"Ugh, B. What do I have to say to get out of the car?" I needed to get into that scene before someone else showed up.

He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the lips with no tongue. I kind of missed the tongue. "Just promise me you'll be safe."

I gave him a slow smile and kissed him again. Still no tongue. "Always."

Safety was my middle name.

We both got out of the car, but only I walked toward the tape. I glanced back when I realized he wasn't following me. "You're not coming?"

Broadrick shook his head with a slight smile, meaning he wasn't upset about anything. "I can't get arrested. Who would bail you out of jail?"

I laughed. "Katy."

Duh.

That's what best friends were for.

Plus, Katy had billionaire girlfriend money now. She literally carried around bail money as pocket change.

Bright yellow police tape marked off everything past the fence at the ball field. I chomped on my gum, trying to look like I wasn't about to break the law as I approached the tape. Suspicious-looking people got arrested. I slipped under the tape and walked faster toward the dugout area where Allen found Coach Torres's body.

It'd rained in Pelican Bay the last few days, but somehow my feet still kicked up dust as I walked. I tried to lift my shoes more to stop the mess and timed my chewing with the foot lifts to keep my mind active.

The police had cleared the dugout of stuff, so it was nothing but a wooden box with a bench inside. I stepped down into it just to be safe but came back with nothing.

On my way out on the other side, my gaze locked in on something out of place. White plaster.

Definitely not anything brought here by baseball players.

I approached the area with caution, keeping my eyes on my steps so I didn't disturb any evidence. My gum grew old and my chomps took more bite to get through them. At the far end of the dugout, halfway to the foul line, sat a deep shoe impression in the dirt. The rain made the the field muddy enough for it to stick.

White plaster residue flakes littered the surrounding area, meaning the police took the time to make a cast of the shoe print. They obviously thought it was important to the case.

If they did, so did I.

Of course, I didn't have a crime scene van, plaster, or any of that fancy stuff. I did, however, have my phone. And sometimes that's all a girl needed.

Until I added plaster to my online shopping list, I'd have to use the good old camera to snap my shot and hope to compare it to random shoes around town. I leaned in close and blew a bubble as I stared at the sole imprint.

The left side of the left sole had more wear on it than the inside sections. Interesting. If I held a contest in town to see who had the coolest shoes, I could get people to line up to show me their marks and bring the criminal to justice that way.

They'd be practically turning themselves in. I bet Anderson never thought of anything that good while solving a crime.

I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and snapped a long photo from a distance followed by additional photos as I brought the zoom in closer. Then I did it again by manually bringing the phone closer. To cover my bases.

The only thing I needed was something for size comparison. I searched the pockets of the spring jacket and came out with a green and white pen from the local Boy Scout group. They'd been giving them out last spring during the Memorial Day carnival. I carefully laid the pen on the ground next to the print and collected a few more shots. You could never have enough evidence.

Birds squawked overhead as I left the print and continued checking the area for more clues. There weren't any. I opened my mouth to blow another bubble, but the gum had lost all elasticity and rather than separate into bubble formation size, it flew out of my mouth and landed in the dirt.

I froze. Oh shit.

My eyes grew wide, and I stayed unmoving as I stared at the gum. Any other day I'd leave it there. I wasn't one to throw gum on the ground on purpose, but I also didn't pick up chewed gum off the disgusting dirt.

But this was a crime scene.

I couldn't leave evidence at a crime scene.

Anderson would kill me. Then, after Broadrick bailed me out of jail, he'd kill me. I'd have to go on the run.

Who would feed NB?

I only had one solution. Yuk. With my eyes closed, I grabbed the gum and held it out between my fingers.

In the few seconds it laid on the ground, dirt embedded itself in the groves left by my teeth. Gross. Gross. Gross.

Drops of rain hit me directly on my forehead, and I tilted my head back to glare at the sky. "Not now, Mother Nature." Didn't she realize I was mid-crisis?

Trees lined two sides of the field past the fences, and I'd wanted enough time to look through them to see if the killer had run that way. Maybe grab a few more photos of shoe prints. But the rain would make that impossible.

The gum hardened in my fingers, and I held back my gag. I had to get out of the precarious situation I'd put myself in.

I walked back to Broadrick and then right past him as I hunted out a trash can. Hopefully, no one saw me walking around with shit from the crime scene because I really didn't want to answer questions about used gum. I'd never live it down with the cops.

The school had a trash can at the far end of the parking lot, so I tossed the gum inside. Then I cleaned the dirt and sticky grossness from my hands as I walked back to the car. Broadrick was leaning against the side, watching my every move, but he did not ask about the gum. He was back to good boyfriend status. The rain picked up as I walked, making me quicken my steps.

"Did you strike out?" Broadrick asked after I rejoined him at the car.

I paused at the passenger side door and narrowed my eyes. A raindrop hit me in the middle of my nose. "No, we are not doing that."

"What?" he asked, doing a horrible job pretending he didn't know exactly what I meant.

"No, baseball puns." We would not spend the new few days walking around making stupid jokes about my new case. Someone died, and it was high time I took it seriously and solved this crime.

And since the cops apparently weren't hiring me on as a consultant, I'd also have to find a case to make some cash for rent. Pierce might be my landlord now, but he'd still kick me out if I didn't pay up at the beginning of the month. Funds were short because my old landlord didn't give me back my security deposit. She said I left a bag of trash in the kitchen, and they had to air the place out for a week.

Broadrick laughed as he got in the car.

He could laugh all he wanted, but I had a good streak going and wanted to hit a home run on this case.

Damn it!

No more puns, Vonnie.

I had to get my head back in the game.

Double damn it.

"I need an iced coffee," I said as he pulled out of the parking lot. That would reset my mind. "And then a visit to Coach Torres's wife."

I'd already researched where the coach lived and gave Broadrick the address to put in the GPS while I ran into the bakery to grab the drink.

Fifteen minutes later-I had to update the girls as Anessa made my drink-we were back on the road, and Broadrick stopped in front of the one-and-a-half-story Cape Cod home on the north side of Pelican Bay. The Torres home was smaller than other houses on their street where people had built additions over the years, but theirs appeared cozy and well taken care of, which made it better.

I left Broadrick in the car to guard the iced coffee-sometimes he came off too tall when he talked to suspects-and made my way to the door to meet with Mrs. Torres.

The bright green door had a knocker in the middle that I used to announce my presence rather than the doorbell. A woman with dark brown hair opened the door almost immediately.

She narrowed her eyes at me and scowled with a definite lack of tears.

"Hi," I said, trying not to come off too upbeat. Her husband was dead, after all. "I need to talk to you about your husband."

Her eyes narrowed further.

"Coach Torres," I clarified, in case she'd forgotten. Definitely giving off frosty "I murdered my husband" vibes.

"Ex-husband and no, my sister didn't bash in his head with a baseball bat," she squawked and then slammed the door in my face. The force of the slam blew the hair from my face.

Okay then.

I stepped back a half foot and did a double blink.

Oh, well. We'd driven all the way here. I couldn't give up that easily.

I knocked again, but the door didn't reopen, so I held my finger on the doorbell. One slammed door did not deter me. I needed at least two and a threat before I marked someone as uncooperative.