Buzz Kill Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Epilogue

  Sample Chapter from JESSICA’S GUIDE TO DATING ON THE DARK SIDE

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Beth Fantaskey

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Fantaskey, Beth.

  Buzz kill / by Beth Fantaskey.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Millie joins forces with her classmate, gorgeous but mysterious Chase Albright, to try to uncover who murdered head football coach “Hollerin’ Hank” Killdare—and why.

  ISBN 978-0-547-39310-0

  [1. Murder—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Coaches (Athletics)—Fiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F222285Buz 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013011423

  eISBN 978-0-544-30185-6

  v1.0514

  To my parents, Donald and Marjorie Fantaskey—

  and “my” librarian, Mrs. Elizabeth Maule

  “Nancy, every place you go, it seems as if mysteries just pile up one after another.”

  —The Message in the Hollow Oak,

  Nancy Drew Book 12, by Carolyn Keene

  Prologue

  Fall, Junior Year

  Head football coach “Hollerin’ Hank” Killdare was having such a massive meltdown that even from where I was standing at the Booster Club’s concession stand, I could see his trademark blue vein popping in his neck and the usual flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth.

  Well, maybe I couldn’t see the spit, but from the way demoted, one-time quarterback Mike Price—the object of the coach’s rant—kept flinching as Mr. Killdare tore into him, their noses inches apart, I was pretty sure Mike was getting a shower during the game.

  Apparently, according to the beefy, balding coach, Mike, now a lowly running back, had done something “boneheaded” and “dim-witted” that was going to cost the Honeywell Stingers “the whole bleepin’ season.”

  As the student reporter assigned to cover that particular “bleepin’” game—and daughter of Assistant Coach Jack Ostermeyer—I probably should’ve known what had just happened on the field. But the truth was, I didn’t really like sports and hadn’t been paying attention to the action, preferring to focus mainly on the book I’d brought with me—Understanding Kant: Concepts and Intuitions—and my pack of Twizzlers.

  However, even I couldn’t overlook it when Mr. Killdare abruptly wheeled around and, completely unprovoked, drew back his big foot and booted our school’s costumed mascot, Buzz the Bee, right in the stinger, launching him across the sidelines. Which was—anybody would have to admit—pretty funny. Especially when Buzz, stumbling and flailing wildly, careened toward the cheerleaders and smashed directly into my archenemy, Vivienne Fitch, sending her sprawling on her butt, so everybody got a view up her flippy little “cheer” skirt.

  That really should’ve made me laugh, but I actually kind of winced. If this ends up on YouTube, Viv is going to murder Mr. Killdare AND stomp a poor, innocent bee.

  As Viv jumped up and tried to act like she hadn’t just been publicly steamrolled by a guy in a bug suit, I tucked my book in my backpack and took out my reporter’s notebook, thinking I should at least find out what was causing Hollerin’ Hank to go nuclear—which also happened way too often in the gym classes he taught.

  This guy is nuts, I thought, echoing stuff my dad said all the time. A total whack job!

  In fact, I was pretty sure my father was thinking something along those lines right then as he approached Mr. Killdare, obviously trying to get him to cool down. My dad was rabid about football, too, but at least he didn’t literally foam at the mouth, unlike Hollerin’ Hank.

  “Come on, Hank,” I heard Dad coaxing while I edged past Principal Bertram B. Woolsey, who I thought should’ve done something more than bite his neatly manicured nails. And, pushing farther through the crowd, I heard a lot of parents and other fans muttering about why a foul-mouthed blowhard continued to be allowed to work with kids. Sentiments I knew they’d forget when the Stingers won yet another state championship trophy for our school’s already full case. “I think that’s enough, now!” Dad added. “Enough!”

  But Hollerin’ Hank wasn’t done yet. In fact, he spun around and confronted my father, actually drawing back his fist.

  I knew my dad could fight his own battles—his conflicts with Mr. Killdare were pretty much the stuff of legends. And more to the point, I was only five foot two and weighed about one hundred pounds, despite a steady diet of cheeseburgers and Little Debbie products. But without even thinking, I dropped everything and started to run to my father’s aid.

  Before I could get there, though, the new quarterback, Chase Albright, stepped in.

  Wrapping his hand around Coach Killdare’s big forearm, he stopped what had
seemed like an inevitable punch.

  The two guys stood there for a long time, Chase’s obscenely perfect, thick, dirty-blond hair riffling in the breeze, while everybody else seemed to suck in a collective nervous breath. Even the cheerleaders stopped chattering for once.

