The Pinch Runner

by Robin Merrill

  It was Bob, of course. He wasn’t looking at her, but was staring at a bird with such intensity Sandra wondered if he was reading its thoughts. She approached slowly, trying to be quiet, even though it didn’t require much effort; her slippers sliding through dewy grass didn’t make much noise.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Angel ears at their finest.

  “Good morning. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  He finally looked at her. “Interrupt what?”

  She pointed her chin at the chickadee. “Whatever interaction you’re having with your fellow winged creature.” She figured this was as good a time as any. “Do you have wings, Bob?”

  Before she could finish the question, he returned his gaze to the bird. “We weren’t chatting. I was just admiring her feathers.”

  She waited for him to answer her question. “So, is the other thing proprietary?” She grinned, trying to cover up how much she really wanted to know whether he had wings and if so, where were they?

  “They arrested Richard Barney.”

  “Yes, I know.” She was never going to know, this side of heaven anyway, if Bob could fly.

  “And you don’t think they’ve got the right man?”

  She paused. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged, still staring at the chickadee.

  She stepped closer, and of course, the bird took off, but Bob continued to stare at the small waves traveling through the water, the only evidence that the bird had ever been there.

  “I can see it on your face. You are distraught about something. So, either you’re worried about being late for church”—he glanced at her and looked her up and down—“and I doubt that’s the case given your outfit, or you’re thinking about the case. And you don’t look relieved that the murderer has been caught. You are unsettled. So, if not Richard Barney, then who? Who did it?”

  She pulled her worn bathrobe tighter around her, feeling self-conscious. “I have no idea. It could be him. I don’t think he’s a particularly nice man, although his son seems far crueler.” She took a deep breath, really wishing her coffee mug wasn’t empty. Was it too much to ask Bob to miraculously refill it? And with that Cumberland Farms coffee from down the street? She could go back inside and fill in with non-miraculous Folgers, but Bob had a habit of disappearing if she didn’t keep him completely engaged. She decided to go without. “But it’s not that I think he’s innocent so much as that I think their version of the crime doesn’t make sense.”

  He turned toward her and gave her a broad smile. “You’re really starting to sound like a detective.”

  “Speaking of detectives, can’t you just go eavesdrop on Chip and Slaughter? Maybe they know stuff we don’t know?”

  He chuckled. “First of all, do you know how weird it is that you call him by his first name and her by her last? And second, I’ve told you before that I can’t just go eavesdropping. There are rules, guidelines ...” He acted as if he wanted to say more.

  She wished he would. This whole angel thing was so mysterious. She’d spent all this time with him and she hardly knew any more than when she first met him in the grocery store parking lot. He never added to his sentence, and the pause grew long and uncomfortable.

  “I feel like I know Chip, even though I really don’t, and so I think of him on a first name basis. As for Slaughter, well, her last name just sort of fits her.” As she discussed the topic aloud, it further developed in her mind. “And they’re sort of like a unit. So they get a first name and a last. Collectively, they are Chip Slaughter.”

  He laughed again. “That doesn’t make any sense, but if it works for you ... so, what do you think Chip Slaughter has wrong?”

  She hesitated, wanting to sound smart. “All of it. First of all, Richard Barney is loaded, thanks to his cat vacuum thing—”

  Bob’s face jerked back in alarm. “Cat vacuum? Someone is vacuuming up cats?”

  She laughed and shook her head quickly, wanting to comfort him. A new chickadee landed in the bath. Or maybe it was the same one. But this one looked chubbier. Bob returned part of his attention to the bird bath. “No, silly.” She stepped closer, and the new bird flew off. She was happy to see it go, finding herself a tad jealous of Bob’s attention. “It’s a small box that you put your cat in, and it sucks out all the extra hair, so they don’t shed all over your house.”

  The alarm returned to Bob’s face. “That’s barbaric!”

  She laughed again, this time with her belly, and slapped a hand over her mouth to try to keep the noise down. She didn’t need her neighbors wondering why she was laughing hysterically at an empty bird bath. “It doesn’t hurt them. It’s supposed to be gentle.” She shrugged and turned her own gaze to the empty bird bath. Now that she had his full attention, it was too much to handle. “Anyway, so he’s loaded. Why would he need to kill a recovering drug addict from Lewiston? And if he did, would he really be stupid enough to do it in his church’s backyard? I don’t like the man, but I doubt the inventor of the Cat Vac is stupid. But let’s say that he is, that he’s not smart enough to hire someone else to kill the man—”

  “It might not be a matter of intelligence. The more people one involves in a crime, the more chance there is of being caught.”

  This insight surprised her. “You’re sounding more like a detective too. What? You think he did it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  She rocked on her feet. She was getting tired of standing, and she needed more coffee.

  “Continue.” He twirled an impatient finger at her.

  It took her a second to remember where she was. “Oh yeah, and so, let’s say he did do it. You really think he’d be stupid enough to return the bloody murder weapon to the bat bag?”

  Bob blinked. “You’re right. That part doesn’t make any sense. Why not just wipe the prints off it and leave it with the body? Then the whole softball team is under suspicion.”

