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

shoulders.
     
     
    We were all functioning on little sleep and lots of nervous energy. Ty hadn’t slept very long, just an hour and a half, after spending half the night sitting up in jail. Jack, Meg, and I had all tried to nap in the afternoon, but it was difficult to rest with Ty’s fate looming so large.
     
     
    “I remember that guy, the fan club guy,” said Jack. “I’ve seen him at the games. What’s his name?”
     
     
    “I’m not sure,” said Ty. “But I don’t think he was that much of a Rattlers fan as much as he was a Junior Bennett fan. He was always clapping for Junior.”
     
     
    “What about him?” Meg said.
     
     
    “He was there. At the Coyote. I just remembered. Junior was dissing him, running down the way he dressed, his looks. It’s true, the guy’s a dweeb, but still, Junior really ripped him. The guy was bummed. Junior was his hero.”
     
     
    “Some hero,” Jack said. He looked at me. “Do you need a translation, Jessica? Junior was rude to the president of the fan club.”
     
     
    “I got the gist of it,” I said.
     
     
    “Yeah, but he should have been used to it by now,” Ty said. “Junior was always putting him down.”
     
     
    Jack’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from the pocket of his slacks. He looked at the screen and pushed TALK. “Yes?” he said. “No, I didn’t. How do you know? You sure? Well I’ll be damned. No. No. It’s okay. Yes, come on over. Plan to eat. We’ve got plenty of pasta to go around. Okay. See you then.” He slid the phone back in his pocket. “That was Cole. He’s on his way over.”
     
     
    “Is that it?” asked Meg, disappointed. “Sounded like he had some good news.”
     
     
    “I’m not sure if it’s good or bad,” her husband said.
     
     
    “What does that mean?”
     
     
    “It seems . . .” Jack paused. “It seems that they’ve found the murder weapon.”
     
     
    “Oh,” said Meg, her voice small. “And?”
     
     
    “And, it was a baseball bat.”
     
     
    Ty put his head down on the table. “They’re going to pin this on me, I know it.”
     
     
    I sensed Meg’s eyes searching for mine. I looked at her and then at Ty. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I said. To Jack I said, “Where did they find it?”
     
     
    “In an open Dumpster in back of the stadium, according to Cole,” he replied. “He just heard it on the car radio. They found blood on the bat and they’re sending it for testing. But Cole says they’re confident it’s the one that was used to kill Bennett. There is one funny thing about it though.”
     
     
    “What’s that?” I asked.
     
     
    Jack kept his gaze on Ty as he answered. “It’s an aluminum bat.”
     
     
    Ty sat up straight in his chair.
     
     
    “Why is that funny?” I asked.
     
     
    “I haven’t used an aluminum baseball bat since high school,” Ty said, watching his foster father. “I didn’t even bring an aluminum bat to Arizona.”
     
     
    “I know that,” said Jack. “Sylvester does, too. That’s why he wanted to be the first to tell you the news.”
     
     
    A weight seemed to have been lifted from Meg’s shoulders. “Well,” she said, “that young man had better like pasta.” She took a fistful of spaghetti, broke it in half, and dumped it into the boiling water. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
     
     
     
“Wooden bats were once used exclusively in all baseball leagues, from Little League through high school, college, and in professional ball,” Sylvester said, taking a second helping of pasta and tomato sauce.
     
     
    “But not anymore?” I asked.
     
     
    He shook his head, his mouth full. After he swallowed, he continued. “They tend to break. Even a Little Leaguer can split the wood with a good hit. That’s dangerous, not to mention expensive, especially when budget time comes around. The leagues have to figure out how many bats they need to make it through a season.”
     
     
    “But I would think