by Laney Monday
Will stayed the whole time, talking judo with the kids and the parents. Once they’d all left, he grabbed the garbage can and made his way around the dojo, collecting cups and napkins and the occasional fallen, upside-down cupcake—each one truly a tragic loss—while Blythe swept and I mopped the mats.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual. “What was it, cyanide?” He cocked his head at me quizzically. I shrugged. “I’ve been doing a little research. Derek was fine when I left him just a few minutes earlier. Cyanide works fast, and it’s easy to find.”
“Yes,” Will admitted. “It was cyanide.”
“And that’s why you think Harvey did it? Because he was the one who was there with Derek?” I said.
“Look, we both know Harvey didn’t do it,” Riggins said.
“We do? I mean, of course we do! But … how?”
“We finally pried a useful bit of information out of Harvey. Derek had a smoothie from Espresson on the Bay with him when he arrived at Reiner House. After you left, he picked it up from a side table and took a sip. Harvey didn’t make the connection, and of course he’d thrown the cup away by the time we’d come back to investigate, but we found it in the garbage and confirmed there was Cyanide in its contents.”
“Someone from Espresso on the Bay poisoned Harvey?” Blythe exclaimed. “Do you have the suspect in custody?”
“There’s no evidence of cyanide at the espresso stand. No motive among the employees working that day, and no evidence that Derek bought a drink there on the day of his death.”
“Someone else could’ve purchased it and given it to him,” I said.
“Yes, they could. But no one purchased that type of smoothie at all that day. We’ve tracked down all the customers and we’re questioning them anyway, but, it doesn’t look promising so far.”
“What if the smoothie wasn’t purchased that day?” Blythe suggested.
“Don’t you think Derek would’ve noticed an old smoothie? I mean, it’s supposed to be semi-frozen,” I said.
“True … wait! The cup. The cup was an Espresso on the Bay cup, right? But who’s to say the smoothie was from Espresso on the Bay?” Blythe said.
“You’re right!” I said. “Someone could’ve reused an old cup. They could’ve made the smoothie themselves, at home.”
“Sure,” Riggins agreed. “And we’ll catch them, but it might take a while.”
“Well,” I said smugly, “at least you’re not trying to pin this on Harvey anymore.”
He gave me a look that said, You’re a little slow today, aren’t you? “No one was ever trying to pin anything on anyone. And I never even suspected Harvey. We took him in for his own safety. What would happen if we released him now?”
I didn’t answer. He’d go right back to his house. The house where someone was rigging chandeliers to fall. Probably the same someone who’d put cyanide in Derek’s smoothie.
“So, what are you going to do, charge him with a crime he didn’t commit?” I asked.
“I can’t do that. Coastal State is another option, but it could be difficult to get him back out of there again, especially if he acts too … ”
“Too much like he belongs in an institution?” I said. “Why can’t you just tell him he’s in protective custody?”
“We tried that. He refused.”
“Oh.”
“Look, I’ve already told you too much.” He gave us a look that said, Don’t make me regret it.
I picked up the lemonade thermos. “I’ll take this outside and rinse it out.”
“I’ll take the leftover cupcakes up.” Blythe had gathered them on one plate. She held it out to Will. “Want to grab another one?”
“No, thanks. I’ll go help Brenna with that thermos.”
Huh? Great. He was probably going to give me a lecture about staying out of police business. He and Blythe were probably in cahoots on it.
Outside, I positioned the thermos near the faucet, unscrewed the top, and tipped it over. Riggins tightened the hose on the faucet.
“About what happened before … at the park … between you and me,” he said. “I guess you think we should just forget it, huh?”
“Exactly. Of course. I don’t … ” I blinked, caught up in his eyes. “I don’t know what that was,” I whispered.
Will leaned toward me. He braced one hand on the wall beside me and brushed my ponytail off my shoulder with the other. “It was perfect, that’s what it was.”
“What?” I looked into his eyes. Without even thinking, I fixed my gaze on their warm, dark depths. There was no looking away now.
