Murder at the Ballpark

by owlcroft

It's up to Hardcastle and McCormick to solve a murder at a baseball stadium. McCormick goes undercover while the judge keeps an eye out for nasty curves. Will they swing and miss? Or knock it out of the park?

A/N: A belated posting of a Virtual Season 4 "episode". If anyone is curious, our website still exists if you just search for Hardcastle McCormick Virtual Season 4.

MURDER AT THE BALLPARK

by

Owlcroft

ACT I:

The sun shone brightly, the light breeze filtered through the flags – United States and California – out in center field, the hum of the crowd rose to a roar as the Southern California Sailors took the field. The public address announcer welcomed the fans and ran down the starting line-up, the home plate umpire beckoned to the Portland Traders' lead-off batter, and the pitcher, a hardened veteran at age twenty-nine, looked in for the sign. He nodded, briefly, then went into his wind-up and threw a fast ball that caught the outside of the plate for a called strike one as the crowd screamed frenziedly. The Sailors' 1987 season had officially begun.

Vendors moved up and down the steps and around the concourses. Ushers and usherettes led late-arriving ticket-holders to their seats, fans leapt to their feet and waved their arms frantically as the Sailors pushed two runs across in the second inning. The Traders fought back, though, with single runs in the fourth and seventh innings. A Sailors' rally in the eighth died when the Traders turned a nifty double play, but the Traders got a runner to third with one out in the top of the ninth.

Hank Brickman, the Sailors' manager, walked slowly to the mound and signaled for his closer, Lights Out Larrabie. The crowd sang along with Larrabie's theme tune as he jogged to the mound – "Another One Bites the Dust" – and the catcher patted his reliever's back with confidence. But the first pitch Lights Out threw was in the dirt and the runner scored on a wild pitch. The Traders led 3-2.

In the bottom of the ninth, the faithful crossed their fingers and went wild when their second baseman, Harry Griffin, led off with a ringing double off the left field wall. Promising rookie centerfielder, Perry Ames, walked slowly to the plate, tugging his cap and tightening his batting gloves. A swing and a miss put him in the hole, but two takes on outside curves made the count 2 and 1. Ames asked for time and stepped out, checked the sign from the third base coach and stepped back into the box.

In the stands, Ames' flashily blonde wife had been following the game desultorily to that point. The season ticket holders in front of her, yelling her husband's name distracted her from her exquisitely polished nails, though, and she was interested enough to shout, "Come on, sweetie. You can do it!"

The next pitch was a fast ball, close enough to the middle of the plate that Ames could get good wood on it. There was a split-second of silence, then cheers and screams of hope as the ball sailed toward the right field fence. The crowd stood, arms raised, then erupted in an explosion of sound as the ball cleared the wall and Ames trotted around the bases with the winning run.

The Sailors had won their opener and everybody was jubilant, ecstatic. Except for the people who'd turned to congratulate young Ames' wife. They stood in horror and disbelief as they saw the blood on her neck and noticed the end of the knitting needle jutting out from the tiny wound. Jennifer Ames stared at nothing as the crowd celebrated.

ooooo

Cal Norton's office was decorated with signed photos of players in uniform on every wall, autographed baseballs on every surface, even a home plate with the signature of a now-retired but still-respected umpire mounted and displayed prominently.

The Sailor's irate majority owner paced in front of his enormous mahogany desk, waving his right hand as he walked. "So I talked to the Police Commissioner." He looked at his guests, seated to the side of his desk. "He's an idiot, you know that?"

Milt Hardcastle nodded. "Yup. He is. But what did he say?"

"He said you were 'an interfering nuisance who meddles in police affairs for your own self-aggrandisement.'" Norton paused, lifted his eyebrows, and shrugged. "I didn't think he knew big words like aggrandisement."

McCormick, sitting at the judge's left hand, snickered quietly.

"Anyway," Norton resumed pacing, "then I talked to Captain Carlton and got a whole different story from him. And I got a glowing reference from the owner of the Stars. You remember Chuck Foster?" On the judge's nod, he continued. "He raves about you and the way you two went about clearing up their 'little problem'. The police have done what they can, and I believe them when they tell me they're stymied. It's absurd, but no one saw anything! Everyone was watching the ball, and there are no witnesses, and not even a whole lot of clues! And motive?" He shrugged again. "You've talked to them about it, right?"

Hardcastle shifted a little in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah, we heard you were asking about us and Lieutenant Harper -" he broke off and looked a question at the Sailors owner, who shook his head negatively. "Well, anyway, he called me up and said you were trying to find somebody who could look in on this for you. He'd heard you were dead set against private detectives for some reason, so you were checking up on us. That about right?"

