Die Like an Eagle (21 page)

Randall was silent for a few moments, then—

“Damn. Yeah, I suppose it could be that simple. But if that's the case, why doesn't he just say so?”

“And admit to his hated business rival that all is not well in Brownsville?”

“You're right,” he said. “That absolutely could be it and—okay, call me a paranoid son of a gun.”

“Only if you insist.”

“That break-in down at Biff's scrapyard last night—what if it wasn't a real break-in?”

“Aida said she and Vern couldn't find anything missing,” I said. “Which doesn't surprise me, because I can't imagine there's much in there that any sane thief would bother hauling away. But that doesn't mean the break-in part wasn't real.”

“And to hear Biff tell it, his quick action in calling the police warded off a burglary,” Randall said. “Except you're right, I can't imagine anyone, even in Clay County, crazy enough to think Biff has anything worth stealing. So what if Biff staged the break-in to make it look less suspicious when someone breaks into the Shiffley Construction Company lumberyard a night or two later?”

“You think he'd do that?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“And he would expect us not to notice when he shows up the next day, ready to work, hauling in a load of supplies that happen to be a precise match for what's missing from your inventory?”

“Not a deep thinker, Biff. I'm going to call my cousin Cephus and get him to put on some extra security for the time being.”

“Good idea,” I said. “And while we're talking about supplies—how about if you figure out what Biff needs to do the town square work, and for the time being we'll pretend we happened to have found all of it in some town or county storage facility. And I will talk to Biff and see if I can renegotiate the contract so he's only providing the labor.”

“At a lower cost,” Randall said.

“At the same labor costs stated in the contract,” I said. “And I'll use the ‘we know you have so much on your plate with your brother's death' tactic.”

“Worth trying,” he said.

“Then e-mail me some kind of document I can pretend is part of an inventory of county surplus supplies,” I said. “And I'll tackle him as soon as I get it.”

“I'll have it to you tonight. Good going! I knew you'd figure out a way to solve this Biff thing!”

Not solved yet, I thought, as I put my phone away. But I was feeling guardedly optimistic.

I was pulling out of the parking lot when my phone rang again. I saw it was Michael and pulled over to park so I could safely answer it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I meant to be home by now, but I found out some information I thought I should tell the chief, and I'm just leaving the station.”

“Actually, it's great that you're still in town,” he said. “Can you pick your grandmother up at the college TV studio?”

“Sure, but what in the world is she doing there?”

“Giving them an interview about her life. Why didn't you tell me that she had played in a women's professional baseball league?”

“I only found out last night, and I haven't had time to get many details,” I said. “She was pretty busy with the kids at the picnic.”

“She's incredible,” Michael said. “She's straightened out Mason's crazy batting stance, and is helping Adam time his swings better, and the whole team's starting to throw better. So if she's finished at the studio, we could use her here.”

“I'll head right over. And once we get her home, let's twist her arm to tell Jamie and Josh about her baseball career. It would be so much fun if they heard about her professional baseball career from her, not the college TV station.”

On my way to pick up Cordelia I found myself wondering how she felt about taping her interview in the new drama building. When I pulled up at the front door, I suspected I had my answer. Cordelia was chatting graciously with two obviously adoring drama students, but from time to time I saw her frown as she caught sight of the huge brass letters affixed to the brick front wall of the building, proclaiming it the
DR. J. MONTGOMERY BLAKE DRAMATIC ARTS BUILDING
. But she was all smiles as the students helped her climb up into the Behemoth. She saved her ire for me.

“What the devil has your grandfather ever done to deserve having the drama building named after him?” she demanded as soon as we drove away.

“He gave them the money to build it,” I said.

“You mean they'll name a building after anyone who gives them money?”

“Why do you think the college has so many buildings named after Pruitts?”

“Ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Not so ridiculous,” I said. “Grandfather's spent more time on camera than a lot of professional actors, and even he would have to admit that he owes his success in equal parts to his scientific ability and his flair for the theatrical.”