  I glanced at the sidelines and saw that Viv was clutching her shivering pompoms to her locally legendary cleavage—and glaring at Mr. Killdare like she hoped for a fight. One that would result in the coach getting his butt kicked to the grass. I also caught a glimpse of my French teacher, Mademoiselle Lois Beamish, who was pressing her hands to her also large, but somehow not as attractive, chest, as though she was terrified for Chase, her prize student. And I once again thought, Ugh. She has a crush on him!

  Then I returned my attention to Chase, who was saying something to Coach Killdare—although so quietly that I couldn’t hear a word. But whatever he uttered . . . It made Mr. Killdare’s face fade from crimson to pink, and his hands fall to his sides.

  I stared at Chase—a mysterious, reportedly uber-rich kid who’d transferred from some pricey “academy” that nobody seemed quite able to pinpoint—wondering, What are you? A crazy-coach whisperer?

  Honestly, it seemed possible, because the next thing I knew, Hollerin’ Hank pulled free of Chase and addressed Mike in a brusque, but civilized, tone. “Price—you’re benched.” Then, as Mike sat down to sulk, Mr. Killdare and my dad exchanged some gruff coaching-type words and the game got underway again, as if nothing had happened.

  Retrieving my stuff from the ground—and brushing a footprint off my notebook—I climbed into the bleachers, trying to pay more attention, so I’d at least have something for the Honeywell High Gazette. But my mind kept wandering, and as the fourth quarter drew to a close, I found myself doodling a picture of the heavyset, universally despised coach with a knife in his chest and x’s for eyes, next to the word “Inevitable?” And just to pass the time, I inked a list of suspects, if the murder ever really did happen.

  Dad (It’s true!! Wants that head coach glory!)

  Mike Price—disgraced football hero, probably losing chance for scholarship

  Mike’s parents—soon paying $$$ for college for meathead son!

  I glanced again at the sidelines, where Viv had resumed hopping around with a scary-false smile on her plastic face, and added her, too.

  V.F.—humiliated in bee incident + natural born killer

  Then I tapped my pen against my chin, recalling a kid who’d recently been taken away in an ambulance during one of Mr. Killdare’s controversial “two-a-day” football practices, and who still wasn’t back in school. Rumor was, Roy Boyles had shriveled in the hot afternoon sun and might be a vegetable—or worse. I set pen to paper, writing “Roy’s family?” along with

  Principal Woolsey—stuck with nutcase on staff (☹ tenure!)

  Anyone who’s ever met Coach, exc. his mother (maybe)

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most narrow, practical list.

  Then I also sketched a tall guy in a football uniform, with a question mark on his jersey, along with the query

  SERIOUSLY—WHO IS CHASE?

  I was a decent reporter when I put my mind to it, and I’d read about fifteen classic Nancy Drew books with my mom, back when I was nine, so I considered myself pretty well equipped to solve mysteries. But as I watched the enigmatic guy who was rumored to be either in the witness protection program, a teen CIA agent, or royalty slumming it to learn the ways of commoners—seriously, folks?—I had a feeling I’d never get that question answered.

  Bending my head again, I retraced the question mark on Chase’s jersey, darkening it, because he might not have been—as I guessed—anything more than a phenomenally snobby kid who thought he was way too good for our school, but Chase Albright definitely seemed to know how to keep his secrets.

  Chapter 1

  There were probably a million things we seniors could’ve—or should’ve—done on the rainy day in early September when nobody showed up to teach our first-period gym class. Such as, say, choose somebody to lead calisthenics while we waited for a real teacher. Or organize some kind of game, with a ball.

  But as the minutes ticked on with no sign of Coach Hollerin’ Hank Killdare or a substitute, most of us wandered back to the locker rooms, got our stuff, then sat down on the mats usually used for crunches and proceeded to text, study, or—in my case—read Montaigne’s Collected Essays.

  Only my best friend, Laura Bugbee, seemed unhappy about what most of us accepted as a stroke of good luck. I mean, I was okay with not running laps for one day. But Laura’s conscience, at least, couldn’t rest.

  “Millie . . . Don’t you think we ought to tell somebody that Mr. Killdare didn’t show up?” she fretted. “Like Principal Woolsey? Maybe Coach had a heart attack in his office!” She looked toward the guys’ locker room with genuine concern in her brown eyes. “Maybe he’s dying in there. He looks like he has high blood pressure!”

