Die Like an Eagle (29 page)

The Biff contingent had been muttering together busily all during the entertainment. From the little bits I'd overheard, they were debating whether there was any chance Mr. Witherington would let them nominate Biff or whether they should just put up a puppet candidate who would let Biff run things from behind the scenes. And I was a little worried, because while we'd all just expended a lot of energy making sure we could outvote them, the forces of good hadn't had any time to discuss who we wanted to vote for. Could we elect Lem Shiffley, and figure out later how much help he needed and who could provide it? Was there anyone else capable of running the league—even without the roadblocks Biff could be expected to throw his way? But while both the pro- and anti-Biff forces were still murmuring in clusters, Mr. Witherington called on someone who'd raised his hand—Will Entwhistle.

“This is the first league meeting I've managed to attend,” Will began. “Mainly because it's the first one anyone bothered to tell me about.”

Cheers and scattered applause from various parts of the room; glares from the Biff precincts.

“Preach it, kiddo!” Callie called from the back.

“I think better communications should be one of the goals of whoever we elect as the new president,” Will went on. More cheers. “Also better field maintenance and at least a status report on how much longer it's going to be before we get some of those improvements we've been promised for the last five or six years. I think we could get a lot of these things done if we had a president who was good at organizing things and communicating with people and getting them to do stuff. I think Lem Shiffley was going a great job till he took sick, and I hear he'd be willing to come back when he's better.”

“If he gets better,” one of the Biff supporters called out. “And we need a president now.”

“That we do,” Will said. “So I nominate Lem for president, and Meg Langslow for vice president, and that way I think we'll be pretty well covered no matter what happens.” With that he sat down.

“Hang on,” I was starting to say, but I was drowned out by calls of “I second that!” from various parts of the room.

“Don't worry,” Michael whispered. “We can get you lots of minions.”

“Don't worry,” Mother was whispering in my other ear. “Lem finishes his chemo in two weeks, and in the meantime I'm sure everyone in the family will be delighted to help out.”

So I gave up the idea of protesting and let them nominate me. After several hurried conferences, the Biff contingent nominated Adolph Pruitt, but Lem and I were elected by a landslide. Vince Wong was elected treasurer by an equally overwhelming margin.

Mr. Witherington congratulated the new officers, instructed the outgoing league officers to hand over all relevant files, records, equipment, and account information within the next twenty-four hours, and adjourned the meeting.

Not surprisingly, the defeated Biff supporters fled before either Vince or I could make arrangements for the handing over.

“Don't worry,” Mr. Witherington said, with a thin-lipped smile. “Summerball has dealt with this situation before.” Including the complication that the outgoing league president might end up either a victim of murder or on trial for it before the end of the season? “Meanwhile, we have a more pressing problem. It's raining outside.”

“Don't worry,” Randall said. “We've got a plan for the rain.”

We were standing under the awning in front of the Caerphilly Inn. Michael had dashed out in the rain to fetch the Twinmobile, scorning the bellhop's offer of an umbrella. Randall was about to do the same. Mr. Witherington, now ensconced in a room here at the Inn instead of the beastly Clay County Motor Lodge, wasn't going anywhere, but appeared to want to continue our discussion of how to deal with the rain.

And apart from waiting it out, how in the world does a baseball league deal with rain? Unless Randall had workmen already unfolding a giant economy-sized tarp to cover the entire field, tomorrow's games were probably going to be postponed. Maybe even Monday's games, given how badly our local red clay mud drained. Or was Randall planning to build a giant pipeline to channel the water elsewhere? California would probably love to have it, but I didn't think even Randall could pull that off by morning.

Randall must have noticed that I looked puzzled. Or maybe “alarmed” was the proper word.

“We can use big wet/dry vacs,” he said. “We literally suck the water up and dump it someplace where it will drain.”

“And there are several brands of absorbent clays that can be used to increase the drying,” Mr. Witherington said. “We can try to find some in the morning. Unless, of course, your league has laid in a supply, although that seems rather unlikely under the circumstances.”

“I'm pretty sure the league hasn't,” Randall said. “But the county has, so we're good. I'll line up some workmen who can get started at first light and send both of you an e-mail once I've got a plan.”

At first light. Nothing like hitting the ground running in my new job.

 

Chapter 23

I awoke to the dreaded sound of continuing rain. Only a drizzle, but a steady drizzle. And while it was still dark outside, someone had left the driveway light on, so when I peeked out the window I could see enough puddles to tell that it had been drizzling for some time. Or maybe pouring for part of the night.

I sighed, and pulled out my phone.

“Relax,” Michael mumbled from the bed. “No baseball this morning. Too wet.”

“You coaches and players can relax,” I said. “We acting league presidents have to worry about how much longer it's going to be raining, and whether there's any chance we can rescue tonight's games or at least tomorrow's.” Not to mention whether our predecessors were going to do anything to make the transition even more difficult.

“Don't fret; it's just for the time being,” Michael said. “I'm sure Lem will be back on the job before too long.”

Or if he wasn't, I had a couple of other ideas about people I could draft to take over for me. But for now …

“Can you take care of the boys today while I focus on baseball?” I asked.

“Sure thing.”

I threw on some old clothes and headed downstairs. To my surprise, no one else was up—not even Rose Noire, who usually had breakfast ready long before I came downstairs.

Of course, I didn't usually come downstairs at a little before six.

“Good grief,” I muttered. “The sun isn't even up yet.”

And wouldn't be for another half hour, according to the weather app on my phone. Which also predicted scattered showers off and on all day.

I stuck a slice of bread in the toaster, grabbed some leftover fruit salad, and used my phone to check my e-mail. Apparently Randall Shiffley and Jim Witherington were also already up and planning to meet at the field at dawn. And I was invited if I wanted to come.

