Die Like an Eagle (6 page)

“But those wouldn't have done for the ball field.” Mother pointed beyond the yard, where our makeshift baseball diamond was illuminated by another three light towers.

“Oh, great,” I said. “And if Biff comes back to spy on us again, we'll just hand him a pair of sunglasses and hope he doesn't notice.”

“If he comes back, I'm sure you'll be able to chase him away again,” Mother said. “And if he thinks he can bully the Eagles into not practicing when they want to—well! He'll learn. I've been talking to some of the other team families. Everyone knows he just makes up all those rules as he goes along. People are getting tired of it, and asking what can be done about it. You can put me down as another charter member of NAFOB.”

“NAFOB?” Caerphilly was rife with acronymed action organizations, from SPOOR—Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors—to CAP—Citizens Against Prohibition, which after achieving its original mission with the repeal of Prohibition in 1933 had reorganized itself into a rather dipsophilic social organization. NAFOB was a new one to me.

“Not a Friend of Biff,” she said.

“Count me in on that one,” I said.

But still, I pulled up my mental image of the ball field and unerased Biff. Right now, I hoped he was there leaning on the outfield fence. Better yet, doing something over there that took a lot of concentration. We were only a couple of miles from the field—for all I knew the sudden glow in our backyard might be visible all the way there.

I walked over to the pasture, where it was now obvious from pretty far away that practice was taking place. Michael and Chuck were assisted by Tory, Cordelia, and at least half a dozen team fathers.

Josh came running over when he spotted me leaning against the fence.

“Mommy, look at the lights,” he exclaimed. “Isn't it cool? Just like the big leagues!”

He went running back into the outfield.

“They haven't played under the lights at the ball field yet?” asked a cousin who was standing beside me, holding a glass of wine in her hand.

“We don't have lights at our field,” I explained.

“And that's a pity, isn't it?” Randall Shiffley had come to lean against the fence on my other side. “Because I think the kids would enjoy a few night games, don't you?”

“You think you could see your way to lending those light towers for the games?” I asked.

“I could,” he said. “Of course, Biff hasn't scheduled any night games, but if the spring continues as rainy as it has been, we might need a few night slots to get in all the make up games.”

“Night games are more fun sometimes,” the cousin said.

“I agree,” I said. “Although I suspect Biff won't, unless the suggestion comes from someone he gets along with.”

“Which wouldn't be me,” Randall said.

“Or me. I assume you'll be there to throw out the first ball tomorrow.”

“No, apparently Biff has invited some bigwig from Summerball's national organization to do that.” Randall's tone seemed light and neutral. Maybe a little too much so.

“Are you bummed about that?” I asked.

“I'm ticked off he didn't ask me first,” Randall said. “Or even notify me. If he'd called me up and said he wanted to invite a bigwig from Summerball National, maybe thrown in a little flattery about how great it's going to be to show off our brand new league, I'd have said ‘Great; look forward to meeting him.' But to tell me the day before Opening Day that he doesn't need me for the ceremonies … not cool.”

“Disrespectful,” the listening cousin put in.

I found myself wondering if Randall and Biff had had words. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

“You know, it wouldn't be that hard to put up permanent lights at the field,” Randall said. “Assuming the county can wrestle control over our own field back from Biff.”

“I'll put that on my list,” I said.

“And put it on your list to meet the Summerball National guy tomorrow,” Randall said. “I don't know how Biff managed to snow the Summerball folks into letting him run the league, but I'm hoping they haven't really seen him in action. But they will tomorrow, and if Biff runs true to form and meanwhile you and I do our level best to charm the socks off the visitor … you never know.”

“My money's on you,” said the cousin. “But I'm confused about something—Meg, I thought you worked for the mayor.”

“That's me, ma'am,” Randall said, tipping an imaginary hat.

“And I thought the ball field was in the county, not the town.”

