Dead Soldiers (8 page)

“We’ll go on to the next name, then,“ Burns said. “I’ve known Robert
Yowell
for a few years now. He’s a pharmacist at Pecan City Drug. I’d say pharmacists have to be pretty honest people, considering that they deal in life and death prescriptions all the time. He’s also a member of the HGC board.“

“Board members can be suspects,“ Partridge said.

“But
Yowell’s
not a Civil War buff or an antiques dealer, is he?“

“No, but that doesn’t mean there’s no connection.“

Burns wondered what the connection could possibly be. He certainly couldn’t think of one.

Partridge could, and she told him. “He and Matthew Hart have had several violent arguments about the college’s present administration and its future.“

Burns looked at his water. Most of the ice was melted now, but the outside of the glass was still beaded with moisture. Burns took a drink. The water was still cold.

“I’m sure that’s very interesting, but of course we aren’t talking about Matthew Hart here.“

“Absolutely not. I just thought I might mention
their
. . . rivalry. Mr. Hart was a conservative, what you might even call an ultra-conservative. He didn’t like some of the recent changes on campus.“

He wasn’t the only one, Burns thought. Burns hadn’t agreed with a lot of them himself. But the changes hadn’t been all bad, and Burns, like most of the other faculty members, liked the atmosphere of academic freedom that the administration fostered. Hart probably hadn’t.

“I take it that Mr.
Yowell
supported the changes,“ he said.

“Most of them. He’s very progressive.“

“That’s good to know. What about Neal Bruce?
 
I don’t know much about him except that he works at the bank. And that he’s on the board.“

“His grandfather founded the Universal Bank. It was a state bank for many years, until Neal’s father sold it to the holding company. Neal is still there, but he’s just a figurehead. The holding company is trying to make it appear that there’s still a connection to the community when there really isn’t.“

“And does Neal collect toy soldiers?“

“As a matter of fact, he does. He has a quite wonderful collection. His grandfather began giving him
Britains
for his birthday when he was just a few years old, and now he’s buying
Staddens
for himself.“

Burns took it that
Stadden
was another manufacturer of toy soldiers. He wondered if Napier had ever seen Bruce’s collection.

“I assume that Bruce has seen and admired your
Britains
,“ Burns said.

“Yes. He even mentioned once that he’d like to buy them if I ever decided to sell.“

There was something else to check on. Could Bruce have tried to work through Stilwell to get the soldiers?
 
Or had he simply mentioned to the antique dealer that he’d like to buy them?

“What about Rex and Suzanne Cody, then?“ Burns asked. “Are they collectors, too?“

“No, but they like fine things. Suzanne is on our board, and not just because her husband has made millions of dollars in the petroleum business. She’s one of Mr. Stilwell’s best customers, and she’s given some very nice things to the college dormitories. She furnished the sitting room in the student center, too. Did you know that?“

Burns knew, of course. It was
had
to miss the big mahogany- and-brass plaque just inside the door that said “The furnishings in this room were donated by Suzanne
Trainor
Cody, HGC Class of 1983.“

“So what you’re saying is that everyone we’ve talked about so far—except for Stilwell, Napier, and our two students—might have taken those soldiers.“

“I’m afraid it looks that way.“

“And you still insist that Napier and Stilwell are excluded as suspects?“

Partridge nodded vigorously. “I do. R. M. is the chief of police, after all. And Steve is, well, he’s an honest man. I’m sure of it.“

Burns wished he could be so sure, but he couldn’t. And there was still one name on the list.

“What about Mary Mason?“ Burns asked.

“Her.“
 
Partridge said. “I wouldn’t put
anything
past her.“

A
fter his talk with Dean Partridge, Burns drove home to change for softball practice. He put on a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt that had a picture of a sickly green alligator on it, and some worn Brooks running shoes that were the closest thing he had to a pair of spikes.

When he arrived at the field, batting practice had already begun. Mal Tomlin was lobbing the ball over the plate, and as Burns walked onto the field,
Dorinda
Edgely
connected and sent the ball nearly to the wire fence in left-center field. Everyone applauded, and
Dorinda
responded by smacking the next pitch even farther. The ball cleared the fence by a good five feet.

“Hey, Burns,“ Tomlin called from the mound. “It’s about time you got here.“

Tomlin had more or less organized the team and was its unofficial coach. Unofficial or not, he took his duties seriously.

“I had some school business to finish up,“ Burns said.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Well, it’s your turn in the box. Let’s see what you’ve got today.“

Burns figured that he had about as much as he had any day, which was considerably less than
Dorinda
Edgely
. Earl Fox, who was catching, handed him a thin black bat with a taped handle, and Burns took a few practice swings. Then he stepped into the batter’s box.

Hitting was not his specialty, but then neither was fielding. He didn’t really have a specialty, unless you counted bench-warming. He found himself hoping that the forecast for Saturday included a one hundred percent chance of rain. Or perhaps a small tornado, one that touched down only in one spot. Say, the softball field.

As Burns tried to dig in at the plate, he looked over the field. There were no infielders, since batting practice was supposed to be easy. Every ball was supposed to go into the outfield, though that wasn’t always the case when Burns was hitting.

Don Elliott was on the dry brown grass in right field. Elliott, who was barely over five feet tall, taught speech and drama. He was a fair fielder, and while he wasn’t especially good with the bat, he figured to get a lot of walks.

Abner
Swan, from the Bible Department, was in left. He usually dressed like a TV evangelist and was probably the only man in Pecan City who still owned a powder blue suit, white belt, and a pair of white shoes. He not only owned them; he wore them about once a week. Today, however, he was wearing a pair of faded overalls, and Burns, who was barely old enough to remember Al Capp, suddenly wondered if
Abner
had been named for a comic strip character.

