Prairie Hardball

by Alison Gordon

  “That one I didn’t do. Younger women, I did. I finally left home when I was forty-three to live in a downtown loft with a beautiful, successful, young woman who worked in public relations.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Took me for everything she could. Not that I blame her. Anyhow, within a couple of years, I was sick of hanging out in jazz clubs until four in the morning listening to a bunch of thirty-somethings talking about target markets. By then, of course, Beth had remarried. I went back to Fort Wayne for Christmas that year, for the first time in ages. It was fun being with Mom and Aunt Wilma, and I realized that I felt like I had come home. To my real home. When Mom suggested I come into the business, it made sense. They were both getting on, and there was room for some innovative expansion in the business.”

  “And it’s worked out?”

  “It’s worked out great. Better than I ever expected, or deserved, probably. I don’t miss Chicago, or the stress of success. Maybe I’m just defining success differently. I don’t make as much money as I used to, but I get by better on less. I’ve been dating a woman my age, and that’s looking good. She’s divorced, too, with a couple of kids who are almost grown. So, I’m learning to be a family man again. Maybe for the first time. I guess, touch wood, I’ve found a bit of happiness. Finally.”

  A cloud crossed his face.

  “Well, I guess I wouldn’t say happy, right now.”

  “But you’ve found what you need in life.”

  “Rhonda, the woman I’m seeing now, was someone I dated for a while in high school. So I’ve kind of come full circle.”

  “Starting over?”

  “Maybe I won’t screw up so bad this time around.”

  He finished his drink and signalled to the bartender.

  “Another one?”

  “I’m still fine. Speaking of high-school sweethearts, did you know that your Aunt Wilma was once engaged to Morley Timms?”

  “No, I didn’t. Morley Timms? You’re kidding.”

  “Evidently. I was doing some research at the Hall of Fame and saw it in her files.”

  “Well, if I did know, I’d forgotten. Morley Timms. Do you think that’s why they called our old dog Morley?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t mention it to him, then,” he laughed.

  “I talked to a woman at the museum who knew Morley and Garth and Wilma in the old days.”

  I told him the story of what Morley’s war had done to him.

  “Man, that’s sad. There’s a lot of drama tied up in all these old people,” he said.

  “I know. The older I get the more I realize that everybody’s got history that’s really interesting. Wilma’s life is the stuff of a novel. So was your mother’s.”

  “And your mother’s, too.”

  “Maybe a novella,” I laughed. “A slim volume. Aside from the five years she spent playing ball, she’s led a pretty dull life.”

  “And now my mother’s has turned into a detective story,” Jack said, bitterly.

  “What do you remember about Garth Elshaw from when you were a kid? I was talking to him yesterday and he said that you used to be close but you’d lost touch over the years.”

  “Yeah, well. I feel kind of bad about that. We came up every summer for a while, to Wilma’s family’s cabin. For four or five years, maybe. The summer I was thirteen, when I wasn’t getting on too well at home, I came up by myself for the whole summer. It was great. He spent a lot of time with me, let me work with the animals on the farm and everything. Looking back, I really appreciate it. He was my main father-figure then. The only man in my life. But you know what happens. Once I became a teenager, being cool was all that mattered, and there’s nothing cool about a Saskatchewan farm. No offence.”

  “None taken. I ran away from home too.”

  There was a commotion over by the door, an outburst of laughter. I looked across the room to see Andy coming in the lounge with Sergeant Deutsch of the Mounties, clearly enjoying a joke. When they saw Jack sitting there, they had the good grace to look embarrassed.

  Chapter 30

  After the two policemen joined us, we all moved to a corner table. Sergeant Deutsch wanted some privacy to speak with Jack about developments in the investigation, and the bar was starting to fill up. Andy told me I could sit in if I promised to keep my mouth shut.

  “We have found a pretty solid suspect,” Deutsch said.

  “You’ve arrested somebody?” Jack asked.

  “No, we haven’t got enough evidence to do that yet, but we’ve got a direction to look at now. This is a guy who has been in jail before for roughing up elderly women. The pattern matches. He was here in this bar the night she died, and acknowledges having spoken to her.”

  “And you just let him go?”

  “We can’t hold him without charging him, and we aren’t ready to do that yet. He’s being watched carefully. He won’t go anywhere without our knowing about it.”

  “What’s this guy’s name?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t want to reveal that at this time, Mr. Wilton. We’re checking his alibi, which has got some holes in it, and he is consulting his lawyer. We’ll be questioning him again tomorrow.”

  “Is there any connection with the Hall of Fame?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is,” Deutsch said. “He would have been aware of the location of the key, for example.”

  “But what about the letters?” I asked, ignoring Andy’s look of annoyance. “Can you tie those letters to him?”

  “There has always been a possibility that the letters and the murder are not connected,” Deutsch said. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “What did this guy say when you asked him about the murder?” Jack asked.

