“Horace? Are you here at the ball field…? Good. Bring your crime scene kit. Meet me by the porta-potty.… Good question. Meg,” he asked, looking up from his phone. “Are there any other porta-potties here at the field?”
“With Biff in charge?” I asked.
“No, there’s only the one,” he said into the phone. “And if you see Dr. Langslow—”
“I’m here.”
The chief and I looked up to see that Dad was right behind us.
“Never mind,” the chief said to Horace. “Just hurry.”
The chief and I stepped aside to let Dad see the body. Dad repeated the quick touch to the wrist that both the chief and I had already performed, although somehow it seemed a lot more authoritative when he did it. A faint frown creased his forehead, followed by a look of concentration, and I could almost trace his thinking. The sadness of seeing a fellow human dead battled the fascination of a puzzle, and then both emotions gave way to a determination to see that justice was done.
Or maybe I was tracing my own emotions. Even if the dead person had been Biff—
“Gunshot wound,” Dad said. He pointed toward the dead man’s forehead. The chief leaned in to take a look and nodded. I couldn’t see from where I stood and was happy to take their word for it.
Which probably meant it was murder.
I stepped back, pulled out my cell phone again, and hit another of my speed-dial numbers.
“Meg, what’s up?” Randall Shiffley said when he answered. “Any idea why the game’s not starting as scheduled?”
“We found a dead body in the porta-potty,” I said. “Notice I said the, as in the only one out here. And it just became a crime scene, which means we have several hundred people out here drinking coffee and sodas and—”
“I’ll have a couple brought over ASAP. Anything else I can do?”
“Maybe you could come over and check with the chief. I think we’re going to have to postpone the first game, unless Horace decides that the crime scene is limited to the porta-potty, which seems unlikely, and—”
“Wait—crime scene? It’s a murder?”
“Gunshot wound,” I said. “So murder, suicide, or seriously weird accident.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“Probably Biff Brown’s brother Shep,” I said. “Biff’s on his way to ID him.”
“Well, that explains why the game hasn’t started,” Randall said.
“With Biff not there to coach his team.”
“Well, that too, but Shep was scheduled to be the umpire.”
“Wait—my sons’ team was going to play Biff’s team, and Biff’s brother was going to be the umpire? Outrageous! In what universe is that fair?”
“Welcome to the Biff zone. And Shep’s only his half brother, so it’s only half outrageous. I’ll go order the porta-potties and head right over.”
I hung up, still fuming, and turned back to see what was going on around the porta-potty. Cousin Horace, Caerphilly’s official crime scene technician, had arrived. He might not look very professional, wearing his Eagles t-shirt, Eagles hat, and faded blue jeans, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was one of the few people for whom today was going to turn out utterly satisfying. Not just baseball, but a crime scene followed—we hoped—by baseball! He and Dad were a matched set sometimes.
At the moment, Horace was standing in the doorway of the porta-potty, talking over his shoulder to the chief, who was making notes.
“What’s going on here?”
Biff had arrived.
The chief turned around. I saw him start to hold out his hand to shake Biff’s and then stifle the impulse.
“Mr. Brown?” he said. “I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you. It appears that your brother is dead.”
“Heart attack, right?” Biff shook his head. “The doctor kept warning him those bacon cheeseburgers would get him in the end.”
“I’m afraid it looks like homicide,” the chief said.
“Homicide?” Biff’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
The chief gestured to the porta-potty. Horace stood aside, and to my relief both he and Dad had solemn, concerned looks on their faces. Biff stepped closer and peered in.
“That’s him,” he said. “Son of a … yeah, that’s him. Shep Henson. My brother. Half brother, technically. Damn.”
“When did you last see Mr. Henson?” The chief had flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and was scribbling.
“Yesterday afternoon, or maybe you’d call it early evening,” Biff said. “He works for me at the construction company. I got there at about six thirty—no, make that closer to seven—and shortly after I arrived he told me he was taking off. I stayed on and worked for a couple of hours in my office, and then—well, I’m sure you heard about the break-in at my supply yard.”
