"I'm still not over it."

          "It's been years."

         "The Burenville Crawdads? Don't you miss when they were called the Suns? It was respectable."

          "It was and I do."

          "Am I supposed to buy Burenville Crawdads merchandise?"

          I glimpsed at the cartoonish muscular crawdad logo that graced the center of his hat. "You're wearing a Burenville Crawdads hat right now."

          Manny smiled and touched his fingers to the rim of the navy-blue baseball cap. "Yeah, but its hot today."

          "Color looks good on you."

          "Thank you—woah!!" He jumped from his seat and stared as the ball went flying, flying, flying...out of the park. "Damn that was a good hit." He clapped his hands in excitement as the ballpark DJ played the homerun jingle. On the diamond, the men at second and third base took a leisurely jog past home.

          I stuffed the last bit of my hotdog into my mouth in a most unladylike fashion and washed it down with a swig of ballpark cola. "That one was worthy of the Majors for sure."

          He sat back down with an enthusiastic flop. "Absolutely!" Our city's minor league baseball team was Double-A with a...moderate record. Not that that made the games any less fun. "So, how'd it go yesterday?"

         "I didn't find the necklace, but I did find a written murder accusation."

          "What?"

         I recounted yesterday's events as number thirty-six was taking a couple of practice swings. "She said she'd call if she wanted me to look into it."

         "That's crazy."

          "What do you think?'

          "I think you don't have much of a case without evidence." He leaned back and looked over at me behind the dark reflection of his shades.

          I saw my lip curl ever so slightly in the reflection. "But what would you do?"

          He bit into his hotdog and smacked loudly over ketchup and relish while he thought about it. "They wouldn't even call me without conclusive proof but if I were you, I would feel out anyone who had means and motive. Evidence is another matter."

          "How could they have buried her without the mortician calling it in?"

          "If it's not blunt force or a gunshot wound, a lot can slip by. Smothering, poison, withholding medications. Can't know without an autopsy."

          "She's already buried. Could they have missed it?"

          "There probably wasn't an autopsy. They only order one when the death is suspicious."

          Duh! Diana had been a sixty something year old woman dying of cancer. As far as I know there was no suspicious marks on her to indicate foul play. Of course, there was no autopsy. That would only make my job harder if I did indeed have a job.

          "She probably won't call."

          "Probably not." He stared daggers at number eighty-one as he hit his fourth foul ball of the game. The DJ's smarmy voice boomed from the speakers, "This foul ball brought to you by Harrison's Hardware."

          "Why won't they bench this clown?" Manny asked.

         "But if they bench him, he won't get his participation trophy."

          "They might as well put me or you in."

          "I think my high school batting average was better than his so..."

          "So, have you thought about what I said?"

          I looked off into the distance, suddenly very focused on a boiled peanut hawker trying to sell their terrible unsalted peanuts behind him. "Mmm, I don't remember."

          "I said I love you. You looked at me like a deer in headlights."

          "You could see me in the dark? Amazing eyesight."

          "Are you...more comfortable?"

          I forced myself to smile at him, though he couldn't see the panic in my eyes behind my pink sunglasses. "Definitely."

          "What was that all about? Did I scare you again?"

          "It was so sudden. And so soon."

          "I know. That's why I told you to take your time."

          No pressure. "It's just..."

          "Yeah?"

          "It's not you." I mumbled. "It's just..."

           "Yeah?"

          "I like being in our love bubble."

           I thought he might ask me to explain myself but instead he stared at me, contemplating in that way he does. "I like the love bubble too."

          "Then what's the rush?"

          "All bubbles have to pop eventually."

          Ain't that the truth? "But so soon?"

          "I told you to take your time."

          "Sure. After you kicked the ball in my court."

          He smiled. "I can't help my feelings, Evie."

          "Neither can I." I sighed. "I just...like how easy it is."

         "Me too."

          "Soon it's going go from 'love ya' to let's move in, let's get married, let's have kids, and then there's mortgages, and dentist appointments, and life insurance, and 'should we refinance', and maybe you have a cousin who hates me. Maybe I can't spend time with your family without getting the stank eye from a bitch who hates me for no reason. Maybe my uncles will hate you. It's easy now but the further we go the more complicated it becomes."

          My God it felt so good to say it out loud. I wasn't afraid of love; I was afraid of all the baggage that came with love. There was a world of difference between us hanging out and having fun and choosing to become a family. And maybe that was further than not, but it was coming. I could feel it in the air just like I could feel the change from spring to summer approaching on the wind.