  “Just that we got the wrong guy,” Deutsch said.

  “Penitentiaries are full of wrong guys,” Andy said, sarcastically, “every one of them convicted by a jury of his peers.”

  “My gut tells me he’s the one,” Deutsch said.

  “I thought you didn’t listen to your gut,” I said.

  “I think what I said was that gut feelings aren’t evidence,” he corrected me. “But in this case we have opportunity, proximity, and past behaviour to go on. The rest is just connecting the dots.”

  “And in the meantime he’s walking free,” Jack said.

  “In the meantime, he has Constable Resnick on his ass so tight he’ll have to ask his permission to take a shit, if you’ll pardon my language.”

  He put his empty beer glass down.

  “You say this man was in jail,” I said. “Is he on parole? Can’t you lock him up for violating his parole?”

  “The thought did occur to us,” Deutsch said. “But that isn’t our decision, it’s his parole officer’s, and he doesn’t appear to have done anything that violates it.”

  “Except for murdering my mother,” Jack burst out. “The minor matter of murdering a fine woman doesn’t count, I guess.”

  He wound down and stared at the table as if he could see the crime enacted on its scarred Formica top. The veins on his neck stood out, and he gripped his glass so hard his hand was white across the knuckles. I reached over and took it from him. He looked up, startled.

  “I know it’s difficult,” I said, “but they’re right.”

  He just stared into my eyes while the anger drained from his face, to be replaced by a kind of helpless despair. I gave him back his glass, and he drained it in one gulp.

  “We’re going to get something to eat,” I said. “Do you want to join us?”

  “No, I think I’ll just stick to my malt diet,” he said.

  “That’s not the answer, Jack.”

  “And what was the question?”

  “Kate, I think Jack wants to spend some time alone,” Andy said. Jack looked at him grate
fully. There was a slightly awkward silence, then we got up from the table. Andy went to the bar to sign the bill to our room. Deutsch and I went ahead out into the lobby.

  “Where are we going to eat?” I asked.

  “It depends on what kind of food you like.”

  I knew it was useless in the Battlefords to suggest anything other than Italian, Chinese, or Canadian, whatever that means.

  “Take us to your favourite place.”

  “My girlfriend’s house? I don’t think she’d appreciate it.”

  “I don’t really care, as long as it’s not here.”

  “You like steak?”

  “Sure.”

  “I know a good place.”

  Andy also thought a hunk of cow would do the trick, so we headed out, with Don Deutsch driving. The restaurant, in a small strip mall in North Battleford, was unassuming in appearance, but the meat was good, and they had a passable house wine. We mostly made small talk while we ate, but afterwards, satisfied and relaxed, the two cops loosened up a bit.

  “Something interesting came out of the autopsy report,” Andy said to me. “You might be interested to know that Virna Wilton had a medical condition that made it impossible for her to conceive a child.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I forget the medical term for it, but she didn’t have a uterus. I’m no expert on these things, but it seems to me that it’s kind of hard to have a child without one.”

  “Holy smokes. So Jack isn’t her son?”

  “It’s so good to see your keen investigative mind at work.”

  “Shut up. I wonder where the baby came from?”

  “Maybe the stork brought it,” Don said.

  “That’s very interesting,” I said. “I’m going to have to dig around a bit. Maybe Jack is really Wilma’s.”

  “I’m sure you’ll ferret out the answer one way or another,” Andy said.

  “What else did the autopsy show?” I asked. Perhaps emboldened by the wine. “How did she die?”

  “She was hit on the head, probably by a baseball bat, then strangled with something like a scarf,” Deutsch said. “But keep that confidential. We haven’t let that information out.”

  “I can be trusted with a confidence,” I said. “Tell him, Andy.”

  “I have to admit it, she can.”

  “You know I can,” I said. “And you know something else? I think you guys are on the wrong track.”

  “Here she goes again,” Andy groaned.

  “I still say the letters are important. If you can’t tie your suspect to the letters, you’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Look, I can’t pretend I’m not bothered by the letters,” Deutsch said. “But it is possible, you know, that this is a separate matter. We know that people who write these things don’t usually follow through.”

  “Yes, but it’s not just the letters that bother me,” I said. “It’s the whole Hall of Fame connection that seems to be missing. It just seems too weird to me that these women get together for the first time in all these years and one of them ends up, not only dead, but dead in the Hall of Fame that was their connection.”

  “We know she wanted to go to the Hall to play some sort of practical joke,” Deutsch said. “Let’s suppose she asked this guy, a local, if he could help her. That’s possible. Or maybe he overheard her talking about it. Anyway, he dropped off his buddies and came back and picked her up. It’s possible.”

  “Other people are more likely to have had some old secret reason to want her dead,” I insisted.

