Free Big Leagues by Jen Estes Page A

Daily column Cat had read for the first time
yesterday. He was a sportswriter with whom she couldn’t disagree
more.
    He wants to trade Umberto Alvarez!? A
switch-hitter with a .380 on-base percentage? And make Abercromby
our leadoff man? Does he even watch these games?
    Now that she was experiencing all the amenities
Hohenschwangau Stadium offered, including the deluxe lounge in the
next room, she thought there was a good possibility he
didn’t.
    Phil Bonati’s station was next in line; a
ceramic mug already marked his territory. Cat looked out to the
field and spied the veteran reporter’s puffy, gray-striped afro,
recognizable from even the high perch of the press box. He pointed
out various players in the bullpen to a cameraman she guessed was
also from the Desert Herald . The nameplate next to Phil’s
cold cup of coffee was blank. She pondered if this was a vacant
spot or perhaps reserved for another newbie like her. Not that she
felt like a rookie when she stepped down to the front
row.
    Though there were six chairs lined up, the row
that bordered the windows was occupied with just two nameplates.
One shined Dustin Carlyle, Las Vegas Chips Junior Reporter .
The other glittered Catriona McDaniel, Las Vegas Chips Senior
Reporter . She let her fingers caress the back of the Italian
leather. Cat wondered if this was the same chair where Brad Derhoff
had sat. She no longer cared. The spot was hers now. He had thrown
all this away, and the dead man’s trash was wholeheartedly her
front row treasure. She eased into the chair and spun around with
her feet in the air.
    My chair.
    She kicked her leg out to the wall to stop the
spinning and gazed out the windows toward the field.
    “So you’re my husband’s
replacement.”
    Cat stiffened when she saw the reflection of a
dark dress in the window and immediately hopped out of the chair.
Offering a meek smile to the woman in the doorway, she said,
“Hello. I’m Catriona McDaniel. Are you Mrs. Derhoff?”
    “Deidre, but you can call me the Widow Derhoff
now.” Her glazed eyes froze on Cat’s face. “You’re
young.”
    “Yeah. I hope someday to have your husband’s
impressive résumé.” Cat cleared her throat. “I wanted to tell you
how sorry I was to hear about his passing.”
    “Passing? You make it sound like he died of a
stroke at age ninety.”
    “I only meant …”
    “Please, save me the Chips rhetoric. I got
enough of it upstairs when they gave me my hush money.” She wagged
the papers in her left hand flamboyantly.
    “Hush money?”
    “The Chips provided me with a very handsome, oh
how did they say it? Ah yes, a posthumous life insurance
settlement for a policy that never existed. In exchange for this
generosity, I don’t tell everyone the truth.”
    “The truth about what?”
    “That Brad was murdered, of course.” The widow
took a step closer as each word hissed out. “Here.”
    Cat didn’t move. The woman took another step,
bringing them face to face.
    “This place killed him. It strangled the life
right out of him.”
    Cat looked around the empty press box, hoping
for a little help. “Maybe you should sit down. I’ll get you a drink
of water.”
    Deidre shook her head emphatically, and the
greasy strings of her short blonde hair fell in her face, shielding
her eyes, swollen from crying.
    “How about I get us both a cup of
coffee?”
    “I don’t need coffee and neither do you. You
need to hear this.” Deidre reached out and grabbed Cat’s
arm.
    “Okay, okay.” Cat pried the woman’s spindly
fingers from her arm and gently clasped the frail hand. “I’m
listening.”
    “There was another, you know. Another reporter
before Brad.”
    “I thought Brad had been here since the team’s
inception.”
    “It was before the season started. She was
fired. She sued. The Chips settled.” A bitter laugh escaped from
her mouth. “More hush money.”
    “Why was she fired?”
    “Isn’t it obvious? She found out the truth,
too!”
    Cat