Game Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 3) (32 page)

“What do you think?”

Edie could only shake her head.

“I don’t know.”

“Edie, when was this delivered?”

“Apparently early this morning. But there was only one copy, and it was sent to the senator’s office. The senator gets a lot of mail. This was almost overlooked.”

Moon Rivard:

“What does this do for our investigation here?”

Again, Edie shook her head:

“Moon, as far as I can tell, no one knows exactly what to do about this. The letter’s hard to authenticate. It seems to have been written on an old typewriter. But it could be true. The woman had strange habits, and, apparently, had been under a great deal of pressure. Maybe the letter is the real thing.”

Nina shook her head:

“It’s not the real thing.”

Everyone looked at her.

She could only repeat:

“It’s not the real thing. It can’t be.”

“But Nina…”

“April’s dead.”

The words sounded as though they were clanging around in a tomb.

She surprised herself by saying them yet again:

“April van Osdale is dead. Someone has murdered her.”

Jackson:

“How do you know that, Nina?”

She shook her head:

“That insane ‘test,’ that cage in the water; those clothes; all those things didn’t just happen by chance. Someone took April. And someone murdered her.”

Questions from all around the table:

“
When
did someone take her, Nina?”

“Sometime late Friday afternoon.”

“How? Somebody just came in, said, ‘Please come with me!’ and left?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think this was someone April knew?”

“I don’t know that either. A lot of people didn’t like what she was doing at the school; and there was a man she told me about.”

“But, Nina, if this had been a kidnapping, wouldn’t there be a ransom note?”

“It wasn’t a kidnapping. It was an execution.”

“Who in Bay St. Lucy hated her that much?”

“Someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Nina got to her feet.

“But I promise you: we’re all going to find out. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how. But we’re all going to find out.”

They were staring at her.

She was staring at her.

Tired of being stared at by so many people, she turned, said:

“Right now I’ve got a basketball game to get ready for.”

And left the room.

CHAPTER 22: PICKETT’S CHARGE!

“You can’t. You just have to.”

––
William Faulkner

The evening of the big contest with Hattiesburg fell with balmy winds and clear skies over a Bay St. Lucy that was oblivious to murder and obsessed with basketball.

People had been talking about it all day.

(The live event, not the dead woman.)

In “Sadie’s by the Sea:”

“You think we really have a chance?”

“I don’t know! We might! Anything can happen!”

In “The Stink Shoppe:”

“How are we going to stop those big girls?”

“I don’t know.”

In “Sergio’s by the Sea”:

“What’s the point spread?”

“They’re ten point favorites!”

And so on and so on.

Very little work got done.

This was in stark contrast to the high school, where
no
work got done, except that there was a pep rally at ten o’clock, where Haley Stephenson announced that the team was not going to be satisfied with giving one hundred percent effort (as they had against Logansport), but had decided to give two hundred percent effort.

YEEEEEEAAAAAH!

ON YOU MARE NERS ON YOU MARE NERS

FAT FAT FAT FAT FAAAAAAT!

Nina watched the pep rally from the back row of the auditorium, her mind fixed on other things.

Someone in Bay St. Lucy was a murderer.

And that person, at least once in the past week, had gotten access to the mail rack on her door.

Once.

How many other times?

There is nothing you can do about this, Nina.

Think of other things
.

So she thought about the game.

People came and went, bells clanged and were silent, coaches charged up and down the halls—my God,
she
was a coach now, why wasn’t
she
charging up and down the halls?––

Oh, well, perhaps that would come.

––the week’s healthy lunch of hot dogs and tater tots was served…

…the afternoon was endured…

…the busses rolled up, gorged themselves on students, rolled away.

All those teachers left in the building ate the last of whatever food had been brought and then, waving and screeching like chickens, took plates and platters out to their cars and left.

Nina was left alone in the building.

Light filtered gold through the front windows.

She was seated at her desk, a row of play diagrams before her.

April. The McNulty Girls.

RIP. Hancock’s Middle.

She is a) Dead; b) Missing; c) All of the Above.

Use all of the army. Use all of the army.

Are you using all of the army, Nina?

What are you missing?

What are you missing?

It was five o’clock before she left the building.

Forty minutes before game time, the gym was completely packed. Four busses had arrived from Hattiesburg, one carrying the team, three others carrying fans. These people filed sullenly in through the foyer, looked around cynically, remarked to themselves how quaint things were in small towns, eschewed the snack bar’s offerings, found seats on the visitors’ side, dusted off the benches, sprayed them with anti-pollutants, and settled in.

At twenty minutes before tip off, the Lady Eagles filed regally onto the floor.

They were clad in black and gold, and, like Richard Cory (who was not a basketball player) they glittered when they walked.