Norton fingered the All-Star Game trophy replica on an end table, then dropped heavily into his chair behind the desk. "Yeah," he said shortly. "Private detectives, no. I don't trust them. Maybe I'm wrong, but there it is. I had a bad experience with an unscrupulous P.I. once and once is enough for me. Don't get me wrong!" he hurried to add. "I'll pay whatever rate you think is fair; I'm not expecting you to do this for free!"

"Nah, nah." The judge waved him to a stop. "I read about this when it happened and I was interested in it from the get-go. You can give me a coupla season tickets and we'll call it square. You got a real good team this year and if you go all the way, I want to be watching in person during the play-offs. 'Course, we can't guarantee anything. But as civilians, we can do some stuff that the cops can't. Like, maybe add a new player to your roster."

McCormick sat up straight suddenly. "Hold on a minute there, Batman. Robin's got classes for another two months!"

"Yeah, I know. This is a part-time gig and I'll make it good with your professors if you need it." Hardcastle looked at Norton. "You see that we get carte blanche with everybody, okay? Team, coaching staff, stadium employees, the whole shebang. And I'll provide –" he aimed a thumb at a disapproving McCormick, "your new back-up first baseman."

ooooo

Hardcastle and McCormick walked along a dark, concrete-walled corridor, following signs that said "Clubhouse".

"Listen to me, Judge. These are professionals. Whatever ball I played in prison was making mud pies compared to what they do. This isn't going to work." McCormick gave it all the earnestness he was capable of.

"Ah, come on. It's not like -" Hardcastle paused, examined a sign that said, Manager's Office in small type, then followed the arrow that pointed down a hallway to the left, "it's not like you're gonna be in the starting line-up. You'll be a fill-in. Do some late inning work at first base in a blow-out, pinch-run a coupla times. Even if you don't get into a game at all, that's okay. You just have to get to know what's going on in here, behind the scenes. Get the skinny on these guys. You know the deal."

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard this before; remember back when you had me in as a cop from Jersey? Get in, get the dope, get out? That worked real well."

The judge snorted at him and pointed to a door on the left just a few feet up. "We got the bad guys, didn't we? Now, lighten up and try to look like a ballplayer."

ooooo

In Brickman's office, they found Sam Roberts, the General Manager of the team as well.

"I've got a call in to the players' union," said Roberts, "but I don't think this is going to fly. We can put one of our infielders on the D.L. but we can't just add this guy -" he nodded toward McCormick, "to the roster just by snapping our fingers, you know. Cal's a new managing partner, just took over this year when Sol Johnson retired, and he doesn't understand that we need to make room on the 40-man roster and that would mean releasing somebody to add your guy here. Maybe you could just work out with the team, kind of like a try-out?"

Hardcastle frowned at him. "You mean there's some kinda structure here that prevents you from making anybody a member of the team without letting another guy go?"

Roberts nodded his head. "Cal's a nice guy, and he has final say on all the transactions, but he's new. Just took control this year, so he doesn't know all the rules yet. Plus he's just plain sick about the murder on Opening Day. It just about broke his heart, I think. He's been a fan since he was a kid and owning the team is heaven for him."

"I don't know about this." Hank Brickman sat behind his desk "Even if we just have – McCormick, is it?"

Mark nodded.

"McCormick work out with the team, how's he gonna look? Can he play? At all?" Brickman shook his head morosely. "This is a nightmare."

"Sure." Hardcastle flapped a pishing hand at him. "We get your one of your coaches to throw him some meatballs in practice so he can park them over the wall, we run him through some infield drills, no problem. I'll teach him everything I know about the game."

Mark stared at him in dismay. "That's what I'm afraid of! Judge, this is the big leagues, not some beer league with old guys running around dropping fly balls. I can't play at this level."

"Hmm. Let me think for a minute." Brickman opened his packet of Red Man, took out a clump of shredded tobacco and shoved it into his cheek. "Maybe we could say he's been playing in Europe, for the Italian team maybe. They're about single-A level, so nobody'd expect too much. We're giving him a look-see as a favor to Norton, who owes the Italian owner for something. If he can hit at all, he could sell it. I think. How fast are you, McCormick?"

"I can outrun most bad guys, but not real athletes. They don't have guns so there's not as much incentive." Mark slumped back into his straight-backed wooden chair. "Look, I can play a little but not well enough to convince those guys -" he aimed a thumb in the general direction of the field, "that I'm for real."

The manager gave him a noncommittal look. "Where did you play?"

"Let's just say that rumor had it one of the umpires was buried under the pitcher's mound."

