Die Like an Eagle

by Donna Andrews

  I turned the idea over in my mind. I liked it. But maybe I should run it by Michael to see what he thought.

  “Back by game time,” I said to Caroline. I stood up and looked around for Michael, spotted him over in the parking lot, and headed that way. I wasn’t making much progress, thanks to the vast number of friends and relatives who kept accosting me, but then I wasn’t in any particular hurry. In fact, I was feeling relaxed and downright cheerful.

  Until I heard a distant cry of “Mommy!”

  Distant, but all too clear to me. I glanced over my shoulder to see that Jamie was still sitting on the bleachers beside Grandfather, completely focused on baseball. But his brother—

  “Where’s Josh?” I snapped.

  I held up my hand for quiet and the two cousins I’d been talking to stopped in mid-sentence. I stood on tiptoes and whirled about, scanning everywhere until I spotted it.

  Biff Brown was holding Josh by his shoulders, almost lifting him off the ground, yelling at him and shaking him.

  I think I knocked down one of the cousins on my way there.

  “You no good, miserable little thief!” Biff was yelling. “I’ll show you what happens to—”

  “Mommy! Mommy!” Josh was wailing.

  “Get your hands off my son,” I shouted as I drew near.

  Biff ignored me.

  “Lying, thieving juvenile delinquents,” he was screeching.

  “I said get your hands off my son.” I grabbed his elbow, and instead of paying any attention to me, he jabbed back. I wasn’t sure whether he was merely trying to dislodge my hand or if he was actually trying to whack me with the point of his elbow. Josh had stopped uttering coherent sounds and was simply wailing in terror and possibly even pain and Biff showed no signs of letting go—

  I punched Biff in the nose.

  Chapter 21

  Biff keeled over. As he fell, I managed to retrieve Josh, who latched onto me like a small, snot-smeared limpet.

  “Mommy’s here,” I said, wrapping him tightly in my left arm. I kept my right free, in case Biff showed signs of retaliating. He had landed hard on his rear, and stared up at me in astonishment for a few seconds. Then his face flushed with blood and he began gathering himself as if to get up.

  “Stay down,” I said. “If you come one inch closer to us, I’ll really hurt you.”

  Biff scowled, and seemed to be trying to struggle to his feet.

  I drew back my right foot and was ready to kick him in the crotch. He turned pale, clutched himself protectively, and stayed down.

  By now, some of the other parents nearby recovered enough from their astonishment to take action and hurried over to help. Vince Wong, Evan Thornton, and Luis Espinoza hovered behind me as if ready to intervene if Biff tried to retaliate.

  “Are you okay?” Vince asked me.

  “Did he hurt the kid?” Luis asked.

  “The lady told you to stay down,” Evan was telling Biff. “I think you should follow orders.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Chief Burke.

  “She attacked me,” Biff bellowed.

  “He was abusing my son,” I said. “I intervened.”

  “She punched me in the nose!”

  “Mommy, he hurted me,” Josh wailed.

  “Hurt, not hurted,” I said. “Show me where it hurts.”

  Josh held up one arm and pointed to several angry red marks on his forearm. They looked like finger impressions.

  “I had to stop him,” Biff said. “The kid stole two packs of gum from the Snack Shack.”

  He pointed to the ground, where you could just barely make out the end of a pack of gum that had been ground into the mud during our struggles.

  “The hell he did,” came a voice from behind me.

  We looked up to see Anisha, the younger Mrs. Patel.

  “I saw him walk up to the Snack Shack and take two packs,” Biff said.

  “The boy came up and paid for a hamburger, a Coke, and two packages of gum—one for himself and one for his brother.” Anisha’s low, musical voice sounded perfectly calm, but the hint of a British accent had grown stronger. “He couldn’t carry it all, so he asked if he could take the hamburger and the soda to his grandfather and come back for the gum. I told him it was fine. And that’s what he was doing what you came up and manhandled him—collecting two packs of gum that were already bought and paid for.”

