Left Field

by Elizabeth Sims

  “From what I understand, you’ve got some tough work ahead of you.”

  He eyebrow-quirked a question at me.

  I added, “Well, you know Shirlene Cord was as crooked as the day is long.”

  He snapped his head away, his silver-streaked hair whipping against his ears, and it was clear I’d said the wrong thing. “Doctor? Oh, my gosh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I mean—I didn’t mean I thought you were involved…or knew anything about her various…scams.”

  He flung open the door, jumped down from the Happy Van, and stood on the grass, his body lithe and ready, as if I’d invited him to play Frisbee or something exceptionally fun. His face was open, eyes bright, and his hands were relaxed at his sides. A red-and-gold checkered shirt fit snug around his shoulders, and a wide leather belt wrapped his blue jeans close to his hips, an outfit that made him look young and strong. Viv wasn’t in the van. Smiling, he looked me full in the face. “What do you know about it?” His blue eyes, suddenly unnervingly intense, insisted on some information.

  “Well—do you really want to know? I have some solid stuff. I think with the proper investigation and prosecution, maybe the city could even recover some assets. To tell you everything will take more time than I have before warm-up. I’ve got all sorts of evidence—printouts, photos. I can—”

  “Look, Shirlene and I used to be friends—that is, before I confronted her about DeMedHo. We were close, Lillian. So when—”

  “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick up like a boy’s. “It’s just that I’m damned furious. I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t have all the evidence yet. I feel betrayed by what’s coming to the surface.”

  “You mean you feel betrayed by Shirlene?” A mourning dove, perched on a light pole nearby, called, rrrooo, rroo, rroooo.

  “Yes.” A bit more in control of himself now, he relaxed. “I thought we had the same goals, she and I. But we didn’t. I’m determined to get to the bottom of everything—everything, no matter where it points.”

  “Who do you think shot her?”

  He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed the lenses on his sleeve. “I think it was very likely a mistake.”

  “As in somebody shot up the wrong red BMW?”

  “Yes. This city’s full of half-assed killers. Either that or it had to do with her gambling or whatever else she was doing with all that money. Now listen, Lillian. I’d really like you to share what you know with me. You could help me.” He put his glasses back on and peered at me over them, like he used to do when questioning me about my rashes and fevers when I was a youngster. He stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder in encouragement. Its warm weight was reassuring, and I felt the same level of comfortable trust I used to.

  I reached across my body and placed my hand over his. “I’ll tell you all about it. Let’s make a time to get together and talk, like tomorrow or—”

  I was interrupted by an unmistakable vocal foghorn, which, judging by its rising tone, was headed straight for us. “Lillian! Hey, Lillian!” The doctor and I turned to see Lou jogging toward us like a linebacker with breasts. “I couldn’t find you!” She pounded to a stop, hands on her hips. “Now I know this is the right place. I’ve never been to this park before. Kinda crummy, isn’t it? When’s the game gonna start?”

  “Dr. Briggs, let me introduce my friend Lou, who’s come here to root the Grinders to victory in the postseason. Lou, Dr. Briggs.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said. Then she sort of froze, her chin hovering from side to side. Looking at him, she said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “Oh!” said Lou, nudging me. “He’s the guy—when we—” She stopped flustered. She shook her head violently, like a dog that’s bitten into a pickle. “No, I guess we haven’t met. Lillian, I gotta go keep my seat in the bleachers!” She trundled off, her work boots thudding on the dry, bare ground next to the parking lot.

  Dr. Briggs said, “You run along too. Don’t neglect your stretches! We’ll get together soon about all this. Meanwhile, it would be best if you didn’t discuss what you know with anyone else.”

  “Oh, of course,” I assured him, discounting the fact that both Lou and Jackie were basically in my loop on all of this, not to mention Blair and Donna, a little bit. I jogged off, relieved that Dr. Briggs, who could fix sickness in people, was now poised to fix a terminal illness in a city agency. Now that would make a catchy headline for Ricky at the Motor City Journal.

