Three Strikes and You're Dead (5 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead
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Junior Bennett, while as tall as Ty, had the more typical baseball physique—square and solid. His looks were all-American, right down to the freckles across his pug nose, his blue eyes, and the floppy blond hair that covered the tops of his ears and the back of his neck. He didn’t have an all-American disposition, however. I had the feeling he wasn’t used to smiling, and that when he did, it was more of a sour grin than a genuine appreciation of something humorous. Having a father like H.B. must have made his life difficult.
 
 
Cole was also keenly aware of the exchange between the two young men. He leaned close to my ear again and said, “I think it’s time to make my pitch.” To the rest of the table: “Please, keep eating. Don’t let it get cold.” He excused himself and went over to Jack Duffy, who was getting drinks from the bar. I could see from the expression on Jack’s face that he was surprised to find Cole accosting him. After a few seconds of conversation, Jack left his drinks on the bar, and the two men exited through the same door Junior had used to reach the lobby.
 
 
“Delicious, isn’t it?” Meg asked from across the table, indicating her dinner. I was happy to have the conversation turn to food and away from the conflict, which had seemed to occupy too much attention.
 
 
“Wonderful,” I agreed.
 
 
My friend’s eyes went to the doorway through which her husband had just left, and then to the table where Ty and his teammates were enjoying their main dish. It was evident that she was concerned about the tension, too, and the possibility that some sort of confrontation might take place. As long as I’ve known Meg, she’s always been one to avoid controversy whenever possible. Some people thrive on confrontation, people like the team owner, Harrison Bennett. Others, like Meg and me, shy from it. Of course, there are times when it’s impossible to turn your back on it, to pretend out of self-preservation that it isn’t there. I just hoped this night wouldn’t turn into one of those situations.
 
 
A few minutes later Cole and Jack came back into the room. Their collective mood seemed decidedly more upbeat. They were smiling and patting each other on the back. They took their seats, and the waitress placed the main course in front of them.
 
 
“Great,” Cole said. “I was hoping I hadn’t missed my meal.”
 
 
He was still eating when a hand appeared on his shoulder. It belonged to Harrison Bennett, Sr.
 
 
Cole stood to greet the team’s owner. “Hey there, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “Congratulations on a great win.”
 
 
“Thanks, Sylvester,” Bennett said matter-of-factly. “We need to talk.”
 
 
“Okay,” said Cole, “but I’m having my dinner right now.”
 
 
“How about a drink in the Atrium Bar following dinner?”
 
 
“Sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to do that,” Cole said. “I have another engagement this evening.”
 
 
Bennett cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “We’ll meet for breakfast.”
 
 
“No, sir, afraid I can’t do that either,” said Cole, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m leaving for Phoenix later tonight. Gotta catch a flight to L.A. first thing in the morning. Sorry.”
 
 
“Seems you are one
helluva
busy guy,” H.B. said sarcastically. “Let me just say this, then: You’re making a mistake, Sylvester. It’ll come back to eat you.” He forcefully patted Cole twice on the shoulder, walked away from the table, and disappeared into the lobby.
 
 
Cole sat down. “He wants me to sign his kid,” he said to me in the conspiratorial voice to which I’d become accustomed. From the way he had brushed off Bennett, I assumed he’d already made up his mind not to sign Junior, but I might have been wrong.
 
 
“I’ll let him dangle a while,” Cole said.
 
 
I was thinking a breath of fresh air might be nice, and glanced toward the ballroom doors just as a voice boomed over the microphone: “I hope you are all enjoying your dinner. I just wanted to get in a couple of words, if that’s all right with you.”
 
 
It was Buddy Washington at the podium, and the crowd quieted immediately. Washington had earned the respect not only of his players and their families but of the fans and, from what I could see, the media as well. Sadly, the same could not be said of his team’s owner.
 
 
“The boys at those tables are probably thinking I’m going to remind them to come in tomorrow and clean out their lockers—and they’re right. I am,” he began. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things they leave in there at the end of the season—half-eaten sandwiches, barbells, comic books, love letters, water pistols, not to mention dirty socks. A guy’s whole life is in his locker. Once, I even found a live turtle in a bowl of water.”
 
 
There were smiles all around the room. “But we’ll get back to that,” he continued. “I have something else to say.” He held up one hand. “I know it sounds like some sorta cliché, so you gotta forgive me, but I’ve coached a hell of a lot of teams, from Little League to high school, and right on to here coachin’ the Mesa Rattlers Double-A team, and I can
honestly
say from my heart that I have never—let me repeat that—
never
met a finer group of young men. I love them like family. They are the sons I never had.”
 
 
It was apparent that Washington had downed a drink too many. He didn’t slur his speech, but his emotions had bubbled up to the surface and were beginning to spill over. He wiped tears from his face with a napkin, pumped his fist in the air, and said, “To the team. Thanks for the sweat, the tears, and for saving me from the nervous breakdown I was on the brink of havin’ when we were on that losing streak.”
 
 
A wave of laughter swept through the room. Washington threw back his head and gave out a contagious guffaw that kept the crowd laughing, too.
 
 
“Bud-dy, Bud-dy, Bud-dy,”
a couple of players started to chant, and others joined in.
 
