Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3)

by T'Gracie Reese

  Her chance to do these things had come—and gone—almost fifty years ago.

  An era before Title Nine.

  Which had changed women’s sports forever.

  All right, she was only five feet four.

  But wasn’t that the perfect height for a point guard?

  Look at Amanda Billingsley, hurling herself on the floor to tie the ball, and then Alyssha following, now all of them, three of our players down, two or three of theirs, a human knot contorting and writhing and fighting desperately for the ball—

  ––would she have been able to do that?

  ––and, if so, how might that willingness have changed her life?

  In 1963, her year of graduation, what choices did she have?

  She could have gotten married, of course, as she did, to her eternal happiness.

  But what if Frank had not—well, happened to her—what then?

  What if there had not been that junior prom (Frank was a senior), and the kiss in the vacant lot behind the Presbyterian Church, wisteria all abloom on the May night and a thunderstorm rumbling in the distance out over the twinkling coastal oil rigs—

  ––what if there had been no Frank (because there certainly was no other, nor could she have ever conceived another)?

  She would have gone on to teachers college, as she did.

  She would have become a teacher, as she did.

  And as for other choices?

  A secretary.

  A nurse.

  And that was about the limit of it.

  She would not have joined the Air Force to become a fighter pilot, a choice which lay before Haley. She would not have become a firefighter, which Alyssha could do if she so chose. She could not have become a police officer, nor would she probably have considered attending The University of Mississippi Law School (nor The Yale Law School, for that matter).

  No, these young women inhabited a different world.

  One which began for them with stolen passes at center court, and fierce rebounding battles, and pressure three point shots in the last seconds of the ball game, the entire town standing as one and bellowing like a sea beast come aground in this glowing, pulsating, huge hall of a gymnasium.

  What was the call?

  Bay St. Lucy ball!

  Long pass—

  Haley open from the three point line, then a long, arching shot, soft, soft—

  SWISH!

  THREE POINTS!

  Bay St. Lucy five, Pass Christian nothing!

  The quarter wore on, and all players, even the opposing ones, assumed identities, became heroes or villains as the action developed.

  Haley off to Alyssha over to—nope, ball stolen by the tall red-haired girl from Pass Christian down court to the slender girl with glowing ebony skin over to the feisty blonde who was built like a fire plug and who hurtled over everything in her path then her pass re-stolen by Sarah across to Sonia and then—OH NO BAD PASS knocked away by tall Hispanic girl with ponytail taken by fireplug girl—my god, she’s everywhere—down court to red head over to frizz hair number thirty-two—who’d just checked into the ball game—and bounce pass to ponytail back to frizz over to taller-than-anybody-on-our-team, then back to fireplug—

  ––and two points.

  And so it went.

  Halftime score, twenty eight to twenty eight.

  The entrance hall into the gym had been transformed into a winter version of the county fair. The choices of food were somewhat more limited, of course: hot dogs or popcorn or pizza or nachos (with cheese sauce) or huge pickles.

  But Nina was satisfied with her hot dog, and her big orange drink, and the ability to filter through the crowd and overhear shreds of conversation.

  “You think we got enough height this year?”

  “I don’t know. We got that Bennett girl, but she’s a little on the slender side.”

  “Just a freshman, too.”

  “We have speed, I will say that.”

  “It’s not gonna be enough when they go up against Hattiesburg.”

  These comments from farmers from inland, fishermen from seaward, drillers, shopkeepers, housewives, loafers, drunks, no-accounts, and, at the bottom end of the social spectrum, artists of various kinds.

  All drawn like moths, flies, and mosquitoes to the luminescent Bay St. Lucy Gymnasium where Basketball Evening Services were being celebrated and First Communion of Hot Dog and Pickle was divided among the populace.

  It was all quite wonderful.

  It was made more wonderful by the fact that Bay St. Lucy won the game, pulling away gradually through the third quarter, and building a double digit lead in the end, so that even the bench players were able to play a minute or so.

  It seemed an inevitable thing, this outcome. Perhaps because all of the diagrams on the gym floor—which would have been complete gibberish to Nina—were not gibberish at all.

  Meg was a superb coach. She simply saw what the other team was doing, and had an answer for it.

  The crowd filtered out in a festive mood.

  Nina, one of the last people to clamber down from the stands, placed a hand on the shoulder of Meg, who was standing by herself, and staring down the bench at a group of her celebrating players.

  “Great game, Meg. You guys were wonderful.”

  “We got lucky.”

  “No. Your players are just good. And so is their coach.”

  “Thank you, Nina. That means a lot. And—well, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s just, well—something that’s going to happen.”

  “To you?”

  “To Jennifer and me. We’re getting married.”

  For a time Nina knew nothing to say.

  There was nothing to say.

  The only appropriate thing was an embrace.

  And so she and Meg embraced.

  Finally she said:

  “When, Meg?”

