Three Strikes and You're Dead Read online

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Teaser chapter

  SHUTOUT

  Sylvester Cole leaned into my shoulder and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher? You’re an artist, a writer. You must be a sensitive woman. Am I imagining it, or are you picking up the same negative vibes I’m getting?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “The atmosphere in this room and on the team. I’ve been around plenty of conflict in locker rooms and at team dinners, but nothing like this.” He faked a shudder, and rubbed his arms as if he were cold.

  All evening, I’d sensed the tension flowing between Ty Ramos and Junior Bennett. The conflict between the manager and the owner was no secret either, with the two men seated at either end of the dais and seemingly intent on avoiding any attempts to bring them together—or to get them to smile. At times, the foul mood in the room seemed as thick as the Arizona air outside, and I’d contemplated escaping the ballroom for a breath of fresh air.

  “Well, I have to admit there is a certain level of discomfort this evening,” I said.

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  The Maine Mutiny

  Margaritas & Murder

  A Question of Murder

  Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

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  For:

  My grandfather, Cornelius “Con” Daily, whose career as a major-league baseball player spanned thirteen years (1884-1896). Primarily a catcher, although he also played other positions, he had stints with teams in Philadelphia, Boston, Indianapolis, Brooklyn, and Chicago.

  His older brother, Edward “Ed” Daily, an outfielder who also did a little pitching for teams in Philadelphia and Washington. His professional baseball career lasted seven years (1885-1891).

  My father, George Sutherland Bain, who signed as a pitcher with the Dodgers in 1916 but fell off a roof shortly after signing, broke his shoulder, and never had the chance to play professionally.

  And my grandson, Alexander Bain Wilson, a future major-leaguer, to be sure.

  Donald Bain

  Chapter One

  “We’re down to the Rattlers’ last out, folks, and the tension is thick in Thompson Stadium—bottom of the ninth, the score three-two, with the Texons on top, two outs, and the tying run on base. If the Rattlers fail to pull it out here, it will be back to the showers and another year before they get a chance to win a league championship and bask in the glory.”

  “Shortstop Junior Bennett, number fourteen, is up next, Ralph, but he’s oh-and-three for the day against this left-handed pitcher. Think they’ll leave him in?”

  The camera focused on a heavily perspiring young fan wearing a number 14 Rattlers jersey over a Hawaiian shirt. He held up a sign that read, JUNIOR FOR MVP. Ralph Trienza checked the TV monitor before lifting his red-and-green ball cap to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Wishful thinking on the part of that young man, don’t you think, Doug?” he said, as the camera swung back to the two announcers. “Junior’s been in a slump for a month, and Washington’s been trying to let him play through it. But there’s a lot at stake today. If I was a betting man—and I am—I’d have to go with a right-handed pinch hitter here.”

  “I’m with you, Ralph. Washington has Ty Ramos on the bench. Ramos has had a good year. He’s batting three-ten, three-twenty-five against left-handers. That’s a pretty convincing argument.”

  “Might not be enough to satisfy H.B. though. Ty’s got that strained hamstring that kept him from starting today. But Washington said in the pregame that Ty’s available for pinch-hitting.” Trienza looked into the camera. “You’re watching KRM-TV, an
d I’m Ralph Trienza with Doug Worzall coming to you from Thompson Stadium in Mesa, Arizona, with the score three to two and a lot of folks wondering what manager Buddy Washington will decide to do. We’ll find out in a minute, but first a few words from our sponsor.”

  “Who’s H.B.?” I asked my friend Meg Duffy as the bright light trained on the announcers was switched off and the monitor reflected a commercial for Thompson Tools and Hardware. With our seats next to the broadcast booth behind the visiting team’s dugout, we could watch the game and listen to the local station’s play-by-play at the same time.

  The organist struck up “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and a dozen cheerleaders ran out on the field behind the first-base foul line. They performed an acrobatic dance routine that ended with each cheer-leader holding up a letter on a card. All the cards together spelled out THOMPSON TOOLS.

  I was in Arizona visiting an old school friend, Meg Hart Duffy, and her husband, Jack—Judge Jack Duffy to his legions of fans and detractors in the Family Division of the Superior Court, Hudson County, state of New Jersey—who had invited me to join them in Mesa, where they’d rented a house for the baseball season. The Rattlers were a Double-A team in the Pacific West division, and we were rooting for them to win. But even more, we were rooting for Ty Ramos to get to play on what was the final day of the season for the Rattlers. Ty was the Duffys’ foster son.

  “H.B. is Harrison Bennett, Sr., the team’s owner,” Meg said in answer to my question.

  “Is he related to the shortstop?”

  She nodded and her eyebrows flew up. “Junior is his son. And you can see why it’s been hard for Ty to get time on the field when they both play the same position. Buddy Washington tries his best—he knows Ty’s the better player—but the orders come from above and Junior gets preference. It’s been very frustrating.”

  “I imagine it would be.”

  “Jack won’t come to watch the game if Junior’s playing. He even did some research to see if Bennett’s actions were a breach of league rules, but there’s no regulation about an owner’s conduct if he has a son on the team. It may be unethical, and certainly not good for the team, but it isn’t illegal. Too bad for us.”

  It was late afternoon. The Arizona sky was a clear blue, the sun still high enough to heat the stadium to a constant simmer. Summer in my home in Cabot Cove, Maine, is plenty hot, but it never reaches the extremes of the Arizona desert.

  “Couldn’t Ty play another position?” I asked, fanning myself with the program.

