Read 2 Death Makes the Cut Online

Authors: Janice Hamrick

2 Death Makes the Cut (3 page)

Kyla ignored this. “It wouldn’t hurt you to meet this guy. Just for drinks or something. It’s not like you and Alan are exclusive.”

I frowned. Of course we were exclusive … weren’t we? Thinking about it, I supposed we’d never formally talked about it. No promises on either side, that sort of thing. Part of it was the distance. When you only got to see each other a weekend or two each month, things tended to move pretty slowly. It seemed like we spent half our time each visit getting reacquainted. Not that the reacquainting wasn’t a lot of fun, but I was getting tired of the dry spells in between.

“No, I don’t think so. Alan and I are doing okay. At least,” I added, “I want to give us a chance to do okay.”

She shrugged. “Think about it. Sherman’s a nice guy. And smart. And funny.”

“His name is Sherman?”

“He can’t help that. Besides, he’s a hottie. Or he would be if he had someone to tell him how to dress.”

“Why don’t you want him?” I asked suspiciously.

“I thought about it,” she admitted. “But I have to work with him. It would be awkward, especially since I’d have to make him buy a new wardrobe and change his name. You know I could never go out with a guy named Sherman.”

I decided to leave it at that. We spent the next hour going over what she could say in her first class. I made her take notes and reminded her that she’d have to do it on her own, but we both knew I’d be doing most of the real work. By the time we left, I’d already forgotten about Larry and his VIP guests. And about Coach Fred.

*   *   *

 

Austin is the best city in the world, I thought for about the millionth time as I drove home. On this August afternoon, the sun was gliding slowly down to meet the blue tops of the hills to the west and throwing a brassy golden light over the dusty live oaks and cedars that filled every undeveloped bit of land. Heat pulled color and shape into the air above the road, and made it shimmer and undulate like miniature underwater reefs. With the air conditioner blasting icy air in my face and my radio playing Brad Paisley’s “Mud on the Tires,” I didn’t care. Like most Texans, I’d take a miserably hot July and August over a miserably icy January and February any day.

I’d been born in Texas, although I hadn’t grown up there. Until his retirement, my father had been in the diplomatic corps, and my two brothers and I had spent much of our childhood in France, Italy, and Spain. Moreover, my mother was French, and as a result I was fluent in French and Italian, and had a fairly decent grasp of Spanish. We’d returned to Austin at the beginning of my high school years, and I’d been able to go to school with Kyla, which had been a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she’d resented me for looking so much like her and had stolen my very first boyfriend for no other reason than to prove she could. On the other hand, we’d somehow managed to become best friends anyway. We’d roomed together at the University of Texas, and even after we’d graduated and gone into separate careers, we still spent most of our spare time together.

The phone was ringing as I walked through the door, and my fat little poodle was barking and spinning in circles. A present from my parents for my sixteenth birthday, Belle was a small blob of black curls who weighed about ten pounds soaking wet and who had apparently been purchased without the optional brain pack. Knowing that no command of mine would stop the yapping, I grabbed the phone on my way to the back door and ushered her to the back door, where she galloped across the dry grass, intent on patrolling the perimeter, making the yard safe from squirrels. One of the evil ones liked to sit on the fence and chitter at her, a pastime that never got old for either of them.

“Hello?”

“Hi. I was just about to hang up.” The deep voice was that of Alan Stratton. I loved that voice.

I smiled. “Just got back from school. How was your day?”

Actually, I could just as easily have asked, “How was your week?” He didn’t call as often as I would like, but I didn’t want to be one of those clingy women. I glanced through the door to my bedroom where my suitcase lay on the floor, already half-packed for our trip to the coast.

“Better, now that I’m talking to you,” he said gallantly, “but not good overall. Vittoria has broken a leg, and she was supposed to start the “Tastes of Italy” tour on Saturday. She’ll be out of commission for at least six weeks, and I have no backup. It means I’ll have to go to Rome myself.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, trying to feel sympathetic for someone forced to go to Italy. Then I did a mental double take. “Wait, you mean
this
Saturday?” The Saturday that he and I were supposed to go to Port Aransas for a beach weekend? I held my breath.

