Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page A

protocol and would let family—or at least somebody
not
best known for fighting with Hollerin’ Hank—go first. Still, I tried to psychically will him to step up to the plate—until somebody finally broke that horrible, awkward silence by saying, in a calm, cool baritone, “I’d like to say a few words.”
    It probably wasn’t appropriate behavior, but it seemed like Laura couldn’t keep herself from hopping up and down. “Chase!” she kind of gasped. “Chase is going to talk!”

Chapter 28
    It wasn’t anything Chase said during his brief tribute to Coach Killdare that served as the key to unlock a big door to my puzzling, ultraprivate classmate’s past.
    No, it was something that passed between Chase and the woman I’d potentially—and, I was pretty sure, mistakenly—identified as BeeBee, as he stepped away from the grave and she stepped forward to speak, that caused a light bulb to go on over my head.
    It was just a simple gesture—a woman resting her matronly hand on a boy’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze, as if to say, “Well done, son.” But once I found out exactly who that woman was—when she gave
her
eulogy—that touch, and the way they’d locked eyes, spoke volumes.
    I fully intended to confront Chase with my suspicions—huge as they were—but first I had an even bigger fish to fry.
    â€œYou guys go on back to school,” I told Laura and Ryan after the minister officially dismissed us all. “I’ve gotta talk to Vivienne.”

Chapter 29
    Though not too many people had turned out for Mr. Killdare’s funeral, those who did were, unlike me, obviously not squeamish about sticking around a wet cemetery, chewing the fat during a break in the rain. Even Chase was talking for a change, with the woman who’d patted his shoulder, while my dad—after finally stepping up to laud his former colleague—was in politician mode, glad-handing everybody, with the exception of Detective Lohser, who hovered alone near a grave, like a ghost that had slithered up to ruin what was quickly becoming a pretty decent party. Viv, meanwhile, had Principal Woolsey cornered, interviewing him in a way that I knew was too aggressive to get results.
    Psychopath!
I thought, watching Viv jab her pen at our poor, flinching principal, practically stabbing him. Honestly, it was like I was witnessing the shower scene out of—well,
Psycho.
He’ll never talk if you threaten him!
    And, sure enough, when I got within earshot, I heard Mr. Woolsey say, hands raised to ward off the near blows, “I don’t know what more to tell you, Vivienne. When I said, in my eulogy, that he was an effective coach, that’s what I meant!”
    â€œViv, for crying out loud, leave Mr. Woolsey alone,” I urged as soon as I was close enough to intervene. “You’re scaring him!”
    Mr. Woolsey probably should’ve been offended, but—as I’d predicted—he was mainly relieved. “What can I do for you, Millicent?” he asked, eyes still darting nervously in Viv’s direction. “Hmm?” He dug into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Do you need a pass to return to class?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    I actually had plenty of passes, some presigned “Bertram B. Woolsey” in a distinctive florid script, having “borrowed” a pad full of them when I’d been in his office for a halfhearted lecture about missing French
trois
the previous year.
    â€œMillie, what do you want?” Viv snapped while Mr. Woolsey continued to pat himself down. “I’m trying to work here.”
    â€œThat’s what I wanted to talk about, Viv,” I said. “I want you to back off this story, because I
did
find the body, and I’m fully capable of covering the murder—starting with an article about this service. That’s why I’m here.”
    I really