by Troy Soos
I grunted and looked down into the pot. “What did you put in it this time?” The trial of the White Sox players wasn’t something I wanted to hear about. It was an aftermath, as far as I was concerned. The case was settled for me when Joe Jackson confessed to a grand jury last September that he had accepted $5,000 from gamblers to throw the World Series.
“It’s a surprise,” Margie answered.
I then set the table, poured the ginger ales, and cut a loaf of rye bread. By the time we sat down to eat, I was ravenous.
“This is good,” I said, after the first mouthful. “There’s no possum in it, is there?” That was the main ingredient of her last batch.
“No, mutton mostly.” She smiled. “And a dash of squirrel.”
At least she hadn’t tried eye-of-newt yet. “Did you have the kids over today?” I asked.
“Took them to see Peck’s Bad Boy again at the Orpheum. You know, you made quite an impression on Patrick. He brought those baseball cards along and repeated the stories you told him about the players. Sounded like he memorized every word you said.”
“Really? I thought I might have talked too much and started boring him.” That reminded me—I’d also forgotten to ask Perriman if he knew what happened to Dick Hurley.
Margie shook her head. “Not at all. He was thrilled.” After swallowing a bite of stew, she added, “And you should have seen your face when you were talking with him. I could tell you really liked it. You’d be a good teacher.”
It had been fun sharing what I knew with the boy. “My uncle used to tell me stories like those all the time,” I said. “And he always seemed to enjoy the telling as much as I enjoyed the listening. He took satisfaction in it, like he was passing on a family heritage or something.” I put my fork down. “I don’t know what it is about baseball, and history ... But it was always something my uncle and I could talk about, no matter what else happened.” “You ever think about having a boy of your own?” Margie asked.
No quick answer came to mind, so I went for another piece of mutton, which I chewed until it was almost liquid. “Someday, I suppose.”
After a minute’s silence, Margie said, “Well, speaking about teaching ... you remember I took the kids to the zoo last week?”
“When the sea lion spit up on Erin?”
She laughed. “Yes. I don’t think she’ll be going near the sea-lion basin again! Anyway, when we were there, I talked to one of the trainers who handles the big cats. He remembered me from my pictures. And today I got a call from Sol Stephan—he’s the zoo superintendent. He offered me a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Giving talks about the animals, mostly to children. Mr. Stephan said he thought it would attract some publicity by having a former movie actress there, especially since most of my pictures involved animals.”
My first reaction was that it would be good for her to get a job here, because she might feel more settled and more likely to stay. “It sounds like fun,” I said. “Are you going to take it?”
“I already told him yes. I start after the Fourth of July.”
“You’ll do great,” I said. Then I began to worry that she might find she really wanted to perform again. What if she decided to go back to vaudeville or making movies?
I didn’t detect much flavor in the rest of the meal.
Chapter Four
“Rawlings!” Pat Moran barked. “Yer up for Stram.”
I bolted from the bench and grabbed my bat from where it lay in front of the dugout.
It was bottom of the ninth inning, tie score, runner on first, one out. And the manager was calling on me to do the job.
Curt Stram didn’t like being pulled from the game. As I passed him on my way to the plate, he muttered, “Reckon old Whiskey Face is givin’ up on this one.”
“Watch and learn, busher,” I said.
I approached the batter’s box, my attention shifting from Stram to Phillies’ pitcher Specs Meadows. It was disconcerting to face a hurler wearing thick eyeglasses—what if he couldn’t see the difference between the catcher’s mitt and my head?—but I dug in my spikes and choked up on the bat. I felt no extra pressure at being called on to pinch-hit; actually it gave me added confidence knowing that Moran thought he could count on me to come through for him. I looked to the third-base coach for the sign, though I already knew what it would be. Meadows knew, too. Hell, every one of the twenty-some thousand fans who’d come to Redland Field for the final game against Philadelphia must have known what was coming.
Greasy Neale took a cautious lead off first base. Meadows went into his motion and served up a fastball, high and tight. He wasn’t going to make it easy for me. I laid off the pitch for ball one. His second delivery was a sharp curve, low and away; again I held back. Two balls, no strikes. Meadows couldn’t risk walking me, so I figured the next pitch would be in the strike zone.
Fastball, right down the middle. I slid my right hand up the barrel of the bat and squared around, dropping a perfect bunt toward third base. It was a sacrifice, intended only to move Neale into scoring position, but I sprinted for first base with all the energy my legs could muster. Never know—a bobble fielding the ball, a throw in the dirt, and maybe I could beat it out.
Two steps from the base, I knew the throw wasn’t headed for the dirt. I felt the baseball bang into my right shoulder blade, then saw it from the corner of my eye as it rolled into foul territory.
Both base coaches were yelling, “Go! Go!” and Neale and I kept running. By the time the Phillies’ first baseman retrieved the ball, Neale was on third base and I was safely on second. As far as I was concerned, that bunt was as good as a home run—better, in a way, because it was the right strategy for the situation, and I’d executed the play as well as anyone could.
