Buzz Kill (13 page)

Chase shifted up to fifth gear and—forgetting the climate control—opened the sunroof, so his hair did that “riffling” thing—while mine flailed about like the snakes on Medusa's head, until I snared it in one of the ponytail holders I usually kept wrapped around my wrist. As we gained speed, he glanced at me again. “Why don't we just go to his house, knock on the door, and ask if Roy's home?”

Well, there was that approach, too. It wasn't very original, but it might get the job done.

“Yeah, maybe,” I conceded, tilting my head back so I could enjoy the breeze on my face. Maybe I was still out of my league, but now that the tension was gone, I planned to enjoy life in the majors for a while. And as my eyes closed, I heard Chase tell me, “Millie . . . Thanks for trusting me. And for the laugh.”

It sounded as if—and I
felt
as if—I'd done him a real favor.

“My pleasure,” I said. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

He didn't answer, and we rode along in a silence—an okay silence, me nearly dozing off—until the car stopped and Chase shook me gently, saying, “We're here, Millie. Wake up.”

And when I opened my eyes . . . I kind of chickened out. And maybe threw up a little, in my mouth.

“What is
this
smell?” I demanded, covering my mouth with my hand. “It's worse than when I found Mr. Killdare!”
Does sleuthing
always
have to be rank?
I surveyed the property, not moving from my seat. “And this place is . . . disturbing!”

“Millie, you broke into Coach Killdare's house,” Chase reminded me. He had politely opened my door and was leaning down, trying to persuade me to get out into the almost-dark front yard of a dilapidated farmhouse, which was surrounded by hulking, rusty farm equipment. Pointy stuff. Some of which looked like it could easily crush the back of someone's head. And the smell . . . the terrible poopy smell . . . It was making me gag again, and I didn't take the hand Chase offered. “Why won't you do this?” he asked. “We're just going to knock.”

“We could do one of my plans,” I suggested. “Go back into town . . .”

Chase kept holding out his hand. “Millie, we're parked in someone's yard. If they're home, they've probably noticed and are wondering what we're doing here.” He bent lower, so I could see his blue eyes, which were both challenging and laughing at me again. “You're not afraid, are you, Millie Ostermeyer? Do you want to wait in the car?”

All at once, I flashed back to every Nancy Drew book Mom and I had read.
Nancy
had never waited in the car for Ned Nickerson or any of her other “beaus” to do the dirty work. She'd
driven
the car—and led Ned around by the nose.

Pull it together, Millie.

“Step aside,” I advised Chase, getting out of my seat—without any help. “And let me do the talking,” I added over my shoulder as he trailed me to the door. “You just chime in when you feel like you have to, okay? Because this is
my
investigation.”

“Of course, Millie,” he promised. “I'm just here for backup.”

Then we both stepped onto the creakiest, saggiest porch I'd ever seen, and I raised my hand to knock on the door—but first turned to Chase, asking in a whisper, “Speaking of Mr. Killdare's house and bad smells. Has anybody stepped up to adopt the dog yet? Because I really like him.”

Chase didn't answer me. Instead, he grabbed my shoulders and faced me toward the door, where, lo and behold, somebody was standing and in imminent danger of having my knuckles rap right on his somewhat familiar face.

“Roy, you're alive!”

I probably shouldn't have blurted that out to a former classmate who was, indeed, looking quite hale and healthy. Maybe even more buff than he'd looked back at Honeywell.

“Jeez, do I get sick of hearing
that,
Ostermeyer,” he complained, leaning against the door frame and crossing his big arms. He nodded to Chase. “What's up, Albright?” Then he looked between both of us, as if we were two numbers that would never add up. “And what the hell are you guys doing here . . . together?”

I refused to assume that Roy was judging me in the same way Viv did in relation to Chase, and preferred to think that Roy considered me too smart to hang out with a standoffish jock.

I also might've gotten so mired in the question's subtext that I completely forgot to answer it, and was grateful when the boy I'd advised to stay quiet piped up. At least I was grateful until I heard the words that came out of his mouth, which were, “Millie's looking into Coach Killdare's murder for the school paper. She's hoping to win a national award for investigative coverage.”

