A Minor Case of Murder Page 8

  That night Andy dreamt of business and baseball, of boardwalks and ballparks, of bankers, barristers and birders. His dream was all jumbled, birders taking batting practice, bankers in blue serge suits, in the salt marsh, in the moonlight, listening for the plaintive doo-wop of the migratory water fowl, and everywhere there was one dead mascot, in the salt marsh, on the boardwalk, in the ballpark. No matter where his dream jumped next, the dead mascot would be there, waiting for him, dead mascot walking, night of the living dead mascot.

  By morning, Andy had made his decision. The team would hold a contest in the off-season. He would ask his fans to choose a new name for the baseball team and with the new name, a new mascot and a new beginning. It was time to say goodbye to Skeeter. Andy retrieved the duffel bag from the trunk of his Lexus. In his boxer shorts and t-shirt, Andy carried the duffel bag to the rock wall overlooking the chill Atlantic surf.

  Without trying, Andy remembered the good times … Skeeter greeting fans on game days, signing autographs, playing catch with the kids, making public appearances at shopping malls and car dealerships, the fans buzzing with excitement for the team's unlikely goodwill ambassador, a mosquito.

  Andy unzipped the duffel bag, carefully withdrawing the costume. "Goodbye, little feller." Andy was relieved that no one was there as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

  And with that, Andy tossed the costume over the rock wall. He watched as Skeeter rode the waves, gradually washing out to sea, slowly sinking in the offshore surf. Andy watched as the costume gradually disappeared and then he watched the ocean, fixing on the spot where Skeeter succumbed to the inevitable. Andy turned and walked back inside his oceanfront home.

  Andy lived in a digital world, a world of stark choices and powerful consequences. In order that minor league baseball might survive in WhiteSandsBeach, Skeeter would not be returning for a second season.

  The Fatal Combination

  Perhaps it was nothing more than the new waitress, but Cassie felt like a stranger at the Eggery. She put down her menu and stared across the table at Cheyenne. "Has it really only been a week?" Cheyenne tried to remember the last time she saw Cassie. "I guess. You know, I saw you on TV." Cassie tried without success to flag down the waitress, still waiting for her first cup of coffee.

  "TV?" Cheyenne nodded. "You were on the news. Well, not you really … the mascot … the dizzy bat race." "You want to—grr—order breakfast, yes?" Startled by the unexpected growl, Cassie looked up. The first thing she noticed about the waitress

  was her eyes. They bounced around on her face like ships pulled loose from their moorings. "A short stack of blueberry pancakes and a cup of coffee."

  Cheyenne examined the fortyish woman waiting to take her order, the pain of standing apparent on her overly made-up face. She felt sorry for the prematurely gray lady with the crazy eyes and aching feet. "And I'd like a fried egg sandwich and coffee."

  "I'll—grr—be right back with the coffee." And with that, the waitress turned and walked off. Cassie watched her all the way back into the kitchen. "That was odd." Cheyenne was more accepting of the waitress's growl. "I wonder if she's registered to vote." Cassie had nearly forgotten. "Geez, Cheyenne, that's right. What's the latest on the campaign?" Cheyenne grinned. "They say it's dead even." Cassie was impressed. "Yeah?" "Yeah. They say it's gonna come down to the last debate." "No matter how it turns out, Chey, I want you to know that I'm really proud of you."

  Cheyenne was proud of her campaign, but that's not why she had agreed to meet Cassie for breakfast. A mayoral election was routine. It happened in Doah every two years, but it had been more than a decade since there'd been a man in Cassie's life. "Thanks, Cassie, but what I really want to know is, what's going on with you and Andy?"

  The waitress reappeared with their coffee. Cassie waited while she poured them each a cup. "Your food—grr—will be right out."

  Cassie took a deep draft of coffee before proceeding. "I think I'm in love."

  "That's wonderful, Cassie." Cheyenne paused. "It is wonderful, right?"

  Cassie grinned. "Yes, Chey, it's wonderful."

  The two ladies picked at their breakfasts and talked, old friends catching up on new love, until finally the conversation made its way back to the baseball game.

  "Anyway," Cheyenne wanted to know, "what the hell happened during the dizzy bat race?"

