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  The Pinch Runner

  A Wing and a Prayer Mystery

  ROBIN MERRILL

  New Creation Publishing

  Madison, Maine

  THE PINCH RUNNER: A WING AND A PRAYER MYSTERY. Copyright © 2019 by Robin Merrill. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Pinch Runner (Wing and a Prayer Mysteries, #3)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

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  Chapter 1

  “Ow!” Joanna gave her own neck a mighty slap, but it was too late.

  Sandra knew by the sound of Joanna’s cry that it had been a deer fly, which, for some reason, the locals insisted on calling copperheads. The first several times a Mainer had told her they’d been bitten by a copperhead, she’d wondered when snakes had learned to fly. But now she knew the lingo. Most of it, most of the time.

  “Can I have more oil?” Joanna asked, meaning citronella oil, which kept the mosquitoes at bay.

  “Sorry, honey. That won’t do anything for the copperheads.” A bat cracked, and Sandra tried to be gentle as she nudged her daughter aside so she could see one of their church elders sprinting toward first base. Most people wouldn’t have known that he was sprinting, but Sandra had seen him jog before. The spry young man playing shortstop for Grace Evangelical easily threw poor Elder Mashman out, who, appearing to take the whole thing personally, turned and trudged back toward their dugout. Sandra, the reluctant scorekeeper, was relieved that most of the team hung out behind the dugout; otherwise, it would be mighty crowded on her bench. She wrote the out in the scorebook and then tried to focus on the next at bat, though Joanna was now chattering away about some pony she’d seen on YouTube. Sandra nodded absentmindedly, watched the batter strike out, noted it in the book, and then looked around for her husband, the one who’d talked her into this grand service opportunity and was now off yukking it up with the people in the bleachers.

  She couldn’t believe a church game could have so many spectators, but there they were. This was the Provost family’s first year of church softball. Nate had played years ago, but this was his first year with her in tow, and she wasn’t yet sure how she felt about it. Oh sure, it was good to get outside and hang out with people from church, getting some exercise. It was also a giant pain in the butt to do it with three kids. Eleven-year-old Peter, her oldest, wanted to play, but those in charge said he was too young, and now he was sulking in the minivan, staring down at his iPad. So much for his fresh air and exercise.

  Finally, the umpire called the third out, and Sandra said a silent prayer of gratitude. It was true that she was supposed to be cheering for her team to not get any outs, but she just wanted to go home. There was a well-worn couch and some leftover tuna noodle casserole calling her name.

  The New Hope Church coed softball team trotted out onto the field and took their positions. League rules allowed for ten players on the field, and that’s exactly how many players had shown up tonight. Grace Evangelical, known more often as simply Grace E, so that it sounded like people were cheering for a little girl named Gracie whenever they hollered their support, had a deeper bench that seemed to be full of ringers. Or maybe New Hope was just that terrible. This was their third game of the season, and they’d yet to get one in the win column, but Sandra certainly couldn’t be bothered to care. Her husband seemed to be enjoying himself, and they were doing something as a family—sort of. So she tried to enjoy it.

  Grace E’s runs came in so fast that her pencil had trouble keeping up. Every time she looked down to record something, the runners would advance another base or two, and these people weren’t wearing numbers on their backs, so they were impossible to keep track of. She’d written little notes to herself along Grace E’s lineup. Next to “Bill,” she’d written “red hat.” Next to “Mike,” she’d written “loud wife.” Still, it was hard to keep up, and when the lead crept past ten runs, she stopped worrying about accuracy. No one was ever going to look at this scorebook, anyway.

  The New Hope team was so bad that they made her catcher-husband Nate look like an all-star. He was helped out by a truly talented first baseman who went by the name of Boomer. She’d only recently learned why—he could hit the ball impressively far. But after that, the pickings were slim. Everyone insisted this was okay, of course, that they were just out there to have fun. Yet, they cheered their heads off when Nate finally threw the ball to first for the third out. So maybe they didn’t like losing as much as they let on. Or maybe they just were really excited to bat.

  Several of them tossed their gloves into the dugout, one of them hitting Sammy squarely in the back of the stroller. He didn’t seem to mind. He just stared up at the sky, making her wonder if their church angel was in charge of overseeing softball games, or if that fell under someone else’s jurisdiction.

  “Lineup!” Lewis snapped as if he’d already asked for the lineup ten times. Maybe he had. She had no idea. But she could understand why no one remembered who was up. Their last at bat had happened hours ago. She flipped the book over and read off the names of the next three batters. Lewis didn’t thank her. She wasn’t surprised.

  Grace E put in a different pitcher, who was a smidge slower than the first. She wondered what it would be like to be on a team that had more than one pitcher. “Go Grac-eeee!” The high-pitched peal came from the bleachers along the first base line. Mike’s wife.

