Buzz Kill (31 page)

“We're catching a killer,” I muttered, sort of forgetting that Ms. Beamish was with us as I examined those teeth. And Viv's dead eyes, in spite of her smile. “She knows something. Something big.”

“Millie!” Chase's sharp warning brought me back to reality. He shut the locker and took me by my shoulders, smiling at Ms. Beamish—but shoving me down the hall. “We were actually borrowing a book,” he told our teacher. “But Viv must have it at home. We're leaving now.”

“Au revoir.”
Ms. Beamish gave us a wave—without moving from her post in front of the locker I hadn't searched well enough.
“Bonsoir.”

“Well, that was a bust,” I said when we were outside in the chilly night. “A total bust.”

We walked toward Chase's car, which was parked on the street, and as he opened the door for me he reminded me, “Not entirely, Millie. Not for me. And we still have work to do. On my story.”

I'd almost forgotten that, but I would never forget the next few hours. And when I was done talking with Chase, I thought we were both sort of spent. I was also confident that if he really had been my boyfriend, I wouldn't have had to worry about any more secrets coming out.

No, I could finally fully erase that question mark from Chase's chest.

If only I could've scrubbed him out of my mind and my heart, too.

“I wish, every day, that I could change the past,' Albright said. ‘Not because I served time for involuntary manslaughter, but because I can't bring Allison back.'”

Laura finished reading out loud and set the week's copy of the
Gazette
on the cafeteria table. “Wow.” She shoved one finger under the lenses of her eyeglasses, swiping at her eyes, which had teared up halfway through the article. “I can't believe that's really Chase's story. It's so sad, for everybody.”

“I think it took guts to come out like that,” Ryan added. “And I know something about coming out. He could've just kept lying low, riding out the year, even with the rumors. It can't be easy to admit to manslaughter in front of the whole school.”

“He's doing an assembly on drunk driving, too,” I informed them. “Mr. Woolsey asked him to talk before the next dance, and Chase agreed. I guess he's found a way to start redeeming himself.”

“Millie?”

I'd been twirling spaghetti around my fork, not hungry, because, in spite of helping Chase start to put his life back together, my father was still in big trouble and my heart was still broken. I knew that time would heal the really bad pain, but I couldn't imagine ever finding a guy like Chase again. One who befriended little old ladies, and kissed me in a way that I'd felt down to my bare toes, and who made me want even a glimpse of him . . .

“Millie?”

I heard my name spoken again and looked up to find Laura watching me. “Are you okay with Chase, after all this? It's a lot to swallow.”

“It doesn't matter how I feel,” I said. “We're not really hanging out anymore.”

So why did I give in to the impulse to turn around and find Chase at his regular table, alone as usual, nose in a book? I didn't think kids were shunning him because of the stuff in the paper, though. I was pretty sure Chase still just believed solitude was best for him. One article wouldn't change everything—including how he felt about dating me. He'd made that clear, telling me, at the end of the interview, “I think I should put some distance between us, Millie. I still don't feel right seeing someone. I'm really sorry.”

I turned back to my friends. “Besides, I have to focus on my dad now. He needs me.”

“Is he really going to stand trial?” Ryan asked. “Because that seems crazy.”

“Yeah, to me, too,” I agreed. “But it looks like there's enough evidence to at least try him for Mr. Killdare's death, between all the public fights they had, and Mr. Killdare having cancer, which—let's face it—would've messed up Dad's life if word had gotten out. Not to mention the fact that the murder weapon was in our yard.”

I looked around for Vivienne and found her at the cheerleaders' table, drinking her daily Diet Coke and eating air so she wouldn't gain a pound. But she had muscular arms, a calculating mind, and no soul . . .

Viv must've felt me watching her. She met my eyes—and I once again firmly believed she could've committed homicide. Heck, she'd threatened me, just that morning, when the story about Chase had been printed. I could easily recall our entire conversation, verbatim.

