The Pinch Runner

by Robin Merrill

  “I’m sorry,” Sandra said quickly. “I didn’t mean to insult him—”

  “You need to go.” Her voice quavered. Was she scared of something?

  “Are you in danger? If you are, I can get you help—”

  “Go!” If it had been fear, it was now anger. Maybe it had never been fear.

  Sandra nodded quickly. “Okay, okay.” She reached into the bowels of her purse. She really needed to clean this thing out. Maybe even get a new one. Her fingers pushed past the lip balm, cough drops, hair elastics, and Burger King napkins and then closed around the pen. “Just let me give you my num—”

  The window slammed shut.

  “—ber,” Sandra finished to no one. Tiara had vanished into the shadows of her room. Still, Sandra stood there until she found a receipt to write on, and then she wrote down her first name and phone number. She started to place it near the window, but then took it back to add, “I’m so sorry,” on the bottom. Then she slid as much of it as she could between the window frame and the wall. She stood there for a few seconds to make sure it wouldn’t fall out or blow away. Then she turned to go and Bob followed closely behind.

  “She knows something,” he said.

  “Probably, but it’s not necessarily pertinent. I feel so bad for her. It’s bad enough battling through rehab, and then I tell her that her friend’s been murdered. I hope I didn’t just make her recovery harder for her.”

  “Wait.” He put a hand on her arm and she stopped walking.

  She looked up at him expectantly.

  “I think I should go in.”

  Her surprise kept her wordless for several seconds. “Go in?”

  He nodded, glancing at the front steps. “Yes. He’s got to have a file in there, right? They won’t know I’m there.”

  Use his supernatural invisibility to take a peek at Phoenix’s file? It was brilliant! Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because Bob was an angel, a well-behaved angel, who didn’t do stuff like that. “Really?” She tried to measure her words. She wanted him to do it, but she didn’t want him to get into trouble. “That’s not an ethical violation?”

  He stared at the front of the building as if the peeling paint held answers. “I don’t think so. I’m not going to tell anyone anything what I see, and he’s gone from this life now, so ...” Was he trying to convince her or himself? His eyes dropped to hers. “I think I need to do it. I want him to have justice.”

  She nodded. He wanted what she wanted. “The idea grows more enticing the longer you sit with it, doesn’t it?”

  He gave her a small smile. “More than enticing. I’m going in.” And he was gone.

  She looked around, wondering what to do with herself now. Should she drive away, let him catch up? He hadn’t given her instructions. She didn’t want to go sit in the hot van. People would wonder why she was staking out the place. She noticed a stone bench along a fence on the edge of the property. It didn’t look comfy, but there was shade. She headed that way.

  After she’d been sitting there for a few minutes, had checked the clock ten times and her Facebook feed twelve times, a man approached. “New here?”

  She looked up at him and forced a smile. Though she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she still felt guilty. “No, I’m not ...” How should she say this? She didn’t want to insult the people who did live here. “I’m not staying. I was just trying to help a friend.”

  “Ah!” He sounded as if he understood completely. He sat down beside her, and she instinctively slid over to give herself a buffer. He didn’t seem threatening, but the situation still felt too intimate. “And where’s this friend?”

  She sighed. How to answer that? “He’s gone.”

  He looked around. “Gone? Like he took off?”

  Something like that. “No, he’s ... he died.” Might as well go for the gold. “Maybe you knew him. His name was Phoenix Haynes?”

  The man’s jaw dropped open. “Phoenix is dead? When? How?” His cheeks grew pale.

  She looked at the ground, feeling as though she should give him more privacy in his grief. “He was murdered. In Plainfield. Police don’t know anything, that I know of.”

  After a long silence that was surprisingly comfortable, the man stuck out his hand. “Jake.”

  She accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Jake. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

  He let go of her hand and patted her on the back. “Me too. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Her guilt returned. “I didn’t actually know Phoenix. Still don’t, really. I just ...” Why were words always so hard to locate and then put into a sensible order? “After he died, I just felt so bad. I wanted to help figure out who did it.”