“You know it, and I know it! You should see the look in your eye right now! You don’t really want me to let this go.” He grabbed my hand.
I didn’t stop him.
“I don’t want to let you go, Brenna Battle.”
“You hardly know me.” My voice was small and squeaky.
“I know you’d take a bullet for your sister. I know you’re a fighter, through and through. But do you really have to fight this, Brenna?”
My mother had always said something about picking your battles. I think it was really a joke about our family name, but …
“Some things are worth fighting for, and some things are worth not fighting, Brenna.”
I rounded up every bit of stray willpower and squeezed my eyes shut, then ducked under Will’s arm and away. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
“Who is he?”
“There is no he. There is no other guy. But I’m pretty sure there’s another girl for you. Some one pretty. Dainty.” Someone gentle and kind, who didn’t delight in knocking the stuffing out of him.
“I don’t like dainty girls. It’s just not my thing. And there is a he for you. There’s someone. Someone who hurt you.”
I can’t believe how fast the tears came. Powerful, spilling out of me with the force of all the pain I’d tried so hard to leave behind me in Arizona.
Will’s arm slid around my shoulders. His voice was soft, his breath feathery against my cheek. “Brenna, who hurt you?”
“No one.” I shook my head and pulled away.
No one knew. Not even Blythe. No one knew about the one-night stand that ended years of pining after my judo coach. Especially not Blythe, who he’d turned to after he decided he wasn’t interested in a relationship with me. He’d married her a few months later, and he’d left her a year later, for a girl named Mitzi. How could I tell Blythe now? And how could I tell anyone, if I couldn’t tell my sister? My beautiful little sister, my biggest supporter, the one who’d always believed in me. My best friend. I owed her my silence. After all these years, after all she’d done for me, at the very least, I owed her that.
21
I took my time locking up, then went upstairs to our apartment. At the moment, I really missed living alone. The last thing I wanted to do was see or talk to anyone.
As soon as she saw me, Blythe rose from the couch and said, “Brenna, are you okay?”
“Just worried about Harvey, that’s all.”
Blythe gave me a look. She knew that wasn’t all, but she also knew better than to press me. “I wish there was something we could do for him.”
I plopped down on the couch next to her. My thoughts turned to Harvey. It was better than dwelling on Will Riggins or any other guy trouble, AKA the biggest mistake of my life.
I said, “The only way we can really help Harvey is to try to catch the real killer.”
“That almost got us killed last time!”
“The Feldmans have a possible motive,” I said, ignoring her protest. “I’ve got to find a way to investigate that. If I could just get into the inn … check in as a guest or something … ”
“What do you think you’re going to find? A bottle of cyanide in the medicine cabinet?”
“You never know. At the very least, I could get a feel for them, a sense for how they really felt about Derek Thompson. Maybe they’ll even have some kind of records tying them to Jacinda
Peters. If they paid her to write those stories, there could be receipts, correspondence … ”
“You can’t just check in as a guest,” Blythe pointed out.
“I know. Why does this have to be such a small town? Even if they weren’t glued to the news over the Ellison Baxter murder like everyone else, even if they’ve managed not to see my face yet, soon enough they will see me, and they’ll know I was one of their guests. Unless—”
“Unless what?” Blythe said warily.
“Unless I could disguise myself somehow.”
Blythe just stared at me. Really, Brenna? her look said.
I rubbed my forehead and groaned. “Too bad I’m not 007 and this isn’t the movies. I don’t have some fake-face mask. I don’t even have makeup.”
“I think that was Mission Impossible.” Blythe’s eyes widened a bit, in a perked-up sort of way. “But I do,” she said, a cautious little smile playing on her lips.
“What?”
“I have makeup. And you never wear makeup.”
“Do we really need to have this argument again? Right now?” I can’t tell you how many times my sister tried to push me to wear more makeup. I think she’d actually hold me down and give me the full treatment by force if she could.
