by Laney Monday
As he dragged a chair into place, he said in a hushed voice, “Your sister, she’s lucky. About Ellison Baxter, I mean.”
I froze. Ellison Baxter. For the past hour, I’d managed to all but forget about him and our little dilemma. Just what was going on here? What was Carlos getting at? “Lucky?” I braced myself for an accusation. Lucky she hadn’t been arrested yet? Lucky the whole town didn’t hunt her down and deliver mob justice?
Carlos’s eyes betrayed a sort of smoldering bitterness I wouldn’t have thought possible in the friendly kid with the sweet smile. “I heard that worm was picking up on her. The first day in town. He didn’t waste any time trying to get to that one. Guess he wanted to get things done before she found out he has a reputation now.”
“He didn’t get—”
“No matter. He was good. Real good. I’m not sorry he’s gone.” Carlos’s expression darkened even more. He took off his hat and ran his hand anxiously through his hair. “That rat took advantage of my sister,” he whispered fiercely. “All the women, he seduced them. Many, many, women. None of them knew then. They thought they were the only one. He’s—he was—clever, that one. Kept it all a secret.”
I kept my voice even, tried to sound just mildly curious and concerned, not elated that not only was Carlos not here to accuse or trap us, but that he seemed to have a lot of information to share about Ellison Baxter. “How’d he manage that?”
He grunted. “Stuck with the women who want to hide it too, even after. Married women. Women who don’t do these things.”
“Like Lourdes?”
“Yes, like Lourdes. Not married, but a good girl. She was so ashamed. You ask me, one of them—or one of their husbands—finally gave him what he deserved.”
Or maybe a brother. I kept that thought to myself and said, “Just how many women are we talking about?”
“Carlos!” Lourdes stood there with two glasses of icy orange juice in hand. “Are you talking about Ellison? It’s not right to speak ill of the dead!”
Great. She sounded just like Blythe. Let the man tell me what I needed to know, for goodness sake. He was just about to spill a complete list of suspects, as far as I was concerned. At the very least, I wanted to know if he knew the name of Ellison’s current girlfriend.
My irritation evaporated when I saw the heat in Lourdes’s cheeks, the look of mortification in her eye, and the obvious contrition in Carlos’s.
“I’m sorry, Lulu. I—”
“It’s alright. Everyone knows.” Was that a tear Lourdes was holding back? Her lip quivered a little. She turned to me and said, “I told Stacey Goode about Ellison and me. Trying to make her feel better, you know? You heard about what happened to her?”
I nodded, taking one of the glasses of orange juice off her hands.
“And she told everyone.” Lourdes shook her head sharply. “I didn’t know she had no shame. That she’d think my story was for the whole town.” Lourdes moved to sit on one of the wooden chairs, but Blythe took a seat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her, inviting her to take a more comfortable seat. Lourdes took a long drink of her juice. “I almost left town after that, but Mama Ruth begged me to stay.”
I gripped the cold glass, feeling a little like beating Ellison with a hairbrush myself. “But now she’s gone.”
“It must’ve been really hard to say good-bye to Miss Ruth,” Blythe said.
“It is hard. But I understand. She felt it was time for her to go. Her good friend, Marta—she was Mayor Conway’s personal assistant. Did you know that? Anyway, Marta passed away a couple months ago. After that, Miss Ruth started talking about leaving Bonney Bay. She’d never mentioned that possibility before. She made me promise to help you two, and she also made me promise not to take the position Marta had left open in the mayor’s office. It’s still open. I guess Mayor Conway can be difficult to deal with. But I made her promise to let me know if she ever wanted to come back, so I could help her out the way she helped us.”
“She’ll come back, I think,” Carlos said.
Would she? I wondered. Bonney Bay was a great place to retire. Maybe they were right.
“Whatever happens, I know it’s for the best. I can’t run from my mistakes. And this is home for me and Carlos. I’m learning to live with it—what happened, what everyone knows. And Miss Ruth is learning to live without her friend, in her own way.”
