Thrown Off: A Cozy Mystery (Brenna Battle Book 3)

by Laney Monday

  “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out with us?”

  “No,” Katie said, “we’re fine.”

  “Maybe after the parade,” Sammi said.

  “Stay together!” warned Blythe.

  “No boys!” Will added.

  Sammi gave him a killer glare.

  Blythe snickered. “You sounded just like Brenna,” she whispered to Will.

  Will winked at me. “I thought you’d want to say that. I just saved you from being the bad guy.”

  I watched the girls walk away and melt into the crowd with mixed feelings. It was a small town. People were supposed to feel safe here. And there was something to be said for letting kids learn how to be independent. But it still made me sad, because I knew that wasn’t what this was about for these girls. Their moms weren’t trying to give them their independence; their moms were trying to keep their own independence. Independence, even, from spending the holiday with their girls.

  And of course, there was one teensy little detail that made sending kids out to spend this particular Independence Day on their own a very bad idea. There was a murderer on the loose. A murderer who knew I was trying to expose them. Did they know that Sammi had helped me solve crimes before? Would they target her?

  I reassured myself that there were police everywhere. Not to mention Bonney Bay-ans and good-hearted people from all over the county and beyond. The kind of people looking for an old-fashioned Fourth of July with their families. They were probably safer in the crowd than they were at home.

  28

  Families had already started lining the streets. Little ones sat on the curb, waiting for the parade to begin. Some of the adults unfolded camping chairs on the sidewalks behind their kids. The Congregational Church parking lot was full of out-of-towners’ cars. Outside the church, a sign marked the parking lot entrance: Support our mission trip! Parking $10 all day! Not a bad deal, not to mention a really smart move. Every parking lot in town was packed, including the church’s.

  Blythe and I hurried to the staging area, a couple of blocks away from the beginning of the parade route, behind Town Hall. We’d brought the rented flatbed around this morning and fitted it with a small mat area.

  Jill Rowe and her boys were already there, waiting by the truck. “Don’t worry,” Jill said with a wave, “You’re not late. I’m early. Gary teases me about it all the time.”

  “Where is Gary?” I asked as Blythe and I high-fived the boys.

  “He’s watching our spot down at the park for the fireworks.” She pointed toward the water. “He’s going to come up to watch the parade, though.”

  Jill’s usual ponytail was wrapped in a bunch of red and blue metallic star garland—the kind you bought at the dollar store and wrapped around centerpieces. She sported a Captain America tank top and her boys had matching Captain America T-shirts. I wore my Olympic podium shirt. Blythe had insisted. The USA on the front was done in a kind of reflective ink that appeared to glow in photos. It had driven the photographers at the last Olympics crazy every time an American made it onto the podium. Too bad I didn’t get a chance to be one of those annoying Americans messing up the podium shots.

  An old-school bike bell dinged, and a small voice called out, “Coming through!” A little girl with blond pigtails adorned with red, white, and blue ribbons pedaled by. Her wheels flashed with red, white, and blue bling, and matching streamers were wrapped around her handlebars. A dozen or so kids on decorated bikes, scooters, and wagons gathered, some of the younger ones with moms and dads jogging along.

  “Helen!” I spotted my favorite librarian and gave her a hug, then regarded the curious row of library book carts behind her. The shelves of each cart were filled with hardcover books, all held securely in place with black, seatbelt-like straps.

  “Brenna!”

  “What are you going to do with those?” I indicated the carts.

  Helen winked. “Wait and see. I think we’re right next to you in the parade line-up. You’ll get to watch.”

  “Sensei Brenna!” Katie came up to me, breathing hard. Sammi was close behind.

  “See, Katie, I told you we weren’t late,” Sammi said.

  “I didn’t want you and Sensei Blythe to worry,” Katie said.

  I gave her a squeeze. “Sammi should listen to you. You’re a good influence.”

  I got an eye-roll from Sammi for that. Blythe poked me before I could roll my eyes back. Soon we had a cluster of Battlers gathered around us, all dressed in red, white, and blue. Sammi, Katie, Anthony, and Charles pulled their judo gis on over their shorts and T-shirts.

