Big Leagues (9 page)

Erich grinned and pointed down the hallway.
“The entrance is

up the stairwell.”

Her fourth floor office with an amazing view
was a great hideaway, but the room where Cat would spend most of
her days was the press box. They didn’t have a press box in
Porterville.

With the exception of me, we had no
press.

Now Cat knew what she had been missing. She
took a step into her alternate office and stopped. She blinked
twice and felt her jaw migrate to the hardwood floor. The media
accommodations at Hohenschwangau Stadium had more in common with a
balcony box at the finest opera house than a press box in a
baseball park. The walls wore a deep mahogany finish that matched
the rich floor beneath her feet. Four rows of executive chairs
bordered a solid line of granite desktops. Engraved brass
nameplates sat in front of each chair. The staggered rows faced a
giant wall of windows terraced above the lower deck of fan seating.
Cat gazed out onto the field from a vantage point that could easily
win an argument for the best view in the park. She approached the
rows with deliberate caution, as if one wrong move would land her
back in Porterville with the Bulldogs, battling her coworkers for
day-old hot dogs.

The back row, she gathered from reading the
brass nameplates, was for the national coverage writers. During
most regular season games, she figured the row would remain empty.
National reporters didn’t cover every individual game. No, their
assessments would depend on the local reporting and the team
coverage.

My coverage.

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of
sports writing icons reading her postgame synopsis and possibly
even quoting her in front of the entire country. She ran her hand
along the thick top of the table and relished the feel of the
smooth finish beneath her fingertips.

The visiting press reserved the row below, with
ten chairs for each city’s media to fill.

She stepped down to the next set of chairs and
nameplates. This row’s labels had names she recognized from the
local Vegas news circuit. The first chair belonged to the charming
Colin Castillo, Channel 10’s own media darling and the star of the
evening sport segment,
Ballin’ with Colin
. Cat pushed away
the anticipation of spending three hours an evening with the
gorgeous reporter by looking at the next nameplate: Andy St. John,
whose
Vegas 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 chose her words carefully. “That
Hohenschwangau Stadium is evil?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make me sound like a
crazy person.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ll see. After that girl left, König was in
a jam. That’s when he poached my Brad from Seattle. We were so
happy there.” Deidre closed her eyes for a moment. “So happy until
we came here. I watched this place kill my husband. It took three
years, but it finally did.”

She shot a quick glance at the doorway and
brought her wild eyes back to Catriona.

“They’re coming. We don’t have much time.” She
squeezed Cat’s hand. “You have to listen to me. This place will
destroy you, too.”

Otis appeared in the doorway with another
uniformed security guard. He smiled at the two women. “There ya
are, Mrs. Derhoff. We’ve got a game about to start. Would you like
me to escort you to your car?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, ma’am. You’re welcome to stay and
watch the game from the owner’s box, if you wish.”

“No. I think I’ve had my fill of this place.”
She focused on Catriona. “Good luck to you, miss.”

Otis placed his hand on Deidre’s shoulder and
led her out of the room. Cat watched them exit down the hallway.
Peering over his shoulder at Cat, Otis rolled his eyes. Choosing
not to respond, she turned her attention to the field.

During the commotion, the stadium had come
alive. The visiting team jogged out of the dugout to take the field
for batting practice. Some Chips players were visible in the
dugout, where they were preparing for the game through an amusingly
choreographed set of handshakes and high-fives that made her
snicker. Fans began to filter into the stadium seats. She spied one
man bearing a typical assortment of stadium food: a beer in one
hand and a chocolate malt in the other, a pretzel jutting from his
mouth and a hot dog sticking up from his pocket. The presence of
fans meant one thing: the gates had opened.

“Ms. McDaniel?”

What now?

Cat twirled the chair around to a blonde woman
painted with more makeup than a carful of clowns. Circus music
immediately danced in Cat’s head.

Da-da-da-da-da-dum-dum-dum-dum.

She chided herself to focus. Putting on a tight
smile—her face was beginning to ache from an entire day of
insincerity—she answered, “Um, yes?”

The Cirque Du Soleil stand-in grinned back and
Cat found herself blinded by a set of shiny white veneers, stained
with red lipstick. Cat forced her eyes not to settle on the layers
of blue eye shadow.

“I’m Shannon, the press box attendant. Can I
get you something to eat or drink?”

Shannon pulled out a small notepad from a lap
apron that covered more flesh than the tiny khaki shorts hiding
underneath.

Press box attendant?

Cat was beginning to understand why the Chips’
ticket prices were so high. Most of the newer franchises in
professional baseball charge a modest fee for their seats, unlike
the original ballclubs, whose legendary teams come with legendary
payrolls. While the Chips didn’t have a high-priced roster or
generations of fans to compete for seats, they still charged as if
they did. An average ticket at Hohenschwangau Stadium came with the
third highest price tag in the league.

Not that anyone minds.

Erich König was known to charm the press by
answering a legitimate question with a cute German adage, a ploy
the local media ate up with a spoon.

A silver spoon.

His latest press pleaser had been in response
to Andy St. John’s inquiry into rising ticket prices. Erich had
simply shrugged, winked at the camera and quipped, “
Ohne Knete
keine Fete!
”

No money, no party. A motto, I’m guessing, only
the rich adopt.

Cat supposed that most fans didn’t mind forking
over a day’s pay for a ticket to a baseball game, as long as there
was a good chance they’d see a win. Though some might change their
minds if they knew a percentage of the ticket price would go to a
press box servant for the media.

Cat snapped back to the present; Shannon
patiently flashed her smeared Chiclets while she waited for an
order.

“Oh um, do you have iced tea?”

More Chiclets appeared as Shannon’s smile
stretched even wider. “Sure do! Is that all you want? Nothing to
munch on?”

Cat shook her head. Shannon mouthed the order
to herself as she scribbled on the pad of paper. Cat’s eyes pranced
back and forth from the notepad to Shannon’s furrowed
brow.

“Um, Shannon …” Cat said, and mimed wiping her
teeth.

It took the girl a moment, but she finally
caught on. “Oh!” she giggled, “thanks!” She wiped her own
teeth.

A tray of nachos big enough to feed the entire
press box plopped down on the table, followed by the thud of a
laptop bag. Cat swiveled her chair to see a sneering Dustin. “This
is a one-time deal. I’m not your computer caddy, okay?”

Shannon greeted him with another cheerful
smile. “What about you, Dustin?”

Dustin thrust an open hand toward the nachos.
“Does it look like I need anything else?”

Shannon shrugged, stuck her notepad in her
apron and skipped off.

Cat hoped the iced tea hadn’t been forgotten.
She leaned over to Dustin and said in stage whisper, “I’m beginning
to suspect Shannon didn’t get this job based on her distinguished
waitressing credentials.”

Dustin piled jalapeños on a chip and replied
without looking up from his tray, “Like you’re one to
talk.”

For the second time in two days, Cat found
herself standing in the batter’s box, on the receiving end of
Dustin’s verbal chin music. Stung again. She looked down and closed
her eyes.

Time to charge the mound.

“You know, Dustin, maybe instead of asking why
I got this job, you should be asking why you didn’t.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. I’m not all that familiar with your
work, but perhaps my qualifications are exactly what they were
looking for.”

He was grinding his teeth. “Yeah,” he said,
“You’re a woman in sports. Maybe they needed to fill a hiring
quota.”

He slammed his hand on the table and stood up.
She followed suit, maintaining steely eye contact. Their mouths
were inches apart as they prepared to square off like an irate
manager and a stubborn ump.