2 Death Makes the Cut (9 page)

“So, what’s in the envelope?”

I thought about telling him it was none of his business, but decided that wasn’t tactful. “I’m surprised you didn’t open it yourself when you went through his belongings,” I said instead, which was so much better.

“I would have, if it had been on him when we found him,” he admitted. “He didn’t have a jacket in the tennis shed.”

He must have been listening like a dog waiting for the can opener if he’d overheard Edith telling me she’d found it in Fred’s jacket pocket. “Fred always kept a jacket in his classroom. His room had an overactive air conditioner. If it was on at all, it was set to arctic.”

I was oddly reluctant to open the envelope in front of him, but I didn’t see any way out of it. Besides, I could feel Edith’s eyes continually straying to me in between passing mourners, and one way or another I was going to have to show her the contents. I pulled up the flap.

Inside was a small key and a sheet torn from a yellow legal pad. I palmed the key and unfolded the note.

Jocelyn,

Here’s the key. As we discussed, it’s just a precaution. Nothing to worry about. And thanks.

Fred

I looked down at the key, turning it over in my fingers. It was silver and smaller than a house key, but it was unmarked and there was nothing otherwise remarkable about it. I could feel Detective Gallagher’s eyes burning a hole in my skull and he shifted impatiently, obviously wanting to snatch the note from my hands. I took pity on him and handed him the sheet without a word.

His eyes flew over the lines. “Key to what?” he asked immediately. “What did you discuss?”

I was puzzled, too. “That’s the weird thing. We didn’t have a discussion, and I have no idea what he meant. He must have been intending to talk to me the day he died.”

“Could I see the key?” he asked, holding out his hand as though he had a right.

I hesitated. This wasn’t really any of his business, but on the other hand, maybe he would recognize what kind of key it was. I finally passed it to him with reluctance, feeling unsure whether he would give it back.

He examined it as I had, turning it over and looking for a clue to its purpose. “Maybe a key to a safe deposit box?” he said almost to himself.

“Or a cash box.” I was trying to remember other things that used small keys.

“Did he have a cash box? Maybe at school?”

“Not that I know of.”

“We’ll ask his wife,” said Detective Gallagher.

“Can I have my key back? And my note?” I held out my hand. Damn, the man was nosy.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, no. I need them as evidence. Could you give me the envelope as well?”

“What? Why? Evidence for what?”

Drawing a breath, he raised his eyes heavenward as if looking for inspiration from above, and finally let his breath out slowly. “There were no fingerprints on the cigarette packs,” he said at last, as though coming to a decision.

“So? What does that mean?”

“It means someone either wiped them down very carefully, or else handled them with gloves. Packs like that are a perfect surface for fingerprints. It raises a few questions. If Coach Argus confiscated the packs from a student, both his prints and the student’s prints should have turned up. Likewise, if he was hiding the packs there so that he could distribute them—and I’m not saying he was,” here he held up a hand to stop my instinctive protest, “his fingerprints should still be there. He would have no reason to wipe them off.”

Roland and Nancy moved forward in the line, followed closely by Larry Gonzales. As they reached Edith, Roland expressed his condolences in a broken voice that I could hear from where I stood and pressed Edith’s hands as though he were her long-lost grandson. Edith discreetly tried to pull away. He was acting the part of the heartbroken friend, and not particularly well. People were starting to stare. Even Nancy, who normally watched him like a doting tycoon watches his twenty-year-old trophy wife, looked as though she’d like to be anywhere else. Larry, for once taking charge, poked a finger into Roland’s back and said something that made him move along.

Detective Gallagher watched them also. Turning back to me, he must have seen something in my expression, because one dark eyebrow lifted. “Were they friends of Mr. Argus?” he asked.

“They aren’t friends of anybody,” I said shortly. “But no, they never had anything to do with Fred one way or another. As far as I know,” I added, thinking of McKenzie Mills.

“As far as you know?”

I shrugged. “Coach Fred was supposed to intervene on behalf of a student who committed the ultimate sin of wanting to play a part in their musical and still stay on the tennis team.”

