by Holley Trent
Peg sighed. “Okay,” she said, pulling it toward her. Rob handed her a magnifying glass. He touched his fingertip to a barely visible tiny object in the far corner of the photograph.
“Right here. What’s this?”
She peered through the glass for a moment. “Dear Lord. It’s a bandage and Popsicle sticks,” she said. “The one I put on his finger that night. I’d forgotten all about that. He broke the middle finger on his left hand — his pitching hand,” she explained.
“Hence the name Lefty,” Rob said. “How did he break his finger?”
“We were walking up the steps to his place that night,” she said. “It was dark, and I stumbled. Lefty tried to catch me, but we both went down.”
She leaned over the picture again, passing the magnifier over the makeshift splint. “He didn’t want to go to the ER; he was a tough guy,” she glanced up at them, a little smile passing over her face. “He said he’d go see the team doctor in the morning. So I taped his fingers together, you know, just to keep them immobilized.” A bemused look came over her face. “Now that I think about it, if he was planning to kill himself, why would he talk about going to the doctor the next day?”
“That’s a good question,” Trish mused. A clear picture popped into her mind. Two young people, standing together in the living room, the pretty young girl holding the man’s hand while she carefully taped his broken finger. Did he wince? Was he stoic? Her thoughts were interrupted when Rob prompted Gran.
“So you taped his fingers,” he said.
“Yeah, he broke his middle finger, so I put Popsicle sticks on both sides and taped his ring and his index fingers around the broken finger.” She held up three fingers to illustrate. “Like this.”
“So tell me how a guy is gonna pull a trigger with three fingers taped together?” Rob asked, his voice tinged with excitement.
“He couldn’t,” Trish said.
“Right! So he unwrapped his fingers? Does that make any sense? There was nothing wrong with his right hand, was there?”
“No,” Peg answered slowly.
“This just doesn’t add up,” Rob said. “I’m going back to the archives in the morning.” He looked upward at the ceiling. “Lefty, are you listening? We’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”
Chapter Three
The next afternoon, Rob sat at the table in Peg’s neat kitchen. He flipped open his laptop.
“Trish? Peg? I want you to take a look at this.”
The two women came over and stood close to his chair, peering at the computer.
“This is the sworn statement that Ray Whitman gave to the police. He says he stopped by Lefty’s place. He was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on. Just figured he’d pop in and say hello. The door was unlocked.”
“Lefty was careless that way,” Peg murmured. “I told him and told him, lock your door. Probably that night he forgot about locking up. He was in pain,” she offered.
“Okay. So Whitman finds his body. He calls the police. Then he cleans out Lefty’s locker and finds the stash.” Rob paused. “Ladies, does something about this whole thing bother you?”
“It seems pretty convenient that he was the one to find both the body and the cash,” Trish said.
“Yup. And why did he take it upon himself to open the locker? Isn’t that a matter for the police?”
Trish leaned in toward the computer, her shoulder touching his. Her face was just inches away. Her soft hair fell forward, touching his cheek. He inhaled deeply.
“Mmm. Trish, I like your perfume,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” she smiled, glancing at him.
Peg rolled her eyes. “Can you conduct your courtship later?”
“Right,” he laughed. “That’s if Trish is willing.”
She poked him in the shoulder, smiling. “Back to the case, Sherlock. We can discuss the courtship later.”
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
She hesitated. Why run from her feelings? Wasn’t life all about taking chances? And wasn’t love the biggest chance of all?
“Yes,” she said.
He touched his fingertips to her hand, sending a tiny shiver of electric current between them.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Peg rolled her eyes. “Can we get back to business?”
“Sorry. So my first problem: Whitman says he found the money in Lefty’s locker. There’s no record of anyone seeing Whitman open the locker. We have to take his word for it. So what do we have? A dead body, a gun with Lefty’s fingerprints on it, an investigation, and a stash of money. Pretty open and shut, right? After the coroner officially ruled Lefty’s death a suicide, the Attorney General closed the criminal investigation. End of story.”
Trish studied the picture, trying to block out the disfigured face of what had once been a handsome young man.
“What an awful thing,” she said. “You think he was murdered?”
“I’m convinced of it.”
She touched his hand lightly, as she studied the death scene photograph. “There’s only one thing that still bothers me. Lefty was a big guy, strong. An athlete. How did the killer manage to overpower him? There are no signs of a struggle here. Everything is in place. No lamps knocked over. Nothing.”
“That bothers me, too,” Rob admitted. “I can’t see a guy like Lefty sitting quietly while someone puts a gun to his head. He’d have put up a fight.”
Peg reached across the table and pulled the photograph over. She sighed deeply. “He used to fall asleep in that big chair,” she said. “He’d be reading and he’d just nod off.”
Rob took a deep breath. “That’s it! The whole story is here in this one picture. It’s like a blueprint of what happened! Go with me here. Lefty is sleeping in the chair.” He pointed to a book lying on the floor near the body. “There’s the book he was reading. The killer sneaks up on him, shoots him in his left temple. Lefty is dead within seconds at the most. His body collapses into the chair. His head falls backward onto the headrest … sorry, Peg. I know this is difficult.”
