Big Leagues
BIG LEAGUES
A Cat McDaniel Mystery
by
Jen Estes
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Camel Press on Smashwords
BIG LEAGUES
Copyright © 2012 Jen Estes
Published by Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
www.jenestes.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
BIG LEAGUES
Copyright © 2012 by Jen Estes
ISBN: 978-1-60381-870-4 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-871-1 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011942044
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Produced in the United States of America
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Advance Praise for Big Leagues
“If you want to know what really goes on behind the scenes in baseball, and also be entertained by a wickedly funny, juicy mystery, Big Leagues is your ticket to the ballpark. Cat is the kind of character you’ll want to see a lot more of. She’s brilliant but flawed, awkward yet graceful, strong but endearingly vulnerable. I rooted for her, feared for her and in the end fell in love with her. As a sportswriter who covered the Yanks and Mets for nineteen years, I can say without question Jen Estes covers all the bases in showing fans a world they never get to see. She throws high hard ones at players, flaks and front office big wigs—and it all rings true. I can’t wait to see what Jen Estes has on deck for us in the next book in this series. Big Leagues is a walk-off home run!”
— Nat Gottlieb, Reporter, HBO Sports
“Jen Estes hits a scorching home run with her debut novel, Big Leagues, and proves baseball isn't the nation's only pastime. So are corporate greed, blind ambition, conspiracy and murder. Readers will cheer plucky hero, Cat McDaniel, as she risks her career and her life, determined to maintain the integrity of the game she loves and unravel a web of mystery and deceit through the final pulse pounding pages.”
—Michael Murphy, Mystery/Suspense Novelist
* * *
For Nathan. Without you, pickles, mustard and cheese
would just be condiments.
Acknowledgments
Innings of gratitude to both my agent, Dawn Dowdle, and editor, Catherine Treadgold. You two are the best setup woman and closer in the league.
Many high-fives to each member of the Write Sox for your feedback, help and laughs.
There are many All-Stars I thank on the backs of uniforms. To all the names who didn’t make this team, you’ll be up to bat soon.
Last but not least, thank you to my mom, whose words should earn her first ballot induction in the Broadcasters Hall of Fame.
* * *
1
Beep, beep.
Catriona’s eyes opened to darkness. She snapped them shut in a failed attempt to return to paradise.
Beep, beep.
A lone arm stretched out from the bedspread and grabbed the chirping cell phone. With a press of a button, its screen illuminated the studio apartment. She squinted one eye at the text message.
“Attention all employees: all game day operations are cancelled today. The stadium will reopen as scheduled tomorrow.”
She read it again, both eyes on the screen this time.
Cancelled?
She looked up to the ceiling and around her walls.
Did I sleep through another earthquake?
After all, earthquakes were a fairly common occurrence in Southern California. Her framed Wrigley Field poster hung in its level position above her thirteen-inch television.
Guess not.
The cell phone screen clicked off and Catriona followed its lead, setting the phone on her nightstand and snuggling back into her pillow.
Beep, beep.
She whipped out the pillow and smashed it over her head.
Beep, beep.
She groaned, throwing the pillow onto the floor.
Beep, beep.
The screen lit up the tiny apartment once again.
“OMG! OMG! Call me as soon as you get up!”
She smiled as her finger traced the send button.
“Ohmigod!”
Cat winced and held the phone away from her ear.
“You’re up.”
“Tams, I thought you had a strict rule about getting up before the sun.”
“Have you heard?”
“About the game being cancelled? Yeah, I just got the text message from Rob. What’s going on? I thought maybe there was an earthquake but—”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“That reporter for the Chips—”
“Brad Derhoff.”
“Yeah, that’s him. You know him, right?”
Cat scoffed. “Know? No. I met him when they came down here. I think it was when Bryant was on a rehab assignment or was it—”
“Cat. He’s dead.”
2
Tamela was waiting outside her apartment when Cat pulled up in her Jeep. She opened the door with a scowl.
“I take it your pre-dawn buzz is long gone?” Cat said.
Tamela snorted. “You know, anybody else would’ve taken the no-game message and enjoyed a day off, maybe even at the lake. Not my best friend. She’s got to go in for filing.” She took a swig from the coffee mug in her hand. “Filing!”
“You don’t have to go with me.”
Narrowing her eyes, Tamela said, “I’m not going to make you go in by yourself. That place is haunted by dead ballplayers.”
Cat glanced at her as she pulled away from the curb. “I’m almost scared to ask. What makes these spirits so vengeful?” She snapped her fingers at the mug. “Can I have a sip?”
“They’re pissed they died before salaries went up.” Tamela grinned and passed her the coffee. “Anyway, I have real news.” She dug into her purse and pulled out the Vegas Daily News.
