Free Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page B

amusement was, of course, at my expense, but it served to ease some of the tension between us—tension that I couldn’t explain—and I confessed, with a quick peek over my shoulder, to make sure Viv didn’t overhear, “I’m investigating Coach Killdare’s murder for the school paper. That’s why I broke in—and why I wanted to talk with you. You must’ve known him pretty well, if you watch his dog.”
    That brief, tentative connection we’d made broke as quickly as it had formed, and he seemed to get incredibly guarded. Still, I forged ahead. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything you’ve noticed when you were with Mr. Killdare on the football field, or when you take care of Chumley?”
    He seemed confused. “Who is Chumley?”
    â€œBaxter,” I corrected myself, feeling my cheeks get warm again. “I kind of named him.”
    Chase didn’t respond—except to give me a weird look—so I added, “Seriously, is there anything you can share? Especially about a woman named BeeBee? Or Mr. Killdare’s health?”
    â€œNo.”
    The answer wasn’t exactly rude, but it was remarkably flat, leaving no room for follow-up, and so we found ourselves staring at each other as if neither one of us knew what to say in any language. Or maybe we were finally really sizing each other up, something we didn’t have time to do in the few seconds it took to transact a movie-ticket sale.
    Was it weird that neither of us was acknowledging that we had a tiny, preexisting relationship and saw each other on a fairly regular basis?
    And what was that expression on his face right then? Was he finding me lacking in more than just French vocabulary? It seemed that way, judging from how he frowned as his gaze roved over my pale, round cheeks, my bulldog nose, and my greenish eyes.
    While I . . . I was examining his straight aristocratic nose, his strong jaw, and full lower lip.
    Darn it! Focus, Millie!
    Getting ahold of myself, I suddenly remembered the football game I’d witnessed the previous fall in which Chase had stopped Coach Killdare from giving my father a bloody nose or black eye, and for some reason I said, “Tell me, at least, what you said to Coach Killdare, about a year ago, during the football game when he kicked Buzz. You grabbed his arm and stopped him from hitting my dad. Can you at least tell me
that?
”
    â€œYou want to know what I said
a year ago?
” Chase asked, his expression unreadable. “Seriously? And you honestly want to hear
everything
I know about Mr. Killdare?”
    â€œYes,” I said, thinking we were finally getting somewhere. “Yes, I do.”
    He leaned forward, looking me straight in the eye. “Okay. Here goes.”
    Then Chase Albright proceeded to unburden himself—in about three straight minutes of rapid-fire French, of which I understood not a word. It was just a big blur of
“nous”
and
“vous”
and
“voulez-s,”
and it all flew totally over my head.
    â€œDoes that help?” he asked, sitting back when he was done.
    â€œYou are an
el jerko,
” I informed him, standing up, even though dialogue time hadn’t ended. Ms. Beamish was staring at me, clearly not happy, while I could feel my cheeks getting
angry
red. “And if
you
don’t know what
that
means, it’s Spanish for ‘jerk.’”
    Then I turned on my heel—only to feel someone grab my wrist. I wheeled around, so surprised that I didn’t even pull free, but Chase quickly let go, like he realized he shouldn’t have done that. But it wasn’t so much the fact that he’d touched me—again—that sent me off balance. It was the expression on his face. The sincere apology that I could see clearly in his eyes.
    â€œJe suis très désolé,”
he said. It was still French, but somehow not rude, like before. Maybe because he