  “Everyone’s going to be watching us,” Charles told me quietly.

  “Just focus on your judo. You’ll be fine. Remember what I told you guys to do if you mess up.”

  “Just take a good fall.”

  “That’s right. Your job is to make each other look good today. If you mess up, chances are that crowd won’t even know the difference.”

  “Hi, Sensei Blythe and Sensei Brenna!” Ellie arrived with her Dad. She waved enthusiastically while he attacked her ice-cream-stained face with a wet wipe.

  More Battlers came running to our makeshift float. “Two, four, five…” Blythe stood on her tip-toes and started pointing and counting heads. “All Battlers accounted for!”

  We reviewed the safety rules and made sure each Battler remembered his or her place. Martin’s Dad, James, was about to check the sound system, when a police siren let out a short series of blips. A sixty-something man in a crisp, short-sleeved button-up shirt stood at the front of the parade participants, next to Will’s cruiser. “Hello everyone, and happy Independence Day!”

  Everyone clapped and cheered, and he smiled even wider. He had the kind of broad mouth that always seems to be smiling.

  “As most of you know, I’m Jeff Gainsborough, Bonney Bay’s Town Administrator. It’s tradition for the mayor to head the parade, right after the lead police car. Sadly, we’re temporarily without a mayor, and we’ll hold a special election to fill that office soon. The citizen of the year usually follows the mayor, but he’ll go first this time, followed by the volunteer of the year and teacher of the year. Then our wonderful Patriots on Wheels.” He gestured at the kids with their decorated bikes, scooters, and wagons.

  It hit me then, how sad and unusual it must be for Bonney Bay, to be dealing with serious crimes like this. They didn’t even have their mayor to ride in their traditional Independence Day parade because of a murder case that had hit the town hard, right when we arrived from Arizona.

  Will stepped out of the cruiser and I caught his eye. My heart fluttered. I may have started to daydream just a little. Hopefully I didn’t miss anything important from Jeff Gainsborough while I imagined romping through the surf in Rio with Will’s hand in mine.

  Before I knew it, it was time to load up and start moving. The parade was on. Martin’s Dad, James, drove our truck. As it slowly rolled forward, Sammi, Katie, Anthony, Charles, and I sat against the back of the cab, waving and holding up signs. We tossed lollipops to the kids in the crowd. Blythe and the other Battlers did the same from the ground, at the rear of the truck.

  The librarians were in front of us, and behind us, the Bonney Bay Historical Museum’s Pioneer Society marched proudly in their calico dresses and bonnets, followed by the local chapter of Daughters of the American Revolution. One of the Pioneer Society ladies pulled a covered wagon—a classic Radio Flyer fitted with a Conestoga-style top. Two little ones in costume rode inside, eating candy and throwing a fistful to the spectators every now and then, too.

  Stilt-walkers, like giant, larger-than-life puppets, lurched along both sides of the parade. Their three-foot-long papier-mâché heads and big hands were attached to the ends of their cloth bodies, which concealed people on stilts. They were cool, but their swaying bodies, combined with their painted papier-mâché faces, had a somber, creepy feel to me.

  Something pinged me in the back of the head. A grown woman with gle
aming teeth gave me a garish smile. It was Rebecca Hayes! Over her dark, curly hair, she wore a sun visor emblazoned with the bright purple logo of a dentist’s office. She carried a big cloth bag filled with treats. Rebecca’s daughter had been one of Miss Ruth’s ballerinas. And Rebecca was convinced Ruth’s retirement was all my fault. I was not only responsible for the end of her daughter’s time with her beloved teacher and her fellow dancers, I’d brought a decidedly un-classy activity into Bonney Bay to take its place. I’d heard that Rebecca had started working as an orthodontist’s assistant. I guess she got some new braces along with the job.

  Sammi picked up something near my feet. A toothbrush. Some treat! A sort of hygienic business card for Dr. J.R. Hooper, D.D.S., I guess. The kids were going to need it, after all this candy. But she really should watch her aim.