Brickman started to say something, then clearly decided to just leave it alone. "Okay, I'll get with my coaches and let them in on it. But you really don't want the players to know? Or the trainers or the clubhouse guy?"

"Nope," said Hardcastle definitely. "I don't even like having your coaches in on this -"

"Or me either, huh?" interrupted the manager.

"Something like that."

Brickman looked at him steadily. "I didn't do it. And I'll tell you what else. I don't think any of my team was involved. That's just my gut feeling, but I know the cops concentrated on us because of Jennifer's . . . reputation."

The judge nodded at that. "Yeah. We'd gotten some of that from the cops, but could you fill us in some more? She slept around, huh?"

Both the manager and the G.M. nodded soberly.

"It was a problem in spring training, but we thought it'd be better when camp broke." Roberts ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Fewer opportunities, if you get my drift."

Brickman snorted. "That girl made her own opportunities. Most of the team wouldn't touch her, you know, a teammate's wife. But she was all over the broadcasters, the other team, even some of the fans. We would have had to do something about her sooner or later, but I was kind of hoping she'd settle down a little as the season went on."

Roberts sighed. "Yeah, well, she's sure settled down now. How's Perry taking it?"

"Not good." Brickman pushed his chair back from his desk. "He won't go on the restricted list, says he wants to stay with the team, but he can't play and it's a distraction. Maybe if somebody could find whoever did it, that would help."

"Yeah, maybe." The General Manager stood up and shook down his pants legs, then extended a hand to the judge and then to McCormick. "At this point, we'll take all the help we can get. Harry, set up some B.P. for McCormick, okay?"

The manager grunted. "We'll do what we can to make it look good, but . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hardcastle waved Roberts out the door, then turned to reassure Brickman. "It'll be fine. Some fat pitches, right down the middle, and McCormick'll put 'em in the parking lot." He turned to his sidekick and smacked him on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, kiddo. These guys put their pants on in the morning the same way you do."

Mark looked at him, eyes squinting. "Don't give me that, 'cause they don't. First, they put on jock straps."

ACT II:

"Whatever you do, whatever I call for, throw him cookies, okay? We want this guy to look good." The pitcher nodded at Brickman, then gathered up four baseballs in his left hand and loosened up his right shoulder.

Brickman took his place behind the batting cage and nodded at Mark to take a few warm-up swings. "Okay," he called when Mark stepped up to the plate, "try a couple of fastballs."

The pitcher, whose uniform bore the number 6 and the name Sternfield, threw a lazy fastball right down the heart of the plate. Mark managed to foul it off to the right.

"That's the boy," Brickman called encouragement. "Get zoned in on the heater now."

Two more pitches were fouled off, then McCormick connected solidly with the next pitch and sent it to medium deep left field.

"That's fine. Now try a couple of sliders." Brickman tilted his cap further back on his head as Mark swung as hard as he could and a liner hit the wall in left center.

Six pitches later and Mark had three more hits, one high off the center field wall. He was sweating and breathing heavily by now.

Brickman glanced around the field, noticing that no one was taking much notice and decided the show was enough for now. "Okay, it's late and the game's in three hours. We'll try some infield drills tomorrow. Go shower up."

McCormick trudged around to the back of the batting cage to join the manager. "Boy, that's tougher than it looks."

Brickman looked at him disgustedly. "If it was easy, anybody could do it. You try hitting one of those coming at you at 95 miles an hour instead of 50. Go on in and hit the showers. The clubhouse guy will have a uni for you. Just hang out and do whatever you do. But don't – and I mean this – don't talk to tonight's starting pitcher, McGreevy. He'll tear your head off if you say a word to him."

On his way into the dugout, the opening day pitcher, Mike Haines, called out, "Hey, McCormick, Harry said to fill you in." A husky, fair-haired guy, Haines put out a hand, callused in all the right places, and explained. "I'm the player rep."

The two men shook and Haines went on. "Grady, the clubbie, has a uni for you and your locker's next to mine." He put an arm around Mark's shoulder and led him into the dugout. Haines checked for anyone near enough to overhear, then said sotto voce, "We have to talk."

ooooo

She wore a neat little uniform in the team colors of ocean blue and California sun gold. It should have looked garish, but somehow the blue vest and trousers that matched up with the bright yellow shirt and gloves were worn with such dignity that the colors didn't matter. Her hair was carefully arranged, and she was a little shy but willing to help in any way.

"I really appreciate this, Mrs. Bunning." Hardcastle leaned back in his straight-backed chair and regarded her with interest. "You've been with the team for more than twenty years, I hear."

