Taking the Fall: A Cozy Mystery (Brenna Battle Book 1)

by Laney Monday

  “How did this get on my shoe?” My own voice didn’t quite come out full force. To tell the truth, I felt a little weak in the knees. “Maybe it’s not even for us!”

  “Bren,” Blythe said softly. She turned over the paper so I could see the other side. BATTLE was written there, in all caps, underlined three times.

  I stared at that paper, at my last name and Blythe’s. How long had it been there? What if it had been stuck to my shoe during that whole jog? What if they’d gotten into our apartment?

  “It can’t have been stuck to you long,” said Blythe. She’d always had an uncanny way of seeing my wheels turning. Especially when hers were turning the same way, only faster. “Besides … ” She walked over to the door and looked around the floor there. She shook her head. “That’s got to be it. When I was hanging our black belt certificates and coaching credentials, I noticed a piece of paper by the door, as if someone had slipped it underneath. I thought it was some kind of ad. I was going to pick it up as soon as I was finished, but I got so busy decorating, I forgot all about it. There’s nothing there now. The note must be it.”

  I sucked in my breath. Someone had slipped this despicable threat under the door while Blythe was in here, innocently humming to herself, getting my dream dojo ready to open. My fear turned to outrage.

  Blythe grabbed her phone from the desk. “I’m calling the police,” she said.

  I paced the dojo as Blythe called 9-1-1 and told the operator we’d received a threatening note.

  “Oh,” Blythe said into the phone.

  Hearing the disappointment and apprehension in her voice, I stopped pacing. “They’re not coming?” I mouthed.

  She shook her head sharply and said, “Yes, we’ll wait right here for Officer Doyle to arrive. Thank you.”

  “Officer Doyle?” I said as soon as she hung up.

  “Officer Eric Doyle.”

  “Crazy Eric?”

  “Crazy Eric,” she affirmed.

  I whipped out my own phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The police,” I mumbled.

  “But I just—” I saw it dawn on her. “Riggins?” she said with a little smile.

  I nodded. “At least he’s not crazy. Let’s just hope there’s a brain—and some scruples—behind those dimples.”

  14

  Flashing police lights lit up the pink dancers painted on the front windows, and a little, half-hearted blip of a siren sounded.

  “Great,” I grumbled as the officer emerged from the car. True to the dispatcher’s word, Officer Crazy was the first one on the scene.

  He scowled as he slammed the cruiser door shut and stomped up to our doors. Blythe grasped the handle, ready to push it open for him, but he hammered the glass with his fist anyway. Blythe jerked back in alarm. I caught the door and opened it before he could completely lose his mind and decide to bash his way in with his baton—or call for backup in the form of a medieval battering ram.

  I have to tell you, it was one of my greatest feats of will power to keep from foot-sweeping Officer Crazy right onto his face as he barged in like a pit bull and just about ran me over. I stepped aside, without sweeping my foot in front of him as I did so. There’s got to be a heavenly reward for that kind of restraint.

  “You claim you got some kind of note?” he barked at Blythe, who had the misfortune to be standing right in front of him.

  “Yes,” Blythe said, just short of a stammer.

  “Well! Where is it?”

  Blythe visibly gathered her courage, straightening her shoulders. “There’s no need to shout, Officer. It’s right here.” She held the paper out to him before I could stall. I don’t know why I thought we’d fare any better with Riggins, but I desperately wished he could’ve been the one to handle that note. Doyle practically ripped the note from Blythe’s hand, with no regard for what forensic evidence he might be destroying.

  “‘We know everything. You WILL pay! Get out while you can.’ Doesn’t look to me like a threat from a killer,” Doyle said. “More like a warning to a killer.”

  “What?” I jumped between him and Blythe. He loomed over her like a bald-headed, pink-faced version of a Sasquatch. I crossed my arms and glared up at him. He leaned back a little bit, but still seemed determined to pretend I wasn’t there. As if then he could pretend I hadn’t ripped his pants off? Like I’d wanted to look at an albino Sasquatch hiney!

