Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page B

wanted the chance to summarize the eulogy my father had delivered, because while he hadn’t gone first, he’d eventually said some pretty nice stuff about Mr. Killdare and had even gotten a little misty—if only over a victory they’d shared in 2010.
    But Viv crossed her arms, challenging me. “Where’s your notebook? Huh?”
    Of course, I should’ve brought a pad and pen, but I pointed to my head. “I have more up here, saved away, than you can ever dream of having in your precious notebook.”
    â€œAll you’ve got up there is a tangled rats’ nest,” Viv sniped.
    Ignoring her, I appealed to Mr. Woolsey on the grounds that I’d just rescued him, and he was, if only technically, in charge of the school. “Please, Mr. Woolsey. I am
finally
trying to do something academic here—trying to ‘achieve my potential,’ as defined by the American education establishment—the way you’re always telling me to do,” I reminded him. “Please . . . Tell Viv that I’m on the murder story now. That, at the very least, I’m covering the service.”
    Bertram Woolsey looked like he might pee his suit pants to be put on the spot like that, but then a light seemed to dawn in his eyes, and to my utter shock, he turned to Viv and said, “I believe Millicent is correct, Vivienne. Let her cover the service.” He addressed both of us. “And then, honestly, I think the
Gazette
will have said enough.”
    â€œI’ll decide when we’ve said enough,” Viv snapped. She narrowed her eyes at me. “And this had better be one heck of an article, Ostermeyer. I want every detail you’ve got ‘in your head’ on paper. And believe me—I’ll know if you mess up, because
I
actually took notes.”
    Then she stalked away, headed down the path toward school, and I turned to thank Mr. Woolsey for his support. But he was gone, too, walking toward my father, who was talking to a couple I didn’t recognize, so I just stood there for a moment, reveling in my small victory. Only gradually did it dawn on me that Mr. Woolsey had no doubt backed me up because he was sure I’d
fail.
Maybe even blow off the whole thing.
    He really wants this murder swept under the rug. And who better to screw it up than Millie Ostermeyer, who might read Plato, but who skips classes and eschews all organized activities?
    â€œYou are wrong this time, Bertram B. Woolsey,” I grumbled. “So wrong . . .”
    â€œAre you
talking to yourself?
”
    At the sound of a familiar—but totally unexpected—voice, I turned slowly, refusing to be embarrassed. But I couldn’t hide my surprise when the person who’d come up behind me suggested, “Do you want to walk back to school together?”
    I didn’t answer Chase right away. Instead, I blinked at him about five times, considering that offer. Then I blurted out something that had been bugging me for most of the memorial service, thinking I was most likely to get an honest answer if I caught him off-guard.
    â€œSo,” I inquired, point-blank. “What the heck did you do to get locked up in a boarding school for
criminals?
”

Chapter 30
    â€œI knew you’d figured it out, as soon as Mrs. Blackmoor stepped up to speak,” Chase said, opening his umbrella and holding it over both of us. The rain had started again, and I’d left my umbrella back at the service. It was inappropriately cheerful, covered with yellow smiley faces and the admonition “Rain, Rain, Go Away” in a curly font, so I’d stashed it behind a headstone and promptly forgotten it. “I saw you looking between the two of us, the wheels turning in your head,” Chase added. “I knew you got it.”
    He sounded grim, even for a guy who’d just been at a funeral. But he smelled FANTASTIC jammed in next to me under that umbrella.
    Enough,