Poisoned Pin: A Cozy Mystery (Brenna Battle Book 2)

by Laney Monday

  “So the ghosts didn’t scare your grandfather away?”

  “He doesn’t have time for hogwash like that, he says. The employees gave up passing along their complaints a long time ago.”

  He caught me staring at the open ice cream cartons stored in the freezer below the counter, ice cream shop style. “Thinking about a post-jog treat?”

  As a matter of fact, I was. And I was craving something a little more elaborate than mocha fudge on a cone. “You have a dessert menu?”

  He grabbed one and opened it on the counter for me. “Ooh. A classic banana split sounds great.”

  “Coming right up,” he said. “Go ahead and seat yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  I glanced around Shaw’s, looking for a small, empty table. I didn’t want to take up a big one all by myself.

  “Excuse me,” a lady’s voice called out behind me.

  A middle-aged woman sat by herself in the only booth at the front window. Actually, it was the only table in the whole place with a window. Shaw’s was so long and narrow, with a storefront less than fifteen feet across.

  Her shoulder-length hair, dark blond, with brownish streaks—or should I say, spirals—was the kind that’s so curly, it’s spring-loaded. The top and sides were cut shorter than the rest, probably in an attempt to keep the curls under control and out of her face, but the result was just a teensy bit mullet-esque.

  Her eyes were a nice hazel, though. Definitely her best feature. I’m no expert on make-up, but I even I could tell the excessive eyeliner, especially along the lower edge of her lids, wasn’t doing her any favors.

  “Are you eating alone? I’d love it if you’d join me here,” the woman said.

  “Oh. Okay.” Sheesh, lady, announce it to the whole store. Brenna Battle is eating dessert all by herself! I admonished myself to be charitable. From the looks of the table, she’d been here for a while, also all by herself. Half a sandwich and a pickle remained of her lunch. A small pot of hot water stood guard over a mug, encircled by several used tea bags.

  “I’m Jacinda Peters. Author of Bonney Queen of the Bay.”

  Oh-kay. Never heard of that one. But then, I’d never heard of most books. “Sounds interesting.” Yes, that really was the best I could do.

  I pulled a chair over from an adjacent table and sat across from her, rather than slide into the booth with a total stranger. People did that sometimes in Europe. I’d experienced enough of that during my travels to international judo events. I was glad to be back in the good ole USA, where I could enjoy life, liberty, and the pursuit of solitude. Yep, I could stand to work on my friendliness, but there was something to be said for personal space, even in a public place. Especially in a public place. I did my best to make my smile not look chagrined and tried to think of a way out of dining duo.

  Jacinda Peters said, “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re Brenna Battle, the Olympian, and you’re new in town. And you and I have something in common.”

  “Are you new in town too?”

  “No, I’m just visiting. I’m a fairly frequent visitor, actually. I heard you talking to Paul about the ghost stories.”

  “Yeah, they’re—”

  “Absolutely intriguing! Can you believe how active the spirits have become? I’m sure you heard a man is dead because of them.”

  “Well, yes. I was there.”

  “You were there?”

  “When Derek Thompson passed away. Is that what you mean?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean! Don’t tell me you saw Moira in action! How horrible for you!”

  But she didn’t look like she thought it was horrible at all. Sure, I guess you could say her expression was horrified, but her eyes were all lit up. She was enthralled. Entranced. Mesmerized. Horrified and loving it. I swallowed back a sour taste.

  I guess it showed, because she placed her hand over mine and said, “I’m so sorry. It’s just, I’ve been studying these phenomena for years. Decades. If you witnessed a spirit acting on the physical world in such a profound way, to actually take another from this world into hers, well … that would just be absolutely ground-breaking, you see?”

  I slid my hand out from under hers. “I … I’ve never seen Moira. Harvey, Derek’s uncle, the owner of Reiner house, he called me and told me Derek wasn’t breathing. I was just a block or two away. Whatever happened to him was already done by the time I got there. I did CPR for a while.”

