by Laney Monday
“I’ve developed several sources in town. I’ve spent so much time in and out of Bonney Bay the last few years, doing research. Friends know to call me with tips. I’m so glad I was right here in town for this one.”
If Jacinda knew that right before Harvey was arrested, he and I had nearly been killed by a falling chandelier, she’d really flip. I’d be the new star of her next show. I wanted none of that. No, thanks.
“Well,” I said, “good luck with that.” And I said my good-byes and headed home, trying to make sense of it all.
17
Sammi actually raised her hand and said, “Later” to the other girls as they left practice that night. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she was getting friendly, but she was really coming along.
I headed for the fridge and grabbed a soda. Those kids seriously wore me out. All the excitement earlier, my concern for Harvey, it all came sagging back on me as the girls walked out the door. All except Sammi. Her gi top and belt were off, wadded up under her arm. She walked over to me and said, “So, are you on the case or what?”
I eyed her warily. “What case?”
“Yeah, what case?” Blythe said.
I cringed. I hadn’t had a chance to tell Blythe yet about Harvey’s arrest. I was kind of waiting to see if Seattle Channel Three bothered to pick up the story. Wasn’t it enough that she already knew I’d befriended a crazy old man, gone into his house with him all alone, then had him come in here and scare the children, without her knowing he was a murder suspect too? And then there was the chandelier, the near demise of her favorite big sister. Okay, her only sister. Could I get away with leaving that part out?
Sammi crossed her arms and gave me that Come on, really? look. “You solved Ellison Baxter’s murder. Are you going to solve Derek Thompson’s too?”
So, she was finally admitting I was right about all the crimes surrounding Ellison Baxter’s murder? My investigating had landed some people very close to Sammi behind bars. Awaiting trial, to be more precise. But the evidence was pretty clear and undeniable. They were going down.
Blythe crinkled her nose. “As far as the police are concerned, Derek died of a heart attack.”
Sammi snorted. “And as far as the police were concerned, you killed Ellison Baxter. Anyway, I saw it on the news right before I came to class. The second murder in Bonney Bay in two weeks. Dan Deering’s probably standing in front of Reiner House right now.”
I groaned out loud a the thought of the relentless middle-aged reporter from Seattle. I’d had enough of that guy to last me a lifetime. So had my sister. “Blythe,” I said, “Apparently Derek Thompson was poisoned.”
“Apparently?”
“W—” I glanced at Sammi. Better not sound too friendly in front of her. “Officer Riggins told me. I ran into him earlier. When I went to check on Harvey.”
“But why do they suspect Harvey?”
“Probably because he had easy access to Derek’s food, since they lived in the same house. That is, if Derek actually ingested the poison.”
“Did he?”
I’d given in to my curiosity and concern and texted Riggins in between classes. “I don’t know,” I said. “Riggins won’t tell me anything about the case. Just that Harvey’s fine. He has his own cell. They’re keeping him there at least for today, but … ”
“They’re going to take him to Coastal State,” Sammi said. “They’ll drug him up and then we’ll never find out who really did it!”
“We?” I asked.
“What’s Coastal State?” said Blythe.
“And how do you know that?” I demanded.
“Just a guess. That’s what they do with people like Harvey when they think they’re dangerous.” Sammi ignored my first question and went for Blythe’s. “It’s that bunch of huge brick buildings you pass right before you get to the edge of Bonney Bay. It’s a mental hospital. For criminals and dangerous people.”
Oh, no. Riggins had said something about a mental health facility being a possibility for Harvey. I hadn’t considered it might be an enormous brick fortress housing the criminally insane. I’d pictured a cheery little clinic where he might get a helpful diagnosis, and later, eyes shining with lucidity, enlighten us all about what had happened to Derek. By someone else’s hand, please God.
“We have to do something. We can’t have Harvey committed,” I said.
“Exactly!” Sammi agreed.
“By we, I meant Blythe and me.”
Sammi scrunched up her face at me and rolled her eyes. She re-wadded her gi and left in a huff. I hoped she wasn’t going to try anything stupid.