“I’ve read the reports from deputies Shiffley and Butler,” the chief said. “I thought it was a false alarm.”
“Depends on your definition of false alarm,” Biff said. “There was definitely someone stumbling around out there. I heard them, and when I went to investigate, I found Shep had left the side gate unlocked. At least I assume it was Shep; locking up’s his job most days. I didn’t know if it was thieves or just kids playing a prank, so I called nine-one-one. Couple of your officers helped me check the whole supply yard. We didn’t find anything missing, but it’s a big yard, and there’s a lot of random stuff out there. I called Shep a couple times to get him to come back and help out, but he never answered. You don’t suppose he was already…”
Biff’s voice trailed off, and he frowned down at his dead brother as if angry with him. But maybe he was just one of those men who hid real feeling under a pretense of irritation.
“Damn,” he said. “He was supposed to umpire today. How am I supposed to find someone else on such short notice?”
The chief and I glanced at each other. His face seemed to show the same surprise I felt. Then, with a visible effort, he assumed his usual calm, professional expression.
“I’m sure there will be plenty of time to arrange something,” he said. “Right now, this whole field could be the crime scene, and we may need to send all these people away for a few hours. We’ll have to delay the first game—possibly cancel today’s games, depending on how our investigation goes.”
Biff looked up, frowning more deeply, as if about to protest. Then he seemed to deflate like a balloon.
“All right,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, let’s go over there where we can have some privacy.” The chief was pointing at the stretch of empty field between the porta-potty and the woods. “I’d like to get some more information about your brother.”
“You want to know who his enemies are,” Biff said. “Look around you! All those entitled parents, demanding luxury accommodations and preferential treatment for their miserable untalented kids.”
To me that sounded more like a list of Biff’s enemies. Apparently Biff realized this.
“Every call he made, someone would argue with,” he added. “It could get pretty vicious.”
“I’d be happy to hear your thoughts on anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Henson,” the chief said. From the look on his face, I could tell he planned to take Biff’s thoughts with more than a few grains of salt. I noticed Randall Shiffley had arrived, and was observing Biff with the expression of deadpan impartiality he normally wore when trying not to laugh at unusually outrageous citizen complaints. “This way.”
“But I have a league to run,” Biff protested.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance.” It was the bigwig. I hadn’t spotted him standing there beside Randall. Up close he looked even scrawnier, and his eyes behind the thick lenses were squinting against the sun and watering. “James Witherington. I’m a vice president with Summerball National. It’s part of my job to troubleshoot problems for our local affiliates. I’m sure assisting Mr. Brown in his time of sor
row comes under my job description. You go on and help the local authorities with their investigation,” he said, turning to Biff. “I’ll make sure everything’s done strictly according to Summerball policy.”
“I’m not sure I’m allowed to offload my Opening Day responsibilities to anyone else,” Biff said.
“Of course you can,” Mr. Witherington said.
“Rule 13.4.1,” I said, perhaps a little more loudly than I had intended. Given all the hours I’d spent fighting insomnia with the Summerball rule book, bits had begun to stick in my mind, and the rule in question struck me as something that might prove useful to know. Mr. Witherington turned his head and studied me for a few moments with a gaze of mingled surprise and approval.
“Precisely,” Mr. Witherington said. He turned back to Biff and the chief. “Essentially, an official of the national league can fill in temporarily if a local official is incapacitated for any reason. I think bereavement is an appropriate reason for incapacitation. Mr. Brown, allow me to extend official condolences from Summerball National, along with our assurance that we will do everything we can to keep things running smoothly.”
Mr. Witherington extended his hand toward Biff, who appeared not to see it. He was staring at the porta-potty.
