Free Murder at Wrigley Field by Troy Soos Page B

were all the young men I’d seen entering the church? Like the fellow whose boy was going to be the next Ed Walsh. There were rooms Fohl didn’t show me and maybe a basement. The men were somewhere in the building, and I’d bet they weren’t taking music lessons.

Chapter Seven
    S unday morning, half past nine, halfway into my second cup of coffee, Charles Weeghman phoned. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?” was his greeting.
    “Uh, I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You see the morning paper?”
    “Which paper?”
    “Any of ’em, for chrissake.” He projected his scowl through the telephone wire. “Every goddamn one of ’em has it plastered on the front page.”
    “No, I haven’t read the newspaperyet. What’s on the front page?”
    “That I’m pro-German!” He paused. “And do you know why they’re saying that?”
    “No.” But I had a feeling he was going to tell me.
    “Because I let your friend Willie Kaiser be buried in a Cubs uniform!”
    Oh, jeez. “Well, actually, Mr. Weeghman, that was my doing. See—”
    Weeghman roared, “I know goddamn well it was your doing! It sure as hell wasn’t mine!” He must have been thoroughly peeved to take the time to yell at me over the phone. In a couple of hours I’d be at the ballpark and he could have the pleasure of bawling me out in person. Of course, this could be just a preview of what he’d be giving me at the park.
    I tried to explain. “See, Mr. Weeghman, his mother said that’s what he would have wanted. Of course, I don’t see how she could have known that, but hey she’s his mother, so if anybody should know she would, right?” Picking up steam, I said, “Anyway, it made her feel better to do it, and I figured at a time like that it’s the least I could do. Did you know she lost two husbands?” Without giving Weeghman a chance to answer, I continued, “She told me you wouldn’t give her a Cubs uniform. So what I did was I gave her mine. But I didn’t know there might be a good reason why you wouldn’t give her one, like that the papers might take it the wrong way or something. See?”
    His lengthy silence told me he didn’t see. Finally, Weeghman said, “Well, the uniform is just one thing you screwed up on. The other is First Trinity Lutheran. What the hell were you doing there last night?”
    I’d forgotten that Weeghman was watching his players. “Uh, well—”
    “You already knew I was pissed about Kaiser going there. What makes you think it was all right for you to go?”
    “Well, because you told me to.”
    “I what?”
    “You told me to see what he was up to.”
    “That’s when he was alive. What do I care about him now?”
    I didn’t like the way he said that, but I let it pass. Sometimes I don’t word things so good either. I groped for another explanation that might satisfy him about my presence at the church and came up empty.
    “Look,” Weeghman said. “Stay away from that place. Stay away from anything German. I don’t need no more front pages like today. Find out who’s trying to put me out of business. That’s all I want you to do.”
    “That’s what I was doing at the church,” I said. It wasn’t really, but I didn’t want Weeghman closing off any options. I intended to go wherever I pleased.
    “What—you think Kaiser was involved in something there?”
    “No, but he might have known people who were. Other people who were at the church when he went there last Saturday.”
    “Huh.” It sounded like he was coming around. “So did you find out anything?”
    “Not yet, but—”
    “No buts. You keep working on it. I worked too hard to get what I got. I ain’t gonna have it taken from me.”
    “Okay, Mr. Weeghman.” I figured I owed him something after getting him bad press for the uniform.
    He clicked off without saying good-bye. I wondered if before buying a baseball team a prospective owner has to sign an agreement that he’ll treat his players like something you’d