Chapter Twelve
Loss of Custody
“Well, I just wish I could see the blamed thing.” Aunt Ruth straightened a pile of magazines late Tuesday night, while Brooke tried dodging all her sallies into getting more information about the whereabouts of the Called Shot Ball. The woman was a bulldog, her jaw gripping on the bone and incapable of letting go. “If you hadn’t stashed it somewhere, I could be seeing it right this very minute. What were you thinking?”
But Brooke knew better. She couldn’t give in.
“You will. I promise.” A pie crust promise, as Mary Poppins said. Easily made, easily broken. “Once we’ve got security up to standard here, we’ll roll it in with an armored car.”
“Armored car!” This enamored Aunt Ruth and kept her dazzled for a moment. “It’s kind of unreal that in a few days’ time I could be holding something the Sultan of Swat himself swatted.” She did an air swing of an invisible bat, watching her ball sail over center field. “Unreal.”
The excitement was contagious, and Brooke let it infect her. “You should have seen it. It has both the red and the blue stitching on it.”
“Red and blue?” Aunt Ruth chugged over to grab a collectors’ encyclopedia for a quick look-up. “That’s right for 1932. But we’ll have to make sure the rest of the details are right before we do a lot of advertisement. I don’t want to get burned.”
The Mickey Mantle jersey still blazed in both their memories.
The front door banged, and in walked Quirt and Olivia, bearing Chinese. “What’s getting burned? Because it’s not this General Tso’s chicken.”
“Get back here, Quirt. Bring your best girl. Your sister has a serious report to make.” The four of them gathered in Aunt Ruth’s back apartment to eat and so Brooke could report everything— from the ball to the Sarge LaBarge meltdown to the fast getaway. Strategically, she didn’t mention Dane.
Olivia’s jaw hung slack. “You’re making this up.”
“Have you considered the possibilities? They’re ad astra.” Aunt Ruth hung her head over the back of the couch and looked at the high ceiling. “You never told me about the Roosevelt letter. You should have led with that.”
“But you’re a Republican.”
“Maybe so, but I’m also a fan of every president who’s also a Yankees diehard.”
Made sense. The giddiness continued as the chicken disappeared down into their stomachs.
“What I want to know,” Quirt pointed his chopsticks at Brooke. “Is how you’re going to display it.” He held up something he’d drawn on his China King napkin. A geometric design from the geometry teacher. “Here’s a case I was thinking of. Glass, maybe bulletproof. We could get my design rendered by a Plexiglas sculptor. Those exist, you know. I read about them on-line.”
Olivia interrupted him. “What I want to know is whether Dane Rockwell kissed you goodnight.” Her grin stretched wider than Aunt Ruth’s, who had tuned in the second Dane’s name was dropped.
How had they known Dane was involved?
Brooke’s happiness jarred. “So you were in on the attorney setup, too, huh?” She narrowed her eyes at Olivia, who just gave a smug smile. “All of you?”
Aunt Ruth shrugged guiltily, too. A conspiracy, then.
A rattle came at the back door, and footsteps pounded against the wood floors.
“There’s our guest of honor.” Aunt Ruth’s eyes lit up. “You’ll never guess who! I invited him last minute,” she whispered, “so save some chicken. Quit hogging it, Quirt.”
In strode Dane, dressed in his suit from earlier, but a little more rumpled. Brooke’s pulse sped up, much to her dismay. I’m not still starstruck over him. I can’t be. I’m not twelve anymore. But her pulse didn’t get the message. The pumping of her heart was still stuck in that gear it’d shifted to when they were in the vault at the bank, when he’d encircled her waist with his arms, before he’d abandoned her to play Batman.
“Have some General Tso’s!” Aunt Ruth got him settled on the couch, scooting him over to within half an inch of Brooke’s body. Then she wedged herself into the slot beside him, forcing him practically onto Brooke’s lap. “It’s good with the fried rice.” She shoved a little cardboard box of it at him with fresh bamboo chopsticks.
“I was just telling them about the will-reading.” Brooke’s neck got hot. It was probably as red as that sweet and sour sauce over there. “You’re getting a lot of Chadwick face time today. Sorry.”
Dane shrugged a lazy shoulder, but Brooke could tell something was off. He set the Chinese on the table, and the dimple in his cheek didn’t sink much. Where was the kiss he’d guaranteed? Nowhere in this room, that was for sure. Disappointment clunked hard in her stomach.
Quirt pushed his geometric drawing aside and aimed his gaze at Brooke. “No clues dropped at the will-reading as to why Jarman picked you for the Called Shot Ball?”
Brooke shook her head. “That little mystery still remains.”
Aunt Ruth shoved it away with a gleeful, “Oh, don’t you know what they say? Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Yeah, it could be full of enemy soldiers.
“Brooke told you about the FDR connection, I assume?” Dane said, tripping Aunt Ruth’s wires all over again. His voice was flat, though.
“Roosevelt!” Aunt Ruth clasped her hands at her heart. “Left Field is going to be a destination. Yankees fans from all up and down the East Coast are going to flock to see my daddy’s collection. It’s incredible.”
Quirt put on his skeptic’s hat. “Uhhh… seriously? Don’t you think it casts more doubt on the authenticity of the ball, rather than proves it?”
Through a mouthful of General Tso, Olivia agreed. “Seems like it’s a step too far. Trying too hard, or something.”
Brooke hadn’t thought of that. Trae Earnshaw had gulped it all down as real, but now fear washed through her. What if the ball was a fake? Did this mean she’d been dishonest with Mr. Earnshaw?
