by Jan Gleiter
“Well,” said Meg, “to each her own. Why did a woman like that live in a place like this?” Her house—it felt already so much like her house—just didn’t go with a purple sports car.
Christine laughed. “Because she spent all her money on her car.”
“Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care,” said Christine. “Ask Mike; he’s the one she worked for.” She carried her cup to the sink. “I’ve got to go get some things done before baseball practice. Can you come for supper after? Fast, easy. Bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches?”
Meg had forgotten about practice, which was scheduled for when Jack was supposed to come over. She’d have to call him and change their plan. When was she going to get her work done? In Chicago, it hadn’t been a problem to work at home. There wasn’t anything else to do at home.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like to.”
* * *
Jack wasn’t at his house or at his studio, so Meg left messages at both places. She spent the rest of the afternoon resisting the breeze through the windows in her office. As she started out the door with her bat in her hand, the phone rang.
“Standing me up, I hear,” said Jack. “What did I say? Or have you decided you don’t care if your furnace blows you to kingdom come?”
“If I thought it would,” said Meg, “I’d skip baseball practice. The furnace is just slow, not dangerous.”
“And you’d know, right?” He laughed at her.
“I asked Dan,” said Meg. “I had a fire in the attic. It started in one of those junction boxes you warned me to cover. Scary, yikes, and all that. So I got paranoid and—”
“You had a fire?”
“Uh-huh. I put it out and got an electrician and things are fine now, but it made me nervous, so Dan checked the furnace.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, can I still come by? You make better coffee than I do. How about Wednesday morning? About six?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yeah. You’re probably a real witch at six.”
“I am never a real witch,” said Meg. “But, just to be on the safe side…”
“Around eight?”
“Great.”
* * *
Christine hit fly balls to half the team while Meg worked with half on the fine points of base running.
“Try it again, Suzanne. A double again; you’re being waved on to second. This time, try to hit the inside of first base with your right foot.”
The girl looked down at her feet, then back at Meg and nodded. She stepped to the plate and picked up a bat.
“Okay. Swing! Go!” Meg clicked the stopwatch and observed the speedy child with approval as she tore down the baseline, fists clenched, arms pumping. She hit the inside of the bag and made an efficient turn.
“Yeah!” shouted Meg. “See how much faster that is?”
She timed the rest of her group, then waved them over to her and chose a tall, cheerful boy with dark hair that had been curly the week before and was now cut so short he looked like an army recruit. “Spence! What do you do when you’re on second with first base open and the batter hits a grounder to the leftfield side?”
The boy recited the answer. “Wait until I see the ball in the air toward first before taking off for third. Never run into a tag.”
“Good,” said Meg. “Now, let’s say you’re on third. There’s a fly ball. What do you do?”
He hesitated, unable to deal with the generality of the question. “Infield or outfield? he asked. “Is the infield fly rule in effect? How many outs are there?”
Meg smiled. “Good answer,” she said. “Let’s get specific.”
She took the team through the possibilities, reminding them of why they would have base coaches.
The players rotated. When Meg and Christine had gone through the same routines again, Meg called the children in.
“First game, Saturday, at three. I want you here no later than two-thirty for warm-ups and so we know who’s here. Anybody not going to make it?”
There were no raised hands.
“Good. Let’s pass out uniforms.”
* * *
“Finish your book report, Teddy,” said Christine. “Ask Jane about the spelling. Meg and I are going to get supper ready.”
“Guests are not normally expected to work,” said Meg, taking a tomato out of boiling water and peeling it. “At least you could assign me something simple, like setting the table.”
“Fine,” said Christine. “Set the table. It does make more sense for me to do the really complicated stuff, like making toast. We’ll eat here in the kitchen.”
“How many places?” asked Meg, taking a stack of plates out of the cupboard. “Will Dan be here?”
“No,” said Christine. “He’s catching up on stuff at the office, so he’ll just eat there.”
“Does he have one of those nifty black lunch boxes with the curved top for the thermos? You know, the kind all the big strong men carry in one hand, with their hard hat in the other?”
“No. He throws a bagel in a sack,” said Christine. “But when he’s working at the office, he uses the kitchen there.”
“That must be some office.”
“Not really. It’s just a few rooms, but it’s comfy,” said Christine. “Sometimes he has to spend a lot of time there.”
She dropped bacon onto a paper-towel-covered plate and looked around. “Glass glasses? Are you nuts? For you and me, fine. But give the kids those big plastic ones. I’ve spent enough long hours on my hands and knees getting tiny glass shards off the floor.”
Meg went back to the cupboard, reflecting. Christine was so … well, serene. Was it better to mention the change in her mood, or to ignore it?
“You and Dan, uh, seem to be getting along,” she said at last.
Christine jumped back from spitting bacon grease. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Things are going to be fine. I’m sorry I was so moody and dramatic.”
“Don’t be. It was totally reasonable. So, everything’s straightened out?” Who was Leslie McAlester? Had Christine found out? Why was she so closemouthed all of a sudden?
“Pretty much,” said Christine. She was not going to provide details. “So how are things with all your boyfriends?” she asked. “The attention still making you jumpy?”
