A Score to Settle

by Donna Huston Murray

  "Don't ever pull that again," threatened Duffy.

  "What?" asked a stunned Roger Prindel.

  "You heard me. I'm onto you. Don't ever do that again."

  "Well?" I asked Schwartz, who had pursed his lips and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his tweed overcoat.

  He addressed my cousin. "Are you prepared to testify that it was Roger Prindel who attacked you last night?"

  Ron glanced at me then waved his head no.

  Schwartz's lips pushed out from under his moustache as he turned toward me. "Was Prindel the man you saw leaving the master vault?"

  I admitted I couldn't say. “I never actually met the man.”

  "No? You seem to have met everyone else involved with this case."

  I kept quiet.

  "Oh, well," the detective sighed, "I suppose the Norfolk police will have his prints on record."

  As a matter of course, all the Tomcats’ employees would have been fingerprinted to help identify any prints that did not belong at the murder scene; but Schwartz's remark suggested that his thinking went a step further. He wanted to compare Prindel's prints to any the technicians had taken from the vaults that had been breached. If Prindel had worn gloves, always a possibility, the film canisters themselves would go a long way toward proving my theory.

  Yet Schwartz continued to rock, and pout, and cluck. After a long moment, and possibly even a belch, he extracted the toothpick and pointed it at me. "Okay, we'll go pick him up."

  My lungs once again drew air, and my heart went back to work.

  "There's just one problem." The detective skewered me with a glare.

  "You don't want to look like a fool?" Winthorpe suggested.

  "No, John," Schwartz corrected over his shoulder. "I've looked like a fool before and I still manage to keep my family fed. No, I'd cheerfully go after this man, except for the fact that we...don't...know...where...he...is!"

  His tone fired up a blush, but I reached into my jeans’ pocket and dug out a white slip of notepaper.

  "Prindel's at the Claridge Hotel in Atlantic City," I told the detective as I handed him my note. "The Tomcats don't play until next Monday night, so he's not due back at Nimitz until Wednesday."

  Winthorpe shut his mouth and blinked.

  Schwartz had reddened a bit, but he stuffed my note into his tweed overcoat. Then he headed for the door.

  "Call us here," Ronnie suggested. "Please. You owe us that."

  "Yeah yeah yeah," Schwartz grumbled.

  "Good luck," I told the lingering Winthorpe, who shook his head and stared until the door finally pushed him along.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER Ronnie and I settled into a booth of NFL Films’ in-house diner. There was plenty of chrome and Formica and each table even had one of those little remote juke boxes with pages to turn and buttons to push. Now about 4:30 P.M., a few guys were grabbing an odd-hour meal. Ronnie and I were only drinking coffee, but I wasn't stomaching it very well.

  "How'd you find out where Prindel was staying?" my cousin quizzed me.

  I waved my thick white cup. "After I knew Schwartz and Winthorpe were on the way, I tried to call the Tomcats' travel department; but they were closed."

  Ronnie's looked as if he’d been hypnotized, but it occurred to me that my voice and anticipating Schwartz's call were the only two things keeping him awake.

  "So," I said. "The only person left for me to call was Roger's old girlfriend, Pamela Wilkinson. When I asked her where Roger usually stayed in Philadelphia, she said, 'Philadelphia? Are you kidding? He'll be at the Claridge in Atlantic City!'"

  Ronnie waved his head in disbelief. "So then you called the Claridge to see whether he was there."

  "Right. But I hung up before they rang through to his room.”

  Ronnie beamed at me. "You're amazing."

  I tilted my head and batted my eyelashes. "I'm a Siddons," I said. "Same as you."

  THE CALL CAME TWO HOURS later. Ronnie and I listened to the same receiver cheek to cheek, which rendered Schwartz's ebullient voice as thin as an old radio broadcast. Still we heard him just fine, probably because he was shouting.

  "We got 'im. I got a warrant, faxed it down here, and the locals detained 'im for me."

  "What about the film cans?" Ronnie asked.

  "Got them, too. Had 'em in the trunk of his car, can you believe it?"

