Peggy’s parlor and dining room—the only rooms I got to see—were immaculately kept and tastefully furnished. Not that I was entirely sure what “tastefully” meant, but it looked the way I assumed “tastefully” would be: elegant but functional, not the intimidating don’t-touch-anything sort of decor. The parlor was dominated by a glossy black piano. A wood-trimmed blue couch and matching chairs with white throw pillows were artfully placed about the room, not cluttering it, but appearing to be exactly where one could ever want to sit. The walls of the room were lined with overflowing bookcases whose contents were slightly torn and scuffed from use. A tall Victrola spewed the scratchy voice of an Irish tenor into the room.

  Through dinner, Peggy and I chatted pointlessly about her aunt, the weather on the Cape, the weather in Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, and St. Louis, the Red Sox’s prospects for taking the pennant, my misfortune in Larry Gardner’s ankle healing... the conversation seemed consciously kept on a tedious track. I helped keep it in that rut, though I wasn’t sure if it was sweet talk we were avoiding, or if it was murder that wasn’t a fit topic for dinner conversation.

  After eating, we retired to the parlor and Peggy brought in a tray of coffee and gingersnaps. The polite trivial chatter was left behind in the dining room, and we picked up with the more important subject we last discussed almost a month ago.

  Peggy took off on an odd tack. “I looked through some old detective books of David’s. I brought them with me to the Cape. If Aunt Phyllis hadn’t gotten sick, I wouldn’t have had as much chance to read. So it was lucky in a way that I had to stay with her. Well, not lucky—because she was sick. But she’s fine now. Fortuitous—that’s what it was. There, that doesn’t sound as callous.

  “So anyway, I went through Sherlock Holmes, and Edgar Allan Poe’s Dupin stories—but I don’t think they’ll help. And Jacques Futrelle. He’s a wonderful writer. Was a wonderful writer. Did you know he died on the Titanic?”

  I shook my head no, and wondered who Jacques Futrelle was. I also wondered what the point was of reading through her husband’s detective books. This is no way to go about solving a murder. And I know—I’ve read the Police Gazette for years, and I don’t remember one case where a crime was solved by somebody reading books.

  Peggy started to go off again, but I held up my hand. “Time out. Uh, maybe I should tell you what I found out first. It turns out things weren’t really what they seemed.”

  “Yes! Tell me!”

  Readily breaking the promise of secrecy I had given him, I filled her in on my conversation with Jimmy Macullar, leaving out the reminiscences of his playing days. And leaving out his “Not from the police” comment.

  Peggy paid rapt attention. When I concluded, she gave a yell of relief, “Oh, that’s wonderful! You’re not in any trouble then!”

  “Well, that’s what I thought at first.”

  “You are in the clear, right?”

  “I suppose I am. But I was thinking... there isn’t any mystery anymore about the body. It was Red Corriden. And I’m not really a suspect... so it has nothing to do with me anymore. Right?”

  Peggy looked puzzled, but nodded.

  “Well, then it occurred to me: with Corriden’s body moved, how can his murder be solved? I mean, the police will be looking for somebody who killed him in Dorchester. But that’s not what happened. So how are they going to solve it?”

  “But didn’t Mr. Macullar say a policeman helped him move the body? So won’t the police really be looking for a killer at Fenway Park?”

  “No. I thought about that. The officers who were at the ballpark weren’t detectives. I think the one was just a stadium cop. The other man—the captain—he seemed to be a crony of Bob Tyler. They both did whatever Tyler said. I don’t think they’d have told the police department what they did.

  “So anyway... there’s no good reason for this, I guess ... Maybe it’s because he was a ball player—or because I’m the one who found him, I don’t know. But nobody else is trying to get him any justice. So this is something I’m just going to have to do: I am going to have to find out who killed Red Corriden.”

