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

by Laney Monday

  I fought the urge to grab Blythe’s hand like I had when we were little girls. “I don’t know about this, Brenna,” she whispered, as though the stones were listening.

  “There it is.” I pointed at an octagonal covered area a couple hundred yards away. “That’s where we’re supposed to meet her.”

  Warily, we approached the covered area. It was bigger than it looked, built of strong but weathered wood, gray like the beach. Benches encircled a central fireplace, complete with a chimney.

  “This is nice,” Blythe said. “It looks like you can barbecue—Ahhh!” Someone leapt out from underneath the bench behind us, and Blythe screamed.

  Instinctively, I jolted toward the figure. I caught myself before I actually laid hands on the skinny adolescent girl. She screamed too. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she scrambled backward and fell on the seat of her trendy cutoff shorts. Her shoulder-length dark hair sported a bright green stripe.

  “Do not do that again!” My whisper was a near hiss.

  The girl pointed a shaking, bony finger at Blythe. “She’s the one who almost got us busted, screaming like that.”

  “I’m not the only one who made a bunch of noise!” Blythe countered.

  “Only because she looked like she was going to kill me!” This time I was the target of the pointing. “You’re not really going to kill me, are you?”

  “Are you dead yet?” I snapped. She was lucky she wasn’t, jumping out at me like that. Her lower lip quivered, and guilt overtook my anger and annoyance. She was just a kid. “I’m sorry. Look, neither of us wants to hurt you. But there’s a killer out there. It’s not a good time to be jumping out and scaring people. If this whole thing is some kind of prank—”

  “It’s not a prank! And I have more to be scared of than either of you. I just didn’t want anyone to spot me here. I heard you walking over here, but I didn’t want to come out until I was sure who it was.”

  “You might have said something once you saw that it was us,” I pointed out.

  “Well, what’s done is done.” Blythe smiled. I managed not to roll my eyes at her attempt at diplomacy.

  I decided to get to the point. “So, you have my phone?”

  “Look, I know you’re not the killers, okay?” the girl said. “But neither is Stacey.”

  I played innocent. “What does Stacey have to do with this?”

  The girl gave me a look like, Come on, really?

  I guess I need to work on my acting skills.

  “How do you know Stacey?” Blythe asked.

  “I walk her little boy, Leo, to school every morning, and he comes home with me after school. I watch him for Stacey when she works on Saturdays too. Leo loves his mom. He needs his mom.”

  I tried a different tack. “Maybe we could help the police eliminate her as a suspect. Just tell us how you know Stacey isn’t the killer.”

  “Because, I think someone else is, that’s all.”

  “Her boyfriend, maybe?”

  A flash of panic showed on the girl’s face before she said, “I don’t know. But you should figure it out. I don’t think you should go to jail. And I think someone should stop him, that’s all. And if I give this to you, you have to tell them Stacey didn’t do it either.”

  I hate to break it to you, honey, I thought, but I know plenty of ways to get my phone out of your scheming little hands.

  The girl said, “If you just take it from me, I won’t give you what you really want.”

  “And what do we really want?” I asked.

  “That picture of Stacey breaking into Eric Doyle’s apartment.”

  My eyes widened. So, I had managed to get the shot, and this brat had seen it.

  “It’s a great pic. Real clear. You can see that the window frame’s been pulled out, and she’s trying to climb out the window. It looks very suspicious. The police will definitely have some questions about why she was doing that instead of going through the front door. I mean, she has the alarm code and everything. She’s his girlfriend, but I guess you know that.”

  “We found out yesterday,” Blythe said.

  “Plus, there’s some pictures of green paint. I guess those are evidence too.”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t mention that now that Stacey had put the paint can in my bag, it would just look like I’d tried to frame her with those pictures too.

  “Okay,” Blythe said. “Why don’t you give us the phone, and we’ll give this information to Officer Doyle right away.”