12
We drove twenty miles to civilization in order to return the trailer to the rental chain, then stopped and grabbed some fast food for dinner. By the time we got home, I was dragging from the sleep I’d lost the night before and the chicken strips I’d inhaled were sitting in a knot in my gut, but I was also dying for some exercise. A short, evening jog would do me good, maybe even help make sure I got a good night’s sleep. I put on some shorts and running shoes and secured my phone in my armband holder, then took off with the warmth of the setting sun on my back.
Sprinklers sputtered on in the carefully maintained gardens all along the street. In the distance, a dog barked and children laughed. But there was another sound. Much closer. Were those footsteps behind me? I looked warily over my shoulder. A male silhouette jogged toward me, his strides widening, his pace advancing. He was gaining on me. Was he following me, or was I just paranoid? I tried to get another look at him without appearing like I was doing so. I failed on both counts.
“Brenna!” the silhouette called.
Oh, fantastic. My stalker was none other than Officer Will Riggins. For a second, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard him and choosing this very moment to alternate my easy jog with a nice sprint. Riggins might be in great shape, but he had quite a bit of muscle to move around. I was probably quicker. But I was currently headed uphill, and I knew my newly repaired knee better than to think it would let me sprint uphill without protest.
I slowed down and turned to face him. After all, he was the law around here. “On your way to arrest my sister, Officer?”
He waved his hand at his shorts and fitted quick-dry shirt, already sporting patches of sweat in all the right places. I refused to let my eyes follow the trail between his magnificent pecs, leading down his abs.
“Just out for a run,” he said. “Care to join me?”
I grunted. Such a ladylike quality, I know. As far as I was concerned, Officer Pretty Pecs was joining me; not the other way around. Riggins took my grunt as a yes and fell into step beside me. When he didn’t say anything else, I decided to try my best to pretend he wasn’t there.
We reached the street across from a grassy park that ran alongside the beach, just at the top of the twenty feet or so of jagged boulders that formed the cliff rising from the gravelly patches and tide-pools, then the water. I was curious whether that park was connected in some way to that shadowy staircase and wooden deck Blythe and I had discovered the night before. Besides, the smooth, paved pathway through the grass and the flowering shrubs seemed to be calling my name. There were no cars in sight, but with Riggins watching my every move, I pressed the button on the street light and waited to cross. I stared at the flashing red hand, willing it to turn into the little green man.
“Wow, you’re quite the socialite.” Riggins startled me.
Oh, right. He was there. I supposed a polite person would be making small talk. I turned my gaze from the crosswalk light to him, but no words came to mind.
“Nothing to say?” he prompted.
Fine, if he was so determined to have a conversation with me, he was going to hear what was really on my mind. “Yeah, actually I have something to say. Something to tell you.”
“Really?” he said, without a hint of irony.
I masked my surprise at his genuine interest and said, “About the case.”
Was I mistaken, or did I see Riggins’s face fall, just a little bit?
“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”
Nah, that was just Professional Will, Police Officer, being plastered on.
“I u
nderstand that. But you can listen, can’t you? Or aren’t you interested in some useful information?”
He gave me that earnest look. The one that killed me, or threatened to kill my resistance, anyway. “I’m interested. I’m listening.”
“Stacey Goode, one of those ladies you saw with us in the parking lot? You know, when we first met?”
“How could I forget?”
I swear, his smile sparkled, zapping my brain into a fleeting, but enjoyable delusion that he meant meeting me was unforgettable. But of course he was referring to the Crazed Mama Bear versus Olympian street fight he’d narrowly averted.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I’m told she had quite the grudge against Ellison Baxter. And, she was not at all pleased with all the attention he was giving to Blythe at Miss Ruth’s party. That explains how hostile she got in the parking lot, and it could explain—”
“Ellison’s murder? I know all about Stacey Goode. If she was still so obsessed with Ellison, why would she kill him?”