“You went behind my back to Mr. Sokowski.” Viv glares at me, slapping the paper against her hand. “I didn't authorize this.”

“It's a good story—and Mr. Sokowski knows who his ace reporter is now.”

Viv practically growls. “If you think you've helped your murdering boyfriend by telling this sappy tale, you're sorely mistaken. He looks
worse
now.”

She was wrong, though. Kids were talking about Chase, but they weren't making up crazy stuff, and before long the whole story would fade away. Plus I'd made sure everybody understood how guilty he felt and why he preferred to remain aloof. Viv knew I'd smashed her rumor mill—and she was seething.

“Is it really the weapon? The trophy?”

I returned my attention to my own table, where nobody was shy about eating, to find Ryan opening a bag of Doritos, a worried look on his face.

“Well, it was wiped clean before it was buried—meaning there weren't any fingerprints or blood on it.” I watched Ryan and Laura carefully, wanting to gauge their reactions when I revealed something I hadn't shared with anybody so far. “But they found these microscopic flecks of metal in Mr. Killdare's wounds. Although, according to my dad's lawyer, there's not necessarily a positive match between the specks and the coating on the trophy.”

The evidence might not've been conclusive, but I could tell that the news concerned Ryan and Laura. Just as it did me. Still, they were supportive friends, and both said, almost in unison, “It's gonna be okay, Millie. It'll work out.”

I wished I could have believed them.

I looked at Viv again, watching her toss her hair over her shoulder and take a dainty sip of soda, like she was afraid to ingest a molecule of
that,
even though the bottle clearly promised it was zero calories.

What was I missing?

Why wasn't I smart enough to link her to the crime?

It took guts for Chase Albright to admit to his past and still stand tall on a football field Friday night, rifling passes to guys who probably thought
murderer
every time they looked at him. Or maybe some of them were thinking,
That could be me. Maybe I shouldn't down a gallon of beer at the after-game party.
I hoped that was the case.

And—I gave my father a sidelong glance—it took a lot of courage for former coach and former mayor Jack Ostermeyer to come to a stadium that he practically used to own in a town that he definitely used to dominate and watch a game like the innocent man that he was.

I was superproud of him and wished I could tell him that. But we were doing our best to pretend we didn't even notice people giving him suspicious looks. Besides, he had a librarian sitting on his other side, and I thought the way she slipped her hand into his, as if she was proud to be with him, too, was probably all the validation that he really needed.

Everybody
should have a librarian.

I thought I was also showing some spine by attending that game, because watching Chase in his football uniform barking out orders and looking like a Greek god wasn't exactly helping my aching heart. Even when he simply walked to the sidelines during a break in the action, while some injured kid got the once-over by medics, I considered him pretty much breathtaking.

But he's hardly even talking to me anymore. Has closed himself off again. I got him to open up to the whole world—
except
me.

“Millie, do you want something to eat?”

I dragged my attention away from the field to find my father offering me money, which didn't happen every day. Still, I shook my head. “Nah. No, thanks.”

Ms. Parkins leaned forward so she could see me around the bulky down vest Dad was wearing to ward off the late-October chill. Her eyes, behind her glasses, registered concern. “You're not hungry?”

“Not really.”

She and my dad exchanged worried glances, then my father leaned close and said very quietly, because the stands were packed, “Millie, don't waste away because of a broken heart.”

I reared back. “What?”

There was understanding in my father's eyes—but some of his characteristic flint, too. “Whatever happened with you and Chase, don't let it devastate you,” he urged. “You're an Ostermeyer. You're stronger than that.”

I'd had no idea my father had thought about me and Chase since the formal. In fact, I'd assumed he was even more distracted than usual and unaware of anything going on in my life. And he'd never talked with me about boys—not that there'd been boys to talk about.