“It’s okay, Rob,” she said.
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I owe it to Lefty.”
“You’re a gutsy woman. Okay, to continue, the killer goes to put Lefty’s hand on the gun, he sees the splint. Uh oh. Big problem. No way can a guy fire a gun with three fingers taped together. So he takes off the splint, throws it aside, puts Lefty’s finger around the trigger. Mission accomplished. He leaves. Why did he leave the bandage lying in the corner? Maybe he forgot about it. Maybe he didn’t think it mattered. We’ll never know. I imagine he was in a hurry to get out of there.”
“That’s awful,” Trish said. “Not only did Whitman shoot Lefty, set the whole thing up to look like a suicide, but he planted the cash to destroy his name to boot. But why?”
“He had to have been the inside guy, the one feeding that info to the mob,” Rob said. “When the AG started investigating all those bets against the team, I bet Whitman got nervous and started looking for a fall guy.”
“No wonder Lefty keeps making a ruckus at the concession stand,” Peg said, “He wants his name cleared. You should’a seen the headlines back then. No insult to your profession, Rob, but none of ’em gave poor Lefty the benefit of the doubt. It was a real witch hunt.”
“I’m sure it seemed pretty clear-cut at the time,” Rob said.
Trish laughed. “I feel kinda like Nancy Drew here, but one thing still bothers me. How did Lefty get sucked into this? Why him? Why would Whitman decide Lefty was the one to set up?”
“That’s a good question,” Peg said. “He went out to that pitcher’s mound every time he came up in the rotation, and he gave 100%. So why pick on poor Lefty?”
“We can only guess now,” Rob said.
“Too many years have gone by. Everybody’s dead.”
“Not everybody,” Peg said. “I’m still here. I’m going to turn off the lights and we’re gonna ask Lefty what happened. Trish, darlin’, you close up the blinds while I find a candle.”
She switched off the florescent light, and the room was again dark, with only the flickering candle for illumination.
“Join hands,” Peg said. She closed her eyes and began to murmur in an undertone.
Trish and Rob exchanged amused glances. Rob glanced over at Peg, then raised Trish’s hand to his lips. He kissed it and ran his tongue along her soft palm. She shivered.
“Lefty!” Peg’s voice rang out. “You have to tell me. Did you take bribes?”
The candle flickered once, then the flame was steady.
“Did you stumble upon something?”
The candle flared bright once, twice, three times.
Trish and Rob were mesmerized as they watched the candle flame.
“Was it about Whitman?”
Again, once, twice, three times the candle flared.
“Were you going to the police?”
They all held their breath, waiting. The candle flared up three times.
“Were you murdered?”
The flame leaped up higher and brighter, lighting up the room.
“Lefty,” Peg breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
The flame died down to a slow steady light. Then it went out. Peg’s head dropped down onto her chest.
“Gran!” Trish sprang up, frightened. She snapped on the overhead light and reached for her grandmother.
Peg raised her head; tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
“Poor Lefty. He’s been in pain for such a long time. There was no one who could hear his cries. But when I came to work at the stadium, he knew he could get through to me. He knew I could contact him. All that mischief, the spilled stuff, the mess he left every day, that was to get my attention.” She heaved a great sigh. “I used to read his palm for him. I’d tell his fortune. I never saw him getting killed … ” her voice trailed off. “That’s what made me stop.”
She looked weary, drained of her usual high spirits. “Maybe he’ll rest in peace now.”
“Not yet,” Rob said. “Not until his name is cleared.”
“How do you figure to do that after all these years?” Trish scoffed. “A testimony from a spirit isn’t going to cut it. Chances are that Whitman’s dead and he took his secrets to the grave — ”
“Not necessarily,” Peg cut in, her voice stronger. “Look up a name on that giggle thing of yours.”
“Google,” Trish corrected her.
“Whatever,” Peg shrugged. “Look up Marjorie Whitman. See if that old bat is still alive.”
Chapter Four
“Take next left onto Morningstar Way, one-half mile,” the metallic voice of the GPS chirped.
Peg sniffed. “She’s really come down in the world,” she said, as they passed one rundown trailer after another.
Rob drew to a stop in front of a white doublewide trailer. A flowering bush stood in the center of a large terra cotta planter at the top of the metal stairway. Peg fingered one of the blossoms. “Fake” she mouthed. Trish rolled her eyes.
Rob knocked, and the door was opened a crack.
“Yes?”
Peg pushed past Rob.
“Marjorie? Do you remember me? Peg? I was Lefty’s girlfriend back in the day.”
A watery blue eye peered out at them.
“Little Peg. Sure I remember you. I been expecting you. Thought you said you’d be here by one.”
“The traffic was heavy,” Rob explained.
The door swung open. Marjorie was a skinny wisp of a woman with frizzy, iron-gray hair held back with a headband. She was dressed in a faded flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers.
“I’d have thought you’d be dead by now,” Marjorie said.
“Why? You’ve got ten years on me,” Peg retorted.
