2 Death Makes the Cut (8 page)

I waited at the back, glancing at my watch. I didn’t want to talk with Nancy in Pat’s presence, but at that moment, Pat rose and stretched, putting hands to lower back and arching like a cat. A very large, goggle-eyed cat. I started down the aisle, thinking they were done, but Pat bent suddenly, leaning close to Nancy’s head, and I heard the words, “You better take care of it fast. That much money is going to be noticed.”

She sidled out of the row, then stalked past me up the aisle, giving me a sharp glance from her silvery blue eyes. Nancy sat very still for a long moment, then began shuffling through a sheaf of papers, pulling her reading glasses from her head where they’d been perched like a headband. I wondered how she could see anything at all in the dim light.

I slipped into the seat beside her.

“Hi, Nancy,” I said.

She must have seen me, but she gave a theatrical little jump anyway and said, “Ah. Jocelyn.” She glanced from me, up to the stage, and back down to her papers as though trying to decide where to focus her attention. Somehow, I didn’t think I was her first choice.

I decided to get right to the point. “I need to talk to you about McKenzie Mills.”

Nancy gave me the unblinking stare of a python confronted by a medium-sized monkey and wondering if it could be consumed.

“McKenzie Mills,” I repeated. “She’s in your musical, but she’s also on the tennis team. Did Coach Fred have a chance to talk to you about her?”

Her eyes slid away from me again. I waited. I passed the time by wondering why she insisted on dyeing her hair black. It could not have looked more unnatural if she had chosen bright blue. And the way the short wisps stuck out on the top reminded me more than a little of Ursula the Sea Witch. Come to think of it, the puffy bosom and flowing caftan also added to the impression.

Eventually, she said, “Coach Fred? No, I haven’t spoken with him at all this year. What’s this about?”

“McKenzie Mills,” I said for the third time, starting to feel frustrated. “She’s in your play,” I reminded her. At that moment McKenzie crossed the stage to join the other girls around Roland, her blond hair almost as bright as his under the lights. “Look. Right up there. In the pink shirt.”

The basilisk stare flicked that way. “Oh. Yes, of course. What about her?”

“She’s on the tennis team. She said that you told her she had to quit the team if she wanted to be in the musical.”

Nancy’s attention finally focused. She sat up a little straighter and the bulldog expression returned to her eyes and jaw. “Yes, that’s right. I can’t have my actors running late and being distracted by other obligations.”

“I’m coach of the tennis team now. I’m here to work out a compromise so that McKenzie doesn’t have to give up her eighth-period class to be able to participate in the drama club. I’ve already told her that she can skip the additional after-school practice and the tournaments for the duration of the play. There shouldn’t be any reason that she can’t continue with both.” I smiled as pleasantly as I could, bracing for the push-back.

“The girl has a very large part. She’s one of the Sateens.” Nancy said it as though it would mean something to me. My expression must have convinced her otherwise, because she went on. “She’s playing Sateen in two of the performances. The lead role.”

I still had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. “Yes. Well, that’s terrific. That’s still no reason she has to give up tennis. She will be at rehearsal, ready to go at 4:40, just like everyone else.”

“Drama kids are required to be present in the theater room at four thirty,” she snapped.

I had her on this. “Official time for after-school practice is four forty. That gives the students time to put their books away or to shower after phys ed.”

“Which is why McKenzie can’t be in tennis. She has to be in the theater room at four thirty.”

I drew a slow breath, willing myself not to reach out and strangle this woman. “Nancy, I’m here to ask you to make an exception for my player.” She opened her mouth to refuse, but I held up a hand. “I think this is in everyone’s best interest. Of course, we can pursue it with Larry if you prefer.”

She thought about this. I could almost see the way her mind was working, wondering just how far I was willing to go, considering whether she could bully me into backing down, weighing whether she could win. I gave her credit. She read me correctly.

“I suppose I’d be willing to let McKenzie come in a few minutes late,” she said at last.

I was impressed that she could get out that many words without unclenching her teeth.

