The Underdogs (4 page)

Harmony kept his sunglasses on so we couldn't read him, but his body relaxed slightly and he moved away from the Dumpster to face Ashlock head-on.

“I understand Miss Harper was the kind of girl who drove the boys crazy,” Ashlock said.

Harmony shook his head. “
No
. Who told you that? It wasn't like that. People didn't understand her.”

Ashlock raised his eyebrows. “And you did?”

“People mistook her shyness for attitude. She was quiet because everyone always wanted something from her. She wasn't going to give it up for just anyone. It was a self-protection thing.”

“By ‘it' you mean … love? Boys?”

“No.”
Harmony was gesturing forcefully with both hands. “You're missing the point, like the rest of them. She was a beautiful girl. A work of art. And because of that, no one saw past her looks. Sometimes it was as if who she was and what she had to say didn't matter.”

“Mmmhmm…” Ashlock was scribbling in his book. He looked back up at Harmony. “So you two were friends?”

Harmony let out a frustrated sigh. “I didn't say that. But I understood her. She spent a lot of time at the pool and so do I. We said hello, she was nice, but I wasn't going to bother her. I wasn't going to be another person trying to get something from her. I respected her for keeping her dignity.”

We could see the detective was still unclear about their relationship.

“Well, Harmony, it sounds like she didn't notice you the way you noticed her. Did she look right through you, Harmony? Did she even know you were alive?”

Harmony shook his head. “I've told you everything I know,” he said. “I've talked to your cops. I gave them every gory detail they asked for. You know, they even asked me why I didn't give her CPR? Yeah, I'm trained in it. But not on ice-cold dead bodies! Your people knew she was dead for hours when I found her. It's disgusting.”

Harmony slid another cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. Finally, he said, “Go check out Patrick. He was one of the people who wanted something from Annabel.”

“Patrick?”

“De Stafford. Summer coach at the tennis camp. Check him out, is all I'm saying. Now, I've about had it with your questions. I'm done.”

“Okay,” Ashlock conceded. He put his notebook away and fixed his gaze on the boy. “But you know, it seems to me you're not too upset about this. That's always something we look at when we're talking to people who were close to the victim.”

Harmony froze. After a tense moment, he slowly removed his sunglasses. His face was exposed, and it was a shocking sight. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin around them was so puffy from crying that he looked like he'd had an allergic reaction, and I think he had: to the death of someone too young. Ashlock looked suitably chastened, patted Harmony kindly on the shoulder, then turned and walked slowly back toward the club, wiping his brow again. He was going to need a bag of handkerchiefs if this kept up.

Well, Evie and I were none the wiser as to who Ashlock suspected in Annabel's death. We watched Harmony for another minute, watched him wipe still more tears from his eyes. I couldn't tell what that detective was thinking, but I think he was barking up the wrong tree with this kid. The thing about Harmony was that he was weird in a good way. I always thought what you saw was what you got with him.

It was the people who pretended to be perfect that scared me.

 

Before

Among the many moving parts at this place, the tennis people, who came from all over New England to train here, were the beating heart of the club. It was quite a cast, and the club's lobby, with its great glass wall overlooking indoor Courts 1 through 4, was their stage.

It was the second week of June, the official kickoff to the summer tennis season, when Evie and I had to walk through the lobby during lunch, which was the buzziest time of day. Evie stared straight ahead as we shuffled across the worn maroon StainMan 5000 carpeting Gene really needed to replace. Our first hurdle: the world's most arrogant regular campers, who thought they owned the place because they were signed up for tennis camp for the whole summer. Their leader: twelve-year-old brat Tad Chadwick, who was busy mocking another kid's “lame” sneakers while his minions laughed at everything he said. He was Evie's most dedicated tormentor, having bullied her relentlessly for the nearly two years I'd known her.