  “Right! And he wasn’t smart enough to wipe his prints off? Seriously? What criminal doesn’t know enough not to wipe their prints off the murder weapon? Don’t people watch television?”

  Bob snorted. “I think people watch more than enough television. I would say that a person who was drinking, or using drugs, or overwhelmed by emotion or panic—those people don’t remember the finer points of police procedural dramas.”

  “What?” She hadn’t meant to snap, but he wasn’t making any sense.

  “Those people don’t stop to think about how things work on television. Those people make bad decisions.”

  “Are you saying Richard was drunk or high or emotionally overwhelmed?”

  “Maybe.” Bob dragged the word out as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it.

  She couldn’t picture Richard being any of these things. “Still. I think it sounds more like a frame job. Like someone else put the weapon back, to make sure that we found it. Of course, I have no idea how they got Richard’s prints on the bat. I didn’t think he would stoop low enough to touch the old thing.”

  “I know how his prints got on the bat,” a small voice spoke from behind them.

  Sandra almost shrieked in surprise. “Peter! What are you doing sneaking up on us?” She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, already wondering how annoyed he’d be if she asked him to go get her more coffee.

  “I didn’t sneak. You were just talking a lot.” He looked around, raising his voice a little as he said, “And since I know you don’t talk to birds, I figured Bob was here ... somewhere.”

  She shushed him and pointed to her right.

  Peter’s eyes widened, and she knew that he could now see Bob.

  “Hi, Peter.”

  “Bob!” Peter stepped out from under Sandra’s arm and flung his spindly limbs around Bob’s waist with such force that Bob staggered back a step.

  “Peter!” she whispered. “The neighbors!”

  Peter made it clear he didn’t care what the neighbors saw or t
hought. He stepped back still beaming.

  “So?” she cried. “How did his prints get on the bat?”

  Peter rolled his shoulders back and raised his chin. “At the game before the murder, Mr. Barney, the younger, was making fun of the team bats. He handed a bat to the old Mr. Barney, and said, ‘Just try to swing it! It weighs a ton!’ They both swung a couple of the bats, laughing and being mean.”

  “Then what?” she pushed.

  He scrunched his face up. “Then nothing, I guess. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  Bob ruffled Peter’s hair. “Good job, buddy.” He looked at Sandra. “Sounds like maybe Brendan is the framer.”

  Her breath caught. “And Richard is the framed.”

  A male chickadee landed on the edge of the bath and sang out fee-bee! like an eerie endorsement of their new theory.

  They all stood there silently staring at the bird, but it went mute.

  “You should go get more coffee and then get to church.”

  She frowned. “How do you know I need more coffee?”

  “You keep staring at the empty cup in your hand.”

  She glanced down at it again. “If you can read people so well, why can’t you pick out killers?”

  “I probably could if I knew whom to look at it and spent enough time at it.” He jumped a little. “So, that’s what we’re going to do! If Brendan is in church, study his every move. I’ll go too and do the same.”

  “Won’t that get you into trouble with Mannaziah?” She was sure she’d pronounced that wrong.

  He shrugged. “We’ll find out.” And he was gone.

  Chapter 23

  Sandra left Sunday school early to snag a good seat in the sanctuary for the main service. And while she knew it was for a good cause, she was still worried about upsetting the apple cart. She knew she couldn’t just change seats. Changing seats meant stealing someone else’s seat. In some cases, it meant stealing a seat from someone who’d sat in that spot for forty years. People were mostly tolerant of this behavior from guests, but she wasn’t a guest. She took the very front seat on the far left side of the room, miles away from where she and her family usually sat. She knew people would notice. She hoped Brendan Barney wouldn’t. And she didn’t think he would. She thought he’d have more pressing issues on his mind.

  She didn’t know whose spot this normally was, and hoped that maybe it was unclaimed, though it wasn’t likely. It truly was a terrible seat, which was why she’d chosen it. If one sat in this spot, and faced front, all they could see was the door to the plastic flowers closet and the corner of the altar. Hence, anyone normal sitting here would have to sit sideways in order to see the pastor. She tried this sideways position now, and was thrilled at how well it worked. She could see the entire sanctuary, but she didn’t even need to. Unless Brendan Barney also got creative with his choice of seats, she’d easily be able to discreetly stare at him for the entire service.

  A thought flickered through her mind, sending her heart into a panic. What if he didn’t come to church? His father was in jail! Maybe he’d want the day off. Or maybe he’d be too ashamed to come. But the Barneys were all about keeping up appearances. They were practically Stepfords. So they’d come, right? Unless they decided that it would look better if they didn’t come. Maybe they’d stay home to give the appearance of grieving, or of solidarity with their patriarch. She shook her head. She was giving herself a headache. She texted her husband, “I’ve changed seats for today. We’re up front. Please don’t make a big deal. I’ll explain later.” She hoped he’d forget to ask for this promised explanation, because he wasn’t going to like it.

  Sunday school hadn’t been dismissed yet, but those churchgoers who didn’t attend Sunday school started trickling in. And they sure were a lively, talkative bunch. Sandra hadn’t realized this, as she was always still in class. She stared down at her phone, scrolling through her Facebook feed without actually seeing anything, trying to be small and unnoticeable.

