A Minor Case of Murder Page 13

  Billy studied Cassie's reaction. "Is that important?"

  Cassie had forgotten about Billy. "Is what important?"

  There was something at the ballpark, something that would jog her memory. So Cassie told herself, driving to the stadium, repeating it like a mantra, focusing on the phrase, clearing her mind of all else, even turn signals and traffic lights, arriving somehow at the ballpark, her mind centered and her Mustang undented.

  There was something at the ballpark. Cassie wondered, would she find it in time?

  The Dead Girl, the Missing, the Birders, the Police

  When Andy arrived at the ballpark, the mood was grim. A skeleton crew was packing away memories of the inaugural season of Sand Skeeter baseball. The equipment manager was taking inventory. It seemed to Andy that he counted the same box of baseballs three times. The director of ticket sales was staring at the ceiling in the ticket office, reviewing attendance figures for the year. In the gift shop, the promotions manager considered what to do with the souvenir bats. In the office suite, youthful staffers were talking quietly. There was an awkward silence when Andy joined the conversation.

  "What's the matter?"

  After a lengthy pause, one of Andy's aides met his gaze. "Donna?"

  Andy pulled up a chair. "It'll be okay. You'll see."

  A second aide now spoke up. "There's a rumor going around that the team won't be back next year."

  Andy knew what they needed to hear. "The team'll be back next year."

  "And Donna?"

  "Donna will be back."

  Andy got up and walked into his private office where he spent the rest of the morning going through E-mail. His inbox was clogged with messages about the team, the birders, the dead girl and the missing. Andy was surprised to find an E-mail from Mrs. Patterson, an E-mail hinting at a possible solution to their year-long dispute. Andy read the E-mail carefully and then forwarded a copy to his attorney, the rotund Mr. Garibaldi. There was even a message, Andy noted with disgust, from a psychic looking to take advantage of the tragedy, offering her assistance to locate Donna.

  Andy was reading messages, occasionally crafting responses, but mostly just hitting delete when Detective Sububie appeared in his doorway.

  "May I come in?"

  "Of course." Andy waved her to a seat. "What can I do for you?"

  "Do you mind if I look around?"

  "That depends. What are you looking for?"

  "I'm not sure."

  Andy had nothing to hide. Still, he did not want the police believing the dead girl was a free pass to examine his business activities.

  Andy stood up and walked toward the detective. "Maybe I can help you figure it out."

  When Andy and the detective walked out of his private office, Andy made a point of stopping to joke with the staffers talking in the outer office. His aide looked over, a subtle gesture obvious only to Andy, silently asking if the boss needed assistance. But Andy was back in control. The dead girl, the missing, the birders, the police—bring them on, Andy told himself, all of them.

  When Andy and the detective walked by the gift shop, Andy saw that the promotions manager was still agonizing over the souvenir bats. "Send them back."

  The promotions manager looked over. "What?"

  "Send them back. They don't meet Sand Skeeter standards."

  When Andy and the detective walked by the ticket office, the ticket manager was still staring at the ceiling. "Let me see that report."

  The ticket manager gave Andy the spreadsheet.

  "You did good."

  "Thanks, boss, but we were below the target."

  "Next year."

  When Andy and the detective reached the locker rooms, the equipment manager was still counting baseballs. "Is there a problem?"

  Startled, the equipment manager dropped the box, sending baseballs bouncing around the room. "I'm sorry, boss."

  Detective Sububie toured the stadium with Andy MacTavish, the public areas and the private, gaining an appreciation for the intricacies of Sand Skeeter baseball, but finding little that might lead her to the missing girl.

  "Where do you keep the mascot stuff? Did Donna have an office?"

  Andy explained the operation. "The promotions manager is responsible for the team mascot. You met him in the gift shop. Donna had a changing room."

  "Could I see the changing room?"

  "Of course."

  The room was barely larger than a walk-in closet, but it was Donna's and it was private. "When was the last time Donna was in here?"

  Andy tried to remember the last time he had seen Donna. "The team was out of town for a week before the final home game. I don't know. I guess she came in sometime that week, but I really can't be certain."

