Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Menzies

  “Uh oh, the Beast is giving me the look. We have to take a break. We’ll be right back after these messages. Ya’ll know the number.”

  Lawrence Smith knew the number. He prided himself on being one of the most faithful fans of the local sports station, WIN 730. But although he listened regularly to Iain Foley and as much as possible to some of the other hosts, he never missed Stasey Simon.

  Lawrence got through and waited for the show’s producer—nicknamed “The Beast” by Stasey, who considered herself “The Beauty”—to tell him he was on air.

  The ad ended. Lawrence waited patiently during the sports update.

  “I’m back,” Stasey said. “So what were we saying? Oh, yeah. The Matrix. What I think is that the players are going to bust their jerseys one of these days if they don’t let out some of the hostility and dislike. I think everything the management’s told us about how united they are and how well they get along is a load of you-know-what.”

  The producer spoke in Lawrence’s ear. “Get ready, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence turned down the volume on his radio. Otherwise, he knew from experience he’d get confused by both the time delay and the echo of his own voice.

  Then Stasey said, “Lawrence, buddy, is that you?”

  He remembered it wasn’t enough to nod; she couldn’t see him. “It’s me, Stasey,” he said clearly.

  “All right, buddy. How’s it going? What have you got for me today?”

  “It’s going good, Stasey. I love listening to you. I really missed you over the weekend. It’s bad enough on normal weekends, but I especially hate long weekends where I have to wait from Friday to Tuesday to hear you again.”

  “Thanks, buddy. So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “The team, Stasey. I agree they didn’t play very well yesterday. But are you sure they don’t like each other? That makes me feel so sad, Stasey. What do you think can be done to turn things around? I’ll hang up so you can answer.” Lawrence ended the call and quickly turned the radio’s volume up to hear Stasey’s response.

  “Lots of winning teams have had players who weren’t speaking to each other. What bugs me most is that the management insists they’re one big happy family. Baloney!

  “If you really want my opinion, I think the problems the Matrix are having can be traced back to the arrival of Rico Velasquez. Armando Santana is very popular here in Toronto, not only with the fans but with the other players, too. From the moment Rico took Armando’s spot on the starting rotation, things haven’t been the same.

  “They should have traded or released Armando. That would have helped with the loyalty issue—player and fan alike. Secondly, Rico goes way beyond not speaking to teammates. I hear he was so angry about the way the team lost the game yesterday that he had a temper tantrum in the locker room. And the saddest part is the management’s unwillingness to admit anything’s wrong. The first step toward change is admitting there’s a need for it.”

  Nestled in the rocking chair, Lawrence’s body rocked rhythmically in time with Stasey’s voice. His face was morose as he thought about what Rico’s coming had done to the team.

  On the radio, Stasey moved on to the next caller. “Hi, Pete. What do you want to get off your chest today?”

  “This is Ms. Garrett, Miss MacPherson. I’m afraid your father is in China on a business trip. He’s away for two more weeks, and he’s asked me not to disturb him unless it’s an extreme emergency. I believe I sent you a memo to that effect.”

  “Does my eloping with a baseball player from Cuba count?”

  “I believe your father would want me to advise you to think about the very generous allowance he gives you before doing anything so foolish.”

  Eva made a face at the phone. “There’s something I want to talk to him about. I need advice.”

  “Would you like me to make an appointment with someone for you? Your psychiatrist, your personal trainer, your hair stylist, your massage therapist, your—”

  “Oh, give it a rest!”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Miss MacPherson.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Eva clicked the button to turn off the speaker phone and then spit at it.

  After a moment’s thought, she picked up her half-empty flute of champagne and walked to the bathroom, where she set down the flute and picked up her magnifying mirror. She observed the area surrounding her left eye. Still had a grayish-blue look. She pursed her lips. Stupid to even think of asking her father for help! Unless it involved money and contracts, he wouldn’t have a clue anyway.

  But who else was there to ask? Last week, after several sleepless nights trying to figure out what to do, she’d actually gone to see her psychiatrist. And all he’d given her was a prescription for sleeping pills.

  She shrugged her shoulders and began to apply an expensive blemish cream. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a black eye, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

  She made a face in the mirror. What had somebody said? You can’t pick a rose without getting pricked by a thorn?

  Speaking of roses—her eyes slid down past her shoulders to the lacy slip she was wearing, and she smiled. After several disappointments, she’d found a seamstress who’d not only taken on the challenge with enthusiasm, but had done a fabulous job of recreating the slip Marilyn Monroe had worn in the movie Niagara.

