Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  We’d finished the appetizer and our waitress expeditiously took away our plates to deliver our steaming hot entrées. I laughed when I saw the size of the portions. “This is enormous,” I said. “It’s lucky that I’m hungry tonight.” It smelled wonderful.

  Carter grinned from ear to ear.

  “Bon áppetit, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, devoid of even a hint of a French accent.

  “We’re eating Italian food, Carter. Buon appetito,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  The pasta primavera was as good as its aroma. We both concentrated on our food, speaking little, and not about the murder.

  “This is delicious,” I said to Carter. “Are you enjoying your dish?” I glanced up at him. “What’s the matter?”

  Carter had slumped down in his seat, ducking his head and pretending to cover his face with a napkin. “Oh no,” he groaned.

  “What is it?” I heard people speaking, then saw a group of young people being shown to a table on the patio.

  “Who is it, Carter?” I asked under my breath.

  “Carter!” a high-pitched voice said. “Carter, why aren’t you inside with the rest of the team?”

  “This guy has no couth,” said Carter as one of the guys walked toward us. He was wearing a rumpled denim jacket over a Hawaiian shirt.

  “Hey, Lou,” replied Carter unenthusiastically.

  “They wouldn’t let us inside, but why are you out here?” he asked.

  “They wouldn’t let you inside?” Carter said, chuckling. “Wonder why,” he said sarcastically.

  “Very funny, Carter,” said Lou. “They said it was a private dinner just for the team and managers and coaches. But heck, you’re one of the players. Or were you traded or something?”

  “Nope. I’m still a Rattler,” said Carter.

  There was a long pause. Then Carter realized Lou was waiting for something. He waved toward me. “Lou, this is Ms., um, Ms. Flocker,” he said, stumbling over “Flocker.” He’d obviously felt it necessary to introduce me out of politeness but realized in midsentence that I was wearing a disguise. “She’s my aunt,” he said, smiling, almost giving way to a laugh.

  Lou was about five feet, five inches tall, maybe a bit taller if he’d had better posture. His shoulder-length black hair badly needed to be shampooed, and he wore a pair of the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. Ty had described Lou as a “dweeb.” He wasn’t being kind, but I understood the reference.

  “You didn’t tell her who I am, Carter.” Lou smiled at me. “I’m the president of the Rattlers Fan Club,” he said, wearing pride on his sleeve.

  “Yup. That’s who he is.”

  “To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed not being able to sit with the team,” Lou continued. “I mean, after all, I am the president of the fan club and responsible in part for their success. A team without fans will never win. We have the best fan club in the minor leagues—anywhere in the country.” He was on a roll. “Look at the thousands who showed up tonight for Junior’s service.”

  “No way,” said Carter. “I don’t know where you were, but I was there and the stadium was practically empty, a couple of hundred people at most.”

  “Yeah, but fans came from all over Arizona—and even farther. One guy told me he drove from L.A. to pay his respects. Another fan came from San Diego. Hard to believe, I know. Junior had a lot of fans. Way more than Ramos. I should know, I’m the president.”

  “Yes, you are,” Carter said.

  “Have you spoken to Ty?” Lou asked.

  Carter paused. “Look, Lou, my aunt and I are having dinner and . . .”

  “All right, all right. Just a question. Weird you’re out here and not in with the team. Guess it’s because you and Ty are tight. And they found Ty in your car and of course they think you’re involved. That’s just what I heard. As the president of your fan club, I feel I have a responsibility to tell you that I think they’re watching your every move. That’s probably what those guys in the parking lot were doing. They must know you’re in here, Carter. There are about four guys, big guys, in a sedan out there.”

  “Lou, if you’ll excuse us while we finish eating, perhaps you can talk to Carter later,” I said.

  “Okay, sure,” said Lou. “We’re sitting over there. Me and a couple of the fans.”

  “Great. Thanks,” Carter said, barely civil.

  Lou left our table, but instead of going to his table, he went to a door between the main dining room and patio and opened it and then, much to my relief, closed it. I was afraid he was going to go in and report to the team that Carter was here.

  “Lou,” Carter said loudly, too loud for the setting we were in. Lou was only too happy to come back to our table.

  “Lou, man, look, do me a favor, okay?”