“Well, that's certainly true,” she said. “He always was a big ham. Bully for him, I suppose, finding a way to make it pay so well. Let's talk about something more interesting. Like baseball.”

So we spent the trip home discussing the subtle differences between major league baseball and youth baseball rules.

Back at the house, we found not only all twelve Eagles in our backyard, but also at least a dozen of their older brothers who played on the league's minor and major league teams. No, make that several dozen non-Eagles, and I was pretty sure some of them weren't anyone's older brothers. In fact, the more I looked around, the more I suspected at least half the players in the league were practicing somewhere in our backyard or the adjoining pasture. Almost all of the teams in the league were represented—not only Eagles but also Flatworms, Wombats, River Rats, Sandgnats, Muckdogs, Grasshoppers, Nats, Pirates, and Red Sox. And both the kids and their parents were wearing their team colors, so our yard swirled with brightly colored t-shirts.

No Stoats or Yankees, though, since those were the teams Biff coached.

And in addition to the Eagles' parents and Mother's family, I spotted a lot of friends and neighbors—presumably ones who had kids on one of the teams. And most of them, to judge by the overflowing picnic tables, had shown up bearing foodstuffs and were now happily milling about in the backyard, plates in hand.

Cordelia was immediately drafted to repeat her throwing drill for some of the younger players. I hoped Dad had warned Rufus, his farm manager, to keep the cows and sheep out of this particular pasture for the time being. The ground was so thickly littered with baseballs that even the surefooted Black Welsh Mountain sheep would have had a hard time keeping from slipping, and I had no great confidence that we'd manage to pick them all up afterward.

In another part of the backyard, several technicians from Michael's film classes had set up cameras and laptops, and were videotaping batters in action so they could see what they were doing and work on improving their technique.

Tory Davis was running a pitching clinic over near the barn for a small group of minor and major league players.

And most of the older kids were in the makeshift ball field, holding a lively scrimmage that was subject to interruption every time one of the dozen assembled coaches or fathers spotted a teachable moment.

“This is great!” Vince Wong appeared at my side, with his catcher's mask pushed up on top of his head. Tory had called a halt and her aspiring pitchers were gathering all the balls that had gone so wild Vince couldn't catch them. “Let's just hope Biff doesn't show up again to spoil our fun.”

“I rather hope he does,” I said. “He needs to learn that the league isn't his personal fiefdom. And we all need to learn to stick together and stand up to him.”

Vince looked startled for a moment, and then a smile crept over his face.

“Yeah.” He threw back his shoulders and stuck out his chin. “Bring him on.”

He marched back to the side of the barn, where Tory's troops had finished refilling their ball bucket.

“This is marvelous!”

I started slightly, and turned to see Randall and Mr. Witherington.

“We heard about the party and I didn't think you'd mind if we showed up,” Randall said. “And I rode out with Jim, so if you're finished with the Behemoth, I can take it off your hands.”

“Be my guest,” I said, handing him the keys.

“But this isn't just your team,” Mr. Witherington said, looking slightly puzzled. “You must have half the kids in the league here.”

“More like three quarters,” I said.

“We knew many of the families were planning to spend the day out at the fields, watching other teams when they weren't playing,” Randall said. “So we put out the word that anyone who wanted to practice or scrimmage or get coaching should show up here for potluck and baseball. We appreciate you and Michael being willing to host,” he added to me.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Witherington exclaimed.

Randall and I trailed behind him as he darted around the yard, inspecting everything. Over by the barn, a Red Sox player was showing a Pirate and two Grasshoppers the finer points of pitching a slider. Out in the pasture, the Flatworms, Eagles, and Wombats had taken a break from throwing and shagging flies with a cheerful competition to see who could gather up the most balls. At the video station, a mixed party of Muckdogs and River Rats were helping one of the Muckdogs improve his batting stance. And on the ball field, the scrimmage had given way to Pickle, a game in which one team tried to steal as many bases as possible while the other team tried to get them all out.