  "She collapsed … heat stroke. Apparently it's not a good idea to drink large quantities of peppermint schnapps before zipping yourself into a mosquito suit and spinning around in circles on a night of record high temperatures."

  Cheyenne considered the fatal combination. "You'd think she'd know that after a full season as mascot."

  Cassie explained. "That's the strange part. The girl who died wasn't the regular mascot."

  Cheyenne thought everything about the dead woman on the pitcher's mound was strange. "What happened to the regular mascot?"

  "I don't know what happened to Donna." Andy MacTavish wondered whether his attorney believed him. "I wish I did, but I don't." Mr. Garibaldi was an extraordinarily large man with unusually small feet. Years of litigation experience and a wardrobe of hand-tailored three-piece suits gave the attorney a command of the space that he inhabited, even when he was squeezed into a narrow booth at Cubby's for a breakfast meeting with his most successful client.

  Donna's disappearance had made Andy uneasy, but he failed to see that he bore any responsibility. "Am I in any trouble here?"

  "Criminally, no, I don't think so. The police are satisfied that Ms. Dean's death was accidental."

  The corpulent attorney paused to rearrange himself in the cramped breakfast booth. "Civil litigation is another matter entirely. The family will surely want to know why their daughter was filling in for your regular mascot."

  Andy was nodding as his attorney spoke. "Me too. One girl dead, another girl missing … it's not the best publicity for the Sand Skeeters … not good for business … not our image …" Andy lapsed into silence.

  Mr. Garibaldi cringed. "No. I would think not. That's why it's so important that we find Ms. Donna Carter. Isn't she your kid brother's girlfriend?"

  "No, I mean we used to date sometimes, but I broke up with her." Billy was naked, lying in bed, spending a few postcoital minutes getting to know the girl he had spent the night with, before easing her out of the apartment. He looked her straight in the eye as he answered, so that she might read his lips.

  Billy took stock. She was a skinny girl, not really his type, more angles than curves, her red hair cut short, and her face freckled. She was not a pretty girl, he decided, but still Billy found her appearance pleasing. Her name was Sheila, he remembered, or Shirley.

  Cheryl purred, her tone thick with sex and conductive hearing loss. "Either way, Billy. It's okay, you know?" As if to demonstrate just how okay, she took his hand and placed it between her legs. "Let's do it again, okay?"

  Billy knew it would be more difficult to get her out of his apartment, if he couldn't get her out of his bed. It was a classic example of Newtonian physics. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. A body at rest … Billy tried to calculate the pressure that would be needed to bid farewell to Sheila … or Shirley.

  His hand between her legs, Billy tried counting with his fingers. Cheryl squirmed, marveling at the mathematical precision of his touch. She did not share Billy's grasp of Newtonian physics, but she was not without talents of her own. Her hand resting lightly between Billy's legs, Cheryl practiced finger spelling, demonstrating for Billy why sign language is truly the language of love.

  Still, there came a moment later that morning, Cheryl in her panties and t-shirt, brewing coffee in the kitchen, that Billy again debated how to get her out of his apartment. He could be brutally honest, but it seemed unfair, even to Billy, to force her to lip-read rejection. Unfair and, as it happens, unnecessary. Cheryl pulled on her blue jeans, poured herself a cup of coffee and turned to ask Billy a question.

  "Do you think you could giv
e me a ride home?"

  "I don't think I can do that." Spit put down his coffee, waiting for Donna's reaction.

  Stepping outside, Donna surveyed the receding floodwaters. Tidal pools dotted the landscape, but there had been no new rain for two days. The sedge grass was peeking out above the water line, and the path to the mainland had mostly resurfaced. "It looks safe enough to me."

  Spit had made a promise to Madame Alexina to keep Donna safe. He knew that the submerged sections of the path would be treacherous. And neither of them knew what dangers awaited Donna's return to the mainland. "Soon maybe, but not yet. Give it time."

  Donna exploded. "Time! I've been cooped up two days already. If I look at another jigsaw puzzle, I'll …" Donna sputtered to a halt, before her words cut any deeper.

  "I'm sorry, Spit. I didn't mean … you know what I mean …"

  Spit forced himself to smile. "Yeah … it's okay. I guess this place is kinda hard on you, huh?"

