Three Strikes and You're Dead (13 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead
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“Hello, Sheriff,” she said.
 
 
“Ms. Wellwyn. This is Mrs. Fletcher, a colleague of mine.”
 
 
“How do you do,” she said.
 
 
“Very well, thank you. The sheriff has kindly allowed me to see the site of the murder, and I hope you won’t mind if I look around and ask you a few questions.”
 
 
“You can ask away, but I wasn’t on the night Junior was killed. Kathy was bartending, but Ogden—that’s the owner—he let her go after the sheriff gave him a citation for serving underage customers. I don’t know that she could tell you anything anyway. She told me the bar was so busy she never saw a thing. Besides, the Diamondbacks game was on TV and she’s a rabid fan.”
 
 
“What’s the occupancy permitted here?” I asked.
 
 
“Sign says seventy-five, but we average about forty or fifty most nights.”
 
 
“It was crowded the night of the murder?”
 
 
“Kathy said it was the usual group. It’s been up a bit since then, people wanting to see inside the police tape where the murder took place. A bit ghoulish for my taste, but if we sell a few extra beers, they can come and gawk all they want.”
 
 
I wandered around the bar, imagining the tables filled with baseball players and their girlfriends, members of the fan club. I examined the back door and the short hallway that led to it, calculating that between the televised game and the voices of thirty or forty patrons, the noise level inside would have been sufficient to muffle any arguments in the parking lot, no matter how heated. I told the sheriff I was ready to leave and thanked Ms. Wellwyn.
 
 
“Sure. No problem,” she said as she took down the chairs and pushed them under the tables. “Come back anytime. Too bad about Junior. I heard he was a great shortstop.”
 
 
Chapter Nine
 
 
“A little to the left. Yes, that’s it. Oops, no. A little farther down. Yes, there. Now a teeny bit to the right. Perfect.”
 
 
I’d been looking forward to having a massage from the moment I’d booked my flight to Arizona. Meg had raved to me about the fabulous health clubs in Phoenix and Scottsdale. They were a big part of the area’s appeal for her. Jack could keep those champion golf courses that he bragged about. Meg loved the rubs and wraps offered in the resorts’ award-winning spas.
 
 
I had planned to explore some of those offerings when I arrived in Arizona. To my surprise—and sheer delight—sitting atop my pillow in the guest room at the Duffys’ was a gift certificate for a “Day of Beauty” at the Arizona Biltmore in Phoenix. The Biltmore sits on thirty-nine acres, a grande dame of a resort with architecture inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright. The hotel has played host to many presidents and celebrities throughout the years. Guidebooks call it “the Jewel of the Desert,” and it was only a forty-five-minute cab ride from Meg and Jack’s home in Mesa.
 
 
While waiting for my massage appointment, I sipped a cup of soothing ginger tea in the spa lounge, a tranquil room complete with a tumbling waterfall and the silkiest chairs I’ve ever sat in. I skimmed through the pages of the latest
Vanity Fair
magazine and concluded that my wardrobe was completely outdated. There wasn’t a single peasant skirt or fringed shawl hanging in my closet at home. My boots were practical for rain or snow, and I didn’t even own a piece of black clothing, with the exception of a belt. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but the fashions in the magazine’s editorial pages and advertisements bore no relationship to my life at all.
Just as well,
I thought.
 
 
Setting the magazine aside, I studied the ambitious guide to massages and treatments at the spa, many of which incorporated ingredients indigenous to the Southwest and inspired by Native American rituals, like Raindrop Therapy. I’d chosen the Cactus Flower Massage, which, true to its name, had massage oils infused with flowers from various cacti, as I discovered when I was brought down the hall into a small, dark room with aromatherapy votive candles flickering. New Age music played in the background, complementing the serene, relaxing mood.
 
 
The masseuse, Lily, was a young woman, no more than twenty-five. I’ve had massages in which the masseuse engaged me in a dialogue for the duration of the treatment, defeating the effect I sought—to get away from it all and relax. Lily was well schooled; she spoke only if I initiated the conversation.
 
 
I was dozing when she shook my shoulder and gently broke the bad news. “Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, in a singsong, spa-y voice, “your session has come to an end.”
One of life’s biggest disappointments,
I thought to myself. But fifty minutes of bliss had melted away the stress of the last few days. I felt marvelously rejuvenated.
 
 
“Don’t worry though,” said Lily. “You don’t have to jump right up off the table just yet. Lie there for a few more minutes and take your time getting up.”
 
 
While she began to put away some of the oils and other massage paraphernalia she shyly asked, “I heard that you’re a famous writer. Are you here on vacation?”
 
 
“Yes . . . well, yes, I am,” I said, practically forgetting that this trip was originally planned as a vacation; with Ty’s arrest it had become anything but.
 
 
“I’d love to be a writer,” Lily said. “I take classes at Arizona Community College. I get A’s and B’s on all my papers. My professors always compliment my writing. I love to write.”
 
 
“That’s terrific, Lily. It’s wonderful to have a creative passion.”
 
 
“Yes.” She laughed. “Writing and baseball are my two passions.”
 
 
She didn’t say baseball, did she?
I thought. I had been wondering how to broach the topic with her. After all, it had been one of the reasons I’d chosen to take advantage of my gift certificate at this time. Ty had said some of the girls with the ballplayers the night Junior was killed worked at the Biltmore spa. Could Lily have been one of them?
 