She smiled at him. "Oh, yes. I started as a temporary usherette, way back in the 60s but the Sailors sort of became our family. We're very lucky, you know. So many of the fans have become friends and the players themselves . . . well, I've become very fond of 'my boys'."

The judge nodded at her, and waved a hand encouragingly. "As much as you can tell me, I need all the background I can get."

"Well, my husband and I always go down to spring training and we got to know poor Perry very well. And Jennifer, too, of course." She frowned just a tiny bit. "I'm afraid she was a bit wild. Poor Perry," she repeated.

Hardcastle nodded again. "You were there this spring? You knew both of them?"

"Oh, yes." She looked down at her clasped hands briefly. "Perry met her and married her over the winter, you know. I can't think he knew her that well." A pause, then Mrs. Bunning gathered herself and lifted her chin. "You want the truth, don't you? Well, there was that one night in the hotel. Perry was down at the stadium, working on his swing with the hitting coach, and Jennifer was running up and down the halls – banging on doors – yelling, 'Who wants to party?' Not the kind of behavior you expect," she said primly. 'The Bible tells us to be charitable, but when it comes to skinny-dipping in the hotel pool – well! I got up one night, you know how it is," she blushed faintly, "and looked out of my window and there she was! All kinds of drinking going on, and such behavior . . . well, eventually she was going to ruin poor Perry's life carrying on like that! And he's such a nice, polite, sincere young man."

The judge shrugged. "I guess he knew about it, didn't he? I mean, it wasn't like it was a secret, was it?"

Mrs. Bunning shook her head, sadly. "Oh, he knew. Everyone did. But he thought it was just high spirits, forgave her everything, you know." She sighed, shaking her head. "I think of these boys as my family. I always get here early for batting and fielding practice. And we do hear things, you know, even in the stands. I always watch BP from the seat right at the end of the dugout and you can hear the boys talking about . . . things."

"Things like . . ." Hardcastle trailed off raising his eyebrows interrogatively.

"Well, things like what wives are cheating on which players, and, of course, which players are cheating on their wives." She stopped abruptly, then extended a hand and said urgently, "Not that any of my boys are cheating on their wives. I meant, the other teams, you understand."

Hardcastle shrugged then nodded. "Oh, yeah, sure. That's understood." He scratched his chin idly, then asked, "Do you knit?"

She looked confused for a split second, then shook her head. "No, but I know why you asked that," she responded quietly. "That's my section; I take care of all the players' families and I was one of the first to see her. The police told us later that the needle had been sharpened." She shuddered. "It's such a tragedy – for poor Perry and for the team. On Opening Day!"

ooooo

"We're just checking in before heading out. The Babe here is tired." Hardcastle jerked a thumb over his shoulder and grinned at the manager, who was clearly feeling harassed and listening with scant courtesy. "But we'll be back later, after we've talked to Lieutenant Harper."

"Fine, fine. Look, we've got a game coming up in less than an hour. Do you mind . . .?" He made vague shooing motions and beckoned to the pitching coach hovering outside the door to his office.

The twosome obliged by leaving and started down the concrete hallway, ambling in the direction of the parking lot.

"Hey, listen." The two passed mobs of people buying tickets and thronging into the ballpark. McCormick dodged a family of four wearing Sailors gear and waving foam fingers. "You think this is easy?"

The judge looked at him askance.

"Well, it isn't. It's a lot harder than you think it is, Judge." Mark subsided briefly, then said, "The other team's agreed to let me sit on the bench, but not during the game. There's lots more rules and stuff than I thought there'd be. One of the coaches explained some of it and it's more complicated than I imagined it would be."

Even on the outskirts of the parking lot, the cheer when the opening lineups were announced was loud and sustained.

"I kinda thought they might postpone a game or two," mused the older man. "No sentiment these days, I guess."

McCormick shook his head. "It's all done by the league and they said the teams had to play tonight. Maybe if it had been a player that was murdered, they'd have taken a day off. But it's all money-related. You make more off two separate games played than off a double-header to make up a game that was rained out."

Hardcastle snorted. "You learn anything else out there, besides all the rules and regulations?"

"Just that Jennifer Ames wasn't real popular. I mean," he corrected himself, "with the other wives. And she was the wrong kind of popular with everybody else, if you get my drift."

"Hmm. Seems to me that would cause some hard feelings on a ballclub. You hear anything about problems between the players?"

"Not a peep. Everybody likes the guy Ames and feels real bad for him." As they approached the Coyote, McCormick looked back at the brightly-lit stadium. "Frank better talk fast, 'cause I gotta date after the game."

