing about it. When are we going to know what happened to her? The cops are a joke.”
The detective stayed silent, but Evie and I had now confirmed something we’d been led to believe by Harmony: Patrick had some sort of passion for Annabel, though I didn’t think either of us knew exactly what it involved or how it had played out.
“Here’s the thing,” the detective said when Patrick finished his rant. “I never said anything about murder. I am investigating every angle—and that includes you. Are you aware that the majority of females in these cases are killed by someone they know?” Pause. “No? You didn’t know that? Well, believe it.”
Patrick shrugged as if to say, You don’t scare me.