  “Towards the end of January. The State of New Mexico has just legalized gay marriage. We’re going to drive over there and do it. Finally. After so many years of being together.”

  “It’s wonderful news.”

  “You’ve always been one of our favorite people in Bay St. Lucy; so I wanted you to know.”

  “I’m honored. I truly am. Of course, you have to have a wedding shower.”

  “You know that’s not necessary.”

  “Of course, it’s necessary; we’ll have it at Margot’s shop.”

  Another embrace; finally Meg said:

  “I guess I need to go down and tell the players congratulations. Donaldsville next week; then Logansport, then the big one with Hattiesburg.”

  “Give them all a high five for me.”

  “I will, Nina. I definitely will.”

  “And the real congratulations go to you and Jennifer; the whole town will be excited for both of you!”

  “Thanks, Nina!”

  And, feeling the warm glow of certainty that the whole town—this whole town at least, this Bay St. Lucy if not every other town in the south—actually would be excited for Meg and Jennifer’s happiness, Nina left the court.

  She let herself be carried along with the flow of the crowd as it made its way through the entry hall and out into the somber night, noticing that, to her and everyone else’s delight, the snow was still continuing to fall.

  The film of powder on the streets had collected, at some points, to almost an inch thick.

  An inch of snow!

  She was just crossing the high school parking lot when she felt an arm slither snake-like between her elbow and ribcage.

  Almost simultaneously, another arm did the same thing on the left side of her body.

  She was pancaked. A Nina sandwich between two human buns, one of which could talk.

  “Keep walking,” it whispered.

  “I was going to keep walking,” she answered, wondering what condiments were to follow.

  “You’re our prisoner,” came mus
tard from the left.

  “You must go,” (mayonnaise from the right) “where we take you.”

  After hearing this, she decided that she’d gone as far as she could with the food analogy and might as well address her kidnappers as Paul and Macy Cox, since that was who they in fact were.

  All right; but where are the two of you taking me?”

  “Into the high school building,” answered Macy, who, Nina could see from the corner of her eye, was still emanating the slightly green/gold glow of happiness that had been radiating from her body since her marriage five months earlier.

  “The high school,” Nina said, “is closed.”

  “I’m the principal,” Paul responded. “I have a key.”

  “What are we going to do in the high school at ten o’clock on a Friday night?”

  “Vandalism.”

  “Well. That sounds like fun.”

  “I would be willing to bet,” said Macy, tightening her grip on Nina’s bicep, “that you’ve never committed an act of vandalism in your life.”

  “Not true. I have a dark side that the two of you know nothing about. I broke an ashtray once. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Don’t go any further,” said Paul, reaching into his pocket as the building loomed before them, “or we’ll have to turn you in.”

  “I don’t mind. Prison doesn’t scare me. So what’s going on, really?”

  “We have,” whispered Macy, “something to tell you, and something to give you.”

  “And you have to do these things in a deserted high school building? You can’t tell me something and give me something at, say, Sergio’s or McGee’s Landing or any other place where they have martinis?”

  The whispering continued:

  “It wouldn’t be as appropriate.”

  “I’ve never known an inappropriate martini.”

  “Your dark side speaking again?”

  “Don’t toy with me, I’m warning you.”

  “We wouldn’t think of it,” said Paul, slipping his key into the lock and swinging open the ponderous door.

  “Voila.”

  “Well, this is certainly exciting. Bay St. Lucy High, only two short hours before the witching hour.”

  “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  “If the police see us––”

  “The police are directing traffic.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “You have to trust us.”

  “The last time I heard that, Paul, someone was murdered.”

  “That was months ago. Surely you don’t still remember it.”

  “Only because I solved it.”

  “That’s true, but still—you need to think happy thoughts.”

  “There’s no place for happy thoughts here; this is a school.”

  And, she mused upon entering the great glass and tile mausoleum, it certainly was. The main hall loomed before them, fluorescent ceiling lights darkened now, the glass on the trophy cases illuminated only by emergency red generator lights glowing and hissing quietly in ceiling panels.

  She could see in her mind’s eye the ghostly images of students stampeding like drunken cattle down the corridor before them, letter jackets in place of brands and pony tails for horns.

  “Come on. Into my office.”

  He produced yet another key and opened the door to the main office.

  Nina entered just behind him, Macy coming third to cover their getaway.

  She wondered where the spray paint was.

  “Now. A little light.”

  He flipped the switch and gestured toward chairs.

  In a matter of seconds, they were all seated––Paul behind his mahogany desk, Nina and Macy in the places reserved for truant teenagers.

  She fought back an urge to say, ‘I didn’t do it!’ realizing, somewhat to her shame, that she had in fact never done it, whatever the ‘it’ might have been, and that she’d been disgustingly good all of her life, and that she had no dark side whatsoever.

  If one thought about it, she had no sides at all.

  She was just Nina, plain and true.

  How boring.

  “So,” she said, wistfully, “what crime are we plotting?”