  I wasn’t going to say anything to Peggy about being at risk myself, certainly not about getting shot at. She’d have just worried. I didn’t like being dishonest with her, but it seemed better than scaring her. And if she thinks that my reason for wanting to solve Corriden’s murder is more noble than self-preservation, so be it.

  I expected that Peggy would respond with a very reasonable argument against taking on such a preposterous task. Instead, her eyes sparkled with excitement, and she offered, “Can I help?”

  “You want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, sure, I’d like that. But... There’s just one thing: I don’t know how to go about solving a murder.”

  “That’s all right. Whatever we can do will be better than doing nothing.”

  “Okay... so, what do we do?”

  “I’m not sure either.”

  We both sat in silence, with no idea of how to implement our good intentions. Finally Peggy suggested, “Maybe the first thing we should do is come up with a sensible plan for investigating the case.” Up to now, I had only a vague notion about finding out what happened to Red Corriden. When Peggy said “investigating the case” it suddenly struck me that this was going to be serious.

  We agreed that we would each try to develop a plan while I was on the road. When I returned, we would then put together one strategy and see if we could find out who killed Red Corriden.

  I felt that Peggy and I had become partners of a sort tonight, and I found it difficult to break away from her.

  At eleven o’clock I rose to leave, and she walked me to the door. As we stood together to say good night, Peggy softly closed her eyes, and tilted her head back slightly. Oh my, this was not going to be just a quick peck on the cheek.

  Chapter Twelve

  It took about a week, and we were halfway through the road trip, but I finally came up with a plan to solve the Red Corriden case. Well, not a plan, but a couple of steps toward developing a plan.

  First I wondered whether I should call Corriden’s death a “killing” or a “murder.” I figured if Corriden was a random victim, who died at the hand of a robber or a madman, then it was a “killing”; if he was killed by someone who specifically wanted Corriden dead, then it was “murder.”

  In the first case, if Corriden was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, anyone could have killed him. I had no idea how to pursue that avenue, so I decided to concentrate on the second possibility.

  It seemed that the best way to start the investigation was to find out as much as possible about Corriden himself. Maybe uncovering something in his past—or in his personality—would reveal a reason why someone would want him dead. This then was my immediate mission: to gather every bit of information that I could about Red Corriden.

  First I tallied what I already knew about him, and was discouraged to realize that it totaled only three facts: he briefly played third base for the St. Louis Browns in 1910, his only renown came from being mixed up in the batting race scandal that year, and he began this season with the Tigers.

  For the sake of finding out about Red Corriden’s past, I wished that we were on a Western road trip. There should be more information about Corriden in the cities where he played. I could talk to his former teammates, see where he lived, and... well, do whatever else one did in pursuing an investigation.

  In the Eastern cities, meantime, I would try to approach some of my teammates, and maybe some of the opposing players, too, and ask if they knew anything about Corriden.

  We were two games into a four-game series with the Athletics by the time I decided on my plan of action. Since we had already finished the New York series, the opportunity to question Highlander players about Corriden was gone. Although I tried to make use of the remaining two days in Philadelphia, I completely struck out in trying to learn more about Corriden. At least the investigation provided me a chance to strike out—Jake Stahl hadn’t given me a single at bat in more than a week.

  I first talked again to Clyde Fletcher. He knew nothing more than what little he had first told me.

  Then on to questioning the Philadelphia players. I managed to speak to half a dozen of the Athletics players before the series ended. To a man, each said he didn’t know any Red Corriden. It bothered me to discover that not one of them even remembered Corriden as the ball player who had been killed. It seemed he was already forgotten just two months after his death.

  I hoped to have better luck in Washington, my first visit ever to the capital. We came into Washington on Saturday night, giving me all of Sunday to explore the city and see the sights.

