Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder (13 page)

“I am serious! Do you know what a
gavone
is?”

“I’m sure that’s Italian for something terrible,” she said before taking a nibble of the egg roll.

“It’s a Sicilian expression. It means a pig, trailer trash. If you look up
gavone
in an Italian dictionary, Jason Whitley’s picture will be there.”

“He served his purpose.”

“You sound like Betty Vernon. Did you know she was doing him, too?” I asked.

“They broke it off,” she told me.

“So you were the last fling. That means the county car parked at your curb isn’t there to spy on me. They’re watching you!”

Bev ducked her head. Her hair tumbled forward again and shrouded half her face. “You can’t tell Ken Rhodes. Promise me!”

“If the cops are watching your house, he probably already knows. No wonder Rhodes wanted me to write about the murder in my column. He probably thought I knew all about you and Whitley.”

“Just my luck,” Bev said.

“Did Haver grill you?”

She nodded. “He gave me the third degree, as well as the fourth and fifth. Listen to us. We sound like we’re in a cheap detective novel.”

“Not
too
cheap. We live in a nice neighborhood.”

She offered me a wisp of a smile. “Then we’re trapped in an upper-middle-class detective novel where cops question a suspect the same day her best friend trips over the murder victim.”

“Good timing,” I said.

“If you had known about me and Whitley …”

I cut her off. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it. I would have lectured you on your appalling lack of good taste, however.”

The waiter brought our covered entrées, and I picked up my chopsticks.

“If this gets around town, my little Dennis won’t be able to hold his head up,” Bev told me.

It felt like the whole world was cheating. I hadn’t thought so until I found out about Neil and Theda Oates, Jason and Jennifer Whitley, and Bevin and Franklin Thompson. The sanctity of marriage had as much staying power as the Chinese food were about to eat. You married someone from column A, and a few years later you were hungry for someone from column B.

“Bev, does Franklin know about you and Jason Whitley?” I asked.

She shook out a pink linen napkin and draped it over her lap in a ladylike fashion. “Not so far. For the time being, I’d like to keep it that way.”

The table was filled with food, and there was no sense letting it go to waste. I stabbed a dumpling and dipped it in sweet brown gingery sauce, then loaded my plate with beef and broccoli. Bevin seemed to experience a profound lack of appetite. She used her chopsticks to move chicken around on her plate, but never actually put any food in her mouth.

“The news of the day certainly hasn’t ruined your appetite,” Bevin observed.

“Food is a great comfort for me.”

She pushed her plate aside. “I told Haver you didn’t know anything at all about me and Jason Whitley. I don’t know if he believed me or not. I guess I’m the prime suspect.”

“There has to be a way to clear you,” I said.

“The only way to clear me is to find out who killed Whitley.”

“Then I’ll just have to figure out who that was.”

Bev’s eyes widened. “Oh, no you won’t! You think I want to see you floating dead in the bay because you’re trying to get me off the hook?”

“Too late. I already floated in the bay, and I’m still alive.”

“How long do you think your luck can hold out? First you get run down, then your car sinks with you in it,” Bev said.

“Technically, I was outside treading water when the Escort went under,” I told her.

“Stay out of this, Colleen. I have enough on my conscience as it is. Leave it up to Haver, or Rhodes, or anybody else.”

“I’ll talk to Rhodes about it this afternoon.”

“Please make sure he doesn’t print anything about my affair with Jason Whitley,” she begged.

“I’ll do my best,” I promised, but I knew if Rhodes decided to go with the story, nothing would stop him from printing it.

14

Bevin dropped me off at home, and I borrowed my mother’s little red Sentra to drive to the newspaper office. Relying on my friends and family for wheels was going to get old quickly. I passed Meredith’s cubicle without as much as a fast hello and went straight to Ken’s office. His door was wide open, and I found him beside his desk in the middle of a one-sided debate with Calypso Trent, the head of advertising.

“I need a word with you right now!” I said.

Callie, at least, looked relieved at the intrusion. “We can finish this later,” she said. She gathered up her papers and gave me a sly wink on the way out.

Rhodes wasn’t nearly as happy with the interruption, but he looked great despite his plum-purple complexion. His suit looked Armani-expensive and his shoes were polished to within an inch of their life.

