The next afternoon, Rob sat at the table in Peg’s neat kitchen. He flipped open his laptop.
“Trish? Peg? I want you to take a look at this.”
The two women came over and stood close to his chair, peering at the computer.
“This is the sworn statement that Ray Whitman gave to the police. He says he stopped by Lefty’s place. He was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on. Just figured he’d pop in and say hello. The door was unlocked.”
“Lefty was careless that way,” Peg murmured. “I told him and told him, lock your door. Probably that night he forgot about locking up. He was in pain,” she offered.
“Okay. So Whitman finds his body. He calls the police. Then he cleans out Lefty’s locker and finds the stash.” Rob paused. “Ladies, does something about this whole thing bother you?”
“It seems pretty convenient that he was the one to find both the body and the cash,” Trish said.
“Yup. And why did he take it upon himself to open the locker? Isn’t that a matter for the police?”
Trish leaned in toward the computer, her shoulder touching his. Her face was just inches away. Her soft hair fell forward, touching his cheek. He inhaled deeply.
“Mmm. Trish, I like your perfume,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” she smiled, glancing at him.
Peg rolled her eyes. “Can you conduct your courtship later?”
“Right,” he laughed. “That’s if Trish is willing.”
She poked him in the shoulder, smiling. “Back to the case, Sherlock. We can discuss the courtship later.”
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
She hesitated. Why run from her feelings? Wasn’t life all about taking chances? And wasn’t love the biggest chance of all?
“Yes,” she said.
He touched his fingertips to her hand, sending a tiny shiver of electric current between them.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Peg rolled her eyes. “Can we get back to business?”
“Sorry. So my first problem: Whitman says he found the money in Lefty’s locker. There’s no record of anyone seeing Whitman open the locker. We have to take his word for it. So what do we have? A dead body, a gun with Lefty’s fingerprints on it, an investigation, and a stash of money. Pretty open and shut, right? After the coroner officially ruled Lefty’s death a suicide, the Attorney General closed the criminal investigation. End of story.”
Trish studied the picture, trying to block out the disfigured face of what had once been a handsome young man.
“What an awful thing,” she said. “You think he was murdered?”
“I’m convinced of it.”
She touched his hand lightly, as she studied the death scene photograph. “There’s only one thing that still bothers me. Lefty was a big guy, strong. An athlete. How did the killer manage to overpower him? There are no signs of a struggle here. Everything is in place. No lamps knocked over. Nothing.”
“That bothers me, too,” Rob admitted. “I can’t see a guy like Lefty sitting quietly while someone puts a gun to his head. He’d have put up a fight.”
Peg reached across the table and pulled the photograph over. She sighed deeply. “He used to fall asleep in that big chair,” she said. “He’d be reading and he’d just nod off.”
Rob took a deep breath. “That’s it! The whole story is here in this one picture. It’s like a blueprint of what happened! Go with me here. Lefty is sleeping in the chair.” He pointed to a book lying on the floor near the body. “There’s the book he was reading. The killer sneaks up on him, shoots him in his left temple. Lefty is dead within seconds at the most. His body collapses into the chair. His head falls backward onto the headrest . . . sorry, Peg. I know this is difficult.”
“It’s okay, Rob,” she said.
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I owe it to Lefty.”
“You’re a gutsy woman. Okay, to continue, the killer goes to put Lefty’s hand on the gun, he sees the splint. Uh oh. Big problem. No way can a guy fire a gun with three fingers taped together. So he takes off the splint, throws it aside, puts Lefty’s finger around the trigger. Mission accomplished. He leaves. Why did he leave the bandage lying in the corner? Maybe he forgot about it. Maybe he didn’t think it mattered. We’ll never know. I imagine he was in a hurry to get out of there.”
“That’s awful,” Trish said. “Not only did Whitman shoot Lefty, set the whole thing up to look like a suicide, but he planted the cash to destroy his name to boot. But why?”
“He had to have been the inside guy, the one feeding that info to the mob,” Rob said. “When the AG started investigating all those bets against the team, I bet Whitman got nervous and started looking for a fall guy.”
“No wonder Lefty keeps making a ruckus at the concession stand,” Peg said, “He wants his name cleared. You should’a seen the headlines back then. No insult to your profession, Rob, but none of ’em gave poor Lefty the benefit of the doubt. It was a real witch hunt.”
“I’m sure it seemed pretty clear-cut at the time,” Rob said.
Trish laughed. “I feel kinda like Nancy Drew here, but one thing still bothers me. How did Lefty get sucked into this? Why him? Why would Whitman decide Lefty was the one to set up?”
“That’s a good question,” Peg said. “He went out to that pitcher’s mound every time he came up in the rotation, and he gave 100%. So why pick on poor Lefty?”
“We can only guess now,” Rob said. “Too many years have gone by. Everybody’s dead.”
“Not everybody,” Peg said. “I’m still here. I’m going to turn off the lights and we’re gonna ask Lefty what happened. Trish, darlin’, you close up the blinds while I find a candle.”
She switched off the florescent light, and the room was again dark, with only the flickering candle for illumination.
“Join hands,” Peg said. She closed her eyes and began to murmur in an undertone.
Trish and Rob exchanged amused glances. Rob glanced over at Peg, then raised Trish’s hand to his lips. He kissed it and ran his tongue along her soft palm. She shivered.
“Lefty!” Peg’s voice rang out. “You have to tell me. Did you take bribes?”
The candle flickered once, then the flame was steady.
“Did you stumble upon something?”
The candle flared bright once, twice, three times.
Trish and Rob were mesmerized as they watched the candle flame.
“Was it about Whitman?”
Again, once, twice, three times the candle flared.
“Were you going to the police?”
They all held their breath, waiting. The candle flared up three times.
“Were you murdered?”
The flame leaped up higher and brighter, lighting up the room.
“Lefty,” Peg breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
The flame died down to a slow steady light. Then it went out. Peg’s head dropped down onto her chest.
“Gran!” Trish sprang up, frightened. She snapped on the overhead light and reached for her grandmother.
Peg raised her head; tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
“Poor Lefty. He’s been in pain for such a long time. There was no one who could hear his cries. But when I came to work at the stadium, he knew he could get through to me. He knew I could contact him. All that mischief, the spilled stuff, the mess he left every day, that was to get my attention.” She heaved a great sigh. “I used to read his palm for him. I’d tell his fortune. I never saw him getting killed . . . “ her voice trailed off. “That’s what made me stop.”
She looked weary, drained of her usual high spirits. “Maybe he’ll rest in peace now.”
“Not yet,” Rob said. “Not until his name is cleared.”
“How do you figure to do that after all these years?” Trish scoffed. “A testimony from a spirit isn’t going to cut it. Chances are that Whitman’s dead and he took his secrets to the grave—”
“Not necessarily,” Peg cut in, her voice stronger. “Look up a name on that giggle thing of yours.”
“Google,” Trish corrected her.
“Whatever,” Peg shrugged. “Look up Marjorie Whitman. See if that old bat is still alive.”