“And did he?”

“I don’t think so. I had to take care of it.” I didn’t give a rat’s ass about Roland or Nancy, and turned the conversation back to the interesting part. “So, what does it mean about the fingerprints?”

“I don’t know yet.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I do know that Coach Fred did not die in the tennis shed.”

I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. He was absolutely dead when I found him.”

“Mmm, yeah, but he’d been moved.”

I felt my heart thud in my chest.

“Moved. What do you mean?” I whispered.

He shrugged.

“Are you saying…” I stopped, unable to utter the words. It seemed too ridiculous.

He gave me a quick, grim look. “It will be on the news tomorrow. But yeah, Coach Argus was murdered.”

Chapter 5

PARENTS AND PESTS

Almost a week had passed, and tennis practice was going well even if not much else was. After the funeral Detective Gallagher and I had waited and shown the note and key to Edith, but she had no more idea than I what it was for or what Fred had meant by the phrase “just a precaution.” Detective Gallagher had kept both, which irked me. I might not know what either was for, but they were mine and I wanted the key in case I ever found something that needed unlocking. So far, I hadn’t, but that was beside the point.

I walked up and down the narrow aisles that ran between the tennis courts, observing the action and dodging the occasional ball. Bonham High had six courts, and I’d placed an upperclassman in charge of each. The older kids had stepped up, organizing their squads, suggesting exercises, coming up with techniques and drills all on their own. And even my half-trained eye could already see the improvement among my players. Eric Richards, somewhat to my surprise, was almost as good as his father claimed. His long limbs gave him a terrific reach, and he coupled that with impressive bursts of speed. But, to my relief, he was no prima donna, and in fact was showing signs of being a real leader, despite his short time with the team. He’d been the one to suggest working on a different drill on every court, each run by the team member who was strongest in that skill. Currently, he was providing instruction on the backhand stroke on Court 6 and I watched him demonstrate a sweeping move for a short freshman, then stand back to watch. On Court 3 a sudden shout made me turn in time to see the players pelting Dillon Andrews with tennis balls. He was laughing and covering his head with his arms. I decided to pretend not to notice.

I walked toward the tennis shed, thinking it was time for yet another cup of ice water from the giant orange cooler, when a black SUV pulled up directly in front of the shed door in a no-parking area. The driver emerged, a bull of a man, wearing a gray business suit and dark glasses. Except for the fine cut and quality of the cloth, he might have been an FBI agent. As it was, I smelled lawyer. He stood, legs spread, fists on hips, staring at the players with a grim expression, and then removed his glasses. With a jolt of recognition, I realized that Mr. Richards had returned. I approached with trepidation.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Gary Richards. I’m here about my son.” He gave me a long stare, and then frowned in sudden recognition. “You. It’s you.”

That kind of statement is very hard to refute. “Why, yes it is.”

An expression of outrage flickered across his massive face and the fleshy cheeks flushed. “
You
are Coach Shore? Eric told me a new coach had replaced that doddering old fool, but I had no idea…” Here he stopped as though words failed him.

I thought about taking him up on the doddering old fool comment, but decided it wasn’t worth it. No point in poking the bear. Besides, having him off guard was an advantage I didn’t want to lose.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Richards?”

He drew himself up and leaned forward slightly. Intimidation tactics and not very subtle ones at that, I thought with a certain amount of amusement.

“I am here to discuss Eric’s future with the team.”

“Of course,” I answered promptly. “Would you like to step into the shed?”

He followed me for a pace or two, then balked like a startled mule. “No. That’s the shed where…”

I turned, surprised. “Where what?”

“Where the old geezer died.”

I thought about Detective Gallagher’s theories on that subject, but I wasn’t going to discuss those details with Mr. Richards.

“Yes, Coach Fred was found in the shed, but…” Even as I said it, I winced at the unintentional rhyme.

He cut me off. “We can talk out here.”

