A Minor Case of Murder Page 5

When Andy finally finished making his phone calls, he put aside the mystery of death and turned his attention to the glorious mystery of life that was quietly snoring on his side of the bed. He would not wake her; she was exhausted by the events of the day. Andy MacTavish stripped down to his boxer shorts and climbed into the available side of the bed (like he was sitting in the visitors' dugout at SandSkeeterPark). He, too, was exhausted, but Andy sat up in bed, staring at the beautiful woman asleep at his side, looking at the way her cheekbone, red from sun, rested against his pillow, the way her dirty-blond hair, unrestrained, advanced across the bed, the way her body curled under the comforter, the curve of her hip, of her chest, the way her presence revealed new color and texture in his bed linens, the way she forever changed his doo-wop revival t-shirt. While Cassie slept, Andy breathed her in, the air in his bedroom suddenly fresher, sweeter, with hints of berry and vanilla.

  By the time she awoke, the tide had come in, the sun had climbed high in the sky and Andy MacTavish was unabashedly in love with Cassie O'Malley. She rolled over in bed, more asleep than awake, out of the habit of sharing a bed, bumping into Andy's manhood.

  "Ummmm." Cassie reached out and took him by hand.

  Cassie was afloat in the Atlantic, riding the waves, bodysurfing. Bouncing up and down in the swells, she waited patiently for her wave. At just the right moment, Cassie caught the perfect wave and rode it to shore, rode the wave hard, until it crashed against the shore and she lay spent in the warm sand.

  They cuddled in Andy's bed, feeling no urge to venture beyond the boundaries of this private world they had just discovered. When the telephone rang, Andy made no move, allowing the machine to answer. "It's me. Pick up. Holy shit, Andy. Pick up."

  Cassie looked at Andy, saying nothing and handing him the phone.

  "Billy? Where are you?"

  "Uh…OceanCity, I think."

  "I thought you were going … hell, it doesn't matter. Is Donna with you?"

  "We had a fight."

  "Is that a no?"

  "Yeah, that's a no. I haven't seen her since yesterday afternoon."

  Andy knew better than to trust his little brother. "So you don't know anything about what happened last night?"

  Long Board Trunks and Green-Tipped Hair

  Billy knew better than to share the details of his day with his older brother Andy. He knew that Andy thought he was selfish. Andy thought he was immature. If he told Andy about the previous twenty-four hours, Andy would think he was whining. And Andy would be right.

  The day had started poorly and it had started poorly early with an urgent banging on the door.

  "You shoulda been there last night, Billy, you shoulda been there." Spit was standing in the doorway, all nervous energy and caffeine-rush. "We were out there last night, listening for warblers, you know, man, just minding our own business, and she showed up." Standing behind Spit, Madame Alexina tried her best to be invisible.

  A hangover had rented all the rooms that morning in Billy's cerebral cortex. A no-vacancy sign hung at the entrance to his frontal lobe, but Spit dumped his luggage on Billy's aching brainstem and barged right in.

  "The bird Nazi showed up. We don't belong there…we're giving legitimate birders a bad name…we're…shit, you've heard her rap. Anyway…"

  Billy put a hand on Spit's shoulder. "Easy, big man. Look, let's not do this in the doorway. C'mon in."

  Spit rushed by him, bouncing from foot to foot. "Thanks, Billy. I got to hit the can."

  Billy used the potty break to clear his head, but when Spit returned, so did the headache. Billy summed up what he had learned so far. "So you went out last night midnight birding and someone gave you a hard time, huh? Who was it, Spit?"

  Spit's bouncing had subsided. "You know the lady. The one with a broomstick up her butt. The one thinks her birdshit don't stink."

  Billy knew the one. "Red hair. Looks like she was born middle-aged? Right?"

  Spit was nodding, a bobble-head birder. "Yeah. Ms….damn…what's her name?"

  Madame Alexina smiled. "Patterson, Spit. Her name's Mrs. Patterson."

  Satisfied that he had passed along the crucial information, Spit relaxed. "You look like shit, Billy."

  Billy did his best to remember what he'd been up to. "Tequila."

  "Yeah. That'll do it." Spit stroked his chin. "I know what you need." And with that, he jumped up, pulling bottles and cartons, seemingly at random, from Billy's refrigerator.

