Buzz Kill (8 page)

All at once, I grabbed Laura's arm, stopping us in our tracks as I recalled one more detail from the den, which hadn't really struck me as odd until that moment.

“Do you think it's weird,” I noted, “that a man who had virtually nothing you could call décor—except a bunch of guy crap, like old clippings—not only owned a clock shaped like poultry, but also had a
bookshelf full of carefully arranged European-landmark knickknacks
?”

When I got home, my dad was in his favorite chair, talking quietly on the phone, so I crept up to my room, where he probably assumed I'd been all night, reading. Sitting at my desk, I shoved aside my Nancy Drew novels and drew my laptop front and center.

“You might've had a cool convertible ‘roadster,'” I told Nancy, who was looking at me, wide-eyed, from the cover of
The Clue in the Crumbling Wall.
“But you didn't have the Internet.” I returned my attention to the screen. “Now watch—and learn—how a twenty-first-century sleuth works.”

Opening Google, I typed in “Hank Killdare”—only to discover that being unpopular enough to get murdered in real life perversely made one the toast of cyberspace. I had to scroll through about fifty links to news stories about his death before I even got to the personal stuff.

Unfortunately, none of that seemed particularly useful. Pretty much every one of the hits was related to some old football game that he'd either coached or played in.

Then, just when I was about to give up, a truncated, choppy blurb caught my attention.

Hank Killdare . . . Volunteer of the Year . . . Mason Treadwell Military Academy . . . Football . . .

I recognized the reference to the award I'd seen back in Mr. Killdare's den and clicked on the link, curious about Hollerin' Hank's connection to a school for hardcore delinquents, about fifty miles from Honeywell. I knew all about Mason Treadwell, because my dad used to threaten to send me there when I started skipping classes in favor of lurking in the public library. The prospect had genuinely worried me—until I'd learned that Treadwell accepted only boys.

Even after that, though, I'd taken note of the academy when it earned mention in the news, which happened a lot. There was always some kid defecting—and about two years before, one boy had
stabbed
a “classmate.”

“Come on,” I muttered, getting impatient with a little hourglass draining digital sand on my screen. “This might be big.”

What if Hollerin' Hank hollered at the wrong kid when he was volunteer coaching? Namely, a DELINQUENT, STABBING KILLER who got out of Treadwell and came after him for revenge?

I wasn't going to learn anything this evening, though, because the link was obviously dead, and after a few minutes, I returned to Google and typed in “Chase Albright” just to see what might come up.

And what I found definitely intrigued me even more. Because if Coach Killdare was a prominent presence in cyberspace, it was as if the Chase Albright who went to my school didn't exist
at all.

“What do you mean there was nothing about Chase on the
entire Internet?
” Laura whispered, as French class was starting—and the subject of our discussion was sitting less than ten feet behind us. “Everyone's somewhere in cyberspace!”

“Well, there are stories about him playing football here,” I conceded, glancing over my shoulder to see that Chase had his nose buried in his textbook.
Studious suck-up! Teacher's pet!
I turned back to Laura. “But it's like he didn't exist before he came to Honeywell. All the other Chase Albrights are, like, accountants, doctors—and a preschool soccer prodigy in England.”

Laura smiled archly. “Why'd you Google him, anyway?”

I knew what she was thinking—that just like every other girl at Honeywell, I was attracted to Chase. However, before I could remind her that I had legitimate reasons to check him out—
suspicions
about him and his key to Coach Killdare's house—Mademoiselle Beamish snapped at both of us in her overblown fake French accent,
“Mee-leh-CENT! Loh-RA! Taisez-vous!”

I was terrible at French, and for a second I thought our somewhat burly instructor—she was an assistant wrestling coach, for crying out loud—was going to
tase us
for talking during class. Honestly, the way Laura—who could actually speak the language—jumped, it seemed possible. Then I realized she was reacting—or overreacting—the way she always did when I got her in trouble.

