Die Like an Eagle Read Online Free PDF Page A

R ULE! banner draped the side of the barn. Our entire herd of picnic tables had been deployed in the backyard and covered with plastic tablecloths in black and red—the Eagles’ uniform colors. The tables were already half-covered with food, and people were still arriving bearing plates or bowls of food and cans or bottles of beverages. Someone was cooking barbecue somewhere—I couldn’t see the grill, but the tangy smell of the sauce filled the yard. And everywhere cheerful people were introducing themselves, as Team Eagle met the family Hollingsworth.
    I realized that since I was, at least technically, the hostess, I should probably pitch in to help with some of the preparations. And as Team Mom I should make an effort to get to know all of the family members. And this might be one of my best chances to gather more information on the looming menace of Biff—some of the families had older children who’d played local baseball, so they probably had stories and insights to share.
    I could do all of that. But I couldn’t do it all at once. And I wasn’t going to do any of it at the moment. I was going to find a place where I could keep an eye on things while doing the yoga breathing exercises my cousin Rose Noire was always urging me to use when something stressed me. Just thinking about Biff stressed me. And in case the breathing wasn’t enough, I snagged a glass of white wine from one of the picnic tables and my jaw dropped at the selection of food. Platters of cold cuts and cheeses, several different kinds of bread, freshly grilled hot dogs, hamburgers and brats, tossed salads, pasta salads, congealed salads, potato salad, cole slaw, crudités and dip, chili, roasted ears of corn, green bean casseroles, cakes, pies, cookies, bowls of fresh cut fruit—where had all this food come from in such a hurry?
    More and more people poured into the yard—how many relatives had Mother invited? Because most of these had to be relatives; there were only twelve kids on the team.
    Chill, I reminded myself. I perched on the back steps, sipping and breathing.
    â€œMrs. Waterston? Mrs. Waterston?”
    I tried to remember the name of the small, blond, freckle-faced Eagle who was dancing from foot to foot in front of me. Luckily I already knew four of the herd—Adam Burke, Mason, and my two. Also luckily, our crew was fairly ethnically diverse—I was pretty sure this kid wasn’t a Wong, a Takahashi, or a Patel. And he wasn’t Ben, the second black kid on the team, after Adam. I’d already made a note to ask Ben’s parents how to pronounce Nzeogwu, so I could prepare a cheat sheet for announcers at the games. And I could recognize Chase by the black eye he’d acquired during practice. So by process of elimination, this was either Zack Thornton, Manuel Espinoza, or Tommy Davis. He didn’t resemble Chuck Davis or Luis Espinoza—
    â€œWhat do you need—Zack, right?” I asked aloud.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said. “May I use your bathroom?”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Whenever you need to. Go in the back door; it’s the door on the right-hand wall.”
    I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the back door and smiled with satisfaction as he scampered past me, and I could clearly see THORNTON emblazoned across his back. Odds were within a few weeks I’d know Zack’s cute, pug-nosed face as well as any of the boys’ friends. And I’d have strong opinions about whether he was a friend I wanted to encourage, and I’d probably know enough about his parents to either rejoice that I’d made new friends or hope we didn’t run into each other after baseball season was over. But for now I focused on fixing his face in my mind. Zack.
    â€œMeg!” Grandfather barked, startling me out of my reverie about the joys of the rest of the baseball season. “You need to do something.”
    â€œAbout