  “That’s true,” said another mother. “I was there, too.”

  “Well, I thought he was stealing,” Biff said. “How was I supposed to know?”

  “You could have asked,” Anisha said.

  “She still punched me in the nose.” Biff turned to the chief. “I want to press charges. Assault and battery.”

  “I’ll see your assault and battery and raise you child endangerment,” I said. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to shake a child—”

  “Child endangerment!” Biff bellowed. “If your little—”

  “Enough!” Chief Burke wasn’t all that loud, but somehow even Biff got the idea that shutting up was advisable. The chief studied Biff for a few moments, then lifted his eyes to examine the circle of people around us. He ended up with me. No, actually with Josh. His jaw clenched slightly. Then he looked over his shoulder, where Deputy Sammy Wendell was standing.

  “I am still rather busy with the murder investigation,” he said. “To say nothing of this morning’s attempted murder in the Snack Shack. So Deputy Wendell will be taking statements from Mr. Brown, Mrs. Langslow, and anyone who was a witness to their altercation.”

  “Oh, great, so all her buddies can lie for her,” Biff said.

  Many of the onlookers gasped or murmured at his words, then fell silent when the chief said nothing. He just stared at Biff who, after a few moments, began to squirm slightly.

  Then someone stepped forward out of the crowd. Mr. Witherington.

  “I beg your pardon, but since I’m a relative stranger to town—and to both of the participants in the altercation—I wanted to make sure Deputy Wendell knows how to reach me for my statement. James Witherington, Regional Vice President of Summerball. My cell number is on the card.”

  He handed a business card to Sammy.

  Restless murmurs from the crowd, who were, perhaps, aware that Witherington was here at Biff’s invitation, and might not realize how much progress Randall and I were making in winning him over from the dark side.

  “I was originally only supposed to be here for the Opening Day,” Witherington went on. “But given the unfortunate events that occurred yesterday, I’m staying on to resolve a few issues I’ve found in our local league.”

  A few murmurs at that.

  “Assuming I can find a hotel that actually provides at least a token amount of hot water,” Witherington continued. “Meanwhile, may I suggest that someone photograph the young gentleman’s bruises while they are still fresh? I would hate for there to be any uncertainty later about when and how he received them.”

  As he spoke he looked at Biff with an expression so fierce that I felt a sudden surge of optimism about the future of the Caerphilly Summerball league. And from the approving murmurs coming from the crowd, I wasn’t the only one.

  “Here.” Vince Wong handed Mr. Witherington a card. “I’m the assistant manager of the Caerphilly Inn. We would be happy to accommodate you for as long as you choose to stay.”

  “Thank you,” Mr Witherington began. “Is there—”

  “The league can’t afford the Caerphilly Inn!” Biff bellowed.

  “Please tell me you didn’t actually stick him in the Whispering Pines!” I exclaimed. Although the Pines was no longer technically a hot sheets motel, it still seemed to exude the noxious atmosphere of its unseemly past.

  “The Clay County Motor Lodge,” Biff said.

  “Oh, like that’s soooo much better,” muttered someone in the crowd.

  “We’re on a budget,” Biff growled.

  “The Inn will be happy t
o offer Summerball a competitive rate,” Vince said. “Would you like me to drive you over now to collect your luggage? Or if you’re very busy, I could send over a staff member to do it for you.”

  “Whatever’s easiest for you,” Mr. Witherington said. “Is there any chance the Inn has a large conference room I could rent for a general league meeting?”

  “Rent a room?” Biff exclaimed. “I never waste money on renting rooms—several of my board members have free spaces that they make available for my meetings.”

  “How very kind of them,” Mr. Witherington said. “But this is my meeting.”

  No one said anything for what seemed like a really long time as Witherington and Biff glared at each other. Then Vince spoke up.

  “I’m sure I can arrange for the hotel to provide a suitable room at no charge, as a gesture of goodwill to the community,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Witherington said. “We can discuss the financial arrangements later. The important thing is that we can have a large room. Now why don’t we all get back to the reason we’re all here? We have a ball game to play!” He glanced around the crowd with a tight little smile on his lips and then slowly walked off.

