Prairie Hardball (10 page)

My message light was flashing when I got back to my room just before four: Edna Summers. I called and invited myself to her room.

“What did the police tell you?” she asked, when I got there.

“Nothing much. They’re a close-mouthed bunch. I hope I can get more out of Andy when he’s done tonight.”

“Oh, pillow talk,” she winked.

“I guess,” I said, thinking that we hadn’t been doing much of that in the last few days, or much of anything else on pillows, for that matter.

“I was just talking with Peter and Meg Deneka,” I went on. “She’s an awfully nice woman, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Too bad she’s talking to the birdies these days,” Edna said, briskly. “Her body hasn’t suffered the way mine has, or Rosie Goodman’s, but at least we’ve still got our minds. Meg was smart as a whip when she was younger. She was a real card, too. She used to keep us in stitches. She and Virna were a pair. They’d work up little skits for the bus rides and organize shows for the end-of-season banquets. Meg would sing and dance and Virna would do impressions. She could imitate anybody—the chaperones, other players, the owners, even the league president. She was doing it last night when we were all together in the bar. I thought I’d wet my pants, I was laughing so hard.”

She stopped, then sighed.

“Oh, that seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it? It wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago we were all having so much fun.”

“I know. It’s hard to imagine.”

“It just makes me so darn mad,” she said. “If we had taken those letters seriously, this would never have happened. She wouldn’t have gone off with whoever it was.”

“Well, we can’t know that. It must have been someone she knew, someone she trusted.”

“I wonder. Do you think it happened last night, or this morning?”

“Because of the way she was dressed, I would guess last night.”

“Oh, but that might have been part of the prank,” Edna said, almost to herself.

“What do you mean?”

“I’d forgotten until just now,” Edna said, “but last night, some of the girls were talking about sneaking into the Hall of Fame and playing some sort of joke.”

“Who?”

“It was Elsie Stiegler and Dodie Nowland, two of the girls who played for the Daisies, who came up with the idea. But no one knew how to get in, so they dropped it.”

“What were they going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t in on that part of the conversation.”

“But if Virna found a way to get in, she might have gone there to set something up. Did you tell the police about that part of the conversation?”

“No, I just now remembered it.”

“We’d better go tell them.”

We went down to the second floor, where we found the conference room shut, but Constable Tremblay said he would deliver a message.

“We’ll be in the bar,” Edna said. I looked at my watch.

“It’s not even five yet,” I said.

She shrugged.

“With the time difference, it’s happy hour in Toronto.”

“It’s always happy hour somewhere,” I said.

“You’ve just got to worry when you start celebrating it in Newfoundland,” she said.

The bar was empty, and quieter than it had been the night before, but it was still pretty raunchy. We sat against the wall farthest from the bar. The bartender called across to us and asked what we wanted, then brought Edna a rye and Seven and a beer for me.

“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. “To happier days.”

“To the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.”

“It sounds like you had lots of fun.”

“We surely did, but that’s not all. We played good baseball, too. We drew good crowds.”

“Well, yeah, but it was wartime, right?”

“You mean we got the crowds because we were the only game in town?” she asked, indignantly. “Shame on you. A woman sportswriter not knowing anything about our league.”

She was right. I was as locked in as any male sportswriter to the myth that only big league sports are interesting, and big league sports are played by men. If I had thought about the All-American Girls at all, I thought of it as glorified softball. Hey, how serious could it have been? My
mother
played in it.

“You’re right, you know. I should write a feature story for my paper about you all and the induction. I’ll call my editor in the morning.”

“But the girls are all leaving.”

“You’re not, Edna. I’ll make you the star of the piece.”

“Well, that would be a first.”

“We’ll start right now,” I said. “How did you get involved in the league?”

“I was a tomboy in Watrous, wanting to play baseball while all my friends were growing up and getting married. I felt like some sort of freak. Then I saw the story in
Life
magazine about the All-American Girls, the one with Virna on the cover, and wrote a letter to the league president. He told me about the try-out camp in Chicago. It took all my savings to get there, but I got accepted for the 1944 season.”

“What did your family think about it?”