  He blew out a puff of air and shifted in his seat. “Was he back to using?”

  “I have no idea.” Wait, she could do better than that. “I have no reason to think so.” She looked at Jake. “Did you know him well?”

  He shrugged. “’Bout as well as you can know anyone, I guess.”

  “Any idea who would be mad enough to kill him?”

  He shook his head quickly. “No way. Phoenix wasn’t a troublemaker. Unless he got mixed up in a deal gone bad, I can’t think what could have happened.”

  She didn’t think he’d gotten mixed up in a drug deal gone bad in the woods behind a church in Plainfield. “No enemies that you know of?”

  “Nope. But we’ve all got skeletons in our closets.” He stared at the side of the building, analyzing a different patch of that fascinating chipped white paint.

  “Any idea of what connection Phoenix would have to Plainfield?”

  He chuckled, but it sounded humorless. “Lady, I don’t even know where Plainfield is.” He paused. “And I don’t know where Phoenix was from. Sorry.”

  Bob appeared in the middle of the lawn and waved her over. She gave Jake another smile. “Well, I’m going to go. But really, it was nice to meet you. Thanks for chatting with me.”

  He didn’t look away from the white. “Yeah, you too. You might want to ask Tiara. She and Phoenix had a thing.”

  Sandra’s eyes drifted to the still empty, still closed window, where her note fluttered in the breeze.

  Chapter 20

  Sandra climbed into the minivan and Bob teleported his way in. She noticed that he didn’t buckle his seatbelt. Why would he? If she decided to hit a moose, he could just teleport out of harm’s way. She hoped he would then call for an ambulance to care for his non-teleporting friends.

  “Well, what did you find out?”

  He glanced toward the stone bench where Jake still sat. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  She started the van and cranked the air conditioning, even though it only blew hot air at their faces. Bob reached down and turned the fan down.

  “You first,” she said.

  “I read his file.”

  “Either you’re a fast reader, or it was a short file.”

  “Both. As we might have assumed, Phoenix had an addiction. He stayed here for six weeks and stayed sober that whole time. There was nothing in his file about any problems. Seems as though he was a model patient. It wasn’t a very exciting collection of paperwork.”

  “Did you at least find out where he was from?”

  “Yes!” He sounded excited. “Lewiston. I even got a home address, though I’m not sure what good it will do us.”

  “Tiara said he still lived at Hope House. Maybe that’s his parents’ place?”

  “No idea, but I don’t think we should bother his parents unless we think of a very good reason. I’m sure the police have already talked to them.”

  Sandra made no such assumption.

  “Your turn. What did your new friend tell you?”

  She was excited to think she might have learned more than he had, without the benefit of invisibility. “He said Phoenix wasn’t a troublemaker and didn’t have any enemies.” She paused and wished she knew how to do a steering wheel drum roll. “And he said that Ph
oenix and Tiara had a thing.”

  “A thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is a thing?”

  Was he joking? He was an angel, not an imbecile. “You know, like a relationship.”

  “Oh, that sort of thing.” He paused, and she sensed his wheels were turning. “I had a feeling that might be the case, but as an angel, the nuances of romantic entanglements are often lost on me.”

  She had no idea what he’d just said.

  “If I were a betting angel, I would bet that she calls you.”

  An influx of hope surged into Sandra’s chest. “I certainly hope so.” She started the car. “Even if she doesn’t know anything, I’d love to talk to her again. I’m not even sure why, but I liked her.”

  “Yeah.” Bob sounded contemplative. “I liked her too.”

  SANDRA CAME HOME TO chaos. Joanna and Nate had cooked, and they’d used every dish in the house to create something that loosely resembled lasagna. Meanwhile, Peter had sprinkled catnip on the living room carpet, and Mr. T had gone to town, shredding a square foot of the carpet in the exact middle of the living room. It would be a while before that would get replaced—Sandra could almost hear the cash register dinging in response.