***
I filled Blythe in on my day in between sips of ramen noodle broth. We both sat on the couch in our little apartment above the dojo. Blythe sampled a spoonful of greek yogurt and frowned at me. She did not approve of me keeping my very eventful morning—and afternoon—from her, even though I’d assured her I just hadn’t had time to get into it, since we’d had to get ready to teach class when I got back.
Blythe grabbed her laptop and found Jacinda’s first book online. It took place at Blackberry Inn, and like the book about Moira and the upcoming book about Reiner House, it featured spirits.
We discovered that Blackberry Inn was owned by a couple, Dawn and Pete Feldman. We couldn’t find any references online to the supposed hauntings at Blackberry Inn until Jacinda’s first book came out. She had used the basic framework of real events, real people, to form a story about the original owners, but stories about the ghosts inhabiting the inn were never mentioned until a few months before its publication.
“Coincidence?” Blythe said.
I sucked up a noodle. “Ha! Not likely. What if she and the Feldmans, the owners of Blackberry Inn, were in cahoots?”
“Were the owners friends of hers? Did they pay her to write a book that took place at their Inn?”
“But then, why write about Moira next?” I said.
“Because Reiner House wasn’t an inn at the time! It still isn’t an inn, is it?”
“No. Harvey gives people tours sometimes, but he never collected money. Harvey just wanted to share his ‘friends’ with other people. People who believed him.”
“That makes sense. Everyone wants to be believed and understood.”
“Derek just recently got the legal power to make the necessary renovations and convert Reiner House back into what he saw as its glory days as an inn. So, at the time the book came out, Reiner House wasn’t a threat at all. It was a draw, to Bonney Bay. Moira’s story helped bring guests to Blackberry Inn.”
“But then, Derek came along with his new plans. They killed him before he could carry them out,” Blythe speculated.
“Wouldn’t Harvey have said something if the owners of Blackberry Inn had come by right before Derek died?”
“Probably. I don’t think he’s so far gone in the head that he wouldn’t have remembered that bit. But Derek could’ve visited them or met with them somewhere else. They could’ve had coffee or a snack.”
“Why would they get together at all?”
“Just because Harvey hated them, that doesn’t mean Derek wasn’t friendly with them,” Blythe pointed out.
“It might’ve even put them on the same side, as far as Derek was concerned. Maybe the competition was friendly to Derek.”
“But then, that blows a hole in our whole theory about the Feldmans orchestrating his death to eliminate a competitor,” Blythe said.
I sighed. “You’re right. And then there’s the fact that Derek was against the whole ghost-tourist thing anyway. Wouldn’t that have turned him off to the Feldmans, if they were encouraging, or even paying Jacinda Peters to promote ghost stories? Wait! Harvey told me the Feldmans created a whole website debunking the Reiner House stories.”
“Let’s find it!” Blythe said.
We found the site easily enough, but finding its creators wasn’t so easy. They were completely anonymous, using the nickname Spirit Busters.
; “I wonder if Harvey actually saw this site himself,” I said.
“Yes, me too. And if not, who told him about it?”
“Someone could’ve told him the Feldmans were behind it.”
“So,” Blythe said, “we have the Feldmans’ site, promoting their inn and referencing Jacinda’s book about its friendly spirits, and then we have another, anonymous site debunking the Reiner House myths, but saying nothing about Blackberry Inn.”
“We’ve got to find out more about the Feldmans somehow.”
“But first, we need to worry about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” I dropped my fork. “Oh, no. I forgot about tomorrow.”
“We need to work on your Fitness Day speech.”
Yes, the Fitness Day speech. Tomorrow I was going to have to face ghosts of a different sort.
18
The next day, Harvey was still sitting in the Bonney Bay Jail, and I was pacing in a prison of my own, awaiting a punishment I most certainly did not deserve.