  The crowd began breaking up. Biff stormed off in the opposite direction from that Mr. Witherington had taken.

  “A meeting about what, do you suppose?” Vince asked.

  “Whatever it is, we need to pack it with sane people,” Evan said. “Because you know Biff’s crew will turn out.”

  “Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part,” I said. “But from my reading of the Summerball rule book, the main thing you do at a general membership meeting is elect officers.”

  “I thought election time was before the season started.”

  “It is,” I said. “But any time is impeachment time.”

  They all looked startled and maybe even a little anxious for a few moments. Then big grins began to spread over their faces.

  “But Biff won’t take it lying down,” I said. “We have to pack the house with NAFOBs.”

  “NAFOBs?” Evan echoed.

  “Not a Friend of Biff,” Vince explained. “We’re on it.”

  “Come on, Josh,” I said. “I bet you’re hungry by now.”

  “I’m too upset to eat,” he announced.

  “Not even ice cream?”

  He thought about that for a few moments.

  “I’m not really in the mood for ice cream.” His tone was an uncanny imitation of the languid tone in which his Uncle Rob often declared himself not in the mood for something—although I couldn’t ever remember Rob refusing ice cream. “But if it would make you feel better, I could probably eat some.”

  It did, indeed, make me feel much better to watch him eat his ice cream. Also two hot dogs, two chocolate milks, a handful of hot potato samosas from Mrs. Patel, some organic raspberries from Rose Noire, and a chocolate milk shake that Rob brought back from town. And although Jamie had not undergone any particularly traumatic experiences during the day, he valiantly did his share of comfort eating.

  We stayed to watch the Flatworms and Wombats battle to a fourteen-fourteen tie before they had to cede the field to the Grasshoppers and Sandgnats. We stayed to watch that game, too. Michael and the boys—and for that matter, most of the rest of the Eagles and their fathers—were completely absorbed in the games.

  I spent most of my time organizing for the league meeting. Making sure every single Eagle family would be represented. Liaising with the team moms from the Flatworms, Wombats, Grasshoppers, Sandgnats, Muckdogs, River Rats, Pirates, Red Sox, and Nats, to make sure those teams also turned out in force.

  We didn’t worry about the Stoats and the Yankees. Biff would make sure they showed up.

  As soon as the last game was over, Michael and I sent the boys home with Rose Noire, since she was the only family member not fired up to attend the league meeting.

  “There will be so much negative energy there,” she said, with a shudder. “The boys and I will have a lovely, quiet evening at home.”

  “The boys would probably love watching the Nats game,” Michael said. “The grown-up Nats, that is, on TV.”

  “I’m not sure I could even figure out what channel it was on.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “The boys can.”

  With that Michael and I set out for the league meeting.

  Chapter 22

  Luckily we were early enough to get a parking spot fairly close to the Caerphilly Inn’s door. Latecomers would end up parking along the mile-long tree-shaded entrance road, unless they decided to spring for the Inn’s stunningly overpriced valet parking.

  In spite of the short notice, the Inn had posted a sign at the entrance saying, in elegant calligraphy, Welcome, Caerphilly Summerball League. And I found myself suspecting that this was not the first time the Caerphilly Inn had hosted a baseball-related event. Or if it was, they’d certainly risen to the occasion in their usual fashion. The hotel’s sound system was playing a lush if rather muted solo piano version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Park,” and the placards directing us to the room were decorated with drawings of bats, balls, and gloves. Along the back wall, the tables containing pitchers of water and rows of glasses were also festooned with pyramids of baseballs topped by little American flags, and the hotel staff attending the room wore their usual black-and-gold uniforms with plain black baseball caps.

  Michael and I snagged seats in the front row, and were enjoying watching the other attendees enter—some confidently, as if a conference room in a five-star hotel was an everyday sight for them, and others timidly, as if more than half convinced they’d be thrown out.