I must've looked pretty alarmed, too, though. Both Viv and Mike were cracking up at me, even though I doubted Mike had understood our teacher, either.

I started to stick out my tongue at them, then judged that to be too childish even for me, who was wearing a Snoopy T-shirt that day, and faced forward as Ms. Beamish said,
“Choisissez un partenaire et discuter de ce que vous voulez.”

Needless to say, I didn't understand
that
long diatribe until Laura suggested, “I guess we'll partner up to talk, huh?”

I wanted to do our semiweekly “free form” dialogue with my best friend, but all at once, I had an idea and turned slowly in my seat, thinking,
If I want answers about Chase Albright, why don't I just ask him questions?

Unfortunately, Ms. Beamish, as usual, had similar designs on her star pupil.

“Excusez-moi? Mademoiselle?”

“Oui?”
Ms. Beamish was just about to sit down with Chase, with whom she always “dialogued” because we had an odd number of students in class—and everyone else had
friends
—when she stopped her derriere in mid-descent, looking confused.
“Que voulez-vous, Mee-leh-CENT?”

“
Je
would like to
parler avec
Chase, if
vous
don't mind,” I requested.

Ms. Beamish's square jaw dropped, and I wondered again if she didn't harbor a small, sick crush on Chase, who was watching me and his teacher debate over him with his usual cool detachment, as if he didn't care who the heck he
parler
-ed with.

“Avons-nous un nombre pair d'etudiants aujourd'hui?”
Mademoiselle asked. She looked past me, appearing to do a head count, so I figured she was asking if we had an even number of students that day.

“Non,”
I informed her. Then, although I knew Laura was going to hate me, I said, “
LOH-ra
needs a partner.
Mais
I think I would benefit from
travailler
avec
Chase,
parce qu'il est
the best student in class.”

I glanced at Chase again, and saw, for the first time ever, this tiny, tiny hint of laughter in his eyes. Then I addressed Ms. Beamish again.
“S'il vous plait?”

There was basically no way she could argue that I needed help, and Ms. Beamish, with
très,
très
obvious reluctance, yielded.
“D'accord. Mets-toi avec Chase.”

“Gracias,”
I said, watching her thread her blocky body through the desks, toward Laura, who mouthed, in very plain English, “I will kill you later.”

Then I slid into the desk next to Chase's, so we were really face-to-face—without a thick pane of ticket-window glass between us—for the first time ever. Well, not counting the time I messed up his shoes. And the first thing he said to me . . . It didn't exactly get us off on the right foot.

“If you don't mind, I'm going to keep my feet under my desk,” Chase informed me, without so much as a
bonjour.

“I told you I was sorry about that,” I reminded him.

He seemed skeptical.
“Non, au contraire, tu ne me l'as pas dit.”

I was pretty sure he'd just disagreed, but I didn't want to argue with him. Especially since, now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure I
had
apologized. “Look.” I leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “I don't really speak French—”

“I figured that out when you said ‘
gracias,
'” Chase interrupted.

I ignored the dig. “And I'm not particularly interested in learning how.” I really thought the school should offer Mandarin, if anything, and had started learning a few characters on my own, in my spare time. “I actually wanted to talk with you about Coach Killdare—”

“Whose house you broke into,” Chase cut in again, so suddenly
I
was under scrutiny. I'd sort of forgotten that he probably knew that. He cocked his head, a swoop of flawless hair falling over his forehead. “Why? What were you doing there?”

I felt my face getting red. Still, I managed to ask, with reasonable composure, “If somebody broke into his house—and I'm not saying anyone did—what would make you think it was me?”

“Your hair is distinctive, even in the dark,” he pointed out. “And I heard you and your partner squealing each other's names when you ran away.”

“Oh.” I hadn't realized we'd done that. “That is kind of damning.”

He arched his eyebrows, and for the second time in one day, I saw that he was very close to smiling. “You think so?”

