Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
“That’s her. That’s Marilyn,” Meg said, nodding. “If she’s here, Michael Edmonds can’t be far off. Come on. Let’s ply her for the goods.”
“What are you, a mobster?” Rooster chuckled. “Why don’t you go on over there on your own. I want to give Laverne a call and see how Lulu is doing on bed rest. Besides, you’d probably have better luck. You know how perps clam up around me.”
Giving him a smile, Meg put on the air of someone taking a trip to the bathroom and moseyed toward the table. She casually skidded to a halt beside her mark. “Marilyn?”
The stylish hairdo spun toward Meg. In a swift motion, Marilyn snapped the laptop shut. Had she been playing online poker? Surfing porn? Or maybe something seedier, like shopping for multiple pairs of bedazzled flip-flops on Amazon, planning to try on each one with different toenail polish. Not that Meg had ever done that herself.
“Margaret, is it?” Marilyn asked.
“Meg. From Lakeview. What a surprise. Are you waiting for someone, or can I join you?” Meg tried to sound casual.
“Please.” Marilyn gestured at the chair and Meg began to sit. “But weren’t you heading to the restroom?”
Meg shook her head, then nodded. “No. Yes. I was. But. I don’t have to go anymore.” Smooth , Meg thought.
In the awkward moment that followed, Meg reviewed her options: 1. Ask Marilyn point-blank if she knew what Michael Edmonds was plotting on Bainbridge. Or 2. Go back to the inn, take a bubble bath, and eat a pint of salted caramel swirl ice cream. Rationally, she knew the lactose would upset her system, but it would be worth it.
“I’m glad, actually, to run into you here,” Marilyn said. “I’m afraid I might have been a bit short with you at the courts. Forgive me, won’t you? Because I was thinking about you after we met. Your league’s playing at Northwest Picklesmash, isn’t that right?”
Taken aback, Meg nodded. How had that happened? Marilyn had circumnavigated Meg’s investigation with an inquiry of her own. Rings clinking against her empty wineglass, Marilyn said, “I was wondering. And certainly, I would understand if this crosses over rivalry lines, but would your Seattle league want to float us one of your beginners so we can fill our tournament slot for Bainbridge?”
The request was so out of the blue that Meg almost laughed. Why on earth would Lakeview lend their players to the competition when such high stakes were on the line?
Reading Meg’s surprise, Marilyn added, “Of course, only if you have extra newbie players. You could hang on to your A-team beginners. Maybe just help us out with a spare player or two who want a chance to participate, for the sake of sportsmanship.”
Meg felt a need to defend herself. “Rooster and I may not be advanced players, but we are not ‘spares.’ Sure, there’s another team that’s pretty good, but we fully intend to earn Lakeview’s beginners’ slot—” Meg stopped herself before she gave away too much. Which was already.
“The thing is,” Marilyn pressed, “right now we just have one solid player for that beginners’ slot. He’s quite competent really, and he’s never played a tournament.” Benevolently, Marilyn added, “I watched you play. You do all right. If you have another team in line for your home team’s spot, maybe you would consider playing with our beginner. Play for Bainbridge. Your friend Rooster wouldn’t mind, I bet.”
A current of disbelief rippled through her. What nerve! How could Marilyn suggest that she dump her league and toss Rooster to the henhouse? No. That wasn’t the right metaphor. Maybe cast him chicken feed. Nope. Surely there was a fitting metaphor with roosters. The situation was screaming for it. Aha! Throw Rooster to the chopping block. That was that metaphor.
“Rooster and I stick together,” Meg said. “We’re a team.”
“Fair enough,” Marilyn conceded. She slipped her laptop into her roomy purse. “Listen. I’m heading home for an early night. I’m expecting a call from pickleball early tomorrow.” Marilyn winked and leaned toward Meg as if they shared an old friendship. “But I like you, Meg from Lakeview. So how ’bout you pop by my house tomorrow morning and I can show you a bit of pickleball history you won’t get at the Founders Courts. We can hit a bit on my private court.”
Meg opened her mouth to reiterate that she was not interested in switching sides.
“Just for fun,” Marilyn clarified. “That’s the point, right?” And before Meg could begin to ask about Michael Edmonds, Marilyn pressed an art deco business card into Meg’s palm. “Come by around eight. You won’t be disappointed.” And with that, Marilyn swooped out of the winery.
Before Meg could register her own defeat, Rooster slid into her vacated seat. “How did it go? Did you find out about Michael?”
Meg was still shaking her head, bewildered at her poor grilling skills. “She sidetracked me. But I’m meeting up with her tomorrow,” she said, rallying. “And I’ll squeeze her till she squeals.”
“Okay, Al Capone,” he teased as they headed toward the door. “What went wrong? Did she threaten to put your feet in concrete and dump you in the river?”
“I think she’s too subtle for that,” Meg said, and tossed Rooster the car keys. “She strikes me as a poisoned chalice sort of gal.”
“Mm.” He smirked. “Yet another reason I stopped drinking.”
·····
The next morning, leaving Annie to relish a late lie-in, Meg ambled toward the address Marilyn had given her. As the soft waves of Puget Sound rolled in along the shoreline and dragged the rocks back to the water with a musical jangling, she strolled past cute, cozy cottages with views of the pebbled shoreline. Stands of old-growth pines lined the road and formed forests behind pastel-painted gingerbread homes. Meg slowed when she heard an arhythmic tock-tocking, and she followed the sound until she halted in front of a ranch home sporting a low, flat roof that looked unlike the modern cottages beside it. She knew that sound. It was the dulcet tones of pickleball.