It took Meg a moment to catch up with the adjustment in topics. She moved a fork closer to its plate and put one hand on her hip. “Just what makes you think I’m jumpy?”
“Come on!” said Christine. “Mike likes you. Jack likes you. Both of them are adorable. There are at least forty women in town who would trade places with you in the blink of an eye. And you’re pussyfooting around like maybe they’re both fortune hunters or something. You don’t have a fortune I don’t know about, do you?”
“Oh, please!” said Meg. “I wish.”
“So are you, despite your assurances otherwise, still getting over Jim?”
Yes, thought Meg. I guess I am. “What’s wrong with a little hesitation? It’s not like I’ve run screaming from the opportunity to get to know either of them. I just stop short of clutching at their ankles, which seems entirely reasonable.”
“You stop a lot short,” said Christine. “I think maybe either Mike or Jack would have a better chance if he were less attractive.”
Meg thought about that. “I think maybe you’re right,” she said.
* * *
The dog ran ahead of Meg down the path toward the creek. The moon was out and Meg rarely needed to switch on her flashlight. She sat with her back against a tree near the edge of the water, listening to its gentle sounds. The dog rustled through the undergrowth. Meg pulled her sweater closer around her shoulders and hugged her knees.
Was Angie Morrison the woman on the tape? If not, who was? And whom was she talking to? Why had she made a recording and then hidden the tape? Had someone been searching Meg’s house for it?
She stared at her denim-covered knees, the voice on the tape coming back to her. “You did wait until she’d died to take it?” Until who had died? Was it, indeed, Hannah Ehrlich? And had the man waited until she’d died?
As hard as she tried to keep her mind off Dan Ruschman, it kept returning. How had he acquired fifteen thousand dollars? And what had he told Christine to make her believe that “things are going to be fine”? It couldn’t be Dan on the tape. If it was Dan, then it was likely that he was the person who’d gone through the medicine cabinet, checked the bottoms of the dresser drawers, rifled through the built-in section of the pantry, invaded her home. It couldn’t be Dan.
Meg looked up. The moon, huge and bright, was in the section of sky visible above the creek. Something moved among the trees to her left, and the dog bolted across the path.
There was something else banging at a door she’d shut and locked in her mind. She gritted her teeth and opened the door. Jane and Christine both had said Mrs. Ehrlich was worried about something before she died. Had she suspected that she was being robbed?
Meg herself was worried about something. Did any of this have anything to do with her and, if so, what? Just how closely was she connected to all the questions she couldn’t answer?
She closed her eyes and tightened her mouth, shaking her head. The only way to get any answers at all was to find Angie Morrison. She could explain—perhaps not everything, but probably enough. Would she? Could Meg make her, somehow? Maybe. If she could find her.
Fifteen
Jack honked as he turned into the driveway. He parked by the kitchen door, and Meg watched through the window above the sink as he got out of his truck and walked around the front end. The dog stood between him and the door, barking. He crouched and stretched out a hand, talking softly. Meg could hear the encouraging sound of his voice but not the words. The dog moved warily toward him and took something from his hand.
Meg opened the screen door. “The way to a dog’s heart is through the offering of succulent morsels. You’re a quick study.”
“Olive branches are hard to come by around here. Luckily, bacon isn’t.”
He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder quickly, and then went into the house. “Hey, the kitchen looks great!”
“Thanks,” said Meg, happy that he liked it. “It might even encourage me to learn to cook.” She turned on the water to fill the coffeepot carafe.
“Heck,” said Jack, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Stick with me, kid. You won’t need to learn. Division of labor, specialization … it’s what makes the world go round.”
I could lean back, thought Meg. Just a little, very subtly. But her heart was thudding painfully, and she did not.
Water spilled over the top of the carafe. She had to move to turn off the faucet. Jack pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “How’s the water pressure in the bathroom?”
“Fine,” said Meg. “If I had a real shower, I might find it lacking, but I’ve got one of those hoses from the faucet up to a sprinkler, all surrounded by a quaint little suspended shower-curtain thing. I’ve resorted to baths. Now stop being Mr. Fix-It and relax. Do you want something to eat?”
“Already ate,” he said. “Whilst slugabeds were still in dreamland.”
“Oh, yes,” said Meg. “The bacon.”
“I would have been happy to bring you some, too,” he said, grinning at her.
“Right. That’s what I need. Fried fat for breakfast. I can just imagine what I’d look like if you did do the cooking.”
“What?” said Jack, looking at her in confusion. “You diet?”
“Should,” said Meg. “Don’t.”
“You’re nuts.” Jack shook his head slowly. “Completely nuts. You look perfect. Healthy. Strong. Great.” He smiled. “Yes, I must say, great.”
She leaned against the sink and gazed at him. His arms were crossed on his chest, his legs stretched out in front of him. His head was slightly tilted, and he was smiling cheerfully, his eyes alight with good humor.
“Thank you,” she said.
