Murder for Choir (15 page)

I plopped in front of my laptop. I now knew where Greg Lucas lived. That made me wonder. Where did Dana and her son live?
After a couple taps on the keyboard, I found their address. It was a few blocks away from Greg’s house. When he was alive, the proximity must have made visiting his son convenient. Now it meant easy breaking and entering for his ex-wife.

I plugged Larry’s name into the white pages and doodled on a piece of paper while I waited. Aha. Larry lived in a house a couple of towns over. Writing down the address, I added one more name into the search engine—Coach Curtis Bennett. Grabbing my purse, I made a beeline for the door. Maybe a drive would take my mind off my problems. And if I happened to spot something interesting outside any of my current suspects’ houses, so much the better.

Dana Lucas’s place was first on my list since she lived the closest. It was only six o’clock. That meant the sun was still shining, which gave me a great view of the two-story yellow house. No cars were in the blacktopped driveway, and no lights were shining inside the house. Not a creature was stirring. The rest of the neighborhood was equally as quiet. Oh well. On to the next location.

Twenty minutes later I was cruising a street desperately in need of repaving. The extreme Midwest weather changes had taken their toll. I spotted Larry’s car in the driveway of a gray ranch and parked just down the street to observe. Half an hour into my surveillance, a rusting yellow Chevy Cavalier with a Papa John’s pizza delivery light on top pulled into the driveway. A less-than-enthusiastic-looking boy climbed out with a pizza-warmer bag and trudged to the front door. A few minutes later, the door swung open. Larry signed what I was guessing was a credit card slip, then took two pizza boxes from the kid and disappeared back inside.
Either Larry was expecting company or he was working on fighting off a depression of his own. Ten more minutes passed, and no one showed. Larry was consuming pizza on his own, and unless he had to make a soda run, he was staying in for the rest of the night. Time to hit the road.

North Shore High School’s football coach lived the farthest away. Probably a good choice when working with overly testosteroned and immature boys. Living close raised the odds of your house getting toilet-papered after every football game. It took years and hundreds of rolls of toilet paper for my high school’s football coach to figure that out.

It was only seven thirty, so I still had natural light to observe Coach Bennett’s natural habitat. Two middle-school-aged boys shot hoops in the blue colonial’s driveway. A couple of Schwinns lay on their sides in the grass to their left. A petite brunette woman with a watering can appeared from around back, said something to the boys, and walked over to water the red, white, and blue petunias hanging from baskets on the front porch. The woman had to be Mrs. Bennett.

A
FOR SALE
sign in a yard two doors down gave me an idea. I hopped out of my car and walked down the sidewalk, pretending to be checking out the up-for-sale property. From the height of the grass and the number of weeds, I was guessing the place wasn’t occupied. After a couple minutes of staring at the house, I slowly strolled down the sidewalk as if taking in the neighborhood. Mrs. Bennett put down her watering can and walked down the driveway with a wave.

Score.

I waved back and walked over to her. “Hi. My name is Paige. Would you happen to know anything about the house for sale? I left a message for the Realtor, but I haven’t gotten a call back.” Yeah. I lied. Practice was making me better at it.

She looked over at the overgrown house with a small frown. “The Millers relocated about six months ago. The inside is beautiful. Sharon just finished having the kitchen redone when her husband got transferred to the West Coast.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said with a cheerleader smile. “The outside had me a little concerned.”

“I’ve been worried about that.” Mrs. Bennett sighed. “I should have my husband mow the lawn when he’s home for more than a few minutes.”

“Sounds like he travels a lot.”

She laughed. “He’s a high school football coach, which means I’m basically a single parent from August to November. After all these years, you’d think I’d be used to it. But some weeks are harder than others. Especially this one.” Her smile disappeared. “One of the teachers at my husband’s school died.”

“I’m so sorry. Was he sick?”

“No.” Her eyes grew wide, and she looked behind her as if checking to see whether the boys could hear. “He was murdered.”

I made what I hoped was an appropriate gasp of shock. “That’s terrible.”

“I know, and it happened in a high school, which makes it even worse.”

“Were you close with the victim?”

“My husband couldn’t stand the man,” Mrs. Bennett admitted. “But it’s still a shock that someone killed him.”

A silver minivan pulled up in the driveway, and the kids playing ball waved at the hulk of a man who got out. He had a buzz cut, hairy thighs, and shoes the size of small boats. One of the boys raced up to the man and demonstrated a couple of fancy dribbles. Not to be outdone, the other kid snagged the ball and shot a basket. Nothing but net. Two points.

Mrs. Bennett sighed. “Our sons love basketball. My husband wishes they shared his fondness for football, but what can you do? You can’t force kids to follow in your footsteps.”

My dad learned that the hard way. He’s a minister on Sundays and a dairy farmer on the other days. My brother headed west to program computers. And me…well, in Dad’s mind, dreams of performing onstage were akin to running away with the circus. Truth be told, he would have been more comfortable with the circus. The smell of animal poop was something he understood.

After shooting a couple of hoops, Coach Bennett turned and headed in our direction. The closer he came, the bigger he got. The incredible hulk had nothing on this guy.

“Is everything okay?” he asked his wife while looking down at me from his over-six-foot height.