On three sides of the house, stretches of evergreens guarded the property. This must have been one of the earlier-built homes in the area, before Bainbridge became a summer haven for Seattle software mavens and sultans of coffee. The house number matched the address on Marilyn’s card. Incredible. Marilyn really did have a pickleball court behind her house!
Striding around the western hemlocks, Meg found herself looking at a simple asphalt court set up on an old sport court. The poles that supported the net bore signs of rust, but the net was new, and the pavement had been swept. A lone player stood at the back of the court, practicing her aim against a blue line that was taped to the garage. Meg called, “Marilyn?”
The middle-aged woman turned her expertly coiffed head, and her cosmetically stabilized brow almost lifted in a hello. “Meg.” There was a smile making a valiant effort at the corners of her lips. “I’m glad you came.”
Meg glanced around the backyard court and wondered what surprises Marilyn had in store. Marilyn, catching Meg’s curiosity, said, “So what do you think? It took all my savings, you know, but when this particular place came on the market, there was no way I could pass it up.”
Meg wondered aloud, “This house?”
“Well. This court.”
Meg wrinkled her nose. How could this blacktop rival the Founders Courts? Moss grew around the corners of the court boundaries. The surrounding pines dropped their needles on the surface. Encroaching trees closed in the space behind the baseline. It was convenient to have a court in the backyard, sure. But a blacktop court cracked easily, and the surface paled in comparison to the upscale Founders Courts nearby.
“This, right here”—Marilyn paused, smiling her sphinxlike grin—“is the original pickleball court. The court. The very one where, in 1965, four friends joined together to save their children’s summer…”
“…and discovered they loved it more than their kids did,” Meg recited. “This is that court?” Meg clutched the paddle and took in the view anew. “I can’t believe it!”
“It’s true. You’re standing on the source. Shall we have a match?”
Well, duh. Meg nodded her enthusiastic assent. Wait till she told Annie and Rooster she had played on the original courts. Later in the afternoon, they had practice time reserved on the Founders Courts, but this warm-up was a pickleballer’s dream. Marilyn seemed pleased for the company and down to earth in a way Meg had not noticed at the winery. It was true what they said about pickleball: it was like a fairy dust that coated everyone with happiness and good cheer.
Steering Meg to a bench beside the court, Marilyn offered Meg a paddle. “That’s the service side.” Marilyn waved Meg to the other side of the net. “Here and at the Founders Courts, first server faces the Sound.” In Seattle at the Lakeview club, the starting server faced west toward Bainbridge to honor the original pickleballers. And here she was, standing on hallowed ground!
But Marilyn’s comment about the Founders Courts had jogged a reminder loose. Michael Edmonds! Meg was not going to let the opportunity slip away again.
With a casual air, Meg mentioned, “Speaking of the Founders Courts…” Excellent segue, Meg congratulated herself. “When we were on the courts yesterday, did I hear you on the phone with Michael Edmonds?” Marilyn cocked her head and her eyes narrowed with penetrating interest. Undeterred, Meg stuck with it. “I thought I heard his name. I know him from Lakeview.”
“Do you, now?” Marilyn’s eyelid twitched with the hint of a smile.
So Marilyn all but confirmed there was something shifty going on. Before she lost her nerve, Meg laid it on the table. “Do you know what he’s doing on Bainbridge?”
For a long moment, Marilyn glowered, assessing her. Maybe a subtle approach would have worked better. But before Meg could backpedal, a decision flashed across Marilyn’s features.
“Listen, Meg.” Marilyn pressed her cool fingers against Meg’s forearm, disarming her. In her clipped, no-nonsense manner, she said, “You seem like a sensible person. And ultimately, I’m hoping you’ll reconsider playing for Bainbridge in the Picklesmash Tournament. So, in the spirit of pickleball camaraderie, I will let you in on a secret. But you mustn’t breathe a word to anyone.”
Marilyn leaned forward. “Michael Edmonds,” she whispered, “is our secret weapon.”
Meg felt the thrum of her pulse. So, Michael Edmonds was training the enemy. That weasel! But just to be sure she understood, Meg asked, “Secret weapon? What does that mean?”
Marilyn mimed locking her neatly lined lips. Then she opened her mouth, threw the invisible key inside, chewed, and swallowed.
Forcing her composure, Meg shook her head in disbelief. Poor Annie. What a piece of work, that Michael Edmonds! Just wait till she laid eyes on that backstabbing pickleswapper.
A breeze laced with the scent of burnt sugar blew past. Marilyn startled. “Oh! I have a pie going!” She bolted toward the back door, calling, “Hope you like blackberry for breakfast.”
But as Meg stood center court stewing over that traitor Michael Edmonds, the pie’s rich aroma softened her fury. She ran a hand along the net, caressing the tape, and her gaze traveled up and up to the dark green canopy of the evergreens.
It was peaceful here on Bainbridge. There was no doubt she loved the vibrant culture across the water in Seattle: the seafood restaurants, cute coffee shops, the theaters and nightclubs, the vitality and ubiquity of the arts communities. Like in Seattle, the island teemed with authors, painters, and musicians. But here the pace of life was more relaxed, more in tune with nature. She could totally understand why Marilyn, or in fact anyone, would choose to live here. Yes. Hints of a future life sparkled around the corners of her consciousness. Meg breathed in a deep lungful of berry-and-pine-scented air.
The sound of footsteps on the blacktop cut through her daydream, and she pivoted toward the noise.
“Well,” Ethan Fine said, oblivious to her shock. “If it isn’t Clam Chowder.”