* * *
She arrived at the diamond on Saturday well before the time for her own team’s game. She wanted to observe the umpire, get a sense of what he considered the strike zone, and see how well other teams played. Mike Mulcahy stood in one dugout, his arms resting on top of the chain-link fence that protected the team from errant throws and zinging foul balls. Meg sat in the first row of the bleachers behind his team and eavesdropped unashamedly. She knew from the general chatter that the game was in the fourth inning.
Mike’s team took the field, the first baseman throwing grounders to the infield, the outfielders tossing another ball to each other. This was made somewhat difficult by the fact that the center fielder had sat down, cross-legged, on the ground and appeared to be selecting the perfect blade of grass to stretch between his hands to make a whistle.
“Hey! Peterson!” yelled Mike, motioning the center fielder in. He turned to a small boy standing on the bench, bouncing lightly against the fence behind him.
“Go on out to center field,” he said to the boy, who jumped off the bench, grabbed his mitt eagerly, and jogged across the infield.
The boy referred to as “Peterson” trudged toward the bench. “You taking me out, Coach?” he asked. He seemed surprised and, Meg thought, a bit truculent.
“Yeah,” said Mike. His voice was neutral. “I would never have made you play if I’d realized you were so tired.”
The boy started to speak, seemed to think better of it, and sat down, watching his replacement hurl the ball, with a great swooping, inefficient throw, toward the right fielder.
Mike’s team was triumphant, bringing Cheryl Warren’s comments back to Meg’s mind. She wished she had paid better attention to how many innings various players spent on the bench. She had noticed that Peterson remained there, watching the game in moody silence.
After clapping his players on the back and gathering up the team’s equipment, Mike found her on the sidelines writing the starting lineup into her score book.
“I noticed you scouting your opposition,” he said, grabbing her around the neck, yanking off her baseball cap, and rumpling her hair hard enough to hurt. “Decided on our bet yet?”
“I was thinking,” said Meg, squirming out of his grip, “of something really appropriate, like a brand-new, still in its original box, official-league baseball.”
“You mean something really cheap,” said Mike, punching at her shoulder and jumping back, feinting another blow.
“Boy, do I hate overly confident men,” said Meg. “Stick around, big guy. You’ll be laughing out of the other side of your face.”
“I’ll stick around and watch your game, if you’ll buy me dinner afterward,” he said.
“Ha! With the coaching tips you’ll be picking up for free? Dream on! Anybody who drives the car you drive does not need dinner bought for him by a struggling freelance writer.”
“All right, then. We’ll go Dutch. I’ve always wanted to go to dinner with a really sweaty girl. Especially one who’s been properly humbled.”
Go Dutch, thought Meg and was aware of what felt like a skipped heartbeat. Maybe Jack would show up to watch the game. Maybe … But she needed to talk to Mike.
“All right,” she said. “Keep score for us, at least until some parent who’s got a clue arrives.” She waved the score book at him. “And do not give any hits that aren’t hits. I want real batting averages to work with, not those phony ‘Well, he’s only eleven; who could have expected him to keep a fly ball in his mitt?’ statistics. Give me accurate records.”
“Yes’m,” said Mike. “Want I should keep all the bats in a nice neat row for you, too?”
“Shut up,” said Meg.
* * *
“You know,” said Mike, “they make things besides hamburgers here. You could, maybe, take a more adventurous approach
to dining out. If you’re watching your pennies, you could have passed your baseball cap. I’m a soft touch. Besides, I always feel sorry for a loser.”
Meg’s team had, indeed, lost, but she was pleased with how they’d played. “Nah,” she said. “You find a good thing, you stick with it. At least until it gets boring.”
“Good things don’t have to get boring,” he said.
Meg felt a small tremor of nervousness. She shrugged. “Maybe not.”
“Heard you had a fire,” he said. He looked up from his dinner. “That could have been bad.”
“Could have been. Wasn’t,” she said. “Thanks to the dog you get such pleasure out of maligning.”
“I told you to get the place inspected.”
“Don’t lecture me, please?” said Meg. “I know it’s my own fault. If I’d done what you told me to do or Jack told me to do, it would never have happened. But it’s all right now. The place has been inspected. Dan Ruschman went over it with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. And Lyle Halversen has checked the wiring. I don’t want to get into it again.” She smiled at him, trying to counteract her defensiveness. “Please?”
“You seeing a lot of Jack?” he asked, squeezing a lemon wedge into his iced tea. A seed shot across the table.
“Not really,” she said. “Why?”
Mike stirred his tea. He clinked his spoon against the rim of the glass and set it down. “It’s not my place to give you advice about your personal life…”
No, thought Meg, it’s not. But she merely looked at him inquiringly, wondering what was on his mind.
He started to say something, paused, started again. “Let’s just say he must have skipped school the day they taught the kiddies about Copernicus. Or else he figures the man had it all wrong. We live in a Jack-centric universe. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Actually, I hadn’t,” said Meg, unable to keep a note of coldness from her voice. “You want to elaborate?” She doubted that she wanted to hear what he might say.
He looked at her seriously, then smiled suddenly. “Nope. On to new topics. How’s work going? Having any fun?”
“Tons,” she said, more than willing to change the subject. “Though I’m not getting it done fast enough. This is my favorite of all assignments—vocabulary worksheets, I mean.”