Why Isn't Becky Twitchell Dead? by Zubro Mark Richard

Author:Zubro, Mark Richard [Zubro, Mark Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0312059965
Amazon: B005VDJY6M
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Published: 1991-06-14T14:00:00+00:00

Returning from the bathroom early the next morning, I let one eye open to observe the swirling snow. I breathed a prayer of thanks to the god who gives teachers vacations. I rolled close to Scott’s warmth and snuggled down to a cold winter’s doze. I awoke again at seven. Scott adjusted his tie in front of the mirror.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“What time’ll you be home?” I mumbled.

“Around eleven.” I watched him don his suit coat and overcoat. He stopped on my side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed me lightly on the forehead.

Jeff got up a few minutes after I did—around eight. We put together some clean clothes for him—a pair of Scott’s old jeans and a flannel shirt of mine. I found enough food for a sufficient breakfast. I lazed about the apartment. Jeff tried a few of the weights in Scott’s half gym, switched on the TV, wandered around restlessly through rooms. Almost shyly, he asked whether he could go out and walk around. It wasn’t far to the Michigan Avenue shops. I told him it was okay but to be back soon.

I read some of McPherson’s Battle Cry of Freedom. Around ten, I decided on a shower. After I was done, dripping wet, still toweling my hair, I heard the buzz from the doorman twenty stories below. I presumed it was Jeff.

Instead, the doorman’s voice said, “A Mr. Courtland for you, sir.”

A voice bellowed in the distance, “I’ll be up in a second.”

The doorman uttered a protest. The phone on the other end clicked off.

Doug Courtland was Scott’s best friend on the team. Scott described him as a six-foot-six chunk of first baseman. They elected him team captain and player union rep, both tributes to his popularity and shrewdness. He often tried hiding behind a “dumb hick from Arkansas” facade. They shared a rural southern background and an affinity for late-night poker on the road. It was his party we planned to attend New Year’s Eve.

Towel draped around my neck and wearing the bottom to a warm-up suit, I padded to the door to answer his ring.

He gave me this big goofy grin when he saw me. “You’re Tom, right?” He had one fist gripped on to a very red and angry Jack Frampton.

I invited them in.

“Scott’s mentioned you a few times.” Courtland filled a large portion of the entryway.

“Scott’s not home,” I said.

Frampton growled something unintelligible.

“I know he’s not home,” Courtland said. “He’s giving a talk. I saw it on the club’s press schedule.”

“Oh,” I said. I put some coffee on, stepped into the bedroom, threw on some jeans, socks, and a sweat shirt, and joined them in the kitchen. The breakfast nook where we sat overlooks Lake Michigan. I poured coffee.

Courtland said, “I got a call early this morning from this jerk.” He pointed a thumb at Frampton. “I hear you met last night. Jack is quite concerned about your relationship with my best friend. I wish Scott felt free enough to tell me about you.

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