Prairie Hardball (16 page)

Next morning, I had breakfast alone. After our night on the town with Don Deutsch, and some private shenanigans back at the hotel, we slept in, and Andy only had time to grab a quick coffee before rushing off to the police station. My parents, of course, had long since finished eating.

I was just digging into my bacon and eggs when Garth Elshaw appeared. I put down my newspaper and asked him to join me.

“Just for a moment,” he said, twisting his baseball cap in his hands nervously. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Have a coffee with me, anyway. I hate eating alone.”

He sat down and the waitress appeared instantly with the coffee pot.

“You want breakfast?”

“Just coffee.”

She left and silence fell on the table. I felt awkward eating while he sat twisting his hat.

“What’s the weather like?” I asked.

“Raining again. They say there’s going to be four centimetres.”

“Good for the farmers.”

“Yep.”

“And for the ducks,” I said. “But if you don’t happen to be a farmer or a duck, it can be a bit of a pain.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh.

“You know, Mr. Elshaw, Jack Wilton was talking to me just last night about the things you did together when he was growing up without a father. He hasn’t forgotten.”

“That’s who I’m here to see,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Well, I was just going to let it go, but Morley told me to call him up and see if we can patch things up between us.”

“You were wise to listen to Morley, then.”

“Morley’s not dumb, you know,” he said, then stopped, as if embarrassed.

“I was told a bit about it yesterday. Someone who knew him said he was a real live-wire before the war and came back a changed man. Is that true?”

“We saw some terrible things over there,” he said, cryptically. “Some fellows take it harder than others.”

“All his plans for the future changed, too,” I continued, probing. “Including his marriage plans to your sister.”

“Where did you hear about that?”

“I read it in one of the articles at the Hall of Fame.”

“Oh, I see.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Well, yes,” he finally said. “But you couldn’t blame her for cancelling it, the way he was when he came back.”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

“Well, it was the other way, at first. Morley thought he would be a burden. When he got better, it was too late. She’d taken up with that Wilton woman.”

“But you still had them up here for the summer holidays, didn’t you?”

“Well, Wilma was my sister. And Maude, that was my late wife, invited her. I went along with it for the sake of the boy.”

He paused, then reddened.

“But I made sure they slept in separate bedrooms when they came to us.”

“I don’t think that’s really any of my business,” I said.

“Looks like you’re making it your business, reading all those old stories and talking to any busybody in town with gossip to spread.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Elshaw, if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to write an article about the wonderful accomplishments of the women in the All-American Girls Professional League.”

“Excuse me, Miss Henry. I was out of line. But you just be careful what you write. There are some pots best left unstirred.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said, then saw Jack Wilton come into the room. He raised his hand in greeting and came to our table.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Mr. Elshaw and I have been having a nice chat.”

Elshaw stood up. And, after a slightly awkward pause, the two of them made their way to a table across the room. I went back to my paper. I also kept an eye on the meeting between the two men.

It was a classic: two men trying to cross an emotional chasm without the tools to build the bridge. Women would have hugged, but they had to make do with words, a medium in which at least one of them was not comfortable. Garth sat stiffly, looking down at his coffee cup while Jack talked earnestly to the top of his head. Finally, he reached over and touched Garth tentatively on the arm. The “uncle” raised his head. Jack smiled. Some of the stiffness went out of Garth’s body, and he laughed. Then they both were talking. Not easily, yet, there were still long pauses, and eyes that didn’t quite meet, but I left the restaurant knowing that the first steps had been taken.

I found my parents by the pool. My mother was knitting and my father was reading a book.

“If you don’t watch out, you’ll find that idleness suits you,” I teased.

“There is visible labour and invisible labour,” my father said, looking over the tops of his glasses. “Victor Hugo. ‘A man is not idle if he is absorbed in thought.’ I, my dear, am absorbed in thought. Your mother, as usual, is absorbed in good works, knitting for the United Church Women Christmas sale.”

“Only 117 knitting days left,” I joked. She smiled, vaguely.

“We missed you at breakfast this morning,” Daddy said.

“We slept in, I’m afraid. It’s been a busy few days.”

“You haven’t been idle, then.”

“I’m still working on the article about the league, Mum. I’m going through the files, and I want to interview you.”

“I don’t think so, dear,” she said. “My story isn’t very interesting.”

“Of course it is,” I said. “You were all so daring to leave your small towns, to go so far away and do something so adventurous. Seeing you all together this weekend has really made me realize that. I’d love to talk to you about it. Please?”

My mother looked quite surprised.

“Well, I suppose so, if you like,” she said. “When would you like to talk? Right now?”

“Well, actually, I’d like to go back to the Hall of Fame this morning, if I can borrow the car, and finish what I started yesterday. Maybe after lunch.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Andy took it to the RCMP detachment. They seem to have found a local suspect to question.”