The cool kids were up ahead. These were the elite tennis players and camp counselors (some were both) who hung out near the far end of the lobby at two round pine tables in front of the club's old, clunky TV that Gene stubbornly refused to replace with a flat-screen. A group of them were stitting with their feet up and rackets strewn haphazardly around them. One of the coolest kids gave Evie and me a wink—seventeen-year-old Patrick de Stafford, the regular camp's assistant director and coach during the summer
and
an elite tennis player. Despite some seriously average looks, he was catnip to the girls. According to my mom, he wowed them with his charisma.
That smile
, they said. One dimple, a deep crevasse in his right cheek, a twinkle in his otherwise unremarkable eyes, and that Cheshire cat grin. As we approached, we got a friendly “Hey, girls!” from the the camp's blue-blooded elite Celia Emerson, a sixteen-year-old who also coached in the tennis camp for extra pocket money.

And then there he was, in all his imposing Czech glory: our resident god of the fuzzy yellow ball, the elitest elite of them all, seventeen-year-old Goran Vanek. Evie started breathing faster. I thought she was going to pass out when he trained his eyes on us—and he wasn't smiling.

 

After

The day after Annabel's body was found, Detective Ashlock was back at the club first thing. Evie and I met at the front desk at precisely eight thirty a.m. and he strolled up minutes later, his white fedora marking him a mile away. He seemed to be making people nervous.

Patrick de Stafford caught sight of him from the door of one of the coaches' offices that were off to the right as you entered the club. Patrick watched with narrowed eyes, gripping the doorjamb until his knuckles turned white, as the detective walked toward the front desk. My mom was fiddling with the radio while Evie and I played it cool over at the far end, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Can I help you?” Mom asked the detective, pretending like she actually thought this strange, pale man was hitting her up for something mundane like,
Hey, where can a guy get a cuppa coffee around here?

He cleared his throat. “I need to speak with Gene, please,” the detective said politely, arms stiff at his sides, posture ramrod straight.

“He's not here,” my mom informed him.

“Fine. I'll wait.” He added, with a tip of his hat, “Thank you,
Ms
. Jestin.”

My mom sighed. She was
not
amused. Ashlock turned away from the desk and surveyed the lobby buzzing with its usual morning chaos, full of campers and counselors waiting to be called out to the courts at nine a.m. sharp.

“Hey, Detective,” my mom called. “You know people are talking around here, right? Shouldn't you make a statement or something? Call a town hall meeting? I mean, people are
scared
.”

She wasn't kidding. Since everything that had happened yesterday, there was talk of a serial killer and fear was rippling through the club. Gene had called an early meeting this morning for all staff, held in the privacy of cavernous, echoey Court 5. Everyone said the same thing:
We're in shock. We're scared. How could Annabel be here one minute and then just … be gone? How?

Gene said anyone who needed to should take the day, the week, the month off. Then he'd explained it was okay to have all sorts of different feelings, and that sometimes it helped to get back to normal right away. Turned out none of us wanted to go home
just to sit around freaking out
, as someone put it. So for now, everything was routine, at least on the surface.

That was an hour ago. Now, Ashlock took a step closer to my mom. “Oh?” he inquired.

“It's the only thing people can talk about,” she said, hopping off her stool, her curls tumbling over her shoulder as she laid her elbows on the desk, a shiny black slab of granite nearly fifteen feet long with white-swirl accents. “I'm surprised you haven't been talking to a
certain person
.”

I shook my head and closed my eyes. What was she
doing
?

Ashlock was nonplussed. “I assure you we have things under control.”

She narrowed her eyes and tried harder. “A lot of people think Annabel was killed for one time-honored reason.” She waited for Ashlock to whip out a notebook and start scribbling furiously. When he didn't, she upped the conspiratorial tone. “Some believe a
certain person
killed her,” my mom pronounced, “for love.”

I tried not to look at Evie because I imagined she, like me, was beside herself.
Who
killed her for love? And what did my mom know about it?

And there it was—Ashlock kicked into detective gear. Suddenly she held a little more interest for him. “Who killed her for love, Ms. Jestin?” he asked.

My mom beckoned him closer. He leaned across the desktop and she met him halfway and whispered something in his ear.

“Okay,” Ashlock said, stepping back. “We'll need an official statement from you ASAP. The department will be in touch.”

My mother couldn't stop her mouth from hanging embarrassingly open as Ashlock, who didn't seem remotely wowed by her whispered theory, turned on his heel and strode away. Only then did Evie and I make eye contact. What had just happened? We thought we'd known who Ashlock was here to talk to, but maybe we'd been wrong.

