Mystery at the Ballpark (3 page)

Ann started to scramble to her feet, but Nicole held her back. “Wait a minute. How can you be sure?”

“I’d recognize it anywhere,” Ann said, her eyes flashing.

“But why would Susan take it?” Jessie said. “Her mother bought her all new equipment. Anyway, I can’t believe she’d take something that didn’t belong to her.”

“I can’t let her get away with it,” Ann said, flinging Nicole’s hand off her arm.

“Wait a minute. Let’s make sure before you confront her.” Jessie glanced over her shoulder. They waited until Susan set the bat against a tree and headed for the pay phone. “Now’s our chance,” Jessie said, as the three girls dashed across the field.

“She put tape on it,” Ann said a minute later. She was clutching the bat, picking at a strip of thick black tape. “But this is it all right. Here are the notches underneath.”

“Was she trying to disguise it?” Nicole asked.

“Maybe not,” Jessie said. “Sometimes people put tape on the bat where they grip it.”

“What do we do now?” Ann said quietly. “Susan’s on her way back.”

“We have to give her a chance to explain,” Jessie said.

“This better be good,” Ann said. She was clutching the bat tightly to her chest.

“Hi, everybody,” Susan said.

Ann got right to the point. “This is my bat,” she said flatly.

“I’d like to know how you got it.”

Susan looked blank for a moment. “Your bat …” she stammered. “I didn’t know. Honest.”

“See these notches? My father put them on.”

“But they were covered up with tape. I had no idea it was yours.” She looked at Jessie for support. “Why would I take someone’s bat?”

“Where did you get the bat?” Jessie said.

“In my locker. I thought the coach put it there for me.” Her eyes were welling up with tears. “My mother bought me a brand-new bat but I left it at home today. I’d never take something that wasn’t mine.” She wiped her arm across her eyes and hurried across the field.

“Well, now what?” Nicole asked. “Are you going to tell Coach Warren?”

“I’m just glad I got my bat back,” Ann said. “I’m not going to say anything.”

Chuck blew the whistle just then, and everyone returned to practice. Chuck was helping Jessie practice catching fly balls, when he spotted her autographed glove. “It says Hank Aaron. Is this for real?” He examined the signature. “I guess it is.” He slipped his hand inside the glove. “I’ve always been a fan of his.”

When they broke for lunch, Jessie put her glove in her locker. Mr. Jackson had assigned each player a green metal locker. Henry and Violet joined her at the picnic table, and Benny came racing up with Michael and Nicole. Everyone was starving.

In between bites of her cheese and tomato sandwich, Nicole told everyone about Susan and the bat.

“At least she got her bat back,” Violet said.

“But it doesn’t solve the mystery of who took it,” Henry said. “Not if Susan’s telling the truth.”

“I’m sure she is,” Nicole said. “She was really upset. She was crying!”

“Well, let’s all be extra careful.” Henry advised. “Jessie, where’s your glove?” he said suddenly.

“It’s safe,” she told him. “Put away in my locker.”

Except Jessie was in for a surprise. When she returned to her locker after lunch, she saw the door swinging open.

“Ohmigosh!” Nicole blurted out. “Someone’s been in your locker. Is everything okay?”

Jessie looked inside. The locker was empty. “No, it’s not okay,” she said, close to tears. “My glove’s gone.”

Violet came up behind her just then, and realized what had happened. “Oh, Jessie, I’m so sorry,” she said. “What do we do now?”

Henry, who was right behind Violet, spoke first. His voice was low, his expression tight. “We catch a thief,” he said grimly.

“I’m sure your glove will turn up, Jessie,” Violet said the next day. “After all, Ann found her bat, didn’t she?”

In the hands of another player, Jessie thought. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and everyone was lined up to practice hitting.

“Be more aggressive, Susan,” Chuck shouted. The blonde girl nodded and hit the ball again as Jessie watched. After a few more hits, Chuck signaled for the next player to step forward, and Susan dropped back to the end of the line.

“I think we’re getting better,” she said to Jessie. “At first I couldn’t hit the ball at all. Now I’m getting two out of three.”

“All our practice is paying off,” Jessie said.

“Baseball is taking up a lot of my time,” Susan said. She flexed the fingers on her right hand. They were cramped from gripping the bat too tightly. “I’ve had to let my painting and drawing slide.”

“You’re an artist?”

Susan looked a little shy. “My aunt’s the real artist in the family. She gives me art lessons every week, but I’ve had to cut back since I started coming here.”

The line moved forward then, and Violet tried gripping the bat the way Chuck had showed her: fingers half an inch away from the knob, with the middle knuckles lined up.

Meanwhile, Benny was getting some advice on baseball from Mr. Jackson. “Do you know how to tell if you’ve got the right bat, Benny?” The two were sorting through the equipment during the morning’s practice.

Benny shook his head. “No, they all look alike to me.” He put down a stack of helmets, hoping Mr. Jackson would go on talking. There was so much he could learn about baseball, and he didn’t want to miss a word.

“I’ll show you a little trick, son,” Mr. Jackson said, handing Benny a shiny new bat. He positioned Benny’s arm so Benny was holding the bat straight out in front of him. “Count to ten, Benny.”

“One … two … three …” Benny had no idea what Mr. Jackson was up to.

“Getting a bit tired?” The bat sagged a little as Benny kept on counting. “That means it’s too heavy for you. The secret is to hold the bat straight out for ten seconds. If your arm doesn’t droop, it means it’s the right weight.” He handed Benny another bat. “Try this one.”

“Wow! I bet you know everything in the world about baseball.”