His wife smiled. “Paige was in the neighborhood looking at the Miller’s house. She’s been having trouble getting a hold of the Realtor, so I was answering a few of her questions about the place. I even thought you could have the boys help cut the yard. Having a house empty on the street after Greg’s murder makes me nervous.”

“He wasn’t murdered here,” Coach Bennett assured me.

“Your wife mentioned it happened at your high school.”

“Not my school.” When the coach put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, I couldn’t help noticing how big his hands were. The man could easily choke someone to death with them. Gulp. I took a step back. If I had to make a quick getaway, I needed as much of a head start as I could get.

The coach didn’t seem to notice my concern. He just laughed. “Thank God Greg got whacked at Prospect Glen, otherwise the cops would be all over me.”

“Greg and Curtis had a misunderstanding not too long ago.” Mrs. Bennett gave her husband a nervous smile.

“Misunderstanding my ass,” the coach bellowed. For the first time I noticed a slight slur to his speech and the shine in his eyes. The hulk was hammered. “The man was screwing my program. He convinced my best player he’d have a better chance of getting a college scholarship if he pranced around like a fairy and wore makeup.”

As someone who did both the prancing and the makeup wearing, I took exception to that.

Judging by her tense frown, his wife did, too. “Not everyone wants to play football for the rest of their life, dear.”

“Drew Roane was going to help us get to state this year.” Coach Bennett took a step away from his wife and raised his voice. “Now that Greg Lucas is out of the way, the kid will come back to the team where he belongs. I’ve talked to the kid’s father. Drew will be at practice tomorrow morning even if his father has to drag him by his frilly little dance tights.”

“Sounds like Greg’s death was the best thing that could happen for you.” Not the smartest thing for me to say, but I couldn’t help it. Drew deserved a chance to make his own choices about his after-school activities. I had high school friends still going to therapy because their fathers forced them out of the arts and into the macho male-child mold.

Coach Bennett’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I had something to do with that jerk’s death?”

“No.” At least, not to his face. I was pissed. I wasn’t stupid. “I was making an observation. Your football team will be a lot better because of the murder.”

“My football team was great to begin with. I can coach anyone. Do you hear me?” His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as his eyes bugged out. He took a step forward and swayed dangerously on his feet.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Mrs. Bennett’s face go white. Clearly, she hadn’t considered the possibility
of her husband’s involvement in his colleague’s murder. By the way her lip was trembling, I’d say she now believed he could have done it.

As a matter of fact, so did I. It was time to get out of here.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said, backing away. “Have a nice evening.” I bolted back to my car and motored into the fading light.

Pretending to real estate shop and being nosy had worked up an appetite. I drove through at McDonald’s and picked myself up my version of a balanced, healthy meal—a salad and an apple pie. Driving back home, I debated whether to call Detective Mike and let him know about my encounter with Coach Bennett.

By the time I pulled into Millie’s driveway, daylight had ended. I’d also eaten the apple pie and decided against sharing the details of my evening until I had something more substantial to report to Mike than the coach’s serious rage issues. McDonald’s bag in hand, I trucked up to the front door. The door swung open before I could put the key in and a figure in black came racing out.

Directly at me.

Heart thudding, I squeaked and jumped back. My arms windmilled, and I toppled into the bushes as the person in black raced past me down the steps. By the time I disentangled myself from the shrubbery, the person was gone.

I raced inside and hit the lights, hoping they would scare anyone else who might be lurking inside. Going into the house felt dangerous, but I had to. Aunt Millie might be in there.

“Aunt Millie?” I yelled, racing through the living room toward the kitchen. Millie was tough, but the intruder might have had a weapon. Millie had to be okay. She just had to. “Hello?”

Flipping on the lights in the kitchen, I let my eyes slide over the room. No Millie. I pulled a knife out from the butcher block and went to search the rest of the house, turning lights on as I went. Millie wasn’t in any of the downstairs rooms. Taking the stairs two at a time, I started searching the bedrooms. No. No. No.

A sound at the end of the hall made me suck in air. Somebody was in my room. I felt for the cell phone in my jeans pocket and heard the sound again. Oh God. Someone was whimpering. Millie.

My feet started moving before my brain could stop them. I raised the knife, hoping to God I wouldn’t have to use it, and pushed open my bedroom door. I kept my back to the wall as I hit the light switch and blinked as the room sprang into Technicolor.

Oh no. Killer lay on the floor. A dark streak of red colored the top of his pompon head. He looked up at me and whimpered. The sound broke my heart.

Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I knelt down next to him. I may not love the vicious little beast, but I didn’t want him to die and end up as part of Millie’s petrified pet collection.

I stroked Killer’s neck, and he tried to lick my hand. Either that or he was trying to bite it. Either way, I took the movement as a good sign. There was a gash on Killer’s head. I ran to the bathroom, ignored the poodle watching my every move, and grabbed a wet washcloth. Back in the bedroom, I dabbed Killer’s wound and tried to get a better look.

The bleeding had stopped, but a huge bump was already forming on Killer’s head. I dialed Millie’s number. She was giggling at someone in the background when she answered. The merriment stopped the minute I told her what had happened to Killer. She promised to call the vet and come right home. She disconnected, and I called Detective Mike. I was pretty sure investigating home invasion wasn’t part of his homicide detective job, but I was completely freaked and I didn’t want to talk to a stranger. Mike sounded confused as I told my story, but he promised to be right over.