Die Like an Eagle (7 page)

Okay, maybe not so great an idea to wander over and try to strike up a casual conversation. Sooner or later I'd have some concrete reason to talk to her—coordinating Snack Shack schedules or something. In the meantime, I'd keep it civil. So I smiled back as if she'd blown kisses instead of glaring, and hurried back to my team's bleachers as if I had some task to do there.

“Where's Biff, anyway?” one of the parents on the bleachers asked.

“I hear he's wining and dining some bigwig from Summerball National,” another said.

“No, that's the bigwig out there on the field with Randall,” the first one said.

I strolled over to the chain-link fence that separated us from the field and looked around for Randall and the bigwig. They were standing on the pitcher's mound, gazing at the outfield, where the Stars and Stripes rippled gently against the cloudless blue sky. The breeze also rippled the colorful banners hung on the outfield fence, advertising a dozen or so local small businesses—I noticed that while Brown Construction had a banner, rival Shiffley Construction was absent. The loudspeaker system was blaring out a steady stream of music—already we'd heard “Centerfield,” “The Boys of Summer,” “Celebration,” “We Will Rock You,” and now “Start Me Up.”

While tapping my feet to the Stones, I studied Randall and the bigwig. The bigwig was actually more than a head shorter than Randall, and his well-cut gray pinstripe suit couldn't conceal the fact that he was pretty scrawny and hollow-chested. Randall gestured at something to their left, and when the bigwig turned his head to look, I got a sideways view of the remarkably thick lenses in his wire-rimmed glasses.

If the bigwig's expression was anything to go by, Randall hadn't yet succeeded in charming him. Randall spotted me and nodded—no doubt suggesting that perhaps it was time I tried my hand with the bigwig. I sighed, and squared my shoulders. Damn Biff for inviting the bigwig, anyway. All I wanted to do was watch the game with my family and friends and—

“Mrs. Waterston?”

I turned around to see Mason, looking highly anxious.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I need the porta-potty,” he said. “And someone's in it.”

“I'm sure they'll be out soon,” I said.

“It's been occupied all morning,” he said. “And I finally went and stood outside the door and I knocked, and no one answered, and I really need it. The game starts in five minutes.”

“If you really can't wait, you could go into the woods,” I suggested.

“I can't,” he said. “I … um … I don't just need to pee.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

I'd go see Randall and the bigwig when I'd taken care of Mason's problem. I strode toward where the porta-potty stood in its solitary splendor. Mason scurried along behind me, face contorted with discomfort that was probably approaching actual pain.

Damn Biff Brown anyway. Was he really so stupid that he thought one porta-potty enough for the number of spectators we expected today? As I hurried through the crowd I mentally called Biff several names I wouldn't have wanted to say aloud with Mason around. When I was finished helping Mason, maybe I'd tackle Biff on the question of more porta-potties. Or maybe I'd just call Randall and have him deliver some and charge them to the league. Get the health inspector, who happened to be one of Randall's cousins, to find some health or safety violation to justify it.

First things first. I arrived at the porta-potty and knocked briskly on the door.

“Is anyone in there?” I called. Stupid question, obviously, since the word
OCCUPIED
appeared in the slot above the door handle, showing that the latch had been turned from the inside.

Or was it a stupid question? No one answered. And I heard no signs of stirring inside. I knocked again, even more loudly.

“If anyone's in there, speak up,” I said. “Otherwise I'm going to pick the lock.”

No answer. I unslung the tote that I'd been carrying over my shoulder and rummaged through it. Yes, as I'd hoped, I still had the tools I'd been carrying yesterday, including the large-sized screwdrivers, both Phillips and slotted, plus a hammer and an assortment of screws, nails, and bolts. Everything I'd need to give the bleachers and the dugouts and anything else that looked rickety a once-over when I had a chance. The slotted screwdriver should be just the thing to tackle the porta-potty door.

I stuck the screwdriver blade into the crack of the door, just under the level of the
OCCUPIED
sign, and moved it up until it hit something. It took a couple of tries, and if my blacksmithing hadn't given me good hand and arm strength, I couldn't have managed, but eventually the latch gave way and I succeeded in flipping it up.

“Ready or not, here I come,” I said to give anyone inside a last warning—though by this time I was pretty sure the porta-potty was empty. If there had been anyone inside, they'd definitely have spoken up since my efforts had not only made considerable noise but had also rocked the porta-potty. I fully expected to find that this was just someone's idea of a joke—figuring out how to flip the lock closed from outside, and then doing it on Opening Day. When I found the culprit, I was going to give him or her a piece of my mind—and I'd already thought of several likely suspects. In fact, one of them, my brother, Rob, was lurking nearby, no doubt pretending to be waiting his turn to use the porta-potty while in reality chuckling to himself.