  He peered over my head, at Blythe. “‘We know everything.’ As in, they know what you did.”

  She crossed her arms and looked up into his crazy face. “If that was the case, why on earth would I call you?”

  “The criminal mind works in strange ways.”

  “Fine! I’m a whacko murderer! I’m so crazy I even called you about a note from a person who claims to know all about it. Don’t you want to find out who it is? Don’t you want to find out what they know?”

  I put an arm around Blythe. She was just about to lose it. This was not the natural order of things. I just wanted our life back. Calm, collected Blythe, with everything planned. Blythe, who was always calming me down.

  Despite my effort at comfort, I felt Blythe’s body tense in my grasp—the kind of gathering of energy that signaled a coming explosion. Like a tiger crouching before the kill, ready to rip some helpless gazelle’s throat out with a burst of power. I threw the other arm around her, bracing myself to hold back the great Blythe-Cano.

  The bells on the door jingled, and Officer Will Riggins entered, still in his sweaty running clothes. They were much sweatier than before. His well-tanned cheeks were flushed, and he was just a little out of breath. I felt Blythe relax, and I released my death grip on her arms.

  “I was just passing by,” Riggins said. “Everything alright?”

  I raised my eyebrows. Just passing by, huh? I guess he didn’t want Crazy Eric to know I’d called him, hoping this thing would get handled right. Well, I’d keep quiet about that, but I had no qualms about letting Doyle know how I felt about his treatment of me and Blythe.

  “No, we’re not alright,” I said. “We’re being threatened. I would hope someone in the Bonney Bay Police Department would take that seriously, especially given that one of your citizens is already dead.”

  Officer Crazy mumbled something. I could’ve sworn he said, “Thanks to you.”

  I wheeled around at him, but he just smiled his grim smile and bored into me with those crazy eyes.

  This time the Blythe I knew was back, putting a calming hand on my arm. At least the world was just a little less off kilter—for the moment.

  “Can I see that, Doyle?” Riggins held his hand out for the note.

  Doyle scowled, but handed him the note. Riggins held it carefully by the corner. “You got an evidence bag?” he asked his fellow officer.

  While Doyle grudgingly retrieved a plastic bag from his cruiser, I explained again how we found the note.

  Riggins slid the note into the bag. “We’ll get this to forensics. See if they can make any connection with the murder scene. We’ll send someone over to check for latent footprints near the door, too.”

  Doyle gave Blythe a mean-spirited smirk. “Speaking of forensics, the Chief is going over Ellison Baxter’s apartment with a fine-toothed comb. You can bet if the slightest shred of evidence was left behind, they’ll find it. You just keep that in mind, Ms. Battle.”

  “Good,” I said. “I can’t wait to find out who the killer really is.”

  “Is there anything else this note could be about?” Riggins stepped in, steering the conversation in a safer direction.

  “There seem to be a few people who resent us moving here, who blame us for Miss Ruth leaving,” said Blythe.

  “Stacey Goode and her friend Rebecca,” I said. “I don’t remember her last name.”

  “I know who she is,” Riggins said.

  Doyle interrupted. “What a bunch of—”

  “I witnessed the confrontation myself, Doyle. They were very angry abo
ut the Battle sisters starting a judo school here. They were convinced Brenna forced Miss Ruth out.”

  Doyle gave Riggins a look like he wanted to kill him. I shot Riggins a raised eyebrow. Suspect number three! I tried to tell him with my eyes.

  Riggins said, “Well, I think we have all we need here, right, Doyle?”

  Doyle grunted. “We’ll be in touch,” he growled at Blythe and me. It was definitely just as much a threat as that note.

  “Let’s use the back door,” Riggins said. “So we don’t disturb any evidence.”

  Doyle left and Riggins gave us a nod good-bye. He hesitated in the doorway, watching Doyle walk around the building to his cruiser. He turned back and looked me in the eye. “You have a weapon?”

  I shook my head. I’d never even touched a gun.

  “A dog?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Make sure you keep the doors locked. Stay alert. Be careful. I don’t know what’s going on here. This isn’t like Bonney Bay.”

