Three Strikes and You're Dead (17 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Outside, one of the players who’d been in the car with Carter put his arm over Carter’s shoulder and walked him into the restaurant’s foyer. But instead of both of them entering the dining room, Carter separated from his teammate and, to my chagrin, came into the bar, where he slumped at a seat several tables from one that two young women had taken a few minutes earlier, directly to my left.
I kept my back to him but watched his actions in the mirror. A waitress took his order for coffee and left him alone, brooding it seemed, an unhappy young man. At the same time, the two young women recognized him and started talking just loud enough for me to hear.
“He’s so cute,” I heard one say.
“I know who he is,” said the other. “He was on the cover of
Mesa Magazine
last month, the issue that featured the Rattlers players.”
Mesa Magazine
last month, the issue that featured the Rattlers players.”
“He reminds me of Derek Jeter,” her friend said.
“He’s such a hunk. The article said that his best friend on the team is Ty Ramos, who killed Junior Bennett.”
That Carter was a handsome young man was beyond debate. His dark complexion, sandy-colored hair on the longish side—for a baseball player anyway—and piercing blue eyes turned plenty of female heads, I was sure. He was dressed this night in a gray pin-striped suit that seemed molded to his sculptured body, and a mauve tie. He looked like an ad straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.
The two young women finished their drinks and left, making eye contact with Carter on their way out.
I hoped he would leave, too, and join his teammates in the next room. Why wasn’t he doing that? I wondered. Then, to my disbelief, he got up from the table, came to the bar, and took a stool one away from mine. I barely breathed. I thought about leaving, but was afraid any movement would draw attention to myself. As it was, he seemed totally disinterested.
“Hey man, it’s Carter. How you doing?”
Should I turn? Was he talking to me?
“Get this. I was just at Junior’s service. Not as many people showed up as I thought.”
He’d dialed someone on his cell phone. It was one of those rare times when I didn’t mind listening to someone’s cell phone conversation in a public space.
“Anyway,” he continued, “we all came over to Patsy’s for dinner on H.B. Old Moneybags was actually going to spring for the meal. I bummed a ride off of Wilson because the cops still have my car. That’s another story. So, we get here to the parking lot and we’re all walking toward the restaurant when H.B. pulls up in his big fat Jaguar, stops the car, rolls down the window, and while puffing on one of his stogies calls Wilson and me over. So we go to the window and H.B. starts yakking at us, you know, like he always does when he’s mad. Then he rolls up his window, drives off, and parks in a handicapped spot. Just like him, right? You know what he said to me?”
He paused to allow whoever was on the other end to guess.
“He tells me that he doesn’t want me at the dinner because his son didn’t like me.”
He waited for this to sink in.
“Hey, Ty, of course it’s because you’re my closest friend on the team. Can you believe that? He actually told me that I couldn’t go into the restaurant to have a dinner that he was paying for.”
Now I knew who he was talking to.
“No, Ty, I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t make this stuff up.” He laughed. “H.B.’s always gotta run the show, even after his kid is killed.”
Ty evidently said something, because Carter stopped talking for a moment.
“Yeah,” Carter said, “Buddy’s here. But he’s in your corner, Ty. I know he is. And most of the guys are, too. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before the truth comes out. Where am I? I’m in the bar at Patsy’s. I’m stuck here because Wilson’s my ride, and I’m not about to spring for one of those expensive cabs. You can’t come out, right? It would be great if just the two of us could sit here and pop a few and have H.B. see us together.”
Another pause.
“Man, that’s not fair. How long you gotta be under house arrest? Can I visit you? Okay, good. Tomorrow afternoon. Yeah, lunchtime is good. Your mom’s a good cook. I was looking forward to a big plate of Patsy’s veal parm and pasta tonight, but I’m not picking up the tab myself. All right, man. Yeah, I’ll let you know what I find out. Yeah, all right, buddy. You take care. Call me if you need me. I’m sticking with you through this. Remember that.”
I imagined that Carter’s phone call made Ty’s night. Carter was a very likable and mature young man for his age. He seemed to know when to do the right thing, and I liked to think of Ty that way, too. No wonder they were close friends.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Carter asked.
This can’t be happening.
“Yes,” I said, not turning. He must have thought I was being rude.
“Ma’am, are you done reading that paper?” I’d placed the paper on the bar in front of me.
“Why, yes,” I said, in a disguised voice, one or two octaves lower than my usual one.
And then I decided to surrender. I handed him the paper, turned to face him, removed the sunglasses, and said, “Hi, Carter. Jessica Fletcher.”
“Mrs. Fletcher? I didn’t recognize you with—” Surprise was written all over his face.
“It’s the wig,” I said. “I decided to—I decided to change my hair color for the evening, but I’m sure I’ll go back to the old one tomorrow.”
“Will you be staying in Mesa long?” he asked.
