It wasn’t even noon and the temperature according to my phone was ninety-one degrees, the humidity over 90 percent. The clear blue sky threatened a rain free day.
Hustling down Main Street toward me was a bald man in a white short sleeve shirt, red tie, khaki short pants, black ankle socks, and gray running shoes. He stopped in front of me, held out his hand, “I’m Bob Snedeker, Marty Murray’s editor. Can I speak with you?”
“Sure.”
“Out of this heat. The office is down this way.”
We walked a block past the post office and the Grab the Grub Grocery store to a narrow three-story brick edifice that, with a million or more dollars of renovations put into it, might have passed for a brownstone in New York City.
The first floor was mostly open space with desks that had computers on them, and file cabinets up against the walls. Papers were neatly stacked, walls were clear, the floor polished. A window air-conditioner whirred fairly successfully to keep the room less humid than outdoors. He led me to a small space in the back that had a burlap-covered partition between it and the rest of the room.
He pushed the coffee maker’s ‘on’ button, raised an eyebrow in my direction, and held out an empty cup.
I said, “Thanks.”
He indicated a chair. A small window looked out on a backyard that was mostly weeds interrupted by patches of dirt. The alley looked as busted and crumbling as the town, the backs of the houses beyond it all sagging and withering in the heat.
When we were seated and settled with coffee, Snedeker asked, “What’s Murray gotten himself into? I’m worried about him. Ambitious to a fault but a good kid. Is he in danger?”
“Possibly.”
“He trusts you.”
“I trust him.”
“You’re not going to get him killed?” he asked.
“I don’t want to get anyone killed.”
He gave me a grim smile. “I’m not accusing anybody, but you get here, and Tyler Skeen dies and then this national reporter. You a bad luck charm?”
“Knecht hired me and so far I’ve found Peyton Place on steroids mixed with bits of celebrity. I can’t see how the murders would be connected to the town except by happenstance.”
“Murder by random chance?”
“Well, not so much.”
“This town is screwed.” He waved a hand toward the window and the world beyond. “Look at the place. There’s no gold or jewels or oil. They’re like children fighting in a sandbox. For what? There’s no point. These ballplayers coming to town? It’s like they’re from an alien world. It’s a little fun and gives people something to do, but murder? It just doesn’t make sense. The town isn’t worth killing over. It’s just not.”
I chose not to quote the cliché, wars have been fought for less.
I asked, “Did you know Tyler Skeen?”
“Met him, didn’t know him.”
“Did you go to his parties?”
“I’ve got a wife and kids and a real life. Those parties were for the young and bored.”
“Old Charlie Hopper makes a lot of drugs.”
“Nothing illegal as far as I know.” He sipped some coffee, wiped at the sweat on his forehead with a small towel from his desk that might have been there for that express purpose. He asked, “You saying Old Charlie’s connected to murder?”
“If it was some kind of drug mixture, legal or illegal, he’s a person that it makes sense to talk to.”
He shrugged. “That makes sense and it doesn’t.”
“How so?”
“Well, he makes all those weird concoctions, but then half the town takes them. They’re cheap and people say they feel better.”
“He’s the town pusher?”
“Sort of.” He leaned forward. “I wanted to talk to you for two reasons. One, for Marty’s sake. I don’t want to see him get hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“And because I got a visit this morning. I think several people did. Representatives of the league itself and the big team are here. They don’t strike me as a happy, cheerful bunch at any time. Both groups were specifically asking questions about you.”
“How do they know I even exist?”
“Which I asked them, which they managed not to answer. They are not happy about this whole thing.”
“Other than the killer, who would be happy with murder?”
He grimaced. “You put it kind of flippantly. I’m trying to give you a fair warning. They were not happy in a you’re-the-problem kind of way.”
“Why me?”
“You’d have to ask them. One was a really scrawny guy in a black coat.”
“In this weather?”
“Takes all kinds.”
“They working together or separately?”
“Again, you’d have to ask them.”
“Tyler Skeen having affairs?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“What would cause someone in this town to kill?”
“Same things as any town, I expect.”
“Anything specific to Butterfield?”
“Not that I know of.”