  Donna laughed. "It is sorta strange out here. Like I'm Mary Ann and this is Gilligan's Island."

  Spit relaxed, smiling for real now. "And that would make me who? The Professor? Could I be the Professor? I always wanted to be the Professor."

  "Okay, Professor," Donna inquired, "what's your plan for getting me off Gilligan's Island?"

  "My plan?" But Spit had a plan and he shared it with Donna. "I'm gonna wait for Madame Alexina."

  Tin Can Aliens with Their Cardboard Death Rays

  The campaign rally had already started when Cassie pulled her car up to the entrance to Wehnke's Woods. The tiny parking area was filled beyond capacity; cars spilled out onto the road, parking on the shoulder on both sides of the narrow roadway. Cassie waited for a spot on the shoulder, pulling off the road far enough for traffic to safely pass. Locking her car, Cassie walked along the footpath to the clearing in the woods. Cheyenne was standing on a makeshift platform, speaking to a crowd of some fifty supporters and perhaps as many as a dozen undecided voters.

  "My friends," and looking out at the crowd Cheyenne knew they were her friends, "I want to thank you for coming out today to this lovely spot to discuss the future of DoahTownship."

  The crowd murmured in approval.

  "Big Jim wants you to believe that development will run amok if I am elected mayor." Holding out her arm, Cheyenne invited the crowd to consider the vista, a spokes-model for open space. "Does this look like development run amok?"

  From the crowd, Cassie heard a chorus of "No," and a chant, "Cheyenne for Mayor."

  Cheyenne allowed the chant to build for a moment before continuing with her speech.

  "Some of you are probably aware that my company donated this lovely spot, this undeveloped land, to the township. There was a time when the mayor and I saw eye to eye on the subject of responsible development. There was a time when the mayor understood that development and open space were not in conflict. There was a time when the mayor believed that responsible development contributed to quality of life."

  Cassie marveled at the power and grace of Cheyenne's delivery.

  "There was a time when the mayor believed that developers and local governing bodies could partner to enhance that quality of life." Cheyenne paused for effect.

  "But that was before the mayor realized he might lose the election." Cheyenne played the crowd, allowing the cheers to build before continuing to make her case.

  Gesturing vaguely toward the woods, Cheyenne again adopted her best spokes-model pose. "Look out on the beauty of these woods. When you hear Big Jim's friends attack me because I'm a developer, remember this spot. If Big Jim wants to make this race about development, so be it."

  The crowd again began to chant, "Cheyenne for Mayor."

  As Cheyenne returned to her stump speech, Cassie was distracted by the appearance of a crew from the public works department unloading equipment from the back of a municipal truck parked at the edge of the woods. Cassie watched with interest, but at such a distance, she could not be certain what the crew was up to. As far as she could tell, no one else in the crowd was bothered by the work crew. Cassie continued watching as the crew made its way toward the rally. At close range now, Cassie recognized their activity, wondering why the public works department was taking soil samples in Wehnke's Woods.

  No one else seemed to be paying attention to the activity of the work crew until they began to hang yellow "Do Not Cross" tape among the trees. Cheyenne continued to talk about her plans and her priorities, but when the work crew began marking the area with biohazard signage, her audience began pointing and shouting, supporters and undecided voters alike rushing off to find their automobiles. Everyone but Cheyenne, Cassie and the work crew itself bade a hasty retreat from the suddenly toxic campaign rally.

  Cassie confronted the crew. "What the hell is going on here?" But no one answered.

  Cheyenne, visibly shaken by the abrupt end of her rally, stepped down from the makeshift platform. "Who's in charge here?"

  The men on the work crew scuffed their boots in the dirt, waiting for their supervisor to respond. Finally he decided to explain. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we have reason to believe that the soil is contaminated."

  Cheyenne forced herself not to scream, responding instead in measured tones. "This is bullshit."

  The supervisor again apologized. "I'm sorry, ma'am … public safety." With that, the supervisor turned to leave, walking quickly back to the truck, his crew following like ducklings all in a row.

  The woods had emptied save for Cassie and Cheyenne. Cassie felt sorry for her best friend and would-be mayor. "C'mon, Chey, let's get out of here. We can go to my condo. I'll get us a pizza."

  Cheyenne surveyed the clearing, as though she might still find a reason to continue the rally.