I crossed my arms, cocked my head, and gave Riggins a look that said, Are you kidding me? “She’s a woman!”
His thick, dark eyebrows arched. “So, all women are capable of murder?”
On the crosswalk light, the blessed green man finally made his appearance. I stepped off the curb. “No!” I said as I jogged. “All women are capable of loving and hating a man at the same time.”
Now it was his turn to cock his head at me. Oh, how his face dimpled as he said, “Are they?”
My cheeks flamed up and I ran from the sidewalk on the other side of the street, onto the park’s paved jogging path, picking up the pace, wishing I could run from this entire, stupid conversation, from—
I felt his hand on my elbow, gentle but firm. “Brenna.”
I wheeled around on him. “My sister’s freedom is at stake here! Our reputations! Our futures in this town, even if she doesn’t end up taking the fall for a murder she didn’t commit!”
He blinked. “I’m sorry.” He looked sorry. Oh, so enticingly sorry. “I’ve already told you I can’t discuss the details with you, but I promise you, I’m doing everything I can to get at the truth here.”
I gave him a hard look, trying to hang onto my self respect and my sanity. “I certainly hope so,” I said. And then I sprinted away.
13
It was nearly dark by the time I got back home. I’d needed to clear my head, to calm down after my little chat with Riggins. I would’ve stayed out even longer, but I was concerned Blythe would worry about me. I paused in front of the dojo doors to stretch. I checked my cell phone. No texts from Blythe. I peered through the no-longer-pink-curtained front windows. The curtains were folded and piled neatly on the floor inside. Blythe was keeping herself busy.
“Hi, Bren.”
She didn’t even turn around as I shut the door behind me. She was too busy carefully balancing a black belt on a display rack she’d mounted on the wall, above where we’d decided to put the benches for the spectator area. Not just any black belt—my most recent Olympic belt. It was embroidered with my name on one end (optimistically, in gold) and with the rings and that particular Olympiad’s logo on the other. It looked crisp and perfect, which probably had something to do with the fact that I’d never worn it. Like most of the other Olympians, I’d preferred to wear my familiar, broken-in belt for the biggest competition of my life, rather than the stiff one provided for the event.
“Not the belt too,” I told her as I lowered myself onto the floor beside the still-rolled-up mats to stretch some more. “Where’d you find that?”
She shrugged. “You left it at Mom’s when you came back from the Games. I put it away for safe-keeping. What? You never asked about it. Do you want to wear it?” Her eyes lit up with hope.
“No, I don’t want to wear it.”
“Do you want your gis back?”
I’d given Blythe my Olympic gis, the ones embroidered with USA, the flame, and the Olympic rings. She’d carefully removed the Olympic back patches from those judo gis, identifying me by country, last name, and weight class, with the rings and the logo of the Olympiad in the background. Those, she’d framed and hung on our dojo wall. And now she was displaying my Olympic and World Team belts below them, on a belt rack.
I waved a sweaty hand at the display. “It’s too much.”
“You’re in business now. It’s not bragging, it’s marketing!”
I groaned. How could I explain that every time I looked at that belt and those patches, I remembered that match—the one that would have enabled me to move on to fight for gold or silver if I’d won, to fight for bronze if I lost. The match where everything the surgeon had sewn back together from my first injury ripped apart. I hadn’t just lost that match. I’d lost the ability to go on and fight for the bronze. I’d lost the ability to even stand. And I’d lost the fire, though I hadn’t known it yet.
Because of what happened to me on the mat, later that night, I’d even lost my friendship with Jake. I’d lost my coach of seven years. It had started innocently enough. A mountain of piercingly cold ice packed around my knee, and Jake’s warm arm around my shoulders. I wasn’t one to cry in front of others, even Jake, who’d been coaching me through so many ups and downs, for so long. But something inside me broke that night. I started to cry, and I couldn’t stop. Jake folded me up in his arms. He said all the right things. When I lifted my puffy eyes to search for a tissue, I found myself searching his eyes instead. They, too, were filled with tears. I’d never felt so close to another person, besides my sister, in all my life. All the feelings I’d fought so hard to suppress came rushing to the surface, just like that flood of tears. I’d lost my dream, but maybe I could finally have Jake. I let myself get lost in the moment. I let myself believe it was right. After all, he was the only one I’d ever wanted. He was the one I’d waited for.
