Buzz Kill (28 page)

There was no time to say that though. Detective Lohser was striding toward us, holding probably the first trophy he'd ever touched in his life, and telling my father, who was being circled by another officer, one who held
handcuffs,
“Jack Ostermeyer, you are under arrest for the murder of Henry Killdare.”

The whole yard started to spin under the stars as my dad—seeming to realize that denial would only make things worse—wordlessly offered his hands, and those cuffs clicked shut. And I only vaguely heard the uniformed guy read my father his rights because my ears started ringing, too. But while the world reeled, I did manage to catch sight of a flash of long blond hair in the crowd that had gathered to watch Mayor-and-Coach Jack Ostermeyer being led away in manacles.

Pulling myself together, I abandoned my father, but only because I was confident that Ms. Parkins would take care of him.

I had other business to attend to, and I heard the rage in my voice as I stalked across the grass, snarling, “Vivienne Fitch. What the
hell are you doing here?
”

“This is
none
of your business!” I snapped at Viv, who was lurking on the other side of the white picket fence that defined my family's yard. If she thought that little fence was protecting her from me—half pit bull, half Doberman—she was sorely mistaken. And I didn't care that a lot of lingering gawkers heard me threatening her, “Get off our property!”

“I'm not on your property, you nutcase.” She gestured to her feet, showing me that her pedicured toes, peeking out from little windows in her suede shoes, were, in fact, on municipal-issue gravel. “This alley is public property. And this
is
my business.”

“I repeat, what are you doing here?” I asked more calmly, but still with an edge to my voice.

“I got a message telling me the cops were going to dig for gold in your backyard,” she informed me. “An anonymous text.”

“You have to show that to the police!” I said, getting excited. “They can trace it.”

Which would give them the identity of the tipster, who was probably responsible for burying the trophy. But Viv was shaking her head and making a mock pout. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse, holding it up high, like she wanted me to jump for it. “Sorry,” she said right before I really did leap at the fence. “But I already deleted it.” Dropping the phone back into her bag, she waggled her fingers at me. “It's gone bye-bye.”

“You can't . . . They could still retrieve it . . .”

I was sputtering—and Viv wasn't about to help. “I'm here as a
reporter,
Millicent,” she advised me. “The texter contacted me because she knows I write for the
Honeywell Gazette
—objectively, unlike some people. I wouldn't give up my source even if the police subpoenaed me, let alone turn over my contact voluntarily!”

“Millie . . .”

I turned to see Ryan opening the gate, letting Laura and himself into the yard.

Of course they'd stayed for me, and although my evening was pretty crappy, I couldn't help thinking that, between me and Viv, only one of us had friends on her side.

“What's going on?” Ry asked. “Huh?”

“Viv, here”—I jabbed a finger at my nemesis—“claims she's covering my father's
framing
for the
Gazette.
But I think she's full of bull.”

As I said that, I wasn't sure what kind of bull, exactly, I thought Viv was filled with. But all at once, I was struck by this sneaking, if slightly insane, suspicion that Viv might've planted the trophy herself—and called in the tip. That there'd never been an anonymous text at all.

I still think she might've killed Coach Killdare, in a rage over that video.

And she's furious about me and Chase, not to mention can't let go of her dad's failure to beat mine in that old election.

What if she saw a way to take down my whole family?

I was thinking all that, but was still pretty shocked when meek, mild Key Club officer Laura Bugbee, who'd apparently had enough of Viv, too, said, “You probably sneaked over here and buried that stupid trophy in Millie's yard yourself. You've
always
been jealous of her and her whole family!”

“You are all deranged,” Viv said with a sniff. She looked down her nose at Ryan. “I thought you, at least, had some sense, even though you hung out with these two. But I guess not.”

Unlike most football players, Ryan wasn't in Viv's thrall and couldn't have cared less about her opinion of him. “You should follow everybody else and head home,” he told her, so I realized that most people had wandered off. “Don't you have a car wash to run tomorrow morning? To buy new pompoms?”