“I’ve been around the game a long time,” Mr. Jackson said. “Seen a lot of changes in my day.” He paused and rubbed his neck thoughtfully. “Of course, not all the changes are for the good.”

“Like what?” Benny scooted up onto a workbench, with his feet dangling off the edge.

“In my day, baseball was a boy’s game,” Mr. Jackson said gruffly. “Nowadays the girls all play.” He swept a screwdriver and a saltshaker off the workbench into a drawer.

Benny started to reply, but Henry walked into the dugout just then with a pile of clean towels. What was wrong with girls playing baseball? he wondered. His sisters played!

Later that morning, Nicole and Violet decided to dash to a nearby store for lemonade. Although the day was sunny and warm, the field had been muddy and practice had been hard. “We have ten minutes for break,” Nicole said a little breathlessly. “That’s three minutes each way, and four minutes to buy the drinks.” Coach Warren was very strict about breaks, and anyone who came back late had to run laps.

“Is it lunchtime?” a dark-haired woman asked when they entered the store. Violet recognized her from tryouts. She had been with Susan Miller.

“Not yet,” Violet said politely. “We just have a short break. Are you Mrs. Miller?”

“No, I’m Susan’s aunt, Edna Sealy,” Mrs. Sealy said.

“It seems like I’ve been waiting for hours.” She looked disgusted. “How long can that stupid game go on?”

Nicole and Violet exchanged a look. Mrs. Sealy didn’t seem to like baseball. So why did she bother coming to practice?

“Did you see Susan hitting this morning?” Violet asked. “She’s doing much better. Chuck says she has a lot of talent.”

“I guess you could call it that,” Mrs. Sealy said sourly. “If you think it takes any talent to hit a ball with a stick. And no, I didn’t see her play. I dropped her off this morning and have been doing errands ever since.” She watched as the girls scooped up their drinks. “Tell Susan to try to finish early.” She sighed. “I’d like her to get some painting in today.” She walked to the window, and Violet noticed that her tennis shoes were caked with bright red mud. Where had she seen that strange color before? she wondered.

“We will,” Nicole said, darting out the door. Poor Susan, she thought. The coach had already told them that practice would be running late. Her aunt would really be upset.

The Aldens had lunch with their new friends, Nicole and Michael.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be a pitcher,” Michael moaned. “My arm feels like it’s ready to drop off.” He rubbed his upper arm with the flat of his hand.

“I know what you mean,” Violet said sympathetically. “I’ve got some sore spots, too. Chuck said that we’ll get used to it.”

She opened a bag of sandwiches and passed the first one to Benny, who looked like he was starving. “Oh, we forgot the apples.”

“I’ll go get them,” Jessie said, scrambling to her feet. “They’re in my locker.”

She hurried back to the lockers, and smiled at Mr. Jackson, who frowned at her. “I forgot something,” she explained, as she flung open the locker door. She reached in without looking and was startled when her hand touched something leathery. “What in the world—“she began. It was her glove!

Grabbing the glove and clutching it to her chest, she ran all the way back to the picnic table.

“You found your glove!” Violet cried.

“Someone returned it,” Jessie said happily. She felt so relieved! It wasn’t until she sat down and took a closer look at the glove that she gasped out loud. “Wait a minute,” she said slowly, “this isn’t my glove. It’s a
fake!”

“How do you know?” Henry said quickly. He reached for the glove and turned it over, examining the signature.

“Look at the handwriting,” Jessie said in a quavery voice. She felt close to tears. “Someone tried to forge the signature.” She shook her head angrily. “They didn’t do a very good job.”

“You’re right,” Henry said finally. “It does look different.”

“And the color’s wrong,” Benny piped up.

“That’s true,” Jessie agreed. “My glove was a little lighter. It was faded from being in the sunlight.”

“So somebody went to a lot of trouble to make you think you got your glove back,” Michael said.

“But who?”

“And why?” Nicole added.

“Whoever stole it. I guess they wanted to cover up the theft,” Jessie suggested.

“This makes two thefts in less than a week,” Henry pointed out. “I think we’re going to have to keep our eyes open.”

“How did somebody sneak this into Jessie’s locker?” Benny asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said slowly. “Think hard, Benny. Was there anyone hanging around the dugout besides you and Mr. Jackson? It must have happened sometime this morning.”

“That’s right,” Jessie agreed. “My locker was empty when I put the apples in at eight o’clock.”

Benny scrunched his face in thought and finally shook his head. “Nobody. I didn’t see anybody in the dugout.” He paused. “Except for Chuck.”

“Chuck wouldn’t take the glove,” Nicole said quickly. She liked the friendly young man who was giving them so much help.

“I don’t think so either, but … he admired it,” Jessie said. “He told me Hank Aaron was his favorite player.”

Violet turned the glove over in her hand. It had a rough, grainy texture, and the leather was coarsened. She saw tiny white specks caught in one of the seams. “That’s funny,” she said. “This looks like salt.”

“Salt?” Michael was interested. He reached for the glove and rubbed his fingers gently over the surface. “You’re right. Someone rubbed salt into it, to break down the leather. You know, to make it look old.”

“Salt!” Benny blurted out. He clapped his hand over his mouth.

Everyone stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

Benny looked around nervously, and when he spoke his voice was hardly a whisper. “Mr. Jackson had a saltshaker on his workbench today. I saw him put it into the drawer just as Henry walked in.”

Henry’s face was serious. “Do you think he was trying to hide it?”

Benny shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t act that way.”

“Well, of course he’d try to act casual,” Nicole pointed out. “If he was really guilty, of course. He wouldn’t want you to be suspicious.”