  Before I could start my warmup, Lou sidled over to me and whispered urgently, “That guy, that Dr. Briggs, he’s the guy who tried to come into DeMedHo when we were there!”

  “Oh. Well, I guess he had some business to do.”

  “Yeah, but…!” Lou seemed awfully bothered. “Yeah, but, he seemed…you know, shook up!”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Lou stared off toward the Happy Van. “I don’t know.”

  Players were arriving, but I still had time to do my warm-up. I was limbering up my back and legs behind our bench when Christy Briggs pulled her Chevy Malibu into a spot near me and got out. I went over to give her a hand with the heavy water vat that rode in the passenger seat. “Hi, Christy.”

  “Hi, Lillian.” This surprised me; I realized she’d never called me by name before. As we set the water drum on the end of the Grinders’ bench, she said in a low voice, “Could I please talk to you, please?”

  I looked at her. “Uh, sure.” I moved a little off to the side, away from the bench and backstop. She drifted with me, not making eye contact. We eddied out, as it were, near a scruffy bush. Isn’t it funny how we still act like our cave-dwelling ancestors did, wanting a bit of cover—if only a token—when talking over something important?

  “What is it?” I said in a kind tone, as it always seemed such an effort for Christy to talk directly to you. Her face was thin and faintly freckled. In contrast to her red Grinders T-shirt, her arms looked super white. She glanced at me then away. In a weak but rapid voice, she said, “I have something and I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “What is it?”

  “A notebook. It’s a three-ring binder with pages in it. It belonged to Abby Rawson.”

  A notebook. Information from Abby. “Did she give it to you?”

  Christy glanced at me from beneath her eyebrows. Bits of her copper-brown hair, unruly in the summer mugginess, stuck out sideways from her hat. She shifted her eyes away, then toward me again, and I understood her way of making eye contact: intermittently, on and off, like a flickering beer sign. “No. She told me where to get it.”

  The realization hit me immediately. “Where was that?”

  “Her trailer, the one in the storage yard in Warren. She told me: ‘If anything happens to me, go look in the pantry there.’”

  Of course, and holy crap. It hadn’t occurred to me that Abby could have, would have given the same instructions to more than one person.

  “And you went there immediately when you heard the news. How did you get in?”

  “I had a key from when I helped her drive it down from Alpena. Alpena is where she bought it, from a man and a woman who lived north of town.”

  “You and Abby were pretty close friends, then.”

  “No. She knew I didn’t talk much.”

  I casually scanned the ballfield, noting Jackie throwing warm-up pitches to Carmen, Mercedes checking her clipboard at the bench, players from both teams stretching and playing catch in the outfield, and in the distance Dr. Briggs leaning against the Happy Van’s front fender, arms folded, watching cheerfully. Any minute Mercedes would call us to the bench.

  I turned back to Christy. “What’s in the notebook, and am I the first person you’ve told about it?”

  “Numbers and statements from DeMedHo, documenting charges from care providers. In the case of the Hap
py Van, the numbers are different from the accounts I’ve kept for my father. Yes.”

  “You haven’t shown him the notebook? Does he know you have it?”

  “No. No.”

  “And why are you talking to me?”

  She sighed and scuffed the dirt with her black leather sneaker. “Because you found out who killed Abby. I know the police thought my dad maybe did it. You found out the truth. I can…I think I can—” She broke off.

  “Trust me?”

  She glanced into my face and nodded. Suddenly I felt the terror of being entrusted, with the concomitant terror of failing. Christy said, “People thought my dad killed her, and he didn’t. People might think he’s a cheater in his work, but he’s not. I don’t know why the numbers say what they do in that notebook. You’re on our side. I think the city auditors are working at DeMedHo now, but they won’t learn the truth because that lady was a liar.”

  I wondered if they’d found Shirlene Cord’s .40 caliber companion in her desk drawer yet. “Were you reluctant to do anything about the notebook because you were afraid of compromising your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Well,” I said hurriedly, seeing Mercedes and the opposing coach talking and looking at their watches, “you can give me the notebook. Maybe I can make sense of it.” I paused, then said, “Didn’t you think Abby wanted that notebook to be made public?”