  I was dying to ask whether the police had been careful to follow procedures, but Schwartz anticipated my concern.

  "Had the hotel photog take pictures left and right," he said. "Of course A.C. had their own gal, but I wanted my own set. Got a shot of the warrant, one of me wearing rubber gloves turning the trunk key. Strictly kosher. We got the sucker, by God." He was so full of himself he was actually talking to us.

  "Congratulations," I said, but he was too sky high to remember his manners.

  "Oop. Gotta go talk to the TV." And off he went.

  "You're welcome," I muttered.

  "They'll give you credit in the papers," Ronnie assured me with the usual Siddons optimism.

  They did, but much of the subsequent coverage centered around Prindel’s brother, who was himself heavily in debt to the bookie he used when he placed Roger’s wagers. From the hints the media dropped and the fact that the brother suddenly became “unavailable for comment,” I surmised that he’d ratted out the bookie who offered the incentive for his brother to influence the outcome of the game. I hoped the brother landed in witness-protection, but I have no way of knowing whether that actually happened.

  Fingerprints eventually did factor into the case, but only in a minor way. The NFL Films employee who reluctantly allowed me in out of the rain apparently recognized Prindel in a photo lineup. He’d noticed a stranger wheeling in equipment behind an old-timer too tired and wet to question the help. Neither man had been doing anything out of the ordinary, so my doorman forgot about the extra guy until the photo array reminded him. A pre-rubber-glove palm print and one partial were taken off a dolly, but they merely reinforced the witness’s visual ID.

  If the investigators ever figured out how Prindel smuggled a gun into the stadium, they weren’t sharing that information. I suspected it had something to do with the death threats Doug said were not uncommon and the players who carried personal protection as a result. If one of them unwittingly supplied Prindel with the murder weapon, I doubted the public would ever hear about it.

  As Ron predicted, the contributions my cousin and I made did make the news. I encased a clipping of it in plastic to carry tucked in with my other “credit” cards. Store clerks seem to wonder what the heck they did to make me smile.

  “Ronald Covington, a cinematographer for NFL Films, provided crucial evidence against alleged murderer, Roger Prindel,” said Detective Schwartz of the Mt. Laurel police. “Covington began reviewing portions of the Tomcats/Hombres’ game film at the suggestion of an interested party.” January, 2000

  Chapter 29

  "THIS IS GOOD," DIDI proclaimed referring to my lasagna. She was eating off a leftover Christmas paper plate balanced on the knee of her narrow magenta slacks. So far, her matching print blouse remained spotless, but the way her dog, Chivas Beagle, tore around the family room, a tomato stain was only a matter of time.

  "You mean it?" I pressed.

  "Yes. It's good. Take a compliment for once in your life."

  "On my cooking?"

  Didi tsked with disgust. "You're too damn modest."

  Was there such a thing? "Impossible," I decided out loud.

  "Whooee," my mother and Chelsea cheered. "Did you see that?" from Mom. "Good one, Duke. Atta boy," from my daughter.

  We were all of us watching professional wrestling while eating my most flexible meal: spinach salad, dinner rolls, and the aforementioned lasagna. About half an hour ago Rip called to say Doug's plane was late. When Garry complained that he felt faint and my mother admitted she was hungry too, I abandoned my fantasy of a cozy family meal before everybody went over to Bryn Derwyn Academy.


  Now that it was nearing seven, I was twitchy nervous about the crowd that already would be gathered for tonight's event. Doug's arrival had been billed for 7:30 P.M.–early enough for kids, late enough for commuting parents. Our own week's snow, a mere two inches, no longer coated the roads so a capacity crowd was expected, especially since Rip had invited every other private school in the Delaware valley to join in dedicating Bryn Derwyn's new gym.

  Chelsea, who had all but ignored her second cousin-in-law on Thanksgiving, calculated that plenty of boys her age would be on hand to hear a professional quarterback speak, so she began auditioning outfits the minute she got home from school. The present choice, a very apres-ski getup featuring angora elks grazing in a field of blue had lasted twenty minutes so far and would probably win by default.

