The Pinch Runner

by Robin Merrill

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t quite dare to tell her. “They’re Bickfords.”

  “Oh!” Now she understood his nerves. “It’ll be fine,” she tried to comfort him. “This is a ministry, remember?”

  He nodded. “I remember.” He still didn’t open his mouth.

  “Besides, if they cause too much trouble, I’ll just call the town cops, and they’ll come chase them into the woods.”

  Laughter burst out of Nate, finally forcing him to open his mouth. He tipped his head back and laughed toward the clouds. Then he kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. I needed that. And you’re right. I’m sure it will be fine.” He patted her on the leg and then went to greet Lewis, who had just arrived.

  Joanna began pulling the bats out of the bat bag.

  “Careful, honey!” New Hope Church was the proud owner of a profoundly useless collection of old softball bats. The rubber had worn or peeled off several of the bat handles, and had been repaired with athletic tape that had yellowed and frayed over the years. These bats had the logos worn off them, and Sandra couldn’t understand why they didn’t just throw them away, but they’d been donated by someone at some point and no one wanted to step on any toes, so for every practice and every game, someone hauled them out of the closet and schlepped them down to the field. Richard and Brendan brought their own bats, of course, bragging about how much they’d cost and how much they would help them hit—which they never did. Boomer brought his own bat too, but he was quick to say he’d gotten it for a steal at Marden’s Surplus and Salvage. And everyone else used a bat that someone had donated last year that still had its handle and its logo. The rest just stayed in the bag—unless Joanna took them out of the bag.

  She dropped the last bat with a clang and then looked satisfied, as if she’d done something to help.

  “Good job. Now you can put them all back.”

  “Really?” She obviously didn’t like this directive.

  “Really.” Sandra glanced at the old bats, which Joanna had lined up neatly across the center of the dugout. Before she became consciously aware of what she was seeing, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Joanna reached down to grab a bat. “Joanna, stop!” Sandra said too sharply. She stood up and grabbed her daughter, the scorebook falling off her lap and into the dirt. She pulled Joanna away and then stepped closer to the bats and looked down. It couldn’t be. But it was. One of the bats was covered in a dark red that could only be blood. She pulled Joanna toward the dugout’s exit. “Go get your father.”

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Go get him now!” She pushed Joanna out of the dugout and then reached for her purse, scrambling to get the phone out. She started to dial 911 and then thought better of it and went back into the purse for her wallet. Because somewhere in there, among a million diaper coupons and loyalty punch cards that never got filled, she had Chip Buker’s card. She found it and dialed his number as Nate stepped into the dugout. Wordlessly, she pointed out the bloody bat for her husband. Then, “Hi? Chip? It’s Sandra Provost. Can you come to the church? I think I just found the murder weapon.”

  Chapter 11

  Detective Chip Buker arrived with an entourage. Sandra showed him to the suspect bat and then he promptly had her escorted away. Despite her awareness that this was probably correct protocol, she was still offended. He made her stand a hundred feet away from the dugout—as if she was just an ordinary civilian. She stood with her arms folded across her chest glaring at him, further annoyed that he wasn’t paying enough attention to even notice her glares.

  “You okay?” Nate asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

  “No. He’s going to make us late.” It was quarter after six, and some of the Bickfords were staring longingly at their pickup.

  “That’s okay. We’ve got plenty of daylight.”

  She didn’t appreciate his patience. “The Bickfords are going to leave.”

  He snorted. “Since when did you care about the Bickfords?”

  “Since always.” This wasn’t true. She’d never really thought about them one way or the other, though they were frequently the talk of the town. The sprawling family lived in the woods of Plainfield, in an area the locals had coined the Bickford Block. They all lived on Mink Brook Road, which was a narrow dirt road that ran in three equal lengths to form a square with Route 27. The many Bickfords lived in small houses or trailers all along this road. They were often in trouble, and a few of them were currently “away” serving time. She looked up at her husband. “Since when did you care about the Bickfords?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you inviting Adam to a church softball game. Quite a risk for a public school principal to take, don’t you think?”

  “Nah. I didn’t invite him to church. It’s just a fun outdoor activity to keep him out of trouble.”

  “And is he in trouble a lot?”

  Nate nodded. “You know I can’t say much. But I like Adam. I want to see him succeed.”

  This didn’t surprise her. As far as she knew, Nate liked all of his students. One of the Bickfords headed for the truck. Oh for heaven’s sake. She stomped toward Chip, who was supervising as the slowest investigators in the world wrapped the bat bag in an enormous sheet of plastic.

  Without looking at her, he said, “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “I’m not here to ask about the investigation. I’m here to tell you that you need to let us get on with the softball game.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “There’s been a murder,” he said slowly, “and we’ve just found the murder weapon—”

  Actually, she was pretty sure she’d found the weapon, but she would let that slide in the interest of time.

  —“and you’re worried about starting a church softball game on time?”

  She stepped closer to him, now inside the off-limits dugout. “This is a ministry,” she said, her voice so low he had to lean toward her to hear, “and the people we are trying to minister to are leaving.” She allowed her voice to come back to normal volume. “We won’t use the dugout. We won’t come near you. Just let us start the game.”