  Jacinda said, “You have touched death!” in a hushed, reverent voice. For a moment, she looked white as death. I wasn’t so sure about that banana split anymore.

  “Um, do you think we could talk about something else?” Hey, I might be lousy at subtlety, but occasionally I nailed the direct approach. “How about your book?”

  “Oh! Of course. Well, the first one came out two years ago. I’m working on number three in my series now.”

  Paul showed up with his friendly smile and a giant dish heaped with bananas, ice cream, several different syrups and fudges, peaks of whipped cream, nuts, sprinkles, and not one, but three cherries. Clearly, it was the sort of dish that was meant to be shared. The kind most women would never attempt to finish on their own. But I wasn’t most women. I was up to the delicious, mountainous challenge. I thanked Paul and dug in, nodding as Jacinda filled me in on her literary achievements. I didn’t pay much attention.

  Then a few key words jerked me out of my sugar trance. “Bonney Bay … powerful spirits inhabiting Reiner House.”

  Wait a minute! Ghosts? Her books were about ghosts? Not just about ghosts, but based on so-called true ghost stories? And her work in progress took place in Bonney Bay? So that’s what she’d been getting at. That’s what we had in common. Maybe I shouldn’t have made her change the subject after all.

  “So, your new book … does it have anything to do with Moira?”

  “It has everything to do with Moira.”

  “So what’s Moira’s story?”

  “Moira’s life story?”

  I plucked a cherry from a sea of melted goodness surrounding the remains of my ice cream. “Sure.”

  Jacinda rested her chin in her hand and dove in. “Charles Reiner, one of the earliest residents of Bonney Bay, made it big. He hired the best architect he could find—Solomon Jones, who designed some of the most prominent homes in Seattle, to plan his dream house. It was a gift to Moira, who’d married and believed in him when he had nothing. When he was just a penniless dreamer. Just days after their home was completed, Charles packed up his wife, Moira, and their three children into the car, another new toy of his, a symbol of his success. They planned a family drive along the coast, complete with a picnic lunch. He headed back into the house to get the picnic lunch Moira hadn’t been able to carry, with her arms full of babies. That’s when the nine-year-old, Matthew, decided it would be fun to pretend to drive. He somehow managed to put the car in reverse.”

  I dropped my spoon into the near empty dish with a clatter. “Don’t tell me!”

  Jacinda nodded somberly. “Moria turned around to attend to one of the other children in the back. Little Matthew released the brake and hit the gas. The car shot over the cliff. Every one of them perished, all but Moira. Charles heard the crash and dove into the water to try to save his children.”

  “What father wouldn’t,” I said, blinking back tears.

  “He didn’t make it back out.”

  “Wait. If Moira lived, why is she the one haunting Reiner House?”

  “She continued living there. She refused to leave the house her husband had worked so hard to build for her. She managed to keep afloat by opening it up to boarders. They say she poured all of her love for her family into the house. The house became her family, one and the same, in her mind. She was possessive about it. She needed the boarders in order to make it, but more and more, she couldn’t stand having them in her house. She got a reputation for raging and ranting, even throwing guests out in the middle of the night. Of course, b
usiness went from bad to nonexistent. Moira knew she was going to lose the house, but she just couldn’t help herself. And now it was too late. No one wanted to stay there with the crazy widow of Bonney Bay. Moira took her own life.”

  “How?” I said, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  “She threw herself over the cliff, onto the rocks.”

  No hanging for Moira. No, she’d joined her family in death. I shuddered, picturing the sharpness of the rocks, the ruthlessness of the cold, Alaska currents coursing through the waters of Bonney Bay. How many times had she stood there, on the edge, gazing at the jagged coastline, at the rough convergence of earth and water that had claimed her entire family?

  Had she stood there on the rocks that day, shivering cold, screaming their names as she watched them struggle in the water? Or had they disappeared with agonizing quietness, into the depths, knocked unconscious by the impact?

  I wiped my sticky fingers on a napkin, feeling a little sick. “Thanks for … that. I’d better get going though. My sister is expecting me.”

