by Donald Bain
“What did he say?”
“Don’t tell Ty, ’cause it’d kill him,” Carter said. “H.B. said that the motive for his son’s murder was jealous rage. He didn’t mention Ty by name, but we all knew who he meant. Most of us know the real story, that it was Junior who was the jealous one, and so was H.B. Ty wasn’t jealous of Junior. Yeah, he wanted more playing time, but he was the one with the big-time agent chasing him and with the best chance of getting called up to the Big Show. Of course, I’ll be next,” he said with a rueful laugh.
“Why aren’t you inside eating with the team?” I asked, although I knew the answer from having eavesdropped on the call he’d made to Ty.
“H.B. didn’t want me there. I came in Wilson’s car, so now I’m stuck until they’re done eating. Oh, well.”
“You must be hungry, Carter,” I said.
“A little,” he admitted politely.
“Carter,” I said, “I haven’t eaten and don’t have any plans. Would you be my guest for dinner?”
He smiled and said, “Really? Yes, that’d be great, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Terrific,” I said, meaning it. Carter needed a mother figure at that moment, and I enjoy a surrogate son every once in a while.
Chapter Eleven
A gentle breeze shifted the tepid desert air, aided by a pair of portable air coolers, which blew out steady streams of mist, not quite enough to simulate an air conditioner but sufficient to move the thermometer down a notch and dull the heat. It was not the best weather for eating al fresco, but since the dining room inside was closed to us, Carter and I had agreed to take a table in the restaurant’s patio and garden. Our hostess had apologized for the inconvenience. A private party, she said, had taken over the inside of the restaurant for the evening. We were lucky there was any table available. As it turned out, we were the only ones seated outside.
Carter took off his jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
The waitress arrived and handed each of us a leather-bound menu. “Good evening, folks. I’m Florence,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Carter wasted no time ordering an iced tea.
“Make that two.” I put down the menu. “Isn’t this a pretty place,” I said when the waitress had gone.
The patio, paved with yellow and rust-colored Saltillo tiles, was bordered by several saguaro cacti, the waxy white bloom of which is the Arizona state flower. We were also shielded from the parking lot by rows of tall bushes. Red-and-white-checkered tablecloths draped the wire tables, and the seat cushions were covered in matching material. A vase with a single rose was placed on each table, as well as a votive candle that hadn’t been lit yet.
The real beauty of the patio, though, wasn’t its decor, but its location. It sat well off the main dining room of the restaurant, and we had been directed to a separate side entrance to reach it.
I was surprised to see how relaxed Carter was—or at least how calm he appeared to be. He smiled easily and his eyes didn’t dart about but stayed focused on the table and immediate surroundings. Conscious of my scrutiny, he said, “You probably think I’d rather be inside at the team dinner, but I’m way happier sitting out here with you.”
My expression must have indicated skepticism, because he continued, “I tried to offer my sympathies to H.B. the other day, and he turned away from me. If I was in there, he’d just make my life miserable. Ty and I were both hoping to be traded. But Mr. Bennett, he likes to keep around the people he doesn’t like—just to torture them.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh?” I asked.
“It sounds that way now, being that he just lost his son and all. And I feel bad for him about that. But I’ve seen him do it and have been the victim of it, too. So had Junior, for that matter.”
Our waitress didn’t waste any time bringing our iced teas, along with a basket of warm garlic bread.
“Nice out here. And you got the whole patio to yourselves. Still too hot for most folks, but that’ll change soon. We hope, anyway,” she said, laughing. “But it’s peaceful out here, isn’t it?”
“Lovely,” I said.
“Actually, tonight it’s just as quiet inside,” she continued. “That baseball team, the Rattlers, is in there with the father of the kid who was killed. He owns the team. The mood is very somber. Very sad, really. Anyway, ready to place your orders?”
Carter and I stole a glance. Florence nodded at me, poised to take my order. “Carter, you go first,” I said. “I need another moment.” I still hadn’t made my way through the lengthy menu, which read like a book. But I could tell that Carter was famished, and I didn’t want to send the waitress away to have to come back later.
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, if you insist.” He smiled. “I’ll have the veal parmigiana with pasta on the side, please.”
The waitress then turned to me and said, “If you’re not sure what to order, I can recommend the pasta primavera. It’s light with just the right amount of garlic to give it a nice kick.”
“Sold,” I said, closing the menu. “Actually that was one of the dishes I was contemplating.”
“Let’s order a couple of appetizers,” I said to Carter. I handed Florence my menu. “Maybe you can recommend one of the house specialties,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “I highly recommend the antipasto for two: hot peppers, pepperoni, marinated artichokes and mushrooms, and Patsy’s famous homemade mozzarella. Never had an order sent back. Not once and I’ve been here twenty-five years.”
