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

higher advertising revenues. The story of Junior Bennett’s murder, and the accusation that Ty had committed the crime, was “hot,” as Karen Locke had said. How frightening it must be for celebrities to be relentlessly pursued by paparazzi. I thought about what Ty had said, that people wanted to see him fail. How sad that he thought that, and even sadder that it might be true. He was a young man who’d had the world by the tail—with brains and talent and good fortune. From the depths, he’d been singled out of the crowd and given a chance to succeed. That he had succeeded inspired admiration, but it also engendered jealousy. A tough lesson for any young man. For superior athletes, it starts early.
     
     
    Jack, Ty, and Ty’s lawyer came down the hall, escorted by two policemen.
     
     
    I didn’t know who appeared to be more exhausted, the father or the son. In contrast, David Pierce was as immaculate as when we’d first seen him, not a wrinkle in his suit or shirt. Ty and Jack had five-o’clock shadows, and Ty’s eyes were practically swollen shut, a combination of that fatigue and the effects of weeping.
     
     
    When Ty reached us, Meg gave him a kiss on the cheek. He tried to smile at her, but it came out more like a grimace. He seemed too tired to try again.
     
     
    “Sheriff Hualga said we can leave by a back door,” said Jack, familiar with the need for behind-the-scenes routes in courthouses. “David was able to arrange with him for a police guard at home to keep the press away from the front door.”
     
     
    “Please thank the sheriff for me when you see him again,” Meg said to Pierce.
     
     
    “I’ll do that,” he said, ushering us down a hall to a metal door with a push bar. “My car is parked a few rows down. Wait here and I’ll drive up to the door. I’ll honk once when I get there.”
     
     
    “What about our car?” Meg asked after Pierce had left.
     
     
    “I’ll come back for it tonight or tomorrow,” Jack replied.
     
     
    It was one of those infrequent times when I wished I had a driver’s license. I could have driven Jack’s car home for him and perhaps served as a decoy for the pursuing press. Ironically, I do have a private pilot’s license, and had hoped to get in some flying hours while in Arizona, where the weather is perfect for it. But I doubted I’d find the time to rent and fly a plane, or to do much of anything personal.
     
     
    I sat next to Ty in the backseat of the car. Thankfully, the press hadn’t caught on that we had left the courthouse, and there were no suspicious-looking vehicles following us. Ty sat stiffly in his seat and stared out the window. The air outside was oppressive. You could see the heat in the shine on people’s faces, feel it reflected from the stucco walls of the squat buildings we passed. You could sense the landscape baking under the hot desert sun. It drew out our energy and replaced it with lassitude. We were too weary to talk, too hot to sleep.
     
     
    David Pierce was smart enough not to play the radio, sparing us from news reports of Junior’s murder and Ty’s arrest, lest they further sour what was already a bleak atmosphere. Meg, who sat up front with the lawyer, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. I’m sure Jack would have liked to do the same, but he sat stoically next to me in the backseat, his expression a mirror image of his foster son’s.
     
     
    The silence was uncomfortable. I wondered briefly if I should leave, move into a hotel. What would they prefer? This was a family matter. A legal matter. Not the place for a visiting friend with a reputation for snooping and sleuthing. But as much as I wanted to stay out of this family’s sudden troubles, I knew that Meg and Jack needed me. And I would do what they asked of me.
     
     
    “I’m going take a shower and try to get some sleep,” Ty said as the car rounded the corner to Hedgehog Court—and once again faced a clog of media vehicles.