A Minor Case of Murder Read online

  Cassie was touched by Andy's enthusiasm for minor league baseball. When she fell in love with Rob, she had been attracted to him by the things they shared—their love for jazz, for sports cars, for power politics. With Andy, what she found attractive was how easily he allowed her access to new loves. What she found attractive was the melody in his voice. "No, please. Go on."

  "Conventional wisdom said that minor league baseball would not survive, but try to tell that to the Thunder, or the Bears, the Jackals or the Cardinals, the Atlantic City Surf, Lakewood Blue Claws, Camden Riversharks or our own White Sand Skeeters.

  "The name pays homage to the Jersey City Skeeters," Andy explained. "Believe it or not, the Jersey City team was named after mosquitoes. Apparently mosquitoes were a problem in Jersey City a hundred years ago. I guess some things never do really change. But the 1903 Skeeters were a great team, one of the best teams in the history of minor league ball."

  In the top of the second, the Skeeters' shortstop misplayed a relay, allowing the first run of the ball game. In the bottom of the inning, the Skeeters strung together three consecutive doubles to take a two-one lead in the ball game. Cassie was enjoying the game, but even more, the activity between innings.

  Pointing toward the field, Cassie wondered, "What's that?"

  Andy chuckled. "That's our mascot, Skeeter. Watch this."

  Three youngsters were called down from the stands to race against the mascot. Rounding the bases, Skeeter had a big lead, until, mugging for the fans, he tripped over third. Falling down hard, he was passed by two of the young fans. As he got back to his feet, Skeeter lost his balance, falling again, allowing the youngest of the racers to pass him by and sprint for home. The crowd roared its approval. All three children were crowned "Skeeter Beaters" and given official Sand Skeeter jerseys. Cassie cheered the three young fans and applauded Skeeter's losing effort. "This is fun."

  Two innings later, Skeeter was back. "What's a dizzy bat race?" Cassie wanted to know.

  "Watch."

  Skeeter and a well-endowed female fan, chosen at random, were lining up near home plate. Standing a baseball bat vertically, with one end on the ground, they each bent over their bat, gripped the barrel with both hands, foreheads pressed against the knob end. On command, the two combatants began to spin in circles, the crowd laughing and cheering. Again, on command, they dropped their bats and tried to run a short course along the first base line. Dizzy from spinning, neither Skeeter nor his competitor could maintain a straight path. As the female fan weaved erratically along the foul line, Skeeter staggered out to the pitching mound before collapsing in a heap. In a mock show of concern, the trainer ran out to check on the mascot. After a tense moment, Skeeter struggled to his feet, waved to the crowd and congratulated the winner. Cassie howled in delight. "That looks like fun."

  Andy had an idea. "Maybe next time, we'll pick you for the dizzy bat race."

  Cassie was pleased to know that Andy was already thinking about a next time. "Maybe."

  On Cassie's first date with Andy MacTavish, he took her to watch the Skeeters play baseball. Cassie knew surprisingly little about minor league baseball, but she was confident she would learn a good deal more if she continued to date the principal owner of the White Sand Skeeters.

  The Skeeters lost the game that night, four to two, giving up a three-run home run in the ninth inning, but no one seemed particularly upset, not the fans, not Cassie. Even Andy seemed to take the loss in stride.

  Andy and Cassie sat in the luxury suite, sipping coffee. Neither of them was ready for the evening to end, but neither were they prepared for the evening to continue. After an awkward pause, Andy invited Cassie to return for the final home game the following weekend. She quickly accepted.

  As Andy walked her to her car, a young girl (Cassie sized her up, pegging her as twenty—pretty, but too young to be competition) stopped them for a moment.

  "Tough loss tonight, Mr. MacTavish."

  "Yes, but still, it was a very nice night."

  "I guess. Anyway, good night, Mr. MacTavish."

  "Good night, Donna."

  As they continued on toward her car, Cassie was curious. "Who was that?"

  "I'm sorry, Cassie. I didn't mean to be rude. That's Skeeter."

