Die Like an Eagle by Donna Andrews

both Horace and Dad were crouched in the doorway, discussing something in an undertone. For some reason, the sight of them squatting there in front of the porta-potty with such serious looks on their faces struck me as … well, not quite funny so much as utterly in character. I held up my phone and snapped a couple of shots of them. Mother would probably balk at having a picture with a porta-potty in the family album, but Dad would love a picture of him and Horace on a case.
    â€œHey, Horace,” Aida called out. “Was he actually killed in that thing?”
    â€œNo,” Dad said.
    â€œUnlikely,” Horace said, almost at the same time.
    Aida nodded as if she’d expected as much.
    â€œNot good,” she said, turning back to me. “That could mean this is the crime scene.” She spread her arms wide and looked around at the busy ball field.
    So much for my hopes of a crime scene followed by baseball. If the field was the crime scene, we’d be lucky to get it back before the weekend was over.
    Randall and Mr. Witherington made their announcement that the opening ceremonies would be held in the town square at noon, and the great exodus began. The river of black-and-red–clad spectators from the Eagles’ bleachers surged toward the parking lot, where it mingled with the smaller stream of brown-clad Stoats fans. I made sure the boys had all their gear, helped Michael and Chuck gather all the team equipment, and saw them all loaded into the Twinmobile.
    â€œI’m going to stay here a little longer,” I said. “I’m sure I can catch a ride back to town.”
    â€œOr just call and we’ll come back out to pick you up,” Michael said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “As long as you’re staying, could you give the dugout one last check for stray items?”
    After waving good-bye to them, I hiked back to the dugout, where a quick search produced an insulated bottle, half a pack of gum, and a single batting glove. I stowed it all in my tote and turned to see the chief standing by home plate, staring out at the field. I leaned against the fence that separated the dugout from the field, wrapped my fingers through the chain link, and watched for a few minutes. The chief pulled out a pair of binoculars and trained them on the outfield, where Horace and Sammy Wendell, another deputy, appeared to be inspecting the ground inch by inch. As we watched, Sammy picked something up and held it up to show Horace. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but Sammy pulled a brown paper evidence bag out of his pocket and stowed the item, whatever it was.
    â€œA vital clue?” I said.
    â€œProbably another Gatorade bottle cap,” the chief said, lowering the binoculars. “I hate crime scenes like this, where several hundred people were tramping around for several hours before we even knew it was a crime scene. Odds are we won’t find anything relevant, but we have to try.”
    â€œSince Randall’s Pied-Pipering the baseball crowd over to the town square, I thought I’d stick around a bit,” I said. “See if there’s anything useful I can do for you wearing my executive assistant hat.”
    â€œIs the parking lot mostly empty?” he asked.
    â€œDo you want it to be?” I asked. “I can go tell anyone who’s still hanging around to clear out.”
    â€œNot just yet,” the chief said with a smile. “We’re trying to figure out how Mr. Henson got here. He lives over in Clay County. According to Sheriff Whicker, his truck’s not in his driveway, but it’s not here, either. Could be he drove some other vehicle, but I figured there was no use checking till everyone was over at the town square.”
    He headed for the dugout, putting his binoculars in their leather case as he walked. I joined him when he left the field and we headed for the parking lot. Only eight vehicles were