  Chip glanced around the field, which was now peppered with people playing catch or just standing around. He nodded, his jaw tight. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “Great. Thank you.” She looked around for the umpire, but he was nowhere to be seen. Oh no, had he left? She trotted back to Nate. “Where did the ump go?”

  “I think he’s in his truck.” He turned to scan the parking lot.

  “Well, go get him. Chip said we can play. We’ve just got to stay out of the dugout.”

  “Great! Good job!” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll go let him know. Let’s just use the front row of the bleachers for a dugout.”

  “Yep. And you’re all going to have to use Boomer’s bat. I doubt Richard or Brendan are going to share theirs.”

  Nate snickered and ran away from her.

  She headed toward the Bickfords’ truck, which was now running. “Don’t leave yet!” she called out from fifty feet away. “We’re going to start!”

  The man behind the wheel nodded to her, shut off the engine, and climbed back out of the truck. “Didn’t mean to be unpatient,” he said, with a partly toothless smile, “but cops make me nervous.”

  She smiled, even though he was now making her nervous. “I understand.”

  “I hear you guys had a killing here, huh?”

  Oh boy. “Yes, sadly, we did.”

  “But that’s not a normal thing, right? People who play softball for you don’t get offed if they miss a catch?”

  Despite herself, she had to laugh at that. “Definitely not. We never catch anything, so we wouldn’t have anyone left to play.”

  He thought this was hysterical and hooted so loudly his voice echoed. As he walked by her toward the field, she caught a whiff of beer and wondered if she’d misunderstood why he was sitting in his truc
k. If he’d indulged in a few pre-game nips, that might make the game more interesting.

  Ton Truck Bickford offered to pitch. She didn’t know what his real name was, but the nickname fit. She’d never use it out loud, of course, but his family members didn’t seem worried about hurting his feelings.

  Pastor Cliff could have been more tactful when he told Ton Truck that no, he was the pitcher.

  Ton Truck argued that he was “wicked fast,” but Pastor would not be moved.

  Sandra had never had cause to wonder about Pastor’s pitching, but now that Ton Truck had brought it up, she muttered to Nate, “Why does Pastor always pitch? It’s not like he’s that great at it.”

  Even though she’d been very quiet with her question, Nate shushed her. Then he answered her through closed teeth, “He says it’s to keep people from fighting over the position.” This didn’t make any sense, and Nate gave her a look that said he was aware of that senselessness. But she also knew he wouldn’t ruffle any feathers unless he had to. Nate was a peacekeeper.

  Ton Truck made his discontent clear as he trudged toward his assigned position at second base. As he punctuated his complaints with a few choice curse words, several players from Jay Baptist stared at him in horror. Oh dear, the Bickfords were going to do a number on New Hope’s reputation.

  Jay Baptist’s first batter pounded it toward left field. Sandra had no doubt that it would be a home run. It looked as though it was going to fall just shy of the Purple Monster. Years ago, some Red Sox fans had erected a tall plywood wall in left field and had painted it green in honor of their favorite pro baseball stadium. Some years since, after the green paint had faded, chipped, and fell away, some well-meaning church servants had repainted the wall with purple paint leftover from a Vacation Bible School play. Some people were furious. The Red Sox tribute didn’t work if the wall was purple. But some people, including Sandra, found it hysterical and were proud to have a Purple Monster in left field.

  She hadn’t been watching the left fielder. She’d been watching the ball. So she almost fell off the bleachers in shock when a wiry Bickford suddenly appeared under the ball and caught it before it hit the ground. It wasn’t the first run for Jay Baptist. It was the first out for New Hope. She’d never witnessed anything so incredible in her life, and she’d hung out with an angel.

  Chapter 12

  New Hope Church scored seven runs in the bottom of the first inning, thanks entirely to four of the six Bickfords. It was more runs than they’d scored all season combined, yet Sandra seemed to be the only one cheering. The spectators in the bleachers were peculiarly somber. She wanted to blame it on the fact that someone had been killed in the adjacent woods, and that they’d just found a bloody bat in their bat bag, but she didn’t think that was it. She was afraid they were uncomfortable that the local riffraff had invaded their softball club.

  At this thought, something clicked in her mind. Some might consider Phoenix to have been riffraff too. Maybe he had traveled in some of the same circles as the Bickfords? She shook her head. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. She wasn’t going to get involved with this one.

  Jay Baptist pounded the ball in all directions, but if it went near a Bickford, it got scooped up and thrown to first, where Boomer always caught it. Hence, New Hope had two outs before Jay Baptist had scored a run. But then Jay’s coach caught on. “You’ve got to hit it toward short!” he called out. “Keep it on the ground!” In other words, he’d noticed that New Hope had an old man playing shortstop, and that old man was absolutely terrible at fielding the ball. If Jay hit it to first base, second base, or anywhere in the outfield, chances were good that the Bickfords or Boomer would catch it. But this was not the case at shortstop. That coach must have wondered why on earth New Hope was playing such a dud at short when they obviously had so many good players. Or maybe he’d been playing church softball long enough to know exactly what was going on.

