A Minor Case of Murder Read online

  Imagine a simpler time here in the Garden State, a time before safety warnings, before health risks, before car seats, before cancer, a time when generations of happy children pedaled furiously down the street, inhaling deeply, enveloped by the fog of industrial-strength insecticide, the sweet narcotic of the municipal mosquito spray.

  If the mosquito is the unofficial state insect, then the mosquito capital is most assuredly Jersey City. One hundred years ago, Jersey City honored its hordes of marauding mosquitoes, naming its minor league baseball team the Jersey CitySkeeters. Mosquitoes were so prevalent in Jersey City that they were implicated by the Germans in the attack on Black Tom Island at the start of the First World War.

  If you don't believe the story that I am about to tell you, just visit LibertyState Park and look for the Circle of Flags.

  Once upon a time, BlackTomIsland occupied a spot in the waters between Jersey City and New York City. In 1916, before the U.S. entered the war, BlackTomIsland served as a top-secret munitions depot, storing war materiel for shipment to England. Early on the morning of July 31, the island exploded, shock waves from the explosion causing damage to the Statue of Liberty, and panic in New York as well as New Jersey. Eventually we learned that the explosion was the result of German saboteurs.

  We should not be surprised that the Germans, when confronted with the evidence, denied any role in the explosion. What may come as something as a surprise to those of you who are not familiar with the story of Black Tom Island is the alternate theory of the crime offered by the Germans.

  The German defense? Not us, they insisted. And who did they suggest was the real culprit? That's right, mosquitoes.

  Cassie sipped her Irish whiskey and smiled, pleased with her unfinished story, anticipating her editor's all-too-predictable response.

  Every Night that Week

  The telephone lines hummed all week in Doah and in White Sands Beach, long conversations and brief messages traveling back and forth between Cassie and Cheyenne, Cassie and Morris, Donna and Billy, Donna and Heather, Heather and Billy, Billy and Andy, Cassie and Andy, telephone calls exploring questions of mayoral politics, Cold War incidents and oddities, concert tickets, minor league baseball, loyalties and love…

  Cheyenne was feeling the excitement of her mayoral campaign. "The experts say you've got to put your own negatives out there for the voters to see. That way, you control the message."

  Cassie was skeptical. "Well, did you hear the one about the traveling salesman and the developer's daughter? It definitely puts your negatives right out front."

  "It's branding, Cassie. Its sound bites. And it makes the mayor look bad if he attacks me."

  Morris was feeling the excitement of a special Cold War edition. "The research is turning up great story ideas. Radiation exposure and nuclear accidents. Abandoned missile silos. Fluoridation. It's all about the Russians and it all happened right here in New Jersey. I read your mosquito thing. It's cute, but you're cheating the reader. I need to feel the shock waves jumping off the page. Gimme more explosions. Call me."

  Billy was psyched about the White Stripes. "C'mon, Donna. You're not gonna miss the concert for the friggin' Sand Skeeters? Be real."

  Donna was tired of repeating herself. "Listen to me, Billy. It's my job. Maybe if you had a job, you'd understand."

  "What I understand is I got two tickets for Friday night. What I understand is maybe I'm dating the wrong girl."

  "Maybe you are."

  Heather was unsympathetic. "You know, Donna, maybe Billy is right. I can't believe you're even thinking about going to work Friday night. There must be someone else who can be the mosquito."

  "It's not 'the mosquito.' It's Skeeter. I'm Skeeter."

  "Look, I'm your friend so I can tell you this."

  "Tell me what?"

  "You're effing nuts."

  Heather was sympathetic. "I know what you mean, Billy. If it was me, well, you understand. Look, why don't you just call your brother. Tell him Donna can't work Friday."

  When Andy answered the phone, he was startled to hear Billy's voice. It had been months since they last talked. Andy would not get sucked into another argument. "Billy, is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, fine. Listen, Andy, I need a favor."

  "What is it this time, Billy, money?"

  "No, nothing like that. You know I'm dating the mascot, right?"

  Andy cringed. "She's got a name, Billy."

