Smiling, I nodded. "Wouldn't find this in California."
"What would you find?" one of the women asked out of curiosity, holding her hot dog and bun in one hand, a cigarette dangling from the other.
"Kale," I said with a little bit less of a smile. "Far less tasty. Donna, could I speak to you for a moment?"
As the women discussed what all was wrong with eating too much kale, I pulled my friend away from the group under the ruse of discussing a few lingering logistics.
"Did you have a good time?" Donna asked, her cheeks bright. "I thought the whole event went very smoothly."
"You did wonderfully," I said, sliding an arm around my friend's shoulder. "It was a very enjoyable run," I added, unwilling to raise my eyes.
Donna narrowed her own at me. "I sense a but in there."
"A small one," I said.
"A small butt?" she asked, peeking at her own. "I wish."
I grinned at my petite friend. "You have no problems in that area."
"What is it?" she asked, her gaze turning more serious. "Did something go wrong?"
"I'm…I'm not sure," I said. "But yes, I think so. I guess you could say that."
"Spit it out, California," Donna said.
I suddenly felt as if I were one of her children about to tell her a piece of less-than-ideal news. "Okay, something weird happened on the course. I was running along all fine and dandy when someone came up to me and shoved a pouch into my hand."
"A pouch?" Donna furrowed her brow. "Did you look ill? Maybe it was an energy gel. People eat those, you know. Though not usually for 5Ks, but…"
"Jeesh, I didn't look that ill," I said. "I managed to finish the race just fine. But I get the feeling that…" I leaned in towards Donna and lowered my voice. "People thought I was part of something."
"Like a Fun Run?" Donna asked. "I don't see what you're saying, Misty."
"Well, it was a little weird. At the beginning of the race someone told me to move faster. He had a red handkerchief on his head. He mentioned something about me being third leg or whatnot, which usually means a relay. But this clearly wasn't a relay."
Donna shook her head in agreement.
"Just after the two and a half mile marker—"
"Around the nature center?" Donna asked.
"Yeah. In there, actually. Nobody else was around. And a guy with a blue handkerchief around his head ran up behind me and shoved a small bag into my hand. Then he peeled off into the woods. I haven't seen either of them since," I said. "I doubt they finished the race."
"Well?" Donna gave me a blank stare. "What was in the pouch?"
"I don't know for a fact," I said. "That's the thing. I finished the race—I was so close to being done, and there were people around. It took a few tenths more of a mile to cross the finish line. But once I did, someone took it from me. He said it was diamonds, but I didn't see it for myself."
"Diamonds?" Donna's eyes widened. "Who took it?"
"The starter," I said, leaning in. "The gun he was using to start the race was real."
"We need to call the police," Donna said, her eyes still large with shock. She reached for her phone, a mixture of anger and nerves causing her hand to shake. "Nobody takes the fun out of my run."
"Don't," I said, laying a hand over hers. "He…" I cleared my throat. "He said not to get the police involved, or else…"
"But we can't just let him get away with it," Donna said. "Not in a town as small as Little Foot. That sort of thing doesn't happen here."
"I think we should leave it alone. He seemed serious. Do you know the guy?" I asked.
Donna shook her head. "Our normal starter—Mr. Olsen, the crazy old man from the bar—got sick last night, so we used this guy last minute. He's from a town over. He volunteered actually—at the time I thought we were lucky to have him. I wrote his name down somewhere…"
I tapped my chin in thought while Donna fished around for some sort of documentation on the starter with the real gun.
"Did Mr. Olsen get sick…naturally?" I asked.
Donna's spine stiffened. "Mr. Olsen may be crazy and mean and preserved with piss and vinegar, but I don't like when people mess with the citizens of my town. We're going to just peek into this," Donna said. "I have children here. I can't let dangerous people run around."
"We don't really know if it was dangerous," I said. "I never saw what was in the pouch. Maybe he just said diamonds."
Donna gave me a disapproving glance. "He held a gun to you, Misty. That is dangerous. Which means that whatever is in the pouch is worth threatening another person's life over. All in all, nasty business."