Carter smiled and gave a thumbs-up to her recommendation. “I love antipasto,” he said.
Our waitress had a laissez-faire manner about her, yet she was extremely efficient. Even if she hadn’t told us she’d been working there twenty-five years, it was obvious that she was nearing fifty. She struck me as the kind of woman who had a few good stories in her, and for a minute I indulged my habit of imagining the life of a stranger. So often, I used these chance encounters in a book if I needed to create a special character. Our waitress, Florence, would make a good one. Her face had a hard expression thanks to a ruddy complexion and extremely parched skin. Probably a smoker, I thought. Then again, the dry desert air will do that, too. Her auburn hair was brassy and didn’t have any sheen, which spoke volumes about the do-it-yourself hair dye kits she’d undoubtedly used over the decades.
My friend Loretta Spiegel, who owns the beauty shop in Cabot Cove that I patronize, used to point out “bad dye jobs” of women who walked past the large picture window in the front of her shop, sometimes in a voice loud enough to be heard outside. Last year, she brought in a top-notch hairdresser, Christina Estler, a specialist in color, and allowed her to set up in a section of the shop. Christina had owned a salon in New York’s SoHo district, only to give up the fast track to retreat to Cabot Cove, to the benefit of the local ladies like myself. She’s become a regular fixture at Mara’s Luncheonette. We kid her that she isn’t in New York anymore, but her fees give the impression that she is. She just laughs and doesn’t budge her price list by a cent.
I wasn’t quite as relaxed as Carter, and for a moment second-guessed my decision to come to Patsy’s for dinner. Not only were the team and H.B. inside, but I’d come with a player who was asked not to participate. I rationalized that it wasn’t fair of H.B. to do that and I felt bad for Carter. Then, if you need excuses, I told myself, you’ve had your fill of Southwestern cuisine; some good Italian food sounded like a treat.
“Too bad Ty couldn’t have come with us,” said Carter. “He loves this place.”
Another reason we shouldn’t have come here to eat, I thought, reminding myself not to tell Ty and thinking about asking Carter to do the same. Then again, if we were to be spotted by one of the players, or H.B. himself, Ty would very likely find out. Given the intrusiveness of the press, it could even end up front-page news.
The antipasto arrived at the table and looked to be as good as promised. The waitres
s set it in the middle of the table, but I pushed it toward Carter and encouraged him to dig in first.
He took a generous helping, but there was plenty to go around. I filled my plate, took a bite of the warm, buttery mozzarella, and savored it.
“Carter, do you have any hunches about who might have killed Junior?”
Carter had his fork halfway to his mouth, but he put it down before he spoke. “Boy, Mrs. Fletcher, you sure know how to start a conversation.”
“I could apologize,” I said, “but I must admit it was on my mind when I invited you to dinner. And since I have you as a captive audience, so to speak, I thought I’d take advantage of your insider’s perspective.”
“Since you’re buying, I can’t complain too much,” he said, taking a quick bite. He waited until he finished chewing before saying, “I’ve given it a lot of thought, too. I don’t know for certain who killed Junior, but I do know that it wasn’t Ty. First, he isn’t the type. He used to take Junior’s crap all the time, and almost never responded.”
“All that abuse could have built up quite a bit of resentment,” I said. “Sometimes, it takes just a small trigger to make people explode.”
“It’s just not like Ramos.”
“Remember, he wasn’t his usual self. He was drunk. People often behave in a way they never would if they were sober.”
“Listen, Mrs. Fletcher, if you say I said it, I’ll deny it to the sky. But this wasn’t the first time Ty got drunk. It doesn’t happen often, but I’ll just say it’s not the first time. I’ve seen him drunk and I’ve seen him sober. He’s the same guy. He might scuffle with you, but he’d never kill someone.”
“It could have been an accident.”
“I don’t see how it was an accident when Ty told me that Junior was killed with an aluminum bat. Ty hasn’t had an aluminum bat since I’ve known him here. Second, there are other guys on the team, Muscarel and Oliveri, for two, who would have more motives than Ty to do it. Muscarel’s father is crazy, and while Musky isn’t as bad as his dad, he’s got a temper. And, between you and me, Mrs. Fletcher, Oliveri’s a bit of a psycho, so he’s unpredictable.”
“Really?” I asked, with an inflection in my voice that indicated I wasn’t averse to learning more about it.
“Yeah, but he has an alibi.”
“Carter, I know the minor leagues monitor players through drug testing like the majors do,” I said.
“Probably worse,” he laughed. “But there’s always someone who knows how to hide it.”