  In the morning, I made the rounds of the White House and the Capitol building. I toured absentmindedly, giving only token attention to the standard attractions. After stopping for a sandwich at a lunch counter, I worked my way over to the Washington Monument. A few years before, when Gabby Street was with the Senators, he’d achieved instant fame by catching a baseball dropped from the top of the monument. Craning my neck to look up the structure, I couldn’t believe he did it—or that he’d be crazy enough to try it. Inside, I climbed the steps to the top, and looking down at the miniature people below, I believed it even less. Hell, the damn fool could have been killed. Killed . . .

  What little hold the national monuments had on me vanished completely as my thoughts went back to Red Corriden’s death.

  I picked out two more Boston players for questioning: Charlie Strickler and Billy Neal. It was still tricky for me to grill my teammates, since my rookie status would last the entire season and with it the unspoken injunction to mind my own business. Strickler and Neal were both veterans, but I had a slim margin of seniority over them as a Red Sox player, and so found them less intimidating. I picked Strickler as the one I would speak to first. I’d seen him pitch a few times when I was a boy, and that seemed to make him more approachable.

  Monday afternoon, Charlie Strickler was given a spot start to open the series for us against Washington right-hander Long Tom Hughes. The Senators were still hanging right behind us in the league standings.

  Strickler struggled his way to a 2—1 win, relying on the only weapon he had left in his arsenal: irritation. Between each pitch, Charlie would rub the ball, tug his cap, kick the rubber, hitch his pants, and shake off Bill Carrigan’s signs until they were repeated. Having thus nagged the hitter into a fit of impatience, Charlie would finally serve up the pitch: never a fastball, usually a combination of change-up and slow curve, always a tantalizing powder puff. More often than not, the batter would pull the trigger too soon, dribbling an easy grounder or tipping a pop-up.

  After the game, I gave myself a chance to talk to Strickler. He was taking his time in the locker room, so I dawdled, too, timing my dressing to ensure that I’d be ready to leave the park with him.

  Watching Strickler dress, I found myself wondering if his slow pitching tactic was by clever design, or if he was in fact putting all he had on his pitches and did the stalling to catch his breath. He had a roll around his middle that caused him difficulty when he bent over to tie his shoes. He was no longer in shape for baseball—probably not even for gardening—and though he won this day, he couldn’t win many more.

  The final product of Strickler’s dressing was a man who would never be taken for a ball player. Under a misshapen suit that barely restrained his bulges, he wore a soft-collar shirt with no tie. His hair was so short that the graying stubble blended into the bald spot that capped his head, and his face had a droopy look of general resignation to it.

  When Strickler started to leave the clubhouse, I joined him on the way out and told him, “Say, Charlie, I saw you pitch against Addie Joss once when you were with Philadelphia.”

  “Oh. Did I win?”

  “Uh, no. You pitched real well, though.”

  “Mm. Thanks for bringing it up.”

  “Well, there weren’t many who could beat Joss.”

  “Yeah, he was tough. Shame about him getting sick like that. The good they die young.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say. Red Corriden, too, I guess.”

  “Red Corriden, too, what?”

  “Dying young.”

  “Oh. Too bad. Who was he?”

  “Uh, he was with you on the Tigers. This year... Third baseman... Got killed in Boston.”

  None of this seemed to register with Strickler. “Don’t remember... Red Corriden, huh? Must have been a rookie...”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t notice a rookie.”

  “Yeah, well, good talking to you, Charlie.” We were out on the street and each took off our own way. I knew I’d lose my baseball skills, too, someday, but I hoped I could hang on to my faculties longer than Strickler.

  During warm-ups before the final game in Washington, Strickler and Billy Neal were tossing a ball on the sidelines. Professionally, Neal was similar to me—or what my career would be like after I had his ten years of experience. He was a journeyman ball player, never a star, who bounced around from team to team. Neal had one advantage over me though: catchers were always getting hurt, so Neal was always in demand to fill in for injured starters. It seemed every time I saw his name in the box score, it was listed for a different club. Since joining the Sox, he had gotten into only a handful of games, taking Stahl’s place at first.