Cat frowned. “Hey, save a tree, e-subscribe.”
Tamela shrugged. “I stole it from my neighbor. Lecture him.” She pointed to the front page. “Right here. Brad Derhoff.”
Cat hit a stoplight and leaned over. “Oh! Do they say what killed him?”
“A fistful of prescription narcotics. He killed himself.”
Cat’s mouth dropped. She sat the mug in the center console and pulled the paper away from Tamela.
Beep! Beep, beep!
Her head snapped up to the green light. She gave an apologetic wave to the car behind her and floored the gas.
“I can’t believe this.”
Tamela patted her hand on the gear shift. “It’s pretty messed up.”
“I mean, why would someone who had everything ...” Her voice trailed off as she pulled into the empty stadium parking lot.
Silence fell upon the twosome as they stepped out of the Jeep. They were halfw
ay to the office when Tamela broke it. “What a jerk!”
“Hey, he’s dead. A little respect?”
“I’m sorry, but doesn’t it irk you? This guy had a dream existence. Okay, maybe not the fam in the ’burbs, but career-wise, with the major league fame and money. Instead, he just flushes it down the toilet.” She held the door open for Catriona. “Or down his throat, to be more precise.”
Cat headed for her desk. “Maybe it was an accident.”
“Accident? How do you accidentally take thirty-two tablets of a highly regulated prescription narcotic?”
She stopped in her tracks. “Thirty-two? How do you know it was thirty-two? The article said there was no bottle found anywhere, so they’ll have to wait for the tox screen to determine dosage.”
“Well considering the outcome, I seriously doubt it was two pills and a glass of milk. Hell, there was more than that scattered on the floor beside him. That’s what I thought was weird. If I was going to down poison, I’d make sure it all got in my mouth. The last thing you’d want is hot ass EMTs scooping you out of a pile of your own vomit.”
“So glad I passed on breakfast. Anyway, who knows? I gave up trying to figure out the rich and successful a long time ago.” She pulled out her chair. “The poor and hapless, however, are going to spend the day getting their minor league team organized.”
“Hey. You still awake over there?”
A Bic flew through the air and the pen bounced off her desk. Cat flinched and frowned across the room. “Both eyes open and, thankfully, not impaled with an ink pen.”
Tamela grinned. “It’s all dried up. They all are.”
“There are about ten thousand in the stockroom. Get some stuff for the cabinet while you’re at it.” Cat didn’t look up from her paperwork.
“Hey, bossy much?”
“Sorry.” Cat offered a sheepish shrug. “You want me to come with?”
“Um, you better. Ghosts, remember?”
Cat returned her friend’s playful smile and stretched her sore legs in front of her. “Okay, okay.” She followed Tamela out the door. “You say I’m the bossy one?”
“I’m not bossy. I’m pushy.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Bossy translates to bitchy cow. Pushy gives off a delightful sassy minx connotation.” Tamela’s full lips stretched into an irresistible grin.
“Sassy minx, huh? I was thinking more along the lines of a—” The phone’s eager chirp echoed down the concourse and interrupted Cat’s rebuttal. Tamela jogged back to answer the persistent chirping and Cat continued to the storage room. Brad Derhoff crept into her mind once again. She shook her head. His team, the Las Vegas Chips, was a sportswriter’s cakewalk and the fans gobbled up his words like moist Devil’s Food cake. During their first season, only three years ago, the Chips had made their way to the championship series and took home the title in a four game sweep. They’d added another trophy to their mantle the following year, and were campaigning for a third ring this time around. The midsummer break was wrapping up; the reigning champs came back rested and refreshed with a comfortable lead in their division. As if the wins didn’t make easy enough material, the Chips’ roster was composed of breakout stars from the minors and resurgent veterans from the free agent pool. Fans adored them, which is why seats at Hohenschwangau Stadium never sat empty and team merchandise flew off the shelves. There wasn’t a city in the country that didn’t have a baseball fan strolling down its sidewalks in a Chips’ jersey. This was the team to be, or at least the team to be a part of, and Cat and the rest of the Porterville affiliates never tired of bragging that they were.
A laughing voice flittered over the PA system.
“Paging Kitty Cat. Kitty Cat, you have a phone call. Here kitty, kitty …”
Cat rolled her eyes and jogged back to the office. Tamela met her outside the door.
“I put ’em on hold for ya.”
“You know it’s probably another one of those damn salesmen peddling mouse pads shaped like home plates.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they wear you down.”
Cat laughed and shook her head. “That’ll be the day. I’ll meet you in the stockroom, ’kay?”
“Bring me a Coke, too, will ya?”
