Murder in the River City(4)

“I was angry,” Dooley said, his voice full of emotion. “Angry that Mack hadn’t locked up. And then—”

“Shh,” Shauna said. “You didn’t know.” She wished her grandfather hadn’t found Mack dead. He shouldn’t have had to see his friend and employee murdered. Guilt ate at her gut. She should have been here this morning. She should have opened the bar like she’d done for years before taking over the day-to-day management at her family’s construction company after her father’s heart attack.

Black continued. “Mr. Dooligan says several valuable autographed baseballs were stolen as well. My team is processing the evidence and we’ll do our best to catch who’s responsible. We’ve had a rash of robberies like this downtown, but until now, no one’s been seriously hurt.”

Dooley shook his head. “They couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hundred dollars. I take a deposit to the bank when I leave so we aren’t targets. Everybody knows that.”

“Perhaps,” Black said, “but people steal for a lot less than a couple hundred bucks.”

Shauna squeezed her grandfather’s labor-worn hands and looked him in the eye. “Tell me what to do.”

“Nothing, sweet girl, nothing. Just come to the funeral. I’ll be having a party here afterwards, of course.”

“I’ll make the arrangements for you.”

“Mack’s Catholic, though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a church since I’ve known him. Father Tim’ll take care of him.” He stared pointedly at the detective. “We can have the wake here, right?”

“We’ll finish processing the scene today. You should be able to have access tomorrow. I need to ask you a few more questions, if you can give me a moment.”

Dooley nodded, and Black excused himself. Shauna watched him walk over to the bar and talk in a low, indistinguishable voice with the other officers. What was he saying? Did he know more than he’d told them? Did he have an idea who was responsible?

Dooley said, “Friday. Friday we’ll have the funeral and the party.”

“Yes, Dooley,” Shauna said. “I’ll take care of everything. I don’t want you to worry about any of the details.”

“You’re a good colleen.” He squeezed her hands. “But I need to do something. We’ll do it together.”

Her grandfather’s eyes leaked as he stared at the damage behind the bar, but most certainly, he was thinking only of his dead friend. Shauna fumed. She wanted to hurt the bastard who’d killed Mack and made her grandfather look all his seventy-nine years. She didn’t think Dooley would fully recover from this tragedy. She doubted she would, either.

Watching the cops and crime scene people collect evidence and process the bar brought home the truth of the violence that had been done here. Mack was dead. For no reason other than money. Was human life that cheap?

She stared at the mirrorless bar. So much destruction for so little money. And Dooley’s baseballs—he’d collected them for years. He had just added a third shelf a few months ago. The Mickey Mantle alone was worth five hundred. And Barry Bonds, Ted Williams, the entire Brooklyn Dodgers. Babe Ruth was a fake, but Dooley kept it as a reminder that he was fallible, that even the smartest of men could be swindled.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Da, what’s that?” She pointed to the lone baseball behind the bar.

He laughed bitterly. “Babe Ruth. They left the only forgery.”

That was odd. It looked exactly like Babe Ruth’s signature. It took a sports expert to determine it wasn’t. The average sports fan wouldn’t be able to tell, certainly not someone who killed a bartender in a robbery.

“Shauna?” Dooley said. “What are you thinking?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd the killer left the only fake?”

Dooley shook his head. “Now, Shauna, I know exactly what you’re doing. Butting in where you don’t belong.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” she argued, her mind already thinking about this oddity. Dooley didn’t talk about Babe Ruth being a fake, but some of the old-timers knew. The ones who’d been around when Dooley found out several years ago that he’d been duped.

Was Mack killed by someone who knew more about baseball than even Dooley?

Or maybe, he was killed by someone they all knew—and trusted.

She jumped up and approached Detective Black as he spoke to one of his cops.

“We’re almost done here,” he began but Shauna cut him off.

“Don’t you think it’s odd the only baseball with a forged signature wasn’t stolen?”