I gave him a sharp glance. Not wanting to enter a room in which a death occurred didn’t necessarily indicate anything more than a certain level of squeamishness or possibly superstition. Big men could be as susceptible to that as anyone else. On the other hand, it could indicate a guilty conscience, but, if so, was it because he’d been rude and threatening to the dead man, or was it something worse?

With a mental shrug, I led the way to a weathered wooden bench, which rested in a narrow strip of sere grass running along the courts and occupied a small but welcome pool of shade cast by the wall of the shed. A couple of feet away, a mound of crumbled earth marked the home of a colony of fire ants, the bane of outdoor life in Texas. From this distance and in this heat, the mound seemed quiet, but without a doubt thousands of the evil little insects were just poised and ready to swarm out and cover a hapless victim with burning, itching blisters. I made a mental note to complain to Larry about them again.

Feeling a trickle of sweat slide down my back, I courteously took the side of the bench nearest the ants, leaving the other available for Gary Richards. A mistake, because instead of sitting, Mr. Richards stepped directly in front of me, using his height and bulk to loom like a buzzard over a juicy piece of roadkill. I leaned against the wall of the shed, extending my legs and crossing one ankle over the other so I at least looked like I was relaxed, and was pleased to see an expression of annoyance creep into his eyes. Across the courts Eric stopped his instruction and looked our way, tension creeping across his shoulders like an icy hand.

“Eric’s doing very well on the team,” I said. “He’s showing real leadership skills in addition to his performance on the court, which I’m sure you know is outstanding.”

The bull snorted. “I don’t give a flying fuck about his leadership skills. He’s not here to lead, especially not this pack of beginners and incompetents.” He gestured with his head toward my team. “He’s here to advance his own game, to get a scholarship, and to play for his college. Maybe go pro.”

I considered this while repositioning my outstretched legs slightly so that Mr. Richards either had to step back and ease up on the intimidation over me or else shift to the left, closer to the anthill. He chose to shift left.

“If that is Eric’s goal,” I placed emphasis on Eric’s name, “then he would be better off with daily private instruction and belonging to the National Junior Tennis League.”

“So you admit that your program is inadequate.” His glare was vaguely triumphant, as if he had scored off me. I wondered again what his profession was. He had lawyer written all over him, and I should know, having been married to one of them for a brief, albeit painful, time, but it was possible that he specialized in something a little more cutthroat. Hostile takeovers maybe.

I leaned left as though trying to see around him, and he immediately moved to block my view.

Ignoring this, I said, “Not at all. This program is one of the best in the state. It’s designed to provide an opportunity to learn and improve at a sport that will be a source of lifelong fun and physical activity. It’s also designed to teach teamwork and leadership skills. It is not, however, a training camp for future professionals.”

“Big words from someone who doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.”

I shifted again. And again he moved to the left rather than back away and give me some space. A swift downward glance showed a single enterprising fire ant starting to scale the polished wall of his shoe. I quickly raised my eyes.

“On what do you base that statement, Mr. Richards?” I asked in a pleasant tone, as though I really wanted to know.

He did not seem to know how to answer. I suspected he was used to making inflammatory statements to goad his opponent into a shouting match, as he’d done with Coach Fred that day in the school. Behind him, all the kids had now stopped their practice and were looking my way anxiously. They might not be able to hear our conversation, but even at that distance, the menace in Mr. Richards’s shoulders and posture was obvious. I did not want them coming over.

I straightened my back, leaning to look around him one last time, thinking surely this time he would back off rather than move to block me. Then I could stand and speak with him on more equal footing.

He didn’t. His right foot brushed the ant mound bringing down a miniature avalanche of dirt and white pupae. A flood of tiny but enraged brown bodies swarmed over his shoe and up his sock. In an instant he was hopping up and down like a madman, shrieking and swearing. I leaped to my feet and jumped out of his way. The kids raced over, then stopped abruptly when they realized what was happening. Half of them collapsed in laughter on the court. Eric hurried forward and began trying to brush the biting little creatures from his father’s leg. Mostly to save Eric’s hands, I grabbed up the big orange water cooler and removed the white top, tossing it to the ground.