Big Leagues

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
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“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.

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.

* * *

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.”

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 halfway 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.