2 Death Makes the Cut (14 page)

Maria followed my eyes. “Lovely, right? He had it in his office for a long time until Coach Fred asked him if he had pictures of himself in his wallet, too. After that, he moved it out here.” She smiled at the memory. “Poor Coach Fred.”

“I bet he does have pictures of himself in his wallet,” I said.

She nodded agreement, then shot a glance at the only other person in the room. The school accountant, Pat Carver, glared at us with her odd silvery eyes, narrowed and malevolent. She reminded me of a very large toad, wide stocky body perched atop long skinny legs. Even her face looked like a toad’s, wide mouth, rubbery lips, and moist pale eyes behind thick glasses. Pat was in charge of auditing the fundraising efforts of the myriad student organizations and clubs and somehow had a lot of control over what could be collected and distributed. I thought about upcoming tennis events and gave her a big smile. She met my eyes with the warmth and humor of a python gazing at a mouse, then looked away.

“I did want to talk with you about Coach Fred,” I said, lowering my voice so Pat couldn’t hear. “Did he ever come in here to report anyone in his classes or on the tennis team for taking drugs?”

She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know about drugs, but I think there was something going on. He came in two or three times during the week before school started—closed-door sessions with Larry.”

I raised my eyebrows. Coach Fred hadn’t liked Larry much, often expressing the opinion that Larry was a worthless paper pusher who couldn’t make a real decision to save his life. And that was what he said within Larry’s hearing. He was even less flattering in private. He certainly hadn’t been dropping in to shoot the breeze.

“And you don’t have any idea what they talked about?” I asked.

An acid voice from across the room said, “That is none of your business, Ms. Shore. And I’m sure Ms. Santos understands that she can’t reveal confidential information.” Pat Carver glared at us both with her unblinking eyes.

My God, the woman had the hearing of a bat, I thought. She must have been straining with every fiber of her being to listen to our low conversation.

Maria was more direct. “Blow it out your ass, Pat.”

Pat shot her the finger, then turned back to her computer.

At my slack-jawed expression, Maria explained, “Relations have deteriorated between Pat and me over the last few weeks.”

“Really? You both hide it well.”

Switching to Spanish, she said, “I’ll tell you about that bitch sometime. You won’t believe it.” Then in English, she said loudly for Pat’s benefit, “Confidential or not, I don’t know what Fred wanted. You might want to talk with Larry.”

I shuddered at the thought, but asked “Is he in?”

She laughed cynically. “Of course not. He can sense when someone might want to talk with him. He left a half hour ago.”

*   *   *

Kyla was waiting at the door when my seventh-period class ended, a frantic look in her eye. She pushed through the exiting stream of students and hurried to my side. Several of the kids did a double take, looking from her to me and then back again. I wondered if real twins had it so bad. I saw a couple of them grab friends by the arms and wondered if they thought that keeping their fingers close to their chests while pointing made it either polite or subtle.

Fortunately, for once Kyla was oblivious. And panicked. “My class is today,” she wailed. “You have to help me.”

“It will be fine,” I soothed, starting to gather up my things. “They aren’t monsters. Just remember what I told you—they can sense fear. And don’t get your fingers too close to their mouths.”

Then I laughed my best evil genius laugh. How I wished I could be a fly on the wall when she walked into a room full of cynical teens and tried to talk to them about careers in science, but go with her I would not. For one thing, I was due on the tennis courts, and for another she’d somehow arrange things so I would be doing her job.

“Oh, my God. I’m dead.” Kyla sank into my chair and swung her purse onto my desk, where it landed with a loud thunk.

“What do you have in there? Bricks?” I asked.

She shrugged, her eyes sliding evasively to the side. “You know, the usual. Phone, camera, wallet.”

I wouldn’t have thought much about it if she hadn’t looked so guilty. After all, my own purse weighed as much as a well-fed toddler. So why was she …

“You do not have your gun in that purse,” I said, realization dawning.

“Of course not!” she denied, snatching it back and hugging it to her chest.

“Because carrying a gun on school property is a felony. And you’ve already been arrested once for carrying illegally.”

