Free Underdead by Liz Jasper Page A

secret’s safe with me,” I assured him. “Is this place always this busy on weeknights?”
    “Only on Blue Plate Special Tuesdays. Entrees are half-off before six. Otherwise it’s dead as a doornail.”
    Before he could ask me what I was doing there, a short, athletic-looking woman in her early thirties hailed Bob from the doorway and headed toward us.
    Bob performed the introductions. “Rachel, this is Jo, our eighth-grade science teacher. Rachel used to be my assistant soccer coach, but she’s head coach over at Polytech now.” He gave her an exaggeratedly martyred look and then clapped her good-naturedly on the back. “It was a huge loss for Bayshore, but I’m not surprised someone snapped her up, she’s a great coach! We all miss her terribly.”
    Rachel’s plain face glowed from the praise but she modestly shook her head. After she and I exchanged the usual pleasantries, she pointed to her watch and said to Bob, “We should get going, the game starts in half an hour and there might be traffic.”
    “Is it that late already?” Bob quickly stacked the papers he’d been working on and stowed them in a soft canvas case. “We’re going to check out the competition,” he told me. “Silton Prep has a good soccer team this year, Bayshore will probably face them in the division finals. Wanna come?”
    God, no . “Thanks, but I’m swamped. Lab reports.” I held up my bag, glad I had thought to bring some along. “I’ll take your table, though.”
    When they left I did a quick survey of the parking lot to make sure Gavin hadn’t slipped away while I was chatting, and then settled down to do some work. I got through a scant handful of the lab reports I needed to grade that night before an eye strain headache kicked in. I really needed to go see an ophthalmologist about some glasses. Even if, as I still chose to believe, my “sun allergy” was only a temporary condition, papers waited for no man. The thought of all the finals I would have to grade once the semester ended made me decidedly queasy. I turned away from my papers with a sigh and stared out the window. Gavin was getting into his car.
    Drat it! I shoved the labs back into my bag and ran to my car, but by the time I made the light, he was gone.
    The rest of my week of stalking went much the same way—that is, badly. On the second night I tried hanging out in my parked car instead of in the coffee shop, but after a police cruiser circled the block twice, slowing each time it passed, I gave up on that plan and went back to the coffee shop. The third night, I managed to catch up with Gavin, only to lose him again after two blocks.
    The coffee shop, meanwhile, was quickly on its way to becoming a Bayshore hangout. A few days after seeing Bob there, I ran into Kendra, literally. I was rushing out a little before six, intending to get to my car before Gavin got to his, and collided with her in the doorway.
    “Kendra! Hi. Sorry I almost mowed you down there,” I said, steadying myself on a newspaper rack. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine.” She had changed from her usual teaching uniform of neatly pressed khaki pants and cotton shirt into dark sweatpants that flattered her lean physique. She probably had come straight from working out or coaching. As usual, she made me feel like the worst couch potato. “Where’s the fire?”
    Through the glass door behind her, I saw Gavin’s blue Jetta exit the parking lot. “What? Oh. I don’t think I put enough money in the meter,” I lied.
    She checked her watch. “You should be fine. You can park for free after six, you know.”
    “I know, but I’ve still got a couple minutes to six by my watch. I’d better check that meter in case the meter maids are trying to get in a few last tickets before the shift ends. You can have my table if you want.” I pointed over to where I’d been sitting, and rushed out, leaving Kendra standing a little bemusedly in my wake.
    Gavin was long gone.
    The following