by Donald Bain
“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 wi
ll,” 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.
Outside, one of the players who’d been in the car with Carter put his arm over Carter’s shoulder and walked him into the restaurant’s foyer. But instead of both of them entering the dining room, Carter separated from his teammate and, to my chagrin, came into the bar, where he slumped at a seat several tables from one that two young women had taken a few minutes earlier, directly to my left.
I kept my back to him but watched his actions in the mirror. A waitress took his order for coffee and left him alone, brooding it seemed, an unhappy young man. At the same time, the two young women recognized him and started talking just loud enough for me to hear.
“He’s so cute,” I heard one say.
“I know who he is,” said the other. “He was on the cover of Mesa Magazine last month, the issue that featured the Rattlers players.”
“He reminds me of Derek Jeter,” her friend said.
“He’s such a hunk. The article said that his best friend on the team is Ty Ramos, who killed Junior Bennett.”
That Carter was a handsome young man was beyond debate. His dark complexion, sandy-colored hair on the longish side—for a baseball player anyway—and piercing blue eyes turned plenty of female heads, I was sure. He was dressed this night in a gray pin-striped suit that seemed molded to his sculptured body, and a mauve tie. He looked like an ad straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.
The two young women finished their drinks and left, making eye contact with Carter on their way out.
I hoped he would leave, too, and join his teammates in the next room. Why wasn’t he doing that? I wondered. Then, to my disbelief, he got up from the table, came to the bar, and took a stool one away from mine. I barely breathed. I thought about leaving, but was afraid any movement would draw attention to myself. As it was, he seemed totally disinterested.
“Hey man, it’s Carter. How you doing?”
Should I turn? Was he talking to me?
“Get this. I was just at Junior’s service. Not as many people showed up as I thought.”
He’d dialed someone on his cell phone. It was one of those rare times when I didn’t mind listening to someone’s cell phone conversation in a public space.
“Anyway,” he continued, “we all came over to Patsy’s for dinner on H.B. Old Moneybags was actually going to spring for the meal. I bummed a ride off of Wilson because the cops still have my car. That’s another story. So, we get here to the parking lot and we’re all walking toward the restaurant when H.B. pulls up in his big fat Jaguar, stops the car, rolls down the window, and while puffing on one of his stogies calls Wilson and me over. So we go to the window and H.B. starts yakking at us, you know, like he always does when he’s mad. Then he rolls up his window, drives off, and parks in a handicapped spot. Just like him, right? You know what he said to me?”
He paused to allow whoever was on the other end to guess.
“He tells me that he doesn’t want me at the dinner because his son didn’t like me.”
He waited for this to sink in.
“Hey, Ty, of course it’s because you’re my closest friend on the team. Can you believe that? He actually told me that I couldn’t go into the restaurant to have a dinner that he was paying for.”
Now I knew who he was talking to.
“No, Ty, I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t make this stuff up.” He laughed. “H.B.’s always gotta run the show, even after his kid is killed.”
Ty evidently said something, because Carter stopped talking for a moment.
“Yeah,” Carter said, “Buddy’s here. But he’s in your corner, Ty. I know he is. And most of the guys are, too. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before the truth comes out. Where am I? I’m in the bar at Patsy’s. I’m stuck here because Wilson’s my ride, and I’m not about to spring for one of those expensive cabs. You can’t come out, right? It would be great if just the two of us could sit here and pop a few and have H.B. see us together.”
Another pause.
“Man, that’s not fair. How long you gotta be under house arrest? Can I visit you? Okay, good. Tomorrow afternoon. Yeah, lunchtime is good. Your mom’s a good cook. I was looking forward to a big plate of Patsy’s veal parm and pasta tonight, but I’m not picking up the tab myself. All right, man. Yeah, I’ll let you know what I find out. Yeah, all right, buddy. You take care. Call me if you need me. I’m sticking with you through this. Remember that.”
I imagined that Carter’s phone call made Ty’s night. Carter was a very likable and mature young man for his age. He seemed to know when to do the right thing, and I liked to think of Ty that way, too. No wonder they were close friends.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Carter asked.
This can’t be happening.
“Yes,” I said, not turning. He must have thought I was being rude.
“Ma’am, are you done reading that paper?” I’d placed the paper on the bar in front of me.
“Why, yes,” I said, in a disguised voice, one or two octaves lower than my usual one.
And then I decided to surrender. I handed him the paper, turned to face him, removed the sunglasses, and said, “Hi, Carter. Jessica Fletcher.”
“Mrs. Fletcher? I didn’t recognize you with—” Surprise was written all over his face.
“It’s the wig,” I said. “I decided to—I decided to change my hair color for the evening, but I’m sure I’ll go back to the old one tomorrow.”
“Will you be staying in Mesa long?” he asked.
“Good question, Carter. I’m not really sure.”
“Not much of a vacation for you, I guess.”
“No, not really, but I’m glad I’m here to help Ty and the Duffys. How are you holding up, Carter?”
“Okay, I guess. It’s hard. You know, Ty’s my best friend. The team is in there eating. The memorial service was earlier. It was sad about Junior, but I also hated listening to the things people were saying about Ty. Especially H.B. He even said something when he spoke to the crowd. Kind of a eulogy, I guess.”