“And all of us appreciate your thoughtfulness at this difficult time,” Randall said. “May I introduce my executive assistant, Meg Langslow?”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said as I shook the hand Biff was ignoring. Witherington’s handshake was firmer than I’d have expected.
Randall introduced the chief and Horace. Biff, meanwhile, had recovered himself enough that he was glaring with visible annoyance at all this polite handshaking.
“Why don’t the two of us go and make the announcement together?” Randall said to Mr. Witherington. “Show the people that the town and the league are cooperating harmoniously on this. And we can relocate our opening ceremonies to the town square. Get the crowd out of the way of the investigation.”
“Good thinking,” Mr. Witherington said. “I don’t suppose there’s another ball field to which we can relocate today’s games?”
“Well,” Randall began, and looked to me for help.
“There’s the elementary school field,” Biff said.
“But it’s in pretty bad condition,” I said. “Worse than here,” I added, seeing Mr. Witherington glance back at the field behind us with a small but definite frown. Biff glowered at my statement, but I ignored him. “And besides, it’s nowhere near the Summerball regulation size even for the youngest kids—the base paths are only forty-five feet, the distance to the outfield fence is only about a hundred and eighty feet, and there’s no pitcher’s mound to speak of.”
“Not suitable, then,” Mr. Witherington said. “Well, let’s hope your local law enforcement will be able to let us have the field back in time to get in this weekend’s games. I wish you success in your sad endeavors, Chief Burke. We will do our part by clearing the field for you.”
He and Randall strode off. At least Mr. Witherington was striding—Randall didn’t have to work too hard to keep up with him. Though it did look as if Randall was making a little more progress at charming the Summerball rep. Not surprising; when he set his mind to it, Randall could be quite the charmer. I saw Biff watching their departure with much less satisfaction than I felt.
“Mr. Brown? If you please?”
Biff followed the chief into the open field beyond the porta-potty.
I glanced over at the bleachers. Should I go and fill in Michael and Chuck?
Aida Butler, one of my good friends, and also one of the chief’s deputies, strode up.
“Taking charge of the crime scene?” I asked.
“Yup,” she said. “Randall and that mousy little guy from the league are about to address the crowd. Not sure what they’re going to say.”
“That we’ve had a murder, and we’re relocating the Opening Day ceremony to the town square,” I said.
“Good idea,” Aida said. “But of course we both know as soon as they announce that, at least half a dozen people will wander over here to rubberneck.”
“Or to use the porta-potty before they go.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me just text Randall to remind him to announce that it’s out of order.”
“So how bad is this one, anyway?” Aida asked, when my thumbs had finished tapping out the message to Randall.
“A lot worse than it needs to be,” I said.
“Come again?”
“A porta-potty’s never going to be anything but a porta-potty,” I said. “But at least if you clean them regularly and use enough disinfectant, they’re merely sort of yucky rather than downright gross. But evidently Biff doesn’t share that philosophy.”
“Um … yeah.” Aida looked as if she was smothering a giggle. “Actually, since a couple of my nephews have played on this field, I know how bad the porta-potty is. I meant how bad was the crime scene—since I know you’ve seen a few in your time.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Except for the location, not too bad. Then again, if there was badness, I may not have seen it. Dad said it was a gunshot wound and pointed to the guy’s forehead, but he was facedown when I found him, so I didn’t see anything.”
“That’s odd,” she said. “Not a lot of blood?”
I thought about it for a few moments.
“I don’t remember seeing any blood at all,” I said finally.
“Even odder.” She glanced over at the porta-potty, where both Horace and Dad were crouched in the doorway, discussing something in an undertone. For some reason, the sight of them squatting there in front of the porta-potty with such serious looks on their faces struck me as … well, not quite funny so much as utterly in character. I held up my phone and snapped a couple of shots of them. Mother would probably balk at having a picture with a porta-potty in the family album, but Dad would love a picture of him and Horace on a case.
“Hey, Horace,” Aida called out. “Was he actually killed in that thing?”