  At least Sammy looked safe and sound. She scooped him out of the Pack ’n Play to see he’d left a large brown patch behind. She looked down at his onesie and saw the blowout. “Nate!” she called, trying not to sound too irate. “When was the last time you changed Sammy?”

  Peter looked sheepish. “I did it like twenty minutes ago. Why, did I do it wrong?”

  “No, of course not. Will you please get Mr. T away from the living room and then vacuum? I’m going to go give Sammy a bath.”

  “Okay.” He sounded hesitant.

  She kept walking.

  “You want me to vacuum Mr. T? Why don’t we just buy a Cat Vac?”

  “No!” she called back without slowing down. She was suddenly in a great hurry to get the bathroom door shut behind her. “Vacuum up the catnip!” She didn’t even know if there was any catnip left, but if there was, she wanted it in the vacuum, not in the carpet. And no way was she going to buy a Cat Vac. First of all, they cost a zillion dollars, and second, her baser self did not want to add to the Barney fortune. The Cat Vac was what had turned Richard Barney into an empire. Before he’d invented the odd contraption, he’d just been an ordinary veterinarian. But then he’d invented the small box into which people shoved their cats to have them “shed in six seconds” and the money had started falling from the sky. She rolled her eyes at the thought and slammed the bathroom door.

  Chapter 21

  Nary a Bickford showed up for the next softball practice. Sandra wasn’t surprised. It was Saturday night, and she thought probably the Bickfords had more “social” things to do. She casually mentioned this to her husband, who was quick to jump to the Bickfords’ defense and correct her. Adam had let him know well in advance that they were all playing in a men’s league tournament that weekend.

  She set the brakes on Sammy’s stroller and sat down on the dugout bench beside her husband. “Oh yeah, Danny mentioned that they all played in a men’s league. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Danny? You’re on a first name basis with the Bickfords now?”

  “Yes. I am, after all, their scorekeeper.”

  He snickered. “So, anyway, yes, there is such a thing. Local businesses sponsor teams and they pay to play in big tournaments in Auburn and Portland. The winners get actual money.”

  She was incredulous. “Seriously?”

  “Those involved take it pretty seriously, but I had no idea that Adam and his family were involved when I invited him to play.” He chuckled. “Turns out my invitation made far more sense than I thought at the time.”

  “Yes, it sure did. He was probably flattered. So, they’re not skipping practice. They’re just with one of their other teams tonight. That means they’re coming back, right?” Nate studied her face, and too late, she realized she’d sounded overly excited about that idea. She shrugged. “Sorry, I kind of like them.”

  Nate nodded. “I like them too. They are entertaining. But for now, I guess we just practice with what we’ve got.” He spoke with the same tone he would use to declare, “Now it’s time to clean the bathroom.” At least, she imagined that’s how he would sound if he ever declared he was going to clean a bathroom. She’d never heard such a declaration, and doubted she ever would.

  Nate walked out onto the field, where Pastor Cliff was announcing batting practice. Both Barneys were in attendance, making Sandra wonder why they hadn’t arrested Richard yet, if his prints were on the weapon. Then she wondered if Chip and gang had found any prints in the secretary’s office—any prints other than her own.

  Daphne Barney sat in the bleachers with her girls surrounding her. They were all holding still for once—they were probably too hot to run around—and Sandra was able to count them. There appeared to be only four. No way. She could’ve sworn there were more of them. Maybe one was at a friend’s house. But did the Barney girls even have friends? She’d never seen them playing with other children, despite her church having a gazillion children in regular attendance. It struck her then that she barely knew these people, even though they’d been going to her church for a while now. She felt a little guilty, so she headed for the bleachers.

  As she sat, she asked, “Hot enough for you?” It was a line so commonly delivered in Maine whenever the temperature went above seventy-five, she hoped it would serve as a harmless segue into a friendly conversation.

  She was wrong.

  “I’m from South Carolina.” Daphne’s face was so tight Sandra wondered if she’d just had a Botox shot. Her tone was so unfriendly, Sandra almost bounced right off the bleacher seat and ran away.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to insult your ability to tolerate heat.” She hoped her words didn’t sound as sarcastic as she’d felt when she spoke them.