"A date?" Hardcastle swung himself into the car. "What kind of date?"

ooooo

Frank Harper ran a hand over his balding dome. "There were no prints we could find and no record of sale of the knitting needle. No motive except for the rumors about Jennifer Ames being promiscuous. And everyone on the ballclub knew that, even the husband himself apparently." He heaved a heartfelt sigh. "Usually the husband's the last to know."

"So the M.E. says the knitting needle pierced the carotid and she bled to death internally." The judge cocked an eyebrow at the lieutenant across the desk from him. "That's a new one on me."

"Me, too." Harper pushed the papers on his desk to one side and settled his elbows there. "The needle was sharpened, probably by a metal file and you can buy knitting gear in any dime store." He looked over at the two men facing him. "I'm glad you're helping with this one, guys. Thousands of people there and nobody saw anything." He slapped the desk with a palm. "Routine isn't going to solve this one."

Hardcastle shrugged. "Don't be assuming we're gonna come up with anything either." He began thumbing through the manila folder containing the evidence and reports on the case. "We're supposed to talk to the bereaved husband tomorrow. Maybe that'll help, but it says here you've had two interviews with him already. Didn't learn much, according to this."

Frank nodded, halfway between irritation and disappointment. "Yeah, he was trying his best, but he doesn't understand why anyone would've wanted to kill her. Not that he didn't accept that she was tramping around, but he seems to think that he would have had the best motive and he was out on the field, hitting the home run." Harper sighed. "He's about as confused as we are."

"Well, let's see what we can do, from a more 'personal' approach." The judge jerked his chin toward McCormick, who sat beside, stretching out his aching biceps. "One of his teammates might have more luck with him."

"Teammate, yeah, right." McCormick snorted, then stood up, shaking down the legs of his khakis. "Let's go, Judge. I have to drop you off home before my date."

"Date, huh?" Harper chuckled. "A cheerleader?"

Mark clicked his tongue and looked at the detective with great disappointment. "There aren't any cheerleaders in baseball! I've got a date with a player rep."

ACT III:

Inside a noisy bar, Haines and McCormick sat sipping beer. Several large, athletic-looking guys were re-hashing the game and what they'd done right and wrong, while a short rotund man waggled his chins dramatically as he crooned "Your Cheatin' Heart" by the piano.

"So this must be the place you guys all come after the games, huh?" Mark looked around. "It's kinda convenient, right next to the ballpark. He jerked a thumb at the singer. "Is he really an umpire?"

"Yep." Mike Haines grinned and nodded. "He comes here every time he's in town. Sings all night, or until somebody makes him stop." He took another pull at his beer. "That's quite a car you got. You didn't get that on an amateur's salary." He held up a hand as McCormick opened his mouth. "It's okay. We know what's going on. We're not stupid, you know. Most of us came out of college, at least a year or two. But if Hank's going along with this, I guess we will, too. But if you level with me, I'll level with you. Deal?" He quirked his eyebrows at Mark.

Mark grinned back at him. "Deal. I tried to tell my, ah . . . partner this wouldn't work, you know. But once he's got a cockamamie idea, it's his way or the highway." He glanced at the umpire, then back at the pitcher. "So, what can you tell me that I should know?"

"For one thing, you have to understand ballplayers. We're all driven, competitive, you might even say aggressive. We have to be or we wouldn't be here." The pitcher paused for a swig of beer, then continued. "But we're also teammates. That's the core right there. This is a team sport and you only win as a team, not as individuals. And we're kind of protective about rookies, especially the ones that look like they might carry a franchise at some point. So we knew what was going on with Perry's wife, but we kept it in the clubhouse. And nobody talked about it." Haines glanced around the crowded bar, nodded to a few men at the bar, then looked back at McCormick. "And nobody did anything about it, either."

McCormick shrugged and moved his beer glass in a small circle, watching the bubbles that formed. "I never said you did. I'm only trying to find out the truth. I think," he looked up from under his brows at Haines, "you're telling me the truth. So what else should I know?"

Haines looked at him steadily. "We'll all of us try to help, whatever you want. Just ask. Perry's one of us and we don't want this going on for much longer. Find out who did this, okay? Whatever it takes, do it. And we'll help." He took a deep breath, then a small smile broke out. "Oh, and something really important. Don't drink from the pot labeled 'decaf'. It's coffee, all right, but it's got a little something extra in it. A kind of pick-me-up." Haines quirked his eyebrows.

"A pick-me-up?" Mark looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh. You mean amphetamines? Really?"

Haines turned his glass idly and pursed his lips. "Most of the guys don't touch it nowadays. But once a in a while, someone will have a big night out and come in a little . . . out of kilter. You know what I mean?"

