by Donald Bain
“No doubt about it,” said Carter.
“I’ve even seen his bookie,” said Sam. “I saw him at the dinner the other night.”
“No way,” said Nassani. “I don’t think he bets. He’d have to be an idiot to. Well, maybe he does. Who knows?”
“Is betting prevalent in the minor leagues?” I asked.
“There’s betting on everything, Mrs. Fletcher,” Carter offered. “From high school to college games, the minor leagues and the majors.”
“It actually starts in Little League,” said Sam, laughing.
“Even in T-ball,” said Nassani, his comment causing the players to crack up.
“T-ball?” I asked.
“Kindergarten ball, Mrs. Fletcher. T-ball is for little kids. They put a ball on a tee and the kids swing at it.”
“I quit T-ball,” said Murph. “I hated it. I wanted live pitching.”
“Any of you fellows bet on the games?” I asked.
“Not us, Mrs. Fletcher,” Carter replied. He looked at the others at the table, who seemed happy that their unofficial spokesperson had spoken on their behalf.
“Somehow,” I said, “I’m not quite convinced.” I smiled to lessen the cynicism in my comment.
There was silence.
I realized I would never get a straight answer, and had probably been naïve for posing the question. The last thing I wanted was to alienate these young men and lose their willing input.
“Dessert anyone?” I asked.
“No thanks,” Carter said, patting his toned stomach.
The others also declined.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.”
“Nice of you to show up, Long,” Carter said.
The other players adjusted to make room for the latecomer. “I’m Steven Long, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I apologize for being late. I’m really pleased to meet you. I just got off work and—”
“Please, no apologies necessary,” I said. “I’m just glad you could make it at all.”
Long was an especially lanky fellow, with a toothy smile and glowing black skin. He sported cornrows and a beard.
“Have you ordered at the counter?” I asked him.
“No, not yet, ma’am.”
“Lunch is on me. Please go ahead and get something to eat. Sure I don’t have any takers for dessert?” I asked.
“Well, okay,” said Carter. “I might as well. I’d hate to see Steve have to eat alone.”
Not surprisingly, the others agreed to dessert, as well. I was glad they had. I was afraid I’d scared them off by asking questions about betting, and I didn’t want the session to end on a sour note.
“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, we can buy our own desserts,” Carter said. “We’ll treat you.”
“I won’t hear of it,” I said. “You’re my guests. I insist.” They didn’t know how much I was enjoying buying them lunch. Being in their company was a delight for me.
Carter, who’d become our unofficial waiter, took orders for deep-fried ice cream tacos from the others. Long started to get up, but Carter placed his hand on his shoulder. “Chill, man,” he said. “I’ll get it for you. What do you want?”
Long told Carter his preference.
“And a cup of tea for me, please,” I said.
“I understand you met my girlfriend, Lily,” Long said once the business of food was resolved.
He seemed to be mature beyond his years. While he didn’t appear much older than the others, he acted it.
“Yes,” I said. “A lovely girl.”
“I got a job at the same resort,” he said, “as a personal trainer. Today was only my second day on the job.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“How did it go?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said. “A little stressful. Some of the clients are . . .” He shrugged.
I didn’t press him to finish what he was about to say. Instead, I said, “The resort is lovely, Steven. And very busy, I imagine.”
“It sure is. Seems like people with money can’t get enough pampering. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. If they’re willing to spend their money on massages and saunas and facials and personal trainers, who am I to judge? If they didn’t come, I wouldn’t have a job.”
“That’s the way I feel about writing books,” I said. “If people didn’t buy and read them, I wouldn’t be writing for a living. You, ah—you started to mention your clients.”
He nodded. “I like them for the most part,” he said. “But there’s always one who—”
“H.B., right?” Nassani said.
“You said it, not me.”
Both Lily and Sheriff Hualga had said that H.B. was a regular client at the spa.
“Come on,” Nassani said. “Tell us more.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“If you’re uncomfortable discussing your clients,” I said, “I can certainly understand that.”
Long looked around as though to ensure that no one was eavesdropping. He leaned closer to me and said, “I know that you’re trying to clear Ty and find out who really did kill Junior.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I believe Ty is innocent, and I’m determined to get to the truth. As I said, I understand your not wanting to tell tales out of school from your job, but if there’s anything you can offer that might help in what I’m doing, I would really appreciate hearing it.”