  When a beefy man wearing skin-tight pirate rags got pinned by another steroid specimen in red, white, and blue, my mother flung her arms high. The piece of roll she had been nibbling flew from her fingers and landed on the braided rug. Chevy, our four-legged houseguest, caught it on the bounce.

  "Just out of curiosity," I inquired of my best friend, "what made you decide to bring Chevy along tonight?"

  Didi’s slow turn from profile to full forward seemed to question my intelligence. "She loves parties. You know that."

  I blinked in preparation for a good, old-fashioned stare-down; but just then the uninvited beagle ran by again, followed closely by our own family pet. Rudely close, actually. Gretsky's snout hung low enough to get slapped by Chevy's wagging tail.

  "At least somebody's glad to see her," Didi observed. She engrossed herself in the effort to cut a perfect bite of lasagna with her fork.

  "Garry!" I called to my son. "Why don't you take the dogs outside for a few minutes?" Give the rest of us some time to eat. First in line, first to finish. Growing boy.

  Didi lifted her fork and pretended to watch the wrestling. Chevy rounded the sofa and flipped Mommy’s paper plate off her right knee. It landed upside down on the braided rug, leaving the only lint-free bite of Didi's dinner suspended near her mouth.

  "Garry!" I hollered.

  "Okay, Mom," he sang back, which meant I had suggested something he actually wanted to do, or else Doug's appearance at his dad’s school had him feeling magnanimous.

  I collected cleaning materials from the kitchen, but when Didi held out her hand for the rag and soapy water, I relinquished them. She was family. At her house I might have had to fetch my own soap and water. I sat down out of the way.

  "Get 'im," my mother told the TV, lips firm, fist clenched.

  "What is it with the wrestling, Mom?" I asked because I had no clue. The pageantry, the passion–I just couldn't take it seriously.

  My mother squinted at me hard before turning back to the show.

  "That one has a nice butt," Didi observed, pointing with the drippy rag.

  I narrowed my eyes a la Cynthia, while from the arm of the sofa Chelsea calmly answered my question.

  "It's Everyman, Mom. Good versus evil."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Chelsea sighed. "Wrestling's a morality play that lets you cheer for the Mountie in the white hat and boo the villain wearing black. The plight of Everyman. What's not to get?"

  Unsure of how to respond to that, I simply closed my mouth.

  "Of course," my thirteen-year-old added with deference toward to my best friend, "the one in black really does have a great butt."

  Just then the front door opened and Rip ushered in the evening's guest of honor. We all ran toward to the hall for hugs and kisses, even reticent Garry. As usual, Gretsky demanded his hello while his girlfriend jumped and barked. Didi hung back slightly and smiled, while Chelsea and the angora elks stood on their dignity a safe distance from the wet dogs.

  I sniffed. Along with the smell of slush-soaked fur was the questionable odor of soggy boy. Garry looked to be a garbage collector just finished his first day.

  "I slipped," he admitted.

  "Go change–down to your socks," I told him. "And hurry. It's already ten after seven."

  "Got anything to eat?" Rip inquired. As usual, his shock of dark brown hair drooped toward his left eyebrow in a boyish clump. Catching my glance, he raked it back. "They didn't offer Doug much on the plane."

  “Two plates coming up,” I assured the men, "but you guys really have to hurry."

  On my way into the kitchen I whispered in my mother's ear. She nodded and thanked me before waddling down the hall to the bathroom. I also took her coat out of the closet for when she got back. She liked her hat and scarf just so, and that tended to take more time than it used to.

  While the men ate microwave-reheated lasagna standing up at the counter, I checked on Garry's makeover, let the dogs out for business rather than pleasure, locked up, and secured the extra dinner food from critters. Then I brushed my acorn mop into a static phenomenon and generally nagged everybody out into the van we borrowed from school–all by twenty after seven.

  Only then did I turn in my seat to say, "Hi, Doug. How's the baby doing?" Jody had been released from the hospital just last week.

  "She's great. Eats all the time." Which, translated, meant she was gaining weight like she should but probably wasn’t yet sleeping through the night.

  "Ask Michelle to call me when she isn't napping, will you? I miss those two."