McCormick grinned at him. "Hungover is what you mean."

"Yeah. Or just tired from a 'romantic evening' with a Baseball Annie." Haines took a gulp of his beer. "Well, you can't just tell the skipper you feel like what the cow left in the pasture, so you take a coupla greenies to get you through the game. Helps you not feel so tired and unfocused. Like I say, most of the team behaves themselves pretty well so they don't need it."

A silence fell, broken only by the umpire warbling, 'Only Fools Fall in Love', then McCormick, with a wince, asked, "Baseball Annie?"

"You know. The wannabe-wives. They hang around the dugout before games and wait outside the parking lot, hoping to be picked up. That's one of the problems Perry had. Jennifer had been an Annie and he ending up marrying her." Haines scowled at his beer glass. "She was a cheap little tramp and I think he was starting to realize that." He looked up at McCormick from under his brows. "Perry's a real religious type, you know. A rebo."

"Rebo?" Mark looked confused. "I'm guessing that's nothing like a repo."

The pitcher snorted. "Nah, it's short for 'reborn'. The guys who never miss chapel on Sundays and have Bible verses taped onto their lockers. Perry's one, but Jennifer – it was all an act for her. It fooled Perry, but not the rest of us. The way she acted? Hah. Drunk half the time and coming on to every guy on the team." He took a handful of the peanuts in the bowl between the two men. "Even me, the little tramp."

Mark looked at him soberly. "Any of you take her up on her offer?"

"No! What do you think we are? Perry's a rook, he doesn't know the score yet. That kind of thing destroys a team's chemistry anyway. We all turned her down, but she was getting to be a nuisance, I'll tell you that."

The umpire was now mangling, "Dropkick Me, Jesus, Through the Goalposts of Life".

McCormick studied his beer, then asked shyly, "So how did I look out there?"

"You looked like an amateur trying to look like a ballplayer."

"That bad, huh?" McCormick murmured, then sipped his beer.

"Listen, that's not bad; that's pretty good." Haines turned to look at the sodden ump and grinned. "He's gonna need some of that decaf when he gets to the park tomorrow."

ooooo

"Your name's McCormick," said Perry Ames sadly. "Hank told me you were coming over today to talk about . . . Jennifer."

Mark looked around at the plainly-decorated apartment. The white walls, with no pictures or ornament, the inexpensive furniture, the personal belongings still in boxes – all spoke of a newly arrived tenant. "I appreciate you seeing me. I know this has got to be really hard on you."

Perry waved him to one of the chairs belonging to a cheap dinette set. "If I can help, in any way, of course I'd want to. But the police . . ." He trailed off, looking out the glass door to a tiny patio.

"Yeah, I talked to a police lieutenant I know about that. He said you, um, well, that you knew about your wife and her, ah, activities," McCormick grimaced, but kept gamely on. "That you knew she had a lot of outside interests, I mean -"

Ames smiled at him sadly. "I know what you're trying to say. I have a lot of friends and they've all told me about her 'interests'." He got up and wandered about the living room aimlessly. "It wasn't exactly a secret, you know. I mean, it was only a few weeks after we were married that I started to suspect she was . . . looking around."

McCormick regarded him soberly and said nothing.

Ames picked up a plastic container from the veneered dining table. "The ladies from my church keep bringing food. They've been real nice. A very present help, as the Bible says. Mrs. Bunning, she works for the team you know, organized them all so I don't have to cook a single thing." He set the container down and meandered over to the brand new television set. "But they knew about Jennifer, and they all feel so sorry for me. I knew what she was, after a while. But I loved her anyway."

"In the police report, you said that you didn't suspect anybody specifically and that you didn't know if she was currently involved with anybody in particular." Mark watched the other man run his hands over the shelves above the television as if verifying their existence. "Did you ever think about getting a divorce? Did she ever ask for one?"

"Oh, no. We'd never get divorced. My church doesn't believe in divorce, and besides, ballplayers make a lot of money. At least, after the first few years, we do. She liked money, a lot." Perry Ames finally ended up back beside his chair. He looked at it for a moment, then dropped into it. "She was really beautiful, you know? Have you seen pictures of her?"

Mark nodded.

"She was funny, too, and smart. She even joined my church before we got married. That was important to me, and she always wanted to go along with what was important to me, at least at first." Ames stared through the wall across from him. "Then she didn't." He turned to McCormick. "You want some coffee? I don't drink, so there's no beer or anything, but I can make coffee."