"Which is why we should stay away from it," I pointed out. "I'm only in town for the rest of the day after all. Then I leave to head back to Cali."
Donna paused. "Make me a deal."
I exhaled a long, slow breath. I already knew what she'd ask. I hadn't planned on spending my last day in town hunting for the culprit who'd ruined a Fun Run. But Donna was my friend, and if she felt threatened…
"The deal is this—you help me investigate for the rest of the day, then I'll buy you dinner tonight," Donna said. "You'll never hear about it again."
"But it's Hot Dog Days," I pointed out unnecessarily.
"Exactly the reason why we need to figure it out. I can't have the reputation of Hot Dog Days ruined by one bad apple." Donna smirked. "See what I did there?"
"Clever," I said. "Fine. I'll help you—nothing more than asking around a bit, mind you—for the next couple of hours. But when I get hungry for dinner, that's it. No more."
"Better eat a lot of hot dogs now, then," Donna grumbled. But she stuck her hand out and offered me a shake.
A few pumps of the handshake later, and we had a deal.
"Where do we start?" I asked.
"I have a curious feeling that Mr. Olsen might have something to say about his sudden… illness," Donna said. "To the bar!"
"I love those words," I mumbled. "Just usually not at nine in the morning."
"Mr. Olsen will be at the bar, sick or not," Donna said. "Plus, I could go for a mimosa. Who knew Fun Runs could be so stressful?"
* * *
Donna talked to some of the other moms in the circle that I'd pulled her away from. Somehow she lined up a different woman to make sure each kid was being watched at all times. I don't know how she did it—even assistants in Hollywood didn't have to finagle such busy schedules on short notice.
In three sentences she'd made sure that Alec was with a hockey buddy, her oldest was with a good friend's family, the other three were somewhere safe, and her husband was keeping busy with his own group of firefighter pals. Donna was Superwoman. How she managed five kids, let alone a 5K, blew my mind every time I saw her.
Once she snuck away, it didn't take long for us to hop into Donna's van and drive the short distance to Little Lake, the town both Donna and I had grown up in. She slid into a parking spot outside of the tiny town bar—making the minivan skid as if it was a racecar and not a kid-toting machine.
"All right there, biker mama," I said, feeling nauseous as I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid from the car. "You definitely burned some rubber."
"Sweet," Donna said, her eyes glowing. Upon my wide-eyed stare, she frowned. "Give me a break. I usually have kids with me. I can't be irresponsible—I'm not allowed to be."
I smiled. "Fine. Girls' day out—solving mysteries."
Donna swung her arm around me. "I usually just let you be irresponsible for me, but today—I want in on it, too."
"Dealio," I said. "Your code name can be Motorcycle Mama."
"I like it," Donna said. "Wish I had a leather jacket."
"Next time," I said as we pulled open the dusty door to the place. Rows of glasses lined the shelves above a sturdy, no-nonsense wooden bar. I wouldn't have been surprised if Mr. Olsen had built it with his bare hands. Plain wooden chairs and even plainer wooden tables gave the place a cabin-like ambiance.
At nine in the morning t
he joint was free from the stickiness of spilled beer and food crumbs. It was almost peaceful at this time—all the wood combined with the age-old rafters gave the place a foresty, rustic feeling.
"Who's there?" a gruff voice called from behind the bar. "Who be there? I ain't open. Get your liquor somewhere else at this hour, ya troublemakers—oh, hi Donna." Mr. Olsen himself appeared suddenly behind the counter, as if he'd been sitting on a chair behind it, his head not visible behind the tall countertop. He held a large blue pail in one hand and, judging by the beads of sweat accumulating on his aging forehead, he still wasn't feeling up to snuff.
Donna must have completely forgotten about her "child-free girls' day out" because her motherly instincts instantly clicked into place. Clucking sympathetically, she approached the crotchety old man and lightly laid a hand against his cheek, frowning in thought as she felt his temperature.
"You're cold. And clammy," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Why are you here?"
"Can't abandon this place," he said. "I ain't taken no sick day in fifty-odd years, and I ain't about to start now."
