Murder at Fenway Park:. Troy Soos

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      I was back at the Union Hotel by half past six. I walked up three flights of stairs to my room, intending to lie down for an hour and then go out for a late supper. But my bed was already occupied.

      Neatly laid on top of the cover was Mabel, my favorite bat. She was lengthwise, with the knob toward the foot of the bed and the barrel denting the pillow—right where my head would be.

      I turned to look on either side of the door. No one there.

      Who put the bat on my bed? And how did he get in? I quickly examined the door lock: it was intact, no sign of force. And I’d needed the key to open it. I swept across the room to the one window—it was unbroken, securely locked, and sealed up with thick beige paint.

      I checked the rest of the room. The two sagging iron-rail beds were still made up. Fletcher’s bags were at the foot of his, the same as they were last night. A pitcher of water and my shaving tools were in place on the washstand. I sifted through my luggage and the dresser drawer where I’d stashed my clothes; nothing was taken or moved. Everything looked in order.

      Staring at Mabel, I sat down on the room’s only other piece of furniture, a pinching straight-back chair with legs of unequal length.

      This was no prank by playful teammates. Nor was it an attempt at burglary or vandalism. This was a message. The context of the message was obvious: it had to do with the man I’d found at Fenway Park. But what was the content—what exactly was I being told?

      Was it a warning, telling me to keep quiet about my find or I’d end up the same way? Or was it a notice, the calling card of some perverse killer? Had the dead man at Fenway also found a bat in his bed? I read all sorts of ominous scenarios into the sight of one round piece of wood.

      I’d made Mabel when I worked in a furniture factory. Instead of the usual ash, I selected a choice block of hickory, turned it down on a lathe, and sanded it smooth. As the bat took shape, I named it for movie star Mabel Normand, and “it” became a “her.” I spent long hours honing her with a hambone to keep her from chipping, and rubbing sweet oil into her to protect the wood. Now, as I worried over the message she bore, I couldn’t even bring myself to touch her. What I had so lovingly created repelled me.

      Not until Jake Stahl knocked and announced himself at the door could I move her; I grabbed her delicately at each end and stashed her under the bed.

      When I let him in, Stahl took a glance around the room, and wearily asked, “Fletcher out getting cigars?” I nodded, but doubted if I seemed convincing.

      “Uh-huh,” he grunted. Stahl wore a tired expression and a blue herringbone suit that looked a size too small. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You did okay today. Tomorrow you’re starting at second. When we get to Philadelphia, you’ll fill in at shortstop. Get some sleep.”

      He turned to go out the door, and added, “Oh ... don’t bother to wait up for Fletcher.” When Stahl left, I thought his was a job I didn’t envy. He was expected to bat .300, field his position at first base, run the team in the day, and baby-sit it at night.

      With my bed now free, I undressed and tried to take Stahl’s advice.

      Once I was under the covers, it occurred to me that whoever left the message might return, perhaps to clarify its meaning. I tried to sleep lightly, keeping one eye open to spot any intruder. I found that it can’t be done. All I accomplished was tire my eyes by trying to close only one at a time. I was soon asleep.

      I awoke with a ringing in my ears. Was that the alarm clock? No, it’s still dark out. Wait a minute, are my eyes open? I chafed my right eyeball by sticking a fingertip in it. Yes, my eyelids are open. So, it’s still night. Why am I awake?

      Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping!

      That was the noise. I sat up.

      “You up, kid?”

      “Mmm ... yeah.”

      Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping! Fletcher hit the spittoon with another gob of tobacco juice. “Well, you oughta go to sleep,” he said. “We got a game tomorrow.” With that helpful advice, Fletcher spit out his wad and plopped into bed.