"Coffee'd be fine. Oh, hey," McCormick shook his head at himself, "I forgot to tell you that a lot of the players said to say 'hi' and they hope you're back with the club soon. I know Mike Haines has been in touch with you."

Perry smiled. "They're a great bunch of guys. You tell 'em I'd be happy to see any of them if they wanted to stop by. I miss those guys, you know? You train and work together for months and then don't see any of them, and it's weird. Like a part of you's missing. They don't want to intrude, I know, but you tell them for me. Any of them, they can come over any time and it would be great."Ames walked into the kitchenette, then stuck his head back out the door. "Hey, you mind sticking around for a while? I'd like to talk to somebody about baseball for a while."

Mark smiled back at him. "Sounds good to me."

ooooo

"That's okay, I was just checking where a coupla things were. Looking for clues, you know, but it's time I was finding my seat in the stands. Thanks for the offer, though," said Hardcastle to the departing coach, who waved a farewell as he walked down the corridor leading to the field.

The judge looked around the small storeroom for a few moments, then began to walk quietly down the corridor to the manager's office, cogitating, brow wrinkled. A sudden scuff behind him made him turn quickly, but not before the baseball bat landed solidly across his shoulders.

As he fell, Hardcastle hit the door to the manager's office and heard dimly a shouted, "Yeah, come in," from Brickman.

The bat clattered to the concrete floor and Hardcastle slumped down heavily beside it.

ACT IV:

"Now hold your arm out to the side, then raise it straight up, like this." A slight, fair-haired man with 'Archie Pemble, Trainer' embroidered on the pocket of his polo shirt held his arm up pointing toward the ceiling.

Hardcastle grunted, then slowly moved his arm out then up. "See, nothing wrong. It's just a bruise, I'm telling ya."

Pemble nodded, frowning. "I think you're right, but I'd still be happier if you got an x-ray." He sighed at the judge shook his head emphatically. "Okay, your call. But we're still going to ice it and I want you to tell me if it starts to hurt any worse or stiffen up." He looked at the manager, Brickman, sitting to one side. "Where was everybody when this happened?"

Brickman snorted. "The guys were on the field, even the scrubs. There was a presentation before the game – one of the old-timers – and there was nobody in the dugout or the clubhouse. I was going to be late, but nobody looks at the manager, anyway. Perfect opportunity, huh?"

"Yeah, but it clears the team." The judge stood, slowly flexing his left arm and shoulder. "Unless one of them is working in cahoots with somebody else, we know they're not involved, so that's a help."

"Well, I never suspected any of my guys anyway." Brickman squinted at him. "So why take a shot at you? You find something out?"

McCormick burst into the training room suddenly. "Judge? What happened?" He took stock of the situation immediately and scowled in disgust. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

Hardcastle waved him off. "No big deal. In fact," he paused thoughtfully, "I've been creamed by a baseball bat before and this was nowhere near as bad. That other time, I blocked it and it broke my arm. This. . . was maybe more like a first shot, you know? Just to get me down so whoever it was could whale on me for a while after that."

The trainer, Pemble, scowled at him. "So you're experienced at this kind of thing?"

The judge waved him off then said, "I'm wondering if," he paused for an instant, thinking, then turned to the manager, still sitting behind his desk, "whoever it was heard you yell when I hit the door and scrammed, figuring they might have a witness if you came out to see what was going on. But that doesn't answer why now, and why not a shot to the head that would have taken me right out."

"That's easy." McCormick, smirking slightly, raised his eyebrows at the other man's naïveté. "You managed to stir somebody up and they were too short to reach higher than your shoulder."

He paused for a moment as the others stared at him as if he were the rising sun. "You think that actually makes sense? Really?"

"You mean somebody short?" Hardcastle nodded slowly. "That makes a weird kinda sense. It might also explain why it was such a feeble attempt, too."

"So we take out all the players, 'cause they're all bigger than I am – even the shortstop, which was a surprise -" Mark was starting to get enthusiastic about his theory, "and all the coaches -"

The judge held up a palm. "We already ruled out everybody in uniform." He scrubbed his chin with a fist. "And this seems like somebody who's not real strong, maybe. Someone little and not an athlete."

Brickman scratched his chin. "So who does that leave? The vendors, the concessionaires, security -"

"The usherettes," said McCormick abruptly. "Judge, we talked about that one you interviewed. She was pretty upset about Jennifer Ames, you said."

"Yep." Hardcastle looked grim. "And I know how we could find out."

ooooo

The changing room/lounge for the usherettes was spartan in appearance, but contained several lockers and comfortable-looking chairs.

