Buzz Kill (14 page)

“I definitely never thought that,” Chase said. “You caught as much hell as anybody else.” He turned to Mrs. Boyles, seeming to catch himself. “Sorry . . .”

Roy's mom smiled and got ruddier, almost blushing—not unlike Ms. Beamish when she interacted with
Monsieur Albright.
“Oh, Chase . . .” She waved her hand. “That's hardly a terrible curse word.”

Roy finally smiled, too, and seemed to warm to us, now that the topic of football had come up. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Uncle Hank was pretty rough on all of us. I didn't hate that about him, though. He was just trying to get the best out of us.”

All at once I realized that I had a secret weapon in Chase when it came to investigating the death of a coach.

He can talk football. And he's charming when he wants to be.

“Hey, Roy.” I risked interrupting our bonding moment. “If you want kids to know you're still alive, how come you're not on Facebook or anything?”

“I hate that online social crap,” he said. “I have avatars on
World of Warcraft
and places like that. I don't care about updating my status for people.” He grinned again. “I'd rather kill 'em.”

I met Chase's eyes, and we both shrugged like we agreed that the statement—though creepy—didn't make Roy a murderer. I mean, if everybody who enjoyed killing people online did it in real life, there'd be nobody left to buy manure, right?

As if on cue, we both stood to leave—Chase pulling out my chair, which nobody had ever done, except maybe my dad when we'd gone to a fancy restaurant once. “I guess we'll be going,” he said, putting his hand on the small of my back, too, to guide me to the door. Nobody'd ever done that either, and I wasn't sure what to make of it, even though it lasted only a second. “Thanks for the great dessert, Mrs. Boyles,” he added. “And you should stop by practice sometime, Roy. This year's blockers could definitely use some tips.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Roy followed us to the front door, with his mom trailing along. “That might be okay.”

When we reached the exit, just as I was about to hold my breath, Chase stopped and turned to Mrs. Boyles. “Umm . . . You wouldn't happen to be in charge of Mr. Killdare's estate, would you?”

For a split second, I didn't know where he was headed with that out-of-the-blue question. Did he want those knickknacks shaped like foreign landmarks or something?

Roy's mom seemed surprised, too, but answered, “Why, yes . . . I am. Why?”

“Did you know that Coach has—had—a dog?”

My heart almost stopped as I realized where the conversation was headed.
He's giving away Baxter!
My
dog!

Mrs. Boyles was also clearly upset, but for a different reason. She pressed her hand to her chest, eyes wide. “Goodness . . . We haven't been to the house . . . It must be dead by now!”

“Way to go, Mom,” Roy grunted. “Told ya we shoulda cleaned out Uncle Hank's place.”

My heart sank lower because I
really
hated the thought of poor Bax being stuck on a manure farm with a guy who wasn't very nice to his mother and apparently wanted to grab his dead uncle's stuff, too.

“No, it's okay,” Chase reassured Mrs. Boyles. “I've been taking care of Baxter since Mr. Killdare stopped showing up at school. I used to do chores for him, so it was no big deal for me to stop by and make sure the dog was okay.” He hesitated, then asked the question I'd dreaded. “Do you . . . want Baxter?”

Roy's mom frowned. “I'm sorry, Chase, but my kitchen is state licensed as a commercial bakery. I really can't have a dog running around, getting hair in the pies.”

“No, you can't!” I agreed too eagerly. I toned it down. “I mean, of course not.”

“If you could keep watching him,” Mrs. Boyles added, “I could pay you until I have time to figure out a permanent home.”

I wanted to jump in and stake my claim, but I hadn't exactly asked my father yet, so I kept silent.

“I'm happy to dog sit,” Chase said. “But I won't take any money for it.” Mrs. Boyles was obviously about to protest, but he explained, “I kind of owe Mr. Killdare a debt. I wouldn't feel right taking money from you.”

“Sucker,” Roy joked. At least I thought he was joking.

“Well, thank you.” Mrs. Boyles opened the door for us. “I'll be in touch soon about a more permanent solution. I promise.”