Long thought for a moment before saying, “H.B. came in today and insisted that I be his trainer. But all he did for the entire session was question me. He wasn’t interested in working out. He kept suggesting that I might know something bad about Ty that he could use against him. It got really uncomfortable. Here he is, owning the team I play on, which put me in a tough spot. I don’t want to cross the owner, but I also don’t want to see Ty go down for something he didn’t do.”
“I hope you set him straight,” said Murph.
“I tried to, but the guy is so intimidating. After all, he’s my boss. I had to tread carefully.”
“He’s still convinced Ty did it?” Murph asked.
“Absolutely. It’s like a real witch hunt. And get this. He even hinted that he’d buy me a car like that convertible Junior drove to the Coyote that night.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Bobley said. “Buy you a car? For what?”
“He wants me to tell the press about the time Ty and I had that argument.”
“Argument?” I said.
Long replied, “It was nothing. No big deal. It blew over fast. I was on the mound and was pitching a complete game. It was the ninth inning and we were on top by two, but I walked two guys and the next batter hit it hard, really hard, to shortstop. Ty should have made the play and thrown the guy out, but he missed it. Went right between his legs. Ty’s a hell of a shortstop. I think he only had two errors all season, and this was one of them.
“I shook my head at him, not in disgust or anything. I don’t know why. I mean, I wasn’t mad at Ty. He’s awesome, the guy I want behind me when I’m out on the mound, not Junior. But the truth is he blew that game. Anyway, when the inning was over—we were tied and had to go extra innings—Junior told Ty in the dugout that I’d bad-mouthed him. I didn’t, I swear. All I did was shake my head. Anyway, Ty confronted me about it. I told him that Junior lied and that I wasn’t angry at him. Everything was cool.
“Anyway, H.B. comes into the spa and tells me that Junior told him—man, Junior is such a liar—he told his old man that Ty threatened me, said he wanted to kill me. He wants me to talk it up, tell the cops, go to the press. But it didn’t happen like that!”
“And he offered you a car if you passed along that lie?” I asked, incredulous.
“It sounded that way.” He shook his head sadly. “You know what? I think I should quit the spa. I can’t handle H.B. If he’s there every day—and I’m told that he is—I don’t need this. He’s scaring me, man. It’s illegal what he’s doing.”
“What did you
tell him?” Bobley asked. “Did you tell him you’d do it?”
“Of course not, but I didn’t actually say no, either. I kind of fudged it. But he’ll ask again.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Asking someone to lie to the police is a crime all by itself. Maybe you’re right. Maybe working at the spa puts you in too tenuous a position, considering who he is.”
“I have to think about it,” Long said. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fletcher, I almost forgot. Sylvester Cole said to say hello and he’ll see you later. He stopped in at the spa. He said you were going to have dinner with him tonight at the Duffys’.”
“I wasn’t aware he would be joining us for dinner, but thanks for the message.”
We spent the rest of the lunch chatting about many things, few of which had anything to do with Junior Bennett’s murder or Ty’s arrest. When we parted ways in front of the restaurant, they all shook my hand and thanked me for lunch. I watched them walk away, impressive young men with dreams of taking the field at a major-league stadium and winning the hearts of millions of baseball fans, and perhaps becoming rich in the bargain.
I could only wish them well, and hope that one day Ty Ramos could realize that dream, too.
Chapter Fourteen
“Yes, Seth, I’ll remember. Don’t worry. An Arizona Diamondbacks hat or T-shirt, a Mesa Rattlers bumper sticker, and a string of red chile peppers. Yes, the hottest I can find. A tall order, but I’m up for it. It’ll be my pleasure. Enjoy yourself at the Red Sox game. Drive carefully.”
I was about to hang up but thought I’d have some fun. “Seth? Seth? Oh, good, you haven’t hung up. Would you be a dear and bring me back a Red Sox key chain and a can of Boston baked beans?”
We shared a laugh and I ended the call. I occasionally become a personal shopper for my friends back home when I travel. Not that I mind being asked. There were times when the orders became unwieldy and my baggage threatened to exceed the airlines’ weight limits, but I always enjoyed arriving in Cabot Cove and distributing the goodies I had carried back with me.
It was a rainy evening in Mesa, a rare event in this part of the country. It wasn’t a downpour but a gentle, steady drizzle, a refreshing cooling off of what had been another Arizona scorcher.