  "You bet."

  Parking at Bryn Derwyn had spilled over from the three modest sized lots onto the lawn. In among the other vehicles I spotted a network news van, white with the prominent channel logo.

  Stragglers walked up the slight slope toward the main entrance then crossed the front of the sprawling brick school to the huge new gym on the right.

  Remembering that our family once lived on the exact spot where the gym now stood usually gave me a pang, but the regret always passed. Our new mortgage was mountainous, but at least our home would belong to us one day rather than to Bryn Derwyn.

  "Wow, it's big," Didi remarked regarding the gym, which had been decorated with green and white banners and lighted to look like a Christmas package.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Rip responded with both pride and relief. The project had been a burden to him ever since he took the job as head of school, and at times he felt as if he had laid every cement block himself.

  So what if the building was a painted stucco box? Didi and Doug both took pity and agreed that it was gorgeous.

  "Yoo hoo! Up here." Joanne Henry, Rip's assistant, caught our eye as soon as we entered the gym. Her beige hair looked slightly dented from the effort of saving seats for our whole family. Also, this was the first time I’d ever seen her in slacks. Compared to her my mother’s outfit looked like laundry.

  The crowd recognized Doug with a collective murmur, and our progress to the front of the room caused the clusters of people chatting among the folding chairs to scurry into their seats.

  Ronnie, Aunt Harriet, and Uncle Stan had driven over from New Jersey together and rose to greet us. When I introduced Didi to Ronnie, both of them narrowed their eyes with skeptical indifference. Obviously no love match there.

  Meanwhile, Rip and Doug proceeded directly to the riser and podium placed at the inside edge of the basketball court. Bleachers left and right were filled with people of all ages, including more men than a school event ordinarily attracted. And of course, the gym floor was covered with chairs and more audience.

  As Rip approached the microphone, bright light coming from the front left corner made everyone aware of the TV camera.

  "Thank you all for coming tonight," my husband began. "I'm exceedingly happy to welcome you to the dedication of Bryn Derwyn's brand new gym. Already it has enhanced the student life here tenfold, and we look forward to many years of valuable instruction and competition within these four walls.

  "As most of you know, it's been a lengthy process to bring us to this point, but rather than make it any lengthier, allow me to introduce our guest of honor, Mr. Douglas Turne
r, quarterback for the Norfolk Tomcats. Doug..."

  "Thank you, Mr. Barnes, Rip. Thank you," the pro athlete acknowledged the whistles and cheers of his audience.

  "Now I'm sure you all expect me to talk about sports and how important they've been to me," more hoots, "and you'd be partly right. Sports–football–is my livelihood, and it's bringing me a great deal of satisfaction. Naturally, I'd like to be able to say we beat the Eagles–at least once–but that, too, will come–eventually.

  "What I'd really like to talk about tonight is something that's even more important to me than football...my family."

  The room had been quietly settling down but for a few groans from disappointed youths, but now the audience completely hushed.

  "That's right, kids. There is something more important than beating the Eagles, even more important than winning the Super Bowl. I want you to look left and right and take a good look at your parents, your brothers and sisters, maybe even your aunts and uncles and grandparents if they're here.

  "They are what matters, kids. You may not think so right now, but I'm here to tell you that's the truth.

  "Recently, I went through a very rough time. An old friend and rival of mine was killed. In addition to that my wife was expecting a baby, and she almost lost it. Who came to our rescue? Not Peyton Manning. Not Don Shrawder, although he might have come if I had called.

  "No, my wife's brother, Ronald Covington, phoned his cousin, Ginger Barnes, and she called her mother, Cynthia Struve. Cynthia took care of the Barnes family while Ms. Barnes literally came down and saved mine.

  "You should have seen her tonight. She was just being a mother, probably exactly like your own mother, but it was amazing how she took care of everybody, thought about everybody..."

  Without realizing it I had sunk lower and lower in my chair until I was slouched halfway to the floor. Please please please please shut up, I mentally begged the man with the microphone and the attention of probably three hundred and fifty people, not to mention an indeterminate TV audience.