They had the bearings of champions. Nina wondered as she watched them from her place on the bench just how the process of winning and winning and winning and winning created that aura which turned the average offspring of normal people into Greek Gods. How had they all learned how to turn the collars of their black warm up jackets in just that special way? What were the forces that had acted on Nicki McNulty, who was just at that time scooping in a warm up lay up with insolent ease, in such a way as to make Grace Kelly seem small and weavilly beside her, and completely devoid of confidence?

Out came the Lady Mariners, through the twin lines of fans who had formed a tunnel for them.

The band blasted forth:

BLAAAAAHHHH DE BLAAAAAAAHHHHH DE BLAAAAAH!

The gym went wild. Everyone was standing now.

Drills. Shot practice.

Lay up lines.

Nina did not move from where she was sitting.

Five minutes before tip off.

Alyssha and Amanda left the court and went to one of the exits, where someone handed each of them a three foot high, bright orange, traffic cone. They placed these cones just beyond the out of bounds lines, approximately fifteen feet apart, so as to demarcate NINABOUNDARIES.

Both players approached her and said, earnestly:

“Whatever you do, Coach, you cannot go beyond those cones!”

“I know. I know.”

Alyssha gestured:

“Dad!”

“Yes, honey!”

Jackson Bennett made his way down through the stands, and, in a moment, was standing in the midst of them.

“Dad, you have to stand down here right at that cone over there.”

“I know, Leesh Baby.”

“Do
not
let her go past that cone!”

“She won’t get past me.”

“And Mamma?”

“Mamma will be at the other cone.”

“All right. Now, you promise you won’t swear?”

“I never swear, Baby.”

“And you won’t get into any fights?”

“I promise.”

“I’m counting on you, Dad; make me proud!”

“I will, Alyssha.”

“OK, I’ve got to go finish warming up!”

And she ran back on the court.

Jackson Bennett, his hand lying menacingly on the metal ringed top of the cone, glowered down at Nina and said:

“Don’t make me have to get rough.”

“I won’t.”

“All right then.”

Five minutes to tip off.

The horn blared.

The players began their tight circle, but Nina gestured to five of them:

“You five come here; others take a seat on the bench for just a minute.”

The others did.

They were the starters.

But Nina had ringed into a tight circle now another group.

Her bench players.

Patricia Donaldson, Emily Crowder, Maggie St. Clair, LaToya Peterson, and Patty Jones.

These were the young women who seldom got to play.

But they were not bad, and they played their hearts out every day at practice, and they formed the loyal opposition for the starting team.
 

They were the rest of the army.

“All right,” she whispered to them, their faces all close together now. “This is your biggest game. You’re going to weaken Hancock’s Middle, just like we worked on. You understand that?”

“YEAH!”

“You’re going to win this damned game for us. You understand that?”

“YEAH!

“You may be gone when the battle’s over; but the flag is going to be flying for
you
, do you understand that?”

“YEAH!”

“Ok then; Emilie and Maggie start; at the six minute mark, LaToya and Maggie. Three minutes later, Patricia. And don’t hold back, Mariners; you’re our infantry! Now go out there and get ‘em!”

Another blare of the horn.

And the players took the court.

“All right,” Nina whispered. “Game Change!”

Jump ball.

Ball goes easily to Hattiesburg, one pass two passes into Theresa McNulty who turns and lays it in.

Two nothing.

Fierce cheering from the visitors’ side.

Bay St. Lucy inbounds.

No press.

“They don’t think,” said Nina softly, “they need to press us. We’ll see.”

Ball across the half court line.

Alyssha Bennett dribbles hard to the right, slips it behind the back to Sarah Gray barreling left over the top of the key; Sonia Ramirez takes it right back in the other direction…

…then over to Patty Jones.

Work it, Patty, work it, watch for an opening…

…there it is…

“Charge,” Nina whispers.

Patty sees the opening, barrels through it, hurtles herself at the basket flying through the air. SHOT SHOT SHOT SHOT…

TWEET!

Foul!

Number thirty-two.

Foul on Patty, who is now sitting dazed on the court.

“That’s all right, Patty. That’s all right.”

Ball brought in by Hattiesburg.

Across center court.

Pass, pass, inside:

Theresa McNulty, high above everybody, arching hook:

Swish.

Four nothing.

“That’s all right, girls,” Nina whispers.

Bay St. Lucy brings the ball down.

Haley Stephens on another switch, everyone milling inside, screening, turning, heading out…

…ball in the hands of Latoya Peterson.

“Look for it, LaToya, look for the opening…”

…there it is.

Nina:

“Charge.”

Latoya barrels through the opening, top of key free throw line, fakes right then back…