After returning from lunch with the team, I took the walk around the lake that I’d missed that morning. It felt good to get in some exercise, as mild as it might have been, and to burn off the calorie count from lunch and clear my head. The rain started on my way back to the Duffys’ house; it felt good and I didn’t try to rush to avoid getting wet.
Meg was out when I arrived. Jack was still huddling with Ty’s lawyer, David Pierce, but expected to be home for dinner, according to a note Meg left on the kitchen table. Cole would be joining us as well. Ty had become increasingly quiet and introspective since being arrested and charged with Junior Bennett’s murder, which I knew concerned Meg. I’m sure she thought a nice dinner with Cole would liven things up and hopefully help Ty snap out of his funk, at least temporarily.
I’d noticed that Ty hadn’t shaved in the past couple of days and that he’d worn the same shorts and T-SHIRT two days in a row. He was obviously depressed, and for good reason. I’d suggested to Jack and Meg that Ty speak to a psychiatrist, but Jack nixed that idea, insisting that it could conceivably be used against him in the press and if the case went to trial. One reporter had actually speculated that Ty was mentally unbalanced and that his defense would probably be insanity. Seeing a psychiatrist would only fuel that sort of irresponsible journalism and taint his already shaky image. “Besides,” Jack said, “I’m not of a mind these days to trust anyone, even a shrink who’s supposed to honor doctor-patient confidentiality. Some tabloid reporter, or even someone from the DA’s office, might buy off a psychiatrist with money or God knows what else, and get him to leak damaging information about Ty. No, there’ll be no shrinks if I have anything to say about it. End of story.”
He was probably right, although I silently wondered whether he might be demonstrating a little too much paranoia. I just hated to see Ty suffer in silence.
I was sitting on the window bench in the kitchen enjoying a tall glass of Meg’s iced tea when Ty came in. The bench, my favorite perch in the house, was usually drenched in sunshine, although at this moment I was enjoying watching the quiet raindrops hit the windowpane and make interesting patterns as they slid down the glass.
“Hello, Ty,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said weakly, a trace of a smile on his handsome face.
“Can I get you some iced tea?” I asked.
“No, thanks. I can get it.”
He poured himself a glass and sat at the kitchen table.
“Cole’s coming for dinner tonight, right?” he asked.
“I believe so. Are you hungry? I can fix you a snack.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he said. He looked down at the table and shuffled through some papers that had been lying there.
The lull in conversation was uncomfortable. “Ty, I want you to know that I’m here to talk if you want.”
He continued to fix his eyes on the table, saying nothing. “Thanks,” he managed, obviously beginning to choke up. “Excuse me.” He left the kitchen and went upstairs.
I had just started to take another sip of tea when the doorbell rang. I went to put my glass on the windowsill, but some of the tea spilled onto the yellow-and-white gingham seat cushion. I jumped up, grabbed a couple of sheets of paper towel, and tried to soak it up.
“Cleaning up the evidence, are you?” Sylvester Cole said, laughing and standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I let myself in. The door was ajar. Hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I said, chuckling. “You caught me in the act. I spilled my iced tea on Meg’s lovely cushions. Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute.”
“No bother,” said Cole. “Ty home? Meg and Jack here?”
“Yes, Ty is home. Meg had a quick errand to run and Jack should be here soon.”
“In town with his lawyer, David Pierce, I heard,” he said.
“You know him?
“Sort of.”
Cole’s appearance struck me as being uncharacteristically disheveled this evening. He had a five-o’clock shadow—more like a four-o’clock shadow, I suppose—and he wore a pair of gym shorts, a nondescript orange T-shirt, and sneakers.
He must have read my mind. “Sorry for the way I look tonight, Ms. Fletcher. I was going to work out, then hit the showers and shave at the gym, but I ran out of time—not to mention steam. Never made it to the gym. Busy day.”
“You look just fine,” I said. “In fact, you’re one of the few people I know who seem to be able to look good no matter what they’re wearing.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “Let me return it. You look lovely this afternoon.”
“Thank you, but I certainly don’t feel very lovely at the moment. The stress of the week is beginning to catch up with me.”
When I’d put on my makeup that morning, I’d noticed that my skin was paler than usual, and that the circles beneath my eyes were absolutely huge. I looked like I usually do at midwinter in Maine, I thought, not at the end of summer in Arizona.