Poisoned Pin: A Cozy Mystery (Brenna Battle Book 2) by Laney Monday Page A

little voices cried out, “I can do that!”
    The mat exploded with a chaotic jumble of tumbling bodies, several of them rolling over the tops of others. I gave my whistle a light blow. Thank God for whistles. All but a couple of the kids froze and stared at me. Blythe caught the other two, mid-tumble, and directed their attention to me.
    “Okay you guys, whenever one of us demonstrates—when we show you something—we don’t want you to do it until we say so. Okay? Everybody watch, but don’t do it. We’re all going to get in lines soon, and you can show me what you can do when it’s your turn.”
    They nodded. One of the girls called out, “That’s what Miss Ruth does sometimes.”
    Thank goodness. In a moment, we had them in two single file lines of five, rolling down the mat, then running back along the sides of the mat, out of the way of their tumbling classmates, and back to the end of their lines. There were a couple of minor mid-air and running-head-on collisions, but they got the idea soon enough. Every now and then the small crowd of parents on the bench clapped or called out encouragement. So far the parents were behaving themselves. Maybe they had really read the agreement they’d signed about staying off the mat and away from the matside, except in the case of emergency.
    Maybe Miss Ruth had trained them too. She’d sure saved us a heap of trouble by training these kids to do something as simple as stand in lines or rows, perform tasks on the teacher’s count, and in general, listen to the teacher. Things would get trickier once we got to the point of teaching them to actually throw their partners; it was essential that they followed directions, or someone could really get hurt. But I was already formulating a plan based on what I’d learned about my Bonney Bay Battlers today. A handful of the more attentive kids could learn a throw with me, while the others did falls or pins with Blythe. I could gradually add kids to the group performing the more challenging and potentially dangerous technique.
    With the exception of some of the four and five-year-olds, who were, you know, four and five , most of the kids were pretty coordinated. They learned to do passable somersaults and cartwheels. We worked on front falls for fifteen minutes or so, and then I taught them all a simple pin.
    Blythe and I walked around, praising the kids and correcting their position. The door jingled, not the friendly jingle of one of the next class’s students arriving early, but about as violent as a jingle can get.
    Harvey stood in the open doorway, soaking wet.
    A couple of the girls screamed. One of them, a redhead named Sofie, ran off the mat, to her mother, who was on the bench observing class. Let me tell you, that was the most nerve-wracking part of this—the parents watching my every move.
    I quickly bowed off the mat, hoping to intercept Harvey.
    “Is this a friend of yours?” Sofie’s mother, also with a headful of thick, straight red hair pulled into a ponytail, was on her feet next to the bench, holding Sofie to her side.
    “Uhh … ” I wanted to say not exactly , but I couldn’t do that to Harvey.
    “That’s crazy Harvey Thompson,” the lone dad, a skinny, hairy guy, whispered, none too subtlely.
    I glared at him. I was pretty sure he belonged to the little girl who I’d caught picking her nose. I had a feeling I was going to be busting out the disinfectant wipes Blythe kept next to the mat quite frequently with that kid.
    Blythe strode to the edge of the mat, though she wouldn’t leave it. Judo US policy dictated that there always be a black belt on the mat. One of the many rules Riggins and the PAL broke every time they met. But then, I doubted they were officially registered with Judo US.
    Blythe spoke up. “Brenna met Harvey yesterday. His nephew was having a medical emergency, and Brenna helped give CPR. Unfortunately, he passed away.”
    My little sister is brilliant. She managed to make me feel