I try the door on the team’s locker room and, since the handle turns, I take it as an invitation.
Inside the blue-and-gold shrine to the Abominables are the expected bank of lockers, each displaying a player’s last name, but also a surprising number of amenities. A huge freezer filled with bagged blocks of ice and three stainless-steel whirlpools. Looks like they could be filled with either hot water or ice-bath therapies, based on the piping. I don’t have a great deal of first-hand sporting experience, but I’m a walking Wikipedia of film and television. I’ve seen plenty of players forced to soak their aching joints in tubs filled with ice. I’m sure it helps, but it’s definitely one more reason I have no interest in being a team player.
Each of the blue metal lockers is secured with a combination lock.
Except Harper’s.
His lock is missing.
Noted.
A huge malodorous canvas cart with a metal frame and industrial-size wheels is solidly packed with used terrycloth towels and equally abused jerseys. I can’t imagine the deputies took the time to stuff the dirty laundry down tight. That means that Erick’s bloody jersey was right on top.
Also noted.
Moving on.
Other than the surprising cleanliness of the showers and the relatively mild stench in the rest of the locker room, there is nothing else to report.
As I step out of the changing room, the ominous silence is hard to miss.
Uh oh. Sounds like the Zamboni driver has finished, and without the guiding hum of the engine to pinpoint his location, my mind spins in search of a cover story as I return from whence I came.
One thing my vast media knowledge has taught me is that looking guilty and running are two of the worst possible ideas.
My casual stroll toward the back door is expectedly interrupted.
“Hey, what are you doing in here? The rink doesn’t open until six.”
“Oh, there you are. I heard the machine, and then I got all turned around. My little Billy is crazy about ice-skating, and one of the other moms told me this is the place to get lessons. Is there a sign-up sheet or a list of available coaches?”
Luckily, my ditzy mom routine works like a charm.
“Look, lady, I’m sure your little Billy is going to be the next Michelle Kwan. The rink opens at six. Students and coaches will be here at six.”
How convenient that this crabby old cuss is more concerned with making me feel stupid than determining my true purpose.
“Thank you so much! I will absolutely come back at six and see if I can get Billy signed up. Sure do appreciate the information. Have a wonderful day.”
He grumbles under his breath as he turns toward the locker rooms.
Heading to the back door, I pause to inspect the lock.
One of my foster brothers taught me more than any girl should know about picking locks, and this one isn’t particularly difficult. However, the person who forced their way into the arena didn’t bother using a lock pick and tension wrench. The strike plate shows clear signs of forced entry. Seems like something even Paulson would’ve noticed.
I cannot wait to get my hands on those reports.
Back at amateur sleuth headquarters, Ghost-ma is swirling frantically around the apartment. She’s pushed the rolling corkboard we affectionately call the murder wall into the middle of the room and she’s had the audacity to make a card for Erick.
“Myrtle Isadora Johnson Linder Duncan Willamet Rogers! How dare you accuse my boyfriend of murder!”
“Listen, dear, you’re the one who taught me how the murder wall works. For now, he’s a suspect. He absolutely has a connection to the victim. It’s your job to find the actual killer and clear Erick’s name. My job is to put the cards on the board.”
“Oh brother.” I stomp into the closet, peel off my wonderful comfy clothes, and strap in to the wardrobe of ace archaeology student, Darcy Brown.
“You really are becoming an expert with wigs, Mitzy. You got that thing in place and securely fastened with bobby pins before I even had a chance to offer suggestions.”
Her praise brings a smile to my face. “I had an excellent teacher.”
She presses her hand to her bounteous bosom and a little tear sparkles in the corner of her eye.
“Don’t you dare start crying, Grams. You and Pyewacket hold the fort while I go shake down some community college students.” I give my wig a little tug and fluff the ends. “I promised to take Erick his dinner after school, but when I get back we’ll recap my first day. Wish me luck!”
“You won’t need it, dear. Everyone’s going to love you.”
I cross my fingers and hope that her statement results from an afterlife clairvoyant message, rather than the inclinations of a love-is-blind grandmother.
The Birch County Community College is not what I expected. The underwhelming architecture consists of rows of square buildings around a central greenbelt. However, the quantity of square buildings does not fail to impress.
Parking my Jeep in a visitor’s space, I follow the signs to the registrar. The week before Thanksgiving has taken its toll on staffing, and many of the desks in the open-plan office area stand empty. I approach one of the service counters where a forlorn student worker scrolls through her phone in an effort to stave off boredom.
“Excuse me. Hi, I’m Darcy Brown. Today’s my first day. Could you print out a schedule for me, or something? I’m an archeology student, but I think it’s part of the Anthro Department here.”
The girl’s large brown eyes roll upward to meet my gaze. She swallows and stares. Her lack of a verbal response is perplexing.
I place a hand over my mouth, look around the space, and double-check my info. “Am I in the wrong department? Classic me. First day and I’m already making an idiot of myself. Please point me toward wherever I’m supposed to go, and I’ll vanish.”
She blinks twice. “You’re starting today? Next week is Thanksgiving.”
Yikes, I’ve captured a live one. “I know, right? Leave it to me to pull up roots and transfer at the weirdest possible time. It’s totally the worst.”
Something I said sparks her interest, and it appears I’ll finally get the help I’m seeking. She leans toward me and lowers her voice. “I’m supposed to send people over to the kiosk, to print out their own schedules. But that stupid thing is always on the blink. I’ll print one for you, real quick.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard and, as the printer springs to life behind her, she finds even more words. “Oh, the anthropology department is in the science building, straight across the quad from us, and to your left two buildings. Do you want to buy your books before class? Some people like to buy them and try to impress the professors, and some people wait until after they get the syllabus. Do you know what you wanna do?”
“I have no idea. Like, I don’t even know if I’ll stay in this advanced class, or this town. I mean, my grades are good, but who’s ever heard of Birch County?”
Her initial facial expression indicates I’ve offended her, but as her eyes take in my glorious hair and designer satchel, she changes her tact. “You don’t have to tell me. This place has got to rank at the bottom of the list of best party schools, you know?”
I share one of my best fake giggles as she hands me my schedule.