  Pastor Cliff, looking official, sauntered into the third base coaching box. Sandra tried not to roll her eyes. She loved her pastor. She really did. He was a wonderful pastor. But he took this whole softball thing, and his role as leader of it, a little too seriously.

  New Hope’s first batter stepped up to the plate and hit a grounder directly to the first baseman. One out. Sandra’s tuna noodle casserole fantasy grew more intense. Their second batter stepped up and hit the world’s teeniest pop fly to the pitcher. At least they’re hitting the ball. Sort of. The third batter, Steve York, shuffled into the batters’ box, looking so uncomfortable that Sandra wondered if he had itching powder in his pants. The first pitch was met with the world’s most awkward swing, and a ping sound
sent the ball up the middle. Everyone was surprised, especially Steve, who took a few seconds to process the idea that he was now supposed to run. Mild-mannered Pastor Cliff was screaming at him to go, and finally, Steve went. He took off like a dump truck shifting through gears and by the time he reached first, he was traveling at a pretty good clip, with significant momentum. That’s what made it quite so tragic when his foot hit the bag at an odd angle and sent him spilling into the grass and rolling toward the fence—howling.

  Chapter 2

  The field fell silent. “Safe!” the umpire interrupted the silence and then called a timeout. No one rushed to Steve’s aid, and Sandra scanned the bleachers and parking lot for Steve’s wife, but she wasn’t there. Smart woman, Sandra thought. Joanna gave her a questioning look, and Sandra wondered if she’d said the thought aloud.

  After more than a minute of Steve writhing around on the ground in agony, a woman climbed out of the bleachers. Sandra knew her by sight, but not by name. Their church was just big enough that, if one didn’t sit on the same side as someone, and didn’t participate in the same activities or ministries, one might never learn that person’s name. Whatever her name was, Sandra overheard her tell the umpire that she was a paramedic and ask permission before going out onto the field. She probably didn’t need permission, as by this time, Steve had rolled mostly off the field, but he might still have technically been in play.

  With permission granted, the kind Samaritan trotted to Steve’s side. They had a brief, intimate conversation, and then she helped him to his feet. This brought applause from both sets of bleachers. He could hardly walk and placed all his weight on his new friend’s slim shoulder.

  “We need a base runner!” Pastor Cliff hollered toward the dugout.

  Just whom was he talking to? They didn’t have any extra players. She tried to convey this message to him with a facial expression, but his eyes didn’t rest on her long enough to receive any message.

  He looked at the umpire. “We need a base runner!” he cried, as if this was the umpire’s problem to solve.

  The umpire clearly didn’t care. He shrugged. “You need a sub.”

  Again, Pastor looked into the almost empty dugout. Good thing Peter was in the minivan, or he would’ve been drafted. And though he likely would’ve been pleased at the development, Sandra didn’t want him drafted to run bases one time only to get booted again. That would have been too emotionally jarring, so she didn’t volunteer him.

  Neither did her husband. Instead, Nate looked at her, his eyes wide.

  She shook her head slowly and dramatically, telling him with her eyes that she would rather die than be a pinch runner in flip flops.

  Nate quickly dropped this idea—he’d always been a wise man—and looked into the New Hope bleachers. Suddenly, he pointed at someone. “You’re wearing sneakers! Would you come run for us?”

  Sandra snickered at the long list of qualifications. She squinted into the crowd to try to figure out whom Nate was addressing, but she couldn’t tell. Then a slim young man wearing too many clothes for June looked over each of his shoulders and then looked at Nate. “Me?” Nate had picked out the only male over the age of twelve—a fairly sexist selection for a co-ed team. But, taking a quick census of who else was in the bleachers, Sandra couldn’t imagine any of the women doing it. Any woman who wanted to play was already in the game. Both of them.

  “Yes!” Nate appeared to be genuinely excited. “What’s your name?”

  The young recruit’s demeanor did not match Nate’s enthusiasm. “Phoenix.” He slowly rose to his feet and began a gradual descent out of the bleachers.

  “Well, Phoenix, nice to meet you. Would you do us a solid and come run around the bases once?”

  It was clear that Phoenix did not want to do this. He stood there as if waiting for someone to intervene and save him.

  No one did.

  Gingerly, he peeled off his scuffed leather jacket and dropped it into the grass. Then he unbuttoned his flannel shirt with painful slowness before it joined its leather companion on the ground. Sandra admired the umpire’s patience. She knew he wasn’t getting paid by the hour. Phoenix’s undressing revealed an electric blue T-shirt that read “Hope House” over a drawing of a building. He ran a nervous hand through his greasy hair and then strode toward the unoccupied first base.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” someone called from the other dugout. He headed out toward the umpire, whom Sandra didn’t envy right now. In fact, she felt her body bristling against whatever was about to be thrown at him. “They can’t just pull someone off the bleachers! He’s not on the roster!”

  The umpire appeared to have no idea whether this was true. Neither did he appear to care one way or the other.