“Oh, my, they were dead set against it,” she said. “They wanted me to go on with my education, or else settle down and get married.”

“But you went anyway?”

“I went anyway. The first time I ever defied them. In the end, they accepted it. When I became an all-star, my father’s friends all began to congratulate him. But my mother wasn’t happy until I quit.”

“You were all so brave back then,” I said. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”

“Why not? You’ve broken ground in your job, too.”

“Being the first woman in the press box doesn’t exactly rank with Jackie Robinson in baseball history,” I said. “Or with you women doing what you did during the war. That took courage. What I do just needs a thick skin.”

“Well, I admire you.”

“Thank you, Edna. I wish my mother was more like you.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s very proud of you.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to. I can see it in her face.”

“Maybe you’re right. But she doesn’t approve of where the job takes me—like into the locker room.”

Edna giggled.

“She’s probably jealous. I know I am. All those naked young men.”

“It’s less interesting than you think,” I said.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind taking a peek.”

“A peek at what?”

I looked up. Andy was standing beside the table.

“Edna wants to go into the locker room with me,” I said.

Andy smiled.

“I’m shocked,” he said.

“But not surprised?”

“Nothing about you surprises me, Edna.”

Edna told Andy about Virna and the Daisies wanting to play a practical joke.

“Interesting,” he said. “So someone with a key might have brought her there.”

“But no one had a key last night,” Edna said.

“It must have been common knowledge among the people connected with the museum,” I said. “Remember that Ruth Fernie got it from its hiding place this morning.”

“It’s worth looking into,” Andy said. “Thanks.”

“Are you done for the day?” I asked him.

“Afraid not. We’re just taking a break between interviews.”

“Who did you just talk with?”

“Jack Wilton. Next we’re talking to the Denekas. Although I’m not sure how much help she’ll be.”

“And my parents? They’ll want to be getting to their supper, you know.”

“Got it covered already. We’re doing them after supper.”

“When are you going to eat? I’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll check back with you after the next interview.”

After he left, I turned to Edna.

“I should probably go talk to them,” I said.

“Let me tell you about some things I found out this afternoon, first,” Edna said.

“What?”

“I talked with some of the girls who played with Virna in Fort Wayne. One of them, Elsie Stiegler, still has friends there, and says that there was a lot of talk at the time of Wilma’s death.”

She gave me a significant look.

“What kind of talk?”

“That it wasn’t exactly on the up and up. That she died sooner than she was expected to.”

“That she was helped along?”

“Exactly.”

“By Virna?”

“And Jack. No charges were laid, but like I said, some think it was fishy.”

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“Oh, yes, and that’s not all Elsie told me. She and her husband, Ned, moved to Davidson, Virna’s home town, after Ned retired, and they got to know some people who knew Virna when she was young. It seems that people there were surprised when she had that baby, too. They didn’t even know she was married.”

“But I thought she married someone from home. That’s what Meg Deneka said.”

“That’s what Virna told us at the time. She said she went home over the winter and came back married.”

“And he died the next winter, didn’t he?”

“Yes, just before she had the baby.”

“That was either very tragic or very convenient,” I said. “And none of you ever met him?”

“No, we didn’t. To tell the truth, dear, some of us thought it was passing strange at the time, because Virna sure didn’t seem like the marrying kind, if you know what I mean.”

She gave me a look, a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of look.

“But in that case, if I know what you mean, she would hardly be the getting pregnant kind either.”

“Well, life’s full of little secrets,” Edna said. “And if Virna wanted a child badly enough, there were ways, even then.”

“But the timing seems strange, right at the height of her career. Oh well, I doubt it had anything to do with her death.”

“I guess not,” Edna said, sounding disappointed. “It’s probably something else entirely. Something dull like on TV, it’s usually someone in the family that does the murder. To inherit the money.”

“Jack? I don’t think so,” I said. “For one thing, I was with him last night after his mother went to bed, and believe me, he was in no shape to murder anyone.”

“I remember once on
Murder She Wrote
, there was the same situation. But Jessica Fletcher discovered that the killer had been drinking water all night, not Martinis.”