“I certainly hope they’ve found the man,” my father said.

“Yes, and that there was no connection with anything from back then,” my mother said. “I must confess, I found it very uncomfortable to think it might be someone we knew.”

“Well, I’ve been feeling like a prisoner,” my father said, “stuck here in the hotel, with everybody afraid to go anywhere.”

“Where is the rest of the crew this morning?” I asked. “Edna and the Denekas.”

“Edna is sitting with Meg in her room,” my mother said. “Poor Peter had some things he had to do, and didn’t want to leave her alone. She needs looking after.”

She sighed.

“I hope that doesn’t happen to me.”

“It’s strange how she can be quite with-it one moment, then get lost in another time,” I said.

“Well, Peter says it’s gradually getting worse. This wandering has just started recently. Poor Meg. I feel for her.”

“Well, touch wood everything’s all right so far,” I said, tapping my knuckles lightly on my father’s head.

He smiled up at me.

“Can I have the keys then? I’ll come back at lunchtime.”

My mother opened her purse and handed them to me. “Drive carefully,” my father said, as he has done every time I have left him for almost thirty years.

The rain hadn’t let up. I stopped at the Petro-Canada station for a fill-up and bought a Pepsi to drink while I worked. I got to the Hall of Fame just after ten. There was an old pickup truck parked out front. I went around back for the key, but it wasn’t on the hiding hook. Swearing under my breath, I went to the front door and tried it. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

I didn’t see anyone at first, but the lights were on. I was about to call out when I saw the legs. There was a body sprawled on the floor on the very spot where Virna Wilton’s had been found, this one with the head and torso jammed under the organ’s keyboard.

I didn’t scream, but I probably gasped. Rushing across the room, I managed to knock over a mannequin, which crashed to the floor. In response to all this commotion, the corpse began to move. The feet twitched first, then the legs. Then, slowly, it slid out from under the organ and revealed itself to be the very alive Morley Timms.

“Mr. Timms, you scared me half to death,” I said. “I thought you were, well, never mind what I thought. What on earth are you doing there?”

He began to laugh, showing the gaps in his back teeth. He had a high-pitched giggle.

“You thought I was a goner, eh? That’s a good one. Wait’ll I tell Garth.”

I began to laugh, too, giddy with relief.

“I was just trying to get ahold of this,” he said, holding out some sort of knob. I took it and could see it was one of the stops from the organ.

“Things got a bit messed up here, I guess you’d say, and Dave Shury asked me to come in to tidy up and fix anything that needed it.”

He pointed to one of the display cases.

“See, I replaced the glass there, where it got cracked, and I’m cleaning up the mess those police left.”

“That’s a lot of work,” I said. “I hope I won’t be in your way over here.”

“I’ll be glad of the company,” he said. “It was a bit spooky in here alone. Creepy-crawly.”

“I know what you mean. I was working here yesterday, and every time I heard a noise, I jumped out of my skin.”

“Probably just the mice,” he said. “There are some around. Church mice. No one told them that it’s not a church anymore.”

“Maybe it’s a new breed. Hall of Fame mice.”

“Famous fame mice,” he giggled.

I sat down and opened a new box of files.

“I’d better get to work,” I said.

“They got the guy, you know,” Morley said, hanging around the desk. “The one who killed Virna.”

Clearly, the whole town knew about the suspect.

“That man shouldn’t have been let out of jail, you know,” Morley continued. “They should have thrown away the key. A man like that who beats up old women, they should string him up by the necktie.”

I made noncommittal
hmm
ing
noises in my throat, opened another file and opened my notebook. I didn’t feel like opening up a capital punishment debate with Morley Timms.

“Are you writing a story about the museum?”

“Well, not really. More about the women’s baseball league.”

“You should write about the museum,” he said.

“Maybe I will some day. Now I’d really better get to work.”

He took the hint, and got back underneath the organ, his round bum stuck comically in the air. I began going through the files and scrapbooks of the Saskatchewan women who had played for other teams. In the early days, much was made of these exotics from the frozen north. One woman, the league president claimed, travelled to Saskatoon by dog sled to catch the train for spring training in Chicago. Added to the geographical stereotypes were the sexual ones, unintentionally hilarious with forty years’ worth of hindsight. I particularly liked the picture of a catcher, with her mask pulled up on her head, looking into her compact mirror while powdering her nose.

I scribbled notes happily, knowing that I had the angle which would amuse the readers while honouring the women of the league and their real accomplishments.

While I worked, Morley Timms pottered around, whistling tunelessly under his breath. From time to time I would look up and catch him staring at me. Then he’d flash a goofy grin and start looking busy. I thought about the stories Gladys Bieber had told me about him in his youth, when he was a charming heartbreaker. I could see traces of it in that smile.