“Go ahead.” He offered me the cash again. “Get all of us something to eat.” He pointed toward the visitors' end zone, where I saw a folding table manned by Ms. Beamish, who apparently couldn't get one of the few Language Club kids to help her with what must've been a fundraiser. In truth, my Philosophy Club was almost as popular as that group. “I think they have doughnuts,” Dad observed, craning his neck. “That sounds good.”

“Okay.” I plucked the cash from his fingers, thinking maybe I
should
eat something. I was probably losing all of the stomach capacity I'd built up, and while I might not have had true love in my life, I still did want to be on Sir Loin's Ye Olde Wall of Fame. “I'll be right back, okay?”

Walking down the steps, I scanned the field again, first finding Chase. He stood on the sidelines, helmet off, and even from a distance, I knew he was watching me, too. I almost waved—then stopped myself and made a point of looking at the cheerleaders, who'd taken to the field, entertaining the crowd until the real action started again. They all pretty much looked the same to me, like a string of paper dolls, but I did note that one normally vivacious—if you removed two letters in the very middle of that word—cheer queen was gone.

Where's Vicious Viv?

Missing her moment of glory to pee out a thimbleful of Diet Coke?

Then I hopped off the bleachers and threaded my way to the Language Club table. But when I got there, Ms. Beamish had also taken off. However, there was a can for money, underneath a sign that read, “Support Our Trip to Düsseldorf and the Black Forest!”

“Have a nice time,” I muttered, dropping in all the cash I had and taking what I hoped was about six dollars' worth of doughnuts.

“Don't take more than you've paid for, Millicent,” a weasely voice interrupted my calculations. “Because that would be
a crime,
wouldn't it?”

“What do you want now?” I asked Detective Blaine Lohser, who was cramming money into the can, too, and choosing a chocolate frosted. “Why are you even here?”

“I'm here to get a doughnut—and watch the game,” he said, helping himself to change, for crying out loud.
Cheapskate.

“Yeah, it's a likely coincidence, us meeting up,” I grumbled. “I bet you don't even like football.”
Because you couldn't even cut it as a towel boy in high school.
“You're here to see people stare at my dad—and gloat,” I guessed. “But if you think my father cares, you're wrong. He's an Ostermeyer, and
we're
tough.”

“I do have an interest in keeping an eye on your father, because
I
think he's a flight risk,” Detective Lohser said. “But I didn't really think he'd show up here.”

I had turned out to be a little hungry, and I wiped powdered sugar off my mouth. “Yeah, right. And you just happened to need a snack at the same time I did.”

All at once, Detective Lohser seemed defensive. Maybe even
hurt.
“I just came to see the game,” he repeated. “This is my alma mater.”

I took a few seconds to digest that information and really look at him in this new setting. And although I wouldn't have thought it possible even moments before, I felt a twinge of sympathy. He was apparently alone at a football game, wearing an old Honeywell High sweatshirt that made his mustache come off as a desperate cry to be judged mature. In fact, without the 'stache, he probably could've passed as a student.

Was it possible that he'd approached me because he considered what we shared—a few dismal, contentious meetings—some kind of a . . . relationship? Was he that desperate for human contact?

I wasn't sure, but I found myself mumbling, “Sorry.”

He seemed to understand how I'd just judged him. I could see it in his eyes—and knew that I'd been right. Then he puffed out his chest, getting officious again, and said, like we were at some school-safety assembly, “Just make sure you knock off the investigating, kid. Because while you might still want to protect your dad, life isn't a Nancy Drew book.”

I could hardly believe he'd invoked the novels that I was finally, tentatively, reading again, even though doing that was still painful. I also recalled that—lonely or not—he'd persecuted my father all the way to a future court date. “
You
should read some Nancy Drew,” I suggested. “Maybe you'd learn how to treat people—and how to solve a crime.” I nodded to the can. “And put the change back, huh? Help some poor kids get to Germany already!”

Then, without waiting for his reply, I walked away—mentally high-fiving an imaginary Nancy, who I was pretty sure would've approved of the way I'd handled the whole situation.