  I swallowed over the lump in my throat and said, “Thanks—Will.”

  15

  I slept with a rolling pin in one hand. Blythe had already claimed the only decent kitchen knife we’d unpacked and slipped it under her pillow. I added “buy baseball bat” to my to-do list. Unlike Blythe’s, mine was on paper—a faded receipt stuffed into the back pocket of my favorite pair of jeans, to be exact.

  I stumbled downstairs, into the studio, after breakfast and found the forensics lady—at least I hoped she was the forensics lady, since I couldn’t tell for sure whether her blue pants and shirt were a uniform—at work outside the door. She was working meticulously on the doormat with a brush and some powdery stuff.

  I really should say hello. It felt weird to just stand there watching her, and it would be just as weird to ignore her and go about my business. But she looked kind of grouchy. Or maybe she was just concentrating. Walking up to the door and throwing it open while she brushed her powder on it seemed like a bad idea, so I stood in the window near the door and cleared my throat loudly. If she heard me, she showed no signs of it. So I rapped gently on the glass.

  Her eyes flicked up at me, registering no surprise. So, she had heard me. She carefully rose, brush in hand, and motioned for me to open the door from the inside.

  “Be careful,” she called through the glass. “Just reach over, and don’t step into the threshold.”

  I nodded and did as instructed. I couldn’t shake her hand without violating the “crime scene,” and besides, her hands were gloved for a reason and she still held her powdery brush. So I gave her a little wave.

  “I’m Brenna Battle, the owner of the building.”

  “I’m Alice. They called me out here from County to gather evidence, since they’re busy with another investigation, but they didn’t even bother to tape off the crime scene.”

  “Officer Crazy-Pants was supposed to do that, I’m sure.” Of course he didn’t give a rip. Not nearly as big of a rip as the one in his pants, anyway.

  She stared at me as though I’d sprouted pink clouds of cotton candy out my ears. Oh, no. I’d said that out loud! Not the whole thing, but the first part anyway.

  “Uh, what did I say?” I emitted a stupid, nervous giggle. “Officer Doyle, I meant.” Yeah. Because Doyle sounds so much like Crazy-Pants. I plastered a smile on and hoped she was as under-caffeinated as I was. “I think there’s some disagreement among the local law enforcement as to whether this is a crime scene. I appreciate you coming, Alice. My sister and I were threatened. I’m sure you know there was a murder here in Bonney Bay the night before last, and we’re concerned the same person may be involved.”

  Alice looked just a bit less than concerned about my safety and Blythe’s. She nodded curtly and waved her arm at the panorama of ballerinas painted across the front windows. “I suppose that’s all part of the crime scene too. They didn’t even mention the windows. I’m an investigator, not a mind reader.”

  I frowned at her. “What?”

  “The vandalism. On the windows.”

  “Oh, that’s not vandalism. This used to be a ballet school.” Come on, the ballerinas weren’t that bad. They were kinda cute. Painting them on the windows of a judo dojo would be more of a bad joke than a crime.

  Alice aimed a gloved finger at one of the windows. “‘Not wanted. Get out.’ The previous owner left that for you? Nice.”

  What! I almost forgot and opened the front door, but Alice saw me and yelled, “No!”

  I bolted to the back door, out, and around to the front of the building. Ugly, fluorescent green spray paint dripped over the tutus and smiling faces, declaring, “Murderer lives here!”

  As far as I knew, no one knew about Blythe’s hairbrush, or how Ellison was killed. There hadn’t been the slightest mention in the news of anything other than, “the sudden death of Bonney Bay reporter, Ellison Baxter, under unknown circumstances.” Some had even speculated on a possible overdose or suicide.

  I stood there, stunned for a moment. Then I said, “Excuse me, I have to go get my sister.”

  Soon Blythe was standing next to me, taking in the scandalized ballerinas, the attempt to scandalize us.

  Blythe turned to Alice. “Please, can you do that part first?” She pointed at the nasty message on the window. Then she whispered to me, “Brenna, we’ve got to wash that off before anyone sees it.”

