Free Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda by Nina Wright

the news that our headmaster, Mark Vreelander, passed away suddenly last night.”
    Passed away suddenly? That was one way to put it, although not the accurate way. I glanced at Jenx who was busy scanning the crowd.
    Bentwood continued, “Whenever a healthy, relatively young person dies unexpectedly, there are, of course, questions. I’ve invited two people to help us answer those questions—Magnet Springs Police Chief Judith Jenkins and Whitney Mattimoe, broker and owner of Mattimoe Realty. Chief Jenkins will offer professional insights, while Ms. Mattimoe will speak as an ordinary citizen who happened to witness a tragic event.”
    Tragic? More like violent and probably criminal. As in murder.
    I cleared my throat loudly to cue Jenx that this was not going in a direction I liked. Hell, I was already in therapy for my inability to relate well to children. The last experience I needed as a wary expectant mother was the traumatic memory of making hundreds of them simultaneously cry. With all those cherubic faces blinking up at me, I couldn’t imagine a single reassuring remark. Mine was not a family-friendly story. There was no G-rated version of death by broadhead arrow on a public bicycle trail, and Bentwood must have known that.
    As if reading my mind—and maybe, in fact, she could—Jenx signaled for the School President to lean down to her level. Jenx is only five-foot-five, so Bentwood had to bend. Listening intently, he frowned before straightening and returning his attention to his audience.
    “I’d like you to please give your full attention to Chief Jenkins,” he said, and gave her the floor.
    The younger children applauded until the older children hushed them. Jenx took a small step closer to the edge of the stage.
    “Good morning,” she said loudly.
    “Good morning!” all the kids replied.
    “I’m here because sometimes part of my job is passing along important information.”
    A boy who looked younger than Chester shot his hand into the air. Jenx paused for a nanosecond, apparently weighing her options.
    “I’ll take one question now, and we’ll save the rest later,” she said, pointing to the kid.
    “That’s what TV is for,” the boy blurted.
    Jenx looked confused.
    “Passing along important information,” he reminded her.
    “True,” Jenx said, “but sometimes the police are the first to know, and so they’re the first to tell you, like I’m going to do now.”
    I could feel everybody in the room lean toward Jenx.
    “But even before I do that, I want to remind you about another part of my job, the most important part,” she said.
    “Getting the bad guys!” the same little boy called out.
    A woman hurried down the aisle, presumably to manage or remove the audience participant. I recognized her as Loralee Lowe, the teacher and PTO mother in the flowery dress who had been passing out red papers before the meeting.
    Smiling like a good cop, Jenx said, “I do my best to stop the bad guys before they can do anything bad. My main job is keeping people safe. That means I try to prevent bad stuff from happening, including accidents.”
    Accidents? Was Jenx going to tell the students and parents of The Bentwood School that their headmaster had died as the result of an accident?
    The chief of police drew herself to her full height and cleared her throat.
    “Mr. Vreelander was riding his bike last night, and something went wrong. We don’t know exactly what happened yet, but we do know for sure he didn’t suffer. Ms. Mattimoe was out riding her bike, too, and she is absolutely sure that Mr. Vreelander had no pain at all. Right, Ms. Mattimoe?”
    All eyes shifted to me. All horrified eyes.
    “Uh—right. Definitely no pain,” I lied, straining to blot out the memory of Vreelander’s stricken expression.
    Dozens of little hands now waved frantically for attention. Jenx selected a worried-looking girl about four, who pointed straight at me.
    “Did she push him off his bike?”
    “Of