  “You got it, Carter.”

  “Don’t tell the team I’m here. Okay, dude?”

  “You got it, Carter,” he repeated. “I was just looking to see if they were still there.”

  Lou was an eager-to-please fellow, but I didn’t trust him. He’d be just as eager to “yes” the next guy.

  “Are they still there?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Lou.

  He crossed his arms and stood at our table’s edge.

  “Okay, Lou, go order your food,” said Carter. “Talk to you later.”

  “Okay,” said Lou. “I’ll be right over there if you need me.”

  “Right.” Carter smirked and shook his head. “Can you believe this guy?” he asked me. “If you created a character like him in one of your books, your publisher would probably send it back with a note telling you this guy wasn’t believable.”

  We both laughed.

  “Uh-oh,” said Carter. He was looking beyond me and toward the fence that surrounded the patio. “H.B.’s out there smoking a cigar.”

  “Did he see you?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “Switch seats with me,” I said.

  We hurriedly exchanged places as if we were playing musical chairs and the song was about to stop. Now Carter’s back was toward the fence and H.B. couldn’t see his face if he turned our way. I didn’t think the team owner would recognize me in my wig, even if he happened to notice the tables on the patio. I had a good view of his profile. He dragged slowly on his cigar and spoke into his cell phone. Just then, another man appeared and went up to him.

  “Carter, turn around quickly and tell me who that gentleman is with H.B.” I said.

  Carter took a swift glance over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

  I heard the strains of “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” and realized my cell phone was ringing. The sound caused Lou and those seated with him to look our way. I grabbed my bag and scrambled to retrieve the call, hoping the ringing didn’t attract the attention of H.B.

  “Hello,” I said practically from beneath the table. I hadn’t taken the time to glance at caller ID before answering the phone.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, hello. This is Sheriff Hualga. Sorry to be calling you on your cell phone. Mort gave me your number.”

  “I don’t mind at all. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to you. In private. Without the Duffys, if you’re willing.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “May I assume this is in reference to the case?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.” The sheriff’s tone was businesslike. “I know you don’t have a car,” he said. “I’ll pick you up. Where are you now?”

  “Now is not a good time, I’m afraid. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’ll have to, I guess,” he said. “How about I send someone for you around nine tomorrow morning?”

  “The time is fine, but you know I’m staying with the Duffys. You mentioned you want my visit with you to be confidential. Surely they’d know if you picked me up at their house.”

  “Do y
ou have another suggestion?”

  “Actually, I do. I take an early-morning walk around the neighborhood. It’s lovely. There is a lake. Are you familiar with it? It’s on Hedgehog Court, down at the end.”

  “Hedgehog Lake. Around nine fifteen then.”

  “I’ll make sure to be there,” I said. I hoped Meg or Jack wouldn’t ask to accompany me on my walk. They hadn’t so far. But if they did, I’d have to make up some excuse, or insist that I needed to be alone.

  “Where will we be going?”

  “To headquarters,” he said.

  “Are you bringing me in for questioning?” I asked, only half kidding.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  That won’t give me a good night’s sleep, I thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a beautiful, sun-kissed morning in Arizona, with temperatures in the eighties, not too hot yet for the bicyclists and joggers I passed while walking from the Duffy home to Hedgehog Lake. The properties in this upscale Mesa neighborhood were, for the most part, meticulously cared for, with manicured lawns and neatly designed desert rock gardens, so different from the homes back in Maine with their scrubby pines and leafy landscapes. I honestly preferred the more unkempt look of New England, and I especially loved the change of seasons we experience there. Of course, dealing with the bitterly cold and snowy Maine winters was another matter. But I don’t think I could ever be satisfied living in what was basically a constant climate without the pleasure of anticipating changes to come.

  I would have enjoyed a leisurely stroll around the lake that morning, but there wasn’t time for it. Sheriff Hualga was scheduled to meet me in fifteen minutes to take me to his office at Mesa’s police headquarters. I’d intended to leave the house earlier to get in at least one lap around the lake before rendezvousing with the sheriff, but Meg and Jack were late departing for an appointment they’d scheduled with their lawyer, David Pierce, in Phoenix. Ty was still asleep when I left.