  “She told me to look in the pantry of the trailer. She didn’t tell me what to do with anything I found there.”

  And there you go. When giving instructions to someone like Christy, you have to be specific.

  “Grinders to the bench!” Mercedes shouted. I turned to get going.

  Christy said, “Can you help my dad?”

  “You mean getting at the truth about fraud at DeMedHo? Yes. Look, here’s the thing, Christy. Numbers can be manipulated, you know that. And sometimes numbers can tell different stories. Whatever comes to light about the Happy Van—well, first of all we know your father and mother are honest. I think the irregularities are solely on DeMedHo’s side, see? I already know Shirlene Cord falsified payroll information to enrich herself and no one else, and your dad already knows I know that. In fact, I think she’d have thrown anybody under the bus—including your dad—to protect herself.”

  Christy glanced at me in distress.

  Quickly, I said, “Throwing somebody under the bus, that’s a figure of speech. I meant she’d have incriminated anybody to save herself from discovery and prosecution. It’s like saying ‘Let’s get those rats!’ or—”

  “Rats? Who’s got rats?” asked Lou, who had wandered over. She extracted one of her cards from her back pocket and handed it to Christy. “There’s my cell number. You need help with rats or any other varmints, just gimme a call, OK?”

  “This is my special friend, Lou,” I said to Christy. “She knows how to handle many problems.”

  Giving no sign of comprehension, Christy pocketed the card. Lou went back and climbed up to her seat in the bleachers. Christy turned to me and said, “The notebook’s in my car. I’ll give it to you after the game.”

  “I’ll be happy to help your family get through all this,” I said. “I want DeMedHo straightened out. I want DeMedHo to do the most good it can do in this city. That’s what Abby wanted, that’s the whole thing she was trying to do. And between me and your dad and the auditors, I think it’ll happen.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  A few minutes later the game got under way. Lou waved enthusiastically to me when I took my position in left field, and she led the other Grinders fans, which were like eight friends and family, in cheering for us. The bleachers on the Rocket Café Robins’ side were populated by a similar, sparse number of hatted and sunglassed fans.

  “Go, Grinders!” Lou bellowed from her seat at the top of the small stand of bleachers, pumping her fist and thundering her duty boots on the metal boards. “Go get ’em! Lookin’ good out there!” The other fans mostly fiddled with their phones, looking up and clapping occasionally when they heard the smack of bat on ball or when Lou’s cheering erupted over a strike hurled by Jackie.

  I struck out my first time at bat. During the third inning, while the Grinders had the field, I glanced toward the bleachers and saw a well-defined figure shading her eyes in a familiar gesture. Right then a Robin smacked the ball to center field, where chubby Helen, garbed in her usual professional-quality pants and shoes, fielded it with alacrity, preventing the runner on second from advancing.

  “Good play!” shouted Flora Pomeroy, who was sitting on the top row, hip to hip with Lou. Then I think she shouted, “Now come in tighter.”

  25

  An alarm bell went off in my subconscious, and after a moment I realized why: holy hell! Lou disguised as “the countess” had solved Flora and Domenica’s evil-spirit problem by diagnosing the raccoons in their attic, which led to the roofer’s ladder being placed in such a way as to traverse Domenica’s window, which led to Abby Rawson climbing the ladder and getting clubbed to death by the paranoid, half-demented Domenica. From my distant viewpoint I saw Flora smile at Lou, enjoying the game.

  After the Dudettes were out, I ran over to her on my way to the bench. “Flora! What are you doing here?”

  She was smiling beneath her pair of ’60s-style Gucci sunglasses—big white jobs. It was great to see her smile. “Watching the game.” Her knees, encased in the same stiff denim jeans she’d had on the last time I’d seen her, bounced up and down, powered excitedly by her white cloth sneakers. Cream-colored crew socks hugged her ankles. Lou sat benignly, watching the teams switch positions.