  Her eyes got huge. “No! No, he’s … he’s the one who put Stacey up to it. He has to be. We have to find proof of it before we tell anyone!”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Uncle Eric hated Ellison Baxter. He always has. He cost him his career in the FBI. That’s what Eric always said anyway. And you know what? Guess what he’s talking about doing again, ever since Ellison died? Applying for the FBI.”

  Blythe and I exchanged looks. Uncle Eric? “How could Ellison cost Eric Doyle his future career?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I heard them arguing. I really didn’t understand all that stuff. But Uncle Eric did something a long time ago, and Ellison had proof, and Eric was saying, ‘Come on, it was a long time ago. I’ve had enough of this.’ And Ellison said, ‘Well, the FBI still cares. You just stay right here in Bonney Bay, and keep being a good source, and I’ll keep keeping it quiet, like I’ve done since high school.’”

  “High school!” Blythe said.

  “Yeah. Ellison must’ve really hated Uncle Eric in high school. He picked on him, I guess. I don’t think he would ever let it go, whatever it was. It made him happy to see Uncle Eric so mad.”

  “He liked having the bully under control,” I said.

  The girl nodded. “Maybe that’s why Uncle Eric was so mad all the time. All he ever wanted was to be in the FBI. He was tired of this small town stuff. Maybe that’s why he … ”

  “Why he got Stacey to kill Ellison?” I thought out loud.

  “No! Stacey wouldn’t do that. You aren’t listening!”

  “We are,” Blythe assured her. “We’re listening. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “I’m not telling you that!”

  I looked the girl in the eyes. They were pale gray, with lashes almost as pale. The dark hair was definitely just as much a dye job as the green stripe. “We’re going to look it up as soon as we get home. We know you’re Eric Doyle’s niece, and you’re about ten years old—”

  “I’m eleven-and-a-half!”

  I held back a smile. My trick had worked. It was nice to know I was still smarter than a sixth-grader.

  Blythe eased her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “It’s okay. Just go ahead and tell us your name.”

  “Sammi,” she mumbled. “With an i.”

  I leaned a little closer and said, “Okay, Sammi. We’re going to do our best to help you, as long as you help us out by giving me that phone.”

  Blythe gave me a warning look. Too pushy. Okay, okay.

  “I’ll give you the phone, but those pictures aren’t on there.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you. I deleted them.”

  “You did what?” I said. Blythe’s mouth was clamped shut, as if she was afraid of what she might say.

  Sammi crossed her arms and affected a smug look. “Don’t worry. I sent myself a copy of everything first. So all you have to do is find a way to prove Stacey’s innocence, and then I’ll send them back to you.”

  I was going to throttle her. I was going to strangle this little punk of a girl. But wait! What cell phone possessing eleven-year-old would go anywhere without hers? Blythe and I would have no problem shaking her down.

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Sammi sneered. “I left my phone in a safe place.”

  Okay, so maybe I wasn’t smarter than this sixth-grader. I racked my brain for ways I could make her tell me—you know, ways that weren’t completely illegal.

  “You wouldn�
��t hurt a kid,” Sammi said in a sing-song voice that had even Blythe taking a sharp breath. “Eric killed Ellison Baxter, and you’re going to prove it.”

  “So … you don’t have any proof?” Blythe said.

  Sammi shook her head. “But I know it was him. He just got Stacey to help him frame you. Stacey’s going to be so mad I told you about Eric, but how are they ever going know it’s not her fault if nobody thinks it could be Eric? The right person should go to jail. That’s what’s right. Besides, Eric wouldn’t even care if Stacey took the fall. All he cares about is becoming an FBI agent.” Sammi pulled my phone out of her back pocket and held it out to me. “So here’s your phone.”

  I took it, and resisted the urge to shake her.

  Blythe said, “I know you want to do the right thing, sweetie. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out. Just come with us to the police station.”

  “No police! They’re Eric’s friends, and he’ll find out!”

