by Crider, Bill
“No, and I don’t think I will.“
“You could go by after practice.“
Burns was going to say that he didn’t think he would, but he didn’t get the chance.
“Burns!“ Mal Tomlin yelled from the field. “Get on down here. It’s time for some infield practice.“
Burns had been dreading this moment. He was tired of talking to Napier, but he didn’t want to have to go out on the field. He knew he wasn’t a good ballplayer, and he was going to be embarrassed enough on Saturday. He didn’t want to have Napier watching him now.
“Don’t you have some sleuthing to do?“ Burns said.
“Nope,“ Napier said. “I’m going to watch you practice. See how you turn the double play.“
Burns stood up and waited to see if Napier would make any hernia jokes. He didn’t, which was a mark in his favor.
“I don’t do the turn very well,“ Burns said, bending down to pick up his glove. “But sometimes I can do it without falling down.“
“I’m looking forward to seeing that,“ Napier said.
Burns slipped his hand into his glove and pounded his fist into the pocket a couple of times.
“I’ll bet you are,“ he said.
Chapter Thirty
To his surprise, Burns didn’t do too badly during the infield practice. None of Dorinda Edgely’s throws from third hit him in the face when they tried an around-the-horn double play, he didn’t trip over his own feet, and he didn’t throw the ball into the dugout when he was trying to get it to the first baseman. No one would ever mistake him for a natural athlete, but at least he held his own with the other amateurs.
Then Tomlin said it was time for a little batting practice. Burns let everyone go in front of him, hoping that Napier would get bored and leave. He should have known better. When Burns stood in the batting box, the police chief was still in the stands, watching.
Burns wondered what the odds were that he would hit another ball over the fence. Probably about the same as winning Lotto Texas. He didn’t know what those odds were, but he calculated that there was as much likelihood of winning as there was of getting eaten by a Great White shark in Odessa, Texas, during a sandstorm.
Mal was pitching batting practice because he didn’t want to take any chances with Dawn Melling’s arm on the day before the big game.
“Those students won’t show us any mercy,“ Mal said from the mound. “They’ll pitch you inside, and they might even hit you. It would give them a chance to get back at you for those bad grades.“
There were some uneasy laughs, and Abner Swan stepped into the batter’s box to take a few swings. He was wearing overalls again, and he looked like a farmer on a trip to buy some chicken feed. He waggled the bat around a couple of times, and when he settled into his stance, he seemed awkward and uneasy. But he hit the ball squarely several times.
“Those would be hits in any league,“ Mal said. “Way to go, Abner.“
Burns wasn’t interested in watching the others hit. They could all hit better than he could, with the possible exception of Walt Melling. Burns hadn’t seen him at bat and had no idea about his ability.
Thinking about what Mal had said about students and bad grades, Burns wondered again if an irate student could be behind the shootings, but he knew that couldn’t be it. Hart hadn’t taught at the college for years, and Burns still didn’t believe a student would try to get revenge for some old hurt that should have healed long ago.
Dorinda Edgely took Abner’s place in the box. She looked compact and confident, and she hit the first ball over Walt Melling’s head. It went all the way to the fence. She grinned, swished the bat over the plate a few times, and hit Tomlin’s next pitch in the same place. Burns had never hit two balls in a row that well in his entire life.
After a few more solid knocks, Dorinda jogged out to take Walt’s place.
“You go ahead,“ Burns said when Walt reached the plate. “I don’t mind waiting.“
“You sure?“
“I’m sure,“ Burns said, glancing around to see if Napier had left yet.
He hadn’t, so Burns picked up a bat and tried to pretend he knew what to do with it as Walt stepped into the box. He thought about all that he’d gone through that day, none of which would contribute anything toward making him a better hitter. And none of which would contribute anything to the solving of the case.
Or would it? Something was niggling at the back of Burns’s mind, and it seemed to him that there might be a clue that he’d missed, some crucial detail that he hadn’t mentioned even to Napier.
Walt Melling turned out to be a natural hitter. He had a smooth, deceptively easy swing and good bat speed. He knocked one pitch over the fence in left and one deep into center field.
“Things are looking up,“ Mal said. “I miss Don, but all he could do was work the pitcher for walks. You’re going to get some runs for us, Walt.“
At another time, Burns might have envied Melling’s prowess, but as his turn came to bat, he was too absorbed in his thoughts about the shootings to concentrate. He missed the first pitch by at least a foot. He missed the second one even more.
“You’re swinging like a rusty gate,“ Tomlin said. “Hit one like you did yesterday.“
Instead, Burns hit a vicious foul that sailed back and slapped into the fence right in front of the stands where Napier was sitting.
“You’ll have to do better than that,“ Tomlin said, but Burns still didn’t have his mind on hitting. Which might have explained why he knocked the next pitch over the right field fence, almost in the same spot where he’d hit one the day before. If he’d been thinking about it, he’d never have been able to do it.