  Detective Sububie looked around the room. "Has someone been cleaning in here?"

  Andy hadn't really thought about the room. "We have a cleaning service. Is that a problem?"

  Detective Sububie didn't bother to answer. She pointed to a door in the back of Donna's changing room. "What's back here?"

  "Just a closet." Andy realized he had no idea what Donna kept in her closet.

  Detective Sububie opened the closet door in the rear of the changing room. There was a costume hanging from a hook in the closet. "Is that the mascot costume?"

  Andy had forgotten about the spare Skeeter costume. He quickly considered the most plausible explanation.

  He had gone to the morgue to pick up the real costume, the one Heather had died in, and he had seen Heather's family grieving for their dead daughter. The trip to the morgue had made him pessimistic about the team's future, certainly about the team's name and its mascot, if not the team itself. He remembered how the mascot intruded on his dreams that night. And he remembered getting out of bed and throwing the costume into the ocean. He remembered watching until the costume sank. Andy had forgotten about the spare in Donna's closet until the moment that Detective Sububie opened the closet door.

  He could tell all that to Detective Sububie but the real answer, he decided, was unnecessarily complicated. "Yes, that's the mascot costume."

  "When the morgue asked you to pick up the costume … I don't know how to say this … but they screwed up." Andy could see the embarrassment in the detective's eyes, could hear it in her voice.

  "They should have run a lab test on the costume. I mean, it's not a problem or anything, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor." Detective Sububie rushed ahead with her request. "We know that Heather's death was an accident, but they should have run a test on the costume. It's not going to change anything, but it doesn't look good, the record incomplete like that. Not good if there's a lawsuit. Not good for us and not good for the team. You see what I mean?"

  Andy considered the civil suit that Mr. Garibaldi had warned him to expect. He pictured Heather's family attorney asking questions, implying some conspiracy between the Sand Skeeters and the local police. "It's okay, detective. You can borrow the costume. That is what you're asking me, isn't it?"

  "Yes, thank you." Relieved to have the team's cooperation, Detective Sububie explained her plan. "I'll take the costume back to the coroner's office and ask the lab to run a routine test on the fibers. They'll add a note to Ms. Dean's report and that'll be the end of it."

  The Way the Sun Sparkles on the Water

  As the attorney of record for the Sand Skeeter Baseball Club as well as for Andy MacTavish's other business interests, Mr. Garibaldi had done substantial background work for the team. By the time he arrived at his office, his paralegal had already retrieved the file on Mrs. Jodi Patterson and placed it on his desk, complete with Post-its marking those passages that she especially wanted Mr. Garibaldi to read first.

  Mrs. Patterson was in her mid-forties, married to a highly successful mutual fund manager, with no children. She was a formidable woman who might have been pretty, with a little effort and fashion advice. She had a deep and abiding interest in the fate of New Jersey's shore birds. With the support of her hus
band, she had formed a nonprofit organization devoted to birds and birders. It was unclear whether her organization had any other members, but she had a title and letterhead and, with the advent of the Sand Skeeters, she had a cause. When Mr. Garibaldi read the E-mail that Andy had forwarded, he realized that she also had an appreciation for the fine art of blackmail.

  Mrs. Patterson wanted to establish a bird sanctuary in WhiteSandsBeach. Her E-mail suggested that the Sand Skeeter Baseball Club might be inclined, as a gesture of goodwill and civic responsibility, to finance said bird sanctuary. In exchange, the E-mail implied, or perhaps Mr. Garibaldi inferred, she would suspend her public attacks on the team. Mr. Garibaldi was relieved to discover that the proposed site for the bird sanctuary would not interfere with Sand Skeeter operations. The attorney placed a call to Jodi Patterson, suggesting that they arrange a meeting. Mrs. Patterson was not only willing to meet, but she offered to show Mr. Garibaldi a potential site for the bird sanctuary that very afternoon. Mr. Garibaldi juggled another appointment and accepted Mrs. Patterson's invitation.