  Her efforts failed. The sanctuary was half-full when a small, tan boy with a mass of curly blond hair that nearly doubled his height appeared in front of her with wide eyes. “Hey! That’s our seat!” Sandra could feel the room full of eyeballs burning into the back of her head. She wasn’t sure how to respond to the child, so she just stared at him, wishing the moment would be over. “Move!” he cried, pointing to the entire sanctuary behind her. Good thing she was in the front row with only this semi-feral child looking at her, because her cheeks were on fire.

  “Gabriel!” a woman snapped from the aisle.

  Oh thank heavens, the cavalry has arrived.

  The woman who was probably Gabriel’s mother grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the wall and then into the row behind Sandra. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she maneuvered him into his new seat.

  Sandra didn’t dare speak. She didn’t want to call any more attention to herself than she already had.

  “But she’s in my spot!” the child whined, not sounding so fierce anymore.

  “She can sit wherever she wants,” the mom said, and Sandra wished she knew the woman’s name, but she was from the other side of the church. Whoever she was, it didn’t sound as though she believed what she was saying.

  “But this is where Elisha’s family sits!” His whining made Sandra long for nails on a chalkboard.

  Her husband appeared then, looking bewildered. She gave her head a slight shake, trying to telepathically beg him not to mention their new locale. But the telepathy failed when it reached Joanna, who cried out at the top of her voice, “Why are we sitting up front, Mommy?” Sandra wanted to die, right then and there. It would be so convenient. They’d all already be dressed and ready for the funeral.

  “Sit down, honey.” Sandra’s voice was hardly audible.

  Joanna opened her mouth, but Peter snapped, “Be quiet, Joanna!”

  Not normally scolded by her big brother, Joanna’s mouth snapped shut. Sandra gave Peter a grateful look and resisted the urge to turn around and see how many people were still staring at them—the front row squatters. Instead, she continued to stare at the door of the plastic flowers closet until the service started. In fact, she didn’t move until she stood for the music and though the rest of the congregation stood with her, she still felt conspicuous.

  By the end of the music, she had calmed down—the power of melody, maybe—and as the pastor stepped behind the pulpit, she finally turned sideways in her seat so that she could see him. Her peripheral vision informed her that the sanctuary was packed. It was usually fairly full, except for fourth of July weekend, but this was nuts. Had the arrest attracted visitors? Had people come just to lay eyes on the family of the accused? Were people that morbid?

  Sandra scanned the large room to see if the Barneys were even there, and immediately made eye contact with Daphne Barney. And it wasn’t a pleasant eye contact. It was a laser shot out of Daphne’s eyes that suggested that Daphne knew they’d changed seats, knew why they’d changed seats, and had been staring at her for eons, trying to set her on fire with her vision.

  Not daring to look to either side of Daphne to see if Brendan was present, Sandra returned her eyes to Pastor Cliff, who looked beyond grieved. She realized he’d been talking about Richard and tuned in.

  “... be mindful that the police have a difficult job. I don’t mean to be critical of their efforts. I know they are doing the best that they can. But I also know Richard Barney”—

  Unless he knew Richard before they’d moved to town, he hadn’t known him for long.

  —“and I can tell you that he is not a murderer. So please join me as we pray that this can all be resolved soon and Richard can be returned to his family.” He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Can we also pray for the victim’s family?” Elder Vern called out.

  “Of course,” Cliff muttered without looking up. As he began to pray, Sandra’s mind wandered, first to the fact that, as far as she knew,
Phoenix didn’t have any family, and then, to the fact that this was the ideal time to scan the congregation and see what she could see. She opened her eyes and swung them toward the Barney row, where they again met Daphne’s razor sharp gaze. She looked down quickly, her skin covered in gooseflesh; she was so frustrated with herself for still not knowing whether Brendan was there. Did Daphne always glare at her during prayer? She wouldn’t know—they usually sat on the same side.

  “What’s wrong?” Nate whispered.

  She realized that the prayer was over and she was still staring down at her knees, scowling. “Nothing,” she whispered back. And that should be true. Why was she letting Daphne get to her so much? Of course the woman was upset. She probably felt as though everyone in the room was staring at her.

  Sandra hazarded another look, and yep, Daphne caught her again, but this time, Sandra pretended not to notice. Instead, she verified that Brendan was in fact right there alongside his wife. He had his arms folded across his chest and his chin held high. He had bags under his eyes, but other than that, he looked the same as he always looked: arrogant. He didn’t look guilty, which left her to wonder, Do psychopaths feel guilt? Isn’t that what makes them psychopaths? Four little blond Barneys sat lined up on the other side of him. All present and accounted for—except for Richard Barney. She wondered what had happened to Mrs. Richard Barney. Was he widowed? Divorced? Maybe his ex-wife hated him enough to frame him.

  Pastor Cliff cleared his throat, a noise that, when amplified through the house speakers, sounded like a donkey dying. It certainly got her attention. “I know this is an uncomfortable topic under the circumstances, but our church softball team will continue, and so, the elders and I have decided to set a few ground rules.”