          "Life is complicated." He agreed. "But maybe sometimes we make it more complicated than it has to be."

          "So, you're not worried about anything? Anything at all?"

           "I didn't say that." He absently messaged the nape of his neck before leaning back and draping an arm around the back of my chair. "I think there's things in this life I can't control. I won't stress myself out about what could happen. I handle things as they come."

          "How healthy of you. Must be great to be so perfectly self-actualized."

          "I think about the future too. I'll probably meet your parents one day and that terrifies me. But I can't let my fears stop me from living the life I want to live. And right now, I want to be with you. That's all I'm saying."

          Damn it. Why is he so reasonable all the time? "Okay, but could you stop teasing me about it at least?"

          "You roast my ass all the time!"

          "When have I ever roasted you? I'm a nice person. That doesn't sound like me."

          "Okay! What about the time I came to pick you up to go to the park? You said I looked like a geriatric beekeeper having a senile moment!" To be fair, this man walked in that day wearing black and yellow horizontal stripes and some khaki cargo shorts. Roasting him was a civil service.

           "I don't even remember that."

          "Of course, you don't. You have drive-by roasts." He extended his thumbs and pointer fingers so his hands resembled guns and waved them around like Yosemite Sam. "Pow. Pow. Pow. 'That's a long ass chain your wearing—going out for the struggle rapper Olympics?' Pow. 'Why you got your collar popped? Is it 2002. Where's the time machine at?'"

          "I mean—"

          "I had to iron that shit. And popped collars are timeless!"

          "Not on a thirty-two-year-old they aren't."

          "There you go! Drive-by roast."

          "Okay, okay. I'll stop."

          "No," he chuckled. "Please don't. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't making me laugh every five minutes. But I will stop teasing you about the love thing."

         "Thank you."

          A crack suddenly split the air and the two of us turned to the action taking place on the diamond.

          "Did you see that?" Manny marveled at the scene below.

          "Hell yeah!"

          We both leapt out of our seats as Rodgers hit the ball way into the outfield and Davalillo stole third. The crowd went wild as cheers erupted from the stands. "Just send Davalillo to the majors with Arcaya already."

          "He's good but can you really see him going all the way."

          "I'm a believer."

          "Imagine him against the Phillies. Or in the World Series."

          "I wanted to be a ballplayer when I was a kid."

          We both eased back into our seats as the hype died down. "Didn't we all?"

          "I could see you getting drafted for the Marlins."

          "You could see me on a professional men's baseball team?" When he started snickering, I smacked him on the shoulder. "Shut up."

          "What?" He winked and tapped me back. "You would kill them on the Dodgers."

          "Oh! That reminds me. I wanted to show you something."

          I grabbed my purse from the empty chair next to me and started rifling through folded papers, loose change, and the empty syringe I should really throw away until my fingers wrapped around the small black rectangle that fit nicely in my hands. As I pulled it free, I was careful not to press any of the many buttons on its hard-plastic face. I passed it over to Manny and smiled.

          "What is it?" He asked just as his face lit with recognition.

          "A stealth recording device." I'd found it on Amazon for a steal. It's boasted features were background noise cancellation and premium sound quality. Perfect for gathering audio evidence for certain cases. Though I hadn't tested it yet besides talking into it myself.

          "Ohhhh..." He turned it over to inspect the craftsmanship.

          "What do you think?"

          "It's trash."

           "What?"

          "This brand. You'll be lucky if you can pick up any sound without it being right up against your mouth."

          "Aww..." I was so excited too. Good thing I didn't buy the GPS tracker with it.

          "You'd probably do better trying to record on your cell." He passed it back to me.

         "Well, shit."

          "Don't cheap out on your surveillance equipment. It's the difference between evidence and you making an accusation."

          "Suggestions?"

          "I'll send you a link to a company that makes quality gear."

         "Is that where the police get their surveillance gear?"

          "God, no. But, I hear it's highly rated with P.I's." His neck swiveled back to the diamond as number twenty-three hit the ball with the necessary power to send it out of the field, but instead it sailed back into the stands for yet another foul. "Ah, shit! Why do they keep letting Carter bat?"

          "If he doesn't bat how will they justify paying him?"

          "By sitting his no playing ass on the bench."

          My legs were starting to feel like jelly from sitting in the hard plastic stadium seats, so I gathered my trash and turned to him, "I'm going to get some nachos. You want something?"

          He wiggled his almost empty bottle. "Another beer, please."

          I stretched as I stood then wriggled my way by him. I could see his right-hand twitching to pat me on the butt on the way past but then he remembered we were at the ballpark, a family establishment, so he restrained himself and merely pat me lovingly on the leg.

