Prairie Hardball (12 page)

When Andy went to the RCMP detachment that morning, the receptionist buzzed him through the inner door before he could state his business.

“Good morning, Inspector Munro. I hear that you’re one of us,” she said. “From the big city. The big,
big
city. Here to show us how?”

“I’m sure no one here needs any showing.”

She got up from the desk and came around it with her hand extended in greeting. She was what is generously described as a “big-boned gal” in the prairies, with her red hair buzzed short. She wore open-toed sandals with her tailored slacks and shirt, and her toenails were painted an incongruous hot-pink.

“Anything I can do to help, let me know,” she said, as they shook hands. “The name’s Brenda Rasminsky, but everybody calls me Bambi.”

Andy thanked her while trying to recall if he had ever encountered anyone less fawnlike in his life.

“The boys are waiting on you in the GIS office,” she continued. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Three sugars, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, you’re a cop. It’s not like sugar’s the biggest risk you’re ever going to take in your life. I’ll bring the coffee on in. I’m just brewing a fresh pot.”

“Thanks. Thanks, uh, Bambi. I appreciate it.”

“After this, you fetch your own,” she said.

“Always do.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said.

He went to the General Investigation Section, checking his watch on the way. They weren’t due to start the meeting until ten, and he made it five minutes to.

Deutsch looked up when he rapped on the doorjamb.

“Morning,” he said, abruptly. “You can take the desk in the corner there for now. Then we can get this thing going.”

Andy did as he was told, trying not to get annoyed by the chip on his colleague’s shoulder. He sat at the desk and looked around the room at the rest of the assembled team, which consisted of Corporal Hugh Grenfell and Constables Louis Tremblay and Dewey Resnick. A large work table had been cleared off for the investigation, with file folders and racks set up and ready to fill. A stack of index cards sat next to an empty metal box. Two laminated whiteboards leaned against the wall, their markers attached by strings.

A few minutes after Andy arrived, Inspector Digby and Staff Sergeant Morris came in and sat down.

“All right, gentleman,” Digby said. “What have you got for us? I’ve already got the press on my ass, local, national, and the U.S. I’d really like to get this one solved fast.”

“You’re not the only one,” Deutsch said.

The meeting was pretty much like the ones Andy was used to in Toronto, except that there he was the one in charge. Deutsch started by going over the physical evidence at the scene and the pathologist’s report.

“Death took place at the Hall, not elsewhere. It was, as we thought, caused by ligature strangulation, since there were no fingerprints or cuts on her throat. The killer used a piece of cloth of some sort, something soft, not a rope, not a wire. They picked up fibres from her neck. There were also contusions and bruising behind the ear, so we think she was knocked unconscious first. We’ve taken all the bats from the hall for fingerprinting, but I don’t have much hope there. Too many people have touched them over the years.”

“What about elsewhere in the Hall?”

“We got all sorts of prints from around the organ, but we have the same problem with those. It’s a public place.”

He flipped a few pages in the report.

“We’ve taken the seal off the Hall, by the way. Dave Shury called this morning to ask if that woman from Toronto could go in and do some research. Munro’s friend.”

“She’s there now,” Andy said. “Working on an article about the league.”

“I hope that’s all she’s working on. You said yesterday that she has a habit of interfering with investigations.”

“She has promised that if she comes up with anything that might have a bearing on the case she’ll pass it along,” Andy said, a bit defensively. “She’s looking into the history of the league and some of the women who were here. If this murder has its roots in the past, she might find them in those old files. If not, at least she’s out of our hair.”

Deutsch grunted and continued his report.

“There were no real surprises in the autopsy. Blood alcohol was high, .14, almost twice the legal limit, but we already knew that she’d had a few. Stomach contents confirm that her last meal was the one served at the banquet that night.”

“Did it give him any reading on time of death?” Andy asked.

“I don’t know what pathologists are like in your neck of the woods, but ours is super-cautious. Based on gastric testing and degree of rigor, he’s given us a wide enough time margin to actually include the last time she was seen alive and when she was found.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Morris said.

“What about the other physical evidence?” Digby asked. “Any blood? Anything we can get DNA from?”

“The only blood was probably her own, from the head injury,” Deutsch said. “Same blood type. No signs of struggle, no skin under the fingernails. We have some hairs, of different types. But they could be from any time.”

“The public place problem again,” Morris said.

“And a public place that isn’t exactly a laboratory at the best of times,” Grenfell added. “Old Morley Timms is the caretaker, and he just gives it a sweep or a mop when the mood takes him.”

“Check when he cleaned it last,” Deutsch said. Grenfell made a note.