“I’m not trying to start an argument; I have an idea, Bren!”
I did not like that oddly mischievous look on my sister’s face. Not at all.
“What if you wore makeup?” Blythe said. “Lots of makeup. What if you were a beauty queen? Not just your normal, tastefully done beauty queen, but an over-the-top, Who-Knows-What-Face-You-Were-Really-Born-With, beauty queen!”
“Um, are you okay, Bly?”
“As a disguise! You check into the inn as … ” she tapped her finger on her lips, thinking. “Gabby Young, pageant queen.” Now she painted my fake name in the air with a series of punctuated opening and closing of her hands, like blinking lights.
“Who’s Gabby Young?”
“No one. You. With a whole, made-up personality.”
“So,” I said as it sunk in, “you approve of my snooping now?”
Blythe stuck up her fine little nose at that. “I certainly do not. But at least there’s no law against pretending to be a pageant queen. It sure beats breaking in.”
It was quite the brainstorm. Blythe’s best friend growing up, Sasha, was a pageant girl. Blythe had helped her prepare for many competitions. She’d taught Blythe how to walk and talk like a beauty queen. Our mother had never approved of pageants—either that or she didn’t have the money to invest in the outfits, the travel, etc., and didn’t want to say so—so Blythe had never entered one herself. But as a wanna-be and a cheerleader for Sasha, she was a fount of knowledge on the subject.
I gave my sister a big hug. “You’re a genius, Bly. I’m gonna owe you big for this.”
“I finally get to do your makeup!”
I grimaced. Maybe we should rethink this plan. But I had no other plan. The Feldmans were my best lead, and I had no other way to get close to them in a timely manner—hopefully in time to stop them if they were the killers. And if they weren’t, I had no idea what to do next. I’d have to worry about that if and when it came to it.
“Don’t worry, Brenna, I know how you can repay me.”
“How?“
“Let me do your makeup for real. Not over the top. Classy, beautiful. For you first date with Will.”
“What first date with Will?”
“The date you’re going to have if I do this for you.”
“No way. No, no, no, way.”
“Come on, Bren, you sound like you’re two years old.”
“You’re not really going to do this to me.”
“I most certainly am. It’s for your own good, Brenna Battle.”
“Dating Will Riggins can not be good.”
And dating him with makeup on sounded like an absolute disaster. I didn’t even know how to wear makeup, whether Blythe put it on for me or not. But I guess I was going to have to figure that out for this investigation. I couldn’t just wimp out on this. Blythe wasn’t going to budge.
“Fine, I’ll go out with Will.” I just wouldn’t go out with Will. I’d have to think of some completely unromantic excuse to have a burger with him. And also a reason why I was wearing makeup. Not that he would notice. Would he?
***
I felt like there was an inch of cement on my face. The outer crust moved with every muscle in my jaw. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole thing was a massive earthquake/mudslide just waiting to happen. Maybe because my flesh had turned to a hot molten lava of rebellion underneath the Gabby Young mask. My face had a too-perfect, mannequin-like matte finish. My lashes were not my lashes. They were thick and dark and fluttered with a life of their own.
It was Friday, and we’d finished our first full week of Bonney Bay Battlers classes. As soon as we’d rushed everyone out the door, we’d run upstairs so Blythe could get me ready to check into Blackberry Inn tonight.
Blythe turned me around on the swivel stool we’d dragged into the bathroom—because the lighting was better in there—and started in on my light brown hair. I refused to let Blythe color my hair, no matter how she tried to assure me it was temporary. So she straightened it with a flat iron, then curled it with the same device. Really? How do you curl hair with a flat iron? And why straighten something right before you’re going to curl it? I have no idea, but she did it. She put all kinds of goop in it first, and then when she was done she sprayed the cascade of curls for good measure. I got so lightheaded with the fumes, I almost lost consciousness and fell on my plastered face. Or maybe I was just bored half to death after hours and hours of beauty treatment.