“Good question, Carter. I’m not really sure.”
“Not much of a vacation for you, I guess.”
“No, not really, but I’m glad I’m here to help Ty and the Duffys. How are you holding up, Carter?”
“Okay, I guess. It’s hard. You know, Ty’s my best friend. The team is in there eating. The memorial service was earlier. It was sad about Junior, but I also hated listening to the things people were saying about Ty. Especially H.B. He even said something when he spoke to the crowd. Kind of a eulogy, I guess.”
“What did he say?”
“Don’t tell Ty, ’cause it’d kill him,” Carter said. “H.B. said that the motive for his son’s murder was jealous rage. He didn’t mention Ty by name, but we all knew who he meant. Most of us know the real story, that it was Junior who was the jealous one, and so was H.B. Ty wasn’t jealous of Junior. Yeah, he wanted more playing time, but he was the one with the big-time agent chasing him and with the best chance of getting called up to the Big Show. Of course, I’ll be next,” he said with a rueful laugh.
“Why aren’t you inside eating with the team?” I asked, although I knew the answer from having eavesdropped on the call he’d made to Ty.
“H.B. didn’t want me there. I came in Wilson’s car, so now I’m stuck until they’re done eating. Oh, well.”
“You must be hungry, Carter,” I said.
“A little,” he admitted politely.
“Carter,” I said, “I haven’t eaten and don’t have any plans. Would you be my guest for dinner?”
He smiled and said, “Really? Yes, that’d be great, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Terrific,” I said, meaning it. Carter needed a mother figure at that moment, and I enjoy a surrogate son every once in a while.
Chapter Eleven
A gentle breeze shifted the tepid desert air, aided by a pair of portable air coolers, which blew out steady streams of mist, not quite enough to simulate an air conditioner but sufficient to move the thermometer down a notch and dull the heat. It was not the best weather for eating al fresco, but since the dining room inside was closed to us, Carter and I had agreed to take a table in the restaurant’s patio and garden. Our hostess had apologized for the inconvenience. A private party, she said, had taken over the inside of the restaurant for the evening. We were lucky there was any table available. As it turned out, we were the only ones seated outside.
Carter took off his jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
The waitress arrived and handed each of us a leather-bound menu. “Good evening, folks. I’m Florence,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Carter wasted no time ordering an iced tea.
“Make that two.” I put down the menu. “Isn’t this a pretty place,” I said when the waitress had gone.
The patio, paved with yellow and rust-colored Saltillo tiles, was bordered by several saguaro cacti, the waxy white bloom of which is the Arizona state flower. We were also shielded from the parking lot by rows of tall bushes. Red-and-white-checkered tablecloths draped the wire tables, and the seat cushions were covered in matching material. A vase with a single rose was placed on each table, as well as a votive candle that hadn’t been lit yet.
The real beauty of the patio, though, wasn’t its decor, but its location. It sat well off the main dining room of the restaurant, and we had been directed to a separate side entrance to reach it.
I was surprised to see how relaxed Carter was—or at least how calm he appeared to be. He smiled easily and his eyes didn’t dart about but stayed focused on the table and immediate surroundings. Conscious of my scrutiny, he said, “You probably think I’d rather be inside at the team dinner, but I’m way happier sitting out here with you.”
My expression must have indicated skepticism, because he continued, “I tried to offer my sympathies to H.B. the other day, and he turned away from me. If I was in there, he’d just make my life miserable. Ty and I were both hoping to be traded. But Mr. Bennett, he likes to keep around the people he doesn’t like—just to torture them.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh?” I asked.
“It sounds that way now, being that he just lost his son and all. And I feel bad for him about that. But I’ve seen him do it and have been the victim of it, too. So had Junior, for that matter.”
Our waitress didn’t waste any time bringing our iced teas, along with a basket of warm garlic bread.
“Nice out here. And you got the whole patio to yourselves. Still too hot for most folks, but that’ll change soon. We hope, anyway,” she said, laughing. “But it’s peaceful out here, isn’t it?”
“Lovely,” I said.
“Actually, tonight it’s just as quiet inside,” she continued. “That baseball team, the Rattlers, is in there with the father of the kid who was killed. He owns the team. The mood is very somber. Very sad, really. Anyway, ready to place your orders?”
Carter and I stole a glance. Florence nodded at me, poised to take my order. “Carter, you go first,” I said. “I need another moment.” I still hadn’t made my way through the lengthy menu, which read like a book. But I could tell that Carter was famished, and I didn’t want to send the waitress away to have to come back later.
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, if you insist.” He smiled. “I’ll have the veal parmigiana with pasta on the side, please.”
The waitress then turned to me and said, “If you’re not sure what to order, I can recommend the pasta primavera. It’s light with just the right amount of garlic to give it a nice kick.”
“Sold,” I said, closing the menu. “Actually that was one of the dishes I was contemplating.”
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