After about half an hour, I put down my pen and stretched. I opened my Pepsi, which was still cold, drank some.

“Sorry I didn’t know you were here, Mr. Timms. I would have brought you a cold drink too.”

“Never mind about that,” he said, straightening up from the cabinet he had been rearranging. “And you don’t have to call me Mr. Timms, either. Just call me Morley, like everybody else.”

“All right, Morley. Do you do a lot of work for the museum?”

“There’s always something that needs being done. Fixing things up, running errands for Mr. Shury, going to the post office and things like that.”

“You must be a baseball fan, then.”

“Lifelong.”

“Did you ever play?”

“I was captain of the Battleford team back before the war. It was a good one, too. Crackerjack. I’ll show you a picture.”

He led me to a wall covered in framed photos and pointed.

“See, I’m in the Hall of Fame, too,” he said, proudly.

It wasn’t a very big picture. A faded ink inscription indicated that the Battleford Mounties were Prairie League Champions in 1941. I looked more closely, but couldn’t recognize Morley Timms, there being no egg-shaped old men in the picture. I asked him for help, and he pointed to the player in the centre of the front row, hat off and grinning, in contrast to his more serious teammates. Then he pointed to another player, a tall, handsome man in the second row.

“That there’s Garth Elshaw,” he said. “Centre fielder.”

“What position did you play?”

He pointed to himself and laughed.

“Shortstop, what do you think?”

“I bet you were good,” I said. “And after the war, did you play again?”

“I wasn’t in such good health,” he said, uncomfortably. “But we played overseas, Garth and I. We showed those English a thing or two. We even played on board our ship. Except every time someone hit a home run, the ball would end up in the drink.”

He laughed merrily at the thought.

“Well, it’s too bad you had to give it up. I bet it brought you a lot of pleasure.”

“Nothing to be done about it.”

“And Garth Elshaw? Did he play afterwards?”

“No. He coached some, is all.”

“Wilma was an outfielder like her brother, wasn’t she?”

“Garth and me, we taught Wilma to play.”

“You were good teachers, then,” I said. “I wish I’d known her. She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

I watched him for a response, but aside from a small sigh, he didn’t reveal anything.

“She was the best I ever saw,” he said. “Best woman, anyways.”

He turned away from me abruptly.

“I have to get back to work,” he said. I stayed and looked at the photo for a while, then hung it back on the wall and went back to the desk. I dug out Wilma’s files and Virna’s scrapbooks. I found the newspaper clipping about the flower shop and put it on the desk, then pulled out the article about Wilma from her file. Morley had filled a pail with suds and was busy mopping the floor. I waited until he came close to the library area.

“I was just reading this article about Wilma,” I said. “It says that you and she were engaged to be married.”

He kept mopping, in slow, thoughtful circles.

“That was a long time ago,” he finally said. “Lot of water under the bridge since then.”

“I guess she had her career.”

“We were both different when I got back,” he said.

He smiled then.

“I guess we weren’t neither of us the marrying kind,” he said.

“Did you keep in touch?”

“Never saw her again.”

“But I thought she came back to visit Garth and his family in the summers.”

“Didn’t visit me.”

He kept mopping the same section of the floor with a vehemence inappropriate to the task. It suddenly struck me that he was mopping the place where Virna had been found, as if to clean the stain away.

“You’re going to wear yourself out, Morley,” I said. “Or wear out the floor.”

He stopped swabbing and looked at me.

“I guess you learned your technique in the navy,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Swabbing those decks, I mean.”

“Maybe,” he said. “A lot of the fellows hated it, but I never did mind. I’d just sing a song, maybe, just in my head. I think it’s kind of restful. Calming, like.”

“I know what you mean. I feel the same way about ironing.”

“Ironing. I like that too. I like keeping things nice.”

“A lot of people spend a lot of money to get that calm. If everyone ironed instead, the psychiatrists would all go broke.”

That set him off. He laughed his high-pitched giggle and began to mop again.

“Psychiatrists would all go broke. Ha!”

I realized it was time to join my parents for lunch. I folded up my notebook and got up.

“I have to go now. I have an appointment. But I’d like to leave these papers out for later. Think they’ll be safe?”

“Won’t bother me,” he said.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you later. If not, I know where to get the key.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Same here, Miss Henry. It’s been a pleasure.”

“That’s not fair. If I call you Morley, you have to call me Kate.”

“Okey-dokey, Kate.”

As I let myself out the door, I could hear him singing the song my father used to sing to me, “K-k-k-katie, my beautiful Katie.” Smiling, I stepped back into the wind and rain.

I had just got into my car when Ruth Fernie pulled up next to me in her station wagon. She put on her emergency brake, then scooted across the front seat and signalled for me to roll down my window.

“Please, Miss Henry, can I talk to you for a minute? I don’t know where else to turn.”