2 Death Makes the Cut (7 page)

He glanced over, mirrored lenses reflecting the yellow tape, before returning to reflect me. It was disconcerting to see a double image of myself, and I had to suppress an urge to adjust my hair.

“Yeah, we’re finished in there. I left the tape on so I could be here when you went in. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“This and that,” he answered evasively, and I gave him a sharp look.

I lifted a hand to the door, then hesitated at the tape, but he reached around me and tore it down, then peeled the sticker off the doorjamb without ceremony.

“We would have left someone to guard the door if we hadn’t been finished in here,” he explained, stepping aside to let me open the lock. He watched as I punched in the code.

“That’s the first question,” he went on. “How many people know the combination to this door?”

“I don’t know. Not exactly, anyway. Probably a lot of people know it. Every kid on the tennis team for sure, and it hasn’t been changed in at least a couple of years.” Actually, it hadn’t been changed since it had been installed, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You know it,” he pointed out. “And you said you weren’t involved with the team this morning.” His voice was light, as though he was just making an observation, but I could feel his eyes watching me.

“Well, yeah. A lot has changed since this morning. Then, I wasn’t involved. Now I’m the new coach,” I said. “But I already knew the combination, because a couple of years ago, Fred was away at a tournament and called to ask if I’d go into the shed and get him a phone number from the roster.”

“You remember a combination you’d heard only once two years ago? Pretty impressive.”

I didn’t care for his tone, which was a combination of fake respect and complete disbelief. I kept my own voice level.

Pointing to the giant electric Bonham High School sign at the foot of the driveway, I said, “What do you see?”

“Bonham Students are Winners?” he said, reading the scrolling message of the day.

“Below that. Look at the address. 7203 Live Oak. That’s the combination. 7-2-0-3.”

He looked from me to the sign, then back again. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why didn’t he just leave the door wide open?”

“He said the lock was there to stop temptation, not theft,” I said with a shrug, remembering. “He had a boundless faith in the goodness of people, especially kids.”

Detective Gallagher snorted a little and shook his head.

I glared at him. “He was a good guy, and he wasn’t stupid. He knew people, but he was an optimist. And the shed was never burgled.”

“He was damn lucky, and you know it. I bet you told him to change the combination.”

I’d not only told him to change it at least every two weeks but to install a secondary keyed lock so that he could control when other people could open the shed. However, I wasn’t going to give Detective Gallagher the satisfaction.

He went on. “So basically, anyone could have known or guessed the combination.”

“Basically,” I agreed.

I pushed the door open, and we looked in. Most surfaces now had a fine dusting of black powder on them.

“You dusted for fingerprints?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“It’s standard procedure for unexpected deaths,” he said. “In fact, we go to every death that occurs outside a hospital.”

“We?”

“Homicide,” he answered.

“You’re a homicide detective?” I had missed that part somehow.

He nodded but added reassuringly, “Don’t read anything into it. We go to every unattended death. Murders, of course, but also suicides, heart attacks, accidents, whatever.”

“And all this?” I asked, gesturing to the powder.

“Again, we have to treat every unattended death as a possible crime scene. We take photographs. We collect evidence. Most of the time, it’s not needed, but we only get one shot at the scene, so we have to be cautious.”

“But now you’re back,” I said, puzzled. “You’ve had all day to examine the shed, but you’re back. Is that standard, too?”

“I just wanted to clear up a few final details. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

I did not believe him. “How did Fred die?” I asked suddenly. “Was it a heart attack? Or a stroke?” I racked my brain. What else caused people to drop dead without warning?

“We don’t have the results of the autopsy yet,” he answered evasively.

Which was not an answer at all. Now that we were inside, he had removed his reflective glasses, but it made no difference. I could read nothing at all in his eyes.

He moved forward, past the rows of tennis racquets, around the metal shelves. “This filing cabinet was locked, but we found the key in his desk. Do you know what he kept in it?”

Was this a test? “Well, no. I assume forms and maybe papers about tournaments or the team lineup. Why, what’s in there?”

He pulled the top drawer open so that I could see a collection of files, each labeled in Fred’s meticulous, tiny handwriting. He closed it and pulled out the bottom drawer, which was filled with a couple of cartons of Marlboros.