“Is it prevalent?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not street drugs, like cocaine or marijuana—they’ll show up in your pee and you’re out—but steroids are always a factor in ball. Some of these guys—they want to get called up so badly, they might risk it. That’s one of the reasons I like Ty,” he continued. “Ty and I have both already seen firsthand what drugs do to a person, a family. There’s no way either one of us would mess around with anything like that.”
“Carter, the police said they found Ty in your car, intoxicated.”
“Yeah, I know. They questioned me for a long time. And they probably will again. My lawyer told me that.”
“They said by the time they got there, you were gone.”
“Of course I was gone. When I left, Ty was in my car, out cold—with a newspaper on the floor so if he threw up, he wouldn’t ruin the carpet—and Junior was staggering around cursing. I didn’t need to stick around for either scene. Besides, I wasn’t too sober myself. I got a ride home. My lawyer says my time is accounted for.”
“Do you like your lawyer?” I asked.
“He’s okay. Very lawyery,” he said with a smile. “He’s a friend of Ty’s lawyer. Pierce hooked us up. The cops didn’t take blood samples from me, but probably will, my lawyer said. In the meantime, he told me to just keep a low profile and go through with my day as I normally would.”
“So, I’m assuming the police asked how it was possible that Ty was in your car if he doesn’t remember you putting him there?”
“Yes, they did. And they didn’t like my answer. I said I had no idea why Ty doesn’t remember. They told me to think about it and let them know when I came up with a better answer. That really bugged my lawyer.” He shook his head. “You know, the whole thing is a mess. I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said. “I don’t know how we got into this predicament. I replay that night over and over in my head.”
“When you got to the Crazy Coyote, was Ty already there?”
“I was there first,” said Carter. “Ty stopped for some pizza. I went to get the guys some drinks. We were sitting with some babes at a couple of tables in the back. Ty and me, we weren’t at the same table, so we didn’t really talk. Then he bought a round. I was chatting up a girl at the bar when the whole thing with Junior blew up.”
“Carter, I have a question, and I’m not asking you to betray the friendship the two of you have. Close friendships like yours are built on trust. But I’m asking you to try to find a way to help exonerate Ty.”
Carter had stuffed an ambitious forkful of antipasto into his mouth and chewed and grinned and held up a finger to tell me he would answer as soon as he was done.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” I asked. He nodded vigorously, still chewing. We both chuckled.
“Okay, shoot, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well, it’s common knowledge, at least to family and close friends, that Ty was involved with a gang when he was younger. And drugs are a part of the gang culture. I’m also aware that that’s all behind Ty and he is law-abiding and lives a responsible life. But my question is this: Is there anyone from his past, from the gang or the old neighborhood, anyone still in his life in some capacity—whether it’s to call and say ‘hi’ or to come to see him play, or, worse, to try to get him involved in the gang again? I don’t have experience with the world of gangs, but I know how insidious it can be and I thought perhaps—”
“Mrs. Fletcher, with all due respect, I want Ty exonerated just as badly as you do—all of us who care for him and believe him do—but I think that is a question only Ty can answer, and that he would have no problem answering. I just don’t feel it’s my place.”
“Of course. I respect that,” I said. “I just didn’t want to burden Ty with these kinds of questions.” What I didn’t say was that I also thought Ty’s lawyer would prefer that I not get too involved, given the investigative nature of the case. I also wanted Ty to think of me as a shoulder to cry on, rather than another person peppering him with questions.
“You’re an honorable young man,” I said, sliding a piece of prosciutto over onto my plate. “Ty is very lucky to have a friend like you.”
“He’s a good guy. I don’t think you have to worry about asking him questions, because he thinks of you as a friend,” Carter said. “Ask him that question. I really think you should. You might be surprised at the answer.”
“Thanks, Carter. I think I will.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, there is one thing that I can tell you that Ty won’t, something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I don’t think he’d be upset if I told you this. In fact, I think he’d appreciate it. But, still, he shouldn’t know that I told you.”
“All right,” I said.
“Ty’s not sure Judge Duffy believes him. He thinks that even though he didn’t do the murder, he’s letting the judge down just by getting arrested again. He hasn’t gotten into any trouble since the judge and Mrs. Duffy took him in. Till now. And he’s really upset about that, and worried they’ll give up on him.”
“I imagine that would be very upsetting for him,” I said. “However, I’ve known Jack Duffy a long time, and I do think that he believes that Ty is innocent. He’s upset himself, and perhaps disappointed that Ty was breaking the law by buying drinks when he knew he shouldn’t. But more important, I know he loves Ty and will stand behind him through whatever happens. I’m glad you told me this though, Carter. I’ll t
ry to help them past this hump. I’ll let Jack know he needs to reassure Ty that he still believes in him.”