The lobby was still packed with dozens of loud campers awaiting their court assignments, so we could follow him at a safe distance, no problem. Evie put an orange back in the fruit bowl and off we went to see the club through Detective Ashlock's eyes.

 

Before

As Evie and I walked through the lobby on the summer tennis season's kickoff day, we saw our resident tennis god, Goran Vanek, wasn't smiling—but then again, he was a serious guy. I mean, he'd been stuck at number three in the New England eighteen-and-unders for over a year, and was determined to be numero uno by summer's end. When he zoned in on us standing awkwardly off to the side, I thought Evie was going to hyperventilate. When he gave us a curt yet respectful nod, I worried she'd pass out.

The rest of the elites were sitting at their table watching him practice his strokes, whooshing his racket through the air. He demonstrated his backhand a few times, fast and then slow, and said in his thick Czech accent, “You see? It is all in the wrists. The
wrists
.”

Evie was mesmerized. Goran was basically the love of her life, the man she planned to marry (a dream I supported because it was, at least, more realistic than her backup plan to marry Simon Pertwee from her favorite British boy band, Hot Minute), even though we weren't positive Goran knew her name. Anyway, the joke of this scene was, you couldn't teach Goran's backhand. It was known in the New England tennis world as the Missile. He never missed, and he could angle it like nobody's business, and he hit it so hard sometimes you could barely see the ball flying from his racket and skidding off the court before it jerked up and curved away with crazy topspin. And then everyone would try to work their wrists like him, and their balls would end up in the bottom of the net.

But the elites each had their own strengths. They were—in Evie's words—
annoyingly good-looking
,
incredibly cool
, and
ridiculously talented.
I watched them sitting there, tanned and beautiful and basically extra special, and I had to admit Evie was right. Take Serene Cowen-Lynch, with her perfectly swishing lavender tennis skirt, who at that moment decided to join Goran. Half the lobby was now watching their impromptu tennis demo.

“Check out my forehand.” Serene winked to her elite pals. While Goran nodded seriously and let her take over, she swung her racket back, stepped sideways with the proper footwork, and brought her oversize Volcano X right smack into Goran's butt.

The lobby erupted in giggles and a few hoots, and Goran pointed his racket like a lance at her. “You're dead meat, Cowen-Lynch. Watch your back.”

She pretended to gasp in fear, but it was all good-natured; pretty, twinkly eyed Serene could get away with anything. She was thirteen years old and really, really awesome at the game. We were about to move on when, suddenly, there she was: our poolside goddess. Annabel Harper was walking toward us, on her way to the women's locker room. Daisy Dukes showing off tanned, toned legs—check. Aviators on her head, holding back perfect blond hair—check. Laser-blue eyes on a blemish-free face—check. Patrick's eyes almost popped out of his head. Annabel wasn't a “tennis person,” but she was friendly with the gang, as was Nicholas.

Patrick leaned back coolly in his chair, held out his hand, and said, “Hey, Bella. Give me some love.” Those eyes were playful, his voice husky.

I saw Annabel's eyes flash for the quickest second. She didn't like that nickname. Anyway, she dutifully slapped his hand and said, “What's up, Paddy?”
Ha
. He hated that nickname.
Touché
, my friend.

Annabel gave Celia Emerson a hello squeeze on the shoulder and Celia, the tennis person who probably knew her best, said, “See you after work?” Annabel nodded.

The elites waved to Annabel. All but
one
elite. I hoped Evie didn't notice, but tall, brooding Goran—who'd never, ever dated a girl at the club despite having tons of females swooning over him—couldn't take his eyes off Annabel. In the midst of greeting her friends and fans, including Evie and me, who got a special smile and a wave, Annabel pretended she didn't feel his eyes on her. But she couldn't help it in the end. Before she turned to go, she raised her head and shot a shy, under-the-eyelashes look at Goran and nervously fingered her cherished dog charm. The electricity nearly made me jump out of my skin. I don't know when or how they'd gotten together, but yep, it was a fact: our tennis Adonis and our sun-worshipping Venus were having the romance of the century. And for some reason, they were trying to hide it.