Free Witch Ball by Adele Elliott Page B

punished.
    Eric had talked so much about The Underground Railroad. That, too, was a million years ago in my perception. In those days, some people helped the runaway slaves. Some people hunted the humans who were trying to escape. I wonder which side I would have been on.

 
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    P eople who had probably never met Coach Russell demanded that the Columbus Police solve his murder, and now. They were afraid to go out at night. The usually calm and uninvolved citizens transformed into a rabble calling for justice. It was not clear toward whom this justice was to be directed, because evidently there were no actual suspects. 
    Many people changed their patterns. Fewer parents allowed their children to play on the summer baseball teams. Concerts at the Riverwalk were poorly attended.
    No one was at all concerned about my aunt and her friends being the victims of gang violence. That was small potatoes compared to murder.
    Interestingly enough, those closest to the coach remained mostly silent. Current and former members of the track team had little important information to contribute. 
    Sue Ellen and the ubiquitous Roxanne found a lot to say, however. Their comments were confined to the coach's sterling character, his great love for young people, and his twenty years in education. They did not appear to be giving the police much pressure about solving the crime. In interviews they appeared less outraged than strangers did.
    One evening, after dinner, I asked my dad what he thought about the murder. "Do you think the murderer is long gone? Maybe he left town and will never be found."
    "Well, I don't think it was done by some random criminal. It takes a lot of anger to kill another person with your bare hands."
    I hadn't thought of that. In my mind, criminals were strangers.
    "Yes, but everyone liked the coach. Who could do that?"
    "Gertrude, I have no idea. Our lives are filled with irritation and annoyance. Road rage, jealousy, the resentment of just being trapped in a bad job, or a bad marriage, all of these sometimes make us furious." He took a drag from his cigarette and stared down at his slippers. "But, few people have enough fury inside them to do something so violent." He smiled at me and added, "No matter how much we are tempted."
    I thought about Aunt Fleur telling me that mysteries have layers. There must be more to the story than I, or anyone, could piece together from the news.
    Mom came into the room with a tumbler filled with red wine. The glow from Dad's reading lamp reflected in the glass. It almost looked as if the wine was illuminated from within, flickering on and off when she moved. I knew she had been drinking during dinner. She must not have stopped.
    "What I think," continued Dad, "is that not only did the murderer kn ow Coach Russell, but that someone, or even several people know more than they are telling. The police are not as bumbling as you might think, but they need leads, help. For some reason no one wants to talk to the police."
    Mom listened quietly. "Everyone has secrets," she said.

 
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    S ince her accident , I had been spending more time with Aunt Fleur. OK, I knew that technically she was a man, but to me she will always be a woman. I considered her to be wise.
    "Aunt Fleur, do you think that everyone has secrets?"
    "What on Earth makes you ask such a question?" She had returned to making her Accessorines. The table was once again strewn with bits of fabric and sequins. She held a strand of purple thread between her red lips, narrowing her eyes, straining to focus on the tiny needle she was threading.
    "My mom said that everyone has secrets. I got the feeling that she was talking about something specific."
    "That is most likely true." She tossed a ball of white stuffing to Jimmy-James. He batted it back to her with a lazy, uninterested motion. She had not let him outside since Michael-Ray was killed. I think he was beginning to