Good Year For Murder by A.E. Eddenden

holiday. The glossy white walls and columns stood out clearly in the park and contrastedsharply with the bright blue trim and matching shingles. A sturdy, weather-vaned cupola rose from the roof.
    They mounted the shallow steps and slid across the concrete floor which was already sprinkled with sand for the evening dance. Tretheway made his way through a crowd of boisterous children to the inside hot dog stand. He held up two thick fingers to the concessionnaire.
    â€œYou want anything, Jake?” He looked over his shoulder. “Mac?”
    â€œNo thanks,” Jake said. Mac shook his head.
    They went down the steps on the other side of the pavilion, Tretheway clutching a hot dog in each hand.
    â€œShould we be looking for anything special?” Jake asked. “Or should we be looking at all?”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œI thought Zulp said…” Jake hesitated.
    â€œThat I was to confine myself to traffic duties,” Tretheway finished. He ate his first hot dog in three bites.
    â€œThen what should we do?” Jake asked.
    â€œWhat we always do. Follow orders.”
    â€œOh.”
    Tretheway finished his second hot dog. “However. A policeman is on twenty-four hour duty. A detective can write a parking ticket. A desk man can deliver a baby. A motorcycle patrolman can stop a bank robbery. And a Traffic Inspector,” he smiled at Jake, “or his able assistant, can arrest a murderer.”
    Jake smiled.
    â€œI hope you know what you’re doing,” Mac said.
    â€œYou just stay close,” Tretheway said with an edge to his voice.
    The trio skirted two smaller buildings the same colour and architecture as the larger pavilion, except for “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” painted on the white walls. Conversation was pointless as they passed the wading pool, filled with squealing children and surrounded by mothers with worried looks and wet towels. They bypassed two temporary hot dog stands, a busy multiple horseshoe pitch, a pick-up football game, all the while dodging children and adults going to or coming from other activities in the large park.
    At the edge of the softball field, behind the right foul line well out of play, stood a ridiculously large, conical pile of newspapersat least forty feet high. The area schoolchildren had spent weeks gathering the paper, house to house, store to store, farm to farm, in a remarkable show of patriotism for the war effort. LaSalle Park had been selected as a convenient depository.
    â€œThat’s the biggest pile of paper I’ve ever seen.” Jake said. “Those kids deserve a lot of credit.”
    â€œIt’s for a good cause, Jake,” Tretheway said.
    â€œMac.” Jake pointed toward home plate. “Isn’t that your team warming up?”
    They noticed most of the Fort York politicians milling around in front of the backstop screen, kicking the dust, gossiping, exercising lightly; two of them were actually tossing a softball around.
    Mac appeared excited. “You’re right, Jake,” He loped off toward the group.
    For the members of the City Council, the high point of the picnic was the baseball game. Each year the Mayor, the Board of Control and all the ward Aldermen faced a handpicked team of civic employees in a five-inning (they’d never finished) half-serious, grudge match. The civic team, having so many departments to choose from, were unfairly superior. They played a lackadaisical game. The politicians, on the other hand, played as competitively and aggressively as they could. In twenty-one consecutive picnic games, the elected officials of Fort York had never won.
    â€œPlay ball!” Henry Plain shouted from behind home plate in a voice surprisingly deep for his size. The City Clerk traditionally umpired the ball game because his category was not as clear-cut as say, a Controller or garbageman. “Neither fish nor fowl,” as Mayor