  "I learned this in Iraq. It's called … damn, I used to know what it was called …" Spit proceeded to mix two glasses of his Desert Storm hangover remedy—in each glass he poured an ounce of brandy, one tablespoon each of vinegar and…

  "Hey, Billy, you got any Worchestirshire sauce?" Billy waved in the general direction of the kitchen. Madame Alexina looked inside the refrigerator and handed a bottle to Spit.

  "Thanks." Spit added the Worcestershire, and one teaspoon each of ketchup and bitters. He mixed the glasses and then into each he carefully placed an egg yolk.

  Billy was skeptical, but anything was better than the throbbing in his head. He took a sip and then, jumping in the deep end, chugged the glass.

  Electricity shot from Billy's green tips, setting off explosions in his stomach and larger blasts in his head. Billy jumped upright, prepared to bolt the room (the cartoon animal, its butt on fire, on a mad dash for a bucket of water), when, just as suddenly, he fell back in the chair, slumped over the side and puked for what seemed an eternity. Madame Alexina, foretelling this result, had strategically placed a bucket on either side of the chair.

  "What the hell was that?" Billy asked, weak but defiant.

  "I remember now. It's called a Prairie Oyster." Spit beamed triumphantly and, recognizing a good exit line, let himself out. Madame Alexina drank down the second Prairie Oyster and followed Spit out the door.

  Billy, exhausted by the encounter, sank deeper into the chair, in a wordless prayer for a lengthy intermission. In his pocket, Billy's cell phone began to vibrate.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hi, Billy. It's me."

  Here it comes, Billy thought. Donna was about to blow off the concert in order to do her job.

  "You were right, Billy. All's I do is run around dressed like a mosquito."

  Billy loved it when Donna admitted he was right. Especially when he wasn't. "I'm glad you finally figured it out. So, we're on for tonight?"

  For a moment, all Billy could hear was static on the phone line. "What?"

  "Yeah, Billy. We're on."

  Billy turned off his cell phone, fired up a joint and sank even deeper into the chair.

  For the second time, Billy was startled by a knock.

  "It's open."

  At the door, the knocking continued.

  "It's open," Billy repeated, as if that were all the effort he could muster. "C'mon in."

  Still the knocking continued.

  Billy pulled himself up out of the chair, stubbing out the joint and cursing. "Hold your water. I'm coming."

  When Billy opened the door, he was surprised to find Mrs. Patterson standing in his doorway. He was surprised that such a small woman could so completely fill the entry. Even after Labor Day, he was surprised that anyone would wear tweed at the shore. And, mostly, he was surprised by the curve of her legs as they peeked out from under the brown wool skirt.

  "Mr. MacTavish?"

  "Billy."

  "Mr. Billy MacTavish?"

  "Mrs. Patterson, would you like to come inside?"

  Inspecting the apartment from the doorway, Mrs. Patterson shook her head no. "No, thank you, Mr. MacTavish," but she took a step inside the apartment.

  "Mr. MacTavish, I'll come right to the point." Mrs. Patterson spoke quickly, through clenched teeth. "I don't like you."

  Billy, wearing long board trunks and green-tipped hair, with an unlit joint in his left hand and a Budweiser in his right, tried for charming.

  "But you don't know me, Mrs. Patterson."

  Mrs. Patte
rson coughed. "I don't like you and I don't like midnight birding."

  Putting down the joint and sipping the Bud, Billy tried for reasonable. "With all due respect, Mrs. Patterson, we midnight birders are serious about our activities."

  "And what activities are those?" Mrs. Patterson wanted to know. "Drinking, necking, trampling the nesting areas. When your brother built his ballpark, he nearly destroyed the coastal habitat. Are you trying to finish the job?"

  Billy had heard enough. "I think it's time for you to leave, Mrs. Patterson."

  Wordlessly, Mrs. Patterson turned and left.

  Billy watched her go.

  It was a busy day at Billy's front door—Jehovah's Witness, Avon lady, Young Republican. Each time Billy dispatched a guest, he poured himself a drink and sank ever deeper into the chair. Billy perked up when he heard the girls giggling just outside the door. Donna and Heather let themselves in the apartment.