“I’m afraid so. I’m really sorry.” His voice was sincere and full of regret, but it didn’t help much.

I thought about banging my head against the wall. “Me, too. I suppose you couldn’t postpone the tour?”

“No, all my clients have booked their tickets, either through WorldPal or on their own. Nonrefundable, nonchangeable. I suppose you couldn’t get away and come with me?” he asked. “I could really use someone who could speak Italian. All expenses paid, salary thrown in,” he added persuasively.

So tempting, but so impossible. It would mean not only losing my job but never working in Austin as a teacher again. And I liked my job. Bitter disappointment made me speechless.

He must have thought I was considering it because he added, “You know, you could work for me permanently. It would be so great to have you based here in Dallas.”

“You know I can’t. I have a job. With a contract. I can’t just give two weeks’ notice and scamper off, even if I wanted to. And anyway, I thought you were in the process of moving down here,” I reminded him.

Silence on his end. My stomach sank to my toes, bounced up against my esophagus, and then settled down to a wicked churn somewhere in the middle.

“Yes, I am. But it isn’t as easy as I originally thought,” he said at last. “I’ve been looking into it, don’t get me wrong. But it might be easier if you could come up here.”

Yeah, easier for him. “We’ve had this conversation before,” I said finally. “Maybe we need to spend some more time together before either of us uproots our lives.”

“No, don’t say that. I don’t mean it that way,” he protested. “Damn, it’s impossible talking on the phone. Look, I’ll come down there the minute I’m back from Rome. We can figure out what we’re going to do then, all right?”

I agreed, and we left it like that, neither of us happy. Funny how you can hear the death rattle of a relationship so clearly when you know what to listen for. I’d clung to the corpse of my first marriage for months after I’d heard that sound, and I wasn’t going to go through that again. Like seeing the future in a crystal ball, I knew he would come visit, we’d talk, he’d get angry, I’d cry, and then it would be over. No harm, no foul. At least I wouldn’t be stuck in a strange city when it happened, with no friends and no job. Much better this way, really.

I went to the back door to let Belle back inside and got a beer from the fridge. Passing the suitcase filled with brightly colored shirts, beach towels, and a swimsuit, I gave it a kick and then burst into tears.

 

 

Chapter 2

DEATH AND DIVAS

 

The next morning, the first day of the new school year, I drove into the parking lot at seven o’clock, a full hour and a half before classes started. I liked getting to school at that time. I liked having my pick of the best parking spaces in the teachers’ lot, which were those under a couple of massive live oaks. Trust me, shade in August is worth any amount of bird droppings. I also liked the relatively quiet time before most of the kids and teachers arrived. I always stopped in at the front office to chat with Maria Santos, who besides being my friend was also Larry’s secretary and knew more about what was happening at the school than he did. Then I would wander down the foreign-language hall and check in with Laura Esperanza, my friend and fellow early bird who could usually be counted on for some good gossip. And then I would head to my classroom, where I would spend the remaining time grading papers or helping kids with their homework. Not that I’d be doing that on the first day, but I was looking forward to catching up with my friends.

I knew something was wrong the minute my tires rolled with a crunch onto the pitted asphalt of the parking lot. A small group of kids milled around the tennis shed, a half-size portable building that stood beside the tennis courts and was used for storing tennis equipment and as a makeshift office. At this time of day, I might expect to see one or two kids dropping off their racquets, which were too big to fit into the school lockers. Five kids huddled in a tight circle meant trouble, especially since one of the girls appeared to be sobbing. When they saw my car, two of them ran straight at me, waving their arms. I stood on the brakes, making my little Civic skid to a stop. Heart pounding, I opened the door.

“What the hell are you doing? I could have hit you!”

They ignored this.

“Ms. Shore, come quick!” said the dark-haired boy, a kid named Dillon Andrews whom I’d had last year for American history.

The taller boy, skinny and blond, added, “It’s Coach.”

Fear is more contagious than any virus. It took maybe five seconds to cover the distance from my car to the open door of the shed, but in that tiny space of time, a nameless dread made my mouth go dry and filled my stomach with lead. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew it would be bad.