“I have a meeting with the publisher at three o’clock and those advertising figures have to go with me,” he said. “Make this quick. What’s your problem now?”

“You’re my problem!”

Rhodes sat in his chair and leaned way back. “How, exactly, am I your problem?”

“I just had lunch with Bevin Thompson, and we had a long, heart-to-heart talk.”

“And?” he asked.

“Did you know Bev was having an affair with Whitley? No wonder you offered me that column. You think my best friend is a killer!”

“You might have mentioned the affair when this whole column business started.”

“I just found out about it today,” I told him.

“You’re asking me to believe your best friend had an affair and didn’t confide in you?”

“Her husband cheated on her, and she used Jason Whitley to get her revenge. She never told me. She didn’t want to bother me with it because I had my own problems with Neil at the time.”

“It doesn’t make much difference either way. She’s still a suspect, Colleen.”

“You’re the one who told me having an affair doesn’t automatically make a person guilty. Does Ron Haver really think Bevin murdered Jason Whitley?”

“How would I know?” he said. “Haver isn’t talking.”

“So how did you know about the affair?” I asked.

“I surmised as much from talking to Haver, though he didn’t come right out and say it. Think about it—a county car parked across the street from your house, in front of your best friend’s house. Did you honestly think they were watching
you
?”

The situation seemed to be getting worse and worse. An affair with Whitley might have provided Bevin with a motive, but the whole idea seemed absurd. Bev was too levelheaded for a crime of passion. “You’re not going to run a story about her connection to Whitley, are you?”

“I don’t like going the rumor route,” he said.

His answer surprised me. “Don’t newspapers use the word ‘alleged’ anymore?”

“That’s too close to yellow journalism for my taste. Reputations get ruined by gossip, even false gossip. People can get crucified, whether the rumors are true or not.”

A newspaper editor with a conscience
, I thought. I wondered what the odds were on something like that. “You sound like you’ve encountered a few ethics questions.”

“Firsthand,” Rhodes told me. “You can tell your friend we won’t print anything unless she’s arrested.”

“I’m sure she’ll take a great deal of comfort in that,” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice. “She’s not the type, you know. Bev would never kill anyone.”

“That’s what neighbors always say about the serial killer next door.”

I stood to leave. “By the way, I want my column back. If anyone’s going to write about this, it’s going to be me!”

“Haven’t you been through enough? Just how long do you think you can keep this up without getting yourself killed for your trouble?”

“Long enough to keep Bev out of jail. Don’t you dare change my work to fit some stupid op-ed column!”

Rhodes glared at me. “You give a lot of orders for a stringer.”

“I’m writing about the murder whether I’m a stringer or not,” I told him. “I want to know who killed Whitley. Nobody’s arresting
my
friend!”

“You realize you’ll have to run your tail off. You’ll have to be more careful, too. That means you can’t shoot off your mouth to anyone, and you have to check in with me each time you speak to someone involved with Whitley.”

“Uh-huh,” I somewhat agreed.

“The bat used to kill Jason Whitley came from the Pirates equipment bag. That means you probably know the killer.”

“Probably,” I told him.

“What are you working on now?” he asked.

“I have to write up The Grand Duchess story,” I told him, “and cover the fundraiser for the Fitzpatrick kid on Saturday.”

“May 16
th
deadlines for all of them, right? Someone else can cover the fundraiser. That’ll take some pressure off you.”

“Not on your life!” I protested. “I need the extra cash.”

“Let’s hope it’s not on
your
life.”

* * *

On the drive home, away from Ken’s pricey suit and gruff personality, I hoped I wasn’t getting in over my head. I had to find a way to clear Bevin. Unfortunately, she had access to the equipment bag. So did Ron Haver, Jennifer Whitley, Eugene Steiner, Stanley Da Silva, and possibly Kevin Sheffield—as well as all the kids on the Pirates and their parents. Even Neil had access to the bag. Worse still, so did I.

I stopped at the Little League field and ripped the Pirates’ roster off the bulletin board, then drove straight to my mother’s house to tell her I needed her car for a few more days.