“It is,” I said. “But the town and county are working together a lot more cooperatively these days. They used to have completely separate and often actively hostile governments.”

“The town was run by the Pruitts, a bunch of greedy carpetbaggers, for over a century,” Randall said. “But people finally got wise and voted them out.”

“And with the Pruitts gone, we came up with a proposal to join forces to save everybody time and money,” I explained.

“Meg's doing, actually,” Randall said.

“So Randall is mayor and also the county executive,” I said. “The town council is also the county board. The chief of police is also the deputy sheriff.”

“The only people not completely happy about the change were a few folks who were on both payrolls,” Randall said. “And we gave them big raises to sweeten the pill.”

“That's why we're having a four-day holiday weekend instead of a three-day one,” I explained. “The county used to celebrate Founder's Day on a Friday and the town on a Monday. And neither would budge. So now we celebrate both.”

“So the town and the county are merged now?” the cousin asked.

“For the time being, they're still separate entities,” I said. “And citizens of both have the right to vote the plan out if they don't think it's working.”

“Keeps us honest,” Randall said. “But confusing to outsiders, since we locals have gotten pretty loosey-goosey about using town and county interchangeably when we talk about the government. But it works for us, and pretty well.”

“Nice to know both town and county are in such capable hands!” The cousin lifted her wine glass as if to salute us.

“Looks as if you've got a vote of confidence from the Hollingsworth clan,” I said.

“I think the hands she was talking about were yours,” Randall said. The cousin giggled slightly. “But since I'm the one who was smart enough to hire you, I will bask in my share of the compliment. By the way, one of my cousins told me something that you might find interesting. Even useful.”

Randall, like me, was blessed—or afflicted—with a remarkably large and close-knit extended family.

“Cousin Cephus has a kid on the Red Sox,” Randall went on. “He was there picking his kid up when Biff's Yankees were starting their practice, and he overheard a regular knock-down drag-out between Biff and one of the Yankee parents. One of the Pruitts, as it happened.”

“Did he hear what they were arguing about?” I asked.

“They shut up as soon as they realized he was nearby.” Randall shook his head. “But it was a real doozy—they weren't just arguing; a couple of the other Yankee dads had to pull them apart. And Cephus was pretty surprised, because up to now, Biff and his team parents have been tight as ticks. Especially the Pruitts. If there's a crack happening … well, might be something that could be exploited to fix some of the problems we're having.”

“In the league, or with Biff and the town square?” I asked.

“Either,” Randall said. “Both.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” I said. “Of course, exploiting a possible rift between Biff and the Pruitts would be a lot easier for someone the Pruitts didn't already hate. Which wouldn't be me.”

“Or me,” Randall said. “Just keep it in mind.”

I nodded.

Just then Cordelia strode over holding an empty plastic cup.

“Any chance of a refill on the lemonade?” she asked.

“I'll get it!” The cousin grabbed the glass and scampered off toward the picnic tables. Cordelia leaned against the fence to survey the action on the field while she waited.

“So where did you learn to play baseball?” I asked.

“In Peoria,” she said. “I was on the Redwings. In the All American Girls Professional Baseball League,” she added, seeing my slightly puzzled frown. “Under my maiden name, since we weren't quite sure people back in Richmond would find it quite respectable.”

“Meg, why didn't you ever tell me your grandmother had played women's professional baseball?” Randall asked.

“I didn't know she had,” I said. “Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, turning to Cordelia. In the past year or so, I'd often tried to get Cordelia to sit down and talk about her life in the decades between her giving up Dad for adoption and our discovery of her, but every time I thought I'd mapped out her life she'd drop another biographical bombshell.

“Didn't know you'd find it all that interesting,” she said. Just then the cousin returned with the refilled lemonade. “Let's talk about it later,” Cordelia said. “We've got a lot of work to do with these kids.”

“I'll hold you to that,” I said as she strolled back onto the field.