  When Strickler yelled, “That’s ’nuff,” and started walking to the dugout, I put myself in Neal’s path. I said, “I’m not loose yet. Feel like throwin’ a few more?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  We started exchanging throws. I moved toward him a few steps, wanting to stay within talking distance. “Arm’s a little sore. Just short ones, ’kay?”

  Neal shrugged his indifference to the range of our tosses.

  “How you like playing first?” I began.

  “Haven’t got to play much. But it’s okay. Rather catch, but Carrigan seems to have a lock on the job.”

  “Yeah, he’s real solid. Plays no matter how bad he’s hurt. You do much catching with Detroit?”

  “Enough to keep me happy. They gave me a chance at Detroit—not like that bastard Stahl.”

  “Uh, yeah... Oh—wasn’t Red Corriden with Detroit?”

  “Who?”

  “Corriden. Red Corriden. Third base.”

  “Oh yeah. Rookie, wasn’t he?”

  “Think so. Did you know him?”

  “Nah. Not really. He was just around a couple weeks. Heard he got himself killed.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Why the hell would anyone want to kill a guy like Corriden?”

  “Damned if I know. Thought he got robbed or something. Why? What’s the big deal with Corriden?”

  “Nothin’, I guess. Just wondering what happened to the poor guy.”

  “Don’t know. Damn shame though. Seemed like a good enough kid.” Neal held on to my last throw and called a halt to the warm-up and interrogation. “Let’s get in. Almost game time.”

  I jogged up to Neal and we walked back to the dugout together. One more question occurred to me. “You remember who he roomed with, Billy?”

  “Who? Corriden?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mm... Oh, sure. Charlie Strickler. He was always complaining how the kid drove him nuts.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Damned if I know. But them two sure didn’t get along. What are you asking me for anyway? Strickler’s sitting right there. Ask him if you’re so interested.”

  “Oh, I’m not! I was just wondering is all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  So Charlie Strickler lied to me. There’s no way he could have forgotten Red Corriden after just a couple of months.

  I felt betrayed—though not as much by Strickler as by the investigating process. It was difficult enough for me to figure out who I should approach for information and what questions to ask. If I wasn’t going to get honest answers, this could be really tough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I decided to hold back on telling Peggy about the progress I made. First I’d let her tell me if she had gotten anywhere—I expected she hadn’t. Then I’d impress her with my success in discovering a possible suspect: Charlie Strickler, Red Corriden’s roommate at the time of his death, who now denied even having heard of him.

  We were again seated in her parlor, with coffee and chocolate cake on the table in front of us. I was comfortable and at ease. It no longer felt tantalizing, but instead homey and familiar to be in her house.

  Peggy was trying to explain her approach to the case: “At first I got wrapped up with the notion that it was like a detective story—you know, somebody’s killed in a secluded mansion, the place is full of weekend houseguests, and they’re all suspects, and a detective figures it out, and he gathers them all together in the library to reveal the murderer. But of course real life isn’t like that.”

  “No, that sure doesn’t sound like what happened to Red Corriden.”

  “Then I just tried to think of it the way a detective would. The situation is different—no mansion and houseguests, and all that—but the way a detective approaches a murder case would be the same. Motive, means, and opportunity. That’s what they look for.”

  “Motive, means, and opportunity?”

  “Yes. To find a killer, you have to look for motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Okay... I understand motive. That’s the reason he was killed. That makes sense. But what about those other things?”

  “Well, the means would be how it was done. So if he was shot, the killer would have to have a gun. Opportunity would be—well, opportunity. The killer had to have a chance to kill him. So if he was shot on a day when your suspect was in a different city, then he didn’t have opportunity, so he can’t be the killer.”

  “But Corriden wasn’t shot.”

  “No, but we can apply those same principles to this case.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, we know the means. He was beat on the head with a baseball bat.” Peggy grimaced; that’s all right, it’s better than what I did when I saw the body. “So the means would be a baseball bat.”

 

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