"Mr. Olsen," Donna chided. "Go home and get some rest. I order you."
"You ain't orderin' me to do nothing. I remember you from when you alls was little tykes. Always troublemakin'. If I remember right, you two ladies came in here on your prom night askin' for some beverages of the adult variety." Mr. Olsen shook his finger at us. "Troublemakers."
I shrunk back, feeling like I was eighteen all over again. Both good and bad memories flooded back, but for the sake of the conversation, I pushed them away.
"It was her fault," Donna said, pointing at me. "She dragged me in here."
I rolled my eyes. "You didn't have a problem drinking the flask Mr. Olsen gave us as a gift."
"Jus' a lil nip," Mr. Olsen grumbled. "Better try it under safe circumstances from me rather'n from an immature boy with only one objective—and not a good one."
I looked down at my shoes. I didn't want to talk about those objectives with a seventy-plus year old man. Despite his crusty exterior, the town loved him. Rigid and politically incorrect and even a tinge mean, he was a town staple with plenty of redeeming qualities. He just liked to keep those redeeming qualities well hidden.
"Thank you for your generosity," Donna said in all seriousness. "Now we need to find out something. We had a little…incident during the Fun Run today."
"I was supposed to bang the gun," Mr. Olsen said. "To start the race off. Except they told me it weren't a real gun."
I glanced at Donna, waiting to see how much she'd say.
"Exactly," Donna said. "And we have reason to believe you might not be sick on accident. Was there anyone who gave you anything to eat or drink yesterday that could've caused you to become ill?"
"Someone wanted my job?" Mr. Olsen asked. "I get it. It's fun bangin' off them guns at the starting line. Just wish it were a real one," he said, a forlorn look taking over his features.
"Think, Mr. Olsen," Donna said. "Maybe someone in your bar?"
Mr. Olsen scrunched up his wrinkled face—between the hair emerging from his ears as long as my pinky finger and wiry as straw, his balding head, and the sour expression on his face, he was quite a character. I hadn't realized it when I had lived here—mostly because he was such a normal fixture of the town. But after moving away, I realized he was a very unique duck.
"There's all sorts of folk coming and going from here all the time. I ain't be judgin' them," Mr. Olsen said.
Donna and I looked at each other—he was easily the most judgmental person in town. The man didn't mean to be, it just…for him, it just came with the combination of old age and fifty years in the bar industry.
"Fine, I be judging them," Mr. Olsen said with a growl. "I had three tables of new folks yesterday. Well, I guess technically two."
I exchanged a glance with Donna, wondering what had caused the sudden variance in Mr. Olsen's calculations.
"I changed my mind from three to two 'cause there was a mom with a lil' tyke in here, but she wasn't technically new," he sighed with the effort of speaking. "She's been in here a few times this week, but I ain't seen her before that. I started chatting with her yesterday, wonderin' why she carried her lil' guy around to the bar with her, but she said she couldn't afford a sitter. Maybe you know her? She said that her husband was involved in some relay today. Probably the same one I was supposed to work at."
Mr. Olsen looked as if he was on the verge of puking, so I helped him sit down on a little stool behind the bar.
"That's not right," Donna said. "We didn't have a relay event."
"Who else was new here?" I asked, not wanting to think that a mom with a toddler was behind the diamond heist.
Mr. Olsen grunted a small smile. "Besides her, there were that shiny new principal they got over there in Little Foot. He planted his bottom right over there." Mr. Olsen extended a gnarly finger attached to a stiff arm towards a table in the corner. "He were alone."
"Was alone, huh?" Donna asked pointedly, always one for a grammar lesson.
"Relax," I told Donna with a warning note to my voice.
"Yes, he were alone," Mr. Olsen said, beginning the Battle of Bad Grammar all over again. They'd been going at it for years. "And last, there were a few people in town for yer little Fun Run. I could tell 'cause they was wearin' their running clothes and silly little bandanas." Mr. Olsen sighed. "Why they need a handkerchief on their head? If they're gonna sweat, sweat like a man."