  All I could say was, “Well—it’s great to see you!” I looked from Flora to Lou and back again.

  Seeing my expression, Flora laughed. “Oh, that séance was fun, wasn’t it?”

  Lou leaned over. “I guess we didn’t fool this lady for long.”

  “You’re on deck, aren’t you?” Flora asked. “Go swing that doughnut.”

  “Right. Seems like you’re itching to get on that field yourself!” I joked. I turned to trot away.

  “Lillian,” Flora said suddenly.

  I turned back.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  Christ, now what? I almost said aloud. I waited, hands open.

  “Keep your left shoulder up while you swing, don’t let it dip.”

  Mercedes heard that and glanced over curiously.

  I followed Flora’s advice but fouled off everything until I popped one up high enough for the catcher to heave to her feet, walk under it, and let it plop into her mitt. However, it seemed I did come a little closer to making solid contact.

  By the fifth inning, the Grinders had managed to gain a 5–2 lead. The Robins’ first basewoman, an apple-shaped blonde with a long stretch, stepped into the batter’s box. The Robin bench heated up with chatter and cheering: “Lisa, go! Show ’em we mean business! One good swing, Lisa!”

  Excitement surged on both benches. Although the Grinders won it all last year, you never can take athletic dominance for granted. Mercedes chomped pumpkin seeds to stave off the tension, and I don’t think she bothered to spit out the hulls. She kept a pocketful of seeds at all times during games, along with a roll of peppermint TUMS.

  “Don’t let up, Grinders,” she called. “On your toes!” We all bobbed up and down to show we’d heard her. You just gotta watch the ball the whole time.

  Lisa took a couple of strikes called by a tiny umpire named Komo, whose voice was naturally soprano but who tried to lower it authoritatively. She came off sounding like a pissed-off teakettle. She was a fair ump, though.

  Ahead on the count, Jackie decided to try to lure Lisa into reaching for one. She threw a spinning ball high, but it stayed up a little too much, and Lisa had plenty of time to judge it. She swung with all her might; the ball contacted the bat on the sweet spot—panng!—and took off on a ha
rd, rising line to right. Pat, from first base, leaped for it but managed only to deflect it upward. Nancy already was racing in from right, but the ball’s sudden deceleration as a result of the deflection caused it to fall to earth just beyond Nancy’s glove.

  Once she lost it, Pat lunged back to cover her bag, but Lisa was already thundering through it when Nancy got control of the ball.

  “Good effort, Pat ’n’ Nancy!” shouted Mercedes. “Hang tough, Grinders!”

  “Yeah, hang tough!” echoed Lou. “You guys could eat them guys for breakfast!” You had to love Lou.

  With surprising volume, Flora yelled, “Eat ’em up and spit ’em out! Get rowdy, now, Grinders!”

  Lou gave her an enthusiastic nudge. “Yeah!”

  Jackie squared up her shoulders and rubbed the ball in her hands, glove under her arm. She didn’t turn around to look at any of us in the field.

  Next up for the Robins was their lead-off hitter and catcher, meaty of thigh and burly of biceps, who attacked Jackie’s first pitch with ferocious concentration. She connected, and before the ball even showed which direction it was headed, she dropped her bat and churned up the dirt on her way to first. The Robins shrieked like herring gulls. The ball took off on a line straight at me. I backpedaled as the ball rose, then turned and ran for the fence, stretching with my glove in desperate hope.

  The ball cleared the fence by fifteen feet, which was the hottest I’d ever seen a ball hit by a woman, and the two Robins scampered home to more shrieks from their teammates. Grinders five, Robins four now.

  Mercedes went out to talk to Jackie. “Bring it into them a little lower,” she said (I read her lips), which basically meant that Jackie should throw her arcs a little shorter, so the ball would cross the plate with the least possible room to spare. That way it’s harder to get your bat under the ball and easier to hit down on it. Grounders are a lot easier to field than line drives.

  The next batter came to the plate smelling blood, nobody out. Jackie threw a couple in the dirt, then served up a floating pumpkin that got smashed for a base hit to center.