“Whatever you wish, you sassy minx you.” Cat shot her a wink before dragging her feet to the desk. When it came to Porterville, the salesmen’s daily cold calls were her only complaint. She’d wished for this career since her grandmother had brought her to her very first baseball game at Wrigley Field. Only in her dreams—the ones formed in the upper deck on the north side of Chicago—would Cat have fathomed anything more than the minor leagues.
“Catriona McDaniel speaking.”
“Ms. McDaniel, good afternoon. This is Lynette Sanders from the Las Vegas Chips. I’m Erich König’s executive assistant.”
“Uh, h-hi.”
Cat stammered a bit whenever she was trying to get her bearings, a holdover from a mild stuttering problem she’d had in gradeschool—one of the reasons she hated public speaking. A childhood as messed up as hers had its consequences.
“Hello,” Lynette said. “I assume you’ve been made aware of Brad Derhoff’s untimely passing?”
“We’re all so sorry to hear about it here in P-Porterville.”
“Yes. Well, so are we. However, his departure has also left the Chips with an opening for a senior reporter. Would you be interested in interviewing?”
“Interviewing …?
“For senior beat reporter, Ms. McDaniel.”
Cat sucked in her breath. She scouted every nook of the empty office, expecting to see her coworkers jump out from behind the copier with a video camera and cackling laughs.
Me? The girl whose career less than a year ago was sanitizing crab crackers, senior reporter for the Las Vegas Chips?
“B-but I just got here eight months ago.”
“Ms. McDaniel, you were personally selected by Mr. König as one of the top candidates for this position. We realize this request is short notice but, while Mr. Derhoff’s passing is tragic, it’s imperative we fill his position with the team as soon as possible. If you’d like to pass on this opportunity, you may. Your decision will in no way jeopardize your standing with the Porterville Bulldogs.”
Cat rushed to reply, worried Lynette was getting ready to retract the dangling offer. “N-no, please, I definitely want to come. Just tell me when and where.”
“Mr. König has tomorrow afternoon open at his Hohenschwangau Palace office. That’s downtown. Two o’clock. I’ll forward the directions to you via your Bulldogs’ e-mail address.”
Cat fought to smother her gratitude under the sound of the unenthusiastic assistant’s diligent keyboard clicking. “Great! I’ll be there. Thank you so much!” She paused for a reply, but didn’t receive one. “Okay well, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s two o’clock, Ms. McDaniel.”
Cat waited for the click before she placed the phone in its cradle, still gripping the hard black plastic. The skin across her ivory knuckles tightened to an even paler shade akin to the hue of a fresh baseball. She unclenched her fist, and the cowhide gave way to a blotchy, scarlet flush. The skin tingled as she pulled her trembling hand from the warm handset. She quivered through a deep breath and began a therapeutic count to three.
One … two …
Three was replaced with a scream. Like a baserunner playing hit and run, its echo took off on the pitch and zipped around the ballpark.
Her celebratory cry was interrupted with a gasp. She sat back and swallowed the office air. A wave of wonder washed over her and splashed her with goose bumps from her auburn ponytail to the chipped pink polish on her toenails. Cat braced her unsteady hands on the desk and attempted to lift herself from the chair. As she deemed by their comic wobbling, her knees were now just for show.
“Cat! Sweet Jesus, you’re okay. Gimme a dang heart attack, why don’t ya?”
Ta
mela’s black tendrils poked out of her crooked headband. She bent over in the doorway and clasped her chest, still panting from her sprint. Cat looked at her friend and shook her head. Tamela hobbled over to their shared desk and scoured the vacant office with worried eyes.
“Was it a ghost? It was, wasn’t it? Shoeless Joe? Moonlight Graham?”
The corners of Cat’s lips lifted into a smile.
“Tell me!”
“Tams, I’ve got twenty-four hours to prepare for the best interview of my life.”
3
Since their admittance into the league three years ago, the Las Vegas Chips were baseball’s biggest deal, thanks to their ambitious founder. Once a German wunderkind in his father’s research company, Erich König had spent the decade developing into one of America’s biggest juggernauts. Nine years ago, he splashed into Las Vegas from Bavaria upon the construction of one of the Strip’s newest and shiniest additions, his Hohenschwangau Palace und Kasino. Only months after his hotel broke ground, Erich had schmoozed his way through every clique, committee and chairman in baseball, until his bid for a new franchise was unanimously granted. In addition to serving as both the team’s owner and CEO, Erich König also assumed the role of the club’s general manager. This kind of multitasking had been unheard of since the sixties. With everything he put his name on, the charming playboy owner played to win.
“Otis, my dear man, when the contest is executive golf, I am second only to Jack Nicklaus.” Erich König eyed his shot with the calculation of a hungry tiger. He placed the fresh Titleist on a tee.