  Cassie nudged Cheyenne. "C'mon, Chey. I'll make some phone calls."

  Cheyenne made no move to leave. "But I'm not done yet."

  "I'm sorry, Chey. We'll get to the bottom of this." And with that, the two ladies turned and walked back to their cars.

  Flipping channels, Cheyenne found a low-budget, sci-fi adventure flick and watched for a moment before flipping channels. She watched as tin-can aliens with cardboard death rays launched an attack on Planet Earth, and nothing stood between them and the domination of all humankind but a too-earnest nerd scientist and his ingénue assistant in her high heels, torn skirt and imitation pearls. Cassie was standing at the open refrigerator, getting a beer to wash down the slice of pepperoni pizza, when she stopped dead in her tracks, halfway to a Heineken, stopped by the image on her television. "They weren't wearing any protective gear, Chey."

  Cheyenne was surprised by Cassie's criticism of the movie. "C'mon, Cassie, you've got to watch the movie on its own terms."

  Cassie tried to explain. "Not the movie, Chey. Today. In the woods. They weren't wearing gloves, or masks, or anything."

  Cheyenne waited for Cassie to continue.

  "If the public works crew believed that there were biohazards in the soil, don't you think they'd be more careful about their own exposure?"

  Cheyenne wondered how far the mayor was willing to go to hold on to his position in town. "What happened out there? Do you think the mayor …"

  Cassie didn't wait for Cheyenne to finish the question. "Of course it was the mayor." Cassie thought for a moment. "It's time to take the gloves off, Chey. Time to take him down."

  Dizzy Bat, Inc.

  Andy MacTavish loved coming to the ballpark in the off-season, walking through the deserted ballpark like walking on the beach in winter, a universe of one, the skeleton staff only serving to draw attention to the general emptiness in the ballpark, alone in the chill morning air, barren and desolate, with faint memories of hot summer days and the veiled promise of more to come. Andy walked past the deserted concession stands: no hot dogs today, no soda, just the sweet smell of phantom peanuts wafting through the stands. He walked through the field-level seats, empty, and out onto the field. Andy walked the outfield, stopping in right, prete
nding to play the carom off the wall, fielding the ball cleanly, whirling and throwing, out at second. He walked the infield, careful to avoid the pitcher's mound and the memories lurking in the raised circle of dirt. Andy walked off the field, through the dugout and the empty locker room, and on into the empty team office. Andy was surprised, in the empty stadium, to find the birder, Mrs. Patterson, in her wool plaid business separates, waiting for him at the office door.

  "Excuse me, Mr. MacTavish?"

  "Mrs. Patterson, isn't it? I'm sorry; did we have an appointment today?"

  Mrs. Patterson smiled. "This will just take a moment of your time. I'm here as a courtesy, Mr. MacTavish."

  Andy understood immediately that no matter how courteous Mrs. Patterson's demeanor, her visit was in no way one of courtesy. "In that case, please come in."

  Mrs. Patterson entered the office, sitting down, her back ramrod-straight. No one in WhiteSandsBeach, not even the Coast Guard cadets, had posture stiff as Mrs. Patterson. Still, Andy noted, she looked comfortable.

  "I'll try to be brief, Mr. MacTavish. It's no secret that my group and I were opposed to the construction of a ballpark in this location."

  "With all due respect, Mrs. Patterson, I believe we have agreed to disagree on that issue."

  Mrs. Patterson, however, was not done disagreeing. "With all due respect, Mr. MacTavish, we have not agreed with you about anything. And now, in light of your recent difficulties, we are renewing our call to prohibit minor league baseball in this location."

  Andy knew it was pointless to argue. "Surely you didn't come here today just to tell me that you still object to my baseball team."

  Mrs. Patterson bristled. "Do not misunderstand me, sir. I am not opposed to your baseball team. I am opposed to the location for your team. Put your little team in Camden or in Wildwood. Put your team in Mt.Holly or in Asbury Park. I do not care. As I have already indicated, sir, I am here as a courtesy to advise you that my group will be holding a press conference to bring greater attention to the dangers associated with locating your enterprise here." With that, Mrs. Patterson pulled herself up even straighter, a drill sergeant in glen plaid, and marched out of Andy's office.