  “For God’s sake, Kate, who do you think did it?” Andy asked, angrily. “Your mother? Or your father? Did Edna Summers with her arthritic knees just up and strangle Virna Wilton with a silk scarf and then go around doing her own investigation just to confuse us? Or Mrs. Goodman, all twisted up the way she is? Maybe poor old Mrs. Deneka, who barely knows her own name, did it.”

  “I know it sounds stupid,” I admitted.

  “Leave the investigation to the professionals,” Andy said. “In case I’ve never told you that before.”

  “Well, I hope you wrap this up soon,” I said. “I’m ready to get out of this place and go back home. Nothing personal, Don.”

  “Yeah, you Toronto people panic if you’re away from your cappuccino machines for too long,” he said, with a smile.

  “Right,” I said. “Fresh air and friendly people get us all twitchy and belligerent.”

  “It’s the politeness drives me crazy,” Andy said. “No one has given me the finger in days.”

  I flipped him one. He sighed and slumped back in his chair.

  “Thanks, I needed that,” he said.

  Chapter 31

  Next morning, I had breakfast alone. After our night on the town with Don Deutsch, and some private shenanigans back at the hotel, we slept in, and Andy only had time to grab a quick coffee before rushing off to the police station. My parents, of course, had long since finished eating.

  I was just digging into my bacon and eggs when Garth Elshaw appeared. I put down my newspaper and asked him to join me.

  “Just for a moment,” he said, twisting his baseball cap in his hands nervously. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Have a coffee with me, anyway. I hate eating alone.”

  He sat down and the waitress appeared instantly with the coffee pot.

  “You want breakfast?”

  “Just coffee.”

  She left and silence fell on the table. I felt awkward eating while he sat twisting his hat.

  “What’s the weather like?” I asked.

  “Raining again. They say there’s going to be four centimetres.”

  “Good for the farmers.”

  “Yep.”

  “And for the ducks,” I said. “But if you don’t happen to be a farmer or a duck, it can be a bit of a pain.”

  He made a sound that might have been a laugh.

  “You know, Mr. Elshaw, Jack Wilton was talking to me just last night about the things you did together when he was growing up without a father. He hasn’t forgotten.”

  “That’s who I’m here to see,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Well, I was just going to let it go, but Morley told me to call him up and see if we can patch things up between us.”

  “You were wise to listen to Morley, then.”

  “Morley’s not dumb, you know,” he said, then stopped, as if embarrassed.

  “I was told a bit about it yesterday. Someone who knew him said he was a real live-wire before the war and came back a changed man. Is that true?”

  “We saw some terrible things over there,” he said, cryptically. “Some fellows take it harder than others.”

  “All his plans for the future changed, too,” I continued, probing. “Including his marriage plans to your sister.”

  “Where did you hear about that?”

  “I read it in one of the articles at the Hall of Fame.”

  “Oh, I see.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Well, yes,” he finally said. “But you couldn’t blame her for cancelling it, the way he was when he came back.”

  “I thought it was the other way around.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

  “Well, it was the other way, at first. Morley thought he would be a burden. When he got better, it was too late. She’d taken up with that Wilton woman.”

  “But you still had them up here for the summer holidays, didn’t you?”

  “Well, Wilma was my sister. And Maude, that was my late wife, invited her. I went along with it for the sake of the boy.”

  He paused, then reddened.

  “But I
made sure they slept in separate bedrooms when they came to us.”

  “I don’t think that’s really any of my business,” I said.

  “Looks like you’re making it your business, reading all those old stories and talking to any busybody in town with gossip to spread.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Elshaw, if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to write an article about the wonderful accomplishments of the women in the All-American Girls Professional League.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Henry. I was out of line. But you just be careful what you write. There are some pots best left unstirred.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, then saw Jack Wilton come into the room. He raised his hand in greeting and came to our table.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Mr. Elshaw and I have been having a nice chat.”

  Elshaw stood up. And, after a slightly awkward pause, the two of them made their way to a table across the room. I went back to my paper. I also kept an eye on the meeting between the two men.

  It was a classic: two men trying to cross an emotional chasm without the tools to build the bridge. Women would have hugged, but they had to make do with words, a medium in which at least one of them was not comfortable. Garth sat stiffly, looking down at his coffee cup while Jack talked earnestly to the top of his head. Finally, he reached over and touched Garth tentatively on the arm. The “uncle” raised his head. Jack smiled. Some of the stiffness went out of Garth’s body, and he laughed. Then they both were talking. Not easily, yet, there were still long pauses, and eyes that didn’t quite meet, but I left the restaurant knowing that the first steps had been taken.

  I found my parents by the pool. My mother was knitting and my father was reading a book.

  “If you don’t watch out, you’ll find that idleness suits you,” I teased.

  “There is visible labour and invisible labour,” my father said, looking over the tops of his glasses. “Victor Hugo. ‘A man is not idle if he is absorbed in thought.’ I, my dear, am absorbed in thought. Your mother, as usual, is absorbed in good works, knitting for the United Church Women Christmas sale.”