The practice ended around eight o'clock. The zoo security desk called at eight thirty to tell me that the tracking devices were on the move. Even though practice was over, I was relieved to hear that Biff was headed away from us. Out of curiosity, I asked her to text me the location when he stopped moving. When she did, a little quick online research revealed that Biff had gone back to his construction company's offices. By that time all the baseball players had gone home or been sent to bed, and Michael was gently suggesting to the last few die-hard Xtreme Croquet players that everyone needed their rest to be up bright and early for tomorrow's game.

“No classes for four days,” Michael exclaimed as we were settling down to sleep. “And the picnic was a great way to start off the holiday.”

“I wish we'd done it weeks ago,” I said. “All those parents I was complaining about as unfriendly and uncooperative and lazy—they're very nice people who were simply scared of having it backfire on their kids if they crossed Biff. Now that we know what the problem is, I'm sure we can figure out a way to deal with him.”

“And if you need an alibi, just ask,” Michael mumbled, already half asleep.

“That shouldn't be necessary,” I said—but softly enough that it wouldn't wake him if he was already asleep. “I don't want anything to happen to Biff. I just want him to behave.”

 

Chapter 5

Friday dawned bright and clear—and I was up to see it, unfortunately, since we had to be at the ball field by eight for the pregame practice. Getting both boys and Michael into their uniforms was astonishingly tiring and time-consuming. And then came loading the Twinmobile with all the gear and supplies we needed.

As Michael worked to fit everything into the back of the van, I flipped open my notebook and scanned my checklists. Waters. Juices. Snacks. Ice. First aid kit. Sunscreen. Insect repellent. Hand sanitizer. Even toilet paper, because Biff didn't seem to have assigned anyone to restock the porta-potty from week to week.

I suddenly had a dizzying premonition that this was the first of who knew how many early morning expeditions to the ball field. I could almost see the boys in their red-and-black shirts and white baseball pants getting taller and taller until they approached Michael's towering six-foot-four frame, and myself spending who knew how much time in the bleachers. It wasn't a bad prospect—I shared Michael's love of baseball, and never got tired of cheering the boys on no matter what they were doing. But it was a curiously daunting prospect. This was an occasion. A momentous occasion. The boys' first real baseball game. I felt we should mark it somehow. And—

“Meg? You ready? We don't want to be late.”

I hopped into the van and gave up trying to mark the momentous occasion. As with so many other parenting milestones, I focused on making sure we all survived it. I turned on my phone and tried to find the e-mail from Mother in which she'd sent me a list of which cousins were working what shift in the Snack Shack.

At the ballpark, the bleachers on our side of the field—the third-base side—were already a sea of red and black, worn by a cheerful mix of Eagle families and my relatives. The overflow were settling into a sea of brightly colored folding camping chairs. My cousin Rose Noire and a sari-clad Indian woman that I now knew was Sami Patel's grandmother were staffing the Snack Shack, and Osgood Shiffley, one of Randall's cousins, was warming up the grill. I could smell the charcoal already, and long before lunchtime the smell of the hot dogs and hamburgers would begin tempting people to have a second breakfast.

The crowd on the first-base side seemed a little more subdued. Most of the Stoats fans were also wearing their team colors, and the overall effect was drab and dispiriting. I could understand why Biff had chosen the color, but it really didn't make for a very decorative crowd.

I thought of going over and introducing myself to my counterpart on the Stoats. I spotted a woman holding a clipboard who seemed to be passing out something to people sitting on their bleachers—probably the Team Mom. But just as I was about to put a cheerful expression on my face and head over, she turned around, spotted me looking at her, and glared at me. Maybe I'd have gone over anyway and tried to establish friendly relations, but I recognized her: one of the Pruitts, the family who had run Caerphilly until a group of concerned citizens had helped organize the popular campaign that broke their stronghold on the town government and sent some of the worst Pruitt crooks to prison. From the look on her face, I suspected she recognized me as one of those concerned citizens.