Buzz Kill (23 page)

I wasn't sure that my father would've told Detective Lohser about fighting with Mike. Honor, schmonor. My dad knew how to keep secrets. I still didn't know exactly how long he and Ms. Parkins had dated. And if Dad was aware of Chase's background, as I suspected, he'd never spilled that story, either.

“Millie,” Chase said more softly. The flashing lights kept splashing his face with red, and although I could see his expression clearly only in short bursts, I could tell that he was even more miserable when he reminded me, “I have a record. One that I try to keep quiet. I don't need to be a focus for anyone in law enforcement. And I could get in serious trouble for lying during a murder investigation.”

I blinked at Chase, thinking that if he was trying to justify his actions to me, it wasn't working. On the contrary, he'd just made me
furious
with him.

He'd sold out my father to
save himself?

He
was
a selfish, spoiled brat, just like I'd guessed.

“So ratting on my father . . . That wasn't really about honor at all, huh?” I challenged him. “It was about protecting yourself—at my dad's expense.”

“Millie, the stakes are high for me,” he tried to defend himself.

I wasn't buying it.

“I'd say the stakes are a lot higher for my father,” I said evenly. It was almost like I was too angry to yell at him. Or maybe I was so disappointed that I just . . . couldn't. For once, I understood those times when my father logically should've hollered at me but got silent instead. Still, I managed to add, “You
suck,
Chase Albright.”

Chase didn't dispute that. He just looked as if I'd hit him again. Then he pulled his car keys out of his pocket and said softly, “Come on, Millie. I promised your dad I'd give you a ride home. He might be stuck here awhile.”

I really, really could've used the comforting embrace of a soft leather seat, but I didn't accept his offer. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stalked away from him, across the lot. He must've watched me for a long time, because I didn't hear the purr of a German-engineered motor, even after I reached the street.

I wasn't sure why, but all at once, when I knew he couldn't hear me or see my shoulders shaking, I started to cry—about all sorts of stuff. Tears of frustration for how the universe was messing with my poor dad. And tears of sadness over the guy I'd started to like too much and who'd let me down—as well as for the guy I hadn't liked at all but who'd been
killed.

Poor Mike.

I'd read lots of philosophers' views on death and had taken comfort in the optimistic Socrates and the pragmatic Zhuangzi since my mother had passed away. But right then, alone in the dark with thoughts I'd suppressed, I couldn't seem to think rationally.

I didn't really pull myself together until I was practically at my house. But by the time I got inside, I knew that while there was nothing I could do for Mike Price—or about my wrecked friendship with Chase—I could try to fix one big disaster.

Getting out my cell, I searched the Internet for a phone number I'd never used before, but that I was sure my dad knew by heart. Taking a deep breath, I dialed it, and a few seconds later heard a familiar, feminine voice offer an uncertain “Hello?”

“Hey, Ms. Parkins,” I said, wiping my wet cheeks with my sleeve and hearing a lingering trace of sniffling in my voice. “Can we talk?”

“That's a good story about finding Mike,” Ryan—grimly—complimented me, resting back in his cafeteria chair while he read the
Gazette.
Everybody was reading the paper for a change. The caf was practically wallpapered with the second special edition of the year. “And a nice tribute to him, too,” Ry added. “I didn't think you liked him that much.”

I picked glumly at my grilled cheese. “I didn't. But everybody deserves a decent memorial.” I thought about Coach Killdare, and how I was learning positive things about him now that he was gone. “Who knows? Maybe I misjudged Mike in life.”

“I don't think so,” Laura disagreed. “But you're right about the decent memorial thing.” She accepted the newspaper from Ryan and skimmed my work, noting, “These
are
good stories, Millie.” Then she frowned. “Wow . . . You actually put in here about your dad getting questioned again, and him fighting with Mike.”