“You mean, not as early as the others,” I corrected, to make sure we were clear. “She won’t be late.”

“Yes.” She bit off the word.

I rose, giving her a tight-lipped smile. “Excellent. Perhaps you can let McKenzie know so she isn’t worried. Oh, and Nancy,” I paused to give my words weight. “I’ll be checking with McKenzie to make sure that tennis isn’t interfering with drama.”

She shot me a cold look but didn’t answer. I left, feeling uneasy.

I’d heard rumors. Heard about kids driven out of the drama department when they fell out of favor, about kids losing parts even after they’d made it in auditions. It was such a subjective area: the teacher claiming the kid wasn’t practicing hard enough, the kid claiming bias and retribution. All but impossible to tell from outside who was in the right. In disputes between teachers and students or teachers and parents, I usually found myself on the side of the teacher, but in this case, our two-minute conversation had been enough to make me afraid for McKenzie’s continuing theater aspirations. I doubted whether the girl would ever get another part, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about that. The only thing I could do was make sure she didn’t lose the one she had.

I returned to my locked classroom to pick up my purse. Hesitating a moment, I considered my options, then made a decision. Kyla would not be happy, but I simply could not face a loud, happy group of strangers. Not tonight. I pulled out my cell phone to tell her I wasn’t going to be coming. Maybe I’d never intended to go. The only thing I wanted now was a Sonic cheeseburger, cheese tots, and limeade. Beer would have been better, but I needed to learn the official rules of high school tennis and maybe something about form and strategy. It was the last and only thing I could do for Coach Fred.

Chapter 4

EPITAPHS AND EPISTLES

Coach Fred’s funeral took place three days later. Bowing to public pressure, our fearless principal dismissed school for the afternoon, which admittedly was more complicated than it sounded because he had to put classes on a shortened schedule and arrange for the school buses to arrive three hours early. However, to hear Larry moan about it, you’d think he was orchestrating an international peace convention single-handedly, instead of simply telling Maria, his secretary, to make the arrangements. Which was basically all he had to do.

I arrived early at the tiny church and chose a seat at the rear. It was an old building, simple and elegant. The pews were long wooden benches with very upright backs, recalling a simpler, slower time when women came to church wearing flowered dresses and tiny hats, plump legs squeezed tight under the shimmering grip of support hose. Despite the abundance of flower arrangements, the air smelled mostly of old wood and furniture polish. The worn carpet was a mint green color, which I supposed was supposed to be restful, and the only adornment on the walls was a large mahogany cross hanging on the wall behind the altar. In front of the altar, a wooden casket rested solidly on trestles covered with golden cloth; it was flanked by two candelabras, tiny flames shivering as though cold from the air-conditioning. I looked down at my hands.

Other people began arriving, and a couple of young men in suits escorted them singly or in pairs down the aisle. Some were members of the congregation or possibly distant relatives of Fred’s. The rest were kids and teachers from Bonham High, wearing dark clothing, some with reddened eyes and noses. Many I knew, many more I didn’t. One girl sobbed as she was escorted to her seat. Her suffering was all too theatrical and exacerbated by the bevy of friends who reached out to touch her shoulder or squeeze her hand. Dramatic by nature, teenagers are all too easily caught up by the form and ceremony of death and grieving. Their feelings are passionately intense and sincerely felt, at least in the moment. I figured there was at least a seventy percent chance the girl had actually known Fred.

A sound from the doorway made me turn my head in time to see Roland Wilding and Nancy Wales making their entrance. Something in their thespian blood must make them incapable of slipping quietly into a room. Even here, at a funeral, their gestures were large, their voices just slightly too loud, their postures a little too erect. “Look at me, look at me,” they seemed to be saying. Or “slap my face, slap my face,” which was the effect it had on me. However, upon closer observation, I realized that Nancy was, if not subdued, at least quieter than usual, and that it was Roland who was doing most of the grandstanding. He made a big point of asking the usher where he should sit and requesting that the boy take them closer to the altar. Nancy actually had the unexpected decency to resist, but he urged her forward. I looked away in disgust.