 
Embarrassed, Washington waved his hands to try to quiet them down. When the chants faded, he continued: “I would like to thank so many people. But most of all I’d like to thank my wife, Teddy.”
 
 
The audience responded with another burst of applause.
 
 
“As some of you know, Teddy couldn’t be here tonight because she’s not feeling well.”
 
 
Cole whispered to me, “Cancer, but most of the guys don’t know that’s what it is.”
 
 
Washington paused, took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling, and continued. “Teddy has put up with me and with all of my boys, who became her boys when it was time for a hot meal, a couple of dollars, or a shoulder to lean on. In fact—and I won’t single anyone out, but he knows who he is—Teddy was even called on by one of the players to deal with a scorpion that had invaded his room.”
 
 
The two tables where the team members sat erupted with laughter, the first time that evening I’d seen all the Rattlers smiling.
 
 
“We won’t mention names, now, will we, men?” Washington said.
 
 
“Scorpions aren’t the only poisonous things around here,” yelled Junior.
 
 
Another player punched him in the arm and the two of them laughed. Smiles faded on the faces of others at the table. I saw Ty’s brows fly up and he looked to the ceiling, shaking his head. His buddy, Carter, slapped his arm around him and whispered something into his ear that made Ty chuckle.
 
 
Washington continued, ignoring the horseplay between the friends of Junior and Ty. “Teddy is a surrogate mother to many of these kids, and I want her to know that the Rattlers could not have clinched this title without her. Thanks, Teddy. We love you.” He blew a kiss to the room, as though his wife were there. “And that’s all I have to say, except this: Clean out your lockers.”
 
 
Washington sat to a standing ovation from his players, and most of the other people in the room. Junior remained defiantly seated, even though his teammates urged him to join them.
 
 
Yes, a breath of fresh air was definitely in order. I excused myself and walked to the door to exit the room. It flew open as H.B. pushed through it.
 
 
“Mr. Bennett,” I said, thrusting out my hand. “We haven’t been officially introduced. I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of the Duffys. In fact, I’m staying with them.”
 
 
“I know who you are, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, accepting my hand and giving it a brief shake. “Enjoying yourself this evening?”
 
 
“Very much. This is a lovely affair, wonderful food. And of course the game was such a delight. It’s always fun to be on the winning side. You must be especially enjoying this victory, Mr. Bennett.”
 
 
“Yeah, well, there are pluses and minuses in everything. We had a good season despite some rough patches. However, our
star
player”—he said “star” as if there were a bad taste in his mouth—“may just get brought up on charges one of these days. Nothing you should mention, by the way.”
 
 
“Really?” I asked. “Charges? Against whom? For what?”
 
 
“I’m not naming names. No, you didn’t hear that from me. I can’t talk about it yet, but suffice it to say some of the boys have brought their suspicions to me.”
 
 
I had a feeling “some of the boys” meant Junior.
 
 
“Suspicions aren’t proof, Mr. Bennett. I hope you’re not drawing conclusions based on rumors.”
 
 
“I’m not concluding anything, Mrs. Fletcher. But I do have the league looking into his activities.”
 
 
Rather than seem upset by the possibility of trouble for one of his players, he seemed pleased, even excited.
 
 
“I can’t get into it right now,” he said, “but I would like to make a suggestion for your next book.”
 
 
“Which is?”
 
 
“How about a sports agent gets murdered? I’d really enjoy that plot.” With that he brushed past me.
 
 
I left the room and walked through the lobby, a soaring atrium studded with towering cacti and statues of coyotes. The walls were draped in murals depicting desert scenes. The space was at least twelve stories high, and I spotted the Atrium Bar that H.B. had mentioned earlier.
Nice spot for a quiet drink,
I thought.
 
 
Outside, in the still Arizona night, the temperature must have been in the hundreds, but it actually felt good. The ballroom inside was excessively air-conditioned. I walked over to the side of the entrance so that I would be out of the way of the hustle-bustle of people coming in and out of the hotel.
 
 
I took a couple of deep breaths and admired a pot that held an unusual and especially colorful bush, something I assumed was indigenous to this neck of the woods since I’d never seen it before. I made a mental note to ask Meg if she knew what it was.
 
 
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a shadow and heard the muffled voice of someone speaking into a cell phone.
How our lives have changed,
I thought,
with the advent of that little device.
I had declined to carry one when they first came out, thinking it wasn’t necessary to be reachable at all times of the night and day. But eventually, good friends—Seth Hazlitt, in particular—had persuaded me that it was prudent to own one. Seth is an old-fashioned country doctor and one of my best friends. He’s usually the last to accept modern conveniences, unless they have to do with medicine. Then he’s off to a medical conference to learn all he can about them.
 
 
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but I couldn’t help hearing the man on the phone.
 
 
“Yeah, I lost a bundle on that game. Wasn’t supposed to happen. Stupid kid. The boys upstairs are not gonna be happy.” There was a long pause. “I’ll let him know. You ever get ahold of that woman? Ramos said he’d get me the money later. Don’t sweat it. Tell her she’ll get it. Tomorrow. Peace out.”
 
 
I turned. The voice belonged to a slight man nervously pacing back and forth. He was wearing a tan plaid jacket over a brown shirt and tie, and flourished a white handkerchief with which he continuously mopped his brow. He disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. I don’t know if he saw me, but if he did, it seemed of little relevance to him.

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