If Roy was impressed, he didn't show it.

And why was Chase telling so much, right upfront? Where was the subterfuge? The cover story that would keep us from getting killed and ground up in what looked like a woodchipper at the edge of the property by a guy who might not have had brain damage, but who definitely seemed bigger and scarier than I remembered?

I tugged on Chase's sleeve, trying to get him to stop talking, but he ignored me, adding, “I saw your parents at Mr. Killdare's memorial. We thought you—or they—might be able to help us.”

Roy Boyles didn't jump at the chance to be of assistance. He stared at us for a long time, then said, softly and sort of menacingly, “I don't care if that whole thing is ever solved, and I don't know if my parents care, either. Hollerin' Hank is the whole reason we're stuck out here, and people think I'm
dead.
” His voice dropped to almost a growl. “If it weren't for him . . .”

I got even more nervous—but excited, too, because the brawny, angry guy who stood before me seemed about to say something important. Like maybe that he'd hated Mr. Killdare enough to want him dead. Chase tensed at my side, too. I didn't even dare to pull out my notebook for fear of ruining the moment, but I was taking careful mental note of every word, which was why I'd never forget what was uttered next—and I quote:

“So? Who wants pie?”

“Mom, nobody wants pie,” Roy whined as we all followed his mother into a bright, cheerful room that smelled even better than Chase Albright, leather seats, and new car combined. A scent that completely banished the hideous reek that enveloped the outside of the house.

In fact, the whole vibe changed when Mrs. Boyles threw open the door, turned on some lights, and shooed us into her kitchen, which was ramshackle, like the rest of the house—but like a dilapidated annex of paradise.

I sucked in a deep and grateful breath while my eyes explored a long counter that was nearly covered by dough and fresh berries and the blessed union of those two things: Pie. After pie. After pie.

Forget Hell's Kitchen. This was Heaven's Bakery.

“Mom, seriously, enough with the pie,” Roy groaned, trailing behind all of us—and definitely not speaking for me when he advised her, “Nobody wants any!”

Moments ago, I'd suspected that I was in the presence of a cold-blooded killer and had half wanted to run away, but all that was forgotten as Mrs. Boyles began to search overstuffed drawers for what I hoped was a serving utensil.

“Don't be ridiculous, Roy.” She waved a sharp, wedge-shaped silver thing in the air. “Our guests might be hungry.”

“Yeah, I might like pie,” I agreed hopefully, raising one hand. “I could go for that.”

I glanced at Chase for support, and he looked as if he was close to laughing for the second time that day.

“Sure.” He addressed our hostess. “That'd be great, thanks.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Roy complained, dropping down into a wooden chair that seemed way too rickety for a guy his size. “Go ahead, Mom. Get it over with.”

I got the sense that a lot of people were force-fed pastry in his house and stayed around longer than he wanted them to. Still, he made a weak attempt at being polite, pointing at me and Chase. “This is Millie and Chase. You might remember Chase from when we both played football at my old school. Honeywell.” He hesitated, for effect. “You know, the one where everybody thinks I'm
dead.
”

Was Roy mad at his mother for the mix-up, too?

It seemed that way.

“I do recall you, Chase.” Mrs. Boyles set down a plate and gestured for him to take a seat at a huge farmhouse table. “It's nice to see you again.” She placed another plate on the table, adding, “And it's lovely to meet you, Millie.”

“Thanks, you too,” I said, mainly addressing the pie, whose acquaintance I was very,
very
glad to make. “Seriously, thank you.”

I heard a third plate clunk down and saw that Roy had also been served and, in spite of his final sulky protest—“I thought you made boysenberry today”—was digging his fork into the crust.

“So, what brings you all the way out here?” Mrs. Boyles asked, making a half-hearted effort to straighten up the chaos in her kitchen.

If my mouth hadn't been so full, I would've told her not to worry about the mess because I would've eaten her creations in the middle of a sewage-filled dump. And fortunately, Chase once again spoke on our behalf, because, in retrospect, that probably would've been an awkward thing to say.

