“So call the zoo and organize another eagle,” I said. “And in the meantime, cover up the eagle sign and let people enjoy the vulture. Unless for some reason you’re just in the mood for yelling at people about every little mistake,” I added, frowning at Grandfather.
“Or explaining another dozen times why the mistake wasn’t your fault,” Axel put in, although it was unclear from the direction in which he was looking whether he was aiming this barb at Grandfather or Manoj. “You mind helping with this?” he asked me, holding out one end of an oversized sheet of paper. “You’re tall enough. Of course, so’s your grandfather, but I guess he’s too important to hang up signs.”
Grandfather harrumphed. Which, in his present mood, was actually a pretty positive sign. Maybe he was starting to like this Axel kid. I knew I was.
Grandfather and Manoj watched as Axel and I spread out the paper and taped it along the top of the booth.
“Vulture Culture,” Grandfather read. His voice sounded faintly disapproving.
“You do remember that I asked if you had a better suggestion, right?” Axel said. “Manoj, how about if you stay here and explain the vulture to people. I’ll go back and see if I can liberate an eagle.”
Without waiting for an answer, Axel strode off.
“Escoffier and I will endeavor to be a credit to the zoo until his replacement arrives,” Manoj said. I could tell that he was trying to stand up straight and proud—all the zoo personnel knew that Grandfather approved of people who stood up for themselves when he challenged them. But his shoulders were hunched so tensely that his posture bore an unfortunate resemblance to Escoffier’s.
“Sounds excellent,” I said. “Grandfather, let’s go watch the ceremony.” I took Grandfather’s arm and steered him toward the bandstand, partly to get him out of Manoj’s hair, and also in the hope that if I had him in tow some kindly soul would offer us some of the limited available seats. Though I’d settle for getting him one.
“I suppose you think I was too hard on them,” Grandfather said. “Well … I will go back later and praise Manoj’s work with Escoffier. He’s a good lad. A little more seasoning and he’ll make a fine head keeper for the aviary.”
“And Axel shows management potential if you ask me,” I said. “Good problem-solving skills.”
“He’s not a zoology student,” Grandfather said. “He’s only working at the zoo part time. I think he’s studying business.” From his tone, you’d think Axel was pursuing the academic study of cannibalism, necrophilia, or identity theft.
“Even better,” I said. “Who do you want running the practical side of things? Someone who knows the proper diet to feed the naked mole rats or someone who knows how to manage your finances so you don’t bounce the check that pays for your Purina Naked Mole Rat Chow.”
“We don’t feed them commercial food,” Grandfather said. “They eat tubers and roots. And—”
“Kidding,” I said.
“Point taken.”
We found some family members near the front who had saved us seats. Randall, Mr. Witherington, Biff, and a couple of other local dignitaries were seated in folding chairs at the right side of the bandstand, and Fred Singer, the owner, editor, and pretty much entire staff of the Caerphilly Clarion, had set up a big photo backdrop on the left and was occupying himself during the wait by taking crowd shots. The red, white, and blue FOUNDER’S DAY banner still hung over the stage, and someone had added a SUMMERBALL! banner beneath it. A contingent of New Life Baptist Choir members in their maroon satin robes were hovering near the left side of the stage. In various parts of the crowd you could see small patches of color where some of the teams were sitting—the red and blue of the Red Sox, the black and gold of the Pirates, Wombats in blue and gray, Sandgnats in green and white, Grasshoppers in orange and green. I took out my phone and snapped a few shots of the multicolored sea of people.
“Oh, great,” someone murmured behind me. I recognized one of the Eagle parents. “Brace yourself for an hour of hot air when he gets started.”
I assumed he meant Biff, since Mr. Witherington was an unknown quantity and Randall had earned a reputation for making speeches that were entertaining, pithy, and above all short.
But when it came time for the ceremony to start, Mr. Witherington stepped forward to the microphone. He thanked the community for joining the Summerball family, offered a few platitudes on sportsmanship, and ventured a rather dry joke at which we all laughed with enthusiasm once we realized it was supposed to be funny.
