Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead
Table of Contents
SHUTOUT
Sylvester Cole leaned into my shoulder and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher? You’re an artist, a writer. You must be a sensitive woman. Am I imagining it, or are you picking up the same negative vibes I’m getting?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“The atmosphere in this room and on the team. I’ve been around plenty of conflict in locker rooms and at team dinners, but nothing like this.” He faked a shudder, and rubbed his arms as if he were cold.
All evening, I’d sensed the tension flowing between Ty Ramos and Junior Bennett. The conflict between the manager and the owner was no secret either, with the two men seated at either end of the dais and seemingly intent on avoiding any attempts to bring them together—or to get them to smile. At times, the foul mood in the room seemed as thick as the Arizona air outside, and I’d contemplated escaping the ballroom for a breath of fresh air.
“Well, I have to admit there is a certain level of discomfort this evening,” I said.
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A Palette for Murder
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A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
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Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
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A Vote for Murder
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A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
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Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Murder, She Wrote
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For:
My grandfather, Cornelius “Con” Daily, whose career as a major-league baseball player spanned thirteen years (1884-1896). Primarily a catcher, although he also played other positions, he had stints with teams in Philadelphia, Boston, Indianapolis, Brooklyn, and Chicago.
His older brother, Edward “Ed” Daily, an outfielder who also did a little pitching for teams in Philadelphia and Washington. His professional baseball career lasted seven years (1885-1891).
My father, George Sutherland Bain, who signed as a pitcher with the Dodgers in 1916 but fell off a roof shortly after signing, broke his shoulder, and never had the chance to play professionally.
And my grandson, Alexander Bain Wilson, a future major-leaguer, to be sure.
Donald Bain
Chapter One
“We’re down to the Rattlers’ last out, folks, and the tension is thick in Thompson Stadium—bottom of the ninth, the score three-two, with the Texons on top, two outs, and the tying run on base. If the Rattlers fail to pull it out here, it will be back to the showers and another year before they get a chance to win a league championship and bask in the glory.”
“Shortstop Junior Bennett, number fourteen, is up next, Ralph, but he’s oh-and-three for the day against this left-handed pitcher. Think they’ll leave him in?”
The camera focused on a heavily perspiring young fan wearing a number 14 Rattlers jersey over a Hawaiian shirt. He held up a sign that read, JUNIOR FOR MVP. Ralph Trienza checked the TV monitor before lifting his red-and-green ball cap to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Wishful thinking on the part of that young man, don’t you think, Doug?” he said, as the camera swung back to the two announcers. “Junior’s been in a slump for a month, and Washington’s been trying to let him play through it. But there’s a lot at stake today. If I was a betting man—and I am—I’d have to go with a right-handed pinch hitter here.”
“I’m with you, Ralph. Washington has Ty Ramos on the bench. Ramos has had a good year. He’s batting three-ten, three-twenty-five against left-handers. That’s a pretty convincing argument.”
“Might not be enough to satisfy H.B. though. Ty’s got that strained hamstring that kept him from starting today. But Washington said in the pregame that Ty’s available for pinch-hitting.” Trienza looked into the camera. “You’re watching KRM-TV, and I’m Ralph Trienza with Doug Worzall coming to you from Thompson Stadium in Mesa, Arizona, with the score three to two and a lot of folks wondering what manager Buddy Washington will decide to do. We’ll find out in a minute, but first a few words from our sponsor.”
“Who’s H.B.?” I asked my friend Meg Duffy as the bright light trained on the announcers was switched off and the monitor reflected a commercial for Thompson Tools and Hardware. With our seats next to the broadcast booth behind the visiting team’s dugout, we could watch the game and listen to the local station’s play-by-play at the same time.
The organist struck up “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and a dozen cheerleaders ran out on the field behind the first-base foul line. They performed an acrobatic dance routine that ended with each cheer-leader holding up a letter on a card. All the cards together spelled out THOMPSON TOOLS.
I was in Arizona visiting an old school friend, Meg Hart Duffy, and her husband, Jack—Judge Jack Duffy to his legions of fans
and
detractors in the Family Division of the Superior Court, Hudson County, state of New Jersey—who had invited me to join them in Mesa, where they’d rented a house for the baseball season. The Rattlers were a Double-A team in the Pacific West division, and we were rooting for them to win. But even more, we were rooting for Ty Ramos to get to play on what was the final day of the season for the Rattlers. Ty was the Duffys’ foster son.
and
detractors in the Family Division of the Superior Court, Hudson County, state of New Jersey—who had invited me to join them in Mesa, where they’d rented a house for the baseball season. The Rattlers were a Double-A team in the Pacific West division, and we were rooting for them to win. But even more, we were rooting for Ty Ramos to get to play on what was the final day of the season for the Rattlers. Ty was the Duffys’ foster son.
“H.B. is Harrison Bennett, Sr., the team’s owner,” Meg said in answer to my question.
“Is he related to the shortstop?”
She nodded and her eyebrows flew up. “Junior is his son. And you can see why it’s been hard for Ty to get time on the field when they both play the same position. Buddy Washington tries his best—he knows Ty’s the better player—but the orders come from above and Junior gets preference. It’s been very frustrating.”
“I imagine it would be.”
“Jack won’t come to watch the game if Junior’s playing. He even did some research to see if Bennett’s actions were a breach of league rules, but there’s no regulation about an owner’s conduct if he has a son on the team. It may be unethical, and certainly not good for the team, but it isn’t illegal. Too bad for us.”
It was late afternoon. The Arizona sky was a clear blue, the sun still high enough to heat the stadium to a constant simmer. Summer in my home in Cabot Cove, Maine, is plenty hot, but it never reaches the extremes of the Arizona desert.
“Couldn’t Ty play another position?” I asked, fanning myself with the program.
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