The odor of manure was starting to overcome the smell of pie, and I was ready to get out of there, but I realized I'd almost forgotten something important. “By the way,” I asked. “Did Mr. Killdare have a girlfriend? Because we'd really like to talk to her if he did . . .”

I let that question trail off because Roy was giving me a weird, suspicious look again. “Did you say this article was, like, a tribute? Because on the porch, I thought Chase said something about an ‘investigation.'”

I wasn't sure why I got nervous, especially since I didn't think Roy was the killer, but I found myself mumbling, “Oh, gosh . . . Investigation, tribute—tomato, to-mah-to—”

“It's a little of both,” Chase cut in. He looked at Mrs. Boyles. “So, do you know if your brother was seeing anybody?”

“Hmm . . .” Roy's mother tapped her chin, giving that question serious consideration, and a few moments later, Chase and I walked away with something I'd desperately hoped for but hadn't really expected to get.

“Millie, you are way too excited about that pie,” Chase observed, glancing at me as we rode back to Honeywell. “You've eaten half of it—with your hands.”

“I've never heard of peach rhubarb,” I said, cradling on my lap the gift that Mrs. Boyles had bestowed upon us. She hadn't been able to tell us anything about her brother's love life, so she'd given us a consolation prize instead. One that was at least as good as information. “You should try this,” I told Chase, who—let's face it—probably wasn't going to get more than a few bites. “It's amazing!”

“Do you want me to stop and get you a fork?” he offered, like maybe he was nervous about my sticky fingers meeting his upholstery and astronaut-worthy sleek instrument panel. “I think I noticed a diner about a half-mile back.”

I considered that suggestion, then reluctantly pulled some crumpled plastic wrap over the carnage, licked my fingers, and tried to surreptitiously wipe them on my shorts. “Thanks, but I guess I'm good for now.”

Chase stole one more look at the semi-demolished dessert. “I guess your mom doesn't bake, huh?”

He was teasing me, but I didn't feel like laughing—or, suddenly, eating. “No, she doesn't bake,” I said.
Or do anything anymore.

Chase must've caught my change in mood and quickly figured out what had gone wrong. “Hey, Millie.” He sounded miserable. “I'm really sorry. I forgot about your mother for a second. That was a stupid thing to say.”

I shrugged, watching cars pass us in the opposite lane. “It's okay. It's been about eight years.”

“Yeah, like that helps.”

At first I didn't understand why he sounded so bitter. Then I remembered that his mother was gone, too, in a different way. “Do you talk to your mom much?” I asked, twisting slightly in the seat. “See her on holidays and stuff?”

His fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “No. She
really
disowned me after the accident. And I can't blame her.”

Wow.
He carried a ton of guilt. Enough that he didn't think he deserved
his own mom's
love.
Everybody deserved
that.
But before I could tell him that, Chase again asked about my family.

“What was your mom like? Like you?” He smiled. “Would she have eaten that whole pie with her hands?”

Normally, on the few occasions people mentioned my mother, they did their best to come across as suitably solemn. It felt nice to have somebody smile about her, because she'd been a happy person. “Yeah,” I confirmed. “She would've finished the pie—then made you drive back for another one.”

I saw, in profile, that Chase was close to laughing again.

How had he gone so long without smiling, which seemed to be coming pretty naturally to him that evening?

Then he glanced at me again. “How about looks? Did she look like you? Have the same red hair?”

“Yes. Her hair was exactly like mine.” I smiled, too, remembering me and my mother standing in front of a mirror together on a humid day, our crazy red curls like frizzy halos around our heads. “We both used to complain about it.”

“I bet you like it now,” Chase guessed softly and more seriously. “I bet you feel lucky to share that with her.” He met my eyes briefly, one more time. “Especially since it really is pretty, Millie.”

I didn't always feel fortunate about the mess on my head. Some days I hated my hair because it was a pain in the butt and way too bright. And some days, I hated it precisely because it was so much like my mother's. It was like a living, growing reminder of everything I'd lost when she'd died. But that compliment . . . I did appreciate that. In fact, it gave me a strange feeling in my stomach that I couldn't attribute to just overeating, and I was glad the car was dark, because my cheeks felt a little warm, too. “Thanks, Chase.”