  “Of course. And I think the ladies’ room is calling my name.” Jacinda rose and headed to the back of the store.

  I wondered if she planned on being camped out here all day. I went to the counter to talk to Paul about paying my bill.

  He grinned at me and whispered, “She tell you all the ghost stories?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Great stories. That’s all they are. But don’t tell the tourists that. You’re a local now.”

  “Yes, I am.” I smiled for real at that. It was nice to feel welcome, to share a local secret. “I’m all in.”

  “Jacinda Peters has sort of made herself an expert on Bonney Bay lore.” He lowered his voice. “She was so excited about that website, Small Town Hauntings, posting one of her stories yesterday.”

  “The ghost stories?”

  “Yep. She’s got two historical fiction novels out. One is about Moira. Now she’s writing a book, supposedly nonfiction, about Reiner House. I checked out her website, and it says, ‘the true story of tragedy and haunting’ or something like that.”

  No doubt she’d be incorporating Derek’s death into that one. Jacinda seemed to really believe this stuff. What did the locals who kept up the charade of belief—or at least, not unbelief—to keep the ghost-crazy tourists coming think of Jacinda Peters?

  Paul asked, “Does she know you’re the one Harvey’s latched onto lately?”

  I shrugged. I wouldn’t say latched. That was a bit extreme. “I have no idea.” I narrowed my eyes at him in a way that said, How do you know that?

  “Small town. Things get around fast. One of his neighbors is a regular.”

  Hmm. Miss Perky Blond Pony Tail, perhaps?

  “Harvey’s harmless.” Paul said. “A really sweet guy underneath all the cookiness.”

  “Yes,” I said, “That’s the impression I got, too.”

  14

  I trotted up the numerous steps to the grand front entrance of Reiner House and raised my fist to knock. The door flew open before I could rap on it.

  Harvey stood there, looking exhausted and even more wild-eyed than usual. Not good. Not good at all.

  “Harvey? How’re you doing?” I smiled and tried to make my face the picture of peace, hoping Harvey would emulate it and forget about whatever was going on in his head, just as he’d forgotten who I was and what we were talking about when he first met me.

  “Not good.” He glanced around him frantically, then turned and shouted into the house behind him with false bravado, “And I don’t care if you hear me, Moira!”

  Harvey stormed off into the house. I hesitated for a moment, in the open door. And then I followed him. Smart again, I know. I found Harvey standing in the middle of the ballroom, facing its sweeping staircase.

  “She walked up and down those stairs all night,” Harvey told me. His shoulders sagged with weariness. “Back and forth. I went to the Cherry Bowl this morning just to get away from it. She’s stopped now, but … ”

  “No wonder you’re so tired,” I said. “Maybe you can—”

  A ripping sound came from above, then a quick, heavy whoosh as the chandelier dropped from the ceiling, to the floor with a tremendous crash. I screamed like I haven’t screamed in years. Maybe ever. I screamed like a scared little girl. I realized I was clutching Harvey’s arm as I stared at the shattered chandelier. It rocked on the hardwood floor, slowly wobbling to a stop as the momentum of its fall dissipated. Crystal shards skittered across the floor, sending prism rainbows flying into the air like sparks.

  Harvey patted my hand. The one I was still clinging to his arm with. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have come here. It’s not safe.”

  “What about you?” I found myself saying. “You’re not safe either. Maybe you should stay—somewhere else—for a few days.” Not with me and Blythe. That would definitely not do. “I saw an inn down the street. What about that?”

  The terror in Harvey’s eyes was instantly replaced by indignation. “Blackberry Inn? I’d never set foot in that place. They’ve spent years telling everyone our ghosts aren’t real. They even have a whole website ‘debunking’ the ‘myths!’”

  “Some people have a hard time believing in spirits.”

  Take me, for example. Even as my heart was still pounding like crazy, I was trying to convince myself there was a logical explanation for that chandelier falling—right after Harvey insulted Moira.