“Well, Jack was drinking Scotch,” I said. “And I saw the bartender pour it out of the bottle. Unless, of course, the bartender was in on the conspiracy and the bottle was full of iced tea. But I doubt it. Besides, he really loved Virna. I could tell by the way he talked about her, and by seeing them together.”

“Oh, well,” she said, then leaned in close to me. “Don’t look now, but here he comes.”

I looked up, feeling faintly guilty to be talking about him behind his back.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

He sat heavily in a chair.

“I’ve just come from the police. They don’t seem to know very much.”

“Well, it’s early yet,” I said, feeling some strange need to defend them. Loyalty to Andy, I guess.

“They gave me a pretty good going-over,” he said. “I think I’m lucky I was with you last night.”

Edna darted a glance in my direction.

“Oh, God, none of this makes any sense,” he said. “I can’t figure out why this happened. Was it someone she knew? Did someone hate her that much? Someone carrying a grudge for all these years? I can’t get my head around it.”

“I can’t believe that any of the girls are involved,” Edna said.

“But there has to be some connection,” he said. “Why else would she have been killed in the Hall of Fame?”

Edna told him about her wanting to go to the Hall of Fame to pull off a practical joke.

“That sounds like her,” he said, smiling sadly.

“But no one knew where to get a key, so they dropped the idea,” Edna said. “Besides, it was almost one in the morning by the time we left.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jack said. “My mother was a night owl.”

“Virna always would go to any length to pull off one of her pranks,” Edna said.

“Well, then it means her murderer had to be in the bar last night,” I said.

“I say it was someone local,” Edna said. “Remember, the letters were postmarked from here.”

I could sense Jack’s discomfort, and tried to change the subject.

“Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s just leave it to the police.”

“You’re right, Kate,” Edna said. “In fact, I’m going to leave you two and see if I can find someone to have supper with.”

“My parents should be ready right about now,” I said.

“And I’ll tell them that you’re waiting for Andy,” she said, getting up.

“Thanks.”

Jack and I sat in silence for a few moments after she left. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t either morbid or inappropriate.

“How are you feeling?” was what I finally came up with.

“Not so hot,” he said. “I spent the afternoon just thinking about her, wishing I’d had a chance to say goodbye. Regretting things I had said to her over the years, or things I didn’t say and wish I had.”

“I’m sure she knew,” I said.

“I hope you’re right.”

“You got along so well, how could she not know?”

“Well, we weren’t always that close. In fact, things were pretty rocky for a while when I was younger. I had a lot of anger in me.”

“What about?”

“You can guess, can’t you?” he asked. “Growing up the way I did. I had a couple of years in my teens when I spent half my time fighting with other kids. This was after they figured out that dykes weren’t just sea walls in Holland.

“I’d come home all bloody and they would want to know why, but I was too ashamed to tell them. I’d make up a story and then go out and do it all over again.”

“Why didn’t you just tell her?”

“In 1957? It wasn’t exactly something a boy could talk to his mother about. So, finally, I went to the phys-ed teacher at school, Coach Newman, and asked him to teach me to fight.”

“And?”

“They stopped bothering me after a while.”

“Did you ever talk to your mother about it?”

“I tried. But she just got mad at people who wouldn’t mind their own business. I was really angry about it for a while there. I really hated her.”

He ordered another drink.

“Look, I don’t even know what went on between them. I didn’t want to know. Lots of unmarried women lived together. That didn’t have to mean anything. It’s not as if they walked around holding hands or anything. They slept in separate rooms. But I couldn’t explain that to anyone. Anyway, my friends stopped coming around, so I stayed out more and more.”

Through it all, he said, his mother and Wilma Elshaw had tried to teach him to judge a person by who he or she is, not by what people say, and that small-minded people should be ignored. Good advice maybe, but not easy for an adolescent to take. It had taken him years to come through the confusion and anger, finally, but he had ended up with a strong and protective bond with his mother and his “Aunt Wilma.”

“I was devastated when Wilma died,” he said. “I’m still trying to come to grips with it. It was very sudden, just three months between diagnosis and when she passed on. And now my mother’s gone, too.”

“I wish there was something I could say.”

“You’ve helped just by listening,” he said.