“I was walking to my car and heard a noise behind me,” the crying woman was repeating. “It was over so quick. Just thump-thump and when I looked over, there he was, on the ground like a p-p-pancake.”
The crowd made a collective ew sound and shuffled back another step.
“Did she say pancake?” someone behind me whispered.
“I wish she’d stop saying thump-thump,” someone else whispered back. “It’s starting to give me the heebie-jeebies.”
Sirens started up in the distance, and the chief got to work inspecting the scene.
“Can you describe the car that hit him, ma’am?” I heard him ask.
The woman squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists in concentration. “It was blue. Dark blue. Or black. Or silver. Or maybe white. I’m not sure what color it was. Kind of square in the front. Or maybe more oval-shaped.” Her eyes popped open wide. “The headlights were circles. I’m sure of it.”
Round headlights? I wrote on my pad. BMW? VW Beetle? Mercedes? Something vintage—Mustang or Volvo?
“And could you see who was driving it?”
She shook her head. “By the time I heard the thumps and looked over, it was speeding away.”
“Think hard, now. Did you happen to catch a look at the license plate?”
“No, sir. It was dark.”
He sighed. “Okay. Thank you for your statement. We’ll be in touch if we need more from you.”
I stopped scribbling in my pad, my eyes bugged out. That was the whole statement? He was done? But he hadn’t asked anything at all. I questioned witnesses harder than that about simple misdemeanor assaults. This wasn’t a fistfight; this was a dead man at the most crowded Parkwood event of the year. Was it an accident, or was it purposeful? If it was the latter, we could all be in danger. His family would want answers. The community would want answers. I wanted answers, and we deserved them.
I watched—hoping he was simply done for now and would be calling her in later for a lengthier questioning—as he dismissed the witness and went back to the body. The sirens got louder and then stopped. A police cruiser rolled up next to Chief Henderson’s car and an officer spilled out.
“Ambulance is on its way,” the officer said. “It got caught up outside the Hibiscus. Someone with chest pains.”
Probably too many giblets in a 24-hour period, I thought, feeling a little heartburny myself. My grandma always said too much of a good thing was a bad thing.
Chief Henderson crouched next to the coach’s body. “Tell ’em not to hurry,” he said. “This one’s not going anywhere.” He gestured at us haphazardly. “You’re on crowd control.”
The officer gazed at us, and I was reminded that I’d already seen him earlier that day, directing traffic. I was pretty sure his nametag had said his name was Hopkins. He’d had no statement to share about the giblets gravy. Other than irritation at being asked, that is.
He walked toward us, waving his arms around similarly to how he’d been waving them while directing traffic. “Okay, folks, you’ve seen all there is to see here. You should head on home now.”
There was a bit of grumbling, until someone said, “Wonder if Esther’s got any gravy left?” And then the grumbling turned into a more positive sound as several people headed off for the Hibiscus.
I stayed rooted in my spot, watching as River Fork school buses rumbled to life in the upper lot and then slowly rolled away. The fact that the coach was down here while his players—and their buses—were up there only made things more curious. What was Coach Farley doing down here, anyway? This lot was for stragglers. Had he been late to the game?
“Did they see who did it?” Evangeline had sidled up next to me and was looking down at the coach with a pained expression.
“I don’t think so.” I scanned what was left of the dissipating crowd, an uneasy feeling creeping over me. Most everyone was leaving, except for Wickham Birkland, who looked sweaty and disapproving as he gazed at the action around the coach’s body.
Chief Henderson called to the officer, tearing my attention back to the scene. “You got an evidence bag in your car?”
The officer jogged to the chief, crouched beside him over the body, then stood up and jogged to his cruiser. I tried not to notice that he was a really good jogger. Trace was not a good jogger. He was all flailing arms and visual pain. Trace was more of a good walking-through-the-shopping-district-er. And why was I thinking of Trace all of a sudden?
There’s a dead man here, Hollis. Get your head in the game.
I tore my eyes away from the officer and refocused on the crime scene, trying to take in every detail. Loose pompon strands, bits of trash blown up against the curb, a wadded and discarded take out menu from Mister Wok’s. Aside from the coach, it was a standard, ordinary high school football stadium parking lot.
The officer came back from the cruiser with a handful of evidence bags and some latex gloves. The chief snapped on the gloves and opened a bag. I watched as he leaned over and carefully plucked something out of the coach’s hand. He held it up and examined it in better light before dropping it into the bag, which he sealed shut.
It was a hood ornament.
A Mercedes hood ornament.
I only knew of one Parkwoodian who drove a Mercedes. And it dawned on me that, yes, I had actually seen the coach before. He’d been the one who’d hit Wickham earlier that day. The one Wickham had been following into the Hibiscus.
Esther’s voice popped into my head. That Wickham’s been looking for trouble since the day he was born, and one of these days, he’s going to actually find it. You mark my words about that.
I glanced toward the back of the crowd, but Wickham had already gone. I
