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I look over at Eve. Really? She waited in the chairs for me?
She lifts a shoulder at me.
How I love this woman. And, I don’t care what has happened in our future, I’m not letting her go.
“Oh, Rem, by the way—you should know this. I got the list of Sigma Chi members. The loyal lifers who were at the annual party.” She leans up—she’s still wearing her shorts, although her shirt is dry—and pulls a piece of paper from her back pocket. It’s a little soggy as I unfold it.
I scan the list, expecting one name.
“Jeff Holmes isn’t on this list.”
“He’s not a loyal life Sig. He dropped his membership shortly after graduation.”
My gaze goes down the list. And stops. “Robert Swenson.”
“Yeah. I haven’t checked it yet, but it might be the credit card guy.”
“Her softball coach.”
Burke is carrying a t-shirt in his hand, a tag dangling from the arm. He might have picked it up in the gift shop. I stand and meet him. “What did you say was Robert Swenson’s alibi?”
“Softball practice,” he tosses me the shirt. It’s black and has a red cancer-society heart in the center.
I shrug off the jacket and pull it over my head. It’s a little tight, but it works. “C’mon. We have a softball tournament to attend. And, you’re driving.”
I turn, and look at Eve, then Danny, and back to Eve. “I’ll be back.”
19
The sun is a simmering ball against the horizon, casting looming shadows into the softball multi-plex located in St. Louis park. All four baseball diamonds are active with softball and baseball teams, the players sweltering under the hot afternoon sun. The park is packed, players smacking balls on the nearby tennis courts, smoke rolling off barbeques, families playing Frisbee and dogs barking.
Burke parks us in a lot near the softball fields, and we get out. The lot is full, but near the entrance we pass a maroon caravan with a Hornets sticker on the back mirror. I peek inside and see a car seat buckled into one of the back bucket seats.
Next to it is a sweet looking Corvette I salivate over a bit.
Oh, my poor Camaro.
I glance in the Corvette’s window, too, and spot a mesh bag of softball supplies in the back—helmets, gloves, balls—crammed into the back.
We head out behind the backstops and I’m searching for the uniforms of the Edina Hornets. I spot the team on the field, wearing green and gold.
Their fans are packed into a tiny string of bleachers, cheering. Burke and I wander over and stand at the fence. I spot who I think is Robert Swenson—my memory after twenty-plus years is dim—but he glances over and sees Burke. Nods.
The guy with the blonde hair, slight paunch, and balding is not quite the Casanova I expected him to be. He’s wearing a green hornets t-shirt, a cap and a pair of shorts, and is yelling at the shortstop to move over.
“There’s his wife,” Burke says and points to a woman sitting on the end of the bleachers, first row. Petite, blonde hair tied back in the messy buns of the ‘90s, she’s holding a fat toddler on her lap. She’s wearing a hat and dark sunglasses. She cheers as a batter steps up to the plate.
“I’m going to have a chat with her. Keep an eye on Robert.” I head over to the bleachers. Burke doesn’t move because he knows what I’m doing.
In fact, it clicks in, just now, that he must have been at the Mulligans when the shots were fired. Huh. Maybe he followed me. We’ll get to the bottom of that later. For now, I’m just having a casual conversation with Angie.
It’s a good thing I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands before we left because now I look just like a regular guy watching the game.
There’s a little space on the end of the row, so I gesture to it and ask to sit down.
She nods and I settle in.
“Go Hornets!” she yells and it’s the perfect opening.