  Before I could stop her, Sammi hurled the toothbrush right back at Rebecca. It thwacked her braces and came straight at me like some kind of possessed boomerang. My hand snapped up instinctively, and I caught it. Oh, it was tempting to peg Rebecca right back with it. Instead, I tucked it in my back pocket. Yep, that’s me. Brenna Battle, taking the high road. Being a good example for children.

  But Sammi didn’t take too well to that particular example. She slipped the toothbrush out of my pocket and chucked it back at Rebecca.

  “Sammi!” Katie gasped. But it was too late.

  This time, Rebecca’s back was turned. Rebecca didn’t have a chance. Sammi had a good arm, and the toothbrush struck her right in the bum.

  “She did that on purpose,” Sammi insisted.

  Rebecca yelped and swatted at her own bottom. “There’s a bee!” she screamed.

  Blythe gasped and looked back at us in dismay. Anthony and Charles rolled around the mat laughing and imitating Rebecca’s face. I just about choked to death, trying not to laugh myself.

  One of the Daughters of the American Revolution bent down in her long, petticoated dress and picked up the object responsible for Rebecca’s “sting.” She shook her head. “It was just this. One of your toothbrushes.”

  Rebecca snatched the toothbrush back and hissed, “Thank you.” She turned on me with a threatening glare.

  On the one hand, I was embarrassed that Sammi had pegged her in the rear end in front of the crowd. It hardly spoke well of what Bonney Bay Battlers could do to help reinforce positive behavior. On the other hand, when Rebecca gave me that look, I wished I were twelve years old so I could say, Puh-lease. Is that the best you’ve got?

  I decided to go with nonchalant and I gave her a shrug. “Sorry. I guess Sammi thought you might want that toothbrush back, since it accidentally landed on our truck.”

  Rebecca gave me one last nasty look, then hurried forward, away from our float, hurling toothbrushes at the crowd with a vengeance.

  Our first stop was at the intersection of Pioneer and Main Streets. A Master of Ceremonies was stationed there, on a small platform, with an American flag as a backdrop.

  “All who are able, please rise while Bonney Bay’s own Pinstripe Quartet sings the National Anthem,” he said.

  I motioned for my little group on the truck with me to rise, and Blythe stood proud with her Battlers on the ground, pompoms held over their hearts.

  The song ended, the crowd applauded, and then we were on. Will’s cruiser pulled forward, then Gainsborough in a red convertible on loan from a local car dealer. The M.C. introduced each float and group to the crowd as we approached. The librarians advanced and we idled in place as Helen blew a whistle and the librarians sprang into motion. They pushed their carts forward, then back, zig-zagged in sync, then spun the carts in circles, letting go to clap their hands to their chant:

  Books,

  Books!

  We’ve got books!

  You got a B?

  I got a B!

  Brilliant!

  O, O, we got two Os!

  Outstanding! Out of this world!

  K! K for knowledge

  And Kickin’ it!

  S! S for smart

  We’re so smart,

  Just check out this cart!

  “Woo-hoo! Go, Helen!” Blythe cheered.

  I gave the librarians a whistle. This was fun. So, so, much fun. I seriously owed my sister an apology for dragging my feet on this.

  And then it was our turn. The truck rolled into position, and James cranked the music up. Anthony and Charles started off, while Sammi and Katie stood, hands on their hips, on either side of me, heads down. The tempo changed and the girls danced onto the mat, high-fived the boys tag-team style, and launched into the mock fight I’d choreographed. It was perfect and they were having so much fun, so into the act, there just might’ve been a little tear in my eye.

  The little ones in the front waved their pompoms and their miniature flags in time with Blythe. All but Ellie. She waved one pompom a little out of sync and tucked the other one under her arm so she could pick her nose.

  The crowd burst into laughter and cheers. Someone whistled loudly. I followed the sound and saw Will, pinkies in his mouth, standing beside his cruiser with the door open. He caught my eye, smiled, and waved. Oh, the dimples! The look in his eye! The crowd roared for my Battlers and the camera flashes ricocheted off my podium shirt. I loved the Fourth of July, I loved this country, I loved this town, I loved my sister, I loved my new life—and I loved that man. It was a sweet, sweet feeling. No stomach-twistiness. No fear.