“I'm not going anywhere until I get a story,” Viv shot back. She pulled a notebook out of the bag that held the cell phone I still wanted to get my hands on. “I'm not leaving until I have what I need.”

I'd been too upset to even think about covering the night's events for the paper, but when Viv made that announcement, I realized that once again I had an advantage over her. One that I wouldn't squander. “Gee, Viv,” I said. “I'm going to write a story, too. And”—I gestured around the yard, where police officers were still sniffing around—“I just happen to be inside the fence, with all the
quotable
people who actually know something.”

For once, Viv seemed at a loss for words, and two red spots formed on her cheeks. “I'm going to get good quotes from people who saw your dad
get led away,
” she finally grumbled. “And the police will
never
talk to you.”

I didn't wait to watch her chase after the last few rubberneckers meandering down the alley. Although I didn't have a notebook handy, I turned to drill the remaining police officers for every bit of information my memory could handle before they got away. And I
would
get facts.

“We'll help you,” Laura promised, grabbing Ryan's arm and tugging him toward the house. “We'll get you a pen and paper. Then we'll try to find out what's up with your dad. Where he's at, and when he'll be home.”

“Thanks,” I said, but absently, because I'd suddenly noticed one last person standing in the alley, at the very corner of the fence.

Chase. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, and I saw a loop of leather around his left hand. As our eyes met, I caught, in my peripheral vision, Baxter's wrinkly head popping up over the fence, like he'd forgiven me for the bubble bath and wanted to say hello.

I was in a hurry, but I took a few steps in their direction, drawn to both of them. Especially, of course, to Chase, who gestured to the gate, asking, “Can I come in, Millie? I'd like to help, too.”

Part of me really wanted that. And part of me wanted Chase to be there when everybody else left. It would've felt amazing to be able to just rest against him if I was alone later, as I expected. I had a feeling that my dad wasn't coming back anytime soon, if he even returned at all, that night.

But Chase had kept a
huge
secret from me. A
life-and-death
secret. And maybe what he'd done back in Philadelphia really was unforgivable, and he should be punishing himself forever.

Chase kept standing at the fence, waiting for my answer.

“No,” I told him, shaking my head. “Not you. Not now.”

I gave them both one last, conflicted look, then ran across the yard and took the notebook that Laura was offering. And, of course, Viv was right. The officers were reluctant to talk with me. But I was a good reporter, and—as a student of philosophy—I knew how to confound people with logic, and before long, I got two of them to crack and give me some decent quotes. Or maybe they talked because I bugged them until they'd do just about anything to make me go away.

Regardless, I actually learned quite a bit that night. Enough to write a good article.

But there was one detail that I didn't put in my story.

One factoid that I just socked away in my brain so I could mull it over later.

Namely, the way Viv had slipped and called her “anonymous” texter “she,” in a world where, let's face it, most people still usually defaulted to “he.”

Was Viv referring to someone that she knew?

Or did Vivienne Fitch use “she” because she was subconsciously implicating
herself?

I sat in my glass booth at the theater the night after my father's arraignment—apparently we were now a family that understood what “arraignment” was—staring blankly at the dark street, eyes open but seeing nothing.

Chase knows what “arraignment” means. He's been through that. Has sat in a courtroom and maybe heard the word “manslaughter” applied to himself. What a horrible word. “Manslaughter . 
.
 .”

“Will you be watching the movie with Chase tonight?”

I shook my head, snapping out of my trance to realize that a wrinkled hand was slipping money through the slot. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Murphy.” I banked her neatly folded five-dollar bill in my till and slid her a cardboard ticket. “I don't even know if Chase is coming tonight. And I don't think we're going to watch any more movies together.”

“No?” Chase's alternate date sounded profoundly unhappy, and I realized that I probably shouldn't be burdening a little old lady with my romantic disappointments.