The temperature had climbed to an unseasonable eighty-three degrees that afternoon, and my mother had decided to bake a ham shank. A limp-looking Kate sat at the table in the stifling kitchen.

“What are you doing off so early?” I asked my sister.

“I had a headache from the heat.”

“So you came here to get cool? How will the world of high fashion ever survive without you?”

“Nobody feels like shopping with this humidity anyway,” Kate said. “I thought I’d beat the heat tonight. Ron’s taking me to Point Pleasant for dinner.”

“Ah, yes! Ron Haver!”

My mother made herself busy peeling potatoes over the trash can. Ron Haver had become a touchy subject, and she refused to take sides.

“Don’t start, Colleen,” my sister warned me.

“First he suspects me, then Bevin …”

My mother looked up from the potatoes. “Bevin?”

“Never mind, Ma.”

“Ron never suspected you,” Kate said, “even if he did think you weren’t as truthful as you could be.”

“Bevin didn’t kill anyone. I’m going to prove it!”

Kate raked her damp hair with her delicate, French-manicured nails. “How?”

“
Bevin
?” my mother repeated.

“It seems Kate’s new beau thinks my best friend is a killer, Ma. I know she isn’t, and I’m going to have to figure out who killed Jason Whitley to prove it. I just convinced Ken Rhodes to give me back my column.”

“Good for you, Colleen!” my mother said.

“You’re not going to let her do this, are you?” Kate asked.

My mother came over to the table and pulled out a chair. “She’s thirty-eight years old, and she has a mind of her own.”

“Yeah. Right, Ma. As if.” I opened my bag and pulled out a pad and pen. “I need to find out who had access to the Pirates’ equipment bag. I’m making a list.”

“Neil Caruso had access,” my mother pointed out.

“That’s right! Write it down, Colleen,” Kate said.

“And don’t forget that skinny partner of his,” my mother said.

“She wouldn’t have had access to the equipment bag until
after
the murder. This is serious. I’m only interested in people who could have taken the bat and actually knew Jason Whitley.”

“A bat? Someone used a bat on that guy?” My mother leaned sideways and swatted the back of Kate’s head. “You might have at least told me Jason Whitley was batted to death!”

“Jeez, Ma! Do you want to give me brain damage? I’m not a kid anymore either!”

“Maybe I should do this at home,” I said.

My mother didn’t agree. “You should do this right now. You want names? I’ll give you names. How about that young coach, Colleen? What’s his name?”

“Eugene …”

“Seinfeld?”

“It’s Steiner, Ma.”

“Do you have all the kids’ names on the team?” my mother asked.

I held up the printed roster I robbed from the field house. “All these kids have parents.”

“But not all the parents go down to watch the games,” my mother said.

“Not every game, but they eventually show up for at least a few innings. Someone could have stepped inside the dugout to hand a kid a glove or a Gatorade and grabbed a bat.”

My mother looked doubtful. “Who had access to that bag when it wasn’t inside the dugout?”

“The coach did,” I told her.

My mother gave me a sharp look. “Ron Haver did not kill that teacher. How could you even suggest something like that? He’s dating your sister.”

Kate laughed.

“Okay, fine! Deductive reasoning. If he’s a cop and he dates your kid sister, he can’t possibly be a suspect.” I scratched Haver’s name off the paper.

My mother got up, rinsed the potatoes, and put them on to boil. She always thought better when she cooked. “What about wives, Col? Are any of your suspects married?”

We all thought for a moment.

“Jennifer Whitley! Don’t forget her. I’ve seen her in the dugout!” my mother said.

Kate put Jennifer’s name down.

“And Kevin Sheffield!” my mother added. “He’s been boinking Jennifer Whitley all along. He might have had access to that bag, too.”

Kate looked up from the pad. “What’s she talking about?”

“We saw Kevin Sheffield with Jennifer Whitley,” I said. “I think they’ve had a thing going on for a while.”

My sister tapped the top of the pen against her front tooth. “The whole table at Domingo’s that night—there’s something strange about them. Think about it. They were together in high school, and years later, they’re all still together. One of them gets bumped off, and we find out the victim’s wife has been carrying on with another guy in the crowd. Another one had an affair with the victim. God only knows what else was going on. It’s weird.”