“They’re coming. I can hear them coming.” I tried not to whine. Oh, this was worse than standing in a stadium tunnel in Brazil, waiting for my name to be announced so I could enter, alongside my opponent—Yara, adored by her judo-crazy fans as a national hero. Worse than hearing nothing but the thunderous chants of her name in my ears. Almost, but not quite as bad as the moment I realized I’d broken her arm in front of that mass of pulsing adulation. Which soon turned to near-murderous rage.
Okay, so this fell short of fearing for my life, or even standing on top of the podium as the Pan American Champion while the whole stadium turned their backs on my flag and drowned out the Star Spangled Banner with the weight of their disgusted silence. I think it’s fair to say that Yara and I both really, really wished she’d just tapped out of that arm bar instead of fighting it literally to the breaking point. For totally different reasons, but still.
“Brenna, you can do this,” Blythe said, for the millionth time.
I continued to pace the teachers’ lounge, right off the multipurpose room, where I’d be speaking to the students of Cherry Orchard Elementary. The chattering and laughter and shuffling of feet were unmistakable. Class by class, the kids were filing in, probably being instructed to sit cross-legged on the floor, to scoot in toward the front to make room for the other classes that were still on their way.
“Are you sure we can’t just go out there, take turns throwing each other around a few times, and toss the kids some flyers?” I said.
Blythe plunked her styrofoam cup of bad coffee into the garbage. “Brenna. The kids want to hear what you have to say for Fitness Day.”
“They want to hear what an Olympian has to say about being a Champion. They want to be inspired. I am not a champion, and I’m not the least bit inspirational.”
Blythe opened her mouth, no doubt to say, “You inspire me,” or something ridiculous like that. I just shook my head and held my palm out to silence her before she even got a syllable out. “Just give me a minute, okay?”
“Right!” Blythe said cheerfully. “You get in your zone. I’ll just be right over here, in the corner. Not saying a word.” She took a seat at a far table, picked up a newsletter that was lying there, and began to read, as if the cafeteria schedule was the most engrossing piece of literature she’d ever encountered.
I shut her out. Usually I got in my zone by picturing my match, imagining what I was going to do to my opponent. But every time I imagined those kids—
Ugh. Maybe my nerves were compounded by the lingering effects of the concussion I’d gotten while investigating my first murder a couple of weeks ago, but I felt sick.
Unlike a lot of athletes, I didn’t have any “lucky” routines or charms to take comfort in. I didn’t believe in luck. That kind of thing was a luxury I couldn’t afford. It ran counter to everything I believed about hard work, smart work, determining success. That is, apart from official bribery. I guess I should say bribery of officials. But actually, they were often one and the same. Natural talent was a determining factor too, of course. So was avoiding catastrophic injury. Except when it was unavoidable. As in, you did all the right things to stay strong and in shape, and your knee ripped out anyway. And then you did all the right things to get the injury repaired, rehabbed, and restrengthened, and it happened again. Both times, at the Olympic games.
Okay, you’re thinking maybe I should start believing in luck. But I think it just wasn’t meant to be for me. When you have the talent and the drive and you do all the right things, and you end up empty-handed anyway, what else can you say? No lucky bra or walk-in routine would’ve changed that for me. It was out of my hands, and in those of a higher power. And that, I guess, was another thing I just wasn’t ready to grapple with—Pun intended—Why not me? Why wasn’t I an Olympic champion? Or at least a medalist?
But there were worse questions I could be asking why about. Like poor Derek’s loved ones. Why Derek? Why’d he have to go like this? So he was a little annoying. Okay, more than a little annoying. An unfeeling prick. That didn’t mean he deserved to become some sort of macabre legend. Just another part of Reiner House’s patchwork of ghost stories.
The door connecting the lounge with the multipurpose room cracked open. “Ready?” Mrs. Jarvis, Cherry Orchard’s Vice Principal, said.