  “Ha! They know they’re not just myths. They just want their inn to be the place people come. They’ve made up their own ghost stories for their place. Made them up completely, out of whole-cloth.”

  That did sound pretty ruthless, to start up a site debunking the stories about Reiner House, while promoting their own. I wondered if it was true. I was going to have to do some poking around. Could those rival innkeepers have a motive for killing Derek? But Derek’s death helped support the ghost stories about Reiner House. Certainly that wouldn’t help an inn that was trying to compete as the most haunted.

  Well … If I were into that sort of thing, maybe a dangerous, murderous ghost would bring me to Bonney Bay. But would I want to stay in the house where the ghosts might actually kill me? No, I’d want to stay in the inn down the street. Blackberry Inn. The one where the ghosts had never actually killed anyone. I could enjoy the whimsy of sleeping in a haunted house with better behaved ghosts, and visit the creepy House of Death to get my thrills during the light of day. And hopefully not get crushed by a sabotaged chandelier. Maybe, after their attempts at debunking didn’t work, the owners of Blackberry Inn had decided to make Reiner House appear too dangerous. Or maybe they’d simply killed the guy who was planning to renovate and open it up as an inn, as a real competitor. It all seemed so far-fetched. But then, I lived in Realville. Others might not be so closely acquainted with reality.

  Like Harvey. He was pretty disconnected from reality … unless … could Harvey be faking it? Playing the crazy card in order to get Derek out of his way? But Derek himself had said Harvey was always nutty. But then, that was coming from Derek. At the time, it had been to Derek’s advantage for everyone to think Harvey was looney. Something strange was going on here. Something very strange.

  “Harvey,” I said, “I think we should call the police.”

  “The police have no authority over Moira, and she knows it!”

  I tried hard to think of a way to tell Harvey it was possible an actual, living person had rigged his chandelier. But who would have a motive to do something like that, now that Derek was gone? And how could I broach that possibility without making Harvey feel like I thought he was crazy? Harvey needed to believe someone was on his side. And those of us trying to figure out what was going on needed him to believe that too; I felt it in my bones. I’d just decided to ask Harvey where the restroom was, and secretly call Riggins from there, when I heard sirens outside. Harvey and I both ran to the front window and pushed the heavy drapes aside. A patrol car pu
lled up right in front of Reiner House. Another one pulled up behind it; not just any other patrol car, but the police chief’s SUV. Uh-oh. This could not be good for Harvey.

  Harvey yanked the curtains shut. I saw it the look in his eyes. He was about to bolt. I side-stepped in front of him. “Come on, Harvey. I’m sure the police just want to talk. Maybe someone heard the chandelier fall and called 9-1-1. Let’s just let them know that you’re alright.” That was highly unlikely. No way Chief Sanders and—I peeked out the window again—Riggins had gotten a call and come here that fast.

  Harvey hesitated. There was a firm knock on the door. “Coming!” I called. Man, I hoped they could hear me. The last thing I wanted was for them to break down the door of this beautiful old house while I found my way there. Harvey followed me, grumbling. Well, it was better than going into a fury like he had at the dojo, or locking himself in the closet.

  I opened the door, and Chief Sanders looked at me in perplexity. He was tall and thin, and his adam’s apple wobbled as he cleared his throat. “Good morning, ma’am. Is Mr. Thompson at home?”

  “Brenna?” Riggins said. Again? He didn’t say that part, but it was written all over his face.

  “Hi.” I forced a smile. “He’s right here.” I gestured to—the empty space behind me. “Harvey?” I spotted him, or I should say, I spotted his foot, sticking out from behind the corner at the back of the foyer. I tiptoed toward him. Harvey didn’t budge. I found him flattened against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. I tiptoed back to the police officers. “He’s a little spooked.” I cringed at the unintended pun. “Maybe you could say something reassuring?”

  Chief Sanders narrowed his eyes at me. “Step aside, ma’am.”

  Oh-kay. I stepped as far aside as possible.