Most of the fans were on their feet when Edd Roush calmly stepped up to bat. Specs Meadows tried to avoid giving Roush anything hittable, throwing three straight balls nowhere near the strike zone. Then he put one a little too close to the plate, and the two-time batting champion reached out and smacked a line drive that dropped into center field. Greasy Neale scored the winning run, and I trotted off to join my cheering teammates in front of the dugout.
Pat Moran clapped me on the back. “Way to go, Mick.”
A smirking Curt Stram needled me, “You run pretty good for an old codger.”
I tried to hold back a laugh; it was only a few years ago that I thought a player pushing thirty years old was a “codger,” too. “Beat you around the basepaths anytime you want to take me on,” I said.
A uniformed usher with white hair worked his way through the ballplayers and stepped in front of me. “Mr. Rawlings,” he said. “Some gentlemen want to speak with you.” He nodded toward the box seats next to the dugout.
The Reds’ president, Garry Herrmann, was there, along with two police officers standing straight and stiff. From their expressions, I was pretty sure they weren’t there to compliment me on my bunting skills.
“What happened?” I asked.
The usher hesitated, perhaps unsure if he was supposed to tell me. “There’s been a death,” he said.
“Who?”
He put his fist in front of his mouth as if covering up a cough. “That fellow who was putting together the museum. Oliver Perriman.”
I wasn’t allowed time to change out of my uniform, so I was still wearing my white flannels and holding my spikes in my hands to avoid marring the floors of Redland’s administrative offices. I padded along the hallway in my red-stocking feet, escorted by Herrmann and the patrolmen.
The club president said nothing to me directly. He repeatedly muttered to himself, “Terrible thing. Terrible.” I knew that the fun-loving Herrmann, for whom every day was Oktoberfest, didn’t like problems.
When we reached Perriman’s office, I was relieved to see that his corpse wasn’t in the room. There were four more uniformed police officers and two other men: Lloyd Tinsley and a tall man in a wrinkled suit who was ques
tioning the business manager and writing in a little black notebook. From his manner, I had no doubt that he was also with the police department.
The two officers who’d accompanied me joined the other four standing idly by the windows. They were wide-open, and the ceiling fan was turning at full speed. There was no longer much worry about anything being disturbed by the breeze. Although the shelves and tables were still overflowing with Perriman’s relics, there was no longer an order to them; bats and balls were scattered on the floor, and the neat stacks of guides and magazines had been toppled. I wondered if an intruder had made the mess or if the police had been searching for evidence.
I looked over toward Perriman’s desk. The drawers were open, and his chair was turned around to face the middle of the room.
Then my gaze dropped, and what I saw on the floor next to the chair made my stomach lurch. A reddish brown splotch, about the size of a pancake, darkened the beige carpet. It was as if Ollie Perriman had melted away into a little puddle, and that crust of dried blood was the only remaining evidence of his existence.
The plainclothes officer finished with Tinsley and came to where I was waiting. His suit was a shade of drab between tan and gray, and the complexion of his stolid, thin face was almost a perfect match. “I’m Detective Forsch,” he said. A lit cigarette dangled precariously on his lip.
“Mickey Rawlings.” I reflexively stuck out my hand.
“I know.” He turned to a new page in his notebook, ignoring the offered handshake. There was a bored look in his pale eyes.
I moved my hand and pointed to the stain on the rug. “Is that ... ?”
“Yes. Tell me—”
“What happened?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Forsch gave me a pointed look. “I have some questions for you now, if you don’t mind answering.”
Right. I was here to answer questions, not ask them. “Uh, sure. But I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“For starters, Mr. Tinsley tells me you were in here yesterday afternoon.”
I shot a glance at Tinsley. It felt like he’d ratted on me, though I knew it was perfectly reasonable for him to tell the police I’d been in the office. “Yes, after the game. Not for long, though. I was home by six, and I stayed there all night.”
Forsch stopped writing and his eyes fixed on mine for a moment. “Is there some reason you feel you need an alibi?”
“No, I—It’s just—” Don’t get defensive, I told myself. Just because I’d had a few bad experiences with law enforcement in the past, there was no reason to assume the worst about this cop. “I only wanted to say that I didn’t see Perriman at all after I left here about five-thirty.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
“Well, when I first came in, Mr. Tinsley was here, too. Him and Mr. Perriman were talking about the opening of the museum.” I briefly wondered if I should mention that it had sounded like more of an argument than a discussion, but decided not to. “Then he left, and I asked Perriman how the exhibit was coming—I’m supposed to be there when they have the grand opening.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you supposed to be at the opening? Were you a friend of Perriman’s?”
“Not really. Well, maybe we’d have become friends—I think we would have—but! I only met him twice before he . . .” My attention strayed to the bloodstain on the floor.
“So why were you going to be at the opening?” Forsch prodded.
“Oh. Mr. Tinsley wanted somebody from the team to be there. For publicity.”
“And they picked you?”
I ignored the note of incredulity in Forsch’s question. “I volunteered. Mr. Tinsley asked for players who might be interested. Guess I was the only one.”
We were interrupted by two more cops, one of them with sergeant’s stripes, entering the office. Forsch stepped aside to talk with them. There were enough officers in the room to fend off an invasion, but they didn’t seem to be doing much in the way of investigating.
