Free Die Like an Eagle by Donna Andrews Page B

Witherington. “Show the people that the town and the league are cooperating harmoniously on this. And we can relocate our opening ceremonies to the town square. Get the crowd out of the way of the investigation.”
    â€œGood thinking,” Mr. Witherington said. “I don’t suppose there’s another ball field to which we can relocate today’s games?”
    â€œWell,” Randall began, and looked to me for help.
    â€œThere’s the elementary school field,” Biff said.
    â€œBut it’s in pretty bad condition,” I said. “Worse than here,” I added, seeing Mr. Witherington glance back at the field behind us with a small but definite frown. Biff glowered at my statement, but I ignored him. “And besides, it’s nowhere near the Summerball regulation size even for the youngest kids—the base paths are only forty-five feet, the distance to the outfield fence is only about a hundred and eighty feet, and there’s no pitcher’s mound to speak of.”
    â€œNot suitable, then,” Mr. Witherington said. “Well, let’s hope your local law enforcement will be able to let us have the field back in time to get in this weekend’s games. I wish you success in your sad endeavors, Chief Burke. We will do our part by clearing the field for you.”
    He and Randall strode off. At least Mr. Witherington was striding—Randall didn’t have to work too hard to keep up with him. Though it did look as if Randall was making a little more progress at charming the Summerball rep. Not surprising; when he set his mind to it, Randall could be quite the charmer. I saw Biff watching their departure with much less satisfaction than I felt.
    â€œMr. Brown? If you please?”
    Biff followed the chief into the open field beyond the porta-potty.
    I glanced over at the bleachers. Should I go and fill in Michael and Chuck?
    Aida Butler, one of my good friends, and also one of the chief’s deputies, strode up.
    â€œTaking charge of the crime scene?” I asked.
    â€œYup,” she said. “Randall and that mousy little guy from the league are about to address the crowd. Not sure what they’re going to say.”
    â€œThat we’ve had a murder, and we’re relocating the Opening Day ceremony to the town square,” I said.
    â€œGood idea,” Aida said. “But of course we both know as soon as they announce that, at least half a dozen people will wander over here to rubberneck.”
    â€œOr to use the porta-potty before they go.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me just text Randall to remind him to announce that it’s out of order.”
    â€œSo how bad is this one, anyway?” Aida asked, when my thumbs had finished tapping out the message to Randall.
    â€œA lot worse than it needs to be,” I said.
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œA porta-potty’s never going to be anything but a porta-potty,” I said. “But at least if you clean them regularly and use enough disinfectant, they’re merely sort of yucky rather than downright gross. But evidently Biff doesn’t share that philosophy.”
    â€œUm … yeah.” Aida looked as if she was smothering a giggle. “Actually, since a couple of my nephews have played on this field, I know how bad the porta-potty is. I meant how bad was the crime scene—since I know you’ve seen a few in your time.”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Except for the location, not too bad. Then again, if there was badness, I may not have seen it. Dad said it was a gunshot wound and pointed to the guy’s forehead, but he was facedown when I found him, so I didn’t see anything.”
    â€œThat’s odd,” she said. “Not a lot of blood?”
    I thought about it for a few moments.
    â€œI don’t remember seeing any blood at all,” I said finally.
    â€œEven odder.” She glanced over at the porta-potty, where