  Laura was probably right about Coach Killdare’s constricted veins, especially since his one positive claim to fame—off the football field—was consuming, in one sitting, a sixty-ounce porterhouse at the local Sir Loin’s Steakhouse—a feat I aspired to myself someday. But my friend’s imagination was definitely running away with her.

  “Think about it, Laura,” I said, shutting my book reluctantly, because I’d been very intrigued by Montaigne’s arguments against formal education. “If Mr. Killdare was dead or dying in his office, don’t you think the guys would’ve noticed when they changed? I mean, I doubt the boys’ locker room is a model of order or hygiene, but I don’t think somebody could die in there without attracting some attention.”

  Laura seemed somewhat reassured, but she still scrunched up her eyebrows, scanning the gym through her wire rims. “Maybe. But we could ask one of the guys to check. Just to be safe.” She frowned. “I wish Ryan was in this class. He’d do it.”

  She was referring to our friend Ryan Ronin, who was a nice guy. However, Ryan was also a football player and complained endlessly about how Hollerin’ Hank treated him. “I don’t know if even Ry would get off his butt to save Mr. Killdare,” I noted. “I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.”

  Would anybody bother to save Coach Killdare if he ever really was in trouble?

  All at once—although I was still pretty sure our teacher was probably stuck in the long morning drive-through line at Dunkin’ Donuts or something like that—I recalled a list I’d made the previous year, when I’d been bored at a football game. A roll call of people who might actually want to kill the coach, and not just by failing to resuscitate him. If I remembered correctly, I’d been able to think of at least six—or possibly sixty—individuals, including my own dad, who’d probably like to stick a knife into Hollerin’ Hank’s overtaxed heart.

  Then that weird thought was interrupted by the sound of a ball being dribbled, and I realized somebody had finally started using the equipment.

  Laughing, I nudged Laura. “Hey, Chase is up and full of energy. Why don’t you ask him to check the locker room?”

  I believed Laura was genuinely concerned about Mr. Killdare—but obviously not enough to approach a guy she’d worshiped from afar, ever since his transfer to Honeywell. “No, that’s okay!” she sort of cried, her face getting red.

  “Oh, come on,” I teased, grabbing her arm, like I was going to drag her over to where Chase Albright was alone, shooting hoops. He was a one-man team, sinking a shot, retrieving it, and going in for a lay-up—all with the lazy, I-don’t-give-a-damn-who’s-watching, but-don’t-ask-to-join-me vibe that he always managed to give off. Chase was, I thought, the embodiment of aloof. Which apparently didn’t bother Laura or a lot of other girls, who seemed perversely drawn to his inaccessibility—and, I supposed, the way he looked in his T-shirt and shorts. Even I—who had nada for Chase—couldn’t deny that he filled out a gym uniform pretty well. And his face, with those blue eyes that gave away nothing . . . There wasn’t much to criticize there, either
.

  My grip on Laura loosening, I studied Chase as he did another lay-up, his hair managing to gleam under the fluorescent lights, just as it had on a sunny day when I’d doodled his picture with a question mark on his chest.

  And I still don’t know much about Chase—except that he likes to watch moody foreign films that no other kids go to. But I can’t seem to ask him what’s up with that when I sell him his single ticket from my claustrophobic booth at the Lassiter Bijou . . .

  “You think he’s amazing, too.” Laura’s accusation brought me back to reality, and I realized I was still holding her arm. She pulled away, giving me a smug look. “You practically went catatonic, watching him!”

  “I did not,” I protested, my cheeks getting warm. A propensity to blush for virtually no reason was the curse of being a redhead. “I find him interesting,” I explained. “How can a guy who should be the most popular person in school—a guy everybody wants to be around—seem to have zero friends, let alone a girlfriend?”

  At least, Chase had never brought a date, or anybody else, to the theater where I worked, as required by my father, who insisted that earning minimum wage “built character.”

  “I heard there’s a picture of a girl in his locker,” Laura informed me, both of us again observing Chase, who’d switched to taking shots from the free-throw line. “A very pretty girl.”

  “Really?” I turned to Laura, intrigued. “Who is she?”

  Laura shrugged. “Nobody knows. Probably a girlfriend at his old school.”

  Interesting. And where, exactly, is that school . . .?

  I was just about to voice that question when somebody behind me butted into the conversation, saying in a supersnarky, high-pitched voice, “Dream on, ladies! Especially you, Millicent. Because Chase Albright is exactly one million miles out of your league.”