In just a few years, the still fairly new sport of pickleball – using paddles to hit a small plastic ball over a net – had become a worldwide sensation and the saviour of her community centre budget. She basked in her success.
Who could have imagined that a casual game invented in the U.S. on a summer afternoon using a badminton court, table tennis paddles and a wiffle ball would turn into such a huge pastime across North America and Europe.
But although some people didn’t like Pickles, absolutely nobody liked Bill, one of her community centre regular pickleball players. The towering six-footer was loud, cocky and impossible to ignore. He was a “poacher”, something that happens when a player takes a ball meant for his partner, and over-confident Bill poached often because he loved to win.
The retired CRA project manager never chipped in on coffee runs to Tim’s, even though he demanded a double-double for himself every time.
In pickleball, a “dink” is a soft, controlled shot that lands in “the kitchen,” a non-volley zone on each side of the net, forcing the opponent to let the ball bounce or hit it up on the bounce. Big Bill loved to dink.
Then one muggy, overcast July morning, in the semi-finals of the “Dink for the Crown” pickleball tournament, boastful Bill slipped on an overwaxed “kitchen.”
Right after the mid-morning break, Bill had charged toward the kitchen line aiming for the perfect drop shot, but when his foot hit the kitchen, for a split second everything slowed. As nearby bystanders watched with unreadable expressions, Bill’s body pitched backward, and his head hit the gym floor with a heavy thud.
Gasps rippled around the gym and someone screamed. Moments later, an ambulance wailed and two paramedics ran out. Bill could not be revived.
Right after Bill had been taken away, Pickles’ well-honed instinct for spotting when something wasn’t quite right kicked in. Eyes narrowing, she knelt down and drew a finger across the kitchen surface. It felt oily.
Always meticulous, Pickles wore extra-strength antiperspirant and even stored her running shoes with deodorizing balls. But the woman who didn’t sweat was now getting damp with excitement. “This is so wrong, it could be murder,” thought the closet detective, “and I can be the one to solve it!”
The mystery novel fanatic immediately imagined that a crime could bring a black cloud over her community centre, and more importantly herself. She had to make this go away before anyone suspected; to her, Bill’s demise was just collateral damage.
After the ambulance took away Bill’s body, there was a chorus of rote tsk-tsking as all but Pickles assumed it was Bill’s own misfortune, not a crime.
Enervated by the possibilities, Pickles closed the community centre for the day, with a note on the front door – “Out of sympathy for Bill’s terrible accident.” Then she sent everyone home, and finished the lukewarm coffee in her thermos. Believing herself to be the only person left in the building, she got to work using the skills she’d learned from her cozy mysteries. “Hmm, what would Jaine do?” she muttered, running her bright acrylic nails through her blow-dried raven hair.
