Three Strikes and You're Dead (6 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Dessert will be served soon and I should get back inside,
I thought. But it was nice to bask, even momentarily, in the peaceful evening. Peaceful, that is, until I heard the tinny notes of a snippet of one of my favorite songs, “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” It was my own cell phone ringing. I dug the jingling instrument out of my purse and checked the screen for the name of the caller. It was Mort Metzger, our sheriff in Cabot Cove.
I thought. But it was nice to bask, even momentarily, in the peaceful evening. Peaceful, that is, until I heard the tinny notes of a snippet of one of my favorite songs, “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” It was my own cell phone ringing. I dug the jingling instrument out of my purse and checked the screen for the name of the caller. It was Mort Metzger, our sheriff in Cabot Cove.
“Mrs. F! How’re you enjoying Arizona?”
“Just fine, Mort. Is everything all right? It’s late back home. We’re three hours earlier out here.”
“I know. I know. That’s why I figured it was okay to call. Not too late for you. There’s nothing wrong. We’re great. So how’s everything going out there?”
“Everything is fine. In fact, I’m enjoying a dinner with your friend, Sheriff Hualga. What a delightful gentleman. He speaks so highly of you.”
“He’s a great guy. Please send my best.”
“I already have.”
“By the way, Maureen and I would like to ask you a favor. I hope it won’t be a problem. We don’t want to make anything more difficult for you. If you don’t want to do it, please tell me. We won’t be offended. We understand that it’s your vacation. It’s just that—”
“For heaven sakes, Mort, what is it?”
“Maureen was wondering if you could bring her back a jar of that sauce—what’s it called, Maureen?”
I heard Maureen talking in the background.
“She’s writing it down for me. Okay, here it is. Chipotle sauce? It’s some kind of Southwestern sauce she needs, and Graham Feather down at the market doesn’t stock it.”
“I’ll be happy to look for it,” I said.
“Maureen has been watching Bobby Flay again—you know, the chef who has the cooking show?”
“Yes. I’ve heard of him.”
“She’s into grilling now. Doesn’t want me eating anything fried. Anyhow, we’ve got good weather for it, so she wants to try one of his recipes.”
Maureen, Mort’s second wife, was an enthusiastic, if not exactly gourmet, cook, always trying out new dishes on him, some successful, some less so. She was also vigilant about watching Mort’s weight and keeping him on a healthy diet, although she hadn’t been able to break his love of sweets. There was always an open box of Charlene Sassi’s doughnuts sitting on the counter down at the sheriff’s office. Charlene’s bakery had managed to survive the competition from both Dunkin’ Donuts and Krispy Kreme. Her doughnuts were still Mort’s favorites.
“I’ll ask Meg,” I said. “She’ll know about it, I’m sure. How many jars does Maureen want?”
“One is fine. We don’t want you to have to carry back anything heavy. Besides, we don’t even know if we’ll like it.”
“Mort, as long as you’ve called, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“I know that betting goes on in horse racing. In jai alai, too. But is there a lot of betting involved in baseball games?”
“Not legally anywhere other than Nevada, but I’m sure it still takes place, even though the Pete Rose scandal sent it underground for a long time.”
“I’d forgotten about him. Point well taken. Thanks.”
“I’ll give you a tip, Mrs. F.”
“A betting tip? From a law enforcement officer?”
“You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?”
“What’s your tip?”
“The Red Sox are looking good this year. Now, why did you ask me about betting and baseball?”
“Oh, idle curiosity.”
“Uh-oh. I’d better warn John Hualga to watch out. I know what happens with your idle curiosity.” He laughed and I joined him.
I saw H.B. leave the hotel with a woman whose face I couldn’t see, and realized I’d been gone from the dinner too long. I didn’t want Meg and Jack to think there was anything wrong.
“I have to run, Mort,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Not so fast. Who won the big game that your friends’ kid was playing in?”
“My friends’ team won, and their ‘kid’ hit the winning home run in the ninth inning.”
“Wow! Will we see him playing for the Red Sox next year?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “Good night. Best to everyone.”
Chapter Four
“Whenever I go to the supply store in town, Jess, and tell them what I need for my swimming pool, they always insist on calling it a
shpool.
That’s the term they use for a small pool. This may not be Olympic size, but it’s a swimming pool nonetheless.
My
swimming pool!” He chuckled and paddled away.
shpool.
That’s the term they use for a small pool. This may not be Olympic size, but it’s a swimming pool nonetheless.
My
swimming pool!” He chuckled and paddled away.
I laid my head back on the baseball glove- shaped raft in the backyard
shpool
of Jack and Meg’s Mesa home and looked up into the starry Arizona night. When it’s 110 degrees in the day and not a lot cooler at night, a pool is a pool, no matter what its size.
shpool
of Jack and Meg’s Mesa home and looked up into the starry Arizona night. When it’s 110 degrees in the day and not a lot cooler at night, a pool is a pool, no matter what its size.
Meg came from the house with a pitcher of decaffeinated iced tea, which she poured into two plastic glasses for Jack and me. She makes hers the same way I make my tea in the summer. Her secret recipe: She brews the tea bags in water heated by the hot Arizona sun, leaving it out for several hours before chilling it. She handed us our glasses and descended the steps into the pool to join us. The raft had a handy cup holder, in which I placed my glass.
