Murder at Ebbets Field Read Online Free PDF Page B

with him closely.
    As Tom Kelly returned to his table, his wife bolted past him and went to sit alone at an empty table in the corner of the room.
    Marguerite began tapping her fingers on the table and swaying in her chair. “Gee,” she said. “It’s too bad Mr. Stengel had his card game tonight.”
    I laughed, remembering Casey as he left me at the studio. He’d contorted his face into a huge wink and said, “Good luck, kid.” I was pretty sure he didn’t really have a poker game, and I think I now owed him a favor.
    “What’s so funny?” Marguerite asked.
    “Oh ... uh, the pie. I was just wondering what kind of pie that was you hit me with. It didn’t taste like anything.”
    She answered flatly, “That was movie pie. We make it ourselves. It’s just a paste, no filling. And extra gooey so that it sticks. Real pie doesn’t work so well.” There was a hint of exasperation in her voice, and she was starting to look like she really did wish Stengel was here, maybe instead of me.
    “I can’t dance,” I suddenly confessed. “But if you’re willing to put your feet at risk, I would be honored if you would give me the next dance.”
    Her smile came back in full bloom. She grabbed my hand and said, “Why wait for the next one?”
    With my free hand I downed the rest of my champagne. “I mean it about not knowing how to dance,” I warned.
    “Nonsense. Anybody can dance. You just move to the music.” She made it sound simple, but at the moment I’d have rather been facing a Walter Johnson fastball.
    Under Marguerite’s instruction—I think she was leading—I started to get the hang of it. We worked into an easy step pattern that I could follow without causing her injury. As Marguerite and I maneuvered about, I kept an eye on the others around us, partly to avoid running into them and partly to distract my mind from what my feet were doing—I found the dancing went more smoothly when I didn’t think too hard about each step.
    The courting of Florence Hampton provided plenty of distraction, almost to the point of becoming a floor show. Virgil Ewing and Sloppy Sutherland continually cut in on each other to dance with her; each time the shoulder taps were harder and the relinquishment less willing. Tom Kelly appeared to have given up pursuing her; he sat at his table, his eyes fixed on Ewing and Sutherland, visibly seething.
    “See? You dance wonderfully,” said Marguerite.
    “I do? I mean, thank you. So do you.” Not that I was any judge.
    When the band took a break, I led Marguerite back to our table. My legs wobbled a little. Not until I sat down did I realize how overheated and thirsty I was. Our champagne glasses had been refilled and we quickly emptied them. I then toyed with my empty glass, silently cursing its small size and wishing for a stein of beer.
    Marguerite and I didn’t say much; we sat quietly, just looking at each other. With the music stopped, it was easy to hear what was being said at Florence Hampton’s table.
    Virgil Ewing loudly suggested that Miss Hampton join him for a swim—no bathing dress needed, he added. He sounded desperate, as if he knew he was coming in second to Sloppy Sutherland and making one last bid to win her favors.
    She glared her answer at him, her face flushing. Conversations hushed and people stared at them.
    Florence Hampton then politely excused herself and went to sit with Esther Kelly. Mrs. Kelly looked happy to have some company, and Miss Hampton looked relieved to be away from her suitors.
    Through the windows, I could hear waves lapping at the shore. Ewing’s manners were awful, but his idea of a dip in the ocean had a lot of appeal. I could feel sweat running down my back, and my severe thirst was nagging me for relief.
    A waiter carrying a champagne bottle on a tray passed our table. I leapt up and tried to hail him. I was sure he noticed me, but he turned away with a toss of his mustaches and headed toward Florence Hampton’s new table