The door opened slowly and Hardcastle quickly turned away to face the opposite direction. Mrs. Bunning crept in, carrying a baseball bat in her right hand, with a wickedly sharpened knitting needle thrust through her blue patent leather belt. Quietly, she crept up behind the judge, raising the bat with both hands, her eyes slitted.

Hardcastle's lips moved as he counted to three, then he turned suddenly and backed away from the surprised woman. "You gotta be kiddin' me," he said mildly. "Not that I'm really all that surprised to see you, but that bat's almost as big as you are."

She backed away from him, slowly, scowling but silent.

"I figured you'd be here as soon as we spread the word that Perry was under arrest." The judge moved a little to his right and folded his arms across his chest. "All I had to do was make a show of coming in here, looking for evidence, and bingo, here you are."

"She was a creature of evil," the elderly lady said softly. "She would have ruined Perry's life and I could not allow that. He's a good boy, respectful and decent. She was another Jezebel and deserved the same fate."

"I don't remember you being appointed to the position of fate-decider." The judge slitted his eyes at her. "You just kind of took on the job yourself, which isn't the work it works. You must believe you're the hand of God or something, don'tcha?"

"I will give you strength, I will bring you help, I will uphold you with the right hand of my justice," she quoted proudly. "I will inflict on you the sentence of adultery and murder; I will bring on you bloody wrath and jealous anger."

The judge eyed her in irritation. "Yeah, and the Devil quotes Scripture to serve his own purposes."

Unnoticed by the angry woman, McCormick, Harper, a uniformed policewoman, and Brickman had crept into the room and stood listening intently.

"It was always about protecting Perry, wasn't it?" Hardcastle moved again to his right to keep her focused on him. "He's one of 'your boys' and you'd do anything for them."

"The woman tempted me," she hissed. "And she deserved death. I was proud to administer the justice of the Lord."

Hardcastle stared at her. "Deuteronomy 32:35. Look that one up sometime." Then he turned and walked past the small group at the door and out into the corridor.

Harper took the bat from the usherette and began to read the Miranda warning to her, and the policewoman took the usherette by the arm and confiscated the knitting needle. Brickman heaved a deep sigh and turned to head back toward his office.

Up ahead of him, the judge stalked quickly down the concrete corridor. McCormick trailed after him, looking curiously at the grim man pacing beside him. "You gonna make me look that up?" he asked quietly.

"To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense." And the judge kept walking.

EPILOGUE:

The Coyote pulled up next to the hedge and Hardcastle waved a hand from the side lawn.

"Looks like a gopher hole here." He pointed at the ground, gently scuffing the turf with his foot. "You notice this before?"

McCormick ambled over, carrying a large cardboard box. He peered at the grass, then shook his head. "No, that's new. Rotten little critters."

The two men stared at the ground for a few seconds, then the judge looked up and jerked his chin at the parcel. "What's that? I thought you were just taking today's tickets to Frank."

"Yeah, I did. He said Claudia's really looking forward to her first game. But then I stopped off at the ballpark to say a couple of good-byes." Mark took the top off the box and peered inside. "Players, I mean. In the clubhouse." He peered up at the judge and grinned at him. "That's a pretty cool thing to be able to say, you know."

"So, you got some souvenirs?" Hardcastle smiled in anticipation. "A glove, maybe. The box is too small for a bat. Maybe a name plate from your locker?"

McCormick took a baseball out of the box and presented it with a flourish. "A ball. For you, signed by the whole team." He watched the older man's delight as he examined the ball. "Some of them had to write pretty small to get everybody on there. You'll notice, I hope," he pointed to a specific spot on the ball, "that Mike Haines signed it on the sweet spot. Did you know a ball has what they call a sweet spot? I know all about that stuff now." He preened casually.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, this is really swell. That was a nice thought." The judge looked at the box again. "So what did you get?"

"Ah, just a shirt. Kind of." Mark shrugged, trying to appear blasé. "Something to wear next Halloween, I guess."

"Well, c'mon, lemme see." The judge reached for the box, but it was pulled away.

"It's mine! Leave it alone!" McCormick danced back out of his reach, laughing. "Okay, okay." He reached into the box and pulled out a cream-colored jersey with blue and gold trim – a Sailors home jersey. He held it up and displayed the back, which had 'McCormick' across the shoulder blades in blue and the number 87 beneath it in the same color.

Hardcastle beamed with pride. "Your jersey. The one you wore in the dugout before the game. That's really nice." He fingered the hem briefly, then looked back at his signed baseball. "There's nothing like baseball, huh?"

"Nope," Mark agreed, gazing with complacent satisfaction at his jersey. "Nothing at all." He looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Hey, let's get the radio going. The game starts in ten minutes!"