His amusement was, of course, at my expense, but it served to ease some of the tension between us—tension that I couldn't explain—and I confessed, with a quick peek over my shoulder, to make sure Viv didn't overhear, “I'm investigating Coach Killdare's murder for the school paper. That's why I broke in—and why I wanted to talk with you. You must've known him pretty well, if you watch his dog.”

That brief, tentative connection we'd made broke as quickly as it had formed, and he seemed to get incredibly guarded. Still, I forged ahead. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything you've noticed when you were with Mr. Killdare on the football field, or when you take care of Chumley?”

He seemed confused. “Who is Chumley?”

“Baxter,” I corrected myself, feeling my cheeks get warm again. “I kind of named him.”

Chase didn't respond—except to give me a weird look—so I added, “Seriously, is there anything you can share? Especially about a woman named BeeBee? Or Mr. Killdare's health?”

“No.”

The answer wasn't exactly rude, but it was remarkably flat, leaving no room for follow-up, and so we found ourselves staring at each other as if neither one of us knew what to say in any language. Or maybe we were finally really sizing each other up, something we didn't have time to do in the few seconds it took to transact a movie-ticket sale.

Was it weird that neither of us was acknowledging that we had a tiny, preexisting relationship and saw each other on a fairly regular basis?

And what was that expression on his face right then? Was he finding me lacking in more than just French vocabulary? It seemed that way, judging from how he frowned as his gaze roved over my pale, round cheeks, my bulldog nose, and my greenish eyes.

While I . . . I was examining his straight aristocratic nose, his strong jaw, and full lower lip.

Darn it! Focus, Millie!

Getting ahold of myself, I suddenly remembered the football game I'd witnessed the previous fall in which Chase had stopped Coach Killdare from giving my father a bloody nose or black eye, and for some reason I said, “Tell me, at least, what you said to Coach Killdare, about a year ago, during the football game when he kicked Buzz. You grabbed his arm and stopped him from hitting my dad. Can you at least tell me
that?
”

“You want to know what I said
a year ago?
” Chase asked, his expression unreadable. “Seriously? And you honestly want to hear
everything
I know about Mr. Killdare?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking we were finally getting somewhere. “Yes, I do.”

He leaned forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Okay. Here goes.”

Then Chase Albright proceeded to unburden himself—in about three straight minutes of rapid-fire French, of which I understood not a word. It was just a big blur of
“nous”
and
“vous”
and
“voulez-s,”
and it all flew totally over my head.

“Does that help?” he asked, sitting back when he was done.

“You are an
el jerko,
” I informed him, standing up, even though dialogue time hadn't ended. Ms. Beamish was staring at me, clearly not happy, while I could feel my cheeks getting
angry
red. “And if
you
don't know what
that
means, it's Spanish for ‘jerk.'”

Then I turned on my heel—only to feel someone grab my wrist. I wheeled around, so surprised that I didn't even pull free, but Chase quickly let go, like he realized he shouldn't have done that. But it wasn't so much the fact that he'd touched me—again—that sent me off balance. It was the expression on his face. The sincere apology that I could see clearly in his eyes.

“Je suis très désolé,”
he said. It was still French, but somehow not rude, like before. Maybe because he was talking softer and slower.
“Je te souhaite bonne chance, mais il ne faut pas que je sois impliqué dans cette enquête.”

I might've sucked at French, but my memory really was almost photographic, and I made a point of listening carefully to every word Chase said, locking each one away in my brain. And when I finally got a chance to translate later that night, I got even more interested in the mystery of Mr. Killdare's death—and, I had to admit, more intrigued by an
el jerko
who, it seemed, had both wished me luck with my investigation and advised me that he couldn't be “implicated.”

Wasn't that a word people used when they'd done something
bad?

“I thought you were investigating Coach Killdare's murder,” Ryan noted as he did me the favor of driving me to my shift at the theater in his beat-up Honda. “For the paper. Or to make Viv crazy. Or maybe because you're just morbidly and relentlessly curious.”