Trish gave her grandmother a gentle poke in the back. She leaned forward.
“Can we come in?”
Marjorie ushered them into her living room. She sat down in a velour recliner and switched off the television.
“This is my granddaughter, Trish, and her friend, Rob,” Peg said.
“She looks a lot like you. Pretty girl. We were pretty once, too. You remember?” She laughed. “Well, whatcha gonna do? Anyhow, I don’t think you drove all the way across the state to introduce me to your granddaughter.”
“No,” Peg said. “It’s about Ray — ”
“He ain’t here. He’s dead,” the woman blurted.
“I’m sorry,” Rob said.
“Huh. Don’t waste your sympathy. That low-life, cheating rat is down below with a skewer up his fat butt, and the devil himself’s turning the spit.”
Peg raised her eyebrows. “I thought you guys had a solid marriage.”
“Oh yeah, we did,” Marjorie answered. “Up until he inherited some money and took off for Vegas with his teenaged bimbo. She must’a plumb wore him out, ’cause he died not a year after they got married.”
“Do you know how he died?” Rob asked.
She paused for a moment. “I don’t recall. Maybe she poisoned him.” She smiled, exposing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. “Serves him right.”
Rob leaned forward. “When did this happen?”
“Oh God, let me think. I’m eighty-three now. I was thirty-two at the time, so it must’a been fifty years ago,” she said.
“Do you know who left him the money?” Rob asked.
“He never said. To tell you the truth, I was kinda surprised, ’cause far as I knew, his relatives were either welfare cheats or in jail, real low-lifes that couldn’t rub two dimes together even if you gave them one. Ray was the black sheep of his family ’cause he was the only one of that sorry crew that never did time.”
“What was the girl’s name?”
“Slut, bimbo, you name it.”
Rob took a deep breath.
“Any, uh, proper name?”
“There was never anything proper about that tramp!”
Peg said, “We get it, Marjorie; you didn’t like her. But what was her name? Do you recall?”
“I try not to remember anything about that slut, living high on the hog in Vegas with the money that should have rightfully been mine.”
Rob began to drum his fingers on the table, impatient.
Trish leaned forward.
“That’s a shame,” Trish said. “Some men are just rotten to the core.”
“Ain’t that the truth, honey,” the old woman smiled fondly at Trish. “Ya know, Peg, you got yourself a real nice girl here. Not like that slut in Vegas.”
Rob started to say something, but Trish shook her head slightly.
“I know how it is, Marjorie,” she said, her voice throbbing with sympathy as she patted the old woman’s hand. “And I know how hard it must be for you to have to recall the way you were treated by Ray and what’s her name.”
“Molly Whitman. The name just came back to me. Guess she couldn’t find another sucker to marry her,” she chortled. “Last I heard she had a condo out there in Vegas. Course it’s been awhile. My contact died, so I lost track.”
She offered them coffee, which they refused. Her eyes were starting to get heavy, and she yawned.
“’Scuse me, it’s not the company. It’s just nap time.”
“We’ve got to leave anyway,” Rob told her. “Thanks so much for your help.”
She followed them outside and stood waving as they drove away. Trish rolled down the window and waved back.
“She’s a nice old lady,” she said.
“I
really liked the way you got the information out of her. Bing, bang, two questions, and we’re on our way,” Rob exulted. “That was slick!”
“She was lonely,” Trish said. “Sometimes a little empathy is all it takes.”
“At least now we’ve got something to go on. I’ve got a buddy out in Vegas. He works for the Review Journal. I’ll give him a call and see what he can tell me.” He looked over at Trish, smiling.
“And I’m proud of how you got that old woman to open up. If Gran wasn’t sitting right here, I’d kiss you,” he said.
“Don’t let me stand in your way,” Peg piped up from the backseat. “And if you want to stop at a motel, we can rent two rooms, one for me and the other for you two.”
“Gran! You’re embarrassing me.” Inwardly, Trish was thrilled at the idea, but decorum demanded an indignant response. Rob reached across the seat and caressed her hand, smiling faintly.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. When Trish failed to respond, he said, “Is that a yes?”
“Let’s not jet plane this thing. Slow and easy,” she said.
“Well, honey, I’m sure disappointed,” Peg said. “Carpe diem, as they say.” She leaned back in the seat and dozed.
Rob found an easy-listening station on the radio and turned it down low. They didn’t speak, both of them lost in their thoughts. Rob ran his fingers up and down her arm in a soft caress. A woman’s voice crooned a song about falling in love deeply and forever. Trish suddenly felt like crying. As though reading her mind, Rob pressed her hand. He touched her cheek.
“This is how it should have been,” he said.
She nodded. The rest of the ride was bathed in a sweet romantic glow as they held hands. As though guided by their mood, a song — their song — floated out into the air. They both sang along, softly. Peg, in the backseat, peeked out from half-closed eyes, fighting to keep down a smile of satisfaction.
• • •
They arrived back home shortly after seven.
“I’m hungry,” Rob said. “Anyone up for pizza?”
“Sounds good,” Trish said.