          I'd gotten up just in time to beat the crowd for the seventh inning stretch. The DJ got on the mic, half the stadium stood, and I heard the first few cords of an old classic. The ballpark went wild with cheers before some of the crowd started singing.

               Take me out to the ballgame

Take me out with the crowd;

Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks,

I don't care if I ever get back

          The line at the concession stand was blissfully short. The smell of popcorn, peanuts, and burgers filled the sweltering air of the upper deck. An industrial drum blower fixed to the ceiling over the lady's room was a welcome relief from the heat.

Let me root, root, root for the home team,

If they don't win, it's a shame

          I fell in line behind a man with a buzz cut, wearing an American flag shirt and squinted up at the menu. I came for the nachos, but the smell of that popcorn is making me reconsider. Then again, it is hot. I could always get the soft serve...

For it's one, two, three strikes you're out,

At the old ballgame

           From my purse, my phone sent me the tell-tale alert for a text message. I pulled it free, unlocked it, and read the latest text. It was Alexis:

          I won't be able to sleep if I don't know for sure look into it

          Looks like I had a job, then. Game on.

**************************

          After the game Manny dropped me off and I swung over to Taste Teas to relieve Pasha of her overtime, close shop, and do a little clerical work.

           She was happy to go. Just as she was walking out the door she turned back, "Your friend's upstairs painting."

          I'd almost forgotten that Sundays were reserved so Johnny could rent the upstairs and paint to his heart's content. Good thing I had some extra work to do or I might have locked him in.

          In my office I spent an hour staring at the computer monitor, doing a little mundane documentation, and dreaming of home. As I was shutting down a knock sounded at the door. I jumped—just a bit, but self-corrected when I realized it could only be one person. "Come in," I said.

          Johnny walked in wearing some old paint splotched jeans and a hole filled shirt. He'd tied his hair up as he was prone to do when he was working. "Evie," he said from the open doorway. "Can I talk to you when you're done?"

          "I just finished." I stood and started gathering my things. "We can talk out front. If I have to spend two more seconds trapped in this shoebox, I'll scream."

          Out front he turned to me with a look of excitement. "We're friends, right?"

          I was suddenly reminded that my boyfriend, Manny—I'm sure you remember him—had previously asked me not to spend alone time with Johnny as he was under the impression that perhaps Johnny had feelings for me. "Yeah..."

         "Well, I was thinking I could pick your brain."

          "About?"

          He almost smiled but then remembered he was a notorious grouch and so looked down at me with his mouth set in a serious line, nodded his head, and said, "Business. I'm thinking of starting a small one."

          "Art?" I asked with a smile.

         "Yes."

         I had sort of, kind of, promised Manny I'd cease and desist being alone with Johnny; which I was currently breaking even if it was unintentional. But to be fair, I had promised Johnny the upstairs room every Sunday first. "Of course. What do you want to know?"

          What he wanted to know was a multifaceted question that took more than five minutes to answer, so somewhere in between a conversation about start-up capital and marketing, I brewed us some decaf apricot tea and grabbed a single slice of coffee cake—he was hungry, I wasn't, and we sat down at the counter as the sun set further over the horizon.

          "I don't have any connections with local galleries." He said after my quick explanation of the importance of networking.

          "Most artists sell on the internet now."

          "That's where I got confused." He paused to take a bite of coffee cake. "It's different when you're at a gallery with an agent."

          "Not too different. It's just now the gallery is virtual. And the agent is you." I took a nice soothing sip of the apricot tea. "Being independent has its pros and cons."

          "That's true."

          "You should look into the local scene."

          "I've reached out, but so much social media is involved now."

          "It's not my favorite part of business either but it's crucial for marketing."

          "It's a lot."

          "If it was easy everyone would do it," I said with a shrug. "If making your own website sounds daunting, you could pay someone or use an e-commerce site like Esty."

          "That might be best to start."

         "And don't forget to consider taxes. Uncle Sam always gets his due."

           He laughed before looking off toward the windows and realizing for the first time that the sky was quickly darkening. "It's late. Sorry I held you up."

          "It's okay." I pushed off my seat and started collecting the dishes. "Need a lift?"

          "Yeah. Thanks."

          After that perfectly platonic experience I dropped Johnny off at the boarding house he lived in and made it home without incident. On tomorrows itinerary; sign for this month's sugar shipment, start brainstorming the summer menu, and last but not at all least investigate a death that may or may not be homicide.