“I had no choice.” I looked across the cafeteria to the table where Chase usually sat alone, nose in a textbook. He was missing in action, though, and I returned my attention to my friends. “
Somebody
spilled the beans. The best I could do was tell my dad's side of the story, about how Mike was fine when Dad left the school.” I dropped my sandwich, giving up on lunch. “Besides, writing the article is already a pretty big conflict of interest for me. If this was a real paper—and Mr. Sokowski was a real publisher, instead of a clueless, overwhelmed new teacher—I'd never be allowed to write anything. If I want to keep covering the murders, I have to report the facts. Otherwise Viv will take over.”

Laura gave a small shudder. “I can't believe you found
two
bodies. Or that two people have been murdered here.”

“What were you doing in the locker room, anyhow?” Ryan asked. “
That's
not exactly clear.”

I pushed away my tray. “Chase and I were snooping around. We had this idea that Mike was the killer. Until, of course, I found him in the tub . . .”

Dead of “blunt force trauma.”
That was the official cause of death. I'd used it in my article.

Even though I didn't say that out loud, Laura, Ryan, and I got quiet. Then Laura said softly, “Maybe you and Chase aren't such a great combination, after all. It seems like murder follows you two around.”

She was joking, in a bleak way, but to me, it was the understatement of the century.

Chase and I were a terrible combination. Worse than “four to the left, four to the right, four to the left.”

I guess we
definitely
won't be going to that dance—if they even hold it.

I was yet again mentally writing off Chase Albright, but I found myself glancing once more toward where he usually sat.

I didn't really expect him to be there, but apparently he'd come into the caf at some point and claimed his spot.

Only this time, he wasn't alone.

In fact, he was—once again—deep in conversation with none other than Vivienne Fitch, who'd pulled up a seat next to his.
Very
next to his. As I watched, Chase handed her a napkin, which she used to dab under her expertly lined eyes, like she was crying—which I doubted. I mean, she and Mike had spent a lot of time together, but I was pretty sure she'd regarded him more as a multifunctioning tool—a human Swiss Army knife—than a friend. Plus Viv was . . . Viv. The unfettered-by-emotion “psychopath next door.”

Was it possible that Mike had been about to spill that secret she'd warned him never to share, and she'd silenced him, permanently?

I kept staring at Chase and Vivienne, who managed to pull herself together—probably because she'd never fallen apart. Then Viv stood up, smiling in a way that was no doubt meant to be “brave.” And while I was no expert lip reader, I was pretty sure I saw Chase tell her, as she backed away, “Sure. See you then.”

“Henry Killdare entertains as Cap'n Andy in Pineville High's spring musical,
Show Boat.”

“Wow,” I muttered, peering more closely at an image of the man I would come to know as Hollerin' Hank, who was belting it out in a different way on the stage of an Ohio high school, back in the 1980s. “Who knew?”

Then I slammed shut the yearbook that Chase had swiped from Mr. Killdare's place, tossing it onto the coffee table with some others. I was culling each one for clues to the mysterious BeeBee—just in case she was some long-lost love—but so far, the old annuals had proven about as useful as I'd predicted. Although there was one vaguely threatening inscription, which read, “Watch your back, S.O.B.!!” I was almost positive it was a joke, though, because the author had added, “You are RAD TO THE MAX!” I wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but it was followed by a smiley face, which basically negated any ominous overtones.

“Crud,” I grumbled, sinking lower on the couch—and checking the clock on our ancient DVD player.

Nearly seven. The dance is probably starting.

Is that what Viv asked Chase about, in the caf?

I could easily imagine Viv finessing
that
date—actually using Mike's murder to get the guy she
really
wanted. “
I'm chair of the dance committee, and I
have
to go, Chase. But it'll be so hard to face it alone. I don't suppose you'd do me a favor . . .
”

“Millie, are you okay?” Ms. Parkins came into the living room, seeming worried by my posture and, no doubt, the look on my face. “Maybe it's not such a good idea, all of us eating dinner together.” Gesturing toward the door, she offered, “I can leave. Call your father and tell him something came up.”