“We're actually here because Millie is writing about Mr. Killdare for the school paper,” he said, slightly amending the explanation he'd given on the porch so that it sounded less like I was investigating and more like I was doing a tribute. I thought that was a smart touch. “I saw you at the memorial service,” Chase added. “And since not too many people were there . . . Well, we thought we'd track down as many mourners as possible and get their thoughts on the coach.”

Mrs. Boyle stopped wiping the counter and peered more closely at me and Chase, nodding slowly. “Yes . . . I recall seeing you two at the service now. You were the young man who spoke.” She gave her son a quizzical look. “Roy, why didn't you tell me they were here to ask about your Uncle Hank?”

I would never have intentionally wasted a bite of that pie, but I'll admit, a few crumbs tumbled out of my slack mouth when she dropped
that
bombshell.

Why hadn't I seen the resemblance the moment I'd laid eyes on Mrs. Boyles?

Because you were blinded by blueberries, Millie!

But as Roy's mom joined us at the table, I realized that the similarity between her and Hollerin' Hank was unmistakable. They had the same ruddy skin, the same bulbous nose, the same large ears and wide waistline.

Poor Mrs. Boyles!

“What did you guys wanna ask?” Roy prompted, so I realized I'd been staring at his mother a little too long. “What do you wanna know about Uncle Hank?”

I'd told Chase to stay quiet, but once again, he opened his . . . well, piehole. “Before we even ask about Mr. Killdare . . . Why'd you just disappear, Roy?” he asked. “The whole team thought you had brain damage—or worse. Why didn't you just tell everybody you were moving?”

Roy gave his mother a dark look, then informed us, “My dad took a job here selling organic manure. Would you be bragging about it? I just kept hoping it wouldn't happen.” He turned slightly pink—the same shade as his mother and his deceased uncle. “Then I was out for two weeks after I collapsed. I got pretty sick. And there was no sense in going back to school because we moved as soon as I was okay to go.”

I was glad that Roy was alive and functional, but the whole story was a little anticlimactic—although it did explain the smell outside. Then I remembered something Roy had said on the porch. “But why'd you say Mr. Killdare is responsible for you being here?” I shot Mrs. Boyles a quick glance and, although I kind of agreed with Roy that living on a rundown manure farm wasn't the greatest, added, “In this lovely place!”

Roy was talking to us, but shooting daggers at his mom again. “Uncle Hank found this ‘opportunity' for my dad, and the next thing I knew, we're moving to this hellhole.”

“Roy . . .” Mrs. Boyles shook her head as if to say, “We've been through all this!” Then she addressed me and Chase with a smile. “We are all very grateful to Hank for helping us relocate. My husband, Len, had been out of a job for a year. Hank helped us finance this place, and now we're doing very well.” She beamed with pride. “I make quite a nice living selling pies to local markets and restaurants, too.”

So much for the Boyleses wanting to kill Mr. Killdare. And once again, he was turning out to be someone different from what I'd thought—in a good way. Although Roy clearly disagreed.

“Roy, why didn't you ever tell us that Coach Killdare was your uncle?” Chase asked. “I didn't even know you two knew each other off the field.”

I was just about to pick up my plate and lick it clean when I noticed that my partner had pushed his empty plate away and was sitting back.

I reluctantly followed suit, noting, “Yeah, Roy. Why the big secret about your uncle?”

Chase had initiated the question, but of course Roy looked at me like I was an idiot. “Same reason I didn't go bragging about the manure!”

“Roy!” Mrs. Boyles spoke sharply, but her son ignored her.

“Would you go out of your way to tell people you were related to a guy everybody hated?” he continued. He gave his mom a warning look. “And don't act like you two were close or anything. Most of the time you avoided him, too.”

That must've been true because Mrs. Boyles squirmed and looked down at her feet. And the fact that neither she nor the missing Len had stepped up at the service probably spoke volumes, too.

“Besides,” Roy concluded, “Uncle Hank didn't want anybody knowing I was his nephew, either. He didn't want the guys thinking I got special treatment.”