eBay.”
Being a baseball fan, I was impressed. “Did he ever sell any of the stuff around here?”
Scott and Kip both nodded. “Some of the baseball cards, anyway,” Kip said. “He had a ton of those. Kids especially bought them because they didn’t cost a lot. You know—unless it’s a rookie card of a future Hall of Fame player or autographed by some other big name, the cards aren’t worth that much.”
Leo was looking bemused. “No Honus Wagner, huh?”
“Honus Wagner?” Vida repeated. “Didn’t he work in the mill during the 1920s?”
Leo chuckled. “No, Duchess,” he said, using the nickname that Vida loathed. “The only wood he worked with was his bat. He played in the first part of the last century, and his card—that’s singular, and therefore it’s unique—is worth I don’t know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Oh, good heavens!” Vida exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous! Such a fuss over athletes! I’ve never understood it.”
Leo shrugged. “It’s big business. Don’t tell me Roger has never collected sports items?”
The reference to Vida’s spoiled-rotten grandson softened her features. “Well now—I don’t think so. But then Roger doesn’t tell his Grams
everything.
Of course, he’s in college now and has little time for hobbies.”
Roger was fumbling and stumbling his way through Skykomish Community College, where he dropped classes the same way that I’d always presumed he dropped his dirty underwear. His intention was to major in drama, which, I supposed, was better than majoring in crime. Frankly, I’d always figured Roger’s biggest talent was for getting into trouble.
“Gosh,” I said, wanting to keep the topic off of Roger, “Tim’s memorabilia must have been burned up in the fire. I assume he kept it in the house.”
Nobody seemed to know, but Kip and Scott guessed that was probably true. I wished I’d known about Tim’s collection. It was my own fault for being ignorant. I, of all, people, should check out our classifieds on a regular basis. I might have been able to replace a couple of Adam’s treasured baseball items that had been stolen during last year’s break-in at my house. The fact that Tim was a Mariners’ fan only added to my crusade to make sure he didn’t become just another statistic. I always rooted for the underdog. So did Tim, or he wouldn’t have cared about Seattle’s baseball team.
An hour later, Milo called me. “I heard from the ME in Everett,” he said. “I figured you’d want to know the results. The paper comes out tomorrow, right?”
After all these years, the sheriff still seemed vague about the
Advocate
’s deadlines. Sometimes I thought he was putting me on, though he certainly wasn’t the only Alpiner who didn’t understand that the actual production of the newspaper took more than ten minutes.
“What did the ME say?” I asked.
“It was a tough one,” Milo began. “It seems Tim was killed by a blow to the head. There was enough left of his skull to detect what the ME is pretty sure are wood splinters. He figures it could have been a baseball bat.”
“S O ,” M ILO SAID , “Rafferty had a big sports collection? I didn’t know that.”
I could hardly criticize the sheriff for not reading the
Advocate
’s classified section when I seldom checked it out myself. I proofread everything in the paper but the ads. That was up to Leo and Ginny.
“Maybe that’s why he was killed,” I suggested. “The burglar theory works better now that we know he may have had something worth stealing.” If nothing else, my agreement with the sheriff’s theory might goad him into finding a genuine suspect.
“Yeah, maybe.” As usual, Milo wasn’t one to jump to conclusions. “It’d mean that the thief had to take some time. Break in, get caught by Tim, bust his skull, get the goods out of the house—and set the fire to cover his tracks.”
“It’s possible,” I remarked.
Being a baseball fan, I was impressed. “Did he ever sell any of the stuff around here?”
Scott and Kip both nodded. “Some of the baseball cards, anyway,” Kip said. “He had a ton of those. Kids especially bought them because they didn’t cost a lot. You know—unless it’s a rookie card of a future Hall of Fame player or autographed by some other big name, the cards aren’t worth that much.”
Leo was looking bemused. “No Honus Wagner, huh?”
“Honus Wagner?” Vida repeated. “Didn’t he work in the mill during the 1920s?”
Leo chuckled. “No, Duchess,” he said, using the nickname that Vida loathed. “The only wood he worked with was his bat. He played in the first part of the last century, and his card—that’s singular, and therefore it’s unique—is worth I don’t know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Oh, good heavens!” Vida exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous! Such a fuss over athletes! I’ve never understood it.”
Leo shrugged. “It’s big business. Don’t tell me Roger has never collected sports items?”
The reference to Vida’s spoiled-rotten grandson softened her features. “Well now—I don’t think so. But then Roger doesn’t tell his Grams
everything.
Of course, he’s in college now and has little time for hobbies.”
Roger was fumbling and stumbling his way through Skykomish Community College, where he dropped classes the same way that I’d always presumed he dropped his dirty underwear. His intention was to major in drama, which, I supposed, was better than majoring in crime. Frankly, I’d always figured Roger’s biggest talent was for getting into trouble.
“Gosh,” I said, wanting to keep the topic off of Roger, “Tim’s memorabilia must have been burned up in the fire. I assume he kept it in the house.”
Nobody seemed to know, but Kip and Scott guessed that was probably true. I wished I’d known about Tim’s collection. It was my own fault for being ignorant. I, of all, people, should check out our classifieds on a regular basis. I might have been able to replace a couple of Adam’s treasured baseball items that had been stolen during last year’s break-in at my house. The fact that Tim was a Mariners’ fan only added to my crusade to make sure he didn’t become just another statistic. I always rooted for the underdog. So did Tim, or he wouldn’t have cared about Seattle’s baseball team.
An hour later, Milo called me. “I heard from the ME in Everett,” he said. “I figured you’d want to know the results. The paper comes out tomorrow, right?”
After all these years, the sheriff still seemed vague about the
Advocate
’s deadlines. Sometimes I thought he was putting me on, though he certainly wasn’t the only Alpiner who didn’t understand that the actual production of the newspaper took more than ten minutes.
“What did the ME say?” I asked.
“It was a tough one,” Milo began. “It seems Tim was killed by a blow to the head. There was enough left of his skull to detect what the ME is pretty sure are wood splinters. He figures it could have been a baseball bat.”
“S O ,” M ILO SAID , “Rafferty had a big sports collection? I didn’t know that.”
I could hardly criticize the sheriff for not reading the
Advocate
’s classified section when I seldom checked it out myself. I proofread everything in the paper but the ads. That was up to Leo and Ginny.
“Maybe that’s why he was killed,” I suggested. “The burglar theory works better now that we know he may have had something worth stealing.” If nothing else, my agreement with the sheriff’s theory might goad him into finding a genuine suspect.
“Yeah, maybe.” As usual, Milo wasn’t one to jump to conclusions. “It’d mean that the thief had to take some time. Break in, get caught by Tim, bust his skull, get the goods out of the house—and set the fire to cover his tracks.”
“It’s possible,” I remarked.
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