The low tones of recorded organ music began streaming softly through the speakers mounted in the corners of the chapel. The church was packed, every seat taken, a line of mourners standing along the walls in the back and flowing out into the foyer. A small group wearing black—two women, a man, and two small children—were escorted to the pew in the front. Fred’s widow and children, no doubt, and the grandchildren of whom he’d been so proud.

The service was brief, although not brief enough. The minister said a few words. A young woman, probably a relative, stood in front of the altar with a boom box and microphone and sang “You Light Up My Life” with eyes closed, wobbling on the high notes. The phrase “funeral karaoke” sprang into my head and for a few minutes I had to struggle to suppress a wholly inappropriate urge to laugh. Fortunately, before she could start another song, Fred’s son rose to deliver a surprisingly eloquent and moving eulogy, which had everyone in the congregation reaching for tissues. The minister said a few more words that no one heard, and then it was over.

Because I’d sat at the back, I was one of the first out the door after the grieving family, and I took my place in line to walk by and press their hands and express my condolences. The heat of the afternoon hit me in the face like a blast furnace, the brilliant light blinding and welcome. After the dim, chill interior of the church, I’d almost expected the day to be dark and drizzly, the earth weeping along with the rest of us. Instead, the brilliant blue sky overhead, the August heat, and the happy raucous cries of the grackles fussing with each other in the grass all welcomed us back into the world of the living. Impossible not to draw a deep breath and thank God that we were still alive.

The line of mourners moved fairly quickly. When I reached Fred’s widow, I murmured my generic, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and attempted to move on.

Unexpectedly, she gripped my hand. “Aren’t you Jocelyn Shore?” she asked.

Surprised, I admitted I was. Of course, I had met her on one or two occasions over the years, but I hardly expected her to remember me. Her name was Edith, which I remembered only because it had been printed in the funeral announcement.

“Here, wait just a second.”

She fumbled in her little black purse, a pretty thing, almost certainly bought for a special occasion—an anniversary or birthday celebration in a fancy restaurant—and not for her husband’s funeral. I don’t know why, but the sight of that purse made my eyes fill with tears again, and I tried to blink them away before anyone could see. The line of mourners behind me was backing up, and I could feel people craning to see what was going on.

Edith pulled an envelope from her purse, folded and somewhat crumpled. “Here, this was in Fred’s jacket pocket,” she said, her voice tight and breaking a little. “It was addressed to you.”

I took it automatically, then stared at it, not sure what to do. She had to be curious, a last communication from her dead husband and it was addressed to another woman. On the other hand, I could feel the mounting pressure of the mourners behind me.

“Thank you,” I said, and moved away.

I walked to the side of the building, where I could stand in the shade, and considered what to do with the envelope. I could see the widow staring after me, and I knew that whatever the envelope contained I would have to go back and share it with her. I tried to give her a reassuring expression. Farther back in line, I saw Roland, Nancy, Larry Gonzales, and Pat Carver, the accountant, followed by a stream of high school students. It seemed as though they were all staring at me as well. I moved farther away.

A figure approached from my left and stood beside me. I glanced up from the envelope. It was Detective Gallagher. He wore a pressed maroon shirt, tie, and black slacks, but not his badge. Giving me a quick smile that did not quite reach his eyes, he scanned the line of mourners intently then turned his attention to the envelope in my hand.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, not caring if it sounded rude. Somehow, it did not seem right that this man, this arrogant ass who thought that Fred was a dope dealer, should be allowed to attend his funeral.

He didn’t appear to notice my tone. “I wanted to see who was attending the service.”

“Why?” I asked. “What do you care? Just a fan of attending funerals for people you don’t know
at all,
or are you maybe looking for addicts?”

He spared me a brief glance. “It bothers you, my thinking that Fred might have been involved in drugs?”

“What do you think? Yes! You’re an idiot if you think that was possible.” I glared at him.

His lack of reaction was annoying and made me think he was probably accustomed to being called an idiot.