by Laney Monday
I grabbed a Coke out of the mini fridge we kept in the dojo, stocked with bargain ice packs Blythe and I had made, using baggies and a huge bag of ice from the Cherry Bowl, Bonney Bay’s only grocery store. Ice makes everything better. Or, at least it makes kids and parents feel like you’ve done something to make their bumps and lumps better. You know that saying about taking your lumps? In judo we definitely learn how to do just that.
In five minutes our last class of the night would start. We’d scheduled things pretty tight, back to back, so that families with kids in two different classes wouldn’t have to wait around too long, or leave and then have to come right back. Also to get them all in during the prime evening hours. We happened to not have any siblings in both the middle and the last class, so we had a nice couple minutes to ourselves.
There were just four girls in the oldest group, which was no surprise. It’s hard to get older girls to try something like judo for the first time. The little kids were fun, but I was really looking forward to working with this group. To tell the truth, though it’s great fun to watch little ones do judo, this was really the ideal age to teach. They were young enough to be flexible, both physically and mentally, but they were mature enough to have an attention span of more than five seconds. They were like sponges. Like clay, ready to be molded, like—you get the idea.
We started on time, with three out of the four girls we were expecting. Oh, well. One no-show wasn’t bad. Blythe asked Sammi to demonstrate one of the falls she’d learned the night before, and I swear, I thought I saw a tiny bit of a smile when she got her moment to shine in front of the others.
I said, “Perfect.”
Then she remembered to scowl.
We had the girls in a line, falling one after the other, when a car drove by, just a tad too fast, skidding through a puddle and spattering our newly cleaned front windows. The car door opened and a kid jumped out, holding her jacket over her head against the downpour of rain. I guess she didn’t notice the curb right in front of her. Or maybe it was her brand-new, unwashed and unshrunk judo pants that caught under her foot as she ran.
All I know is that I sensed impending disaster and instinctively lunged forward, as though I could fly halfway across the dojo and reach through the glass and save the girl from the calamity unfolding before my eyes. She lurched at the curb, then her momentum won out over her arm-flailing efforts to regain her balance and she flew forward and slammed against the glass with a horrible smack-bam. For a second, she was frozen there, face plastered flat against the glass, eyes stuck in widened surprise and horror, palms spread on the window in an attempt to mitigate the impact. Then, like broken egg goo, she slid down the glass and crumpled into a puddle.
Literally, right into a puddle. In her pristine, never worn, white judo gi.
Worse than the muddy rainwater, there was a blood streak on the glass. Oh, crud. I flew out the door and to the kid. I squatted next to her and found her looking stunned, but conscious. She had an impressive nosebleed going on. Blythe ran out after me, waving her hands and trying to get the attention of the car that had dropped her off.
I pulled the girl partway onto my lap.
Behind me, three girls pressed against the window. I could hear their muffled voices through the glass, but I couldn’t make out their words. Sammi tentatively opened the door. “Umm … ”
“I’m coming,” Blythe said to Sammi, and she hurried back in, leaving me with the wet, bleeding basket-case.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Big blue eyes blinked up at me. “Can we pretend I’m not?”
“What?”
Her pale, peachy cheeks turned scarlet. “Did everyone just see me run into that glass?”
“Uh … everyone except your mother. Was that your mom who dropped you off?” More like dumped her off.
“Yeah, she was in a hurry,” the kid mumbled.
“So were you,” I said, offering her a smile and trying to lighten things up.
“I knew I was late. I didn’t want to be later. Sorry.”
She hung her head, not bothering to pull her hood back up. It looked like she was going to cry. I’m not good with criers. That’s why I had Blythe. She should be out here, and I should be in there teaching class.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
“I wish I’d never come here!”
Great. The dam broke, and she started giving the rainstorm a run for its money.
I gave her back a clumsy pat. “Look, I do stupid stuff all the time.”
Her head jerked up and her look said Did you really just say that to me?
