A Hopeless Game

by Daniel Carson

  “Nothing about that sentence makes me feel very good.”

  “Oh, just man up, Kramer. Okay, so the tradition is we gather at Buck’s—around that big central table over there—and together with Zeke and Flo and Bess, and whoever else happens to be there that day, we start brainstorming suspects.”

  “Oh my god.” Alex closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me that Granny and Zeke and Flo and Bess have been the ones solving our town’s murders.”

  “Not solving. Just helping. Like I said, it’s a tradition. So I thought you and I could give it a try.”

  “That’s quite an honor. But wouldn’t that be cheating on Granny and the gang?”

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  Alex shot me a wicked grin. “Nice to know your official position on cheating.”

  I grabbed the ketchup bottle and laid it on its side. “This stands for our dead body.”

  “Classy,” said Alex.

  “I know, right?”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “And then we use whatever else we can find on the table to represent our murder suspects.”

  “I still don’t think this was a murder.”

  “But you do agree some things don’t add up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Stop being a stick in the mud and just play the game. If our ketchup is Coach Randall Mossback, who would have a motive to kill him?”

  “I’m gonna have to say Colonel Mustard… in the Library.”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’ll give you points for that one. But for real.”

  He held up three fingers. “Fine. The top three motives for murder: love, money, revenge. Let’s start with love—and with who we always suspect first.”

  “The spouse,” I said.

  “That’s right,” said Alex. “It’s obvious that the Mossbacks didn’t have a very good marriage. Who kicks their wife out of the house every weekend just so he can concentrate?”

  “It is weird,” I agreed. “But then again, she sounded okay with the whole arrangement.”

  “Well of course she’s going to say that. She just murdered the guy,” said Alex.

  “I thought you still think this is a suicide.”

  He shrugged. “I do. I’m just trying to get into your game.”

  “You’re right. Mrs. Mossback is the obvious suspect. She’s the spouse, and it was a weird marriage. Maybe he was having an affair.”

  “Or maybe she just hated his guts,” said Alex. “Either way, before he can win the game that will put him in the history books, she kills him. So much for his legacy.”

  “Ooh, evil. And how did she manage to do it?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  I moved the salt into position. “This is Susan Mossback.”

  Alex gave me a questioning look.

  “Admit it,” I said. “Susan Mossback’s a little salty. See how this game works? Now, anybody else fall under your love motive?”

  “If he was having an affair, then whoever his mistress was.” He smiled. “I could ask my girlfriends if they have any ideas.”

  “You do that, big guy.”

  Buck hustled over and slid two Hangover Specials in front of us, along with a container of hot maple syrup. “Enjoy!”

  I grabbed a sausage while Alex bit into his pancakes. He closed his eyes and smiled, then took another sip of coffee.

  “Okay,” he said. “Second motive: money. Thoughts?”

  “How about Coach Duncan?” I said. “He was in line to become the head coach, then Coach Mossback swoops in. Took that job right out of his hands. With Mossback gone, he’s the natural choice to take over.”

  “I agree. What are we gonna use for Coach Duncan?”

  “This one’s easy,” I said. I grabbed one of my three pancakes and threw it on the table. “Duncan’s round and has a belly. So he’s the big fat pancake.”

  “Isn’t that a bit mean?”

  “I’ll have you know I was the first big fat pancake. No one, and I mean no one, should be beneath the big fat pancake.”

  “Okay, then isn’t it a bit wasteful?”

  “What?” I said. “I’m still gonna eat it when we’re done.”

  “Like I said, classy.” Alex examined our breakfast crime scene. “So it’s between the salt and the pancake.”

  “The big fat pancake,” I corrected him.

  “Which brings us to our third motive: revenge.”

  “I think lots of people could have killed Coach Mossback for revenge. Like all the coaches he’s ever beaten. Think about all the guys who could have won a state championship if it weren’t for Coach Mossback.”

  Alex pointed his fork at me. “You’re right. I heard the other day that the coach for Mound City has a history with Coach Mossback. Hawes. Mason Hawes.”

  “What kind of history?”

  “Apparently Hawes and Mossback coached against each other back in the day when Mossback was at Pleasant View. Hawes had some powerful teams, but lost to Mossback in the playoffs three years in a row.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Then Hawes and Mossback moved on to new schools—Hawes building up the program at Mound City while Mossback was building a monster at Crete City. And then, just when Mossback leaves and Hawes can finally get his moment in the sun, Mossback does the improbable: he takes the lowly Hopeless Tigers to the finals, where who are they about to face? Mound City. To Mason Hawes, I bet it feels like Mossback is torturing him.”

  “Hmm. Good one. Mason Hawes: by day a football coach, by night a cold-blooded killer. What should we use for Hawes?”

  Alex pointed a fork at himself. “I get to choose?”

  “You may not have earned my respect today, but you have earned the right to choose a condiment.”

  “How about mustard?”

  “You can’t just say ‘How about mustard.’ You have to give a reason. And don’t say Colonel Mustard again.”

