Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3) (23 page)

“Well. That was April van Osdale. She’s…”

But she was interrupted by Goldmann Bristow, who shook his head quietly and said:

“I know who she is.”

Both women in the room looked at him.

“You know who she is?” asked Margot.

He nodded, continuing to speak quietly.

“She’s a classic paranoid schizophrenic.”

Nina looked at him:

“She thinks somebody may be trying to kill her.”

Bristow continued to nod:

“And someone is.”

“Who?” asked Nina.

“She is.”

And for a time, there seemed nothing more to say.

CHAPTER 15: THE THRILL OF VICTORY, AND…

“Battles lost not alone because of superior numbers and failing ammunition and stores, but because of generals who should not have been generals.”

––
William Faulkner

The following afternoon at five o’clock, she arrived at the gym to board the bus for Donaldsonville.

Most of the players—Alyssha, Sonia, Amanda, Sarah, Haley—were already there, and getting aboard.

They all had bags of athletic gear.

She knew what to expect. She’d ridden the band bus decades ago to Bay St. Lucy’s away games. There would be high spirits, singing, hand clapping…

She had spent the day looking forward to it.

NOW THIRTY NINE KIDS ALL CALL ME MAAAAAWWW

FROM SIPPING CIDER THROUGH A STRAAAAAWWWW!

And…

CHEER CHEER FOR ST LUCY HIGH!

BRING ON THE WHISKEY BRING ON THE RYE!

She secured the Vespa to the metal bike rack in front of the main door, waved to the bus driver, made sure of the contents of her own bag, slung it over her shoulder, and boarded the bus.

“Hi, ladies!”

“Hey, Ms. Bannister!”

“Hey, Coach!”

She turned to Arnie Johnson, the balding and perpetually smiling driver who ran a swamp excursion as his primary source of income, and asked:

“So when do we arrive in Donaldsonville?”

His smile never disappeared, and his humor was thus measured by the width of it.

Medium width.

“About an hour. It’s thirty five miles away. We got to go through Abbeyport, Smithville, couple of other little places.”

“That should exhaust their supply of songs and chants.”

“Ma’am?”

“I’ve been on band and sports busses. I know how wild the kids can be.”

“How long has it been since you was on a bus?”

“Doesn’t matter.
 
some things never change.”

Then she turned.

All of the twelve players had boarded the bus, as well as the two team managers.

Each of them had sprawled into a separate seat row.

Each of them wore headphones.

Each of them held in her hand a glowing device of some kind, and was typing on it with her thumbs.

None spoke.

They were completely silent. There was no sound in the bus except the grinding of gears, the low howl of the motor, and the soft tapping of incessant and nonstop text messaging––and it was clear that there would be no other sound or movement for the entire thirty five miles.

I’m very old
, thought Nina, going to sleep.

Gyms, Nina had decided years earlier, like music, were decade things. All music from the sixties was the same, all music from the seventies was the same, all music from the eighties…etc., etc. Correspondingly, all gyms built in the sixties were the same, all gyms built and so on and so on.

Donaldsville’s gym looked like the other gyms of its era, whichever decade that might have been. It was bright, cheery, polished, and the soul of mutability. Nothing about it was meant to be permanently in one place for, seemingly, more than a few hours. The stands were portable sliding things and could be folded like Formica accordions should there be a need for more court space. Four baskets and backboards hung uselessly over exit signs, and would hang so until needed for PE classes the following day and cranked into suitable positions.

The whole place, Nina decided while walking into it, might have been rolled up into suitcases and packed on circus wagons if the need had arisen.

The players walked in single file in front of her, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, following a sixth and lemming-like sense toward the visitors’ dressing room but never looking away from their palms, which glowed as though radioactive.

“Hey, Coach!”

A beefy man was walking across the court toward her, one arm extended.

“Coach! I’m Coach Johnson!”

Who came in?
she found herself asking for an instant.

Then she realized that she was the coach.

She turned and walked out onto the court, peering up at her counterpart, who smiled down at her:

“Ma’am, I don’t believe I know you.”

“I’m Nina Bannister.”

“Paul Johnson. We were expecting to see Coach Brennan.”

Well, you won’t
, Nina found herself thinking,
and ‘why’ is none of your damned business.

Oh well, you’ll probably hear it soon enough anyway.

But not tonight.

“She’s a little under the weather,” lied Nina.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Paul Johnson, who, with a sweat through white shirt and golden tie—Donaldsonville’s colors were gold and white—looked more like a minister than a coach.