Coach Thomas, who had led HGC’s football team to its usual number of victories (none) the previous fall, was in center. He was in his forties, but he could still cover the territory. Not that he’d have to worry about that with Burns at the bat.

“You ready, Burns?“ Tomlin asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,“ Burns said, and Tomlin lobbed in the first pitch.

The ball went into a slow, lazy arch. Burns was convinced that the trick of hitting it was simple: swing at precisely the right moment of the ball’s downward trajectory.

Unfortunately, he could never quite time the moment correctly, and the result was usually a weak pop-up or a slow-rolling grounder that dribbled out to the pitcher.

This time, by some amazing stroke of luck, Burns timed his swing perfectly and lofted the ball high into center field. He knew even without looking that he’d hit it farther than anything he’d ever hit before, so it came as quite a disappointment to him when Coach Thomas caught it easily, ten feet in front of the fence.

But Earl was impressed. “That was a good swing, Carl. You must’ve been practicing on the sly.“

“Nope,“ Burns said. “I just got lucky.“

And he proceeded to prove the truth of that statement by swatting the next five pitches feebly on the ground.

Then it was time for infield drill, something that Burns dreaded even more than the batting practice. Coach Thomas stood at the plate and hit a series of ground balls to the infielders, barking out directions just before he swung the bat.

“Get two,“ he yelled, knocking a sharp ground ball toward Mal Tomlin, who was playing shortstop. Tomlin was a natural. He scooped up the ball in his glove as easily as if he practiced it very day and tossed it underhand to Burns.

When things went as planned, Burns could sometimes turn the double play, and this was one of those times. He caught the ball just as his foot touched second base, turned, and threw to first in one smooth motion.

Dick Hayes was the first baseman. He wore glasses, but they didn’t seem to interfere with his
ballplaying
. He snatched the ball out of the air effortlessly, keeping his foot on the bag.

Burns couldn’t explain why it made him feel good to turn a double play like that, any more than he could explain why it made him feel good to hit the ball solidly with the bat. Throwing and hitting a ball were things that kids did, and they should have been meaningless to an adult with a Ph.D. in English from a major university.

But they weren’t meaningless at all, and that was one of the reasons that Burns wanted to do well. No matter what anyone might say, there was meaning in the game itself and in performing simple tasks well.

And, of course, he was hoping to impress Elaine.

He wasn’t going to impress anyone if he daydreamed, however, and when Thomas hit the next ball straight at him, Burns botched it badly. It bounced off the heel of his glove and skipped behind him into the outfield.

“And the student team scores two runs on the second baseman’s error,“ Tomlin called out. “The crowd goes wild.“

“It won’t happen again,“ Burns said.

“God, I hope not,“ Tomlin said. “If it happens in the game we’re going to be humiliated.“

Burn was tempted to say something like “It
is
only a game, after all.“
 
But he knew better than that. It was never only a game. There was always something else going on.

That thought reminded him for some reason of his earlier conversation with Boss Napier. There had been more going on than just the words themselves, just as there was something more going on with Dean Partridge’s soldiers. There were games being played, and Burns wasn’t sure of the rules.

“Pop up!“ Tomlin yelled. “Your ball, Burns!“

Once again, Burns hadn’t been paying attention. He looked up, but he didn’t see the ball anywhere. All he saw was clear blue sky.

To protect himself he put up his glove. Then he closed his eyes and hoped for the best. The ball fell from the sky and hit the edge of his glove, then rolled over toward first base.

“We’re in real trouble,“ Tomlin said, shaking his head. “The student team is going to murder us.“

Burns wished that Tomlin had chosen some word other than
murder
. He also wished that there had been more than ten faculty members willing to play on the team. Then someone else could play second base.

But no one wanted the position. The only extra player was Walt
Melling
, Dawn’s husband, and he was the relief pitcher. He wouldn’t have been a very good second baseman, anyway, Burns thought. He was far too big and lacked the agility necessary to turn the double play.

Of course Burns also lacked the agility, too, but he
looked
more like a second baseman than
Melling
did.

“All right,“ Tomlin said. “That’s it for today. We’ll practice once more, on Friday. And then it’s the big game. I just hope we’re ready for it.“

“We’re ready,“
Dorinda
Edgely
said. “We’ll win in a walk. Those kids won’t know what hit them.“

“They might do better than you think,“ Dick Hayes said. “They have some real athletes on their team.“

“Hey, so do we,“ Coach Thomas said. “There’s me. And there’s—“
 
He stopped and looked around at the team. “Well, there’s me. But we can still do it. It just takes heart. We’ve got plenty of that. Don’t we?“

“Damn right,“ Tomlin said.

“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight,“ Thomas said as if he believed it. “It’s the size of the fight in the dog.“

“True,“ Tomlin said. “But I’d feel better about things if Burns could just hit the ball. Or catch it. Or stop a grounder with something besides his kneecap.“

“He’ll do fine,“ Earl Fox said. “Won’t you, Carl.“

“Sure,“ Burns lied. “I’ll do fine.“

“OK, then,“ Tomlin said. “Anyone want to run a few laps, get the old wind back?“

Nobody did. The practice broke up, and Burns drove home.

B
urns was hot, sweaty, and dirty. He took a shower and fixed supper, which consisted of leftover meatloaf, canned baked beans, and canned pineapple. It wasn’t much, Burns thought, but it was a step above Boss Napier’s Budget Gourmet. Well, okay, maybe only half a step.