“Meet you there,” I replied.

I had other e-mails from various parents and coaches. I glanced through them as I wolfed down my fruit and toast. Nothing that couldn't wait until after I inspected the field.

And no reason not to head there immediately, I decided.

The road was slick, and in a few places puddles spread most of the way across its surface. I was pleased to see that the baseball field's parking lot was in good shape—it would have been a sea of mud if Randall's crew and the volunteers hadn't spread all that gravel Friday night.

Unfortunately the field
was
a sea of mud. A sea of mud with ambitions of becoming a pond.

And there was someone standing by the backstop staring out at it. Biff.

He didn't look up when I drove up—just stood there, fingers twined in the chain link, staring. He was wearing an industrial gray rain poncho over jeans. The poncho had a hood, but it was pushed back, and his Yankees cap looked sodden, as if he'd been standing there in the rain for some time.

He wasn't wearing the wretched windbreaker with the tracker in its pocket, or if he was, it was well hidden under the poncho. Probably just as well. The sight of the windbreaker might have tempted me to get out and see if I could pick his pocket. A temptation I hoped I'd have resisted, since he was still very much a murder suspect. Instead, I turned my car engine off and sat there, watching him, until a truck pulled into the parking lot.

Two tall forms in rain slickers got out and began unloading equipment from the bed of the truck. The men looked familiar—in fact, they looked like two of Randall's many cousins—so I got out and sloshed over to greet them.

“We're here to work on the field,” one of them said.

“Work on it how?” I asked.

“Wet/dry vac,” he said. “The more water we can suck up, the faster the field will dry. Is he going to hassle us about doing it?”

He was pointing to Biff.

“I doubt it.” I shook my head. “He's not in charge anymore. And if he tries, I'm here. Tell him to talk to me about it.”

He nodded. Both of them hefted their wet/dry vacs—enormous black-and-yellow objects that looked like giant mutant vacuum cleaners—and trudged out onto the field.

Biff didn't try to interfere with them, just stood there staring. I strolled over to see him. Not that I was eager to talk with Biff, but we had things to discuss, and I figured this might be one of my best chances to do so.

He didn't turn around, but I suspected he knew I was there. He hunched his shoulders a little higher and pulled his cap a little farther over his eyes, but he didn't leave.

“Morning,” I said, when I reached his side.

“Come to gloat?” he asked.

“No.” I leaned against the fence in a pose that echoed his, watching the Shiffleys vacuuming up puddles. A seemingly thankless task, since the drizzle still continued. Already one Shiffley had stopped to carry a bag full of water off the field and through the parking lot so he could empty it into a drainage ditch that ran along the road.

Biff and I stood there for a few minutes, side by side, in what with anyone else would have felt like companionable silence. If I glanced to my left, I could see him, hunched a little away from me.

“I don't want to bother you in the middle of the holiday weekend,” I began.

“Then don't,” he said.

“I'd be happy not to, provided you make an appointment to see me on Tuesday and promise to show up. It's been six weeks since Randall assigned me to be the contact between your company and the county government, and so far you've ducked every call and visit I've made.”

“Didn't have anything to report.”

“You don't have any progress to report,” I said. “I can see that every time I drive through the town square. But that doesn't mean you don't need to talk to me.”

“Look,” he said, whirling around to face me, “I've had labor problems and materials problems and weather problems, so I haven't started the job yet. But it won't take more than a week to do the work, and there's still four weeks till Memorial Day, so why don't you quit badgering me?”

“Now was that so hard?” I said, keeping my tone as mild as possible. “If you'd called me back that first Monday morning I left a message, and said that—well, said it in a slightly less combative tone—I'd have left you alone for the rest of the week. Think of how much more relaxing your week would have been without me calling every day. And then if the next Monday you'd called to say that you still hadn't been able to start the job, but it was on your schedule—and even better, given me the tentative start date—I'd probably have left you alone for the rest of that week, too. It's not just about getting the work done, it's also about keeping the customer happy.”

“We all have our own ways of doing business,” he said.

“Yours doesn't get many repeat customers,” I said.

“Is that a threat?”

“Call it a helpful observation.”

“Bet you'll take the ball field away from me, too,” he said.

I glanced down at the field in front of us. Under the puddles, the outfield was still a patchwork of crabgrass and bare red clay—more red clay than yesterday, thanks to all the hole filling and hill leveling. The infield was now all red clay—well, red clay and water at the moment—though at least it, too, was now a lot more level. The only thing that really made me feel better about how the field looked was that Randall had already calculated how much sod would be needed to replace the clay and crabgrass with lush green turf and penciled the work in on the Shiffley Construction Company's calendar to start the day after the playoffs. And if Biff tried to claim the work for his company—well, once the county attorney finished her study of the contract, then yes, we probably were going to take the ball field away from him.

“It could use some work from somebody,” I said aloud.

“Well, you can do what you want,” he said. “It's your league now.”

“No, it's not,” I said.

“It's not?” He looked at me with a curious expression on his face, hope visible through the gloomy scowl.

“It's not my league,” I said. “It's our league. It belongs to you and me and everyone who has a kid in the league or maybe just loves baseball and wants to help make the league as great as possible.”

“You'll see,” he said. “They'll drive you crazy. They've all got their own damn fool ideas about how things should run.”

“Maybe some of those ideas are good,” I suggested. “Or maybe they're not, but if nobody tries them or even listens to them, how will we know?”

He shook his head and snorted slightly.

“So the league's not your personal fiefdom anymore,” I said. “Never was, for that matter—but you still have a voice. What do you want for the league? What's your vision?”

I expected bluster and bombast, a passionate defense of how much better equipped he was to run the league. Instead he sighed and swept his gaze around the field.