Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page A

mutt alone?” Laura begged as I tugged a pair of wonderfully droopy ears. “Please? Because if I get arrested, I’m pretty sure I get kicked out of Key Club.”
    â€œOh, fine.” I again swept the light around the kitchen, which was surprisingly tidy for a bachelor’s place. In fact, it was almost
un-bachelor-y.
I held the beam on a wall clock.
A guy like Mr. Killdare—a blustery, nonwhimsical football coach—bought a clock shaped like a chicken? Really?
Then I continued to move the light around the room, noting a matching poultry-themed key holder by the door, with all but one peg filled, as if Mr. Killdare had been organized, in spite of his sloppy appearance. And finally . . .
    Jackpot.
Well, maybe.
    â€œYou check the refrigerator,” I suggested, moving to the kitchen table, which was covered with envelopes, magazines, and the freebie shopper paper that nobody wanted but everybody got anyway, twice a week.
    All at once, looking at that pile, I realized that something seemed . . . off.
    I walked by Mr. Killdare’s house all the time on my way to the theater, and I hadn’t noticed mail piling up on his porch while he’d been missing. And he apparently got a ton of stuff, including big items, like
Sports Illustrated
and . . . I shuffled through the magazines.
Ugh.
Something called
XXtreme Sports,
which featured a woman in a football jersey that didn’t exactly fit her right. Meaning it was about seven sizes too small.
    Trying to pretend I hadn’t seen that, I looked down at Chumley, who was staring up at me expectantly and wagging his tail, like he hoped for a snack. But he obviously wasn’t starving, even two weeks after Mr. Killdare’s death. Nor was the floor covered in pee and poop.
    What’s not adding up here?
    I was starting to think I might be onto something important when Laura broke my concentration with an inane observation that really made me wish I’d come alone. “Hey, it looks like Mr. Killdare ate a lot of Buffalo wings—and pickles. He’s got kosher dill and two jars of sweet gherkins.”
    I turned to find Laura bathed in the dim glow of the refrigerator. “I don’t know if the gherkins are really crucial.”
    â€œYou’re the one who told me to check the fridge.” She closed the door, adding, “There’s a picture of Mr. Killdare here, too. Under a magnet advertising Willie’s Wing Hut.”
    I shone the flashlight across the room and saw Coach Killdare scowling at me, as if he wasn’t exactly enjoying his time—apparently alone—in a place that looked like Florida. Sunny and beachy. Or maybe it was the palm trees on his shirt that made me think the setting was tropical. “I don’t really see it as a clue,” I said. “No more than the pickles.”
    Laura crossed her arms defensively. “Well, I don’t see you doing any stellar detecting!”
    â€œActually, I was thinking about how Mr. Killdare’s house is clean and the dog is fed.” She gave me a dubious look, so I reached for some envelopes. “I’m checking the mail, too.”
    Training the light on a bunch of return addresses, I read a few.
    Doctor’s office. Hospital. Doctor’s office.
    â€œJeez, for a guy who was always yelling at me about ‘developing some muscle tone,’ Mr. Killdare went to the doctor a lot,” I mused. For the first time, I became aware of the paradox—or hypocrisy—of a gluttonous coach. “I wonder if
he
could’ve run a lap!”
    â€œMillie . . . maybe that really is important.” Laura came over to the table and picked up an envelope with the return address “Cavenaugh-Beecham Clinic.” “Maybe he was sick.” I saw, even in the dark, that she had an idea brewing. “Maybe he knew he was dying and killed himself—like Hemingway. He
was
a ‘man’s man,’ like