“Wpfher foo,” Mr. Witherington said—at least that's what it sounded like thanks to the mouthful of food he was trying to talk around. Mother had brought him “just a little something”—her term for a plate piled high with samples of at least half the dishes on the buffet. He swallowed and tried again. “Wonderful,” he said. “This is just the sort of thing I was hoping to see. The good, solid, down-to-earth, small-town values that Summerball stands for.”

Mr. Witherington found a lawn chair with a good view of the practice field and sat down to enjoy the Pickle game. I could see Mother pointing him out to several of our younger cousins, and one of them scampered over to refill his lemonade glass.

“I'm not staying long,” Randall said. “I'm going over to the field. Remember my telling you Jim Witherington's given us permission to do some fixing up?”

“Define fixing up,” I said. “I don't suppose it includes installing flush toilets.”

“No, just what we can get done tonight to make it look as good as possible tomorrow for Opening Day, take two. But who knows? Maybe if he likes what he sees he'll give us the go-ahead for a more complete renovation later on. Meanwhile, my workmen have already started, with orders to fix anything we have the time and materials to fix.”

“I can't wait to see it,” I said. “In fact, I may drop by and get a sneak preview, though not until after we get the boys to bed.”

Suddenly we noticed that Mr. Witherington appeared to be choking on something. Randall rushed over to check him out, and I looked around for Dad.

To my relief, Mr. Witherington's problems only seemed to be some lemonade that had gone down the wrong way. Although he was clearly agitated about something. As soon as he could speak again, he croaked out a few hoarse and unintelligible words.

“Sorry,” Randall said. “I didn't quite catch that. Maybe you should just rest for a few moments before trying to speak.”

“I said, isn't that Tory Davis?”

Randall frowned slightly and glanced up at me.

“The baseball player?” I asked. “Yes it is.”

“Who's Tory Davis?” the young cousin with the lemonade pitcher asked.

“Only the finest woman player ever to compete in the NCAA,” Mr. Witherington said. “And for that matter, one of the best pitchers of either gender ever to come out of the UCLA baseball program. And she's one of your coaches?”

“Actually, her husband is,” I said. “For some reason her application to coach got lost in the shuffle, but her husband's the head coach of the Eagles, and Tory's very generous about teaching the kids.”

Mr. Witherington glanced up and frowned, and then grimaced slightly—no doubt as he parsed out what I meant by “lost in the shuffle.” Then he turned back to the field and delight once more lit up his face.

“If only my girls could see this!” he exclaimed. “I must bring them down next time I visit.”

“Yes, I think we're making progress,” Randall murmured. “Before I head out, I'll bring Tory over and introduce her.”

I left him to continue the subtle indoctrination of Mr. Witherington into the NAFOB point of view.

By nine, the party had begun thinning out, as more and more people remembered that the first games tomorrow were at eight. Michael and I took the boys upstairs, leaving Mother to say farewell to the departing guests and, if necessary, evict anyone under the delusion that this was a slumber party. It helped when Randall's workmen came to haul all the portable lights down to the real ball field.

And, of course, that fired up my curiosity to see what Randall and company were doing, so once the boys were settled—and Michael, whose full day of coaching and bonding with his sons had been pretty strenuous—I tiptoed out and headed for the field.

 

Chapter 17

About twenty workmen were at the ball field. Two of them were in the parking lot, dumping dirt in some of the worst ruts and depressions and raking smooth some of the mounds and accidental speed bumps. Half a dozen were hauling the huge portable lights into place and fine-tuning their arrangement to ensure that there would be no dark pockets on the field. Another half dozen were in the outfield, leveling bumps and filling holes. Two or three were improving the pitcher's mound, piling dirt here and removing dirt there, and then checking the results with a level. Several more were replacing the worn, badly splintered bleacher seats with well-sanded new boards. One workman was reshingling the Snack Shack roof. Randall and Mr. Witherington and one of the workers were wandering about with a giant tape measure, and it was probably as a result of their measurements that a workman was digging up the anchor that held the misaligned second base in place, in preparation to moving it to the spot where it really belonged.