  “Yes, we can!” Nate raised his hand as if waiting for the umpire to call on him to speak, except that he didn’t wait. He dropped his hand and walked toward home plate. “It’s right in our league rules, sir. We can add someone to the roster at any point in the game.”

  This made sense. This was church softball, after all, which was, as far as she knew, supposed to be a ministry. Didn’t want to be turning people away just because they showed up late to a game. Or because they showed up with absolutely no intention of participating.

  The Grace E coach stood there staring at Nate and shuffling his feet and then must have decided to surrender, because he wordlessly turned and headed back to the dugout.

  Sandra glanced at the silent bleachers. Everyone was staring at the new guy on first base. Even the kids. Sandra scanned the faces of the spectators and then of the team to see if anyone seemed to know Phoenix, but they all looked baffled. Phoenix pulled up his baggy black jeans, but they immediately fell back down. The multiple pockets seemed to be full of lead balls, and the back of his frayed hems rested in the dirt.

  No one made any attempt to add him to any roster or official scorecard. Sandra could hardly blame the ump for not bothering. Perhaps he had his own tuna noodle casserole to get home to.

  Chapter 3

  Grace E threw Phoenix out at second base, making the whole endeavor to find and employ a pinch runner seem like a big waste of time.

  But as Phoenix strode off the field, Nate ran out to greet him and pumped his hand up and down. Sandra expected poor Phoenix to return to the bleachers from whence he came, but from somewhere Nate produced an old, floppy glove and sent him to short field. Sandra couldn’t tell whether Phoenix wanted this to happen, but he didn’t look upset by the development. In fact, she couldn’t read him at all. He just stood there staring at the back of the shortstop’s head.

  Perhaps Phoenix knew, after watching only a few innings, how absurd it was that Richard Barney was playing shortstop. He was a slow, giant man. But Richard Barney wanted to play shortstop, and so he did. Because no one in their church said no to the Barneys. About anything.

  Grace E batted the ball all over the field, and while it never went near the enigmatic Phoenix, he never moved his feet either. Again and again the ball scooted past Richard and rolled within fielding distance of Phoenix, but he was content to let the left fielder or the center fielder do the duties. Sandra could hardly blame him. And even when the center fielder did pick the ball up and attempt to throw it into the infield, Phoenix didn’t even watch this happen. He just stood there staring straight ahead.

  The only time Sandra saw him move happened in the fifth inning. He did not back up a throw to third—of course he didn’t—and third baseman Brendan Barney, son of the great Richard, embarrassed that he’d missed the play, hollered at Phoenix for not having his back. At this, Phoenix’s head did swivel in Brendan’s direction, his eyes giving him a sizzling look that could’ve melted glass. Apparently, Phoenix didn’t like being hollered at by a short man with a big ego. Not for the first time, Sandra wondered how Brendan could so not resemble his father, who almost doubled his height.

  Sandra wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she couldn’t stand Brendan Barney. In fact, she secretly blamed
him for their softball team’s dwindling numbers. They’d had more than enough players that first night, but each time Brendan hollered at someone, the lucky recipient didn’t bother to come back. Nate told her she was crazy, that people had thicker skin than that, and that people were just busy this time of year, but she wasn’t so sure. She thought Brendan made their whole church family look bad. She sneaked a glance at Brendan’s wife, but she was so busy with her small tribe of children that she appeared unaware that her husband was verbally abusing someone again. Sandra fervently hoped that Brendan didn’t talk to his wife like that. Or his multitudinous children.

  Having completely abandoned her task of keeping score—they were going to get mercied, after all—Sandra tried to count Daphne Barney’s children, but they wouldn’t hold still. There were at least four of them, maybe as many as six. Or seven? All girls. And their names all started with B, something Sandra thought was probably Brendan’s doing, not Daphne’s. Sandra knew the oldest, Bethany, because she was Peter’s age. The rest of them all sort of melded into one busy B-shaped blur. Poor Daphne.

  At long last, the game ended, and Sandra had to force Joanna to stop carving her masterpiece into the dirt floor of the dugout with a stick. Joanna wasn’t happy about this, but Sandra didn’t care. Sammy was asleep in his stroller, and Sandra was jealous. She handed the scorebook off to Pastor Cliff and then, pushing Sammy with one hand and pulling Joanna with the other, headed toward the refuge of her minivan.

  The siren didn’t sound until the cruiser was directly behind her, so when it did chirp, it scared the tar out of her. Sammy’s eyes popped open and he didn’t even hesitate; his little mouth opened and the volume of his wail rivaled that of the cop car. Sandra turned to look at the car and then squinted; though it wasn’t dark out yet, the flashing blue lights were still blinding. Why was a cop car sneaking up on her and then turning on its lights and siren? Two uniformed officers jumped out of the car and started running for the woods. What on earth? She turned to look in the direction they were headed and saw her favorite pinch runner approaching the forest. Oh wow! Her pulse quickened.