  Midnight Birding

  It was nearly midnight when Donna got back to her garden apartment. She was tired and achy from one too many dizzy bat races, grimy from one too many nights inside the mosquito costume. Still, her night was not yet done. She was supposed to meet Billy, who would already be down at the Point, midnight birding.

  Donna took a quick shower, shimmied into her tightest size-six jeans and t-shirt, grabbed her iPod and a pint of peppermint schnapps and jumped back in her Miata. She had been skeptical when Billy first invited her to midnight birding, figuring it was just an excuse to suck face, alone in the salt marsh after dark. It turned out that midnight birding was not an excuse to suck face, but it was an opportunity, and she thought Billy was cute, so Donna had seized that opportunity.

  Midnight birding had become their regular Friday night date. Driving down to the Point, Donna looked forward to the drinking and the sex, but also to the long periods of almost spiritual waiting, the long hours in the dark listening for the bird calls of the nocturnal migration.

  Pulling into the parking lot, Donna recognized Billy's car and Heather's, and three or four more cars belonging to the midnight birders. There was an ancient VW minibus, with its expanding universe of rust overwhelming the original lime green paint job, Buddhist bumper stickers attached like surgical strips to the scarred side panels, offering commonsense advice and spiritual guidance (It is better to be pissed off than pissed on) and each one advertising the grand opening of the van owner's psychic superstore (Om Depot). There was a yellow taxicab, a Rambler, even older than the VW bus, sporting its own brand of bumper sticker wisdom, a short course in American political history (No one wins a nuclear war). The midnight birders were not well-liked by the birder establishment, who saw late-night birding as a threat to their more organized, better-regulated events.

  Donna, especially, was disliked by the regular birders who considered her employment with the Sand Skeeters as a betrayal of sorts. When the proposal to build the ballpark had been before the council, most of the birders were opposed to its construction, maintaining that the ballpark would disturb the habitat of migratory waterfowl. The birders were not the only group that opposed the ballpark, but they were the most vocal. It seemed to Donna that the birders' real complaint was that the ballpark would disrupt their bird watching, rather than cause any real disturbance to the birds themselves. It was not an unimportant argument, Donna concluded, but hardly the same thing. Donna kept her opinions to herself, but when she applied for a job with the Skeeters, ultimately becoming Skeeter, the very embodiment of the team, the regular birders roundly disapproved. She was especially pleased to see her friend Heather's car parked at the Point. Heather, like Donna, was more of a party-birder.

  Donna took the short path through the high grass to the platform in the marsh. She stopped to say hello to the spiritualist and the cabbie, but Madame Alexina and Spit were deep in conversation. Donna found it nearly impossible to follow as their discussion moved from WMDs to spider holes to judicial appointments to political action committees and back again to WMDs, all without taking a breath. Political analysis and peppermint schnapps were a poor mix.

  Donna continued moving, spotting Heather and Billy nearly hidden in the high grass, sharing a blunt. Giving Billy a kiss hello, she drew in musky Billy scent, mixed with the pot and just a hint of Heather. If Billy felt any guilt about messing around in the marsh with Heather while he was waiting for Donna's arrival, he was not going to let it become a problem. He told himself if he was patient, he would soon be making time with both ladies. Donna took a hit off the joint and offered Heather the peppermint schnapps. Taking a long drink, Heather announced she was going back to her car to get more pot.

  Bill
y, wearing a Rob Zombie t-shirt and cut-off jeans, his spiked hair tipped in green, was embarrassed by his fascination with birding and found, in nocturnal birding, a strategic accommodation. Middle America could identify birds by the light of day; it took a truly warped mind to spend the night alone in the salt marsh, or in the bayberry thicket, listening for the call of migratory birds. And it took a freakin' genius to parlay that midnight obsession into sex with Donna and maybe, before long, Heather too.

  "C'mon, Billy, I'm exhausted. Let's just tell Heather we're splitting. Okay?"

  Before Billy had a chance to respond, Heather came back up the path. Still Billy slipped Donna a glance as if to say, "Don't get jealous, Donna. You know you're my girl." Then he turned his attention to Heather, who was adjusting her bra strap for his benefit.

  Reassured as to Billy's intentions, Donna announced that she needed to find a place to pee. She was barely out of range when Heather rubbed up against Billy.

