| |
Adam showed up in the church parking lot at five-thirty sharp. He came bouncing in, along with two other young men, in the back of a stove-up Toyota pickup. Sandra assumed they were Adam’s brothers. Then two more men spilled out of the cab. Or maybe those were the brothers. She looked at the field. Pastor Cliff was there, of course, along with Richard and Brendan Barney, Boomer, Nate, and Loriana, the sole female representation for the day. Six originals plus five newcomers meant they could field a team with a sub to spare. She flashed Nate a delighted smile, but it fell from her face when she saw his expression. Why did he look so nervous?
At first, no one spoke to the guests, but something jerked Nate into action and his face sprang into diplomat mode with a broad smile. “Welcome! So glad you could come!” He began shaking hands and introducing himself and the others. The men grabbed balls out of the bucket and walked out onto the field. They started tossing the balls back and forth, notably not playing with any of the originals, but this was to be expected, wasn’t it? There was an even number of them. It would be weird if they mingled right away.
Nate plopped down beside her on the bench and made a silly face at Sammy.
“What’s wrong?” she muttered.
“Nothing,” he said through closed teeth. “I invited him to play because I was trying to get him away from his family. Now he’s just brought them all along.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
He looked at her as if he didn’t quite dare to tell her. “They’re Bickfords.”
“Oh!” Now she understood his nerves. “It’ll be fine,” she tried to comfort him. “This is a ministry, remember?”
He nodded. “I remember.” He still didn’t open his mouth.
“Besides, if they cause too much trouble, I’ll just call the town cops, and they’ll come chase them into the woods.”
Laughter burst out of Nate, finally forcing him to open his mouth. He tipped his head back and laughed toward the clouds. Then he kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. I needed that. And you’re right. I’m sure it will be fine.” He patted her on the leg and then went to greet Lewis, who had just arrived.
Joanna began pulling the bats out of the bat bag.
“Careful, honey!” New Hope Church was the proud owner of a profoundly useless collection of old softball bats. The rubber had worn or peeled off several of the bat handles, and had been repaired with athletic tape that had yellowed and frayed over the years. These bats had the logos worn off them, and Sandra couldn’t understand why they didn’t just throw them away, but they’d been donated by someone at some point and no one wanted to step on any toes, so for every practice and every game, someone hauled them out of the closet and schlepped them down to the field. Richard and Brendan brought their own bats, of course, bragging about how much they’d cost and how much they would help them hit—which they never did. Boomer brought his own bat too, but he was quick to say he’d gotten it for a steal at Marden’s Surplus and Salvage. And everyone else used a bat that someone had donated last year that still had its handle and its logo. The rest just stayed in the bag—unless Joanna took them out of the bag.
She dropped the last bat with a clang and then looked satisfied, as if she’d done something to help.
“Good job. Now you can put them all back.”
“Really?” She obviously didn’t like this directive.
“Really.” Sandra glanced at the old bats, which Joanna had lined up neatly across the center of the dugout. Before she became consciously aware of what she was seeing, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Joanna reached down to grab a bat. “Joanna, stop!” Sandra said too sharply. She stood up and grabbed her daughter, the scorebook falling off her lap and into the dirt. She pulled Joanna away and then stepped closer to the bats and looked down. It couldn’t be. But it was. One of the bats was covered in a dark red that could only be blood. She pulled Joanna toward the dugout’s exit. “Go get your father.”
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Go get him now!” She pushed Joanna out of the dugout and then reached for her purse, scrambling to get the phone out. She started to dial 911 and then thought better of it and went back into the purse for her wallet. Because somewhere in there, among a million diaper coupons and loyalty punch cards that never got filled, she had Chip Buker’s card. She found it and dialed his number as Nate stepped into the dugout. Wordlessly, she pointed out the bloody bat for her husband. Then, “Hi? Chip? It’s Sandra Provost. Can you come to the church? I think I just found the murder weapon.”