It was. And it wasn’t. Other than a spilled bucket of tennis balls, the shed was almost preternaturally neat. Metal shelves lined the walls, loaded with neat stacks of towels, cans of tennis balls, and cases of bottled water and sports drinks. A handmade wooden stand held half a dozen battered tennis racquets, and an old desk stood in one corner, clean except for a small brass lamp and an empty in-box made of black plastic. I took two steps inside, far enough to see around the sets of shelves, and stopped. The only thing out of place, really, were the tennis balls and Fred.

He lay on his back on the floor, and even from that distance I could see that he was dead. I rushed forward anyway, my feet kicking against tennis balls with every step, and knelt by his side. Poor old Fred. He lay on his back, legs twisted a little to one side, arms thrown wide. I thought about feeling for a pulse, but a single touch on his wrist told me he was already cold. And stiff. I wiped my fingers on my skirt, not so much to remove the contact but to feel something warm.

I sat back on my heels, taking in the scene. Fred’s eyes stared blindly at the ceiling, already covered by a strange milky cast. On his chin, right beside the left corner of his mouth, a dark bruise and a small dried cut marred the marble pallor of his skin. Near his hand lay an overturned white plastic tennis ball bucket, the kind he bought on sale at Walmart for ten bucks each, always out of his own pocket. I don’t know why that was the thought that finally made my eyes fill with tears, but I had to blink hard as I rose.

I turned back to the kids who were standing in the doorway like young deer, ready to flee. “Have you called 911?” I asked.

Apparently not. Five phones materialized like a Vegas show trick. I held up a hand. “Just one of you.” I singled out the kid I knew. “Dillon, you call. You,” I pointed to the girl who wasn’t actively sobbing, “what’s your name?”

“Brittany. Brittany Smith.” Her voice was tight and squeaky, struggling not to cry. I liked her for it.

“Okay. Brittany. Do you drive?”

She looked puzzled, but gave a nod.

I said, “Here are my keys. Go park my car in the teachers’ lot, then come back. We need to make room for the ambulance.”

She hurried away. I stepped outside, closing the door behind me, then turned to a tall blond boy, who was now standing just a little apart from the others.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly for a moment, as though he couldn’t quite remember, then said, “Eric, ma’am. Eric Richards.”

Ma’am. Wow. New kid for sure. He had to be a freshman. Then the last name registered. Was this the son of that arrogant bully from yesterday? I looked at him more closely, but couldn’t see any resemblance in face or build. This kid had the long, loose limbs common among so many of the best tennis players, but he was stick thin and had none of the bulk and sheer bullying presence of his father.

“Eric, do you know where the office is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, good. You run there and find either Mr. Gonzales or Mrs. Santos and very quietly tell them what happened. Then come back, would you?”

He was gone like a shot, golden hair bright in the morning sun, long legs flying. When I’d said run, I hadn’t meant it literally, but it wouldn’t do the kid any harm. Dillon was off the phone now, and all of them were staring at me for further instructions. The only problem was that I didn’t know what to do, other than to wait for the ambulance.

“Which one of you found him?” I asked, more for something to say than because I thought it mattered.

The crying girl raised her hand like limp bird, then let it flutter back to her side, bursting into fresh sobs.

“I know you, don’t I? Aren’t you Melody Mills’s sister?”

She nodded through the tears. “McKenzie,” she whispered.

Snot was collecting in a little pool around her nose and her face was mottled and red. She looked just about as bad as it was possible for a teenage girl to look, but the fact that the boy beside her still hadn’t removed his arm from her shoulders told me that this girl was probably exceptionally pretty under normal circumstances.

“I had Melody last year for World History,” I went on while she gulped and sniffed.

She seemed to be calming down a little. Brittany returned with my car keys and my purse, thoughtful girl, and I thanked her and pulled out a little pack of tissues and handed them to McKenzie. She pulled out two and buried her face in them. I gave her a moment, then laid a hand on her shoulder.

Other books

Ruthless and Rotten by Ms. Michel Moore
Moonlit Feathers by Sarah Mäkelä
The Star-Crossed Bride by Kelly McClymer
Carved in Stone by Kate Douglas
Jumped by Colette Auclair
Once Upon a Crime by P. J. Brackston
Shadow of Guilt by Patrick Quentin
When She Was Bad... by Louise Bagshawe