“No, it's okay,” I promised her, although I wasn't exactly sure how I felt about all of us sitting around the table like some old sitcom family. I mean, my dad was just getting takeout Thai, so it wasn't like Ms. Parkins was cooking or anything, but even just hearing her rooting around in the kitchen, getting out plates and stuff like she belonged in our house . . . It
was
kind of bothering me. And things were still awkward between us, too. But I'd promised, when I'd called her and apologized for melting down at the library, that I wouldn't be a selfish baby anymore, and I added, “It's not you, or dinner. I'm just having a bad week.”

Part of me really wanted to tell Ms. Parkins that I was disappointed—way, way too confusingly disappointed—about missing a stupid school dance, which was going to be somewhat depressing, anyhow, in spite of its island theme, because it would feature a last-minute tribute to Mike Price and Coach Killdare. But I couldn't quite do that. Couldn't quite let her back into my life to that degree.

“I'm just going up to my room,” I finally said, standing up and moving toward the stairs. “And don't worry about calling me for dinner. I've got some stuff to do, and I'll eat later.” I forced a smile. “You guys have a nice time.”

Somebody ought to have an actual date tonight.

Ms. Parkins seemed to misunderstand, though, and she held out her hands, like she was going to physically stop me. “No, please, Millie . . . We'd like you to eat with us!”

Oh, good grief. Would we never communicate the way we used to?

Had I
really
lost my librarian—by inviting her into my home?

Because Ms. Parkins's cheerful, floral appliqué sweater, which seemed so right at the library, seemed equally out of place in my and Dad's musty house, which—let's face it—hadn't received a lot of love since Mom's death. And I couldn't think of the right thing to say to her. I just knew that, right then, as she watched me with an unfamiliar pleading look in her eyes, I was desperate to retreat.

“I'm seriously fine for now,” I promised. “Not really hungry.”

Then I bolted up the stairs before she could say anything else.

I hardly even noticed, as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, that the doorbell rang. Or if I did notice, I guess I just assumed that my dad was overburdened with chicken satay and curry and couldn't turn the knob.

Needless to say, I was incredibly surprised when Ms. Parkins knocked softly on my bedroom door, then opened it and whispered uncertainly, “Millie . . . Chase Albright is here. And he says you two have . . . a date?”

“Why did you tell him to wait?” I demanded after Ms. Parkins came into my room and closed the door, no doubt so Chase wouldn't hear me freaking out. For some reason, although I had no intention of going to the fall formal with a self-interested betrayer of fathers, I was rooting through my closet like a maniac, almost like I was searching for something to wear. “I can't stand him! I'm not going anywhere with him! He threw Dad under the bus! Then drove the bus over him—backed it up, and squashed him again!”

“Millie. Millie.” A pair of surprisingly firm hands clasped my shoulders. “Take a deep breath.”

“I am breathing!” I insisted, tossing aside my “Whooo Loves You?” owl shirt, which Laura should've ditched when she'd gone through my closet. Why hadn't she done that, over my objections? What kind of friend was she? “I am breathing
too
deeply!” I added. “Hyperventilating! How did he have the nerve to show up here?”

“Millie!”
Ms. Parkins gave me a sharp verbal slap, enough that I froze in place, clutching an empty hanger. Then she spun me slowly until I was facing her. “Just relax,” she urged in a soothing voice. “This is going to be okay. In fact, I'm not sure what's wrong.”

“I'm not sure, either,” I admitted, shoulders suddenly slumping. I kicked at my purple shag rug. “I'm really not.”

“Why . . . why don't you try to explain?” she suggested, releasing me. “Just try.”

“It's just . . .” The stuff I wanted to say was hard to share, and I hesitated. Then I raised my face again and confessed, “I don't know why I like a guy who implicated my father in a murder, and who has basically declared that he has no interest in me, except as a ‘pal'—and who has a girlfriend, to boot. A no doubt beautiful, perfect girl, who I'm sure doesn't aspire to be dubbed sir for consuming a sixty-ounce steak.”

Ms. Parkins probably didn't understand that last part, but she got the gist of what I was trying to say, and asked quietly, “Do you want to know what I think, Millie? And I'll understand if you don't.”