  "Yeah, yeah. Look, cut me a break. She wants to take off Friday, but she's afraid to ask. Do me a solid, okay?"

  Andy knew better than to believe his younger brother. If Donna even suspected that Billy had called, she'd be furious. "Billy, I will do you a 'solid,' as you put it. I'll forget you ever asked me."

  "You know something, big brother? After all this time, you're still an a-hole."

  Andy hung up the phone before responding. "And you, little brother, still don't get it."

  Every night that week, as Cassie was getting ready for bed, the phone would ring. "How was your day?" And they would talk on the phone for hours.

  Cassie was amazed by the range of Andy's knowledge. She would make a comment about Cold War radiation risks and Andy would direct her to look into workers' compensation claims involving exposure to beryllium. She would ask his opinion of Cheyenne's campaign strategy and he would respond with the history and philosophy of traveling salesman jokes. And if they didn't feel like talking, still they would stay on the phone, until Cassie, unable to keep her eyes open, would say good night. Sometimes, it seemed to Andy that Cassie would fall asleep on the phone, but he didn't really mind. "Good night, Cassie." And he would put the receiver gently in its cradle.

  Friday night's ball game would close out the inaugural season of Sand Skeeter baseball. It had been a successful effort, Andy concluded, mentally reviewing the ledger. There had been the unpleasantness at the beginning when certain local groups opposed the proposal. Some of the bed-and-breakfast types had complained that the ballpark would attract the wrong type of tourist business. The birders raised concerns about migratory waterfowl. The birders, Andy realized, were an especially vicious adversary, going so far as to recruit his little brother Billy to speak out against the team. But most of the citizens of WhiteSandsBeach embraced the Skeeters. Attendance had been better than expected. The team was turning a profit in their first full year of operation. If the Skeeters could win their final game, they would finish the season with a winning record.

  It was hot and dry by mid-morning, with record temperatures predicted for game time. Everyone was busy, the grounds crew trimming grass and painting lines, vendors checking inventories, food service arranging delivery of extra bottled water, ballplayers in the weight room, or getting wrapped, or in the clubhouse playing cards, ticket sellers doing a brisk business all afternoon at the walk-up windows. Andy MacTavish was busy planning his date with Cassie O'Malley.

  When Cassie pulled into the parking lot, there was still one hour until game time. It was hot and getting hotter. Andy suggested a walk on the boardwalk.

  "But don't you have things you have to do at the ballpark?"

  "I'm the boss. I don't do anything."

  Cassie and Andy strolled arm in arm on the boardwalk, sharing a black raspberry ice cream cone, scanning offshore, watching for dolphins.

  "There's one."

  "Where?"

  "There." Cassie pointed down the beach.

  "I don't see it. Whoa. Check it out, Cassie." Andy had spotted not one, but a pod of dolphins, their fins breaking the surface, shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

  Cassie debated asking Andy if they could get their fortune read, but as they approached Madame Alexina's boardwalk kiosk, the neon eyeball was dark. Instead Cassie challenged Andy to a game of Skee-Ball. She proceeded to beat Andy three games in a row, outpointing him in the third game by a score of 340 to 210.

  Cassie gave Andy a kiss. "Maybe we better head back to the ballpark."

  By the time they returned
, the game was two innings old. The Sand Skeeters were down by a run and Skeeter was rounding second, heading for third, two young fans circling the bases in hot pursuit. Andy was pleased, but not surprised to see that Donna had put her job ahead of the rock concert. Cassie was delighted by Skeeter's antics, tripping over third base, the elaborate display of disequilibrium, everyone at the ballpark hot and sweaty and thoroughly enjoying the evening of minor league entertainment.

  Three innings later, Skeeter was back for the dizzy bat race.

  "Will the fan holding the ticket marked Section one-oh-eight, Row B, seat three, please come down to the infield," intoned the public address system, but no one came down to challenge Skeeter.

  "Please check your tickets. Section one-oh-eight, Row B, seat three."

  Andy checked his pockets. "What's this?" and he pulled out a ticket. Smiling broadly, he offered the stub to Cassie.