Yes, I really just said she did something stupid. “Like that!” I said. “Like what I just said. Incredibly stupid, right?”
The girl pushed herself up with a chubby arm. “I have to go.”
“Go? I can’t just let you go by yourself.”
“This is Bonney Bay. I walk around here by myself all the time.”
“In the rain? At least wait until the rain stops.”
“This is Western Washington State. You’re new here, right? When it rains, it doesn’t just stop.”
Right. I had to think of something else, quick. “Your nose might be broken.”
She paused. Yes! Apparently that got her attention.
“Really? Do you think it’ll need surgery? Maybe they can give me one of those cute little button noses.”
Good grief! “You have a perfectly good nose, you know, aside from all the swelling.”
“Trust me, it’s not all the swelling.”
I tried to think of something a good coach would say, but all that came to mind were things that Jake would say. Which would’ve been fine, if thinking of Jake didn’t make me feel like a beat up, clumsy puddle of a little girl, too.
“There are worse things in life than not having a perfect nose.”
“Yeah, like being a complete klutz and bashing yourself into a window!”
“Look, even if it’s the most awful thing in the world, the sooner you put it behind you, the better, right? Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
“I really don’t want to go in there.” Big fat tears accompanied the rivers of rain.
I switched gears and tried to channel Blythe. “They’re pretty nice girls. I’m sure this’ll be the kind of thing you laugh about together, once you get to know them.”
“Oh, I know them. And they know me. From ballet, you know?”
“Oh. I don’t remember seeing you at the going-away party. But there were a lot of new faces, all at once. Were you in the recital?”
“Uh, no. I quit ballet after I ruined the Christmas recital two years ago. I was so bad, I literally broke it. Into a million pieces.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “How do you break a recital?”
“Technically, I broke the set. And a few of the ballerinas. I knocked over the gigantic Christmas tree and sent it flying through the sugar plum fairy and up into the lights. Then I tripped on a cord and there went more of the lights. The stage went dark and everyone was screaming and crying and trampling eachother until someone finally found the main light switch. It was a nightmare.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“I thought judo might be different, but … I guess I’m still Klutzy Katie.”
“That wasn’t judo, that was Girl versus Window. Come inside and we’ll get some ice on your face.”
Judo gets a lot of misfits—kids who want to be athletic, or whose parents want them to be more active, and who haven’t found a sport that isn’t a complete disaster for them. I wasn’t as naturally gifted an athlete as Blythe. She’d just lacked the competitive fire, which I had more than my share of. But I’d never been a truly awkward, unathletic kid. People were often disappointed to realize that yes, judo was a sport, too, and athleticism mattered.
But many of the less athletically gifted found that they enjoyed it anyway. Some of those gawky kids had been my best friends growing up. They’d
fallen in love with judo, and they’d grown in coordination, fitness, and the ability to push themselves. Some had actually been solid athletes who just needed to find the right sport. I have to admit, handling any sort of ball flying through the air is not my strong point. I prefer people flying through the air. A much bigger target. Though, unlike a ball, they tend to fight back. I said a little prayer that judo really would be different for Klutzy Katie.
Katie held her nose with a bloody hand and said in a nasally voice, “No way am I sitting in there with ice on my face.”
I gave her a look. One that reminded her there truly were even worse things to endure than than total humiliation. It may have been just a tad threatening. Okay, so I need to work on my soft side. But I got her in, out of the rain, and settled on a bench with a towel wrapped around her to warm her up and a wad of paper towels to absorb the steady trickle of blood. Now, all we needed was some ice.
I opened the mini fridge door, and the image of Katie smashing into that window filled my head and tickled my funny bone with all of its awful, humiliating glory. I laughed silently into the fridge. Too bad it wasn’t big enough for me to step inside and really bust my guts. I hoped the kids couldn’t see my shoulders shaking. I liked the kid, and I sure felt for her, but that had to be one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. I forced the image of her smacked against the glass out of my mind and grabbed one of the pre-made ice bags. I was determined to hang on to Klutzy Katie.