And I found out the next morning just how wrong I was. Jake “respected me too much” to get involved. I was too crushed, too humiliated, even to tell my sister. She’d assumed I was a royal mess because of the disaster on the mat. And that was enough to mess me up all by itself, believe me.
I guess Jake didn’t “respect” Blythe too much—or respect me too much to get involved with my sister. The two of them were an item within a couple of months, and married soon after. Looking back on it, on some level, maybe Jake really did love me. Maybe it wasn’t the right kind of love. Maybe Jake wasn’t capable of the right kind of love. I guess that’s what bothered me the most, still. How did I know what was real? Could I have been so totally taken in by Jake the Fake?
And that was just it. I was totally taken in. I’d lamented for years that the only guys who ever expressed an interest in me reeked of less than noble motives. And the only one I ever felt a genuine spark with, the only one who seemed interested in me for me, was Jake. My coach. Neither of us acted on that chemistry because of his position, because of my judo career. My Olympic dreams.
Jake never set off my creep-o-meter. The sixth sense that had saved me from relationship disaster from sea to shining sea, and on six of the seven continents, had failed me with him. Just like it was failing me with Will Riggins. When it came to Jake, I’d just told myself he was that good. That he’d been patient enough, subtle enough, to work his way around my instincts—like that cat-burglar who dances around the alarm’s laser beams in the movie about that group of expert thieves.
But I’d just met Will Riggins yesterday. Yesterday, and my gut just kept saying yes, no matter how much my mind knew the right answer was no! Would I ever be able to go with my gut? How would I know I wasn’t asking for epic heartache once again? Was my creep-o-meter broken for good?
“You okay, Bren?” Blythe got down from her step ladder and looked at me much as she’d been looking at the frames she’d put on the wall—the ones that needed straightened out.
“Sure.” I smiled. The last thing Blythe needed to worry about was me and my non-love-life. She had possible criminal charge
s to worry about.
“You don’t look okay.”
She knew me too well. I decided to go for (partial) honesty. “I ran into Riggins.”
“Oh.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, trying to look casual. “What’d he say?”
“Not much. He already knew about Stacey. I guess it’s old news.”
“He’s probably not even going to look into it, is he?”
“I don’t know … but that doesn’t mean someone else won’t.”
“Who?” Blythe threw up her hands, a touch of desperation heightening the pitch of her voice.
“Us, that’s who!” I don’t know what possessed me to say that. Actually, I do. I’ve never been able to stand seeing my little sister upset for long. I always feel like I have to do something about it, to fix it.
“Us?” she said incredulously.
“Why not us?”
“Because there’s a killer out there!”
“We’ll be careful. We’ll be smart. We’ll think of something.”
Blythe looked at me like she was about to protest again, but then her forehead crinkled and she pointed down at my foot. “What’s that?”
I felt a momentary flutter of panic, recalling how my undies had betrayed me at the police station. But, I was wearing shorts. Had I somehow managed to get a pair of used underwear stuck in my sock this time? “Oh,” I said with relief. “It’s just a piece of paper.” I peeled the folded paper from the bottom of my shoe.
Blythe took it from me and opened it. “It’s not just a piece of paper, Bren. It’s a note.”
“From who?” I hesitated to ask.
She held it out to me, her pretty face gone pale. I read the jagged black-markered letters aloud. “We know everything. You WILL pay! Get out while you can.”
“It’s from the killer!” Blythe whispered, as though the murderer were here, hiding in the shadows behind the heavy wooden teacher’s desk Miss Ruth had left behind, or lurking just outside the door.