  And so it came to pass, on a hot September night, Cassie O'Malley challenged Skeeter to the last dizzy bat race in Sand Skeeter history.

  Bending over, Cassie rested her forehead on the knob of the aluminum bat, surprised by the spot of cool in the otherwise sweltering evening heat. Sneaking a peek at Skeeter, she prepared to spin. Cassie did not like to lose, not at life, not at love, not at Skee-Ball, not at dizzy bat racing.

  On command, she began to spin, not too fast, not too slow, but just right to build up momentum for the race up the first base line. "You can do it," she told herself. "Just don't fall down," she counseled. As Cassie weaved toward first, she didn't see Skeeter as he staggered out to the pitcher's mound, falling in a heap, in mock exhaustion.

  On cue, the team trainer ran out to the mound to check on the prostrate mascot. On cue, the trainer fanned Skeeter, waiting for his revival. On cue, the trainer waited. And waited. And waited. The crowd sensed the problem, just before the trainer looked back at the dugout, frantic now, yelling for assistance. Grabbing at the costume, he pulled off the mosquito head, but he had waited too long. Inside the costume, on a night of near-record temperatures, Skeeter was dead of heat stroke.

  Five thousand fans watched in silence. In the owner's suite, Andy was speechless.

  Somewhere near first base, dizzy and disoriented, Cassie tried to follow the events as they were unfolding on the infield. And on the pitcher's mound, bent over the mascot's body, the trainer desperately tried to revive Skeeter, too shocked by the tragic accident to fully comprehend what he saw. The dead woman on the pitcher's mound was not Donna.

  The Woman Who Would Be Skeeter

  No one at the ballpark was able to identify the body of the dead woman who would be Skeeter. The first-aid squad responded quickly, followed shortly by the medical examiner and the local police. Medical personnel agreed with the trainer's preliminary determination of heat stroke.

  The dead woman carried no identification, but the detectives were confident they would trace her car key back to an identity. No one in the ballpark knew what to do. The game, of course, was halted. Fans milled about in the stands, unsure whether they were supposed to stay, whether they were allowed to stay. Gradually the stadium emptied as the police interviewed anyone who might be helpful. Despite the announced attendance of more than 5,000 fans, the list of helpfuls was exceedingly brief. Notwithstanding her role in the dizzy bat tragedy, Cassie explained to an officer that she had little of value to contribute.

  Andy was surrounded by Skeeter management and staff, by police and by fans. Young fans, in particular, were stunned by the events unfolding on the infield. Andy was desperately trying to manage the tragedy and was already fielding telephone calls from local news outlets when he spotted Cassie standing quietly on the infield grass, alone amidst the chaos. Excusing himself, Andy made his way down to Cassie.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I guess."

  "Look, Cassie, I'm going to be here for hours. I'm sorry."

  "I'll wait. Do you know who she is?"

  "No."

  "I'll wait."

  A patrolman marched through the parking lot carrying the dead woman's car key like a dowsing stick, pressing the panic button, searching, heading up one aisle and down the next and waiting for her car to respond. Suddenly a yellow Matrix one aisle over came to life, its lights flashing as its horn began to honk. Checking in the glove box, the patrolman quickly located the vehicle registration and hurried back to inform his superiors that the dead woman's car was registered in the name of Heather Dean.

  The name attached itself to the dead body like a toe tag, establishing a name, but not an identity. Andy explained again to the detective that he did not know the woman and that she most definitely was not an employee of the Sand Skeeters. But when the detective wondered where the regular Skeeter might be, Andy realized he knew more than he was ready to admit. Andy simply offered to check the personnel files for Donna's address and telephone number.

  It was nearly three in the morning when Andy finally escorted the assorted officials to the exit, said good night to the employees and returned the phone messages that could not be put off. What he could not do was locate Cassie. Too tired to hunt, Andy went to the public address system. "Would Cassie O'Malley please report to the owner's box? Cassie O'Malley to the owner's box, please."

  "I'm sorry, Cassie. This isn't how I imagined the evening."

  "You must be exhausted, Andy."

  "I guess. I'm too tired to gauge how tired I really am."

  Cassie was glad she waited. "C'mon, Andy. I'll drive you home."