“Way to go!“ Tomlin yelled, obviously surprised. “We’re going to make a hitter out of you yet.“
Burns hardly realized what he’d done at first, but when it finally dawned on him, he looked around for Napier. All he saw was the police chief’s car as it pulled out of the lot. Napier had left too soon to see the home run. That was fine with Burns. It was only practice, and it didn’t count anyway. But at least this time no one was going to tag him out.
After the practice, Mal told everyone when to meet the next day for the game.
“Some of you might be going to Hart’s funeral,“ he said, “but that’s in the morning. There’s nothing disrespectful about carrying on with the game at five o’clock. Matthew would want it that way.“
Burns didn’t think that Mal had a clue as to what Hart would have wanted, but a little thing like that never bothered Mal.
“You should all be here by four for a little batting and fielding practice,“ Mal said. “We want the students to know we’re just as full of energy as they are.“
Burns didn’t feel full of energy. He felt tired and worn out. He started toward his Camry, his mind still occupied with all the things that had crowded into it over the course of the last three days. As a person who liked to make lists, he thought he should sit down and make one. Maybe it would clear up some of the things that were worrying him.
Mal caught up with him in the parking lot and asked if he was all right.
“You look like you’ve been run over by a bus,“ Mal said.
Burns assured him that he was fine. “Just a tired. How about you?“
“A little worried,“ Mal said. “I don’t like the idea of everybody being out here in the open tomorrow. What if the sniper strikes again?“
“The sniper strikes again,“ Burns said. “Sounds like an episode of The Shadow.“
Mal frowned. “This isn’t a joke, like some old radio program.“
“The Shadow’s no joke. We could all learn something from Lamont Cranston. Besides, you said there was going to be plenty of police protection tomorrow, so we don’t have a thing to worry about.“
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway, just keep hitting the ball like you have been, and you’ll be the star of the game.“
“I don’t want to be the star. I just do
n’t want to disgrace myself.“
“You’re worried about what Elaine will think, huh?“
Burns started to deny it and then figured that he might as well not bother. Mal would never believe him.
“Don’t worry,“ Mal said. “You’ll be fine.“
“That’s easy for you to say,“ Burns told him.
They laughed at that, and Mal went to his car. Burns got in his Camry and dug a pen and a piece of paper out of the console. He never liked to be far from writing materials. He sat in the fading light and started making his list.
When he was finished, he read it over. Twice. Then he opened the console and got out his cell phone. As a general rule, Burns wasn’t fond of cell phones. He saw, and heard, other people using them all the time, in drive-through lines at the bank or the Whopper Burger, in the halls of the college buildings, on the streets, on the college grounds, in the post office. Everywhere.
Burns wondered what all those people had to say that was so important that it couldn’t wait. Maybe that was because he never had anything that important to say.
However, in spite of his antipathy to the constant cellular chatter, Burns did own a cell phone. Most of the time he kept it in the console of his car. He liked the idea of having it there in case of some dire emergency. Or in case he wanted to call someone about dropping by for a visit, which is what he did now.
Dean Partridge answered on the first ring and said it would be all right for Burns to stop by her house on his way home.
He asked if Billy was on the loose. He didn’t want to risk another encounter with her goat. The first one had been more than enough.
“I’ll be sure he doesn’t pose a threat to you,“ Dr. Partridge, and Burns thought she was suppressing a laugh.
Let her laugh, he thought. To her the goat was an animal companion and a method of lawn maintenance. To him it was a public menace.
“I’ll be there in about an hour,“ Burns said, hoping that would give her time to tie the goat securely. “I have a couple of stops to make first.“
“Is this important?“ Partridge asked.
“I think so,“ he told her. “I’ll know more by the time I get there.“
Burns went by the college first. Main was locked because it was after five o’clock, and there were no classes on Friday night. Burns had to use his key to get in.
He stopped at the soft drink machine at the foot of the stairs to buy a Pepsi One. There was a hand-printed note taped to the plastic front of the machine. It said:
DO NOT!!
PUT CANS IN TRASH!!!
PUT IN RECYCLE BARRELL!!!
MAID ROSE
Rose was the housekeeper in charge of Main, and she was offended by the slovenly habits of most of the people who inhabited it. Lately she had taken special offense at people who casually tossed their empty soft-drink cans into the trash rather than into one of the convenient recycle barrels that were located in the building. She never said anything to anyone directly. Her method was to leave notes for everyone to see. She was weak on spelling, but strong on exclamation marks.
Burns told himself that he would be careful about where he deposited his drink can and went on up the stairs that creaked under his weight. It wasn’t that he was heavy. It was just that the building was old, and even when it was deserted, it creaked and groaned like a very old man getting out of bed in the morning.
Burns let himself into his office, and as he opened the door, he heard a lizard scuttle through the ivy outside one of the windows. Overhead in the attic, a pigeon cooed. There had once been a campaign to eliminate the pigeons, but it hadn’t worked out. Burns just hoped his ceiling didn’t collapse from the accumulated weight of the pigeon droppings above him, or, if it did, that he wouldn’t be there when it happened.
He turned on the computer and drank some of his Pepsi while he waited for it to get itself ready for him. When the programs were all loaded, he went back into the student files that he had looked at previously. This time he was searching for information on a particular person. Having practiced with the system only the evening before, he found what he was looking for fairly quickly. He jotted the information down on a piece of paper and stuck it in his pocket. Then he drank some more Pepsi and thought about things.