  Billy rolled another joint and passed it to Heather. Looking past the joint in his hand, Heather's gaze was fixed on another threatening to peek out of his cut-offs. Donna, returning quickly, still fixing her belt buckle, stepped between Billy and Heather.

  Twee-twee-twee. Billy turned away from both girls to listen. "Do you hear that ladies. Yellow-rumped warblers. Cool, huh?"

  Donna adjusted her belt. "Huh?"

  "Yellow-rumped warblers."

  "That's great, Billy. Can we go now?"

  Heather poured herself another shot of peppermint schnapps, toasting the warblers. "Yeah, let's go to the diner." It was nearly morning, but the yellow-rumped warblers had changed Billy's plans. "Why don't you guys go on without me? I'll catch up." Donna, her arms now around Billy, gave him a kiss. "You really are a strange one, Billy MacTavish. Don't be long."

  Donna and Heather sat at their regular booth at the diner. Donna ordered corned beef hash, eggs over easy, and Heather had a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. Between bites, they talked about a lot of stuff, but mostly about Billy.

  Heather was curious about Donna's relationship with Billy. "Billy told me you guys are going to the White Stripes concert."

  "Yeah, I guess so. I don't know. I'm supposed to work Friday."

  "So take the day off. No big whoop."

  Donna's radar picked up the signal. "I don't know. It's the last game of the season. Everyone expects me to be there."

  "C'mon, Donna. Get real. You run around in a mosquito costume."

  "Yeah, I know it's lame, but it's what I do. Besides, Mr. MacTavish has been real good to me."

  Heather was surprised by the formality. "You call him Mr. MacTavish?"

  "He's my boss."

  "Yeah? So? You're going out with his brother."

  Donna tried to explain her work ethic to Heather. "Exactly. I don't want anyone saying I get special treatment." Donna reached across the table, spearing a bite of chocolate chip pancake. "Thanks."

  Heather pondered the complexity of family relationships. "Billy and his brother don't have much in common, do they?"

  "Well, there's a fifteen-year difference in their age. Mr. MacTavish, he's like your father."

  "No way."

  "Way."

  "You and Billy look good together. When'd he do his tips?"

  "Last week. I told him purple, but the green looks all right, don't you think?"

  Heather thought Billy looked real cute. "If you decide you have to work, is it okay if I use your ticket?"

  Heather pushed her pancakes around the plate. Donna picked at her eggs.

  Once Upon a Time

  Driving home to Doah, her first date with Andy MacTavish officially in the record books, Cassie could still feel the soft tug of his lips on her lips, the sweet taste of life rediscovered. She felt foolish, alone in the car, reciting the platitudes of new love, her life changed completely at a minor league baseball game.

  On a back road in the Pine Barrens, sometime after midnight, Cassie remembered a joke her father used to tell.

  "How do you pronounce M-a-c-H-e-n-r-y?"

  "MacHenry."

  "How do you pronounce M-a-c-D-o-n-a-l-d?"

  "MacDonald."

  "How do you pronounce M-a-c-T-a-v-i-s-h?"

  "MacTavish."

  "How do you pronounce M-a-c-h-i-n-e?"

  The very air in the car reminded her of Andy MacTavish.

  It was well past midnight when Cassie let herself into the condo, her answering machine beeping a friendly hello. She turned off the machine without bothering to retrieve the message. It would be Cheyenne checking in, wanting the latest gossip from WhiteSandsBeach. Cassie wasn't ready to talk about her date, even with Cheyenne. Instead, she brewed herself a pot of chamomile tea and pulled out a photo album.

  It had been quite some time since Cassie had allowed herself to look at the old photos. Rob playing tennis; Rob on skis; the vacation in Vermont; Rob in his sports car, tanned and fit; the both of them at Princeton graduation, beaming, ready to take on the world; Rob in law school, buried behind his books; the apartment in D.C., Rob smiling for the camera. But his eyes, in all the photos Cassie could see the look in his eyes, or rather the look Rob tried to keep hidden behind his eyes: the fear of going to sleep, the night terrors. She was so young then, too young to be married, much too young to be widowed. Once upon a time everything was possible. And then nothing.

