Three Strikes and You're Dead (16 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead
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It took quite a while for Meg to calm down after we returned to the house. The confrontation with Karen Locke had shaken her to the core. She spat out condemnation after condemnation of the press in a constant, staccato monologue. I occasionally tried to intervene, but my efforts were minimally effective, at best.
 
 
Finally, after a large glass of wine, her emotional energy waned and she slumped on the couch, her face an ashen mask of anger.
 
 
“I know how you feel,” I said as I sat next to her, “but the reality is that Ty’s arrest and Junior’s murder are big news here, maybe the biggest news story they’ve ever had. I’ve had my run-ins with the press, and there have been times when I was angry, too. Today, for instance. But I also realize they have their job to do, as unsavory as that may be at times.”
 
 
“I know, I know,” she said. “You’re right, Jess. Jack always says that no matter how the media abuses its power, it is the best hope we have for a true checks-and-balances system in government.” She managed her first smile since leaving the spa. “How did you know that she was pregnant, Jess?”
 
 
“There have been a number of clues, nothing definitive, but it turned out that my putting two and two together was correct. Sometimes it isn’t. Look, Meg, I have a feeling that things might begin to fall into place shortly. At least, I hope they will. The answer lies with the team and—”
 
 
“The team? Do you think one of the other players killed Junior?”
 
 
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I just have this feeling that the answer could come out of the team, maybe the Bennett organization, maybe not. But I’m determined to start aggressively pushing now. The team is gathering after tonight’s memorial service for Junior at the stadium.”
 
 
“That’s right,” Meg said. “At Patsy’s in Phoenix. They always go there.”
 
 
“I wish I could go, too,” I said, “to pick up on the interaction between players and management.”
 
 
A small smile played on her lips. “Knowing you, you could probably wangle an invitation.”
 
 
“I doubt that very much,” I said, laughing. “But I may be able to get close enough to see something that would add another piece to this puzzle. I have an idea.”
 
 
“You never seem to be without one,” she said.
 
 
“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not,” I said. “Tell me about Patsy’s. Is it a big restaurant?”
 
 
“Not very big, but with a nice dining room. Jack and I have been there several times. The food is hearty Italian, the atmosphere very lively. The bar is lovely, too.”
 
 
“Good,” I said, going to a window and looking out to the street, where a TV remote truck had just parked across from the house. “They’re back,” I said.
 
 
“Who?”
 
 
“The press.”
 
 
“The ghouls, you mean.”
 
 
I turned to face her. “Meg,” I said, “I noticed that you have a collection of wigs upstairs.”
 
 
“Oh, those,” she responded. “I saved them from the time I went through that bout of cancer and chemo a few years back. I figured if I was going to lose my own hair, I had a right to see how I’d look with different colors and styles.”
 
 
“I’ll bet you looked beautiful.”
 
 
“That’s kind of you to say. Funny, our first year coming to Mesa was the year after I’d stopped chemo and was pronounced in remission.” She knocked on a wooden table. “Jack and I came here on vacation before Ty ever ended up playing ball here. We vacationed here when Ty was younger, and even went to a few Rattlers games. Ironic, isn’t it, that he now plays for them?”
 
 
“The wigs,” I reminded her.
 
 
“Oh, yes. I wore them for a long time after the treatments and carried them everywhere with me. We fell in love with Arizona and Mesa and decided to make our stay here a yearly ritual. By that time, my hair had grown back pretty well, although I was still more comfortable wearing a wig. I almost think I’m a little afraid to be far away from them. Silly, I know.”
 
 
“Can I borrow one?” I asked.
 
 
“You, Jess? You have beautiful, natural hair.”
 
 
“Thank you, but I’d prefer it to be black tonight.”
 
 
“What?”
 
 
“I’ll explain.”
 
 
 
I found a seat at the far end of the long bar in Patsy’s. A huge mirror behind the bar allowed me to take stock of how effectively I’d disguised myself for the evening. The black wig from Meg’s collection was long and curly and fell perfectly to cover the sides of my face. Although I’d brought sunglasses with me to Arizona, I chose an oversized pair of Meg’s to wear. I realized I’d been a little heavy-handed in applying makeup, but it served to further conceal my features.
 
 
“Drink, ma’am?” the young bartender asked pleasantly, placing a napkin in front of me.
 
 
“Just a club soda if you don’t mind,” I said, “with a wedge of lime. I have quite a bit of time to kill before meeting someone. I hope you don’t mind my lingering here.”
 
 
“Not at all,” he said. “This is usually a quiet night at the bar. Stay as long as you like.”
 
 
“Thank you. That’s quite a crowd in the next room,” I said, indicating an adjacent dining room that was visible through a wide arch separating the bar from the rest of the establishment.
 
 
“The Rattlers,” he said.
 
 
“Oh,” I said. “Why would they be called Rattlers?”
 
 
“I guess you don’t follow baseball,” he said. “And you’re not from around here.”
 
 
“No, I’m not, and you’re right. I don’t follow baseball, or any sports for that matter.”
 
 
“The Rattlers are our local minor-league team,” he explained. “We had a tragedy recently. One of the players, the owner’s son, was murdered, and a teammate has been accused of killing him. Maybe you’ve read about it in the papers, or seen TV coverage.”
 
 
“I seem to remember seeing something about that. How terrible, a young man struck down in his prime.”
 
 
Another customer took a stool at the opposite end of the bar, diverting the bartender’s attention from me. But before he left to serve the other customer and to make my drink, he laid a copy of the
East Valley Tribune
in front of me. The Junior Bennett murder was the lead story on the front page.
 