There was a Pecan City phone book on the shelf by his desk, and he took it down to look up Matthew Hart’s number. When he found it, he punched it on the phone and got Mrs. Hart. After he explained who he was, he asked if he could come by to offer his sympathies.
“Were you a friend of Matthew’s?“ she asked.
“I teach at the college,“ Burns said, which was the truth if it wasn’t an answer to the question.
It satisfied Mrs. Hart, however, and she told him that he would be welcome.
He locked his office and went downstairs to his car, making sure to put the Pepsi can in a recycle barrel on the way.
Burns might cross Dean Partridge.
He might even cross the president.
But he knew better than to cross Rose.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Harts’ house, while not a mansion, was very nice indeed, much newer than Burns’s own home. The landscaping looked as if it might have been done by a professional, and the lawn was neatly trimmed. Burns was sure the place was well-insured.
He parked at the curb and glanced across the street at the vacant lots. There were trees there, and some brush. A sniper could easily have concealed himself and gotten away without being seen. Burns didn’t think anyone was there now, however.
Mrs. Hart came to the door in answer to Burns’s ring. He was painfully conscious that he wasn’t dressed for a condolence call. In his shorts and T-shirt, he looked as if he’d just finished mowing a lawn, but Mrs. Hart didn’t seem to notice.
She was a small woman with a lined face and gray hair, and she wore a black dress that looked new. Burns thought she must have bought it for the funeral. He introduced himself, and she invited him in and led him to a small living room, where she sat rigidly in a wooden rocker and he sat on a couch with cushions that offered very little support.
“Did you teach with Matthew?“ she asked.
“I came to the college after he retired,“ Burns said. “But I heard a lot about him from the other instructors.“
He didn’t mention that most of what he’d heard was bad. There was no need to go into that.
“He was well thought of by everyone,“ Mrs. Hart said, as if she were oblivious to her husband’s reputation. “I know they all hated for him to retire.“
Burns didn’t disillusion her. He let her reminisce about her husband’s teaching career for awhile, and then led the subject around to the one he was interested in.
“You have to wonder why anyone would want to hurt him,“ Burns said. “And to leave that silly toy soldier lying by him.“
Mrs. Hart frowned. “How did you know about the soldier? The police asked me not to mention that to anyone.“
“I think Mary Mason told me. Aren’t you the one who told her?“
Mrs. Hart sat with her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t rock in the chair. She hardly moved.
“I must have been. A lot of people don’t like Mary, but she’s always been very nice to me.“
No wonder, Burns thought uncharitably. She fooled around with your husband, so she covered that playing up to you.
“She was one of the first to come by after Matthew . . . died,“ Mrs. Hart continued. “We’ve known her for years. I buy all my Merry Mary products from her, and she called as soon as she heard the news. I was distraught at the time, as you can imagine.“
Burns nodded to show that he could.
“When she came by I was vulnerable,“ Mrs. Hart said, “I may have blurted out some things I shouldn’t have. I don’t often let my guard down, but Mary was very comforting.“
Burns thought that Mason was many things to many people. Capable of anything.
“I have things under control now,“ Mrs. Hart said
, and Burns wondered if she really did. The rigid posture, the tightly held emotions, the dry tone of her voice seemed to him to be indicative of repression rather than control. But maybe that was the same thing. He wasn’t sure. After all, he taught English, not psychology.
“You must have had a lot of visitors,“ Burns said.
“Oh, yes. Everyone loved Matthew. Quite a few of his colleagues have been by to see me, and I appreciate it.“
She smiled a very small smile to let Burns know that he, too, was appreciated.
Burns asked if any of the college’s board members had been by to see her.
“Of course. They realize what a valuable contribution Matthew made to the college, and they wanted to let me know that.“
“The Balls must have come by,“ Burns said. “Neal Bruce. Robert Yowell. Steven Stilwell.“
“The Balls were very thoughtful. They brought a nice casserole.“
Burns wondered where they’d bought it, but he didn’t say so. He was sure Karen Ball hadn’t actually cooked it herself.
“Neal was our banker for years,“ Mrs. Hart said. “He doesn’t do much now, of course, but he came by. The others didn’t, but they might not have known Matthew well.“
“He’ll always be remembered at the college,“ Burns said, and after a few more minutes of superficial talk, he managed to leave more or less gracefully. He felt sorry for Mrs. Hart, and there was nothing he could do to make her loss any less painful. But maybe he could help catch her husband’s killer.
Burns’s next stop was Dean Partridge’s house. When Burns arrived, Billy was nowhere in sight. That didn’t mean anything, however, as Burns well knew that the goat was quite depraved and capable of waiting in concealment for anyone who was so foolish as to let his guard down.
Burns looked around warily before he got out of the car to be sure that Billy wasn’t lurking behind a bush or hiding behind the corner of the house. There was no sign of him, and no movement, so Burns figured the coast was clear. He got out of the car and went up to the front door.