  Donna kissed Billy hello. Heather kissed Billy as well, more than hello. Donna held her tongue, even while Heather didn't. Donna stepped between them.

  "So here's the plan, Billy."

  Billy was confused. "Huh?"

  "The plan, Billy. Tonight. The concert, remember?"

  "Oh yeah."

  Donna explained to Billy how Heather had agreed to stand in for her at the ballpark.

  "Did my brother really agree to that? There's hope for him yet."

  Donna explained. "Your brother doesn't know about it. I'm going in to work just like any other game day, I'll make sure he sees me, same as always so there's no questions, and then Heather and I will make the switch."

  Billy was impressed. "My little evil genius."

  Donna continued. "So here's the thing, Billy. I'll ride to the ballpark with Heather, help her get ready. When it's time to split, you've got to pick me up at the ballpark. Okay? I'll meet you in the parking lot. You got that?"

  With that, the girls left for Sand Skeeter Stadium. Billy poured himself a drink and sank ever deeper in the chair.

  An Unsuspecting Father and Son

  Donna made a point of saying hello to the shy young men working the ticket windows when she arrived at the ballpark. No one paid any notice to the girl that accompanied her on this final game of the season. Soon enough, the two girls had arrived at Skeeter's dressing room and were safely inside, sitting on the sofa, Donna preparing a step-by-step instructional guide to Skeeter's game-day routine, Heather sneaking shots from a pint of peppermint schnapps.

  Donna was worried that Heather was not paying attention. She worried that something could go wrong before the season drew to a close. "Heather, c'mon, this is important to me."

  Heather knew that Donna took her mascot duties way too seriously. She tried her best to sound sincere. "I got it, Donna."

  "Okay then. Lemme quiz you."

  Heather gulped a quick shot of schnapps. "Relax, Donna. I said I got it. Look, I walk around. I wave. I pat little kids on the head. I pose for pictures. And between innings, I do those dumbass races down on the field."

  Donna was compelled to defend Skeeter's honor. "They're not dumb."

  Heather tried not to laugh. "Okay, I'm sorry. They're not dumb."

  "They're not."

  "Okay, Donna. I'm sorry."

  Donna wondered whether it was too late to back out, too late to change the plan. She considered giving her concert ticket to Heather, giving Billy to Heather. She knew that her boyfriend and her best friend secretly had the hots for each other.

  Donna wondered whether Billy was worth fighting for. He was cute and fun to be with. When they were alone, Billy was loving and attentive. Sometimes, in the salt marsh after dark, it was a deeply spiritual experience, almost like midnight mass. But recently, Billy had been a real jerk. Someone was in the way, Donna decided, unsure whether it was she herself, or perhaps Billy, or Heather.

  Donna made her decision. "Look, Heather, I've got to meet Billy in the parking lot. Are you ready to do this? Do you need anything? Please tell me you're not gonna screw around."

  Heather had everything under control. "I'm okay. I'll climb into the costume in a couple of minutes and find a little kid to terrorize."

  "Hea—" but Donna recognized Heather's gotcha grin and caught herself before Heather got her all worked up over nothing.

  Donna cracked open the door and, blending in with a small crowd, made her way quickly toward the stadium exit. Meanwhile Heather checked out the latest in mascot-wear. Two nearly identical Skeeters hung in the closet. Giving them both the smell test, Heather selected the costume less overdue for the dry cleaners. There were still a few minutes until she would be expected in the stands, but she thought it might be fun to get off to a quick start. Treating herself to one last snort of schnapps, the woman who would be Skeeter walked over to the concession stand and got in line behind an unsuspecting father and son.

  Trying to act nonchalant while dressed as a giant mosquito, Heather patted the boy on the head before goosing the young boy's father. Dad spun around in anger, ready for a fight, when he spotted his gooser and laughed. Pulling out a camera, the man took two quick photos of Skeeter clowning around with his son. This is gonna be easy, Heather told herself, as she sauntered down the aisle, trailing a pack of young fans.