“We did find one thing that might be significant. A button. Like from a suit jacket. With any luck, we can match it if we find a suspect.”

“If, if, if,” Digby said. “Any indication of the kind of strength required to strangle someone like this? Could it have been a woman? An old woman? Is that possible?”

“Pathologist thinks so. Especially since she was unconscious at the time. All someone would have to do is give her that bop on the head. After that she’s not going to be resisting.”

“But the murderer would have to lift her body onto the piano stool, there. That takes some strength.”

“We can probably rule out the one with the walker,” Deutsch said. “And that one who’s all crippled up.”

“That would be Edna Summers and Shirley Goodman,” Andy said. “Then there’s Mrs. Deneka, who is a few marbles short of a bag.”

“Come on, I can’t see one of those old biddies doing it,” Resnick said, impatiently.

“They can’t be ruled out if the motive is in the past,” Andy pointed out.

“That’s a big if,” Resnick said. Tremblay shot a look at Andy to see how he’d react to this insubordination. He didn’t.

“Let’s get back to work,” Deutsch said. “You all did good work yesterday, which may or may not turn out to be relevant. Now we expand the investigation. Tremblay, Resnick, you’ll concentrate on finding as many of the people who were in the bar Saturday night as you can. You can use some of the uniforms for legwork. I want them all tracked down. Start with the bartender. He’ll know who the regulars were. Hugh, you go back to the hotel and talk to any hotel guest who was there that night, whether or not they are connected with the Hall of Fame thing. Someone might have seen or heard something. Door to door. Get back to me as soon as you can. Any questions?”

No one volunteered. They got to their feet, not looking happy about the drudgery that faced them, and headed out the door.

“What do you want me to do?” Andy asked.

“You and I are going to go through those interviews from yesterday and look for that motive from the past. If that’s all right with you.”

“I agree that’s a good place to look,” Andy said, unsure if he had read sarcasm in Deutsch’s voice. “Just because one of her teammates didn’t do it, it doesn’t mean they weren’t involved.”

“Or they know something they’re not telling. Let’s get another coffee and get started. Where do you want to start?”

“With the son. Jack Wilton.”

“You like him?”

“Closest to the victim,” Andy said. “As good a place to begin as any.”

“Tell you what. I’ll go through one stack, you go through another, then we’ll switch and talk about it.”

“You mentioned coffee,” Andy said.

“I’ll show you where the pot’s kept. Come with me.”

Andy followed him down the hall to the lunchroom, which was empty. They filled two cups, added sugar, and went back up the hall.

They spent the next hour reading files, doing the boring routine work out of which blinding insights sometimes come.

Andy picked me up at one o’clock with the news that he couldn’t have lunch with me, but he drove me back to the hotel. He went to the room to pick up his address book, and I went looking for my parents. I knew they had planned to meet Edna by the pool for lunch and I found them all there. I told them about my morning’s researches.

“Did you know that Wilma Elshaw once planned to marry Morley Timms?”

“That peculiar round fellow?” my father asked. “She was engaged to him?”

“According to an article in her files, yes.”

“I’m not sure I knew about that,” my mother said. “If I did, I’d forgotten.”

“Did her relationship with Virna get in the way?” I pressed. This was no time for my mother’s delicacy. “Did she break it off with him because she became a lesbian?”

“Dear, we don’t know that, do we? She and Virna might have been just good friends.”

“Mum, I’ve seen the photos. Once she got out from under the charm-school rules of the league, she was butch city.”

“There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“I’m sorry, but this could be significant. He could have been holding a grudge against Virna all these years.”

“But that fellow is obviously harmless,” my father said.

“But this gives him the motive, don’t you see? Who could I ask about this who would know why the wedding got called off? Maybe I’ll ask Garth Elshaw. He would know.”

“Do you think you should be asking him things like that about his own sister?” my mother asked.

“Well, someone in town must know?”

“Why don’t you leave it to Andy and the other officers,” my father said.

“Leave what to Andy?” he asked, appearing as if by magic next to the table.

“Hello, Andy, pull up a chair,” Edna said. “Kate’s tracked down a hot clue.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked. “Thanks, but I can’t stay. What do you think you’ve got now, Kate?”

I explained about Morley Timms and Wilma Elshaw.

“No, we didn’t know that,” he said. “At least I didn’t. I’ll pass the word along.”

He checked his watch.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

“How’s the investigation going?” Edna asked.

“Just plugging along,” he said.

“No convenient dramatic confessions like they get on television?” I asked.

“No such luck, just a bunch of bored cops going door to door and shuffling paper.”

