Small Town Spin (19 page)

“He has a son, too, right?” I crossed to the counter and leaned casually against it.

“Eli.” She nodded. “He’s a talented boy. My favorite nephew.”

Nephew. Stepson? A twinge shot through my head when I considered that for more than three and a half seconds, so I let it go.

“He goes to school here, too?”

“He’s a junior. Straight A’s. Drama club, baseball team. He’s a good boy.”

I smiled.

“I’m sure y’all are very proud. Does he have a girlfriend?”

A dark look flashed across her face so quickly it could’ve been a trick of the light. “He’s too busy for girls.”

At sixteen. Uh huh.

I just nodded. “I know the feeling. Speaking of girls, do you know anything about Sydney Cobb?”

She shrugged. “Not really. She was popular with the kids. Like her mother. Tiff and I were friends once. Syd didn’t ever really get into trouble, so I didn’t see much of her up here.”

I nodded. “There was a girl at the funeral service Monday,” I said. “Tiny, blonde, pretty. She was really upset. But I haven’t seen her anywhere since. I’m a little worried about her, with everything that’s happened around here. I mean, I went to a five-A school in Texas, and we only lost two kids out of my class in four years. To a car accident. Y’all are way ahead of the national curve, and the police swear suicide spreads through teenagers faster than a bad case of mono in a game of spin the bottle.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Blonde, you said? Oh. Evie? I wonder if that was Evelyn Miney?”

I fixed an interested, noncommittal expression on my face.

“I bet it was,” she continued when I didn’t say anything. “She had a thing for TJ. Everyone knew it. Kind of sad, really. I feel sorry for her. Lost her momma to cancer a few years back. And you know, I can’t recall having seen her this week.” She flipped a folder open and ran her finger about halfway down the paper inside before she turned a few pages and looked up at me. “She’s been out of school all week. And her daddy goes away on business a fair amount.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, reaching for the phone. “There’s just been so much going on, no one bothered to ask why she wasn’t here.”

I watched, pinching my lips together, as she pulled off her clip-on earring and dialed the phone. Her expression went from worry to panic as she pressed the button in the cradle to disconnect. “She’s not picking up.”

She dialed again, only three keys this time, and I closed my eyes. Not another one. I felt a teeny bit bad for suspecting Evelyn. What if she’d just been sad about her friends? Just because they stopped talking to her didn’t mean she wouldn’t miss them.

I half-listened while Norma told the sheriff’s dispatcher to send a deputy by to check on Evelyn, drumming my fingers on the desk and wondering about Luke. I had zero in the way of good excuses to ask Norma about him. Maybe I could get something from the coach, though.

“Does Coach Morris have a class right now?” I asked when she hung up. “I have just a few more things I’d like to talk to him about.”

“No. He’s at lunch. Probably in his office.” She watched the phone like she could will it to ring.

“I hope she’s all right,” I said, turning back for the door. The hallway was silent, the kids all sorted into their classrooms.

“Me, too.” Norma nodded.

I hurried down to the gym, hoping I wasn’t about to have another dead kid to write about as much as I was hoping the coach would tell me something useful.

“Hello? Woman on deck,” I called, poking my head into the boys’ locker room. No answer.

I stepped inside, keeping my eyes level—just in case. “Coach Morris?”

I heard a clatter.

“Coach?” I walked toward the glass-walled office, but found it empty. Unease settled over me in a thick blanket as I walked the locker rows, looking for the source of the noise. “Hello?”

A metal-on-metal squeal sounded behind me and I nearly jumped out of my skin, grabbing the edge of a nearby bank of lockers to keep my balance as I whirled, images of ten zillion teen slasher flicks I’d watched with Kyle years before flashing through my head. There are few places creepier than an empty school.

I didn’t see anyone behind me, but someone was in there. I put one hand on the locker and slipped my heels off, stowing one in my bag and turning the other stiletto-out in my hand. Creeping silently along the concrete floor in my bare feet, I peered around the edge of each locker bank before I scurried to the next, Kirkwood sandal raised and ready.

I was not getting chopped up and stuffed into lockers in a building full of people without a fight.