“Did you know he was a smoker?”

I almost laughed. “Everyone who came within ten paces of him knew he was a smoker. The reek from his shirt could make your eyes water. So what? What difference does it make?”

He didn’t answer. Watching me, he pulled out the two cartons and laid them on the desk. Then he opened the bottom one. Tucked in between two packs was a slim, poorly rolled joint.

“That’s not Fred’s,” I said automatically. “He would never smoke marijuana.”

In response, Detective Gallagher opened one of the cigarette packs. It was full of the same slim little joints, lined up inside the package just like miniature cigarettes. I stared.

“Fred must have confiscated those from one of the players.”

“You think so? Are you sure?”

“Of course. What else could it be?”

He simply shrugged. I looked at him, appalled. “No way. You can’t possibly think these were Fred’s. He was a straight arrow. He…” I started to try to explain, then stopped abruptly. I’d finally caught an expression in Detective Gallagher’s blue eyes.

He pulled a plastic evidence bag from the top drawer of the desk where it had been stored, and put the packs inside. It was already labeled and ready to go.

I asked, “So, you left this here for me? Why?”

“I wanted to know if you knew about Mr. Argus’s drug habit. You say you didn’t.” His voice was carefully expressionless. It was anyone’s guess whether he believed me or not.

“Fred did not have a drug habit.” I enunciated each word with as much force as I could, trying to control my temper. “If this is important, then you need to look elsewhere. Hell, even if it’s not important, you need to look elsewhere. Fred would never, ever be involved with drugs in any way whatsoever.”

“The tox screen might tell a different story.”

I glared at him in frustration. Then another thought occurred to me. “Wait, what is this really about?” I said slowly. “You aren’t going to pursue drug charges against a dead man.”

For a moment I didn’t think he was going to answer, then he said, “We’ve noticed a few anomalies about this death. It’s probably nothing, but we have to look into it.”

“Anomalies? What does that mean? Are you saying you don’t think Fred’s death was natural?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying it is my job to thoroughly investigate the scene of a death. That’s all I’m doing.” He started inching toward the door.

I followed him. It was all I could do not to grab his arm and shake him. Or kick him in the pants. “You cannot possibly think that Fred Argus smoked marijuana.”

“I didn’t say he smoked it. But he might have been dealing.”

This was even worse. “Never!” I all but shouted. “Never, never, never. You don’t understand.”

A cheerful voice from the door interrupted. “Here you are! I was looking for you everywhere.”

We both turned, a little startled. My cousin Kyla was standing in the door frame. For an instant, the golden August sunlight streamed over her dark curling hair and slim figure, lighting her up like a statue of a Greek goddess. I could almost hear Detective Gallagher’s jaw hitting the floor.

I didn’t know whether I was glad to see her or not. I absolutely could not let Detective Gallagher go on thinking that Fred had been a drug dealer, but on the other hand I didn’t know how I was going to be able to convince him otherwise.

I swallowed hard and made the introductions. “Kyla, this is Detective Gallagher. He’s here about Coach Fred. Detective, this is my cousin, Kyla Shore.”

She advanced, holding out her hand. Like me, she’s tall, but like me, she had to look up to meet his eyes. She gave him a slow, warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Detective. I hope I’m not interrupting. It sounded like you were in the middle of an argument.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he said, looking from Kyla to me and back again. “Cousins. I can certainly see the resemblance.”

Kyla frowned at him. “The light in here isn’t very good,” she said shortly. “Anyway, what’s going on?”

“Do you work here at the school?” he asked her.

She snorted. “Not likely. I just stopped by to talk to Jocelyn.” She directed a glance at me. “Your cell phone is off by the way.”

I brushed this aside. “Coach Fred…” I started again, but Kyla interrupted.

“Who’s Coach Fred? And what are the police doing here?” The first question was thrown at me, but the second was very clearly directed to the detective, and the tone suggested it was a welcome and happy surprise. The look she gave him would not have won any awards in a subtlety contest.

“Our tennis coach died today,” I said. “Or last night. We found him today,” I added, suddenly feeling unsure of anything.

Kyla blinked and glanced around, taking in the black powder on the desk and shelves. “In here?” she squeaked.