  She was right, of course. This was not exactly the kind of advertising we’d budgeted and planned for. Hurry, moms and dads. Sign your kids up to roll around the mat with a couple of murderers!

  “I suppose so,” Alice said.

  “Do you think we can wash it off,” Blythe asked me softly, “before the police see it? We should ask—” I caught Blythe as she opened her mouth to ask Alice that same question. She saw my look and stopped.

  The evidence had been collected, the pictures taken. What would calling the police now do, other than draw attention to this unwanted advertising? What if Crazy Eric answered the call again? Even if Riggins came, the neighborhood was waking up and getting about their business. It was seven on a Saturday morning, but there were a lot of retirees in town, and my guess was they weren’t much different from the retirees in Sierra Vista, Arizona—early to bed, early to rise. Chances were this had been done in the dark, that it had gone unnoticed so far. Sirens and police lights were not what we needed. Neither was gossip leaking from the police department, even if the neighborhood somehow didn’t notice their presence.

  I was headed back to the rear door to go and see if we had the cleaning supplies we needed when I saw it—a bright green smudge on the sidewalk headed uphill from the front of the studio. Further up the hill, what appeared to be a slightly lighter smudge. I grabbed Blythe, held my finger to my lips, and pointed at the green blob.

  “It still looks wet,” I whispered.

  “I’ll call the police. They could catch this guy. He could still be close!”

  “No,” I hissed. “I’m going to figure out who did this, who’s trying to smear us, before the whole town finds out.”

  “Brenna—”

  “Whoever it is, they have no idea they’ve left a trail. Otherwise they would’ve wiped it up. Do you really want a bunch of commotion, a bunch of cops tipping them off?”

  Besides, we’d wash it off and pretend we didn’t know better. Riggins and his buddies could find out about the windows when they got the forensics reports. In the meantime, I was going to catch this jerk.

  “But what about washing the windows?” Blythe asked.

  “You’re going to have to stay and take care of it.”

  “No way. You’re not going by yourself!”

  “Blythe, I have to go now.” I could just see the best lead I had in this mystery drying up as fast as that tell-tale paint. “I promise, I’m just going to see where that paint leads.”

  “You won’t do anything dangerous?”

  Like try to confront a killer? Me? No way. “I’ll be right back. I
promise.”

  16

  The paint was too smudged to give a clue as to shoe-type, but I snapped a picture of the first blob with my phone anyway. I did the same with the second smudge. Please, please, I begged silently. That can’t be all. I examined the sidewalk, trying to look casual, and I’m sure, failing just as miserably at that as I was at spotting any more of that green paint.

  I wasn’t ready to admit defeat, so I just kept walking up the hill, hoping for anything that might end this mess. When I came to the opening in the sidewalk, the paved expanse that led to the deck and the park below, I turned. Why was I drawn here again? It had a strange, hidden, empty feel. A calmness, a silence that was just a little beyond peaceful. I’d expected, in the daylight, that it would feel different. More open. But I found myself wishing I hadn’t left Blythe behind. I should go. There was nothing here. Nothing except a strangely bright green spot on one of the rhododendron leaves!

  I touched it and was rewarded with a lime-green fingertip. Wet paint! Ha! I wanted to shout. I’ve got you now. I combed the deck area for more paint. Nothing. I stared at the shadowy staircase leading to the park below. No, I wasn’t ready to go there. Not yet. Not unless I really had to. I backed up, giving the paved area another look over. I dared to take a couple of steps into the alley. It was barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, and it wound crookedly behind backyards, walled on both sides by everything from wooden fences to dense shrubs, to the backs of sheds. The houses these belonged to had been built on streets facing opposite directions. Their backyards would have met in the middle if not for this passageway, which was shaded by their trees—everything from willow to cypress.

  Most of the backyards seemed to have gates that opened into the alley. It was on one of these gates that I found one more bit of paint. It was such a little smudge, at first I wasn’t sure if it was the same paint. It was a thin layer, barely the size of a dime, and it was already dry. Still, it was definitely a similar hue, and it was completely out of place on the black gate handle.