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The second half of Sandra’s first game was no better. She could no longer hear the moms. Now she could hear the coaches, and they were equally angry with her. Five minutes in, she was in tears.
A few things were going in her favor, though. First, she was sweating so profusely that no one knew those were tears streaming down her face. And second, her muscles were so warm that she wasn’t in much pain.
She hadn’t meant to, but she’d effectively quit blowing the whistle. She didn’t realize she’d done it until Birch told her to stop being “whistle-shy.” Then, she’d searched for a reason to blow it, but there hadn’t been one. The game dragged on and on, and she swore to herself again that this would be the grand finale of her officiating career.
Then, after the game, as she was preparing to bolt for the safety of her minivan, the two officials flanked her and began pouring praise upon her head. At first, it didn’t help, but slowly, she was persuaded that maybe she hadn’t done so badly. Birch told her that it was the best first game he’d ever seen. She’d told him he was a liar. Harold, though, was more convincing. He praised her for how well she knew the rules, claiming that this was the hard part, and told her she just needed to be more confident.
She was certain that that would be the hard part.
Harold stooped to pick up his backpack, which was behind the scorekeepers’ table. He pulled out a water bottle and took a long drink from it. That niggling voice popped into her head again: You’re supposed to be figuring out a puzzle here. You’re not actually a soccer ref. You’re just pretending to be one. “I can’t believe people last as long as they do in this gig,” she said, trying to steer the conversation in a helpful direction. “How old was Frank? Ninety? So he had like seven decades of moms screaming at him?”
Birch stared off in the distance, pretending he hadn’t heard her, but Harold guffawed. “Frank Fenton? He’s been deaf as a dead dog for the last six of those decades.”
She laughed too. “Maybe that’s who killed him—one of those angry moms.” And then right there in that second, she knew the clue that had been on the tip of her tongue since her shadow game: the water bottles!
The men started walking toward the parking lot, and she scampered to stay between them.
“Do you know how he got the poison into him?” she asked, though she was certain they had no idea.
“Can’t begin to imagine,” Harold said, sounding soberer.
Birch still refused to look at her, but said, “You seem awfully fixated on Frank Fenton.”
Worrying she’d already blown her cover, she said, “Sorry, I guess I am. I’ve never knelt beside a dying man before.”
Birch’s eyes snapped toward her. “That was you?”
Oops. Consider cover blown. She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Sorry you had to do that,” Harold said, sounding sincere.
“So you watched a man die and decided to take his job?” Birch no longer sounded friendly.
“Not exactly.” That wasn’t how it had happened, but she couldn’t exactly tell him how it had happened, now could she? “Um ... I’ve just always loved soccer,” she lied, “and have been thinking about reffing for a while now.” Her voice trembled with guilt. She was the worst liar in the world. Neither man said anything, their silence confirming that neither of them had bought her bologna. At the same time, they picked up their pace. They were almost to the parking lot. She was almost out of time.
“So,” she said, trying to make up for the ground she had so efficiently lost, “thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”
Harold smiled down at her. “Don’t mention it. Anytime. I do a lot of middle school games, so we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He pointed at Birch with his chin. “This guy will be off to bigger and better things, but don’t worry, I’ll have your back.”
They’d reached the tar. Wordlessly, Birch split off for his Beetle, and Harold went in the opposite direction, leaving her with nothing to do but climb into her minivan. As she turned to do just that, she saw that Birch had a stuffed panda hanging from his rearview mirror. Her belly did a flop. Was that a coincidence? Had her subconscious mind seen that before? Did her dream actually mean something, and if so, what? Birch caught her staring at him, and she turned and scurried to her pandaless van.
She started the engine, turned up the Casting Crowns, and called out into the empty space. “Bob! Are you there?”
A voice came out of nowhere. “Be right there. Give me a sec.” Though the voice clearly belonged to Bob, its distinctive quality of disembodiment made her whole body break out in gooseflesh. Had that voice been audible, or had he just telepathically communicated to her? Was she supposed to sit here with her engine running or drive away? How long was an angel sec? Could be millennia. She wanted to get home. She was suddenly starving. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d make it home. An image of the Burger King logo loomed in her mind.
Bob appeared beside her. “Great job out there!”
Relief washed over her. She didn’t think he’d lie to her about her performance. In fact, she didn’t think angels were allowed to lie at all, but even if they were, she didn’t think Bob would. So she’d done okay. Her angel had said so.
“Where’s Sammy?”
“With Ethel.”
Bob beamed. “I’m so glad that’s working out.” The I told you so was implied. “So, what’s up?”
Should she tell him about the pandas? She shouldn’t, should she? He would think she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy.
“You sounded like you had a development,” he pushed.
Oh yeah. “Do the police know how Frank was poisoned? Because I think the poison was in his water bottle.”
He furrowed his brow. “I haven’t heard how he was poisoned, so no, maybe they don’t know. Why do you think it was in the water bottle?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but if Mike White did it, he had to do it shortly before he died, right? Is there such a thing as a slow-acting poison?” The more she talked, the more foolish she felt. “I don’t know. I was just thinking that, at each of my games so far, the school has given us free waters, and the refs drink them. So, it would be an easy way to poison a ref.”
“I don’t think Mike White was anywhere near that game that day.”
Her stomach sank. Maybe she was wrong.
Bob looked out the windshield, squinting. “You should drive away. Those moms look angry.”
Shoot. She’d forgotten all about her new fan club. She threw the van in reverse, and, without even consulting the backup cam, lurched out of her parking spot, threw the van into drive, and sped away.
“I think you might be onto something,” Bob said, and Sandra felt prouder of herself than she ever had. “The water bottle makes sense. And Mike could’ve had someone else do it.”
Once she was safely on the road and sure she wasn’t being followed by a horde of soccer moms, she said, “I don’t think I’m going to drink the free water anymore.”
Bob snickered.
She tried to hide how pleased this made her. It was quite rewarding to make an angel laugh.
“I think we need to share your theory with the police.”