“It's, like, theater policy,” I added. “I really am supposed to man the snack bar while the film plays.”

Mrs. Murphy made a sad face. “But I brought both of you cookies.” She pulled a plastic bag out of a tote that advertised her support for public broadcasting. “Chocolate chip—still warm!”

If ever there was proof of how down I felt, it was my response to
that.
“Thanks. But I don't think I could eat anything tonight.”

I had barely choked down my dinner, even though Ms. Parkins had brought me and Dad homemade lasagna. But how could I eat when my father had aged about seven years overnight? The night he'd spent in a
jail cell
because they hadn't been able to get a district magistrate to set bail late on a Saturday night. And when he'd finally come home, about two hours before my shift, his shoulders had hunched in a way I'd never seen before.

“Hey, you've got that game with the Fruitville Eagles this Friday,” I'd reminded him, trying to cheer him up by invoking one of his favorite rivalries. “That'll be fun, huh?”

But Dad and Ms. Parkins had shared a grim look, and my father had told me, “I resigned from coaching, Millie. I can't really lead the team under the circumstances.” Then he'd added, “I may have to relinquish my post as mayor, too. I'm meeting with the borough council tomorrow.”

Sitting in my uninsulated booth, I shivered.

Would my father really be jobless within twenty-four hours?

What would happen to us?

And had I ever really thought that writing a few positively spun stories for a high school newspaper could help anything?

“Enjoy the movie,” I told Mrs. Murphy, suddenly desperate to do my job better in case we Ostermeyers needed to live on my minimum-wage salary. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Millie,” she said with a smile. I wasn't sure how she knew my name, since I didn't have a tag on my uniform. Had Chase mentioned it the night we'd watched
The 400 Blows
? Or did he and Mrs. Murphy talk about me when they sat together? The older woman seemed to read my thoughts. She noted as she shuffled off, “I hope you'll change your mind and join Chase if he comes tonight. He's such a lovely boy, and says such nice things about you.”

It was pretty heavy-handed matchmaking. The kind of meddling that an actual grandmother might do on behalf of her grandson.

Is Chase a “lovely boy”? Would Mrs. Murphy bake him cookies if she knew his past? And yet, he's made an old lady happy.

Sighing, I resumed staring at the street, this time more alert and watching, with mixed emotions, for a tall, athletic guy who still, in my eyes, wore an imaginary question mark, even though I'd kissed him and nearly blurted out three words that I couldn't seem to say to anybody else in the entire world.

But he didn't show up, maybe because we were showing Hitchcock, and I knew he wasn't a fan. Or maybe he didn't want to see me after I'd literally fenced him out.

And when it became apparent that nobody else was coming to buy tickets, I went into my post at the snack bar, retrieving my backpack from where I'd stashed it under the candy counter. As usual, I pulled out a book. But that evening, I hadn't brought one of my philosophy texts. Instead, I'd impulsively grabbed one of the Nancy Drew novels I'd read with my mother.

Studying the cover, which featured Nancy in her usual businesslike attire, I suddenly wondered if my mom had chosen to read the books with me for a reason. Not because they were both campy fun and yet compelling stories, for a nine-year-old, at least, but because she'd known I'd be motherless in my teen years—just like Nancy—and had wanted to give me a role model. Wanted to show me a half-orphan who'd grown up more than okay, and who looked out for her father, her friends, and her dorky, straight-arrow boyfriend.

I turned the book back and forth in my hands, as if it was a clue not to a murder mystery, but to . . . my whole life. My past and my future. And I found myself wondering,
WWND?

What would Nancy do?

Not to solve a murder and save her dad, but if she one day discovered that dweeby Ned Nickerson wasn't quite the “nifty,” innocent frat boy he'd led her to believe.

Would preachy, straight-laced Nancy ditch him? Or—given that she was also loyal and pragmatic—would she look at the person he was now, and forgive him?