Die Like an Eagle

by Donna Andrews

  “We all have our own ways of doing business,” he said.

  “Yours doesn’t get many repeat customers,” I said.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Call it a helpful observation.”

  “Bet you’ll take the ball field away from me, too,” he said.

  I glanced down at the field in front of us. Under the puddles, the outfield was still a patchwork of crabgrass and bare red clay—more red clay than yesterday, thanks to all the hole filling and hill leveling. The infield was now all red clay—well, red clay and water at the moment—though at least it, too, was now a lot more level. The only thing that really made me feel better about how the field looked was that Randall had already calculated how much sod would be needed to replace the clay and crabgrass with lush green turf and penciled the work in on the Shiffley Construction Company’s calendar to start the day after the playoffs. And if Biff tried to claim the work for his company—well, once the county attorney finished her study of the contract, then yes, we probably were going to take the ball field away from him.

  “It could use some work from somebody,” I said aloud.

  “Well, you can do what you want,” he said. “It’s your league now.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said.

  “It’s not?” He looked at me with a curious expression on his face, hope visible through the gloomy scowl.

  “It’s not my league,” I said. “It’s our league. It belongs to you and me and everyone who has a kid in the league or maybe just loves baseball and wants to help make the league as great as possible.”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “They’ll drive you crazy. They’ve all got their own damn fool ideas about how things should run.”

  “Maybe some of those ideas are good,” I suggested. “Or maybe they’re not, but if nobody tries them or even listens to them, how will we know?”

  He shook his head and snorted slightly.

  “So the league’s not your personal fiefdom anymore,” I said. “Never was, for that matter—but you still have a voice. What do you want for the league? What’s your vision?”

  I expected bluster and bombast, a passionate defense of how much better equipped he was to run the league. Instead he sighed and swept his gaze around the field.

  “I want it to be the way it was,” he said.

  Did he mean with him at the helm?

  “When I was growing up,” he added, as if answering my question. “We didn’t have fancy fields and uniforms. No electronic scoreboards—if you wanted to know what the score was, you paid attention to the game. You wanted a seat, you brought a lawn chair. Parents didn’t have to spend a month’s salary on fancy equipment for eight-year-olds. The snack shack sold Cokes and hot dogs and bubble gum—you wanted crêpes suzette and quiche, you could bring your own in a picnic basket. Baseball was simpler back then.”

  “A lot of things were simpler back then,” I said. “Simpler isn’t necessarily better. Kids get fewer injuries thanks to some of that fancy equipment. And hot dogs, Coke, and bubble gum don’t exactly make up the healthiest diet.”

  “We had more fun then,” he said.

  “You were a kid then,” I said. “Of course you had more fun. All you did was show up and play ball. It was your parents who had to buy your equipment and haul it and you to practices and games. Not to mention packing the picnic basket and the folding chairs and the bug spray and the sunscreen and the water bottles. And then there’s figuring out how to get the red clay mud stains out of those blindingly white baseball pants all the teams seem to pick.”

  “You don’t like the white pants?” From the look on his face, I suspected this was some kind of baseball heresy.

  “I like the white pants,” I said. “I don’t like the work it takes to keep them spotless, but when the boys walk out on the field, so proud of their uniforms, I like it. It’s fun to watch them. Fun that requires a lot of grown-up work to make it happen, but maybe that makes it all the sweeter.”

  “I’m not sure I get your point.”

  “I probably won’t do everything the way you’ve been doing it,” I said. “Heck, maybe I won’t do anything the way you’ve been doing it, and maybe I’ll make some really stupid mistakes. It’d be nice to know that you’ll do what you can to make the transition easier.”

  “You want me to resign from coaching my teams, I expect,” he said.

  Part of me wanted to cheer, and say, “Yes, of course.” But I found myself wondering if that really was the best idea. It would certainly alienate some if not all of the Yankee and Stoat families. We might have trouble getting a new coach, or even keeping enough players for the teams to continue, and that would mean only three teams instead of four in our already tiny coach-pitch and majors divisions.

  “Not necessarily,” I said.

  He turned to look at me, with a startled expression.

  “You’d have to play by the rules,” I said.

  “Your rules,” he said.

  “Summerball rules,” I said. “Plus any local rules approved in a general meeting, though offhand I can’t think of any we need. But if I do think of any, they’ll be voted on publicly and disseminated to everyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to be particularly fierce about the rule against profanity and abusive language,” I said. “And if I ever hear you belittling one of your players the way you did during yesterday’s games, you will be out on your ear. I know it’s part of the coaches’ job to make sure the kids learn from their mistakes, but raised voices should never be part of that learning process.”

  He scowled and nodded.

  Another idea came to me.

  “And I’m not going to argue with Mr. Witherington’s requirement that you attend some anger management counseling as a condition of your continuing.”

  “Anger management?” From his tone of voice, I could tell the very idea ticked him off.

  “If you fight that, he’s going to fight having you continue as a coach.”

  “Whatever.” He sounded defeated.

  “I’ll talk to Witherington, then.” And warn him not to act surprised when Biff announced his willingness to undergo anger management counseling. “Getting back to the town square—have you been having trouble getting the materials?”