Soft footfalls sounded around the corner that led to the door. I held my breath, leaning back and locking my eyes on the doorway.

The door clicked shut.

I tiptoed to the little entry area, my hand on the cinderblock wall, steeling myself before I hopped around the corner, stiletto in the air.

The vestibule was empty, the door closed.

I sagged back against the wall and caught my breath. Something strange was going on in Mathews County.

I slid my shoes back onto my feet before I walked out into the gym. I found Morris crossing the basketball court.

“Hey there,” he called, smiling. “Norma said you were looking for me. I must have passed you when I went to turn my attendance sheet in. She gets irritated with me for keeping it ’til the end of the day. I’m trying to do better.” He grinned a goofy schoolboy-crush grin that matched her Coach-Morris-is-so-dreamy smile. It was like Peyton Place. With tractors.

“I just wanted to chat for a few minutes if you have time,” I said, scanning the gym. “You didn’t see anyone else in here on your way down, did you?”

He shook his head. “This is my free period. There shouldn’t be anyone down here for another hour.”

I nodded, keeping the fact that there had been to myself. He waved me into the locker room, gesturing for me to have a seat in his office.

I paused on my way, noticing the shiny locks hanging from the locker doors.

“Those weren’t there last week,” I said, turning a questioning look to Morris.

“One of the boys had some pills go missing out of his locker,” he said. “I told them to bring locks in.”

“What kind of pills?” My thoughts flashed to the empty bottle the cops found on TJ.

“Luke Bosley is diabetic,” Morris said. “He takes pills to manage his blood sugar. His mother was ticked about having to pay full price for an early refill.”

“Pills,” I said, walking toward the office. “Not shots? I thought that was more common for adults.”

Morris shrugged. “I don’t know a whole lot about it. Luke’s folks say it’s genetic. Hit him during puberty. He handles it pretty well.”

I sat down in a green plastic chair inside the office door, pondering that.

Why would someone steal the kid’s diabetes medication? Maybe teenagers knew something about getting high that I didn’t. I smiled at Morris. His L-shaped metal desk rivaled mine in the piled-with-paper department.

Before either of us could speak, a gangly boy with dark hair and Morris’s nose stuck his head around the corner. “Coach?” He turned warm brown eyes on me and smiled. “Oh, sorry. I’ll come back.”

Morris shook his head. “What do you need, Eli?” He took his seat and gestured to me. “This is Miss Clarke from the paper in Richmond. Miss Clarke, this is my son, Eli.”

“I see the resemblance.” I half-stood, holding a hand out to shake Eli’s. “Nice to meet you.” Resuming my seat, I crossed my legs and fished out a notebook and pen.

“I just wanted to ask you about tomorrow’s lineup,” Eli said to his dad. “It can wait.”

“I haven’t made it yet.” Morris said, his tone holding an edge.

“What position do you play, Eli?” I asked before either of them could speak again.

“First base,” he said. “Now, anyway.”

I tried to be unobtrusive about writing that down, holding his gaze while my pen moved slowly over my notebook.

“That’s an important position,” I said.

“Better than left center field. I moved when Luke got pushed up to starting pitcher.”

I shot a glance at Morris.

“Luke was a good first baseman,” he said, defensiveness bleeding into his words. “He and TJ traded off the pitcher’s mound and first. Eli’s got good accuracy.” He shot his son an affectionate grin, the tension in the room ebbing. “He’s smart, too. Hasn’t ever missed the honor roll.”

“Syd helped me with math,” Eli said, his voice cracking. “Even after we—well. Anyway. She was a good friend.” He cast his eyes down, but not before I saw tears shining in them.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, unable to figure a way to shoehorn a question about his relationship with Sydney into the conversation without practically accusing him of murder.  “Both of them.”

His brow wrinkled briefly before he nodded. “Thank you.”

I glanced between father and son, a nagging feeling I was missing something dancing through my thoughts. Staying quiet, I hoped one of them would fill in the blank. No one did.

