Deathtrap by Dana Marton Page B

time on niceties. “How did you know Kristine Haynes?”
    “I coach her daughter’s softball team. Am I being charged with something?”
    A man who had regular contact with the vic. He was in his late thirties, probably close in age to Bing, well built, good-looking with that movie star jaw.
    Bing leaned forward. “Did you have an intimate relationship with the victim?”
    “Hell, no. She was the biggest pain in the ass out of all the mothers involved with the team. Real micromanager. Her kid always had to be on top, best of everything, getting the best opportunities.”
    “What did you fight with her about at the bank on April seventeen?”
    The man’s jaw worked silently for a few seconds. Okay, that question had hit a nerve.
    “She filed a complaint at the school against me for not supporting her daughter enough,” he said at last, looking as if steam would come out of his ears soon. “I ran into her at the bank, and I let her know I didn’t appreciate her efforts to undermine me. She was one of those tiger mothers. Should have moved to China. I told her.”
    Chase fired off some questions, but the coach never got off track. His career seemed to be the most important thing to him. Chewing out a meddling mother was one thing. Killing her and risking his coaching career was another. He dreamed about moving up to the high school team. Bing didn’t think the man would do anything to jeopardize that.
    When he pushed for an alibi for the date and time of murder next, Coach Blauel had one ready. He’d been at school, with dozens of witnesses.
    By the time Leila knocked on the door to call him out, Bing was ready to leave, pretty sure the coach wasn’t their killer. If his alibi checked out—Joe would handle that—they could cross Blauel off the list.
    “Just got a call from the Mushroom Mile Motel. One of the employees has seen the victim a couple of times there with an unidentified male. I thought you’d want to know right away. I got the contact information.” She held out a slip of paper with a name scribbled on it.
    Maria Gonzales. “Is she there now?”
    “I just talked to her.”
    “Call her back and tell her to stay put. I’m coming out to see her.”
    He headed out to his car, hope back on high again. The vic at a motel with a man…now that sounded like lover-boy material. Maybe they’d met at the motel when it was cold but went out into the woods as the weather was warming up—less of a chance that they’d be seen.
    A possible lead in the Haynes case was worth putting his siren on. Bing zipped around traffic as he made his way over to the place. Magic Mushroom Motel, most locals called it, since there’d been a time, before the current management, when it had been pothead heaven. The night clerk had been a major dealer.
    Bing’s first task when he’d become captain had been to clean the place up. It did pretty good business now with tourists who came in for the Mushroom Festival in Kennett Square, for the Chadds Ford Days, the Hot Air Balloon Festival, and the rest. The motel was close enough to Longwood Gardens and cheap enough so they got some of their traffic too.
    He drove down the stretch of road locals called the Mushroom Mile because of all the mushroom producers lined up, one after the other, and the number of specialty stores that sold fresh local mushrooms.
    The motel itself consisted of several buildings, the main office in the smallest one in the middle. Its roof had been crafted by Amish carpenters to resemble a mushroom cap. The giant round cap put it above the other buildings, making it visible from the highway. It probably drew some extra business.
    Bing strode into the building and straight to the front desk. “I’m here to talk to Maria Gonzales.”
    The front desk manager behind the counter was in her forties, big blonde hair in an ornate updo, enough makeup for an episode of Jersey Shore. A shorter woman with darker coloring sat in one of the waiting chairs, holding a