  “The manager uses him in the outfield every now and then to keep his bat in the lineup, but the regular outfielders complain when they have to sit one out. No one wants to miss a chance to play. Besides, Ty likes the action at shortstop. It’s a busy position and he thrives when there’s lots to do.”

  “I guess he’ll have to learn to be patient, then.”

  “Not for long. At least I hope not.” Meg lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “We heard there was a scout from New York down here last week talking to the manager about Ty.”

  “So he has a good chance to move up to the major leagues?”

  “Most likely Triple-A first. The Rattlers are in the Chicago Cubs’ farm system. They have a good Triple-A team here in Arizona, too. Of course, there’s always the possibility of a trade to another major-league ball club. It doesn’t matter who he ends up playing for as long as he makes it to ‘the Show.’ That’s what the kids call the majors—‘the Show.’ That’s what we’re all praying for. Everyone tells us how talented he is. All he needs is a little more experience, and he’d get it on a Triple-A team once he’s out from under Junior and Harrison Bennett. If he does, it could be less than a year before he gets called up.”

  “Does he have a say in who he wants to play for?”

  “He’d be happy with any team, I’m sure. He loves the Cubs and their history.” She laughed. “Everything except their inability to get to the World Series. Naturally, his heart’s set on playing in New York, for the Mets or even the Yankees.” Meg shivered despite the heat. “To be candid, I kind of hope he’ll get to see another part of the country—San Francisco or Tampa or St. Louis, rather than New York.”

  “But wouldn’t playing for a New York team bring him closer to your home in New Jersey? You’re only across the river from the city.”

  “True, and we do love to attend his games. But New York is a big city with big-city temptations, and it’s too close to Jersey City, where he had all that trouble when he was younger. I’d like to see him stay away from those kinds of influences. He’s still so young and impressionable.”

  Ty Ramos had been only eleven years old the first time he was brought up before Judge Duffy on a charge of juvenile delinquency. His mother, who lived in the Dominican Republic, had sent him to live with an uncle in New Jersey, hoping to give her only son the benefits and opportunities of a life in the United States. Instead, the uncle, who worked two jobs to support his own children, had little time to watch over yet another youngster. Ty was left to fend for himself in a school where he didn’t speak English and where teachers were overwhelmed by a student body with myriad problems. Outside, on the streets, was no better. The young boy learned to endure beatings from older bullies, most of them gang members, who demanded his jacket and gloves in the winter, his baseball cap in the summer. He hid his lunch money in his shoes until they took those from him as well.

  Homesick and angry, he was a magnet for trouble, fighting in school, staying out all night, stealing change from his uncle’s pockets and fruit from the corner grocery. He joined the gang that had tormented him; carried a knife in his boot; and earned money by warning the drug dealers when a police car turned the corner, and by delivering messages for the owner of a local bar, a low-level mobster who liked it that his errand boy didn’t understand enough English to testify against him. That wasn’t really true anymore, but Ty let him believe it was.

  Judge Duffy watched as an innocent first-time offender began to develop the makings of a hardened career criminal, and he felt he had to intervene. Ty’s situation reminded the judge of his own childhood in a poor neighborhood in Trenton, where he had to fight hard for respect and even harder to finish his education. Sending Ty back to the Dominican Republic was not an option. His mother had moved, and no one could locate her. Sending him back to his uncle would only perpetuate the problems. Foster family after foster family rejected the boy as too disruptive to keep. But Judge Duffy saw a spark in Ty that the others had missed. Beneath the shield of resentment that the teenager wore like armor, the judge recognized a yearning to fit in, and he thought he might be able to reach Ty Ramos.

  The first couple of years with Ty at the Duffys’ sprawling suburban New Jersey ranch were daunting. More than once Meg thought Jack had taken on more than they could handle, but through a combination of love and discipline, they began to see a change. Ty’s transformation was helped by a new high school away from his old friends and enemies, one with strong academics and an even stronger sports program. Ty blossomed once he joined the baseball team, first as a catcher—the only boy willing to catch the streaking fastball of the team’s star pitcher—and later as a first baseman. But he was to shine brightest at shortstop, the perfect position for his quick moves and uncanny ability to read the batter accurately.

  There was no question of college when Ty graduated from high school, although not due to lack of achievement. He wasn’t an honors student, but he’d acquitted himself well academically, passing all his tests with respectable grades, even the English literature exam, on which he’d scored an 89. But Ty had found his home in baseball, and an offer from the Cubs to join its Rattlers farm team had sealed his future—at least the immediate future.

  “We’re back, and Buddy Washington is in the dugout talking to his shortstops.”

  Ralph Trienza peered into the monitor as the camera trained its lens on the manager seated in the dugout. “Okay,” Trienza said, “he’s given the signal. Ty Ramos will
pinch-hit for Junior Bennett.”

  A round of cheers greeted Ty as he climbed the stairs from the dugout, picked up two bats, and swung them, choosing one and dropping the other before taking his place at home plate.

  “There’s no love lost between those two,” Doug Worzall said into his microphone. “Ramos and Bennett have been battling all season for a permanent slot at shortstop. They’re not exactly friendly competitors, according to people close to the situation. That was a tough call to yank Junior.”

  “But a good one for the team, Doug. It’s hard going up against Evans, a left-handed pitcher. Now, we’ll see if Ramos can pull it off. A hit here would put the winning run on base and bring up Carter Menzies, who’s three for three today. But if Ramos fans, it’s the end of the season for the Rattlers. Tough position to be in. There’s a lot riding on those shoulders.”