Poisoned Pin: A Cozy Mystery (Brenna Battle Book 2) (12 page)

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 totally 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.

“That’s great advice,” I bellowed into the microphone. Okay, so maybe it sounded a teensy bit more like a screech than a bellow. “Unfortunately, when I told that to my knee, it just wouldn’t listen. It just kind of stopped working when all the ligaments ripped. You know what ligaments are, don’t you? Since you’re such a smarty-pants.”

Oh, no. I’d said that out loud. The whole thing.

“I mean, since you’re such a smart kid. And I’ll bet all these other smart kids are ready to see some judo!”

The kid was on his feet, hollering about me calling him names. Mrs. Jarvis, still holding the microphone for him, stood there like an idiot.

I ran at Blythe, grabbed her, and threw her over my shoulder and onto the small mat we’d brought before the teachers could grab me and throw me out of the building. Mrs. Jarvis must’ve recovered her wits enough to turn the mic off, because the cries of the the demon child lessened in volume. I needed something constructive to do with my mortification. The kid was pure evil, I’m telling you.

Take a deep breath, Brenna. He’s only nine or ten years old
. Why did I care what a nine-year-old kid thought, anyway? I don’t know, maybe because there were four hundred other kids watching and waiting for my response? Not to mention the teachers. This was a small town.
My
town now, unless I wanted to give up, pack it up, and head back to Arizona, where I’d left my broken Olympic dreams.

But I still had my microphone. Maybe I could salvage this. I had to say something quick. Something with kid appeal. “Have a great Fitness Day! Stay fit! Run for fun.”

The crowd grumbled. I thought I heard a few cries of things like, “What kind of assembly is this?” and “Brenna Battle bites!”

Bites?
That was it! “Eat lots of cookies!” I shouted. “And cupcakes!”

The kids roared with laughter and applause. “Yes,” Blythe said, grabbing the microphone from me, “there will be cookies and cupcakes at the open house and free judo trial we’re having tomorrow. Check your backpacks for the flyer!” Leave it to Blythe to try to make sense out of my nonsense. Treats at the Open House were definitely not a bad idea. But then, treats were almost never a bad idea if you asked me.

Mrs. Jarvis was coming at me, flanked by two aging teachers. Little did they know, their advance only served to elevate my cornered-animal instincts and prompt me to grab my microphone back and volley one last, desperate cry to the crowd. “Forget spinach! Popeye wouldn’t stand a chance against Brenna Battle on hot, buttered scones! With jam! Lots of jam!” Blythe’s gentle prodding morphed into an outright shove into the open door of the faculty room. I broke free and I poked my head back out to yell, “Don’t forget the jam!”

And then I let them all shuttle me away from the eyes and ears of those poor, impressionable children.

“Are you alright, Ms. Battle?” Mrs. Jarvis asked once we were safely back in the teachers’ lounge. One of the older teachers stood next to her, hanging her head as though in shame for me. The other regarded me sternly.

“Absolutely. Thanks for inviting me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find some scones.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the other door, the one that led to the office hallway and the back exit.

“She had a concussion recently,” I heard Blythe offering.

What was she going to do when she couldn’t use that one anymore? I quickened my pace and continued with my just-baked plan to flee the scene and leave Blythe to “clean up,” so to speak. Speaking of baking, I probably should really get some baked goods. Something really chocolatey to try to make things up to Blythe.

I sat in the parking lot, waiting in the truck for a couple minutes, until Blythe opened the truck door and scooted in next to me. “Well, that was … ”

A disaster? An absolute, complete, total catastrophe of epic proportions? Twenty more years of job security for Bonney Bay’s kiddie shrinks?

“Let’s face it, Bly. No one’s coming to our open house. In fact, all the students we already have—I’m pretty sure they won’t be coming back after this.”

“Brenna, those kids love you.”

“Maybe they love judo. I
hope
they love judo. But once their parents hear about this, once they hear that I’m a crazy, cupcake-touting has-been—”

“Brenna Battle, you are not a has-been!”

No, I wasn’t a has-been. I was a failure. A never-been. Argh! But Blythe was blinking back tears.

I grabbed her hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. How about some brownies? Frosted brownies. With nuts?”

Blythe sniffed in her dignified,
I’m
-
Done-Crying-Now
way. “Yes, I think some chocolate is definitely in order.”

19

I lugged a big sports thermos full of ice and lemonade down the stairs to the dojo, while Blythe opened and shut the doors for me. We’d skulked back to Cherry Wood after the kids were dismissed, to roll up our mat and haul it back it the pickup, and now we were getting ready for our free trial/ demo. We’d brought our kitchen table down from the apartment and Blythe had covered it with a purple table cloth. I’d vetoed pink. She’d covered some small cardboard boxes with pretty wrapping paper and arranged plates full of cupcakes on top of them and all around them, making sure there was a good sense of “depth” and “balance.” Whatever. I’d frosted the cupcakes, very generously. With whipped chocolate frosting. At Blythe’s insistence, we’d included some vanilla frosted cupcakes “in case someone doesn’t like chocolate.” Vanilla cupcakes are yummy too, but if you ask me, anyone who truly doesn’t like chocolate is seriously suspect.

“Cups!” Blythe cried.

“Upstairs, on the kitchen counter, I think.” I pulled the thermos to the edge of the table, so the kids could fit their cups under the spout.

Blythe ran upstairs for the cups. I positioned the cute little
pink lemonade
sign Blythe had made on card stock next to the thermos, and then I took advantage of the opportunity to pluck a chocolate cupcake from the back, where Blythe was sure not to miss it. I peeled off the fancy paper and took a great big bite.

The front bell jangled, and Will Riggins entered, wearing his judo pants and a hoodie, his judo bag slung over his shoulder. I turned my back so I could stuff the rest of the cupcake in my mouth, then I grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped the frosting off my fingers. Thanks to Will’s untimely entrance, I couldn’t lick them.

I raised a hand to greet Will, but I was still chewing.

Will smirked at me. What? Was there chocolate on my face? I grabbed another napkin and wiped more aggressively around my mouth.

“I heard you put on quite the show at Cherry Orchard today.”

I swear, those were the first words out of his mouth. I just about threw the chocolately napkin at him. Must he delight in my utter humiliation? Some women might have pouted or gotten a little weepy. Or perhaps, just turned beet red with embarrassment. Not me. I briefly considered a clever retort, then realized I had the perfect come-back. I shrugged and casually tossed the napkin into the garbage can. “Get your gi on and let’s get a few practice throws in before everyone shows up,” I said curtly.

“Okay.” Riggins looked a little confused. Like he might even be considering an apology, but was unsure whether his little jab had offended me, or maybe whether he wanted it to offend me.

No matter. It would all be perfectly clear in a minute. As soon as I got his pretty little posterior on the mat.