  We tossed candy at the crowd like there was no tomorrow. Will got back in his cruiser and we pulled forward. As the parade marched on, a stilt-walker puppet wove along the edges of the crowd. It held out its hand for kids to “shake.” Then it bobbed over to our truck. What was he doing? Could he see how close he was? Oh, he wanted me to shake his hand. I smiled and reached out.

  “Mind your own business,” a male voice growled from underneath the billowing white cloth that covered the person inside.

  “What?” I withdrew my hand.

  “Mind your own business, if you know what’s good for you.”

  There was no questioning the intensity of the threat in his tone. I lunged and grabbed at the cloth, but the puppet swayed back at the same time. The fabric flapped up and a man’s hand pulled out just a little. He had a gun.

  29

  He has a gun! I almost shouted it, but to cause a panic like that, right here, could be disastrous, and he was already working his way back through the crowd, the gun—or whatever it was—concealed, not drawn in threat. Just as I hesitated, the truck started rolling forward again. Was it a real gun? Was it a gun at all? Couldn’t it have been a black phone? A walkie-talkie used to communicate with the other stilt-walkers?

  I glanced at Sammi and Katie, then the boys. They were all happily waving and throwing candy. They must not have seen it, or heard the threat.

  If it was a gun, was the man who’d threatened me someone connected to Millie’s murder, who didn’t want me discovering the truth? If so, that meant that I was right about Carlos, and he wasn’t the killer. Or was it someone who was convinced Carlos was guilty, and who was afraid I was working with him to cast blame elsewhere?

  There was a strong possibility that the killer was on the loose, running around this parade. I had to tell the police. I texted Will, but he didn’t respond. I wasn’t surprised. Not only was he on duty, he was driving the police car at the front of the parade. Not exactly a good time to text and drive. I could jump down, run ahead to his cruiser, and tell him, but that would mean jumping down while we were still moving, leaving the kids alone on the truck, and leaving everyone to wonder what on Earth was wrong with me. Maybe I should call 9-1-1. From the back of a flatbed truck during the parade? Where four kids could easily hear what I was saying? One of whom, at least, was nosy and inclined to interfere in dangerous business.

  #

  As soon as the parade was over and we reached the staging area, I grabbed Blythe and whispered to her what had happened.

  “Are you sure it was a gun?” she
asked, keeping her voice low.

  I shook my head. “No. That’s the problem.”

  Blythe said, “I think we should report it. He’s part of that stilt puppet group. Somebody knows who was under that costume. The police can find him and see if he’s armed.”

  I hugged my sister. She made so much sense. Sometimes it drove me crazy. Times like now, I loved it. “Okay, you make sure all the kids get back to their parents. I’m going to tell Will.” And find those stilt people.

  As I headed toward the front of the parade group, I ran into Helen Rolf. “Hey, Helen. I loved your book cart dance!”

  “Thank you, Brenna, but your little Battlers stole the show.”

  I felt my smile return. “I can’t believe they pulled it off. Blythe worked really hard to choreograph that and get them ready. Listen, Helen. I’m trying to find one of the guys who was operating a stilt puppet. Do you think they’re still around here somewhere?“

  “Maybe. They’re with George Find from the Artists’ Association. Do you know him?”

  I shook my head and tried to mask my surprise. The Artists’ Association? Gunter? He was part of the Artists’ Association. Could he have been the guy? “I haven’t met George Find. What does he look like?”

  “Long, sandy hair. Ponytail. Ah, and he’ll be wearing his usual patriotic pants for Independence Day, I’m sure.”

  “Patriotic pants?”

  “Pants that look like a flag. You’ll see.”

  Just as Helen had predicted, it was the pants I spotted first. Loose, late eighties M.C. Hammer-style pants. The stars and stripes billowed on George Find’s legs as if they were a double flag pole.

  He was helping a stilt-walker out of his costume. My heart beat double-time. Was this the guy? But a sweaty, smiling woman—not a man—emerged from the papier-mâché and fabric.

  Undeterred, I walked up to George. “Hi, George. I’m Brenna Battle. My sister, Blythe, and I were in the parade today with our judo kids.”