“Aren’t you staying for lunch?” Edna asked.

“There’s a sandwich waiting at the office,” he said. “If you want the car, Kate, you can drive me back there.”

“No, I’ve got material to work with here. That’s all right. That place gives me the creeps, anyway.”

“If you need a car, you can borrow ours, Kate,” my father said, then addressed Andy. “Will you be having supper with us?”

“I might not be through in time. I’ll have to let you know.”

“Before six, mind you,” my mother said.

“Of course,” Andy smiled.

“And if you’re not ready, I can wait for you,” I said.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting for your food. I might not be finished until after seven.”

I was the only one who saw his wink.

After lunch, feeling too restless to work on my article, I did borrow my parents’ car and drove into Battleford. It was a hot, dry day, with wind swirling the dust in the parking lot next to the Fred Light museum. I parked and wandered to the back of the lot to look down at the North Saskatchewan River curving in the valley below. It was pretty. I could see a baseball game in progress on a diamond in the riverside park, too far away for me to follow it, but I stood awhile and watched the familiar patterns. It was soothing.

A small brown puppy, which had been doing some fearless hunting in the underbrush, ran over to investigate the stranger, decided he liked her, and jumped up to offer friendship. I took a stick and threw it for him to fetch. It was a game he clearly knew, and one I tired of before he did. I decided to tour the museum, for lack of anything more interesting to do. The puppy followed me hopefully to the door, stick in mouth. I threw it for him one more time, then feeling vaguely guilty, slipped into the museum and shut the door behind me.

I don’t know why Saskatchewan has so many local museums, but there’s hardly a town that doesn’t have some sort of repository of its history. I’ve been to a few of them over the years, and they have a reassuring similarity. The Fred Light, evidently named for the man whose collection began the museum, followed the same sort of pattern. There was a room done up like an old general store, with long-forgotten products and laughably low prices on the shelves. Then there was a kitchen and a parlour with their displays of household items; an old doctor’s office with scary-looking implements; a railway station waiting room, with a mannequin dressed as a conductor. I wandered through the military history gallery, with uniforms from both world wars as well as from the old fort, and the adjacent room celebrating the area’s native history, reflecting on the irony of the juxtaposition of those two cultures of mutual distrust.

I was the only visitor, and the silence was welcome and contemplative. While I peered into cases, I let my mind wander over the events of the past few days, and the people I had met.

Edna was my favourite. Her enthusiasm, energy, and humour were all so contagious that even my mother lightened up around her. Shirley Goodman, on the other hand, was a self-centred old bore who deserved being married to that fat little creep of a husband. Meg Deneka’s combination of sweetness and bawdiness was startlingly wonderful, and I was half in love with her devoted big guy. It would have been nice to have known her before she began “talking to the birdies,” as Edna had put it.

And, of course, Virna. Virna of the practical jokes; Virna with the nerve to show up at the banquet in her old uniform; Virna, the biggest star the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League ever had; Virna, the generous-spirited woman who gave such a gracious speech at the banquet; Virna, life of the party in the bar; Virna, the mother who inspired such devotion in her son; but also Virna of the scrapbooks, egocentric, self-serving, and vain; and finally, Virna the “unnatural” woman whose remains now lay in the indignity of the forensic laboratory in Regina. Why? Find the why and you’ve got the who. That’s what Andy always says.

I was just heading out of the museum, when I was hailed by the volunteer at the museum’s desk.

“Have you signed the guest book?”

I went to the desk and reached for the pen.

“I have to get everyone to sign in so we get our grant every year,” she said. She was a large, red-faced woman in a sleeveless dress, with the broad, placid face of a peasant from a Brueghel painting, except for her tight curls of an improbable strawberry-blonde. Her name badge identified her as Gladys Bieber.

“We have to prove we had the visitors,” she went on, rather breathlessly. I didn’t dare disobey. After I’d signed, she turned it around.

“Toronto, eh? What brings you to Battleford?”

I explained about the Hall of Fame induction, which perked her right up.

“Oh, where that woman got murdered,” she said, gleefully. “That’s a terrible thing. Just terrible.”

She looked at me, expectantly.

“Yes, it was terrible,” I said, trying to edge towards the door.

“Did you know the dead woman?”

Curiosity gleamed from her little blue eyes.

“I had just met her the day of the banquet, but my mother knew her. They used to play on the same team.”

“Did she, now? For the Racine Belles? Then she must have played with Wilma Elshaw, too.”

“Yes, she did. Did you know Wilma?”

“I went all the way through school with Wilma Elshaw. We were best friends.”

I let go of the door handle.

“Were you, now?” I asked.