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Nary a Bickford showed up for the next softball practice. Sandra wasn’t surprised. It was Saturday night, and she thought probably the Bickfords had more “social” things to do. She casually mentioned this to her husband, who was quick to jump to the Bickfords’ defense and correct her. Adam had let him know well in advance that they were all playing in a men’s league tournament that weekend.
She set the brakes on Sammy’s stroller and sat down on the dugout bench beside her husband. “Oh yeah, Danny mentioned that they all played in a men’s league. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Danny? You’re on a first name basis with the Bickfords now?”
“Yes. I am, after all, their scorekeeper.”
He snickered. “So, anyway, yes, there is such a thing. Local businesses sponsor teams and they pay to play in big tournaments in Auburn and Portland. The winners get actual money.”
She was incredulous. “Seriously?”
“Those involved take it pretty seriously, but I had no idea that Adam and his family were involved when I invited him to play.” He chuckled. “Turns out my invitation made far more sense than I thought at the time.”
“Yes, it sure did. He was probably flattered. So, they’re not skipping practice. They’re just with one of their other teams tonight. That means they’re coming back, right?” Nate studied her face, and too late, she realized she’d sounded overly excited about that idea. She shrugged. “Sorry, I kind of like them.”
Nate nodded. “I like them too. They are entertaining. But for now, I guess we just practice with what we’ve got.” He spoke with the same tone he would use to declare, “Now it’s time to clean the bathroom.” At least, she imagined that’s how he would sound if he ever declared he was going to clean a bathroom. She’d never heard such a declaration, and doubted she ever would.
Nate walked out onto the field, where Pastor Cliff was announcing batting practice. Both Barneys were in attendance, making Sandra wonder why they hadn’t arrested Richard yet, if his prints were on the weapon. Then she wondered if Chip and gang had found any prints in the secretary’s office—any prints other than her own.
Daphne Barney sat in the bleachers with her girls surrounding her. They were all holding still for once—they were probably too hot to run around—and Sandra was able to count them. There appeared to be only four. No way. She could’ve sworn there were more of them. Maybe one was at a friend’s house. But did the Barney girls even have friends? She’d never seen them playing with other children, despite her church having a gazillion children in regular attendance. It struck her then that she barely knew these people, even though they’d been going to her church for a while now. She felt a little guilty, so she headed for the bleachers.
As she sat, she asked, “Hot enough for you?” It was a line so commonly delivered in Maine whenever the temperature went above seventy-five, she hoped it would serve as a harmless segue into a friendly conversation.
She was wrong.
“I’m from South Carolina.” Daphne’s face was so tight Sandra wondered if she’d just had a Botox shot. Her tone was so unfriendly, Sandra almost bounced right off the bleacher seat and ran away.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to insult your ability to tolerate heat.” She hoped her words didn’t sound as sarcastic as she’d felt when she spoke them.
Daphne’s face exploded into a beauty pageant smile. “No, I’m sorry. I truly am. I guess I’m just grumpy.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I hate softball.”
Sandra laughed. “Yeah, it’s not my favorite either.”
Daphne rocked away from her. “Yes, I’ve heard you’re quite the soccer hero around here.” Her words teetered on the edge of ironic, and Sandra wasn’t sure whether to be offended, so she gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“Mommy, will you please braid my hair?” One of the blondes plopped down on the bleacher in front of her, and as if on autopilot, Daphne’s hands began weaving the long locks together. Sandra noticed then how perfect Daphne’s hair was. And she wasn’t sweating, which didn’t seem reasonable. Maybe this was a benefit of growing up in South Carolina—you learned not to sweat.
“So, four girls, huh?” She cringed at her awkwardness, but she couldn’t stand the suspense of not knowing exactly how many children Brendan and Daphne had.
“Yes. This is Brenna.” She pointed with her chin without looking away from her braiding. “That is my oldest, Bethany. And then down there we have Bonnie and Beatrice. Get out of the dirt, girls!” The girls popped up like those old bounce back punching bags her dad had blown up for her when she was little, back when it was okay to teach kids to punch. In perfect synchrony, Bonnie and Beatrice plopped down on the front row of the bleachers and stared out at the batting practice, which could not possibly have interested them. It didn’t even appear to be interesting the people directly involved in it. “Who knows what’s in that dirt,” Daphne said, mostly to herself.
Sandra considered the question, but decided it was probably mostly dirt in that dirt.
Richard Barney stepped up to bat and missed the first pitch. Then he missed the second. And the third. Sandra wasn’t sure if he was a terrible batter or if Pastor Cliff was a terrible pitcher. She watched another five missed swings and decided that both things were true.
A large sedan pulled into the church parking lot, and it took Sandra too long to realize it was Chip and Slaughter. They climbed out and walked out onto the field as if they owned the place. They made a beeline for Richard, said something to him, and then in a move that nearly knocked the wind out of Sandra’s lungs, spun him around and slapped some handcuffs on his wrists.
At that, his church brethren made a mad dash to surround him. Sandra didn’t know if they were there to defend him or if they just wanted to get closer to the drama. All she knew was that she wished she were closer to the drama. She did stand and climb out of the bleachers, only then realizing that the Barneys beside her seemed awfully calm about the whole thing. Or maybe they didn’t understand what was going on? She pulled her eyes away from the action to glance at Daphne, whose face was completely impassive. Were South Carolinians stoics? Was Daphne related to Slaughter? They should form a poker team.
She turned back to what appeared to be an arrest and tried to read Chip’s lips. Pastor Cliff seemed to be enthusiastically defending Richard Barney’s honor. Sandra wasn’t surprised. He didn’t want to lose the biggest tither he’d ever had to the clink.
Sandra realized then that she didn’t think Richard had done it either, no matter what the fingerprints suggested. Why would a rich man kill a peaceable recovering drug addict? And why would he do it with an old softball bat? Didn’t rich people hire real criminals to carry out their crimes? At least, that’s how it happened on television. Then it had to be a crime of passion, right? Something Richard hadn’t thought out in advance? But how could Richard have any passion regarding Phoenix?
This whole business had started out with a bunch of puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together, and she feared Chip and Slaughter were trying to jam the pieces into the wrong spots.