Three Strikes and You're Dead by Jessica Fletcher Page A

Jersey. The animosity between these two players, Ramos and Bennett, was well known. Both were shortstops. Some fans I’ve spoken to say that Junior was the more talented of the two but that Ramos was poised to make a jump to the major leagues ahead of Bennett.”
     
     
    The picture switched to a fan in a Rattlers cap giving his opinions. With the camera back on her, Locke turned and indicated the house. “Ramos and the Duffys are holed up inside, obviously avoiding the press. Meantime, Junior Bennett’s family are planning their son’s funeral. Friends say his father, Harrison Bennett, Sr., who owns the Mesa Rattlers, is devastated. When I spoke with him earlier today, he told me that Ramos is a troubled young man with a criminal past, and that his past has caught up with him. Our hearts and prayers go out to the Bennett family. That’s it from here. I’m Karen Locke with WXYK.”
     
     
    “The more talented of the two?” Jack said. “She’s got to be kidding.” He went to a window next to the television, lifted the checkered curtain, and peeked out. “There she is,” he said, letting the curtain swing back into position.
     
     
    “Jack, did you know that Junior had a girlfriend?” I asked.
     
     
    “No,” he said.
     
     
    I cocked my head toward the television. “I was told that she was dating Junior Bennett,” I said.
     
     
    Meg and Jack looked at me and then at each other. “Who are you talking about?” Meg asked.
     
     
    “The reporter, Karen Locke.”
     
     
    “How do you know?”
     
     
    “Sylvester Cole told me. Didn’t he mention it to you?” I asked Jack.
     
     
    Jack stroked his chin. “No, he didn’t. She’s older than he is, for God’s sake.”
     
     
    “That’s not important,” I said. “I doubt her station knows, or they wouldn’t have let her cover the story. At least I hope they wouldn’t.”
     
     
    “These days the news desk might think it’s just another interesting angle,” Meg put in.
     
     
    “They might,” I replied, “but I don’t think Ms. Locke is playing straight with them. It makes me wonder what else she isn’t telling.”
     

 
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    “The guy’s a dweeb,” said Ty. “Got these thick Coke-bottle glasses and greasy hair and he wears tourist kind of clothes. You know, Hawaiian shirts and stuff.”
     
     
    I was glad I hadn’t packed mine.
     
     
    “He’s at most of the games,” Ty continued. “He thinks he knows a lot about baseball, but he’s no expert in my book.”
     
     
    Ty was speaking unfavorably of the self-appointed president of the Rattlers Fan Club. Jack, Meg, Ty, and I sat inside at the kitchen table. A rare rainstorm had just rolled through, scattering the reporters on the front lawn and cooling down the temperature—a degree or two anyway. Meg and I had planned to go to a nearby Tex-Mex restaurant to pick up takeout, but thought better of it when we saw the media still parked outside. Instead, we’d decided to cook a pot of pasta and put together an avocado and tomato salad. Meg made her much-celebrated fresh-lime-and-garlic salad dressing and put it in the refrigerator to chill.
     
     
    “If I’d known it was going to rain on those reporters, I would have waited, and gone to El Niño’s,” she said, filling a large pot with water, placing it on the stove, and adjusting the heat.
     
     
    “This is nicer,” said Jack, handing his wife a glass of white wine.
     
     
    “If I didn’t have this stupid thing on my ankle, I could have gone for you,” Ty said, pouring himself an iced tea. “I don’t like the idea of you going to a restaurant and having people stare at you.”
     
     
    “They wouldn’t do that,” Meg said.
     
     
    Ty gave her a skeptical look and changed the topic. “Now, this is the real Arizona iced tea, not that bottled kind,” he said, taking a big sip and putting his glass down. He stretched his arms over his head, dropped them, and rolled his