“I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Then tell me you don’t have a gun.”

“I don’t have a gun,” she said, blue eyes wide and ingenuous.

I didn’t believe her. She was packing her 9mm Glock 19 in that bag. At my school. I considered. Short of wrestling with her for possession, there wasn’t much I could do about it. And at least I now had plausible deniability, something that was critical in any dealings involving Kyla. I comforted myself with the thought that at least she knew how to handle it and she wasn’t a crazed loner.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Tennis practice.”

“Are you kidding me? You can’t go to tennis. You have to come and help me. You said you would.”

“That was before I became the tennis coach, and besides, I did help you. We came up with a lesson plan, remember? And you’re a big girl. You can do this.”

She snorted twin puffs of air through her nose, but, for reasons known only to herself, didn’t argue with me.

I locked my desk. “Come on, let’s go.”

She rose, then glanced at me slyly. “So what’s up with you and Detective Gallagher?”

“Maybe I should be asking you that. What did he have to say after I left?”

“Not too much. He asked how often you have trouble with parents.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked, curious.

She said, “I said I didn’t think you had much trouble, because you would’ve bitched about it if you had. We didn’t talk very long. Another group started playing, so we pushed back and listened. It was nice. Anyway, why did you scamper off like that?”

I didn’t answer for a moment, not exactly sure myself. I finally shrugged. “He irritated me, finding us like that. And I really did have work to do.” Both reasons were true, but even I knew they were just excuses.

“Uh-huh. I thought so.” Her expression was both smug and condescending.

Annoyed, I said, “What do you mean?”

“You know the sparks were flying between the two of you.”

I had been moving toward the door. Now I stopped. “What the hell are you talking about? The only sparks were from me being pissed off at the two of you for being stalker and accomplice. Seriously, Kyla—I can’t believe you routinely post your location for anyone to see.”

“I changed the setting so only friends can see now. Of course, Colin is now a friend, but that’s beside the point. And don’t try to change the subject. You have to admit he’s one fine-looking man.”

Well, yes he was, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. “He thinks one of my good friends was a drug dealer. He’s an idiot. And a blabbermouth,” I added, thinking of my conversation with my ex.

“An idiot with a heart of gold? Or at least a bod of gold? Besides, he didn’t strike me as being stupid. At all. And he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

This was somewhat more interesting, but she didn’t need to know that. “Now who’s being stupid? He’s the cop in charge of a murder investigation. I’m a…” What was I? A witness? A suspect? “I’m an involved party,” I said with dignity. “If he looked at me, it was only to pry information from me.”

“You’re oblivious. Why don’t you look around once in a while?”

“If you think he’s so hot, why don’t you give him a call? Or tweet him or whatever it is you do.”

She changed the subject. “So how about Sherman?”

I laughed. “You mean Sher-monica? He couldn’t keep his eyes off those shirt bunnies.”

“A temporary infatuation,” she said, a little frown creasing her perfect brows. “Veronica doesn’t have the brains to keep him interested very long.”

“I think his interest lies somewhere south of that. Besides, I keep telling you, I’m dating Alan.” I started edging for the door.

“So you say. Odd how he’s never around though. Sherman has a lot of good qualities.” She paused, thinking. “What the hell were his parents thinking? Do you think he’d be willing to change his name?”

“Um … no. Look, we’ve both got to go. We’ll be late.”

“I just can’t do this,” she whined.

“Yes, you can. Go on. Just start by introducing yourself and then make each of the kids introduce themselves and say why they are interested in technology. That will kill half the time right there. And look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll get the tennis team started and come check on you in about twenty minutes.”

“Yes, that would make me feel better. And make it ten minutes.”

She followed me out the door reluctantly, her normal jaunty step replaced by a dejected shuffle. I laughed all the way to the tennis courts. That is until I reached the shed and saw Roland Wilding waiting for me.

He leaned casually against the doorjamb, one hand again in a pocket, artfully tousled hair stirring in the light breeze. Something in the way he stood made me expect him to produce a bottle of men’s cologne and start talking about how women just would not leave him alone. I glanced at the courts. While the boys had their minds on tennis, the girls kept stealing not so subtle glances his way. All except McKenzie, who very carefully kept her head turned any other direction.