 
The headline read, SHORTSTOP DOUBLE PLAY. I began to read.
 
 
 
 
Evidence is now starting to indicate that Ty Ramos, the talented and handsome young shortstop on the Mesa Rattlers, didn’t act alone in the murder of lesser-talented Junior Bennett. According to a detective involved in the case, the police are looking for a man who was spotted at the team’s dinner at the Mesa Hilton earlier that night. Ramos reportedly spent some time with this mystery man before leaving the hotel for the Crazy Coyote, the scene of the bloody murder.
 
 
Ramos has been in trouble with the law before, mostly drug-related robberies and one assault when he was a teenager growing up in New Jersey. He was reportedly part of a gang in Jersey City.
 
 
According to Sheriff Hualga, a phone call came in to Ramos’s cell phone about eleven that night from a number that the police have traced to this second suspect, whose name the police are not releasing at this time.
 
 
Meanwhile, a memorial service is scheduled for tonight at five thirty at Thompson Stadium, where hundreds are expected to attend. Ramos is out on $250,000 bail, in part because of his foster father’s, Judge Jack Duffy, connections on the bench. Duffy, a judge in New Jersey, is said to be working a plea deal for Ramos, who has lived with Duffy and his wife, Meg, since he was twelve.
 
 
Harrison Bennett, Sr., father of the murdered shortstop, has not spoken to the press. Nor have the Duffys. The family has been in seclusion since Junior Bennett’s body was discovered and their foster son was arrested and charged.
 
 
In an interesting twist, police in connection with the case have reportedly questioned WXYK reporter Karen Locke. A reliable source, speaking off the record, said that Locke was Junior Bennett’s girlfriend and that, in fact, it was she who called 911 to report the murder. WXYK spokeswoman Donna Smallin would neither
confirm nor deny the allegation, nor did the station include this information in any of its on-air reports, many of which, interestingly enough, have been reported by Karen Locke herself.
 
 
 
 
My timing was good. The memorial service at the stadium had evidently ended, and players, some of whom I recognized, and people who I assumed were invited guests, started filing into the dining room. I wondered if H.B. would be with them. No matter. I was confident that no one would recognize me in my black wig, large sunglasses, and heavy makeup. I checked myself in the bar mirror again. I looked a little too sexy, I decided, and hoped no one would mistake me for “a professional woman.”
 
 
I was contemplating that when my cell phone rang. I glanced at caller ID. It was Meg.
 
 
“Hello,” I said in a low voice.
 
 
“Hi, Jessica,” she said in a somewhat upbeat tone, everything being relative. “I wanted to fill you in on some news we just got. Turns out you were right about Locke and Junior. There’s a story in today’s paper that suggests the same thing.”
 
 
“I just read that,” I said.
 
 
“But there’s a twist that Jack told me about. It seems that Locke has been involved in an ongoing investigative report about sports gambling in the Phoenix region. The station was waiting to run her story during sweeps in September, but they’ve put it on hold indefinitely. There’s also growing speculation that she’s being forced to resign from the station because of conflict of interest. I guess her involvement with Junior is common knowledge now.”
 
 
“Interesting,” I said. “Who gave Jack that information?”
 
 
“I don’t know. He’s staying mum about that. Are you at the restaurant, Jess?”
 
 
“Yes.”
 
 
“I wish I could join you,” she said. “I haven’t worn one of my wigs in a very long time.”
 
 
“Better you don’t,” I said. “It might bring back unpleasant memories. I take it Jack is there. Ty, too?”
 
 
“They’re both here. We’re going to have a family dinner together, and we’ve rented a movie—one of Ty’s favorites,
The Natural.
Jess, I’ll save some dinner for you. Pork chops. Is that all right?”
 
 
“One of my favorites,” I said, “but you don’t have to do that. I’m at a restaurant. I may as well have something to eat here.”
 
 
I was glad to be out of the house for the evening so the Duffys could enjoy a family meal together. As much as I hoped I was a comfort to Meg and Jack during this difficult period, I was also certain that my presence had to have been intrusive at times, especially for Ty.
 
 
“You enjoy your evening, Meg,” I said.
 
 
“We will,” she said, “and don’t you dare call a cab to come home. It’ll cost you a fortune. Call Jack. He’ll be more than happy to pick you up.”
 
 
“I appreciate the offer,” I said. “I think I’ll just settle in and see what unfolds.”
 
 
“You take care,” she said.
 
 
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll be in touch later.”
 
 
My vantage point from the bar gave me a view of not only the dining room, but a portion of the parking lot as well, which I could see through a large plate-glass window. I’d just concluded my conversation with Meg when a black Subaru pulled into the parking lot with four young men in it, two in the front and two in back. I lifted my sunglasses to see better and saw Carter seated in the passenger seat. I returned the glasses to the bridge of my nose and turned away slightly. As Ty’s best friend, Carter was the one player I feared might recognize me. Two more cars with team members entered the parking lot and their occupants got out. Moments later, a silver Jaguar pulled up to two of the boys. The driver’s-side window went down and there was an exchange of words. It was H.B. I assumed the older woman in the passenger seat was his wife. He said something to Carter, and I had the feeling it wasn’t pleasant. The conversation was brief. The window was rolled back up, and the car circled the lot and ended up pulling into a handicapped spot directly in front of the front door. It didn’t seem to me that H.B. was handicapped, but he was certainly arrogant. He strode into the restaurant a few paces in front of his wife, and they were followed by the team’s manager, Buddy Washington. His wife wasn’t with him, and I assumed she was too ill to attend.

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