I GOT TO THE BALL fields about eight-thirty Tuesday evening. Land along the river isn't worth building on. Heck, in twenty years half the softball field could be lost to erosion.
For today and the near future, the park has the softball field, a refreshment stand called the Snack Shack made of recycled plastic from a small plant in Bonaparte, and a large swing set complete with sliding board. Anything on the site could be easily removed during a flood or cleaned afterwards.
I leaned against the chain link fence watching Mike, who runs the McKinney car repair shop in town, try to strike out a muscular guy who looked to be about forty. There were two outs. When the call got to three balls and two strikes, Mike relaxed for what he probably thought would be a final pitch.
Brad Thomas came to the plate. I hoped he didn't smell like his organic fertilizer. His bat cracked on the first pitch, and the grounded double let in two more runs.
From the bench that held Chamber of Commerce and Rotary members came a collective groan. The military service veterans appeared to be on track for their fifth straight July Fourth win.
Apparently the umpire wanted to go home. He waved his hands above his head in a crisscross motion and yelled, "Called because of dark." The two teams probably could have gone another inning, but it would likely have been painful to watch.
I glanced around, still not seeing Nelson or his cousin. A Dr. Pepper was in order, and I got to the Snack Shack in time to hear Shirley yell, "Last call. Get your butts over here if you want a drink."
I grinned and took a dollar bill out of my pocket. "Hey, Shirley. Doing double duty?"
She flashed a smile and pulled a Dr. Pepper from a metal tub on the counter. Ice cold, the way she knew I liked it.
"Hey, Shug. Just for the Fourth. Haven't seen you here since Hal got kicked out a couple years ago."
I put the bill on the counter and took the can. "He said he'd fire us if we hung out here during practice. At the time, I liked my job."
She shook her head. "Old Hal." She took remaining cans of soda from the tub, and I lifted it off the counter to dump the ice water a few feet from the shack.
A car horn beeped in the nearby lot. When I looked, a hand came from the window and waved at me. I put the tub back and walked to the beat-up, gray Chevy Taurus.
Nelson stepped out of the car. "Kind of a busy place."
"I can pay you now and meet you later for the stuff."
He nodded. "Hardware store parking lot is good."
Harlan sat in the passenger seat, but ignored us. From his posture, it seemed he was scanning the Internet on his mobile phone.
"I don't want to buy a lot, but thought it would be fun for a couple friends and me to have our own show. Maybe after the town fireworks."
"Best time." Nelson pulled a rumpled sheet of paper from the breast pocket of a stained denim shirt. "Half the town's doing it then, so cops only pay attention if you set 'em off in the street."
"Good advice. I want some fountains and a few Roman candles." My dad would light off the conical fountains that spewed sparks fifteen or more feet into the air.
"I got the fountains, but not the candles." He named a ridiculously high price.
"Gee, I had no idea it would be that expensive."
Nelson's eye roll and expression implied I was an idiot. "See, we have transportation and security costs. Or you could go to Missouri yourself and get 'em."
I thought quickly. I wanted to find out if he'd had Roman candles earlier and sold out, or if he still had them and was keeping them for someone. "I'm happy to get them from you. Wish you had the candles, though."
"We had some last year, but they cost too much this year. If we got stuck with even a few it'd cut into profits."
I suppressed a smile as we agreed on the quantity, and I forked over the money. The Nelson I knew never talked like a business man before. "You know where I can get any?"
Nelson frowned. "I heard somebody else is selling this year, but I'm not gonna send you to the competition."
Now I did grin. "Aren't you the entrepreneur?"
Harlan's strident voice came from inside the car. "We gotta go, Nelson."
I nodded to Harlan, and to Nelson said, "I'm usually in town. Just let me know when to meet you at the store."
They pulled out, and I walked to my truck, thinking. Another person might be selling in town, or it could have been Nelson's way of blowing me off. If he and Harlan had been using the barn, they might not want to own up to having the candles. They wouldn't want me to know who shot them at me.
Before today, I hadn't thought of Nelson as organized enough to gather eggs in a hen house, much less run a business and use my parents' barn as some sort of distribution point for illegal goods. Perhaps I should change that thinking.
I CALLED AMBROSE Wednesday to see how he was doing.
"I was so damn nervous about staying in jail, I spent yesterday feeling relieved. Worked in the beans all day."
"Who would've thought farming in the hot sun would be relaxing?"