12
I wrapped up my freshly washed hair, put on my comfy shorts and worn-to-supreme-softness T-shirt, and pulled on my fuzzy socks, then plopped on the couch next to Blythe and put my feet up on the coffee table.
“Ahh!” she cried, holding a nail polish brush delicately in one hand.
“Sorry. Did I mess you up?”
“Not too much,” she said. But she put the brush back in the bottle and opened the remover.
I picked up my laptop from the table, careful not to shake the couch this time, and got online. Blythe and I had had a little talk with Riggins, after our judo lessons were over and our Battlers had gone home. Harvey had given him an earful about all the strange goings-on at Reiner House—unexplained noises, and the latest to set him off, a note he claimed was left on his mirror, written in toothpaste. Warning Harvey to “watch out.”
“Watch out” wasn’t quite a clear threat, and though Riggins offered to have a look, Harvey had already washed the mirror.
“I think he’s been reading that Small Town Hauntings site or something,” Riggins had explained. “It’s all in good fun to some people, but for someone like Harvey, it becomes real.”
I looked up the website and found it was a sort of ghost story reporting site covering small towns across the United States. And whaddaya know? The most recent entry was on Bonney Bay:
Breaking! More news on the wrath of Moira, Reiner House’s most deadly spirit in residence. According to sources, today the only remaining (living) resident of Reiner House discovered a warning written on his bathroom mirror in toothpaste.
Harvey’s name was abbreviated to H “to protect the innocent,” but it was clearly his story. The story he’d just told Will Riggins last night. The article went on to recap the death of Derek Thompson, and to link to a report they had published the day before, entitled “Moira the Murderess?”
Was Will right? Could Harvey have gotten his story from the website? I had a hunch it was more likely to be the other way around. Harvey still had a flip phone; I’d seen it. I also hadn’t seen any sign of a computer in his house. Harvey just didn’t strike me as the type who’d be active online, even if he did have a computer. I recalled the rolled-up newspapers I’d seen sitting on the porch. Sure, it was possible he kept up with the site, but it didn’t seem to fit with Harvey to me. But then, would Harvey pass information along to an online reporter if he wasn’t aware of the site?
Someone in Bonney Bay was passing information along. How else would the writers even know about Derek’s death, for example? It hadn’t made the TV news. The tragedy had been reported in the local online paper, the Bonney Bay Blaster, but only as a sudden and tragic death. As far as the police were concerned, he’d died of natural causes. Unless that site kept some serious tabs on Bonney Bay, someone had tipped them off, and Moira was taking the blame. Someone who either believed Reiner House was haunted, or who had an interest in others believing.
Someone who might be up to no good. Someone who might be responsible for Derek’s death? I couldn’t help thinking it. I couldn’t shake my hunch that something wasn’t right. The death of such a young man never feels right, but something was just off. If there was a killer, could the killer and the ghost story-feeder be the same person? Why would a killer think a ghost made the best fall guy? The best alibi?
Unless he was crazy. Crazy Harvey.
No! My gut churned in a visceral reaction against that possibility. But what other possibility was there?
Was I letting myself get too influenced by Harvey, and by the strange and unsettling events since my arrival in Bonney Bay? Maybe Riggins was right and Derek had passed away, plain and simple. Maybe I should just focus on my business and get on with my life. Had Derek been been right? Was I just feeding into Harvey’s craziness? But Derek was dead. I couldn’t let it go until I was sure that was the best way to help Harvey. Until I was sure he was as safe as a sort of nutty old guy can be.
13
The next day I took a little jog around the neighborhood. I left Blythe to keep an eye on things, just in case anyone else came by to sign up for judo. Not only did I need the exercise, I needed to check up on some things. Harvey, for one. But I’d called him as soon as I left the dojo, and he’d said he was going to be out for a while this morning. To come by later. I was curious where he was out to, but Harvey didn’t elaborate, and I figured it was good for him to get out and about.
