Free Die Like an Eagle by Donna Andrews Page A

something,” he said. “Right now, this whole field could be the crime scene, and we may need to send all these people away for a few hours. We’ll have to delay the first game—possibly cancel today’s games, depending on how our investigation goes.”
    Biff looked up, frowning more deeply, as if about to protest. Then he seemed to deflate like a balloon.
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    â€œIf you don’t mind, let’s go over there where we can have some privacy.” The chief was pointing at the stretch of empty field between the porta-potty and the woods. “I’d like to get some more information about your brother.”
    â€œYou want to know who his enemies are,” Biff said. “Look around you! All those entitled parents, demanding luxury accommodations and preferential treatment for their miserable untalented kids.”
    To me that sounded more like a list of Biff’s enemies. Apparently Biff realized this.
    â€œEvery call he made, someone would argue with,” he added. “It could get pretty vicious.”
    â€œI’d be happy to hear your thoughts on anyone who might have had a grudge against Mr. Henson,” the chief said. From the look on his face, I could tell he planned to take Biff’s thoughts with more than a few grains of salt. I noticed Randall Shiffley had arrived, and was observing Biff with the expression of deadpan impartiality he normally wore when trying not to laugh at unusually outrageous citizen complaints. “This way.”
    â€œBut I have a league to run,” Biff protested.
    â€œPerhaps I could be of assistance.” It was the bigwig. I hadn’t spotted him standing there beside Randall. Up close he looked even scrawnier, and his eyes behind the thick lenses were squinting against the sun and watering. “James Witherington. I’m a vice president with Summerball National. It’s part of my job to troubleshoot problems for our local affiliates. I’m sure assisting Mr. Brown in his time of sorrow comes under my job description. You go on and help the local authorities with their investigation,” he said, turning to Biff. “I’ll make sure everything’s done strictly according to Summerball policy.”
    â€œI’m not sure I’m allowed to offload my Opening Day responsibilities to anyone else,” Biff said.
    â€œOf course you can,” Mr. Witherington said.
    â€œRule 13.4.1,” I said, perhaps a little more loudly than I had intended. Given all the hours I’d spent fighting insomnia with the Summerball rule book, bits had begun to stick in my mind, and the rule in question struck me as something that might prove useful to know. Mr. Witherington turned his head and studied me for a few moments with a gaze of mingled surprise and approval.
    â€œPrecisely,” Mr. Witherington said. He turned back to Biff and the chief. “Essentially, an official of the national league can fill in temporarily if a local official is incapacitated for any reason. I think bereavement is an appropriate reason for incapacitation. Mr. Brown, allow me to extend official condolences from Summerball National, along with our assurance that we will do everything we can to keep things running smoothly.”
    Mr. Witherington extended his hand toward Biff, who appeared not to see it. He was staring at the porta-potty.
    â€œAnd all of us appreciate your thoughtfulness at this difficult time,” Randall said. “May I introduce my executive assistant, Meg Langslow?”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” I said as I shook the hand Biff was ignoring. Witherington’s handshake was firmer than I’d have expected.
    Randall introduced the chief and Horace. Biff, meanwhile, had recovered himself enough that he was glaring with visible annoyance at all this polite handshaking.
    â€œWhy don’t the two of us go and make the announcement together?” Randall said to Mr.