  Andy wanted to tell Cassie it was unnecessary. He was embarrassed that she had been witness to the evening's tragic events. He searched for the words that would gracefully say no. The words he discovered, however, were "Thank you, yes."

  They rode in silence to Andy's beachfront home, Cassie unsure of what to say and Andy limiting his remarks to comments such as "turn right at the stop sign" and "follow this road until it dead-ends at the water."

  So Cassie drove in silence and followed the road until they arrived at the dead end. Andy's house was a modest bungalow of weathered wood and glass, a comfortable house, a private house, but with a truly spectacular view. Sitting on a narrow spit of land that jutted out into the water, Andy's home was built on a stone block retaining wall, surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic Ocean.

  "Nice." Cassie hardly knew what to say.

  Andy smiled. "Let me show you the inside." And he gave her a quick tour.

  Inside, Andy's home was simple, yet chic, clean, yet lived in, a home for walking barefoot, tracking sand, for sinking into overstuffed sofas, reading a good murder mystery, staring at the ocean and listening to Andy's extensive collection of 45s on his mint-condition Wurlitzer jukebox.

  His office was decorated in doo-wop revival, outfitted in Formica and steel, with a splash of color and retro-modern furniture, his computer neatly disguised inside a circa 1952 Dumont black-and-white floor-model television.

  "I still need to make a few phone calls."

  In her bare feet, in Andy's bungalow, soaking in the doo-wop and salt air, Cassie had briefly forgotten. "It's three in the morning, Andy. Are you sure it can't wait?"

  "I'm sorry, Cassie, but a woman died at the game tonight, standing on the pitcher's mound, dressed like Skeeter. Why don't you get some rest?"

  It was nearly fifteen years since Cassie had slept with a man. At first, when Rob died, it was a simple promise she made to herself. Then for the longest time, it was just her routine, what she did (or more to the point, what she didn't do). In the last few years, habit had morphed into a crisis of confidence. After so many years in her half-empty bed, Cassie had come to doubt that she could still please a man. But now, finally, Cassie was ready to find out. Only she still was unsure of Andy's intentions.

  Andy sensed her uncertainty. "I'll try not to be too long." Andy kissed her and, for that moment, Cassie knew that Andy was fully in the moment, no dead body, no Sand Skeeters, no phone calls, no doowop, just a man and a woman and a kiss.


  "Is it okay if I take a shower while you're on the phone?"

  "Of course." Andy got her a bath towel and robe. "You'll need something clean to wear." And he found several t-shirts for Cassie to try.

  "The hot water is tricky." Andy helped adjust the temperature and kissed her again.

  Cassie smiled. "I'll wait up."

  Andy went off to make his phone calls. Disrobing, Cassie marveled at how comfortable she felt, standing naked in a man's bathroom. She examined herself in the mirror and, for a change, saw nothing to critique, not the five extra pounds, not the lingering sunburn on her cheekbones, not her cuticles, or her hips.

  Cassie allowed the hot water to rain down on her, picturing Andy in his office on the telephone, picturing Andy in the bedroom, on…Drying off, she tried on the t-shirts. She looked sexy, Cassie decided, in the doo-wop revival T, the logo accentuating her chest, the t-shirt long enough to wear as a nightshirt, but just barely.

  Andy was still in his office, on the phone, but Cassie made sure that he noticed her as she padded down the hall, heading for bed. Covering the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand, Andy turned to Cassie. "I'll be off in a minute. You look wonderful."

  Cassie marveled at how comfortable she felt, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, in Andy's bedroom, under the goose-down comforter, Andy's bed not half-empty, but suddenly, half-full. She closed her eyes and rested, waiting for Andy to join her, waiting for Andy to …

  And then, warm and comfortable, cozy and sexy, and exhausted, Cassie fell asleep.

  There is something about the hour before the sun comes up. For a decade and more, the pre-dawn hour had been a time for Cassie to leave her bed and explore the back roads of rural DoahTownship. Now she slept, soundly, deeply, peacefully, her breathing synched to the gentle rhythm of the Atlantic surf outside the window.