Photo, Snap, Shot (4 page)

We lit the candles.
Chief Holmes, a staunch Roman Catholic, stood with his head bowed as we prayed, thanking God for the light, the wine, and the bread. The Friday night prayers are a lovely reminder that even in the midst of tragedy, God has blessed us. I took a tiny sip of the wine and sent up my own prayer of gratitude that Anya was safe. I don’t ask God for much for me. I figure God’s done more than enough on my behalf. I have friends, a roof over my head, and a darling child. My prayers are prayers of thanks, not of need.

Most of the time.

Over the meal, Sheila coaxed Anya to spend the night with her, which was good because I had a Saturday afternoon class to teach at Time in a Bottle. I took Anya aside and asked again, “How are you? Do you want to talk? Or come home?”

She rolled her eyes at me. (There must be something going around, some eye-rolling virus.) “Moo-oom. I’m in the house with the chief of police and his girlfriend. It’s the safest I’ve been all day. Now, just quit it.”

I drove home with my phone plugged into the car charger. I quickly returned calls from Dodie, plus my friends Mert and Clancy, leaving them voice mails that Anya was all right, and the situation was under control. (Whatever that meant.) I said I’d talk with them the next day. As I stood outside waiting for Gracie to finish her business, my cell phone rang. Sheila didn’t bother with hello. She started right in on me. “Why didn’t you tell me that detective was involved in this? That he talked to my granddaughter?”

“I figured Chief Holmes would tell you.”

“He did. Later. But you should have!” She took off on Detweiler, calling him everything but human. She’d been pretty peeved when she discovered (before I did) that the hunky detective was married. He was definitely on her bad side. Sheila slowed down a bit and I managed to put in a word. “Honestly Sheila, I’m glad. Anya was comforted by his presence. I got to the school minutes after they called, but he was there for her.”

“Well,” Sheila said. “All I have to say is he better not come sniffing around after you anymore.” I almost laughed. Sheila was … well, Sheila was Sheila. I bet she had her own branch on the evolutionary tree.

I braced myself for more to come, but three beeps saved me as my partially charged phone gave up on my mother-in-law. For once, I was happy that my cell phone battery never lasted as long as Jack Bauer’s did on
24
.

___

“The Major Case Squad has arrested a suspect in the murder of Sissy Gilchrist, a teacher at CALA,” said the radio reporter. I listened on the way to a spinning class the next morning. Chief Holmes had been as good as his word. I parked my car and rested my head on the steering wheel. Thank goodness. That was one less thing in life to stress about.

Kelly, our spinning instructor told us to bring our heart rates to 80 percent of max. “Hold them there for ten minutes. Pretend you are at the front of the pelaton. You are pulling away from the pack. Go! Go! Go!”

Forget the pelaton.

I had plenty of other problems to pedal away from. A murder in my daughter’s school. My child’s blossoming adolescence. Her safety. A married cop I was attracted to. My weight. A guy named Ben Novak I’d been dating but wasn’t sure about. My best friend Mert’s brother, Johnny, a former felon, who occasionally asked me out for a “good time.” My weight. The knowledge my mother-in-law thought I was an idiot. My friend Clancy, who was too busy these days to chat. The fact I owed Sheila money. My weight. And work.

Did I mention work?

My boss, Dodie Goldfader, was having a lump in her breast biopsied on Tuesday. Dodie was scared, and who could blame her? Her mother died of breast cancer. So after finding the lump, Dodie sank into denial. She waited as long as possible. She had a whale of an excuse. Her husband, Horace, had unexpectedly lost his job and their insurance. Had she waited too long? If she died … oh, Lord … what would I do? She was my friend, and yeah, what about my job? How horrid of me to be so selfish, but it was true.

These thoughts propelled me, plus the worry that my poochy tummy was the first thing anyone noticed when they saw me coming.

I had a real list of concerns. But all my worries faded away when I worked up a sweat on a bike.

Lance Armstrong and I rode together in my mind.

In my dreams.

In real life, I was one of a dozen in a spinning class practicing drafting. At the end of our ten-minute sprint at maximum heart rate, our instructor Kelly assigned us numbers. We each took turns cranking up the resistance on our bikes and pretending we were “pulling” the other bikers up a hill, just like the team did for Armstrong at Tour de France. For forty-five minutes we took turns riding our hardest, revving up our heartbeats, and conquering an imaginary route over hills and flatlands.

Finally, Kelly ordered us to slow down and cool down.

As we stretched, one biker asked, “Hey, Kelly, how come there are never any valleys on these rides? Just hills and more hills?”

Kelly laughed. “Because valleys don’t make you strong, dude. You can do valleys on your own time. And you need to be strong. We’re planning that outdoor ride next week. You don’t want me passing you up on those hills.”

I was dabbing the back of my neck with a towel when I caught a glimpse of a familiar profile outside the spinning room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Detweiler. “Did you come to talk with someone?”

“You,” he said. “Only you, Kiki.”

I nearly swooned. My heart monitor beeped as my pulse raced into the red zone. Okay, so he still made my heart pound. I was NOT giving in. No way. I would totally resist his charms.

“Cute outfit,” he said as his eyes swept over me.

Um, about resisting those charms. Not so much.

My knees went rubbery. I stood up straighter and pulled in my gut. Thank goodness my bike shorts are made of heavy-duty Spandex. (I’d bought these hoping to lose weight. I had to grease my thighs and lie on the floor to pull the shorts up and on. I’d once lost three fingernails peeling them down to pee. At least I was burning extra calories!)

“Kaldi’s on THF?” He grinned at me. “I’m buying.”