  Alex smiled. “Because it’s yellow, and if Hawes killed Coach Mossback, it’s because he was scared to face him in the state finals. He was yellow.”

  “That is quite a stretch, Sheriff.” I smiled. “But it’s exactly the kind of stretch we reward here at Buck’s House of Pancakes and Murder Investigations. So, Mrs. Susan Mossback, Coach Arnie Duncan, and Coach Mason Hawes.”

  “Love. Money. Revenge,” said Alex.

  “Salt. Pancake. Mustard,” I added. “Any other suspects you can think of?”

  “Just one.”

  “Who?”

  “What if I were to tell you I know somebody who inexplicably keeps stumbling upon dead bodies?”

  I leaned forward. “I would say she must be gorgeous and can shoot a lot better than the local sheriff.”

  “And I would not say that.” He paused. “Uh, I mean—I wouldn’t say the second part.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He blushed. “Or the first part!”

  I raised my eyebrows higher.

  “Or I mean, yes, I would—I might say—” He stopped himself. “You know what? On the advice of counsel, I’m invoking my Fifth Amendment right to keep my mouth shut.”

  I took a bite of pancake. “Smooth, Sheriff. Real smooth.”

  “But seriously, Hope, I do have one other suspect in mind. Coach Mossback. No matter what you think this condiment suspect lineup is saying, to me the evidence is pretty clear. This tragic and horrible situation is a suicide, and unless we find something new and substantial… we need to move on.”

  After breakfast, Alex went back to the sheriff’s office, and I returned to the Library. As I approached, I saw a cherry-red pickup parked in front of the Watering Can, with a fire department decal on the side. Chief Albrecht stood on the sidewalk, talking with a man in suit pants and a light blue shirt. And a short distance away, Granny was talking to Mr. Tanaka.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Granny.

  Mr. Tanaka answered. “The insurance adjuster ca
me to look at my building today.”

  “And that idiot Captain Albrecht decided to mosey on down here and butt in,” Granny added.

  “Can he do that?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Granny. “But now that you’re here, why don’t you do something?”

  “Me? What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know. Throw your weight around a little?”

  “I live in an apartment over a bar, Granny. What kind of weight do I have to throw around?”

  Granny waved her hands in the air because I was annoying her. “Just stay behind me and follow my lead, okay?”

  I followed Granny over to the fire captain and the insurance adjuster. The two men looked up. “Do you ladies need something?” Captain Albrecht said.

  “This is my granddaughter, Hope Walker,” said Granny.

  “We’ve met,” said the chief.

  “Then you probably know she’s an investigative journalist. I want you to keep her in the loop.”

  “Keep her in the loop?” said the chief. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Chief Albrecht. If you’re going to be talking to the insurance adjuster, then I want you to share this information with my granddaughter.”

  The two men exchanged a look. Then Chief Albrecht shook his head. “I’ll do no such thing. Now please leave us alone.”

  Uh-oh.

  Granny stepped right up to Chief Albrecht and stuck her finger in his chest. “I don’t think you understand, Chief. Mr. Tanaka is my friend. Right now you are messing with my friend. And when you mess with my friend, you mess with me. You will tell my granddaughter what’s going on. Or else.”

  The chief sneered. “Or else what?”

  “You’re a major dipstick, aren’t you? My Hope has solved four murders in the last couple of months. Four. And she’s able to do that because she’s spent the last decade of her life as a professional investigative reporter. If you want answers, she’s the best hope you’ve got. On the other hand, if you think Henry Tanaka started this fire, then you might be the biggest idiot I have ever met, which makes me wonder… what other stupid things have you been doing as a fire captain? Hmmm. If only I knew someone who is skilled and dogged enough to take a nice long, deep look at you. Like… a professional investigative reporter.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “If you played poker with me, Chief, then you would know I never, ever bluff.”

  Chief Albrecht looked at Granny. Then at me. Then back at Granny. Finally, he appeared to make a decision. “Fine. But only her. And she’d better stay out of my way.”

  He and the insurance adjuster entered the building, and I went with them. Granny, with a wicked grin, followed, gesturing for Mr. Tanaka to join us. She had never been good at following orders.

  The chief beckoned me over and pointed to a window. “See the glass? Classic mottling. And see the scorch patterns leading up to the window? Do you know what those are signs of? No, you wouldn’t, because you don’t investigate fires. These are both signs of a fast fire. A fast fire is a fire that is caused by an accelerant. An accelerant is what arsonists use to start fires. Ergo, this fire was arson.”

  Chief Albrecht was right about one thing: I didn’t know the first thing about fires. But when I looked back at Granny, it was clear from the expression on her face that she expected me to do something.

  “What was the accelerant used?” I asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “Well, how did the fire start?”

  “We don’t know that either.”

  “You don’t know how the fire started, and you don’t know what accelerant was used. But you know that it was arson.”

  “That’s right,” said Chief Albrecht.

  “Okay. And have you drawn any other conclusions?”

  Chief Albrecht shrugged. “Like I said, my official conclusion is that Henry Tanaka started the fire.”

  “And what leads you to conclude that?”

  Chief Albrecht and the insurance man exchanged a nervous look.