  It was time to let go of the guilt, to allow herself another chance to be happy. It was time to fall in love again. That night Cassie dreamt she played third base for the Jersey City Skeeters. With a runner on third and one out, Cassie was alert for the suicide squeeze, when she was distracted by a ringing in her ear. As play continued, the manager walked toward her at third, carrying a telephone. "It's for you," he explained, but the ringing continued. Cassie tried to stay focused on the batter, on Roosevelt Stadium, on Jersey City, on the race for the Eastern League Championship, but gradually it all slipped away, replaced by her own familiar bedroom.

  She answered the phone. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Cassie." With Cheyenne's cheerful greeting, Cassie was fully awake. "How was Andy MacTavish?"

  "It's all good."

  "Details, girl, I need details."

  Cassie shared enough of the story to keep Cheyenne at bay before changing the subject. "What's happening in the campaign?"

  "Oh wow, Cassie. Last night, I spoke at a meeting of the Friends of the Library and I opened with, listen to this—'Did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter?'—not the whole joke, mind you, just that line, and most of the audience responded warmly. I'm starting to believe I might actually win this thing."

  Cassie gave that some thought before asking, "Do you want to?"

  "Maybe. It's not that simple. You know who else asked me that, just last night?" Cheyenne paused for effect. "Rocki."

  "Mrs. Big Jim? She came to your event?"

  "Yeah, how cool is that? After the meeting, she asked me if I was serious. Asked me to get out of the race, if I was just in it for show. For all the BS he's put her through, she still loves her husband." Cheyenne thought for a moment. "She's okay."

  Cassie knew Rocki from when Rocki was a suspect in the death of a lover. "I guess I never saw her at her best."

  "I guess."

  Cassie suddenly remembered the phone call of the previous night. "Anyway, Cheyenne, I'm sorry I didn't call you back last night. It was late and I was tired."

  Cheyenne was startled. "Sorry, girlfriend. If you got a call last night, it wasn't me."

  Cassie barely had time to hang up the phone before it began to ring again.

  "Hi, Cassie." Her editor, as usual, preferred to be nameless. "I read your piece about psychic espionage. Great story, Cassie. Really awesome."

  "Thanks."

  "I'm gonna revamp the whole next edition. 'New Jersey remembers the Cold War.' Bomb shelters, air raid drills. Did you know that 'the button' was made in New Jersey?"

  "Really?"

 
"Does it matter?"

  "Morris, did you try to call me last night?"

  "Me, no. Anyway, I've assigned one of our new writers to work up some stuff to wrap around your piece, but if you've got any more Cold War stories, I want to see them ASAP. Gotta run. You're the best."

  Cassie acted quickly, before the phone could ring a third time, retrieving the deleted message from the previous night.

  "Hi, Cassie. I wanted to make sure you got home all right." Andy coughed. "And to tell you how much fun I had."

  Once upon a time everything was possible. Again.

  Work in Progress

  "So, sweetheart … what've you got?" Cassie chuckled. Her editor was always looking for more. "I've got an idea. It's not what you asked for, but it is a war story." "Is it good?" was all her editor really wanted to know, "And is it ready?" "Yes. And no. Gimme a break, Morris." Her editor knew that she hated to send him anything before she had a chance to polish every word.

  "Look, I need it fast. Can you send me the draft?" Cassie hung up the phone without answering. Morris would have to wait until she was satisfied with the piece. Pouring herself a drink of Tullamore Dew, she looked at the work in progress.

  The Mosquito Capital of New Jersey

  The honeybee celebrates its thirtieth anniversary as New Jersey's official state insect, Cassie read, and yet this event passes virtually unnoticed. No parades. No banner headlines. No proclamations. Just a small gathering of aging bees meeting in a run-down lodge hall near the parkway, a keg of lo-carb mead, getting buzzed, remembering the good old days when Governor Byrne had invited them down to the statehouse for the signing of A-671.

  The honeybee may hold the title, but another insect can surely lay claim to being the people's champion. And so, let us devote a moment to this other insect, the unofficial insect, the insect that sits atop the New Jersey food chain, the insect that myths are made of—the mosquito!