“At this time I’d like to bring up someone who needs no introduction to those of you who live here,” Mr. Witherington said.
Biff bounded out of his seat and over to the microphone.
“Mr. Biff Brown.” In a surprisingly deft maneuver, Mr. Witherington managed to place himself between Biff and the microphone, while appearing to be merely placing a consoling arm around Biff’s shoulder. “I’m sure all our thoughts are with Mr. Brown in his time of sorrow,” he went on. “And I know better than to tax him further at such a stressful time. Ladies and gentlemen, may we have a moment of silence for the late Mr. Shep Henson, who served his community so well as an official in our national pastime.”
He bowed his head, so of course Biff had to follow suit. Some of us in the audience did, but I think most were sneakily watching to see what happened when the moment of silence was over.
Biff moved slightly, as if about to make a break for the microphone, but before he could do so, Mr. Witherington abuptly grabbed both of Biff’s hands with his and shook the resulting ball of hands up and down a few times before throwing his arm around Biff’s shoulders again and steering him gently but firmly back to his seat. While that was going on, Randall stepped up to the microphone.
“All you ballplayers get ready,” Randall said. “When Mr. Witherington calls your names, I want you to file up onto the stage here, and then you’ll all stay here while Fred from the Clarion takes your pictures for the paper. Let’s start with the t-ball players. Oh, and for those of you who might be tempted to sneak out after your team comes up on stage, keep in mind that a contingent from the New Life Baptist Choir will be singing a melody of patriotic songs at the conclusion of the ceremony, and with any luck by the time they’re finished we’ll have a revised weekend baseball schedule for you.”
It did take a while for all the teams to traipse across the stage and have their pictures taken—especially since Randall allowed time for all the parents and grandparents to take plenty of photos of their ballplayers. But even without the promise of the concert, I think our innate small town sense of fair play would have kept most people in their seats.
That and the chance to gawk at someone who might be either Shep’s murderer or the murderer’s intended victim.
We all behaved ourselves and stayed quiet while the names were called, but during the photo sessions a pleasant hum of conversations arose as the Caerphillians exchanged theories.
Biff had killed Shep because Shep was having an affair with Biff’s wife.
Shep had tried to kill Biff because Biff was having an affair with Shep’s wife, and Biff had killed Shep in self-defense.
Some other enraged cuckolded husband had killed Shep, with or without mistaking him for Biff.
Shep’s enraged ex-wife had killed him in a drunken rage.
An enraged ex-customer had killed Shep, either mistaking him for Biff or for his own sake.
Or an enraged ex- or current employee.
An enraged unpaid vendor.
An enraged baseball parent.
There was even a theory that Shep had been killed in retaliation for Brown Construction’s many and varied outrages against the environment. False claims to be using green building materials. Dumping waste materials in local woods and streams. Cutting down a tree in which a pair of eagles had built a nest.
When the last set of rumors crept down our row, I stole a glance at Grandfather. If anyone in Caerphilly was apt to take offense at Brown Constr
uction’s environmental sins it was Grandfather. In fact, I could see him frown and I knew he was taking note. Odds were he’d investigate the rumors, and if he judged them to be true, he’d take action. Organize a protest rally, or a boycott of Brown Construction. Denounce them in the local paper. Even march up to Biff with a camera crew and provoke a confrontation he could use on Crimes Against Nature, his ongoing series of documentaries exposing people who willfully caused damage to the environment. He hadn’t done one on the construction industry yet. Maybe he was thinking it was time. And he could easily have mistaken Biff for Shep—I’d done it, and my eyesight was a lot better than his.
But shoot someone in the head, stuff him in a porta-potty, and then slink off? Not Grandfather’s style. And while he was in good shape for a man in his nineties, I wasn’t sure he was capable of lifting Shep and stuffing him into the porta-potty. And he certainly wouldn’t have been down at the ball field doing so between 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M., when Dad estimated the murder had taken place. He’d have been fast asleep in one of our guest rooms, snoring loud enough to be heard down in the kitchen. I was pretty sure I recalled hearing him.