  Macy smiled:

  “Give it to her, Paul.”

  “Give it to me?” she responded. “Am I being assassinated?”

  Paul was smiling too now, as he handed her a small package, wrapped in gold paper, that he’d taken from his desk drawer.

  “Maybe worse. You should open it.”

  She took it from him. It was a foot or so long, and heavy, as though made of metal.

  “What is this? Three sticks of dynamite?”

  “Worse. This is the thing we have to give you. There’s the other thing first, though—the thing we have to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  Macy stood, took two steps, and wound up behind Paul.

  “There’s a good chance,” she said, her fingers massaging his shoulders, “that we’ll be leaving Bay St. Lucy.”

  Nina sat forward in her chair, looking for further smiles, then realizing the joke was over.

  “You’re what?”

  “Leaving Bay St. Lucy,” Paul said, quietly.

  “Oh, no! But this is awful! You can’t go!”

  “Well. It’s not certain. It depends on you.”

  “On me? How? What’s going on, Coxes? Paul, you’re the best principal we’ve ever had, and, Macy, you’re unquestionably the best English teacher. We can’t lose you!”

  “I don’t know about the English teacher thing,” said Macy. “But as for the principal—well, we can deal with that part.”

  “How? And—and—why are you leaving.”

  “I’ve had a job offer,” said Paul.

  “What kind of a job offer?”

  Macy stepped forward, her smile infectious.

  “They want him to go to Jackson, Nina. He’s been offered a job as special educational assistant to the Governor of Mississippi.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “The pay is obscenely high. But Paul wants to do it because of the reforms he’ll be able to make. There’s an obsession with standardized testing, for example; he’s going to fight that. As well as a lot of other things.”

  Nina nodded, simultaneously thrilled for the two of them and depressed that they would be going.

  “But how does this—how does this depend on me?”

  “It depends,” said Paul, “on whether or not you accept your present.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Open it.”

  She did so, the paper rustling as she tore it back.

  “Here,” said Paul, turning the desk lamp toward her.

  The light glowed yellow on a metal plate that had been affixed to a walnut, triangular box.

  It was name plate.

  On it were inscribed the words:

  NINA BANNISTER: PRINCIPAL

  CHAPTER 2: ADVICE FROM A FRIEND

  “If a story is in you, it has got to come out.”

  ––William Faulkner

  What a night.

  She had gotten home around midnight with a thousand contradictory thoughts buzzing around in her brain like a nest of psychedelic bumble bees.

  Going back.

  And not just going back to teaching, which was her first love. No, going back into administration.

  Principal Nina Bannister.

  She’d only spent four years as a principal––the last four in her thirty year career in the schools—and they had, by all accounts, been good ones. She’d been thought of by the town, and by the students, and by the parents, and by the state authorities, as being competent.

  No horrible disasters, budgetary crises, student riots, or money laundering scams, had taken place on her watch.

  But, oh, the innumerable headaches!

  Hamlet: “And who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life…”

&n
bsp; And what was a ‘fardel,’ anyway?

  (She’d always meant to look that up.)

  Who would go back?

  She’d spent half the night asking herself the question.

  The other half of the night had been spent feeding Furl, and petting him, until finally he’d grown disgusted with her unwanted attention and hidden in the clothes hamper; she’d made cocoa, and drunk it; she’d read the fourth chapter of an Agatha Christie novel (not quite remembering which one. A Poirot? A Miss Marple? Who knew?); she’d toasted and eaten an Eggo.

  And she’d paced, wondering whether to go down to the beach and pace there and deciding ultimately against it, for fear of disturbing teenagers who might have wanted to neck.

  Real sleep never came. There was a period of dozing that must have taken place during three and five AM by her best reckoning, but that was worst of all. “For in that endless sleep of re-principalization what dreams may come?”

  Why was she always associating going back into the schools with Hamlet? That was not a good sign; not a good sign at all.

  So she’d tossed and turned for a time on her little bed, visualizing all of the fights she’d have to break up, and preferring even the most savage of them to one parent conference dealing with the fact that Susan or Johnny had been found stashing condoms in a locker, or had been suspected of smoking marijuana behind the ag building.

  There was no hope. She would simply have to get up and face the day.

  So she did, resolving how best to confront this “To be or not to be a principal”––

  Shoo Hamlet! Shoo, shoo!

  ––crisis.

  She would, as soon as sufficient light had spread over the isthmus of Mississippiland, wander into town and do some pastry shopping at Bagatelli’s bakery.

  There she’d meet Margot Gavin, who always bought croissants at precisely seven AM.

  Margot was always curious about anything going on in Nina’s life—despite the fact that nothing very interesting ever was going on in Nina’s life, except when she was solving murders, which had happened twice in the past year, go figure—and would pump her for information, would grill her about this decision she now had to make, would carefully, in great detail, go over the pros and cons of the matter (were there any pros, really?), and would, by midmorning, have presented her with a concise summary of what she should or should not do.