“No,” Dad said.
“Unlikely,” Horace said, almost at the same time.
Aida nodded as if she’d expected as much.
“Not good,” she said, turning back to me. “That could mean this is the crime scene.” She spread her arms wide and looked around at the busy ball field.
So much for my hopes of a crime scene followed by baseball. If the field was the crime scene, we’d be lucky to get it back before the weekend was over.
Randall and Mr. Witherington made their announcement that the opening ceremonies would be held in the town square at noon, and the great exodus began. The river of black-and-red–clad spectators from the Eagles’ bleachers surged toward the parking lot, where it mingled with the smaller stream of brown-clad Stoats fans. I made sure the boys had all their gear, helped Michael and Chuck gather all the team equipment, and saw them all loaded into the Twinmobile.
“I’m going to stay here a little longer,” I said. “I’m sure I can catch a ride back to town.”
“Or just call and we’ll come back out to pick you up,” Michael said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “As long as you’re staying, could you give the dugout one last check for stray items?”
After waving good-bye to them, I hiked back to the dugout, where a quick search produced an insulated bottle, half a pack of gum, and a single batting glove. I stowed it all in my tote and turned to see the chief standing by home plate, staring out at the field. I leaned against the fence that separated the dugout from the field, wrapped my fingers through the chain link, and watched for a few minutes. The chief pulled out a pair of binoculars and trained them on the outfield, where Horace and Sammy Wendell, another deputy, appeared to be inspecting the ground inch by inch. As we watched, Sammy picked something up and held it up to show Horace. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but Sammy pulled a brown paper evidence bag out of his pocket and stowed the item, whatever it was.
“A vital clue?” I said.
>
“Probably another Gatorade bottle cap,” the chief said, lowering the binoculars. “I hate crime scenes like this, where several hundred people were tramping around for several hours before we even knew it was a crime scene. Odds are we won’t find anything relevant, but we have to try.”
“Since Randall’s Pied-Pipering the baseball crowd over to the town square, I thought I’d stick around a bit,” I said. “See if there’s anything useful I can do for you wearing my executive assistant hat.”
“Is the parking lot mostly empty?” he asked.
“Do you want it to be?” I asked. “I can go tell anyone who’s still hanging around to clear out.”
“Not just yet,” the chief said with a smile. “We’re trying to figure out how Mr. Henson got here. He lives over in Clay County. According to Sheriff Whicker, his truck’s not in his driveway, but it’s not here, either. Could be he drove some other vehicle, but I figured there was no use checking till everyone was over at the town square.”
He headed for the dugout, putting his binoculars in their leather case as he walked. I joined him when he left the field and we headed for the parking lot. Only eight vehicles were parked there, and four of them were police cruisers.
“My car, your dad’s car, Vern’s truck, and Biff’s truck,” he said, pointing to the four civilian vehicles as he named them.
“Biff’s still here?” I said.
“Apparently.” He didn’t look thrilled at the notion. He strode off. I was about to follow, when I was distracted by a shout from somewhere near the first-base dugout.
“What the hell are those doing here?”
Chapter 7
I turned to see who was bellowing. Biff, of course—and he was pointing at something behind me. I turned to look.
“Porta-potties!” I exclaimed. “Sweet!”
A truck had arrived bearing not one but three porta-potties. And they were the extra-large-sized ones, which meant not only were they handicapped-accessible, they were also a lot less unpleasant to use for women, who more than men tended to be weighed down with purses, totes, diaper bags, and other baggage that made negotiating a coffin-sized standard porta-potty challenging. Best of all, instead of muddy brown they were painted bright blue with a Shiffley Construction Company logo on them. In a decade of attending outdoor events in Caerphilly, I’d come to appreciate the superior maintenance that Randall’s company gave to their porta-potties. Biff’s porta-potties started out nastier than Randall’s porta-potties ever got.
Die Like an Eagle Page 6