“Hi, Roland,” I said, wondering if he was here to talk about the drama practice schedule. I didn’t know how deeply he was involved in making the decisions about the drama club, or whether Nancy ruled alone, but either way, I doubted I was on his best buddy list.

“Jocelyn,” he said stiffly, not smiling.

I walked past him into the shed, and turned on the light on the desk, looking around for my clipboard with the day’s practice plan. As bright as it was outside, the tennis shed was dim and stuffy, smelling of moldy plywood, new tennis balls, and feet. Nothing at all remained to remind anyone of Fred’s death. I’d long since cleaned up the fingerprint dust, righted the tennis racquets, picked up the balls. The only thing that had changed since that day was the addition of a few cases of bottled water and sports drinks intended for our first match, courtesy of the tennis mothers. The calendar above the desk was still marked in his handwriting with the dates of our upcoming matches. The roster still hung beside the phone, his name and number listed prominently at the top. I suppose all the reminders should have upset me, but I found them oddly comforting.

Roland followed me inside and stood awkwardly beside my desk, looking around as though he’d never been in the place, which he probably hadn’t.

“I need to talk to you,” he started.

I cut him off. “Hang on, will you? I need to get the team going.”

I hurried out to the court and called the team over, redistributing them on different courts and starting the drills. “Ten minutes, then we switch,” I reminded them. “Brittany, will you let us know when time is up?”

I returned to Roland, who was now standing outside, and tried to decide whether I should move into the shade, which would be more comfortable, or instead stand with him in the sun, which might shorten this conversation. I chose the sun.

“What can I do for you?” I asked him, trying to sound helpful and pleasant rather than suspicious.

He flashed a brilliant smile, and ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted to talk to you about the acting arrangements.” He gestured in the direction of the giant silver truck at the back of the parking lot.

I followed his gaze. As far as I could tell, the film crew was taking a break. I saw a couple of roadies smoking under a tree, but everyone else had either left entirely or had escaped into one of the air conditioned trailers. These California types had no appreciation for our Texas summers.

His choice of topic was not at all what I expected. “You mean the movie they’re filming?” I asked.

“Yes, exactly. The movie.
Teenage Fangst
. I spoke with Michael Dupre yesterday.” I could hear a touch of wonder in his voice over the name. “Michael Dupre. He told me he already had all the actors he needed. That he’d made arrangements with you for the tennis team to be his extras.”

I hadn’t exactly forgotten, but I’d had other things on my mind. “Oh, yeah. Neat, huh? I think the kids are probably pretty excited.”

“Probably?” He pressed his lips together like a cranky spinster taking a bite of a lemon.

“Definitely,” I corrected. “They were definitely excited. I handed out the release forms yesterday. Guess I better see about collecting them and getting them over to the set.” I made a little note on my clipboard.

“Do you even know who Michael Dupre is?” he asked.

I’d meant to look him up on the Internet, but I’d forgotten. “Of course,” I bluffed. “He’s a director, very up and coming.”

“And a screenwriter. Name one picture he’s made.”

“Oh you know, that one with the actors. I can’t remember the name.”

One of the blue eyes twitched, and he rubbed his temple. “Maybe you’ve heard of
Midnight Moves
?”

Bluffing was becoming too much work. “Um, no.”

“It won the Grand Jury Prize for Dramatic Film at the Sundance Film Festival,” he said, trying to jog my memory.

“Impressive.”

“It also won Best Screenplay at Cannes.” His voice was almost pleading.

“Still not ringing any bells, Roland. I’m sure it was great.”

“Michael Dupre is a genius, the most watched young director of this decade.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to check out his movie the next time I’m renting. Thanks for the tip. So, was that all you wanted?”

“No!” he almost shouted. Then, in a quieter tone, said, “No. I want to talk to you about the roles your kids have in the movie.”

“What about them?”

“Don’t you think it would be better to have drama students in those roles? You know, kids who are actually interested in acting?”