  “That’s part of an ongoing inquiry,” said the adjuster.

  I paused. “So… that’s it? You present no evidence that Mr. Tanaka had anything to do with burning down the business he’s poured his life into, but you’re going to hide behind ‘ongoing inquiry’ so you don’t have to pay his claim?”

  The adjuster said nothing.

  “I’ve been more than generous with my time,” said Chief Albrecht. “When we have further information to release, Mr. Tanaka will be the first one we inform. Not you.”

  The two men walked out of the building.

  Granny punched me in the arm. “You were supposed to scare the guy! Get him to surrender. You barely made him sweat!”

  “I’m a reporter, Granny, not a mob enforcer.”

  “I thought you’d at least make him squirm. Hell, you accused our mayor of double murder at a funeral! The least you could have done was accuse the guy of something. If I’d’ve known you were going to lay such an egg, I would have brought my baseball bat.”

  “Because assaulting a fire chief would have definitely made the situation better.”

  Granny had her disappointed face on. “Well, granddaughter, compared to what you just did, it wouldn’t have been much worse.”

  We walked outside. Granny stormed into the Library, while Mr. Tanaka walked sadly to his rusted-out pickup truck. I was left alone on the sidewalk.

  Granny’s comments were unfair, and they hurt. I didn’t know anything about fires and insurance claims. What did she expect me to do? Besides, I didn’t have time for this. A man was dead, and I was apparently the only person in town who was willing to find his killer. I had a job to do. And it was time to do it.

  Chapter 13

  I found Coach Arnie Duncan inside the football offices buried in a pile of papers, with a football game playing in the background. When I walked in, he grabbed a remote and paused the game.

  “How’s it going, Coach?”

  He pressed his fingers against his forehead and squeezed. “About as well as you can imagine.”

  “How was practice yesterday?”

  “Chaotic. After the memorial, the other coaches and I tried to put together a game plan for Mound City… but frankly…”

  “It’s not the Mossback Method.”

  He tossed a pen into the air and watched it land on his desk. “No. It is not. That was the worst Monday practice we’ve had since Randall first got here.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  He grabbed some papers full of handwritten plays. “Does any of this matter anymore? A man is dead, and here I am trying to figure out how to stop Mound City’s vaunted air raid offense.”

  “What would Coach Mossback have done?”

  “The Randall Mossback I thought I knew? The football robot? To him, nothing more important than the next rep. The next play. The next game. That Randall Mossback… he would go on. Unquestionably. Except the thing is… he didn’t. So now…” He shook his head yet again. “I don’t know what he would have done.”

  “That’s actually why I’m here,” I said. “It’s not for an article, I promise you. In fact Earl Denton has asked me to back off the article I was writing before. It’s just, I’m an investigator at heart, and I just want to understand… why.”

  “Why Randall took his own life,” Coach Duncan said.

  “Yeah.”

  Coach Duncan took off his ball cap and ran his hand through a thinning head of hair. Then he rested his fist against his face.

  “My Joan left me four years ago, and that was a low point to be sure. Then the football job came open, and I went for it. I thought I’d get it. I’d been here for over ten years at that point, and I thought I deserved a chance.” He paused. “The day I found out I didn’t get the job, I drove out of town to no place in particular. It just�
� it all caught up to me that day. My marriage. The job. I felt like the world’s biggest failure. And… just between you and me, and definitely off the record… I have to admit… yeah, I thought about it for a moment. I thought… ‘What if I move the steering wheel just a little? Just a tug?’ I’d go right into a pole on the side of the highway. And then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to feel like a failure anymore.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He straightened up. “Nothing happened. It was just a moment. Then I remembered that I wanted to live. So I can understand the moment. The urge. But I have no idea what’s going through someone’s mind who actually goes through with it. No idea at all.”

  I hesitated about giving out this next piece of information, but I was curious to get Coach Duncan’s reaction. “I didn’t tell you Sunday, but… Coach Mossback left a suicide note.”

  The man’s expression didn’t change. “And did he give a reason?”

  “I’m not sure. It just said, ‘I am a bad man.’”

  Coach Duncan squinted like he couldn’t see something clearly. “I am a bad man.”

  “Does it mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Probably not. I’m just looking for answers. I’m guessing if you did something really bad or were a horrible person, I suppose you might be so overcome with guilt that you might consider something drastic. Was Coach Mossback a bad person?”

  Coach Duncan shrugged. “He wasn’t a good person.”

  “That’s exactly what his wife said.”

  “Well, she would know.”

  “What do you mean when you say he wasn’t a good person?”

  “Listen, Coach Mossback himself wouldn’t have called himself a good person. That’s not how he thought of things. At least, that’s not how I thought he thought about things. He was the best football coach I’ve ever seen. For a variety of reasons. But more than anything, it was because of his focus. The man I knew didn’t think in terms of good or bad. It was all about football. That’s it.”

  “So you don’t know of anything bad he did? Something he regretted? Anything like that? Anything that might have come back to haunt him? Something that when he finally remembered, he was so racked with guilt he, you know…”