No! Never! I wanted to shout. But I was a grownup. A professional. That’s what I told myself anyway. I nodded and grabbed the bottle of cold water I’d prepared. And with Blythe by my side, I followed Mrs. Jarvis into the multipurpose room, around the horde of children, to the empty spot at the front, where all their eyes would soon be fixed on me. There was no stage in the multipurpose room. No real barrier between me and them. Blythe and I had simply set out a strip of judo mat at the front of the room. It occurred to me how nice it would be to slip in with them, sit there cross-legged, and leave Blythe to do this thing. But of course I was a grown up. A grown-up in a judo gi.
Mrs. Jarvis introduced me and Blythe. I’m not quite sure what she said. I was too busy talking to myself about why I could not make a break for it, to pay much attention. I paused. I glanced at Blythe. She was smiling. Which reminded me, I was supposed to do that, too.
So these kids were no mob of sixty thousand outraged Brazilians. But there were a lot of them, and their expectant silence just about killed me. I launched into the little spiel Blythe had helped me prepare, about fitness and finding an activity you enjoy, something you can even be passionate about. As I spoke, a little boy in a sweater vest got up, walked all the way around to the front of the group, and plopped himself down a full three feet in front of everyone else. Which was a little off-putting, to say the least. It might’ve also been cute, if he’d done it out of eagerness, but the look on his pasty face was far from wowed by my enchanting presence.
No, it was a look of scrutiny. Ruthless cunning just waiting to pounce and shred me to bits. I tried to catch the nearest teacher’s eye. Either her mind had wandered off to another planet, or she was highly skilled at avoiding eye contact with speakers desperately in need of rescue from odd little boys in sweater vests. Then again, maybe she’d had enough dealings with this particular odd little boy in a sweater vest to learn it was easier to pretend that he and his evil eye didn’t exist.
Every few seconds, he braced his hands on the floor, lifted up his bottom, and scooted closer. I locked eyes with him, and he gave me a defiant look and made another big scoot. He was right at the edge of the mat now, as close as he could possibly get. Oh, how I wanted to return his nasty little death glare. Puh-lease. I’d faced off with fighters from the former Soviet Bloc. My death glare could eat his death glare for breakfast. But I was on his turf. The spotlight was on me. I was the grown-up, and he was the innocent child. I was expected to have what he didn’t. You know, manners. He knew I couldn’t physically harm him. I couldn’t even afford a few sharp words. Not when every signal the staff was sending me said, Sorry, no, we don’t have your back.
Crud. I’d t
otally lost my train of thought, doing mental battle with a nine-year-old. I glanced at Blythe for help. I had no idea what I’d said last or what I should say next. Pasty Boy grinned like the Cheshire Cat’s eviler twin.
Blythe addressed the kids. “I’m sure some of you have some great questions for Brenna. Who has a question? Raise your hands. How about the young lady in the purple shirt? Back there.”
Blythe pointed her out, and a nearby teacher got the girl to stand. She asked her question, but we couldn’t hear, so Mrs. Jarvis took Blythe’s microphone and brought it to her.
“Um, how old were you when you started judo?”
And so the next few questions went. Nice, easy questions. I was actually starting to enjoy the kids a little. Except for the one who was so close I kept having to catch myself before I tripped over him. I didn’t dare look down, not because I was afraid of his death glare, but because I knew his hand was raised. And then, the unthinkable happened. Mrs. Jarvis said, “Oh, I think there’s been a hand raised up here for a long time.” And she held the microphone right in front of Mr. Death Glare.
No-o-o! He was itching to go in for the kill, and she’d just handed him the ultimate weapon!
He stood up tall and asked, loud and clear, “If you’re so great, how come you never won an Olympic medal?”
I swear, that kid didn’t even need a microphone. His voice was like Moses, parting the sea of scattered attention spans. An evil Moses. I stood there, motionless, stomach aswirl with mortification, with anger, not just at the kid, but at myself and at the reality of my broken dreams.
Blythe took my microphone with such smooth grace I didn’t notice it until it was in her hands. “Well, she came close, but she was injured,” she said.
“My mom says you shouldn’t make excuses.”
I snatched the microphone from Blythe, ignoring how her eyes warned me, above her winsome, for-the-crowd smile.
