Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (63 page)

In Spanish, it said:

Lita

I pitched again today, and I was amazing. My manager and my team were as happy as little kids with candy. I’m not just a baseball player; I’m a hero. I’m 8 and 3 with an ERA of only 1.96. The rest of the team is pretty good, too, except for a few players who should be replaced instead of kept only because of sentiment. The fans love me. The other players on my team, except for a few who are jealous, love me too. Even the opposition players admire me. We have a very good chance to win the pennant and then the World Series.

There’s some money in the bank account for you to use for the next few months. My agent knows how to do that. See that my parents get half.

It’s too bad you have to be stuck in Cuba, but really, it’s for the best. Toronto’s a big city and would seem very strange to you. And you’d be alone most of the time. Later we’ll work out some way for you to come to Canada and we can begin a family. Think what my sons will be able to do! I didn’t even own a decent glove until I was 14—and that was a cast-off. My sons will have everything they could wish for, all of it new.

Your husband,

Rico Velasquez

Alita refolded the letter and put it back into the deep pocket of her skirt. She shut her eyes and hugged herself. Was she doing the right thing, or was she the fool her father had called her the night before she married Rico?

A wave hit the boat and her stomach lurched. Pulling herself to her feet, she staggered to the railing. Why, on top of everything else, did she have to be one of those unfortunate people who become seasick the moment they go on water?

“God, why do you allow this?” she muttered in Spanish.

Late Tuesday morning, baseball fan Lawrence Smith sat in his kitchen eating a ham sandwich while reading the sports section of the Toronto Register.

“Why does he have to say things like that?” Lawrence complained aloud. He knew Kyle Schmidt was only doing his job as the sports reporter for the Register, but why did he always seem so negative? And was it really necessary to use thousand-dollar words like crepuscular?

Pushing his plate aside, Lawrence read the offending paragraphs out loud, carefully pronouncing each word, doing his best to determine if it was really as negative as it had seemed in his first reading.

Lackluster Performance Dims Celebration

by Kyle Schmidt

It’s the July long weekend, and you sit on the edge of your seat expecting to be delighted and entertained.

Not for you the artificial excitement of the cool crepuscular hours, with the momentary bursts from sky rockets, Roman candles, and fountains against a darkling sky. For the baseball fan, what’s needed is the sizzling heat of the afternoon, explosions of bat against ball, and headlong rushes of two-hundred-pound men into small rectangular bases.

Let the game begin!

Except—perhaps someone forget to tell the Toronto Matrix what day it was. Because their performance yesterday afternoon was lackluster, dismal, and sporadic; it left the 30,000 fans in attendance desperately seeking something else to celebrate….

Shaking his head, Lawrence folded the paper and set it aside before picking up the sports section of the
Register’s
rival newspaper, the
Toronto Daily News
.

He turned to Ginny Lovejoy’s column. Lawrence could count on Ginny to write something he could understand.

Matrix Need to Put a Lid on It

by Ginny Lovejoy

It could have been so different yesterday. The Matrix started off with two runs in the first inning. Going to be a great afternoon! Except those two runs were all they got—while giving up five.

Overall, the team turned in a tired performance that made you wonder if perhaps they’d been out celebrating a day early. But then, when do baseball players have time to celebrate? The end of the season, I suppose. And how many teams get to celebrate then?

So there’s no point in ragging on them. One dreary loss doesn’t negate all the great games we’ve had this year. They’ve still got over three months to show us what they can do!

But they really need to get it together. Rumors have it that at least one player was so disgusted by the performance of the rest of the team yesterday that he trashed a television set and put a hole in a wall in the clubhouse during the ninth inning. Please, guys, we don’t need things like that….

Lawrence cringed. The unnamed player was Rico, he was sure of that. Lawrence shook his head. He never lost his own temper, and he tended to mistrust anyone who did.

A noisy ringing began, and he looked at his clock. Ten to one. Nearly time. The radio was already on, but he turned up its volume and got settled in to listen. As the news ended, trumpets announced the
Stasey Simon Show
, and then she was on, her deep, warm voice caressing the airwaves.

“Stasey Simon here. For the next three hours, we’re going to talk about sports in a way no one else can. Because there’s only one Stasey Simon. But ya’ll know that, don’t you? So pull up a chair, or find a place to park so you can give me your full attention, because for the next few hours, you’re mine.