 
She’d taken me aback when she raised the subject herself. I couldn’t hold out. “Did you say baseball?” I asked, struggling to sit up. My muscles were so relaxed, they objected to moving. Lily rushed to my side and assisted me to a sitting position. She wrapped a towel around my shoulders to keep me warm.
 
 
“Ah, that’s better,” I said, running a hand through my tousled hair. “You said baseball is one of your passions?”
 
 
“In a way,” said Lily. “My boyfriend plays on a professional team, so I kinda had to learn to love it.”
 
 
“Which team is that?”
 
 
“You wouldn’t know them, I’m sure. He plays in the minor leagues, for the Rattlers. They’re a Double-A team. They play in Mesa, less than an hour from here.”
 
 
“I see,” I said. Trying hard not to negate the serenity I’d just experienced, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
 
 
“Actually, you could have heard about them, or you will, anyway,” Lily continued. “One of the team members murdered another one. It’s been all over the news, but since you’re on vacation you’re probably staying far away from the news.” She laughed.
 
 
If she only knew,
I thought. I didn’t say anything, but her description of what she’d heard on the news disturbed me. Interesting how people accept an arrest as proof of guilt. Yet there isn’t a conviction in at least a third of all arrests for felony murder. Those cases may have resulted in an acquittal or dropped charges.
 
 
“Innocent until proven guilty.” It’s such an important plank in our judicial structure. But people tend to forget that in the swell of media coverage following an arrest. Perhaps it can be credited to the public’s trust in their police departments. But any officer worth his salt would admit that mistakes get made, even in the most meticulous of investigations. And when the police are sure they have the right person, they’re still required to present evidence at a trial, and convince a jury that the accused is guilty
beyond a reasonable doubt
. I had many reasonable doubts about Ty’s guilt. Overcoming a difficult childhood, he had become a sensitive, nonviolent, law-abiding, generous, caring young man. The police evidence against him was skimpy and circumstantial from what I knew. Ty and Meg and Jack were going to have to struggle to counter the headlines, but I would be there to help them. I only hoped I could.
 
 
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m going to leave the room now,” Lily informed me. “Take your time getting up from the table, and slip your robe on. I’ll come back to take you to the lounge, where you can wait for your next treatment.”
 
 
“Before you go, Lily,” I called. “Who’s your boyfriend? Would I know him?”
 
 
She turned to me, her hand on the door. “His name is Steven Long,” she said.
 
 
The name didn’t ring a bell. It wasn’t one of the names that Ty had mentioned when telling us what had happened at the Crazy Coyote.
 
 
“Long. What position does he play?”
 
 
“He’s a pitcher. But he’s been on the DL for about two weeks.”
 
 
“DL?”
 
 
She laughed. “Oh, sorry. Disabled list. Believe me, I didn’t know all this jargon either before I got involved with Steven.”
 
 
“Why is he on the DL?” I asked.
 
 
“Tendonitis in his elbow. It flares up every once in awhile.”
 
 
“Was he friends with the player who was killed or the player who is accused of killing him?” I asked, trying to come across as merely curious rather than as having an ulterior motive.
 
 
“Not really. I mean, all the guys know each other, but the pitchers kinda stick together, and neither of those guys was a pitcher. They were both shortstops, and there was a lot of jealous rivalry between them. The boy who was murdered was also the owner’s son. I met him once—the owner, that is. He comes in here for massages.” She lowered her voice. “No one here likes him, though. He’s very demanding and doesn’t tip.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that,” she whispered. “We’re not supposed to mention tipping.”
 
 
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “I won’t say a word. But tell me about the other shortstop. Do you know him?”
 
 
“That’s Ty Ramos. Supposedly killed the owner’s son. That’s what they say on the news. But my boyfriend doesn’t think he’s the one who did it.”
 
 
“You don’t say?” I tried for a casual tone. “And why not.”
 
 
“Because Steve says he’s a nice kid and wasn’t jealous of Junior at all. But Junior was really jealous of Ty because he was a better shortstop and had a hot agent after him, and all that. But these guys were all drinking, so I say to him, ‘Who knows? It could have happened the way they say.’ But Steve says that Ty was an easygoing kid. He said no one on the team, except for a friend of Junior’s, thinks that Ty killed him.”
 
 
“Hmm. So who do they think killed Junior, Lily?”
 
 
“Sheesh. I don’t know. I don’t think they know, except that I did hear Steve say something about his crazy girlfriend.”
 
 
“Junior had a girlfriend?”
 
 
“Sure. They all do. We saw her on the news.”
 
 
“Were the reporters interviewing her?”
 
 
Lily laughed. “No. She
is
the reporter. And Steve said he heard they’d had a big fight the night of the murder. Anyway, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re all set now to put your robe on, and I’ve got to get to my next massage appointment. I’ll give you a few minutes and then I’ll be back.”
 
 
“Oh, yes. Okay, thanks, Lily.”
 
 
I put on my robe. As promised, Lily reappeared shortly to escort me down the hall.
 
 
As we walked, I commented, “Lily, I’m surprised that a young professional up-and-coming ballplayer has time for a girlfriend.” I’d remembered a comment that the team players were not encouraged to have them.

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