Read Online 2 Death Makes the Cut by Janice Hamrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Hamrick
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say it?”
“What do you want?” I asked her, too disturbed to go into a conversation about the physical appearance of a homicide detective who thought my dead friend was a drug dealer.
She took the hint. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. A bunch of us are going out tonight. We’re meeting over at the Dog and Duck for some beers. Sherman will be there,” she added.
I must have looked at her blankly, because she went on. “You remember. The cute guy I was telling you about. Look, I can tell this hasn’t been a good day, but honestly, you don’t want to go home by yourself right now, do you?”
I didn’t. But I also wasn’t interested in meeting some new guy. For one thing, regardless of her opinion, I had not broken up with Alan. I tried to ignore the aggravating little voice that added … yet.
It was as though she could read my mind, because she said in a gentler tone, “Come on. Just come down there for one beer. It would do you good. You won’t even have to talk to Sherman if you don’t want to. Just get away from all this.”
I finally agreed, mostly because she was right. I didn’t want to go home alone just now. Then I remembered McKenzie Mills’s little problem. “Shoot, I need to take care of something first.”
She pulled out her iPhone and glanced at the time. “Well, hurry it up. We’re meeting at six. You need any help?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll save you a seat, then.”
I watched her go, a slim, elegant figure who somehow always knew when I needed a lift, even when we hadn’t talked. I couldn’t remember the last time she had shown up when she couldn’t reach me on the phone, but here she was. I pulled my five-year-old flip phone from my pocket and unmuted the ringer, then squared my shoulders and headed for the theater.
Inside Building A the cheerleaders were practicing in the long, wide hall that separated the gymnasium and cafeteria on one side from the theater, orchestra, and choir rooms on the other. Someone had propped open the door to the gym to let some of the air conditioning stream out into the hall. The squeak of tennis shoes on lacquered wood and the shouts of the volleyball team told of a practice going on inside. I dodged around a line of jumping girls and pulled open the doors of the theater.
Inside, all was cool, dark, and quiet after the bright activity of the hallway, and my eyes were slow to adjust to the dim light. Gradually, I began to see what looked exactly like an old-time movie theater, complete with numbered maroon plush seats, red-carpeted aisles, and faded velvet curtains pulled back to reveal a partially completed set. At center stage, a group of girls gathered around Roland Wilding, whose tousled hair gleamed like a blurred halo under the spotlights. Next to them a group of boys was arranging an odd collection of chairs and boxes. The sound of a handsaw competed with an electric drill from somewhere offstage.
I scanned the area for Nancy and had almost decided that she must be in her office when I spotted her sitting in the third row, off to the right. Beside her sat Pat Carver, the school accountant, a tall woman in her midforties, built like a fireplug, her pinched face made memorable by unusually pale eyes magnified behind thick glasses. Pat was in charge of all booster club funds, which meant that no club in the school could spend a nickel without Pat’s approval. In theory, she kept the constantly changing stream of parent volunteers from breaking any of the district rules, but in practice she used her position to curry favor and retaliate against those who offended her. She and Nancy had their heads together, whispering in the dim light, and seemed oblivious to everything around them.
I waited at the back, glancing at my watch. I didn’t want to talk with Nancy in Pat’s presence, but at that moment, Pat rose and stretched, putting hands to lower back and arching like a cat. A very large, goggle-eyed cat. I started down
“What do you want?” I asked her, too disturbed to go into a conversation about the physical appearance of a homicide detective who thought my dead friend was a drug dealer.
She took the hint. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. A bunch of us are going out tonight. We’re meeting over at the Dog and Duck for some beers. Sherman will be there,” she added.
I must have looked at her blankly, because she went on. “You remember. The cute guy I was telling you about. Look, I can tell this hasn’t been a good day, but honestly, you don’t want to go home by yourself right now, do you?”
I didn’t. But I also wasn’t interested in meeting some new guy. For one thing, regardless of her opinion, I had not broken up with Alan. I tried to ignore the aggravating little voice that added … yet.
It was as though she could read my mind, because she said in a gentler tone, “Come on. Just come down there for one beer. It would do you good. You won’t even have to talk to Sherman if you don’t want to. Just get away from all this.”
I finally agreed, mostly because she was right. I didn’t want to go home alone just now. Then I remembered McKenzie Mills’s little problem. “Shoot, I need to take care of something first.”
She pulled out her iPhone and glanced at the time. “Well, hurry it up. We’re meeting at six. You need any help?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll save you a seat, then.”
I watched her go, a slim, elegant figure who somehow always knew when I needed a lift, even when we hadn’t talked. I couldn’t remember the last time she had shown up when she couldn’t reach me on the phone, but here she was. I pulled my five-year-old flip phone from my pocket and unmuted the ringer, then squared my shoulders and headed for the theater.
Inside Building A the cheerleaders were practicing in the long, wide hall that separated the gymnasium and cafeteria on one side from the theater, orchestra, and choir rooms on the other. Someone had propped open the door to the gym to let some of the air conditioning stream out into the hall. The squeak of tennis shoes on lacquered wood and the shouts of the volleyball team told of a practice going on inside. I dodged around a line of jumping girls and pulled open the doors of the theater.
Inside, all was cool, dark, and quiet after the bright activity of the hallway, and my eyes were slow to adjust to the dim light. Gradually, I began to see what looked exactly like an old-time movie theater, complete with numbered maroon plush seats, red-carpeted aisles, and faded velvet curtains pulled back to reveal a partially completed set. At center stage, a group of girls gathered around Roland Wilding, whose tousled hair gleamed like a blurred halo under the spotlights. Next to them a group of boys was arranging an odd collection of chairs and boxes. The sound of a handsaw competed with an electric drill from somewhere offstage.
I scanned the area for Nancy and had almost decided that she must be in her office when I spotted her sitting in the third row, off to the right. Beside her sat Pat Carver, the school accountant, a tall woman in her midforties, built like a fireplug, her pinched face made memorable by unusually pale eyes magnified behind thick glasses. Pat was in charge of all booster club funds, which meant that no club in the school could spend a nickel without Pat’s approval. In theory, she kept the constantly changing stream of parent volunteers from breaking any of the district rules, but in practice she used her position to curry favor and retaliate against those who offended her. She and Nancy had their heads together, whispering in the dim light, and seemed oblivious to everything around them.
I waited at the back, glancing at my watch. I didn’t want to talk with Nancy in Pat’s presence, but at that moment, Pat rose and stretched, putting hands to lower back and arching like a cat. A very large, goggle-eyed cat. I started down
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