  I said, “I’m not so sure about that. Not all the officers are his friends. In fact, I think one of them might be glad to help us, and glad to see Eric go, if it comes to that.” Ok, so I wasn’t entirely certain of any of that. But I had come to believe that Will Riggins really wanted to do right by his investigations.

  “You have to do it! You have to prove Eric did it,” Sammi insisted.

  Now, how the heck did she expect us to do that, anyway?

  Sammi said, “You caught Stacey helping Eric, right? You can catch Eric.”

  “But the crime is done,” I said. “So is the coverup. There’s nothing left to spy on. And we’ve gotten ourselves into a lot of trouble trying to follow Stacey.”

  Not to mention the fact that I wasn’t so sure this girl was right about Stacey’s innocence. If Stacey noticed she’d taken the phone, what would she do if she feared the girl would talk? If she found out I had my phone back? I doubted she knew the pictures had been deleted. For that matter, what about Eric? I couldn’t just let this child go back to spending her days with potential murderers.

  “You said it yourself,” I told Sammi. “All your uncle cares about is his career. If he’d kill Ellison, what would he do to you if he thinks you know too much?”

  A hip-hop tune interrupted the tense silence. It came from Sammi’s pocket. A panicked look animated her thin features. She dove away from me, but as she did so, I slipped my hand into her back pocket and grabbed her phone.

  I just about dropped it when I saw the caller’s name—Uncle Eric.

  25

  Sammi lunged back toward me, but Blythe stood in her way. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Sammi.”

  “It’s Eric,” I told Blythe.

  Sammi started to cry quietly. The call went to voicemail, and dear, crazy, Uncle Eric left a message. I played it on speaker. “Sammi? Sammi, you better answer this phone! Where are you? What have you done now? You’re going to pay for this!”

  Sammi shrieked, then crumpled into a ball.

  Blythe knelt down to comfort her. I took the opportunity to scroll through her phone, find my pictures, and text them to myself, and to Blythe, for good measure. Then I called Riggins. I told him how Sammi had lured us out of the apartment, that she had my phone, and that we all had a lot to tell him. “But not at the station,” I said. “Somewhere private.”

  Riggins said, “Brenna, just bring her to the station. You’ve got to come in anyway, and her family is looking for her.”

  “No, she won’t go to the station,” I insisted. I didn’t feel quite safe telling him over the phone that we were going to implicate a police officer in the most serious of crimes. “We’re at Watson Point Beach. Somewhere private near there? We’ll have to walk, wherever it is.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Beach park entrance.”

  “By the gate up on the street?”

  “Yeah. I’ll drive you all somewhere private, and we can talk.”

  “Look, Will, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but there’s no way we’re going to get this kid into a police car without some serious kicking and screaming and scene-making. And we really need to keep this quiet. It’s important.”

  There was a pause. Then he said, “No police car. I’m off duty. Plain clothes. Personal car.”

  “Okay. We’ll be waiting.”

  Riggins pulled up in a silver two-door Acura. Not ideal, but better than a black-and-white. I had no more desire to take another ride in one of those than Sammi did. Blythe coaxed her, sniffling, into the backseat, and I joined Riggins in the front.

  “Hey,” he said. “Nice to see you.”

  His cheek dimpled with a smirk. Somehow, this time, it reassured me instead of bothering me. I was beginning to think that was Riggins, trying to find a little humor in everything.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than yesterday.” I looked away to hide the embarrassment reddening my cheeks. This guy, with his killer dimples, had my throw-up all over his pants less than twenty-four hours ago. I’d forgotten that for a moment. Too bad I couldn’t forget it forever.

  “That’s good.”

  Was Riggins biting his lip? Was the guy actually nervous? Of course he was nervous! He was driving a carful of criminals around, off the clock, off the record. I really needed to keep my mind out of La-La Land.

  “So … you have somewhere in mind?” I said.