Before I could decide if I should tell him that I thought his hair was
phenomenal,
he asked a question that I didn't understand at first.

“So . . . why did you ask Roy and his mom if Mr. Killdare had a
girlfriend?
”

“I kind of stole something from Mr. Killdare's house,” I admitted. “A postcard signed ‘Love, BeeBee.'” I watched Chase's face as I asked him a question that suddenly seemed way overdue, given that he had keys to Coach Killdare's house. “Do
you
know anything about him having a girlfriend?”

And how about
you?
Some girl back in your home state, maybe? Or Philly?

“Not really,” Chase answered the spoken question. “Although I sort of suspected that, because—”

“Of the chicken clock?” I interrupted. “And the knickknacks on the shelf in his den? The foreign ones that don't seem like they'd belong to a guy who didn't decorate anywhere else? Except with old football awards?”

We were almost back to Honeywell and stopped at a traffic light, so Chase could really look at me. “No. I never noticed any knickknacks, probably because I'm a guy, too. I never noticed anything but the big screen—which was pretty nice.”

Guys and their stupid TVs!

“Then what . . . ?”

“I was going to say that one time, when I gave Baxter a bath—which Mr. Killdare didn't do often enough,” Chase noted in an aside, “I noticed a can of hair spray next to the sink.” The light changed and he put the car back in gear. “Not exactly something he needed.”

“No, I guess not.” Mr. Killdare had been as bald as the proverbial cue ball.

Chase seemed to hesitate, then added, “There were some . . . um . . . other things in the bathroom, too. Stuff that
no
guy needs.”

For a second, I didn't get what he was talking about or why he wasn't being direct. Did he not want to say “mascara”? Or “lipstick”? Then I realized that he was using the same tone—and halting delivery—that my dad used when he wanted to know if he should add tampons to his weekly shopping list.

“I getcha,” I said, holding up my hand. “Say no more.” Then I quickly changed the subject. “So why do you think Mr. Killdare kept BeeBee under wraps?” I paused, peering closely at Chase. “Why would
any
guy do that?”

Chase didn't seem to realize that I was asking about him, too. He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

I sat back, muttering, “I think she might be a key to this mystery. We need to find her identity. Assuming, of course, that Viv and Mike didn't kill Mr. Killdare.”

“What?” Chase sounded very surprised.

I realized I'd said more than I'd intended. “Can you keep a secret?”

Chase gave me a strange look. “Uh . . . yes. I can,” he reminded me. “I believe that I've proven that beyond question.”

Gosh, he had a nice vocabulary and way of speaking. Most jocks would've said, “Der, yeah!”

“So why'd you say that about Viv and Mike?” he prompted.

“The night I found Mr. Killdare's body, I overheard Viv threatening Mike to keep his mouth shut about something they both knew,” I confided. “It sounded serious. Plus, I can imagine Mike blowing up at Coach about the whole quarterback thing and just going ballistic.”

We'd pulled up in front of my house, and Chase stopped the car. “And Viv?”

I gave him an incredulous look. “You seriously can't imagine her committing murder? Killing the guy who was responsible for humiliating her on the entire Internet—and ESPN?”

“Yeah, that
BuzzKill
video was pretty bad,” Chase agreed. “And Viv does seem somewhat . . . intense.”

I rolled my eyes. “
That's
the understatement of the year. I mean, Vivienne Fitch meets all the criteria for a complete psychopath, as described in the book
The Psycho Killer Next Door.
”

Chase gave me another funny look. “Which you read because . . . ?”

“I needed to get inside the mind of my nemesis. I can't always hope to one-up Viv out of sheer luck.” I picked at the plastic-wrapped pie on my lap. “It's not like some kid will drown and latch on to me every day. I need to
actively
combat Vivienne . . .”

I'd started rambling and looked up to see Chase scrutinizing me with a
really
strange expression. “You're a very interesting person, Millie.” He offered me yet another slightly ambiguous compliment. “Very . . . unique.”