  As pleasant as Sheriff Hualga was, I was well aware of my place in his investigation. I’d been in this situation too many times before, and an outsider injected into a local police matter didn’t always sit well with the authorities. Law enforcement professionals are usually extremely protective of their turf, and battles are frequent and sometimes ugly. Having someone like me, a writer of murder mysteries, sticking her nose into official police matters was dicey at best. So far Hualga seemed receptive. But I kept reminding myself to toe the line and not overreach. “Jessica,” I whispered to myself under my breath, “you are not the investigator in this case. Know who your audience is.” I smiled and shook my head. I’d been giving myself more frequent pep talks of late and wondered if that was a sign of senility or of mature wisdom.

  As I continued walking toward the lake, I heard a car approach from behind and slow down. I turned as it came to a stop beside me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  It was Sylvester Cole, driving a maroon convertible, so new I could practically smell the leather seats from where I was standing. The car’s top was down and Cole looked every bit the movie star from a Holµlywood publicity poster. That he was a handsome man was beyond debate, and I was sure his good looks had charmed him into—and out of—many a situation.

  “Good morning, Sylvester,” I said, my smile reserved. I was not pleased to see him, since the sheriff was due to pick me up in a matter of minutes and we’d deliberately chosen this spot to avoid speculation.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “It’s lovely.” I stole a look at my watch, not so much to check the time as to drop a subtle hint to Cole that I had other things to do than engage in a pleasant chat.

  He took the hint. “Well, I won’t hold you up,” he said. “Better get your walk in before it gets too warm. And believe me, things heat up fast around here.”

  “They certainly seem to,” I said with a laugh. I looked back up the road. No sign of the sheriff.

  I assumed that was the end of our conversation. But he didn’t drive away, and I felt obligated to say something.

  “What brings you here this morning?” I asked. “Visiting the Duffys?”

  “I’m dropping off some papers for the judge,” he answered. “Didn’t see Jack’s car in the driveway, so thought I’d take a little ride down by the lake and shoot back there later.”

  I almost told him why Jack and Meg had left, but thought better of it. Their meeting with the attorney was their private business, and it wasn’t my place to explain where they’d gone. “Maybe I’ll see you later at the house,” I offered.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “Enjoy your walk, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  He pulled into a driveway ahead of me, backed out, and headed up the street toward the Duffys’. He waved as he passed, and I returned it as I resumed walking at a good clip. My watch indicated it was almost nine and I didn’t want to be late.

  The lake shimmered in the early-morning sun ahead of me. So did the reflection off the windshield of a dark-colored car. Could that be Sheriff Hualga driving an unmarked police vehicle? I wondered. I’d been looking for an official police car, which represented sheer assumption on my part. Considering that our meeting was somewhat clandestine, it only made sense for him to drive a vehicle without markings. It was also possible that he’d dispatched someone from his department to pick me up.

  As I neared the car I saw that the driver was a female. She rolled down the window and motioned for me to come to her. As I approached, I saw that there was a second person with her in the passenger’s seat. I’d almost reached the car when something quickly darted in front of me, causing me to stop short and gasp in surprise. It was a small animal with a back full of what looked like quills, and its face was not unlike those of the raccoons that occasionally attack my garbage pails back home. “What in heaven’s name—?”

  The woman in the driver’s seat and the man on the passenger side laughed loudly. I recognized one of the laughs, and a moment later saw that the man was Sheriff Hualga. He leaned toward the driver’s window and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s only someone’s pet hedgehog. He won’t hurt you.”

  I smiled nervously.

  Hualga got out and came around to my side of the car.

  “Well, I do know I’m on Hedgehog Court,” I said, “but I thought it was just a name.” I’d never seen a live hedgehog before, but had always enjoyed a wonderful book by the British author and illustrator Beatrix Potter, The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, in which the main character, a hedgehog, was a matronly washerwoman.

  “Actually, an Arizona hedgehog is a cactus,” the sheriff said, opening the car door for me. “That’s probably what the street is named for. That little guy must have escaped his cage. We’ll call the animal-control people to take care of him.”

  I got into the car and Hualga introduced me to the woman. “This is Detective Raff, Mrs. Fletcher. She’s working undercover on the Junior Bennett case, along with almost everyone else on the force.”