  “Yeah. My place.” Another killer smile. “I have a garage that my car actually fits in.” That was a rarity in Bonney Bay. “I’ll pull in and take you guys inside. No one will see you.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Riggins’s place was surprisingly close to ours. Just a few blocks further East. It was also not at all what I’d expected. It was downright gorgeous. Very old, but very newly remodeled, and bigger than many of the homes in town. Definitely historic, built on a corner lot, with a wrap-around porch to die for. How on Earth had a young police officer managed to buy—or event rent, if that was the case—a house like this? He pulled into an alley behind the house, where a garage had been built and fitted with siding to match the turn-of-the century structure.

  “I inherited my place,” I said. “Did you buy this house recently?”

  Riggins hit the button to open the garage. “About three years ago.”

  So, not an inheritance then. Huh. And why would a young, single guy buy an expensive historic home anyway? Will Riggins was shaping up to be almost as big a mystery as what happened to Ellison Baxter.

  “It was a foreclosure, believe it or not. I started investing in real estate while I was in college. I’d saved some money working through high school. I started with a little one-bedroom dump, because I thought it was smarter to buy than to rent, even though that was all I could afford. I ended up enjoying fixing it up, and I sold it for a nice profit. I just kept going from there. When I bought this place, it was a real eyesore.”

  “That’s hard to imagine now,” I said.

  “It looks amazing,” Blythe added from the backseat. Next to her, Sammi sulked, arms crossed.

  Riggins closed the garage behind us. “And now I can’t imagine selling it. I fell in love with this place. I think I knew it, as soon as I saw the listing and started looking into Bonney Bay. I found out there was an opening in the police department here. I made a big gamble, and moved here. I never did that for any other property.”

  We all got out, and Riggins opened the door to the house, releasing a flurry of happy yelping and sleek brown fur. He knelt down to greet a beautiful chocolate lab. Her tail beat the concrete step, and she alternated between adoring looks at Riggins and assessing looks at the rest of us.

  “Say hello, Chloe,” Riggins told his dog. Chloe nudged me with her nose and licked my outstretched hand. She tried to wriggle around me to get at Blythe and Sammi, but Riggins took her by the collar and led her into the kitchen. He grabbed a treat for Chloe from the cupboard and gestured at the table in an adjoining nook. “Have a seat.”

  I sat next to Blythe, and Sammi sat
as far away from me as possible. But that meant that after Riggins offered us drinks and handed Blythe her water and me a Coke, he took his seat right next to Sammi, who’d mutely shaken her head at his offer of a beverage. I could tell she regretted her choice of seats; her face fell the instant he sat down. Sammi kicked the table leg softly but nervously. Chloe nestled her chin in Riggins’s lap.

  I told Riggins what we’d found out, and showed him the pictures I’d taken. Sammi chimed in here and there.

  She ended her contribution with a choked-up plea for Riggins to, “Please save me from Uncle Eric—and please don’t arrest me! Stacey gave me Brenna’s bag. I didn’t know whose it was. All I knew was that she wanted me to put it in Eric’s house.”

  What! “How did she get my bag?” I demanded.

  Sammi shrugged. “Ruth gave her a key to her place a long time ago. See?” she looked at Riggins. “Stacey didn’t break in! She didn’t have to.”

  So that was what Stacey was doing after she took Leo to Sammi’s house before work! Key or no key, it was still a crime. Clearly, the finer points of the law were not being taught at Bonney Bay Elementary. Our apartment wasn’t Ruth’s anymore, and my bag certainly never had been.

  Riggins put a hand on Sammi’s shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to get this all cleared up. But there’s something you all need to understand. Officer Doyle did not kill Ellison Baxter.”

  Sammi jumped up, sending her chair clattering to the floor. “Yes, he did! I knew this was a bad idea! I knew it!”

  “You’re not even going to look into it, after all that?” I stared at Riggins, dumbfounded.