I turned to look at Tinsley and Herrmann. They stood huddled together near the desk but standing well clear of the blood spot on the rug. The two were an odd match. Garry Herrmann, his short, portly body a testament to his patronage of Cincinnati’s sausage makers and breweries, wore a bright green-checked suit, and diamond rings glittered from the fingers of both hands. He was visibly agitated, and Lloyd Tinsley, more sober in both appearance and manner, appeared to be trying to calm him.
Having finished with the officers, Forsch directed his attention back to me. “Let’s see, where were we ...” He made a quick check of his notes. “When you spoke with Perriman yesterday, did you notice anything unusual?”
“Like what?”
“Did he say anything about being in danger? Did he seem scared, nervous?”
“Only about getting the exhibit open soon. Said he was going to work late and try to get things in order.”
“Did he say how much the collection was worth?”
“Not specifically. Told me he spent more money than he should have for some of this stuff, but didn’t say exactly how much. Mr. Tinsley would probably know that better than me. Or Mrs. Perriman. He said his wife wasn’t happy about how much he was spending.”
“Did he say if any items had been lost or stolen in the past?”
“No ... but you can check his book. He had a list of everything in the collection.”
“Yes, Mr. Tinsley has been reviewing that for us.”
Forsch then took my home address and phone number in case he had additional questions later.
When he flicked his notebook closed, I pointed again at the bloodstain. “How did—?”
With a heavy sigh to show that he didn’t really have to answer any questions of mine, the detective said, “Shot. Bullet to the head.”
“But why?”
“Well, I’m just making a wild guess here,” Forsch said facetiously, “but this is a museum ... a lot of valuable items ... the shooting happened around midnight ... In my professional judgment, I’d say he was likely killed in an attempted robbery.”
“So you think—”
“Thanks for coming in. If I have any more questions for you, I’ll be in touch.”
I was dismissed. But instead of leaving the office directly, I went over to Herrmann and Tinsley. “The detective says he’s finished with me. Anything you need me for?”
Herrmann shook his head. “No, no, you go shower now.”
I hesitated a moment, unable to keep from staring down at the carpet again. Yesterday, Ollie Perriman had been standing here, alive, enthusiastic about his latest treasures. And now he was dead, killed on almost the exact spot where I’d last seen him.
As for those treasures, I saw that Charlie Gould’s bat was still on its rack above the desk, and the trophy balls were in their case. Cal McVey’s uniform jersey was on the wall—but I noticed that the bottom of it had been scorched; there was a burn mark on it about the size of my hand. If Perriman was killed in a robbery, why had those things been left at all—surely they were among the most valuable in the collection.
I turned to go, then shot a quick glance at the wall below Gould’s bat. Harry and George Wright’s gold medals were still there. Helluva thief, I thought, who’d pass those up.
Chapter Five
I fanned myself with an unused 1913 Cincinnati Reds scorecard, trying to stir up the warm, humid air that hovered in the parlor. The resulting breeze was too weak to prevent sweat from trickling down my face and splashing onto the pages of the Baseball Magazine I was leafing through.
It was an hour or two after midnight, and I was alone, seated at my desk, where I’d stacked the publications Ollie Perriman had given me. I was in my summer underwear—a sleeveless nainsook shirt and knee-length drawers—but neither the light clothing nor the open windows could alleviate the oppressive heat. I found the quiet of the night peaceful and calming though. The only sound was the sporad
ic thwack of a moth bumping into the window screen; it was attracted by the glow from the brass lamp on the desk’s top shelf.
A light footstep fell behind me, and I swiveled around in my chair to see Margie coming down the stairs, tying the sash of her red floral kimono. Her tread was somewhat unsteady, and her eyes were puffy.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked in a drowsy voice.
“Can’t stop thinking about Ollie Perriman getting killed.” I shifted in my chair, carefully peeling my posterior off the leather cushion as I moved.
“It’s awful what happened,” Margie said soothingly, “but staying up and fretting won’t change things. Come back to bed, get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Something about it doesn’t feel right,” I said. “I don’t think this was a simple robbery gone bad.”
Margie let out a long breath, then sat down on the sofa and tucked her legs under her. “Why not?”
“Because there were valuable things left behind.” I stuck the scorecard in the magazine to mark my place and set it down. “A couple of big gold medals were hanging on the wall right above Perriman’s desk. No thief could have missed seeing them. So why didn’t he take them?”
“Maybe he thought they’d be too easy to trace?”
“Could melt them down and sell them for the gold.”
“Well ...” The muscles in Margie’s neck strained as she stifled a yawn. “Maybe he got scared after the shooting and ran out.”
“Could be. But I don’t think it happened like that. The blood on the floor was by the desk—in a corner away from the door. So I don’t think Perriman walked in and surprised the robber. And if the killer walked in and shot Perriman where he sat, why rummage through the shelves and drawers afterward, but not take the medals?”
“I don’t know,” she answered with a note of finality. “But I do know that reading all night isn’t going to help anything. How about if I get you some warm milk and cookies and then you try to go back to sleep?”