At Detective Gallagher’s brief nod, she retreated to the door and stepped outside with quick light steps. We followed her. A hundred yards away, the football team was running drills, the boys bulked to twice their normal width by the padding in the black and gold uniforms. The flow of cars leaving the school had thinned to a trickle. I sneezed unexpectedly.

“Bless you,” they said in unison.

“Look, you just can’t think Coach Fred would have anything to do with that.” I pointed to the baggie he carried.

“Of course. I’m aware there might be some other explanation, and I assure you that we’ll look into every possibility.”

I ground my teeth in frustration. “You have to understand who Coach Fred was. I don’t care if you found him carrying a garbage bag full of marijuana and wearing weed pants, there would still be an explanation other than smoking or selling.”

As an answer, the detective handed us each a card. “You can reach me at those numbers,” he said, and he left without even a goodbye.

Kyla and I watched him go, I with frustration, she with appreciation. Then she turned to me. “Weed pants?”

“That complete ass is saying he found marijuana in Fred’s desk.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Not sorry to have seen that though,” she tipped her chin after the detective’s car. “That’s one fine-looking man.”

I looked at her in exasperation.

“What?” she asked. “He is nice-looking. Why shouldn’t I say it?”

“What do you want?” I asked her, too disturbed to go into a conversation about the physical appearance of a homicide detective who thought my dead friend was a drug dealer.

She took the hint. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. A bunch of us are going out tonight. We’re meeting over at the Dog and Duck for some beers. Sherman will be there,” she added.

I must have looked at her blankly, because she went on. “You remember. The cute guy I was telling you about. Look, I can tell this hasn’t been a good day, but honestly, you don’t want to go home by yourself right now, do you?”

I didn’t. But I also wasn’t interested in meeting some new guy. For one thing, regardless of her opinion, I had not broken up with Alan. I tried to ignore the aggravating little voice that added … yet.

It was as though she could read my mind, because she said in a gentler tone, “Come on. Just come down there for one beer. It would do you good. You won’t even have to talk to Sherman if you don’t want to. Just get away from all this.”

I finally agreed, mostly because she was right. I didn’t want to go home alone just now. Then I remembered McKenzie Mills’s little problem. “Shoot, I need to take care of something first.”

She pulled out her iPhone and glanced at the time. “Well, hurry it up. We’re meeting at six. You need any help?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll save you a seat, then.”

I watched her go, a slim, elegant figure who somehow always knew when I needed a lift, even when we hadn’t talked. I couldn’t remember the last time she had shown up when she couldn’t reach me on the phone, but here she was. I pulled my five-year-old flip phone from my pocket and unmuted the ringer, then squared my shoulders and headed for the theater.

Inside Building A the cheerleaders were practicing in the long, wide hall that separated the gymnasium and cafeteria on one side from the theater, orchestra, and choir rooms on the other. Someone had propped open the door to the gym to let some of the air conditioning stream out into the hall. The squeak of tennis shoes on lacquered wood and the shouts of the volleyball team told of a practice going on inside. I dodged around a line of jumping girls and pulled open the doors of the theater.

Inside, all was cool, dark, and quiet after the bright activity of the hallway, and my eyes were slow to adjust to the dim light. Gradually, I began to see what looked exactly like an old-time movie theater, complete with numbered maroon plush seats, red-carpeted aisles, and faded velvet curtains pulled back to reveal a partially completed set. At center stage, a group of girls gathered around Roland Wilding, whose tousled hair gleamed like a blurred halo under the spotlights. Next to them a group of boys was arranging an odd collection of chairs and boxes. The sound of a handsaw competed with an electric drill from somewhere offstage.

I scanned the area for Nancy and had almost decided that she must be in her office when I spotted her sitting in the third row, off to the right. Beside her sat Pat Carver, the school accountant, a tall woman in her midforties, built like a fireplug, her pinched face made memorable by unusually pale eyes magnified behind thick glasses. Pat was in charge of all booster club funds, which meant that no club in the school could spend a nickel without Pat’s approval. In theory, she kept the constantly changing stream of parent volunteers from breaking any of the district rules, but in practice she used her position to curry favor and retaliate against those who offended her. She and Nancy had their heads together, whispering in the dim light, and seemed oblivious to everything around them.