But I was wrong. When I jerked the door open, I found someone slumped facedown on the floor in a crumpled heap. Male, pudgy, wearing khaki pants and a mud-colored Brown Construction t-shirt. A Yankees baseball hat had half fallen off his head.

“Biff,” I muttered.

One arm had flopped down into the doorway when I opened it. I grabbed the wrist. No pulse, though I could tell the second I touched it that there wouldn't be. The skin was cold.

My first thought was that at least now there'd be no one to complain if I arranged for a whole flotilla of porta-potties. Not a very nice thought, but an honest one.

First things first. I stepped back, making sure to keep my body between Mason and the porta-potty door. I pulled out my phone, but before dialing 911, I shouted “Rob! Come here.”

“What's wrong?” Rob asked as he strolled up.

“You know Mason,” I said. “Take him somewhere and find him a real bathroom. Our house might be the closest place. The porta-potty's out of order.”

“How can a porta-potty be—holy cow!” He had gotten close enough to see over my shoulder. “Okay. Can do. Come on, Mason.”

“But the game's starting any minute,” Mason protested.

“Not now it isn't,” I said. “I'll explain later, but you'll be back in plenty of time for the game. Go. And Rob, on your way past the bleachers, send Dad over here.”

Rob and Mason hurried off. I dialed 911 and prepared to tell Debbie Ann, the dispatcher, that there was a dead body at the ball field.

 

Chapter 6

“You found the body
where
?” Debbie Ann sounded incredulous. Or was it disgusted?

“In the porta-potty here at the youth baseball field,” I said. “I think it's Biff Brown. I haven't looked at the face yet—I didn't want to disturb the body.”

“Are you sure it is a body?” Debbie Ann asked. “Maybe I should send an ambulance, unless you're really sure he's dead?”

“Reasonably sure,” I said. “His skin's cold, and I can't find a pulse. I'm trying to get Dad over here to make it official. Adam Burke's on the boys' team, so the chief should be somewhere here at the field. Could you—”

“Here I am.” I looked up to see the chief standing at my elbow.

“Never mind,” I told Debbie Ann. “He's here.”

“Don't hang up,” the chief said. He squatted just outside the doorway and checked Biff's wrist. He looked surprised.

“He's cold,” he said.

“Body temperature drops around a degree and a half per hour after death,” I said. “Sorry; I know you know that better than I do. Force of habit. When I was a kid, Dad used to quiz us about stuff like that around the dinner table.”

“Must have made for some interesting meals,” the chief said. “It's just that I could have sworn I saw Biff an hour or so ago doing something in the outfield. He couldn't possibly have gotten that cold that quickly. I suppose I must have seen one of his workmen instead. Tell Debbie Ann we have a suspicious death. She knows the drill.”

“I heard that,” Debbie Ann said. “I'm on it.”

As I was putting my phone back in my pocket, the first few bars of “Dixie” sounded out from somewhere in the porta-potty.

“Cell phone,” the chief and I said in unison.

“It's in his back pants pocket,” I added, pointing.

The cell phone trilled again. Wincing, the chief pulled out his handkerchief, reached over with it to tug the phone out of the corpse's pocket, and pressed a button to answer it.

“Shep!” snapped a voice on the phone. “Where the hell are you? The game was supposed to start five minutes ago, and you haven't even put on your uniform yet. I've got it in my car. Answer me, you son of a—”

“That sounds like Mr. Brown on the phone,” the chief said to me, drowning out a torrent of words from Biff that was in serious violation of the posted field rules against using unseemly language in front of the kids.

“Then who's this?” I asked, pointing to the body.

“Is this Mr. Brown?” the chief said into the cell phone.

A few moments of silence on the other end.

“Yeah, this is Biff Brown,” the voice on the cell phone said. “I was calling my brother Shep's phone. Who the hell is this? Let me talk to Shep, dammit.”

“There's no call for strong language,” the chief said. “This is Chief Burke. If this is your brother's phone, I'm afraid I may have some bad news. Could you meet me by the porta-potty?”

“You mean now?” Biff asked.

“Right now,” the chief said. Then he cut the connection and wrapped the phone in his handkerchief before pulling out his own phone and dialing a number.

“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.”