  “Trouble? What do you mean, trouble?” He sounded more like the old Biff. “What business is it of yours how I run my business?”

  “It’s just that Randall has been complaining that some of Shiffley Construction’s suppliers haven’t been very reliable lately.” I hoped this sounded plausible, because I was making it up as I went along. “So much so that we did an inventory of the county warehouse to see if we had any materials we could repurpose for one of the contracts his company is working on. And it seemed to me that some of the stuff on that inventory might be usable for the town square project.”

  “So you’re taking that away from me, too?”

  “I’m suggesting we renegotiate the terms of your contract,” I said. “You supply the labor and the county provides the materials out of surplus from our warehouse. The county gets back much-needed warehouse space, and you don’t have to deal with those unreliable suppliers.”

  “I also don’t get the usual markup on the materials,” he said. Definitely more like the old Biff.

  “No,” I said. “So if your suppliers are more reliable than Randall’s and you’re having no problem ordering the supplies and don’t care about having to have all that money tied up in materials until the work’s done, fine.”

  “No, no,” he said, quickly. “If it will help out the county, fine.”

  “So I’ll have the county attorney draw up a revised contract,” I said. “How about if we meet Tuesday to sign it. What time’s good for you?”

  “Whenever,” he said.

  “Ten a.m.”

  He nodded. If I had just made an appointment, I’d have pulled out my notebook and jotted it on my calendar. He just kept staring at the field. And a
t the Shiffleys who were methodically vacuuming up puddles and hauling the water to the ditch.

  Was he really planning to meet with me? Or just planning to blow me off?

  “So does that work for you?” I asked.

  “Assuming I’m still out of jail on Tuesday,” he said, with a grimace. “Half the county seems to think I killed my own brother. And the chief seems to be in that half.”

  I wished I could say something reassuring. But about the best thing I could have managed was to say that I wasn’t in the half who thought he’d killed Shep. I was in the half who wasn’t sure who’d done it and just hoped the chief caught the killer before too long.

  “Well, if you’re in jail you’re off the hook,” I said. “Assuming you’re not, I’ll see you Tuesday at your office at ten a.m.”

  He nodded. I scribbled the appointment in my notebook, and added an item to figure out at least one person I could take along with me so I wouldn’t be venturing alone in the lair of someone who, even if he was out of jail by then, could still be a killer. Someone other than Randall, who would only irritate Biff. Maybe—

  “Look, I’m sorry about your kid,” he said suddenly. “I shouldn’t have jumped on him. It was just yesterday—this whole weekend—had been pretty tough, and thinking someone was stealing from the Snack Shack was kind of a last straw. Maybe Witherington’s right. Maybe I do need this anger management thing.”

  He dug into his pocket and held something out to me. A key ring.

  “Big one’s for the Snack Shack,” he said. “Small one’s for the padlock on the equipment shed.”

  “Thanks.” As I was pocketing the keys I saw headlights turning into the parking lot.

  “Probably Mr. Witherington,” I said. “I should go and see him.”

  Biff didn’t seem to notice that I was leaving.

  Actually it was Mr. Witherington and Randall. They had climbed out of their vehicles and were standing side by side, wearing nearly identical navy-blue hooded rain jackets.

  “It works surprisingly well,” Mr. Witherington was saying. “I’ll send you the information when I get back to the office.”

  “Morning, Meg,” Randall said, spying me. “Jim’s going to give us some info on ways we can get the field to drain better.”

  “If you can afford to spend the money,” Mr. Witherington said.

  “I have my eye on a couple of potential donors,” Randall said. “How’s your morning going, Meg?”

  “Biff agreed to the idea of using supplies from the county warehouse to fix the town square,” I said. “So order whatever you think he should be using and let’s get the project moving.”

  “Will do,” Randall said. “Of course, it’s going to be a little hard to explain how we happened to have half an acre of fresh sod in the warehouse. Then again, who knows if Biff will even be around to wonder, and as long as his workmen are expecting a paycheck, they won’t care.”

  “And Biff has agreed to attend anger management counseling as a condition of continuing as coach of the Stoats and the Yankees,” I said to Mr. Witherington.

  “An excellent idea,” he said.

  “I’m glad you think so,” I said. “Because we’re pretending it’s your idea and that you’ll insist he resign if he doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Aha!” he said. “So we’re playing good cop, bad cop.”

  “More like bad cop, worse cop,” I said. “I think Biff would run roughshod over good cop. And of course, all of this is assuming Biff isn’t in jail by the end of the weekend, which seems to be what he’s expecting to happen.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mr. Witherington looked anxious. “Do you suppose that constitutes an admission of guilt?”

  “More likely an admission that he realizes half the county loathes and distrusts him and thinks he’s a killer,” Randall said.

  “And that half of the county could very well be right,” Mr. Witherington said. “If he’s arrested, I’m going to ask him to resign his coaching posts for the good of the league. I already have our PR people working on how we’d handle it in the media. By the way, did he give you the league files yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “He did turn over the keys. I forgot to remind him about the files.”