“Now, what are we going to talk about today? How about the Matrix? Wasn’t that game yesterday pathetic? As if they had no heart. And I’m wondering if they do. We’ve been fed a line this year about how the Matrix are one big, happy family—‘one for all and all for one’—but what I saw yesterday was an edgy, maybe even dysfunctional team. I hear there are a number of different factions, some of which barely speak to the others. And I didn’t see a leader out there, either. Makes me really wonder.

“On the other hand, you don’t need to be happy to win games. And the Matrix, for the most part, have been winning this year. Should we care about anything else?

“Uh oh, the Beast is giving me the look. We have to take a break. We’ll be right back after these messages. Ya’ll know the number.”

Lawrence Smith knew the number. He prided himself on being one of the most faithful fans of the local sports station, WIN 730. But although he listened regularly to Iain Foley and as much as possible to some of the other hosts, he never missed Stasey Simon.

Lawrence got through and waited for the show’s producer—nicknamed “The Beast” by Stasey, who considered herself “The Beauty”—to tell him he was on air.

The ad ended. Lawrence waited patiently during the sports update.

“I’m back,” Stasey said. “So what were we saying? Oh, yeah. The Matrix. What I think is that the players are going to bust their jerseys one of these days if they don’t let out some of the hostility and dislike. I think everything the management’s told us about how united they are and how well they get along is a load of you-know-what.”

The producer spoke in Lawrence’s ear. “Get ready, Lawrence.”

Lawrence turned down the volume on his radio. Otherwise, he knew from experience he’d get confused by both the time delay and the echo of his own voice.

Then Stasey said, “Lawrence, buddy, is that you?”

He remembered it wasn’t enough to nod; she couldn’t see him. “It’s me, Stasey,” he said clearly.

“All right, buddy. How’s it going? What have you got for me today?”

“It’s going good, Stasey. I love listening to you. I really missed you over the weekend. It’s bad enough on normal weekends, but I especially hate long weekends where I have to wait from Friday to Tuesday to hear you again.”

“Thanks, buddy. So, what do you want to talk about?”

“The team, Stasey. I agree they didn’t play very well yesterday. But are you sure they don’t like each other? That makes me feel so sad, Stasey. What do you think can be done to turn things around? I’ll hang up so you can answer.” Lawrence ended the call and quickly turned the radio’s volume up to hear Stasey’s response.

“Lots of winning teams have had players who weren’t speaking to each other. What bugs me most is that the management insists they’re one big happy family. Baloney!

“If you really want my opinion, I think the problems the Matrix are having can be traced back to the arrival of Rico Velasquez. Armando Santana is very popular here in Toronto, not only with the fans but with the other players, too. From the moment Rico took Armando’s spot on the starting rotation, things haven’t been the same.

“They should have traded or released Armando. That would have helped with the loyalty issue—player and fan alike. Secondly, Rico goes way beyond not speaking to teammates. I hear he was so angry about the way the team lost the game yesterday that he had a temper tantrum in the locker room. And the saddest part is the management’s unwillingness to admit anything’s wrong. The first step toward change is admitting there’s a need for it.”

Nestled in the rocking chair, Lawrence’s body rocked rhythmically in time with Stasey’s voice. His face was morose as he thought about what Rico’s coming had done to the team.

On the radio, Stasey moved on to the next caller. “Hi, Pete. What do you want to get off your chest today?”

“This is Ms. Garrett, Miss MacPherson. I’m afraid your father is in China on a business trip. He’s away for two more weeks, and he’s asked me not to disturb him unless it’s an extreme emergency. I believe I sent you a memo to that effect.”

“Does my eloping with a baseball player from Cuba count?”

“I believe your father would want me to advise you to think about the very generous allowance he gives you before doing anything so foolish.”

Eva made a face at the phone. “There’s something I want to talk to him about. I need advice.”

“Would you like me to make an appointment with someone for you? Your psychiatrist, your personal trainer, your hair stylist, your massage therapist, your—”

“Oh, give it a rest!”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Miss MacPherson.”

“Yeah, sure.” Eva clicked the button to turn off the speaker phone and then spit at it.

After a moment’s thought, she picked up her half-empty flute of champagne and walked to the bathroom, where she set down the flute and picked up her magnifying mirror. She observed the area surrounding her left eye. Still had a grayish-blue look. She pursed her lips. Stupid to even think of asking her father for help! Unless it involved money and contracts, he wouldn’t have a clue anyway.

But who else was there to ask? Last week, after several sleepless nights trying to figure out what to do, she’d actually gone to see her psychiatrist. And all he’d given her was a prescription for sleeping pills.