Of course, those things were dangerously similar.

“I’m a great admirer of Coach Brennan. I also know some of y’all’s football staff: Coach Hargoty, Coach Polaskus, Coach Smith, Coach Drayton—y’all have a fine overall program down there!”

“We’re proud of it.”

“So are you the assistant coach now, Ms. Bannister?”

“Actually, I’m the principal.”

“Oh! Well, we’re honored to have you here!”

“Thank you very much!”

“Y’all spanked us pretty good last time down at your place.”

“Well, every game is different.”

Nina the sports philosopher.

“That’s true! That’s true. Anyway, we’re gonna try and give a better account of ourselves this time. We’d like at least to make it kind of interesting for you!”

“I’m sure you will!”

“Looks like your players know where their dressing rooms are.”

“Most of them were here last year.”

“Okay then. Anything we can do for you, just let us know. And good luck!”

“Same to you, Coach!”

And, with a small, coach’s wave, she walked off to follow her team down into the bowels of dressingroomdom.

The gym may have been bright and polished, but there was something murky and cave-like about the dressing room: glistening tile floors, steam in the air, and the clanging of locker doors as the players spread their deep blue road jerseys on benches beside them and slipped into sports bras.

Nina walked behind them, wondering how many times they’d gone through this ritual, and wishing she were getting ready to address an English and not a basketball class.

“All right,” she said. “This is your last district game before Logansport, then Hattiesburg. Don’t be nervous. Just play your individual games, and you’ll be all right. There’s going to be a crowd out there trying to give you a hard time; don’t let them. Just remember to concentrate and do the things Meg has taught you. And remember also: you’re representing your school, and your community. We’re all very proud of you. Now: any questions?”

There was no response at all for a second or so.

Finally, Alyssha Bennett, who’d finished dressing first, turned.

She took off her headphones.

“Ms. Bannister?”

“Yes?”

“Were you saying something?”

Nina shook her head.

“No.”

Then she walked out of the dressing room and up into the gym.

From that point, everything went fine for fifteen minutes or so. The players filed out onto the court, the mangers distributed basketballs, the layup lines were formed, the free throw drills got done, the familiar omnipresent thumpthumpthump of dribbling drummed its reassuring background undertone, and, on the other end of the court, a dozen or so ponytailed and gold-jerseyed figures went about doing the same thing.

The stands were two-third filled on the home side, practically empty on the visitors’ side.

Except for a few parents who’d driven up from Bay St. Lucy.

And, of course, Jackson Bennett.

“GO MARINERS!
 
GO MARINERS!”

The Donaldsonville pep band struck up, playing the same thing that the Bay St. Lucy pep band always played:

“BLAAAAAAAAHHHHHH
 
DE

BLAAAAAAAAHHH DE BLAAAAAAAHH!”

Rest rest—

“BLAAAAAAAAAAAHHH DE

BLAAAAAAAAHHH DE BLAAAAAAAHH!”

Then came the fight song.

Donaldsonville’s team called itself The Pirates.

The University of Wisconsin had stolen their fight song, too.

ON YOU PIE-RUTS, ON YOU PIE-RUTS

FAT FAT FAT FAT FAAAAT!

(BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM)

The scoreboard clock clicked down over the south basket:

One minute forty five seconds.

One minute ten seconds.

Players huddled.

My God
, thought Nina. No headphones!

Well, they must be somewhere.

Starters in game jerseys now, bench players sitting down, warm-ups still pulled around them…

Everybody out on the court.

Star Spangled Banner.

AND THE HOOOME OF THE BRAVE!

Cheers.

Clapping.

Fans on their feet.

And the jump ball!

For a minute or so things went normally.

It all reminded Nina of the Pass Christian game:

Donaldsonville won the tip.

Trouble there. They had a six-foot tall girl.

(Why did all the opposing teams always have a six-foot tall girl?)

Still, there was hope. Bay St. Lucy stole a pass, worked the ball down the court, and began a fancy outside semi-circular weave, Alyssha Bennett dribbling hard to the right, slipping it behind the back to Sarah Gray barreling left over the top of the key, Sonia Ramirez taking it right back in the other direction, Haley Stephens right there on another switch, everyone milling inside, screening, turning, heading out, then back in, then the ball back in Haley’s hands, shot clock now at ten seconds, now at eight seconds, back to Sonia and then—