  Mr. Garibaldi drove his Cadillac Seville up and down the county road, unable to find the turn that would lead him to the property and a waiting Jodi Patterson. On the third pass he spotted the unmarked road partially obscured by a car that had broken down on the shoulder, its hood propped open, a red rag tied to its antenna. He drove down the unmarked road until it reached a dead end at the water. Mrs. Patterson was sitting in her Lexus at land's end, waiting. She stepped out of the car to greet the attorney. Mr. Garibaldi was impressed by her squared shoulders and wool blazer. Mrs. Patterson was impressed by his exquisite tailoring and extraordinary girth.

  Mr. Garibaldi looked beyond Mrs. Patterson's shoulders at the elevated boardwalk that spanned the marshland. It didn't look like it would support the attorney's weight. "Where are we?"

  Mrs. Patterson smiled. "I don't think this place has a name. Do you like it here?"

  Mr. Garibaldi was surprised by his response. "It's a very pretty spot. The way the sun sparkles on the water … it brings out the blue in your eyes."

  Mrs. Patterson's cheeks flushed. "Oh, Mr. Garibaldi. You are a scamp." Mrs. Patterson hoped the attorney understood this to be a compliment. "I could get in trouble with a man like you."

  It was Mr. Garibaldi's turn to redden. "Don't tease me, Mrs. Patterson." The attorney tried to bring the conversation back to the business at hand. "How did you find this place?"

  "I followed the birds here. It's not an easy place to find, is it?"

  Mr. Garibaldi agreed. "Damn near impossible. Especially when there's a broken-down car blocking the turn."

  "Yes, the poor man. You know, I always feel bad that I don't stop and try to help, but a woman by herself can never be too careful. Do you know how many women were sexually assaulted last year by men pretending to run out of gas?"

  It did not occur to Mr. Garibaldi that she expected him to answer.

  "Take a guess, then."

  Still, Mr. Garibaldi stood there mute, at a loss for words.

  "According to the Internet, more than one thousand women were sexually assaulted last year in such auto-related incidents."

  The attorney in Mr. Garibaldi began to dream of a class-action lawsuit. "You were smart not to stop. Besides, there's really very little you could do to help the man."

  Mrs. Patterson snorted. "Don't be silly. Of course I could help the man."

  Like a moth drawn to a flame, Mr. Garibaldi was drawn to ask, "How could you help?"

  "I always have a sealed container of synthetic fuel in the trunk. Do you know how many women are sexually assaulted every year because they run out of gas?"

  Mrs. Patterson watched a great blue heron gracefully land in the sedge grass at water's edge. "Do you think Mr. MacTavish would consider buying this land and letting me create a sanctuary for these birds?"

  Mr. Garibaldi was grateful for a question he felt equipped to answer. "Perhaps he will." Mr. Garibaldi hoped he was reading Mrs. Patterson correctly. "Especially if a bird sanctuary will permit a more congenial partnership between your organization and the ball club."

  Mrs. Patterson reached out and touched Mr. Garibaldi's arm. "I think I would like that, Mr. Garibaldi. A more congenial relationship. Yes, I think that would be better for us all."

  Mr. Garibaldi needed more information about the property. "How much does the owner want?"

  Mrs. Patterson batted her eyes. "I don't even know if the land is for sale, but really, look at those abandoned shacks. Wouldn't you sell if you got a bona fide offer?"

  Mr. Garibaldi found himself agreeing with her logic. "Who is the owner?"

  Mrs. Patterson gave the attorney a girlish smile. "I was hoping you could find out for me."

  Mr. Garibaldi chuckled. "I guess I have some work to do. Tell you what, let me do some research and then we can talk again. Is that okay with you, Mrs. Patterson?"

  It was clearly okay with Mrs. Patterson. "Would you like to go get a cup of coffee, Mr. Garibaldi?"

  An unexpected huskiness in her voice suggested to Mr. Garibaldi something more dangerous than café latte. Stumbling over his words, the attorney declined her invitation and walked back quickly, a large man in a suddenly too-tight suit, and sat down heavily in the Cadillac Seville. "Perhaps next time."

  "Next time then."