Dane kept his head. “You’ll have to verify everything before you advertise at all. Well, that’d be easy enough to disprove, anyway. Why would he have been there? It was all the way in Chicago. Wasn’t 1932 an election year? He would have been campaigning.”
That was true. Records existed. Maybe Brooke could still prove the ball was real, even without a letter from FDR.
“I guess we’ll have to take it to a Roosevelt expert.” She flashed her eyes at Dane. “Road trip to the presidential library?”
He didn’t give her the wicked smile she’d hoped to elicit, and her heart rate slowed for the first time since he walked in the room. Dane wasn’t into her. He’d only been at the reading earlier today to pay Quirt a debt.
All the little fluttering creatures inside her belly landed with a thunk.
Aunt Ruth, still cluelessly immersed in the task at hand, waved them all down. “People! But remember. He was at the game. There’s a photograph of him there. I saw it in a New York museum. Major Yankees fan.”
“Huh,” was all Quirt said, and just like that, the bomb of uncertainty about the letter’s germaneness was defused. “You know your stuff, Aunt Ruth.”
“Major Yankees fan,” she said, blowing on her nails and buffing them on her collar.
Brooke forced herself to refocus on the now, despite the empty dark spot in her belly.
“So, wait.” Olivia sat forward. “You have the Called Shot Ball, with that golden Babe Ruth connection, and it also links to FDR. This is the most important ball in baseball history.”
Quirt’s voice came in a hushed tone. “It keeps going up in value. My head’s spinning here.” He looked at Brooke. “And you got it, how?”
No idea. But did it matter? Brooke shrugged. “Trae Earnshaw doesn’t seem to care how. He took one look at it and signed over the investment money.”
At this, the room erupted in cheers and celebration— until Aunt Ruth exploded in a rage.
“Wait a minute.” Her eyes zeroed in on Brooke. “Trae Earnshaw saw it and I didn’t?”
Brooke’s mouth dropped open, but the only words that would come out were, “I can explain.”
A loud banging commenced in the front half of the museum, stopping all explanation and diverting hurt feelings for the time being. The rapping got progressively louder. Brooke jumped up. If the knocker didn’t calm down, he’d break the glass in the front door.
“Criminy, dude. It’s nearly eleven at night here. What’s your problem?” She swung the door wide, and there on her doorstep stood none other than Sarge LaBarge, practically foaming at his red-lipped mouth. Not exactly a shock, after all he’d been threatening. “Mr. LaBarge.”
“That’s Sergeant to you.”
Uh, he wasn’t her sergeant, and she wasn’t in his squadron. Not by a darn sight.
“You’re pretty far from Naughton,” she said, a caustic tone leaking into her voice. The memory of his sneers earlier in the day set her off. Brooke had won, he’d lost; and even if he was Sergeant of Everything, he’d just have to deal with defeat for once in his life.
“Hand over the Called Shot Ball.” He’d been drinking. She could smell it.
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be!”
“I think you should go home, Mr. LaBarge. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Dane came up behind her. “She’s right, sir. Making threats isn’t the best idea.” His aftershave smelled good, and his stern tone sounded better.
“Oh, and look. She’s got her yes-man attorney at her side again. Peachy keen, jelly bean. I don’t know how you conned old Harvey Jarman into getting you that ball, but I can just imagine.” He gave her a lewd stare.
“Go home, LaBarge,” Dane said.
“No!” he said, slurring his next words. “There’s been a mistake.”
Brooke thought the same thing, but she didn’t want to admit anything. He looked far too dangerous, especially with the streetlamp’s light pouring from behind him. It made creepy shadows crawl over his face.
Evade. Dane would want her to evade. “Mr. LaBarge, I understand if you’re disappointed in the outcome—”
“Disappointed!” A hyperventilation gasp began, but he controlled himself. “You don’t even have a clue who you’re up against, Miss First Runner-Up Virginia. I crushed you before when you stood in my way. I’ll crush you again.”
This was getting personal.
“Again with the threats, Mr. LaBarge,” Dane said calmly, almost laconically, which made LaBarge turn his venom on Dane.
“I thought we could do this the easy way. But apparently, Miss Also-Ran doesn’t seem to understand. So we’ll do this the hard way.” From a briefcase he yanked a stack of papers stapled together and slapped them at Brooke’s chest.
Dane instantly stepped in front of her, taking the papers.
“Oh, yeah. You’ll want that lapdog attorney of yours to see those,” LaBarge said.
“He’s not my—” Brooke stopped herself. This weasel didn’t earn any explanation from her. “What is this?”
LaBarge’s eyes narrowed and a sinister smile tugged at his red lips. “I plan to prove that the will’s holographic addendum is a forgery.”
“Forgery!” Brooke choked.
“I’ll show the whole world that you forged it so you could get the Called Shot Ball for your Podunk museum here.”
“Brooke didn’t even know that ball existed before today,” Quirt said, coming up behind her.
“Try proving that in court.” LaBarge gave a croaking laugh. “You’ll spend years— your pretty, marriageable years— in prison. For fraud! What do you think of that?” Spittle flew from his red lower lip again at the same speed as the threats.
Dane squared his shoulders, and then Quirt stepped in front of her too, his arms folded over his chest. He might be a high school geometry teacher, but he had forty pounds and six inches on LaBarge.
“You should leave now, sir.” Dane grabbed Brooke’s hand. “You’re done for the night.”
“Check the paperwork. A date is already set by my close personal friend Judge Vandalay for a hearing on your guilt. This whole thing is coming to the light of day.”
Brooke started looking at the papers, but LaBarge spoke again.
“You could hand over the ball now, of course.”
“Not a chance,” Quirt said.
“Excellent. This way I get the ball and get to watch your pretty head hang. I’ll see you in court.”