  While Heather was entertaining the pre-game fans, Donna made her way out to the parking lot without being seen. Skeeter employees were busy preparing for the final game of the season and the fans only knew Donna in costume. When Donna reached the lot it was nearly empty. Most of the fans were already inside the ballpark. The parking area was small enough for Donna quickly to canvass the lot. She was disappointed, but hardly surprised, to discover that Billy was missing in action. Donna moved to the far back of the lot, eager to avoid detection. Even in the nearly empty lot, she felt exposed. Out of uniform, she felt nearly naked. Still, no one bothered her. She had just enough time to finish a nervous cigarette, when Billy finally pulled up in his 4-Runner.

  "Is everything okay?" Billy wondered.

  "Yeah. I think so. Heather should be fine."

  Billy tried to picture Heather in the mosquito outfit. "I'd like to see Heather in the Skeeter suit."

  "Dammit, Billy." Donna spat the words out, her voice getting dangerously loud. "What is it with you and Heather?"

  Billy looked around the quiet lot. "Let's not do this now."

  Donna challenged Billy. "Do what now?"

  Billy pretended not to understand Donna's anger. "Let's just go, okay?"

  Donna stood there.

  "Dammit, Donna. Why does everything have to be such a big deal?"

  Donna stood there, afraid to move, unwilling to respond.

  Billy sat in the 4Runner.

  Donna folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not going out with you tonight."

  Billy took a deep breath, measured his words carefully. "I don't understand what's going on here, Donna. I don't understand what I did that pissed you off."

  Donna was tired of the games. "I like you, Billy. You know that. But you have to stop being such a jerk."

  Billy thought it over. "I'm going to the concert. You can get in the truck or you can stand there. It's your choice.

  Donna chose to stand there. "Then go."

  Donna stood, alone in the lot, and listened to the sounds of minor league baseball drifting from the ballpark. Unnoticed, Donna slipped back inside Sand Skeeter Stadium.

  She briefly considered trading places with Heather, but, of course, it was far too late to make the switch. Skeeter was standing in foul territory down the third base line, flinging t-shirts into the stands. Donna ducked into the mailroom, before she was noticed by any of her friends on staff.

  The mailroom was dark and deserted, unmanned in the evening, even on game day. Donna located the monitor and turned it on, a closed-circuit telecast of the ball game available in every office at the ballpark. When the cameras cut to Skeeter, she was pleased to see that Heather had warmed to the role. Donna had an out-of-body experience
watching Skeeter performing down on the ball field.

  When it came time for the dizzy bat race, Donna was finally able to relax in her hiding place in the mailroom. She was still angry with Billy for getting her into the situation, but at least Heather was believable as Skeeter. Donna was relieved that the masquerade was working. Other than her own guilty feelings and the damage to her relationship with Billy, nothing bad would come of her deception.

  Donna watched as Skeeter's dizzy bat rival was called down onto the infield. She watched as Skeeter and the fan both began to spin. To Donna's trained eye, Skeeter was unsteady even as she began to spin. Later, Donna would remember thinking that Heather was overplaying the scene. She watched as Skeeter and the fan began to wobble down the first base line. She watched as Skeeter careened off course, veering toward the pitcher's mound. So that's what I look like, Donna imagined, watching Skeeter teetering on the mound. She watched as Skeeter collapsed in a heap, as the trainer came out to assist. She watched as mock concern gave way to genuine panic on the pitcher's mound. Panic spread quickly throughout the ballpark, even into the mailroom, where Donna suddenly felt the room closing in on her. Flinging open the mailroom door, Donna tried to race out onto the field, instead running smack into an unsuspecting Madame Alexina.

  "Ow!" Madame Alexina rubbed her forehead. "I should have seen that coming." And she pushed Donna back inside the mailroom.

  In the silence of the mailroom, the women watched in horror as the EMTs swirled around Heather's lifeless form.

  Madame Alexina fixed her gaze on Donna, probing. "What's going on, Donna?"

  Donna turned off the TV monitor and sat in the mailroom, softly sobbing. "Is she going to be okay?"

  Madame Alexina tried to read the moment. "I don't know, Donna."

  "When she collapsed…Skeeter lying there like that…like it was me down there."

  "It's not your fault, Donna."

  Donna wouldn't meet her gaze.

  "Is it?"

  So Donna explained to Madame Alexina about the concert, about the masquerade and about her fight with Billy. "All I know is," Donna concluded, "that should be me down there."