  “I can remind him,” Mr. Witherington said. “If you can tell me where to find him.”

  “He should be right over—never mind,” I said. “He was right over there behind home plate, watching the Shiffleys work on the field, but I guess he decided not to stick around. He can’t have gone far, though.”

  “His car’s not here,” Randall said. “Must have driven off while we were talking.”

  “I’ll track him down,” Mr. Witherington said. “Talk to you later.”

  He returned to his rental car and drove carefully off.

  “I think I’ll help the boys for a while,” Randall said, nodding at the field.

  “I’m going in to the courthouse to work on that revised town square renovation contract,” I said. “If I can give the county attorney a draft to review, I suspect we can get that done a lot sooner than if we ask her to draft it.”

  “Like as not,” Randall agreed. “Well, that field isn’t going to dry itself.”

  Actually, given time, it would, I found myself thinking. But probably not until the holiday weekend was over.

  I climbed into my car and headed out of the parking lot. But just as I was about to make the left turn onto the main road, I spotted Horace trudging along on the shoulder as if coming from town, looking wet and miserable. He was lugging something heavy—was that his forensic kit? He seemed excited when he spotted my car, and began running toward me, kicking up a great deal of mud and road spray in the process. I unrolled my window.

  “What’s wrong?” I shouted.

  “Thank goodness!” he called out. “The chief’s going to kill me! Can you give me a ride to town?”

  Chapter 24

  “Sure—I was just heading there myself.” I popped open the passenger-side door, and Horace scrambled in, bringing a great deal of water with him.

  “Hurry,” he said. “The chief is waiting for me, and my car slid into the ditch and my cell phone’s dead and—”

  “Relax,” I said. “I can drop you off wherever you like. Why is the chief waiting for you?”

  He frowned and tightened his lips as if to indicate that it was police business and wild horses couldn’t drag the answer out of him. And then he smiled rather ruefully and shook his head.

  “I guess there’s no harm telling you,” he said. “You’d have heard as soon as you got home—your father figured it out from listening to the police band radio. Vern Shiffley just found Callie Peebles limping along the side of the Clay Swamp Road. She claims while she was driving home from the Summerball meeting last night Biff Brown ran her off the road.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. So I need to go out and do forensics on her car, so when we catch Biff we can see if there’s any evidence to prove her story.”

  “When you catch him?” I echoed. We were passing Horace’s car, which was probably going to need not only towing but also body work.

  “Yeah. There’s been a BOLO out on him for the last hour, but no luck yet.”

  “Wish I’d known that half an hour ago when I saw him at the baseball field.”

  “Half an hour ago? May I use your phone?”

  I handed over the phone and listened in on his conversation.

  “Chief … I know, I know. My car’s in a ditch, but Meg’s bringing me in—listen, she just saw Brown down at the ball field half an hour ago.… Okay, I’ll put you on speaker.”

  “Meg, are you sure it was Mr. Brown you saw?”

  “I didn’t just see him,” I said. “I spoke to him.”

  A few moments of silence on the other end. No, not quite silence. I could hear the chief talking to someone.

  “Any chance you could take Horace out to where Ms. Peebles’ car was found?” the chief asked. “All my officers a
re out trying to apprehend Mr. Brown.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just tell me where.”

  “Take the Clay Swamp Road,” the chief said. “Keep going till you’re almost at the Clay County line, and then look for Vern’s patrol car. He’s guarding the scene. Horace, let me know when you get there. Meg, after you drop him off, could you come back and see me?”

  “Can do,” I said.

  “Roger.” Horace handed me back my phone.

  “The Clay Swamp Road,” I said. “That’s out near Biff Brown’s scrapyard.”

  “Sounds like,” Horace said. “Mind if I plug my phone in to charge it?”

  “Knock your socks off.”

  I focused on driving. And on resisting the temptation to race to the scene of the crime. The roads were horribly slippery, and it wouldn’t help matters if I followed Horace’s example and ended up in a ditch.

  We finally spotted Vern’s car parked on the shoulder with its blue lights flashing.

  “Pull over here,” Horace said when we were still a quarter of a mile from Vern. “Rain’s probably washed away any evidence that would have been on the road, but better safe than sorry.”

  I watched as he sloshed down the road toward Vern’s car. Vern got out to meet him. Horace waved good-bye to me—okay, I can take a hint. I took my time making a three-point turn on the roadway and managed to get a glimpse of Callie’s red truck off in the woods on the left side of the road.

  Then I headed back to town. After all, the chief had said he wanted to see me. Odds were he only wanted to cross-examine me on exactly when I’d talked to Biff, or maybe whether I’d noticed any telltale damage to his car. I had a feeling he’d be disappointed by how little I had to tell him. Ah, well.

  When I pulled into the station parking lot, I saw an SUV that had seen better days sitting just inside the entrance, with a familiar face behind the wheel—Gina. Formerly Gina Brown, though I couldn’t recall the maiden name she was now using instead. I waved, but she just sat there, staring, with an expression of frozen distress, as if she’d spotted a scorpion crawling on her dashboard.