The one interesting thing about all these rumors was that with the exception of the few about possible jealous husbands and ex-wives, all of them seemed to find Biff a much more likely target for murder than his half brother. I studied Biff as he sat, squirming impatiently while Mr. Witherington read out the names of the players with Randall prompting in an undertone before anything hard to pronounce. Biff didn’t look very happy. Of course, he rarely did. But still. Was his the face of a man grieving the loss of a brother? Or merely one annoyed at having to give up the spotlight? The face of a man worried that he was the real target of a killer? Or the killer himself?
He didn’t look worried. Maybe a little grumpy. And someone should explain to him that when you’re sitting on a stage in front of several hundred people, it’s downright rude to keep checking your cell phone every five minutes.
I’d been going back and forth on whether to tackle him after the ceremony. Open up a discussion on the town square contract, and maybe on the ball field maintenance contract. I’d been leaning toward giving him a pass until tomorrow or even until the four-day weekend was over. But after watching him in action, I decided he wasn’t that grief-stricken. I’d tackle him.
I glanced around to see how other people were reacting and spotted someone.
The woman who’d almost certainly told Biff about the Eagles’ so-called unauthorized practice. Ms. Nondescript, as I’d begun to think of her.
Chapter 11
I studied Ms. Nondescript as discreetly as I could. She was talking with someone—another woman who seemed to be paying more attention to the stage than their conversation. The final team was lining up for its photo op—the Yankees, including Biff as head coach, and a stocky, smaller version of Biff scowling from his place on one end of the back row of kids. The second woman was probably a Yankee mother. Yes, once the team was in place, she pulled out her phone and began taking photos. Ms. Nondescript appeared to be waiting to resume the conversation. But when the picture taking was over, the Yankee mom smiled, patted Ms. Nondescript on the arm, and hurried toward the steps leading to the stage.
I’d been studying the Yankee parents myself, trying to pick out the one who’d had the fight with Biff. Pruitts were easy to identify, since like the Shiffleys they nearly all shared a strong family resemblance. But while the Shiffleys tended to be tall, lanky, and lantern-jawed, Pruitts were almost always short, stout, and possessed of necks so short that their heads appeared attached directly to their bodies. By my count there were at least three Pruitt fathers snapping photos at the foot of the stage.
Ah, well. No doubt Cephus could finger the guilty one for the chief. And if he should happen to be guilty of more than just picking a fight with Biff …
While the Yankees were shuffling offstage, Randall grabbed the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Chief Burke tells us that his officers are still working over at the ball field, and some forensic technicians from the State Bureau of Investigation are coming up this afternoon to help out. So our tournament will recommence at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Wish I had better news, but I hope you’ll all enjoy this fine performance by the New Life Baptist Choir.”
The stage filled with maroon as Minerva Burke and some of her choir began taking their places for the concert. Much as I would have liked to stay and listen, I realized I’d feel antsy if I didn’t get a few things done.
“See you back at the ranch,” I whispered to Grandfather.
My original plan was to collar Biff before he left the bandstand. But by the time I pushed my way through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of him disappearing in the direction of the nearest parking lot, dragging the junior version of himself behind him.
I pulled out my cell phone and called him. Got his voice mail, of course.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s Meg Langslow. I just thought as long as there’s no baseball this afternoon, maybe this would be a good time to talk briefly about the town square renovation contract.”
I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to answer. Never mind. I’d catch up with him sooner or later.
I glanced around and saw Ms. Nondescript pushing her way through the crowd. I trailed along behind her. I was sure Biff was planning to take advantage of the postponement to get in some more practices with his two teams. If, as I suspected, she had a kid on one of those teams, she might lead me to him.
Although when we hit the sidewalk along the north side of the town square, it occurred to me that she might be heading for the parking lot behind the courthouse. And if she got into her car and drove to this theoretical practice, I’d have no way of following her, since my car was back at home and Michael and the boys were out in the Twinmobile.