  And then there were the ones like Biff who seemed almost too confident, as if determined to carry through on bluster. He’d snagged a seat in the front row on the other side of the room, and seemed to be surrounded by a posse of friends and supporters, to judge by the way they were patting him on the shoulder or giving him a thumbs-up sign. Okay, a relatively small posse. And made even smaller by the fact that the Pruitts, who would normally have been a part of it, were sitting in their own scowling clump not far behind Michael and me—definitely apart from the Biff forces. Adolph was among them, and seemed to be having an intense discussion with one of his cousins. Thinking it might be a good idea to learn about any strategy they were pursuing, I turned slightly and pretended to be scanning the room while trying to eavesdrop. But after a few minutes, I realized that any strategy the Pruitts might pursue wouldn’t be coming from Adolph. He seemed to be giving his cousin a blow-by-blow account of his latest session of playing a particularly violent video game, punctuated frequently with a loud, braying laugh.

  I also spotted Ms. Nondescript—Edna, that was her name—seated toward the back of the room, very far from Biff’s contingent. She appeared to be clinging close to Ideen for protection, though I noticed she was paying close attention to the conversations around her. And since most of the people around her were Red Sox or Flatworm parents, she probably wasn’t hearing any complimentary remarks about Biff. Well, let her lurk and spy all she wanted. No one outside of Biff’s camp was plotting anything sneaky or underhanded, so she was welcome to repeat anything she heard.

  And speaking of Biff’s camp …

  “Lot of faces over there that I don’t recognize,” I murmured to Michael as the meeting’s start time drew near. “Are they college people, do you think?”

  “I don’t think we have that many college faces that I wouldn’t recognize.” He was frowning, and I could see he was looking at some of the same people I’d been studying. “This is going to sound paranoid, but could they be Clay County people?”

  “The logical question would be why a bunch of Clay County people would show up at a Caerphilly County Summerball meeting,” I said. “But I think you’re right. I recognize those two in the plaid shirts—they were two of the guys who delivered Biff’s replacement porta-potty this afternoon. And according to Aida, almost all of his employees live in Clay C
ounty.”

  “So it’s a fair assumption that Biff’s trying to pack the house,” Michael said. “It will be interesting to see how Mr. Witherington handles this. On the whole, he seems—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Witherington was standing at a podium in the front of the room. He tapped on the microphone a couple of times to make sure it was on. “Please take your seats.”

  It was standing room only by now, with some of the hotel staff setting up extra chairs in the back, while one, with a worried look on his face, was slowly walking down one side of the room, making counting gestures with his forefinger. Worried about the fire marshal, no doubt. I wondered if it would reassure him if I pointed out that the fire marshal, whose son was on the Red Sox, was seated in the second row, arms crossed, staring straight ahead as if determined not to see any potential occupancy violation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Witherington rapped on the podium for order, and the crowd quickly fell silent. “I’d like to call this meeting of the Caerphilly Summerball League to order. At the last league meeting, held”—he glanced down at a piece of paper on the podium, frowned slightly, and looked back out at us—“held on March eleven, it was announced that, due to illness, Mr. Lemuel Shiffley would be unable to continue in his position as league president, and Mr. Biff Brown was elected to fill the vacancy.”

  At that, the crowd erupted in loud murmurs, because apart from Biff’s crew none of us remembered attending or even being invited to the March eleven meeting—or for that matter, any other league meetings.

  “League meeting, my eye!” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “Biff and a couple of his lackeys, that’s all!”

  Scattered applause greeted these words. I craned my neck and spotted Callie Peebles near the back of the room, perched on one of the tables beside the water pitchers. I was pretty sure she didn’t have a kid in Caerphilly Summerball, but apparently word about the meeting had gone out over the grapevine in both counties.

  Samuel Yoder stood not far away, arms folded, looking more than ever like an Old Testament prophet in a wrathful mood. Moses, maybe, getting ready to call down another plague on the Egyptians.