Gosh, was he ever gorgeous? A few other female exercisers must have thought so, too. I could see them staring at us. Well, at him. Okay, at his backside.

I sucked in my tummy, cut off my air supply, and still managed to stay conscious long enough to nod “yes.”

It was only 10:05 a.m. When you rise with the sun, the day is longer than you can stand without a hefty dose of caffeine. I didn’t have to be at the store until noon, so I could squander a little time. Okay, I admit: Detweiler still was my favorite time-wasting activity.

And Kaldi’s was on my way home, and it featured fabulous baked goods. Why else would I drive all the way out to Chesterfield Valley to take a spinning class? Especially when Maggie had text-messaged to say she couldn’t join me?

___

The line at the counter snaked around the self-serve condiment area and nearly out the front door. I took my place at the end. Detweiler stepped up and paid for my order. He handed me a latte (sugar-free, low-fat, vanilla) and an iced cookie.

He knew me too well.

“I’m part of the Major Case Squad.”

I nodded. The sugar cookie was cut into a big lavender flower, the inside soft and the topping buttery.

Detweiler glanced around furtively. We stood on the sidewalk. Without discussion, we headed for the small boulevard of grass between Kaldi’s and the street. There we plopped down on a parking bumper to sit. “Forensics found debris embedded in the skull. Clay.”

“Clay?”

“You know the layout of the school. The theatre doorway is not far from the construction site for the new lunchroom. The murderer must have picked up one of the bricks on the skids. No one saw anyone carrying a bloody brick. It’d make sense to wipe the thing off and put it back in the pile. But telling which one it might be is complicated. The architect ordered a mixture of old and new bricks to match the existing building. Esthetics and all that. We can’t match the particles on Ms. Gilchrist’s body to any particular kiln.”

Detweiler pointed and said, “You have icing on your face.” He smiled as he lightly traced a spot beside my mouth. His finger tickled. I rubbed the spot furiously. He continued, “Point is we’re having no luck finding the murder weapon. Guess how many bricks are sitting on those skids.”

I couldn’t. I need to make hash marks when we take inventory. My math skills are fine until I run out of digits.

“Four thousand seven hundred sixteen. Luminal detects body fluids, but the bloody surface could be on the inside of the stacks. Or even part of the new wall.”

That didn’t make sense to me and I guess my face showed my confusion.

“There was a lag between when the murder occurred, and the body was found. Not long, but enough that a bricklayer could have laid the one brick we’re hunting for. It might be awhile before we can find the murder weapon, if we find it at all.”

I didn’t say anything. I was happy. I held a cookie in one hand, coffee in another, and I sat beside one of the two people I loved most—ARGH!

I shook myself hard. This was nuts. Here I’d worked so hard to get over him, and I was close to coming undone.

But we were talking about murder. And my child’s safety.

I struggled to concentrate.

“The crime must have happened between 9:30 a.m. and 10. Ms. Gilchrist dropped her son Christopher off in the kindergarten room shortly before then. Several staff members saw her.”

I remembered Maggie saying Sissy’s son was in her classroom. “The radio said you have a suspect in custody. Seems like all you need to do is tie up loose ends.” My unspoken message was, “So we don’t have any reason to see each other, do we?”

Detweiler ran his hand through his hair, pushing away the lick of hair that always threatened to fall over one eye. “Corey Johnson, the basketball coach, has been arrested.”

My jaw flapped in the breeze. Maggie had mentioned Sissy was dating. But … someone at CALA? Another teacher? Could the coach have murdered her? I reviewed what I knew of the man. Being a very visual person, the first thing that popped into my head was an image. I remembered Coach Johnson as being a nice-looking man with a very pointed chin. He was young, well-liked, and in the mold of our newest president: African American. The school pointed to him at every opportunity to prove their dedication to diversity. More importantly than that, he’d established a reputation as one of the kids’ favorites. The man was one of those rare teachers who always managed to make time for his students. He captured their trust and respect. Even Anya, who’d only met him as a visiting “lecturer” for a health class, adored the man. “He remembered all our names the first day, Mom,” she said with amazement. “He sees you in the hall, and he stops to ask how you are. And he really listens! He’s way cool.”

“Corey didn’t do it,” Detweiler interrupted my thoughts. “Ms. Gilchrist’s parents hate him. Can’t stand him. They put heat on the department. Mr. Gilchrist is connected. The governor’s office called yesterday afternoon. Sent word for us to get on the stick and arrest the coach. Not even twelve hours after the woman’s body was discovered!”

Of course the Gilchrists would want the authorities to move fast. So would the school. Despite all the hype about security, everyone at CALA was at risk until the killer was caught. But more importantly, why was Detweiler so certain Corey wasn’t involved?

And why did he call the coach by his Christian name? Detweiler and other cops habitually refer to people by their courtesy titles. I think it helps them sound respectful. It probably also helps maintain professionalism and, let’s be honest, it would sound better in court, so it was a good habit to develop.

“What makes you so sure he didn’t do it?” Then another thought. “Why are you sharing all this with me?”

He blushed and turned away.

My own personal slide show started up in my head. I saw Detweiler kissing me. I saw Detweiler’s wife, Brenda. I saw myself looking and acting like a fool when I met her. I felt embarrassed and sad and hurt all over again.

My cheeks flamed red. How stupid I was. I’d barely managed to move on with my life, and here I was, spending time with the man I struggled to avoid.

“I can’t do this.” I rose, but he grabbed the back of my bike shorts. If I hadn’t sat back down, I’d have mooned all of Chesterfield Valley.