Free Murder at Wrigley Field by Troy Soos

“Looking for me?” he asked in his gritty voice.
    “Yeah. I think we have something in common, you and me.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “At the funeral this afternoon, you were talking about how you were going to get even for Willie.” That was putting it nicely. “Blood will flow” were the exact words he’d used.
    “And you’re planning to do the same?”
    “Maybe not exactly the same,” I admitted. “But I do want to know who killed him.” Eerie flutes joined the scratchy violins in disharmony, producing something that sounded like a dirge. I pointed to the door. “This isn’t what I was expecting to find here.”
    Fohl shrugged. “What were you expecting?”
    “Some kind of meeting. Last Saturday you told Willie there was a meeting here. This looks like school or something.”
    “It is a school, in a way.” After a moment, Fohl cracked something akin to a smile. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
    Fohl rapped twice on the door, then opened it and ushered me in. The music halted, and the woman I’d seen earlier looked at us.
    “Please go on, Miss Reisdorf. My friend here just wanted to hear the music a little better.”
    No, really, I didn’t.
    She smiled at me, then nodded to the boys and girls, and the awful sounds picked up with more exuberance than before.
    Fohl and I listened for several excruciating minutes. He said in my ear, “Those kids are breaking the law, you know.” His voice was a welcome change from what the children were doing.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    He gestured to the door. I followed him out after we both thanked the teacher.
    Once outside, he explained, “They’re learning the music of Beethoven, Bach, Mozart. It’s illegal to play music by those composers.”
    “Oh yeah, I read that all their music’s been banned.”
    “Last year,” Fohl said with rising outrage, “Dr. Karl Muck was fired from the Boston Symphony Orchestra and put in jail. A harmless old man, a symphony conductor, a scholar—and they put him in jail for playing ‘German’ music.” His face flushed with anger.
    “That’s lousy,” I said, and I meant it. I let Fohl settle down a bit, then added, “By the way, what exactly were they playing in there?” Whatever it was, I wanted to avoid it when it became legal again.
    “Damned if I know. One of those classical guys. I can’t tell one from another. I like ragtime,” Fohl admitted. “But I’m not going to stand by while this government tries to wipe out our culture. That’s what we’re doing here: keeping our heritage alive.”
    We stopped outside the open door of the next room. A group of children were reciting German words in high-pitched tones. “The language has been banned in schools,” Fohl said. He spoke flatly now, the anger gone from his voice, letting the facts themselves carry the weight of his argument. “We keep it alive here.”
    I didn’t see anything wrong with what I was finding at First Trinity Lutheran.
    The next room was quieter; a group of elderly women were doing needlework and chatting amiably in German. “Some of the older folks don’t speak any English,” Fohl said. “And the Staats-Zeitung —that’s a German-language paper—has been closed down. What are they supposed to do? Not talk or read until the war is over?”
    We passed to the next room, this one filled with old men talking in the same guttural tones. It appeared to be a crafts shop, some of the men doing leatherwork, others woodcarving. One wizened little man spotted us at the door and waved at Fohl. “Ah, Henry,” he called. The man pulled himself from his chair and a brown paper parcel from under his seat.
    “Henry,” he said to Fohl. “I want to show you.” He pulled open the wrapping and exposed a pair of new high-button ladies shoes. He held them out for Fohl’s inspection.
    “That’s nice work, Mr. Doscher,” Fohl said. The shoes had shiny black vamps and cream white tops that looked to be almost