  Daphne’s face exploded into a beauty pageant smile. “No, I’m sorry. I truly am. I guess I’m just grumpy.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I hate softball.”

  Sandra laughed. “Yeah, it’s not my favorite either.”

  Daphne rocked away from her. “Yes, I’ve heard you’re quite the soccer hero around here.” Her words teetered on the edge of ironic, and Sandra wasn’t sure whether to be offended, so she gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Mommy, will you please braid my hair?” One of the blondes plopped down on the bleacher in front of her, and as if on autopilot, Daphne’s hands began weaving the long locks together. Sandra noticed then how perfect Daphne’s hair was. And she wasn’t sweating, which didn’t seem reasonable. Maybe this was a benefit of growing up in South Carolina—you learned not to sweat.

  “So, four girls, huh?” She cringed at her awkwardness, but she couldn’t stand the suspense of not knowing exactly how many children Brendan and Daphne had.

  “Yes. This is Brenna.” She pointed with her chin without looking away from her braiding. “That is my oldest, Bethany. And then down there we have Bonnie and Beatrice. Get out of the dirt, girls!” The girls popped up like those old bounce back punching bags her dad had blown up for her when she was little, back when it was okay to teach kids to punch. In perfect synchrony, Bonnie and Beatrice plopped down on the front row of the bleachers and stared out at the batting practice, which could not possibly have interested them. It didn’t even appear to be interesting the people directly involved in it. “Who knows what’s in that dirt,” Daphne said, mostly to herself.

  Sandra considered the question, but decided it was probably mostly dirt in that dirt.

  Richard Barney stepped up to bat and missed the first pitch. Then he missed the second. And the third. Sandra wasn’t sure if he was a terrible batter or if Pastor Cliff was a terrible pitcher. She watched another five missed swings and decided that both things were true.

  A large sedan pulled into the church pa
rking lot, and it took Sandra too long to realize it was Chip and Slaughter. They climbed out and walked out onto the field as if they owned the place. They made a beeline for Richard, said something to him, and then in a move that nearly knocked the wind out of Sandra’s lungs, spun him around and slapped some handcuffs on his wrists.

  At that, his church brethren made a mad dash to surround him. Sandra didn’t know if they were there to defend him or if they just wanted to get closer to the drama. All she knew was that she wished she were closer to the drama. She did stand and climb out of the bleachers, only then realizing that the Barneys beside her seemed awfully calm about the whole thing. Or maybe they didn’t understand what was going on? She pulled her eyes away from the action to glance at Daphne, whose face was completely impassive. Were South Carolinians stoics? Was Daphne related to Slaughter? They should form a poker team.

  She turned back to what appeared to be an arrest and tried to read Chip’s lips. Pastor Cliff seemed to be enthusiastically defending Richard Barney’s honor. Sandra wasn’t surprised. He didn’t want to lose the biggest tither he’d ever had to the clink.

  Sandra realized then that she didn’t think Richard had done it either, no matter what the fingerprints suggested. Why would a rich man kill a peaceable recovering drug addict? And why would he do it with an old softball bat? Didn’t rich people hire real criminals to carry out their crimes? At least, that’s how it happened on television. Then it had to be a crime of passion, right? Something Richard hadn’t thought out in advance? But how could Richard have any passion regarding Phoenix?

  This whole business had started out with a bunch of puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together, and she feared Chip and Slaughter were trying to jam the pieces into the wrong spots.

  Chapter 22

  Sandra took her coffee outside. The Sunday morning mayhem of her house was getting to her more than it usually did, and she needed a minute to collect her thoughts. She had spent most of the night tossing and turning, worried that Chip and Slaughter had arrested the wrong man. She wasn’t the president of the Richard Barney fan club, but neither did she think that he was a murderer. She drained the last drop of her creamy java and was reluctantly returning to the circus tent when she noticed a man standing a few feet from her bird bath.