“Ty sure has come a long way, hasn’t he?” I said.
“I think he always had a good heart,” said Meg. “We just needed to help him remember that.”
“It’s the old nature-versus-nurture argument, Jessica,” Jack said. “Sure, nature has something to do with it. But at the end of the day, I believe, it’s nurturing that’ll make the difference. That boy wasn’t getting the nurturing he needed. He could have all the God-given talent from his genes, but it was being tossed out the window because that youngster was on a destructive path to nowhere.”
“How old was he when you took him in?” I asked.
“I plucked him out of the Jersey City Detention Center when he was twelve going on thirteen,” Jack said. “He’d already come before my bench several times, and I figured if we didn’t get him out of that poisonous environment pronto, he’d be a lost cause. This was a kid who had so much potential, but he could never benefit from it. He was involved in a gang. He would probably have ended up dead, or wasting his life on drugs, and in and out of jail.”
“Jack used to talk about him all the time, used to say that Ty reminded him of himself at that age.”
“It was Meg who saved him.”
“No, Jack. It was you.”
“I’d come home and talk about Ty, frustrated that the system wasn’t following up, wasn’t taking care of him. Then, one night at dinner, Meg turned to me— I’ll never forget it—and she said, ‘Jack, bring him home.’ And I did.”
“We had to wade through a lot of red tape, and the first couple of months were rough,” said Meg, “but what I realized was that Ty didn’t need discipline as much as love. Pure, unconditional love. Boy, did he respond to that. It was sad, Jessica, how much he craved it. He must have missed his mother so much.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“No one really knows,” Meg replied. “She sent him off to her brother, and then disappeared. He never talks about her, but I know he hasn’t forgotten her.”
“Once he began to turn around, it was an about-face,” said Jack. “A quick and sudden change. Like Jiffy Pop popcorn. Pop! One minute you’re a kernel, next you’re a popcorn.” We all laughed at the comparison. Jack was known on the bench for his colorful analogies the way Yogi Berra was known for his Berra-isms.
Meg splashed her husband gently, and he in turn threatened to overturn her raft.
“You know, Meg,” he said in a sad voice, “I have an overwhelming fear that Ty needs to be rescued again. It’s the same sensation. The tension at that game celebration was as thick as my waist,” he said, patting his considerable girth. “If Ty doesn’t get called up to the majors soon, he may never make it there. H.B. has it in for the kid because Ty’s been upstaging Junior all season.”
“If he doesn’t like Ty, why doesn’t he just trade him?” I asked.
“He doesn’t want to look foolish to the league. Everyone here knows Ty’s the better ballplayer, and so do the scouts and agents. Bennett knows it, too. If he trades Ty away, he’ll lose face, as the Japanese say.”
“You mean he’ll look like he doesn’t know his business?” I said.
“That’s it. I really believe he’d rather thwart Ty’s future success, make the kid look bad, which was why he didn’t want Buddy Washington to put Ty in to pinch-hit for Junior. It’s ironic, really. Makes me wonder if he cared at all whether the Rattlers won tonight’s game or not. But I know one thing. He sure as hell didn’t want Ty to get the winning hit.”
“Is that what you were talking about with Sylvester Cole tonight, when you so rudely abandoned my drink at the bar and left the ballroom?” asked Meg.
Jack smiled. “My apologies to both you ladies for my abrupt but temporary absence. And the answer to your question is yes, Miss Manners. That’s what Cole and I were discussing. Cole says he’s meeting with someone in Phoenix and Los Angeles about Ty. He said he’d call tomorrow. I hope something works out to get Ty away from Mesa and the Rattlers. Bennett will stifle his opportunities and spirit here. I want him gone to another team.”
I certainly understood Jack’s feelings. Without the support of the team owner, it would be difficult for even a gifted athlete like Ty to continue to develop his skills and to mature into a responsible adult. Harrison Bennett was so unlike Jack Duffy. Bennett championed his son’s future through intimidation and jealousy. Jack, on the other hand, was a positive force in his foster son’s life, encouraging him without criticism and setting a sterling example that the young man seemed eager to emulate.
I remembered what Sylvester Cole had said to me—that Ty wanted to be a writer if he didn’t make it as a major-league baseball player. So many talented young men never do. If Ty gave a thought to a future career without baseball, he was wise beyond his years.
I looked up at the twinkling stars, squeezed my eyes shut, and wished that Ty would be signed by another team and forge the sort of success in baseball that he was capable of, without the unwanted negativity of men like Harrison Bennett.
“Does anyone know what time it is?” I heard Meg ask.
Sitting up on my raft, I checked my waterproof watch. “It’s after midnight, way past my bedtime.”
“The coolest part of the day in Arizona,” Jack said.
“Past my bedtime, too,” Meg announced. “Come on, Jessica. I’ll get you settled in your room. The AC works fine, thank goodness.”
I said good night to Jack and followed Meg inside the house, where the blast of refrigerated air hit me like a giant fan.
“It feels cold now,” Meg said, opening the door to my room, “but you’ll appreciate it once you get acclimated. There are extra covers in the closet if you need them. And you can always open the sliders and let in some warm air. Jack loves it out here, but I have to admit, I’m not crazy about the weather. I’d like to be back in New Jersey before the leaves fall. I don’t want to miss the changing seasons.”
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