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bit abrupt with you Mr. Crager,” she said. “But murder is not something we find easy to discuss.”
    “Especially when it’s one’s brother,” added Miller.
    I sampled the coffee. It was good stuff all right. Probably an expensive Columbian brand.
    “Let’s just talk about you two for a few moments,” I said.
    Miller raised a brow.
    “Us, Mr.Crager?” Reba uncrossed and re-crossed her long, ivory legs and brushed back from her one cheek a few strands of red hair that had unloosened from the neat heap on the top of her head.
    I looked at Miller. “He was your brother. Were the two of you close?”
    He stared down at the plush red carpeting. When he raised his head, his eyes were misty. “You must realize that this is hard for me.”
    Reba sat with a stone-faced expression watching her husband.
    “We were fifteen years apart,” he continued. “So, no. I suppose you could say we were never close.”
    “Did you keep in contact through the years?” I asked.
    Miller reached for his coffee on the table. His hands shook as he brought the cup to his mouth. He may have tasted a drop or two by the time he placed it gingerly back on the table.
    “Christmas cards. A phone call every few years,” he said, brushing some lint from his trousers and clearing his throat.
    “How about this summer?” I said. “He was back in town playing for the Mets. Didn’t you two find time to get together now and then?”
    Miller leaned back in his seat. He seemed to be gathering his composure now. “He didn’t have much choice now did he?”
    “I’m sorry ? ”
    “He was the hometown boy, Mr. Crager. And I was his older brother, the owner of the ball club. Naturally, we got together. It’s good public relations all around.”
    “You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours,” said his wife scornfully.
    “So, the two of you found yourselves thrown together at team functions. Things like that.”
    Miller nodded. “Such as they were. There were very few of such activities.”
    “Didn’t I see you and the missus here at the ball game last night?” I asked.
    Miller and his wife looked at each other.
    “That’s right,” she said.
    “But you left before the fifth inning?”
    “We had to attend a fund-raising banquet,” said Miller.
    “Why go to the game at all if you had to cut out early?” I asked.
    “I was there to throw out the first ball,” Miller said.
    “I guess I missed that. I didn’t get to the game myself until the bottom of the first.”
    I finished off my coffee and set the empty cup on the table. His wife asked me if I wanted more. The pot was this delicate looking piece of china with a big spout, and as I reached for the pot I had the uneasy feeling of them both watching me as if I was the hired help being asked to break bread with them for the first time. Naturally, I spilled a bit of the coffee on the rug as I poured the stuff into my cup.
    “Sorry,” I said, feeling more foolish than anything.
    Miller’s wife shrugged. “Never mind. Ronald and I are getting used to having soiled objects around our home.”
    “Reba,” Miller said through clenched teeth.
    “Don’t worry dear. I’m sure this gentleman isn’t interested in your failing business enterprises.”
    Miller shot his wife this kind of hurt puppy look for just a moment before shaking his head. His wife, for her part, just sat there with a cruel sort of smile as if she were enjoying every moment.
    “So you were there to throw out the first pitch,” I said quickly. “For what purpose?”
    “I guess that’s an easy enough question,” Miller said, raising his eyes from the floor. “I wear two hats. In addition to owning the team, I’m president of the downtown chamber of commerce. The business community raised funds through the summer for the statue, so they found it appropriate for me to perform that rather ceremonial task.”
    “The statue? You mean that thing that rests in the lobby of the Spinelli?” I asked.
    His wife threw me