I’d done some more digging around online last night, looking into Bonney Bay’s historical buildings and the stories behind them—especially the ghost stories. But online articles were nothing compared to talking to real people. Real Bonney Bay-ans. Or, Bonney Bay-ites. Whatever. The people who’d lived here for a long time. What I really needed to get a handle on was how big of an issue this haunted stuff was. Who really benefitted from it, if anyone? Had anyone been caught faking ghostly activities before? Did anyone besides Harvey claim to have experienced hauntings themselves? What were their stories?
And so, after a forty-five minute jog, I opened the wood-framed glass doors of the Shaw Drug and Hardware Store, whose old-fashioned window sign boasted about its “World famous sundaes and banana splits,” in search of a treat, with a cherry and some ghost stories on top. Shaw’s had more than its share of ghost stories, as I’d discovered online, and I wondered if I could find a connection between them and the stories of Reiner House.
Inside, there was a pleasant, low hum of activity. What looked like a fifty-fifty split of locals and tourists sat at newer-looking oak tables with rounded, armed chairs. The wood paneled ceiling and walls were painted a thick, satiny white. A white arch stretched from one wall to the next, a couple of feet from the ceiling. I wondered if the room had once been divided, or if it was just there for support. An old, potbellied stove stood off to one side, its black chimney stretching up to the high ceiling. Did they still use it during the winter months?
Along the wall on my left, tall antique cabinets with glass doors held more antiques. Pictures of old Bonney Bay adorned the walls, along with an ancient, wall mounted telephone. The counters were finished in a beautiful, polished dark look, topped with a huge antique cash register. A young man in a sharp white button-up shirt and red bow tie mixed sodas behind the counter, working old fashioned fountain equipment that appeared, to my untrained eye, like it could be original. Behind him, gorgeous wood shelves and mirrors covered the wall. Unsure whether to seat myself, wait to be seated, or order at the counter, I walked up to him.
“Hello!” he greeted me chee
rfully, without turning around. “Be with you in a jiff!”
When he turned around, he said, “Brenna Battle, the Olympian,” right away. “Out for a run?”
I smiled and tried to make it look friendly instead of tight. I really wished I could just be Brenna. Especially since my Olympian status had failed to result in a medal. “Done with my run. And I thought it would be nice to get out and get to know Bonney Bay and its history a little better,” I said.
He offered me his hand. “I’m Paul. Well, you’re definitely in the right place. This used to be the general store, the post office, the everything. If you look around back there, you’ll see the original post office boxes.” He gestured at the far end of the long room. I made out some shorter cabinets back there. From a distance, they reminded me of old library card catalogs.
“I did some reading about Bonney Bay online. I think I remember something about this place being haunted?”
Paul grinned. His light brown curls were thinning a little prematurely on top, but his slightly plump face was baby-smooth, making it hard to guess his age. “Yes, we’re haunted, alright. The machines turn themselves on every once in a while. Employees come in in the morning, and can’t find utensils they put away the night before. Sometimes they find them in the strangest places.”
“The dishwasher?” I said sarcastically.
He laughed softly and shrugged off my joke. “No, in some drawer no one ever opens, in the oven, weird stuff like that.”
“So, who’s the ghost?” I asked.
“Elmer Shaw, Bonney Bay pioneer and original owner of the store. In his will, he made his wishes clear. That the store should always stay in the family. And it did, until one of his descendants, Joseph Gilmer, lost it during the Great Depression. That’s when all the problems started.”
“Did it ever come back into family ownership?”
“Nope. It’s owned by ‘outsiders’ to this day. My Grandfather, in fact. He’s a history buff, and he couldn’t stand to see the oldest operating general store in the Northwest stop operating. So it’s not only not in the Gilmer family, but owned my someone who’s never lived in Bonney Bay. My Grandfather’s lived in Olympia his whole life.”