  Mr. Garibaldi drove back up the unmarked roadway, faster than the conditions allowed. As he turned onto the county road, he was relieved to see that the stranded car was now gone. He would not have stopped to help, but it would have made him feel guilty. Mr. Garibaldi did not want to feel guilty about driving by without offering to help. It was enough to feel guilty about a mostly innocent flirtation with Mrs. Jodi Patterson.

  From the car, Mr. Garibaldi called to update his client.

  "Mr. MacTavish, I just met with Jodi Patterson. You were right, sir. This may be an opportunity to make peace with the birders."

  "Excellent. What's it going to cost me?"

  Mr. Garibaldi gave it some thought before responding. "I wonder what the going rate is for a bird sanctuary."

  "A bird sanctuary?" Andy MacTavish was intrigued. "Can I do that?"

  Mr. Garibaldi was prepared to offer an opinion. "Of course you can. We structured everything so you'd have complete control. With your approval, the team can buy the land and use it for any purpose you see fit."

  Even so, Andy wondered if it were wise to involve the team in the transaction.

  Mr. Garibaldi was already contemplating another course of action. "You may be right, sir. It may be easier if we use one of your other corporations."

  Andy was ready to fast-track the deal. "See what you can find out, okay?"

  "I'll get right on it when I get back to the office."

  "Call me when you have something more." Andy hung up the telephone.

  Mr. Garibaldi was old enough to remember when this sort of research would mean days, sometimes weeks, poring through dusty tomes in the basement of the county office, thumbing through public records looking for names, dates and numbers. The Internet had changed everything and Mr. Garibaldi was old enough to marvel at the possibilities. He placed a call to his office with instructions for Doris, his paralegal.

  By the time he pulled into the parking space with its sign, Reserved for Louis A. Garibaldi, Esq., Doris had tracked down the name of the property owner. As he entered the office, Doris handed him a printout. The undeveloped marshland, with the ramshackle cottages and extraordinary view, with its spotted sandpipers, green-winged teal and its great blue herons, belonged to a gentleman by the name of Perry S. Pettigrew.

  Doris was not satisfied with her rapid research results. "The thing is, Mr. Garibaldi, I can't seem to find a current address for Mr. Pettigrew."

  A Very Public Embarrassment

  Leaving Sand Skeeter Ballpark, Detective Sububie was feeling good about her day's work. Her visit to the stadium had not resulted in a lead regarding the missing girl, but gaining temporary possessi
on of the mosquito outfit was a big deal. It was clear that Heather Dean's death had been an accident; it was a tragic, meaningless death, but nonetheless, it was an accident. When the Dean family eventually filed a lawsuit (they always do, the detective told herself), the investigation record would now be complete. Maybe the baseball team would offer to settle, maybe a jury would find in favor of the family, but, in any event, the case would not become about the failure of the police lab to conduct a simple test. And Detective Sububie understood that the lab and, more importantly, the police brass, would recognize that it was Detective Sububie who had saved the department from a very public embarrassment. All in all, it had been a good day's work.

  Hurrying back to her parked car, carrying the costume, the detective nearly collided with a woman hurrying toward the stadium entrance. The detective took a step back, fumbling to hold on to the mosquito costume.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't …" and then Detective Sububie recognized the woman in her path. "Ms. O'Malley?"

  Cassie, on her way to meet Andy MacTavish, was even more surprised than the detective. "Officer Sububie?"

  Mavis Sububie beamed. "Actually, it's Detective Sububie now."

  Cassie was genuinely happy for the policewoman. "Congratulations. What brings you to WhiteSandsBeach?"

  Detective Sububie explained. "I work here now. After the Wehnke case, I made detective. I guess I have you to thank for the promotion and transfer. What about you? Are you here to cover the story?"

  Cassie liked the policewoman. Still, Cassie warned herself, Mavis Sububie was a policewoman. "Sort of."

  "I understand that your friend, Ms. Harbrough, is running for mayor now."

  "Yes, she is. And I think maybe she's going to win." Cassie made a mental note to call Cheyenne as soon as possible. She did not want to miss the final mayoral debate. "You know, I never had an opportunity to ask you this, but when you investigated the Wehnke murder, did you ever really believe that Cheyenne was the killer?"