But she didn’t turn into the parking lot. She kept walking north, with a brisk, determined air, although her legs were so much shorter than mine that I had no difficulty keeping her in sight without appearing to be in a hurry.
And I cheered silently when she turned into the walkway of Ideen Shiffley’s bed and breakfast. Definitely a lucky break.
“Ideen takes such an interest in her guests,” Mother was fond of saying. Which was a polite way of saying that Ideen was nosy to a point that seemed excessive even to Mother, with her keen appreciation of the advantages of a small town’s grapevine. And Ideen’s bed and breakfast rarely got much repeat business, in spite of Caerphilly’s legendary shortage of hotel rooms, because she tended to suspect most of her guests of being potential ax murderers or terrorists and kept them under close and completely unsubtle surveillance.
If Ms. Nondescript was from out of town, I was probably wrong in my assumption that she was the mother of a kid on one of Biff’s teams. Of course, that raised the question of why she’d been at the field and the town square—but with any luck, Ideen would know.
Luck was definitely on my side today. Ideen was out in her front yard, weeding.
“Morning,” I said. “Your flower beds look lovely.”
They really did—her azaleas were blooming, and she had beds of daffodils, tulips, and a host of other flowers whose names I didn’t remember, though you wouldn’t catch me admitting it to Mother. Of course, Ideen’s flower beds always looked lovely, mainly because weeding them gave her a perfect excuse for keeping an eye on everything that happened on her block.
“Yes,” she said, with a complacent smile. “They are starting to shape up, if I say so myself. Big doings at the town square.”
“Yes.” I definitely didn’t want to get trapped into giving her a recap of the whole ceremony. “I expect your guest’s told you all about it.”
“Not a whole lot.” Ideen shook her head. “I’m sure she will when she feels up to it. Migraine. I’m a martyr to them myself, so I know better than to badger her at a time like this.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, trying to include Ideen as w
ell as Ms. Nondescript in my sympathetic look. “And so terrible to have one when she’s traveling—because no matter how comfortable your surroundings, it’s always better to be home when you feel unwell.”
Actually, I couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable place to be unwell in than Ideen’s bed and breakfast. It was a vintage bungalow from the 1920s, complete with striped awnings over all the windows and painted aluminum furniture on the porch. It still looked much as it had when Ideen’s grandmother had turned it into a tourist home during the Depression; I suspected the mattresses and plumbing hadn’t been updated since. But Ideen preened at the implied compliment.
“Does she need any medical help?” I went on. “Because I could talk Dad into stopping by if she does.”
“Thank you,” Ideen said. “I’ll suggest it. Because if you ask me, Edna—that’s her name, Mrs. Edna Johnson—doesn’t know much about taking care of herself. Didn’t bring any medicine—I don’t go across town without my headache pills, and here she came all the way up from Richmond and left them behind. And I’d have offered her mine, but—well, I know better than to tell a doctor’s daughter about the dangers of taking someone else’s prescription medicine.”
“Richmond?” I echoed. “That’s only what—an hour and a half away. Odd that she’d be staying overnight so close to home.”
“She’s job-hunting,” Ideen said. “Had an interview yesterday afternoon at the college, and driving in traffic sets off her head, so she decided to stay here for a few days and see if she could arrange a few more interviews. Apparently she forgot about so many places being closed for Founder’s Day Weekend.”
“Not something you’d expect a Richmonder to know,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but she used to live here,” Ideen said. “She worked for the Pruitt’s bank up until they fired her a couple of years ago, and she couldn’t find any work closer than Richmond. But she loved it here and is hoping to move back.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure her guest hadn’t crept up to eavesdrop on us. “I don’t think that first interview went well. She took to her bed when she got home yesterday afternoon at five or six—didn’t even want a bowl of soup or a cup of tea—and suffered for hours. I checked on her a couple times an hour, and it was nearly two a.m. before she finally said that yes, she was starting to feel better, and thought a cup of weak herbal tea might help her fall off to sleep.”
Die Like an Eagle Page 10