I glanced at Mr. Olsen, thinking he was sweating more like a pig giving birth than a man. He looked a little woozy, and despite his determination to help us out, I was worried about his condition.
"You were planning to work as the starter right up until last night, right?" I asked.
"Up right 'til this morn," Mr. Olsen said. "I puked my guts out all through the nigh', and still I didn't wanna let lil' Donna here down. Thought it was all gone for a minute but nope. Keeps coming back." He winced and leaned over.
"Let's get you to the hospital," I said.
"No." Mr. Olsen's answer was simple and firm.
"Yes," I countered. "You're not looking so great."
"I'll be fine," he said. "Nothin' ain't killed me yet."
"Well, true," I agreed. "But we don't want it to either."
"I'm a tough old man," he said. "Proud of it."
"And so are we, but we're going to the hospital," I said, looking to Donna for support. I raised my eyebrows at my friend as if to say help me out!
Donna exhaled as if still annoyed about the Battle at Grammar Hill but reached for Mr. Olsen's arm and heaved him up from his seat. "We're taking you to the hospital," she said. "And we're not taking 'no' for an answer."
"I ain't going," Mr. Olsen said. "I've had the flu and kicked its sorry little butt more times than I care to remember."
"Mr. Olsen, this isn't the flu," Donna said. "We have reason to believe you've been poisoned."
Though I had been expecting something of the sort, to hear the words from Donna's mouth made the theory come alive, and I didn't like it. A thrill of terror shot through my veins—who would poison poor old Mr. Olsen to get his job of kicking off a Fun Run with a fake gun?
"Impossible," Mr. Olsen said. "My body is immune to poison."
"Nonsense," Donna said. "Did you eat something or drink something from the bar yesterday?"
"Of course," Mr. Olsen said. "I always do. Screwdriver at nine a.m., second screwdriver at ten. Bloody Mary around eleven and a glass of wine with lunch. I start on the good stuff about three in the afternoon."
Donna looked at me, her lips in a tight line.
"Doesn't mean anything," Mr. Olsen said. "It's what I always do."
"Exactly," Donna said. "It's predictable."
"But who would want to poison me?" Mr. Olsen asked.
"I am not sure who," Donna said. "All I know is that we did not have a relay event, and this starter had an ulterior motive." She glanced at me, her eyes serious. "I
had to find someone last minute this morning. His name was Tim something. I can't remember, but I have it written down somewhere."
I crossed my arms. "And he held a gun to me."
"He held a gun to you?" Mr. Olsen said. "Dang, I knew it was a real gun. What a rip. Wish I never got poisoned."
"Let's go, you," Donna said. "To the hospital. We have work to do."
"Who you gonna look for?" he asked.
Donna's face looked grim. "We'll need everything you can remember about the woman with her baby. I need to find her husband—I don't like that he said he's involved with a relay. We didn't have a relay. And if that happens to lead to a dead end, then we'll look at the principal and the men with handkerchiefs. I need to find that starter."
* * *
It didn't take long to drop Mr. Olsen off at the hospital and pick his brain for every last detail that he could remember of the woman and her child. It also didn't take long to realize that the name the starter had given Donna was a fake, as was his address.
"Let's lock up quickly and get a move on," I said as Donna and I approached Froggy's—Mr. Olsen's bar—for the second time that day. Two trips to the bar before noon, I might add. That was a record, even for me. He'd asked us to put a closed sign on the door once the hospital staff insisted he stay in the building for more than five minutes.
"Okay," I'd grumbled, pretty sure that nobody would be banging down Froggy's door at ten a.m.
I was right. But not for long.
Donna and I stepped inside the bar, intending only to grab a glass of water and dust up a bit so that the bar would be in tip top shape when Mr. Olsen came home from the hospital. We'd barely poured ourselves a glass of water and picked up a towel before there was a knock on the door. Giving Donna a shrug, I headed over to answer it.
"Lance?" I asked, as I opened the door to reveal a brown-haired, hazel-eyed figure standing on the steps. It was the principal I'd met at the 5K this morning. "Can I help you with something? I'd offer you a drink, but we're not technically serving anything. I'm just locking up."
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