  Jay’s players did exactly what they were told; they hit two grounders to short, and got two men on base. But when the third batter in a row hit the ball to shortstop again, out of nowhere, the Bickford in left field appeared in the dirt beside Richard Barney, essentially stole his play from him, and then threw the ball to third to get the final out—except that it was Richard’s son playing third base, and he was so appalled at the dishonor that had been done to his father that he didn’t even attempt to tag the bag. He caught the ball, sure, but then he just held it in his glove as he stomped toward the offending Bickford.

  Sandra couldn’t hear what Brendan Barney said, but she saw him poke the Bickford in the chest and she braced herself for what she feared was coming. Sure enough, the Bickford drew back and then swung his fist at Brendan’s pretty little face. It appeared that Brendan did not know it was coming, as he made no move to dodge the blow, and was suddenly lying on his side in the dirt.

  “Run!” the Jay coach called to his man on third. He was such an opportunist. The runner on third started for home, but the umpire waved him off, called time out, and told him to go back to his base. Then he took off his mask and headed toward the commotion, where two Bickfords held their boxing cousin back from the man on the ground, who didn’t seem in any hurry to get up. He was squirming a lot, so Sandra knew he was alive.

  In a move that surprised no one, the umpire threw the boxer out of the game. But then he also ejected Brendan Barney, and this did not go well with Pops at shortstop, who started screaming into the umpire’s face. Looking almost amused, the umpire then threw him out also, and just like that, New Hope was down to a reduced lineup again. Sandra wondered if the rest of the Bickfords would leave, but they didn’t. The boxer went and sat in the truck, where there were probably refreshments, and the rest of them spread out across the field as if this sort of thing happened to them all the time. The Bickford who’d been deemed the substitute trotted out onto the field.

  The next Jay batter hit it to shortstop again, which was no longer a wise decision. The Bickford who had moved in from centerfield easily threw the batter out, and it was New Hope’s turn to bat again.

  Once Sandra got the scorebook caught up, she pretended she needed to stretch her legs and approached the Bickford she’d earlier rousted out of his pickup. “Well, that was certainly exciting!” She cringed at her own pathetic attempt to make small talk.

  He spit into the dirt and she realized he had a chaw in. That wasn’t going to go over well with church leadership. As if any of this was. She wondered if they’d kick her husband out of the church for all this.

  “I’m Sandra, Nate’s wife.” She wanted to learn his name, but she wanted to be clear she wasn’t flirting.

  He nodded, squinting in the early evening slanting sunlight. “The principal?”

  She nodded. “Yep! That’s right.” Stop sounding so chipper, Sandra. It’s weird.

  He nodded again but looked away from her.

  “Lineup!” Lewis hollered.

  Beyond annoyed, she looked down at the book and then hollered out the lineup. Then she looked at the man beside her. “And what’s your name?”

  “Danny.”

  “Nice to meet you, Danny. You guys sure do seem to be good at softball. We’re glad to have you. This is the first lead we’ve had all season.”

  “Yeah ...” He sounded bored with this conversation. “Well, we play a lot.”

  They must. “You do?”

  “Yeah, in the men’s league. We’re on a few different teams. This is our first church team, though.” He spit again.

  “Well, welcome. You know, you mentioned the guy who died. Did you know him?”

  His head snapped toward her, and he scowled down at her, his bushy eyebrows smashed together. “No, why?”

  She shrugged, backing away a little.

  “No reason. Just trying to make conversation.”

  Danny seemed to accept this. “Nah, I never heard of ’im. He wasn’t from around here.”

  Chapter 13

  Thanks to the
Bickfords, New Hope got their first notch in the win column.

  “Did Pastor say anything to you about your new friends?” Sandra asked, once they were all safely ensconced in the minivan and pointed toward home.

  Nate laughed. “No, thank goodness. They really were good, weren’t they?”

  “Yep. I think we should keep them.”

  Nate tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Not sure that’s going to happen.”

  She didn’t know what that meant. Was he worried they wouldn’t want to come back or did he think someone was going to tell them to stay away?

  “They were something, though,” Nate said thoughtfully. “They looked like a bunch of wild animals, but they played like ... well, like wild animals, but in a good way.”

  “That’s not very nice, Daddy,” Joanna scolded.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to be mean. I just meant ...”

  Just quit while you’re ahead.

  “Do you really think that was the murder weapon?” he asked.

  She chewed her lip. “I do. I can’t imagine why else there would be dried blood on a bat no one has used in years.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  She had a few ideas, but she didn’t know what he thought it meant. “No, what?”

  He glanced away from the road to give her a grave look. Then he said, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him, “It means it was one of us.”

  “Oh no,” she said quickly, “not necessarily.”

  “Yes, necessarily! How else would someone have access to our bats? We keep them in the church!”

  “Yeah, but we also keep them lying out in the open all the time, and we sometimes forget to put them away. Someone could have grabbed a bat while the bag was open and unattended somewhere—”

  “And then that stranger snuck into the church to put the bat back?” He looked at her again to convey his doubt. “Highly unlikely. There’s only so many people with a church key.”