“I hope y’all have a great season,” I said finally, breaking an awkward, smiley silence.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Eli nodded to his dad before he backed out of the office. “I better get to geometry. Nice to meet you, Miss Clarke.”

I waved, then turned to Coach Morris. “Nice kid.”

“Thank you. We’re proud of him. What can I do for you today?”

“I just want to talk to you about the baseball team,” I said. “Some of the other kids on it, how your season’s looking without TJ pitching.”

“Not as good as it was, that’s for damned sure.” He sat back in his chair. His face said there was something he wanted to add, but he didn’t speak. I offered an encouraging smile, staying quiet.

“I saw your story this weekend, and the one in the
Washington Post
, too. Why do the Okersons think there’s more to this than the sheriff does?” he asked finally. “Do you think they’re right?”

Oh, boy. I twisted a lock of hair around my fingers, contemplating that. His face creased with worried lines.

“Why do you ask?” I countered, dropping my hair.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’ve lived here all my life. Most people don’t even lock their front doors at night. Jaywalking and public intoxication are about the most serious criminal offenses we see. A giant snapping turtle made the front page last week, for pity’s sake. I don’t want to think someone killed this boy.”

“But you do, don’t you?” I asked softly.

“I don’t know. I’m not a hundred percent convinced of anything. But I think Zeke is making a mistake, writing it off so quick.”

“Why?” I clicked out a pen and flipped to a clean piece of paper.

“After you came here last week, I cleaned out TJ’s locker and took his bag by to his dad. I didn’t want them to have to come here and do that, but Tony said Ashton wanted his stuff back before the service.” His eyes flicked to the window that looked over the locker room. “His football cleats were in the back, forgotten after that last game.”

I froze when Morris’s eyes came back to mine.

“Tony told me they were worn out after that game,” Morris said. “I flipped them over when I put them in his bag, and they weren’t worn out. They were filed down. Sloppily, too. I guess his dad didn’t look that close. Somebody caused that fall that wrecked his knee.”

I didn’t even need to write that down, watching as Morris shook his head. “But why?” I studied him for a moment. Everyone following the story knew the Okersons thought TJ didn’t commit suicide. Morris looked genuinely torn up over the idea, but he seemed to believe it, too. And he might know something that could help me—as long as his son wasn’t the guilty one. I just had to step carefully with my questions.

“Talk to me about Luke Bosley, coach,” I said.

“No.” He pulled in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. “My God. Do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Something seems off to me, and you said his dad puts a lot of pressure on him, right?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Does he play football, too?” I asked.

“Backup quarterback,” Morris said. The tension in his face said this wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought.

“And if TJ hadn’t had access to the best trainers and therapists because of his father—if he’d been a normal kid—that injury would have ended his playing career.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Luke’s the new starting pitcher, just like his dad wanted, right?”

Morris pinched his lips into a tight line, emotions warring on his face for a good two minutes before he spoke again. “Son of a bitch. We have to call the sheriff.” He reached for the phone and I raised a hand.

“Not so fast. He’s convinced he’s done, and I don’t think he’ll listen. There’s a dance Friday night, though, and I have a plan. Sort of.”

“Can I do anything to help you?” he asked, his eyes on something behind my head. I turned to find a photo of the baseball team taken after the regional championship win the previous spring. TJ grinned from the center.

I turned back to him, wincing at the anguish that was plain on his face.

“I’m bringing a friend with me, and I want Luke to talk to him,” I said. “You think you could help with that?”

He nodded. “These boys—I have a son, too.” He cleared his throat, but the catch in his voice didn’t diminish. “I see my players almost as much as I see Eli this time of year. You can’t not care about these kids when you do this job. At least, I can’t. This week has been a nightmare. I keep looking for TJ at practice, expecting to see him warming up his arm or helping a freshman get more drop on his curve.” A tear hovered on his lashes for a long second before it fell. He didn’t bother to brush it away. “He was a great kid. I can’t imagine what his folks are going through. And if someone did this to him—well, if I can help you, count me in. I’ll be at the dance. Just point me to your friend and I’ll introduce Luke.”

I stood and offered my hand. “Thank you, coach. I appreciate it. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”