Ambrose's laugh was one of sarcasm. "Today, I'm getting mad again. At the sheriff and, now, that reporter friend of yours."
"I'm not sure I feel too friendly toward Ryan just now."
Ambrose paused. "Maybe when he finds out how wrong he was, it'll teach him a lesson."
I didn't want to talk about Ryan. "You going down to the Dubuque sheriff to check in?"
"Yeah. I know him from Farm Bureau. He called last night to say he talked to Gallagher. I'm 'sposed to stop by anytime except lunch."
I had to laugh. "I don't think they'd be like this in New York City."
"Or Des Moines. Listen, I have a telephone appointment to go over a lot of stuff with Ms. Dickey, that's what she said to call her, day after the Fourth. You think of anything she should know?"
I said nothing for a few seconds. "I've found out that Nelson and his cousin for sure sell fireworks, but somehow I can't believe they'd be smart enough to distribute a bunch of them from our barn."
"Uh, Mel, I meant anything you might think of from that day. Let's leave any poking around to Ms. Dickey."
I tried not to sound aggravated. Ambrose needed to get more involved in figuring out what happened to Peter Frost. "What about the autopsy report? Will she have it?
"Mel, stay out of any investigating."
I made no commitment. "How come you're not talking until the fifth?"
"She had some plans set up. We need a break, too. Sharon's a lot more upset than I am. We're going to barbeque on the Fourth and invite a couple friends over."
"Since you can't leave your farm except to talk to your sheriff?"
He gave a short laugh. "I'm allowed to go to church. Maybe I'll take it up again."
After we hung up, I outlined my day. I'd go back to our barn. If someone had been using it, maybe tire tracks would show behind it. Or maybe there had been, and the sheriff's crew had already sampled them. How would I find that out?
I headed first to the hospital to see what I could learn from the autopsy report. Dr. James T. MacGregor, Jr., is head of Pathology and Hematology and also serves as South County's medical examiner. He had talked to me about Hal's autopsy, even though he hadn't performed it. Why not Peter Frost's?
The old tile hallway outside his hospital office had been polished to a high sheen. Idly, I wondered if the hospital got business from people who slipped on it.
Dr. MacGregor saw me right away, possibly to avoid my talking to his staff.
I sat across from him in a chair with a leather seat and back and wooden arms. The formal chairs matched the doctor's arrow-straight posture. He started talking before I could ask any questions.
"You'll read articles that say a deceased person's body temperature declines one-and-a-half degrees per hour, but there really isn't an exact standard." He focused on a pen as he twirled it and didn't look at me. "You probably watch crime shows where killers think freezing a body will throw off an investigation. It can. Same thing with excess heat."
"So, did something make Mr. Frost's temperature so close to normal? For a dead person, I mean?"
He sighed. "The barn was almost the perfect environment for using temperature as a guide. Not too hot, not too cold. I was out of town, so I didn't go to the site, but another doctor rushed out there." He met my gaze. "Rectally, that's the most accurate measurement."
I felt my face shift into a grimace. "But you did the final report. Something must've led you to think he died right before Ambrose got there."
In an almost gentle tone, he said, "Largely temperature."
I thought for several seconds. "I, uh, didn't see a lot of blood."
"Frankly, if the blade hadn't nicked his aortic valve, he probably would have lived. If the killer had, uh, not done anything else."
"So why didn't I see much blood?"
"Largely internal bleeding."
"So the knife did a lot of damage?"
"As I said, if he had received prompt treatment… It was the most common type of aortic tear, which occurs in the ascending aorta, the beginning of the vessel where it emerges from the top of the heart." He patted his heart with his left hand. "It's a big enough segment that it could be hard to miss with a knife to the shoulder."
"Huh. Fast or slow?" I asked.
Dr. McGregor shifted in his chair. "It shouldn't have taken too long."
"But could it? I mean, if he didn't move around, he wouldn't have bled really fast, would he? Maybe someone stabbed him and then called Ambrose."
Dr. McGregor stood. "Melanie, I hope Ambrose is cleared of this crime. All I can do is report my findings." He held out his hand to shake. "His lawyer was sent the autopsy report the morning after the hearing."
Knowing it wouldn't do any good to press, I accepted the handshake and thanked him.
I drove to the library, thinking I'd print some articles on things like internal bleeding and body temperature. After sitting in front of the building for almost two minutes, I drove away.
Ms. Dickey had to have staff who would look into that. I lived in River's Edge, able to talk to people. Someone in this town had either killed Peter Frost or knew who did.