“Brenna!” Blythe said sharply. I jolted back up, before my head could flop completely down to my shoulder, which surely would’ve resulted in some catastrophic smudging of my new face onto the towel Blythe had draped over my Gabby Young outfit.
I’d barely gotten a reservation for the last available room at Blackberry Inn. I wasn’t thrilled about trying to pull this off with the place full of other guests, but I had to move quickly. Maybe it would be easier to go unnoticed with a bunch of other guests there, too. I’d just keep to myself and keep quiet.
When she was all done, Blythe unveiled me, throwing off the towel with a flourish. She’d outfitted me in a springy little sleeveless dress.
“Perfect!” Blythe clapped her hands together with a glee that terrified me. “Remember, you’re not you. You’re Gabby Young.”
“Well, I don’t look like me, that’s for sure. Thanks?”
“You’re welcome. And now, for the shoes!” Blythe disappeared into the bedroom we shared, and I stared into the mirror some more, trying to find myself under the perfect, rosy-cheeked, luxuriously lashed face Blythe had constructed over the top of mine.
“Here you go.”
I turned to take the shoes, then withdrew my extended hand as though Blythe were offering me a pair of venomous snakes. “No way!”
I’d worn heels once or twice, of course. There were sometimes fancy-pantsy dinners or receptions starving American Olympians got invited to. But I always opted for no more than a two-inch heel. Nothing like the horrors of the strappy pink thingies Blythe held out to me.
“Come on, Brenna. They’re perfect. They pick up on the hot pink in your dress.”
“What about my knees? You know my knees need support. There’s no support in these! And what about my toes!” Several of them had been broken during the rigors of my beloved barefoot sport over the years. I demanded a lot of my toes, and they demanded comfy shoes in return. Was that really too much to ask?
“Your goal is to not look like Brenna Battle. You’ll only need to wear them for a few minutes. When you first arrive, okay?”
“Wait! I’m going to have to drive in these?”
Blythe’s face fell. “Oh. Yes, that could be a problem.”
I could see her wheels turning. But of course she cam
e up with a plan. She drove us to a car rental place about twenty minutes outside of Bonney Bay. The shoes enjoyed the ride in my lap. Then I drove the rental car, still barefoot, and she followed in the truck. We pulled over just outside town, and I put on the horrible shoes. Blythe insisted it wouldn’t do for me to put them on in the driveway of the B&B.
I took a few steps and tried not to cry or scream. Then I gave Blythe a hug and got back behind the wheel, determined to pull this crazy scheme off.
22
Here goes the craziest thing I’ve ever done, I thought as I stood on the covered wraparound porch and rang the bell.
Mrs. Feldman answered the door, wearing a ruffled floral apron and releasing a mouthwatering, cinamony aroma. Her curly, silver hair was pinned back at the sides. She was pleasantly curvy, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks.
“Welcome to Blackberry Inn! You must be Gabby Young.”
“Yes, how lovely to meet you,” I said in the sing-song voice I’d practiced.
Mrs. Feldman stepped aside and gestured for me to enter. I carefully stepped in, trying not to totter in my heels as I pulled a bright purple rolling suitcase behind me. “What a beautiful home!” I said.
I parked the suitcase and wandered away a few steps, and peeked into a sitting room off the foyer.
“Thank you. Would you like a tour?”
“That would be wonderful.”
Just tell me where you keep the cyanide, I thought. But I was getting a lemon meringue pie-baking grandma vibe from Mrs. Feldman. I was having a hard time picturing her as a soulless killer. But, you never know. And it could always be Mr. Feldman who was the mastermind. Mrs. Feldman might not even know what her dastardly husband was up to. I wondered where he was right now. Sneaking into Reiner House to rig some other disaster? Or perhaps just cleaning up after dinner?
Mrs. Feldman showed me around the dining area, the guests’ sitting room, the library, even the kitchen. At the opposite end of the kitchen were french doors, painted a charming buttery yellow to match the kitchen cabinets. Though they matched, I suspected they were an add-on.