  Eva sighed. The only problem was that despite some padding here and there, she just didn’t fill it out the way Marilyn had. She’d even hired a personal trainer to improve her shape, but all he’d done for his hundred bucks an hour was yell at her for not exercising regularly and tell her he’d wash his hands of her if she kept eating rich desserts and drinking so much.

  What was the use of being old enough to do whatever you wanted if other people still had rules about what you should and shouldn’t do? And why pay people to yell at her?

  Her hair stylist was just as bad. He’d bleached her hair and cut it to look like Marilyn’s, but he’d complained the whole time, saying it didn’t suit her. Fat lot he knew! Her new look had snared one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She was the envy of thousands of women.

  As for the black eye, nothing came without a little bit of pain. Her father had told her that often enough. So suck it up and get your chin up. That was another of his sayings.

  She glanced over at the clock on her wall. Almost time for the interview. She never listened to sports radio, but Pat Davis, Rico’s agent, was being interviewed today on the Stasey Simon Show, and although it would be boring, she probably ought to turn it on.

  She returned to her well-stocked bar to fortify herself with more champagne.

  Some miles away, Stasey Simon sat at a table in the largest of WIN 730’s three claustrophobic sound rooms. The news was on, so she raised her hands high above her head and thrust her legs forward and out, toes pointing up, heels down, feeling the stretch through her muscular shoulders and down the length of her very healthy five-foot-two inch frame. She stood up as her twenty-two-year-old producer Ted Benedetto came in from the control booth.

  “Is Pat here?” she asked.

  “He’s in the washroom.”

  “Not being sick, I hope.”

  “No. He wanted to make sure he wouldn’t get the urge to go while on air.”

  “Okay.” Her tone changed. “You put through a call from Lawrence.”

  “I know.”

  “I told you Friday—” she made eye contact with Ted, even though it hurt her neck to have to look up nearly a foot to do so “—he calls too much. Frankly, he’s starting to give me the creeps. I told you to only let him on once a week now.”

  “I remember. It’s just he’s—he’s so earnest. He says he listens to your every word and he loves the show, and—”

  Stasey poked Ted in the chest with her long, burgundy fingernails. “He’s totally weird. I find myself being nice and agreeing with him because I’m afraid not to. If I ever pick up a stalker, it’ll be him.”

  “
I think he’s just, you know, slow. Mentally challenged or whatever they call it.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the head of MENSA. He gets one call a week!” She turned her back on Ted and sat down.

  A heavy-set, middle-aged man wearing a brown tweed sports jacket and tan pants stepped hesitantly into the room. Ted escorted him to a chair and hooked him up with headphones. When Pat was connected, Ted leaned over to whisper a joke in his ear and was rewarded by a tight smile.

  On air again, Stasey was going over the highlights from the day before. Baseball was the priority, but there had been a major trade in the Canadian Football League, a death in the golf world, and a hearts-and-flowers story in the world of horse racing. Stasey ran down the page of news items, making a comment off the top of her head for each one.

  Then it was time to interview Pat.

  “I have with me today a very special guest. It’s Pat Davis, the agent for Ricardo Velasquez.” She listed a few names of other sports figures who used Pat as an agent, reviewed the well-worn rumor of how Rico had been spirited out of Cuba by an unknown baseball fan, mentioned Rico’s stats, and then said, “So tell me what it’s like to represent a player who speaks very little English. Do you speak Spanish?”

  Pat sighed and relaxed in his chair. Whatever question he’d been dreading, it wasn’t this one. “Well, Rico speaks some English, but not a lot. And I don’t speak Spanish. I’m well aware there can be misunderstandings when both parties aren’t completely clear about important things, so I employ two interpreters whenever I’m working on business details with someone who doesn’t speak English well.”

  “So when you and Rico worked out the contract, you had two people there interpreting?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t one enough?”

  “I want one there to present Rico’s side and one there to present mine. I once—years ago—employed an interpreter who was lying to a player about what I was saying. I didn’t know it, and neither did the player, and it caused a lot of confusion and hard feelings. So now I have two. I try to hire people who don’t know each other, so there’s no collusion, and I tell each of them straight out to let us know if the other one’s not on the up and up.”

  “You do this for your protection?”

  “For mine and the player’s as well.”

  “Fascinating.” Stasey paused to light a cigarette. “So, tell me, is Rico the same person in real life as he is on the mound?”

  As Stasey began her question, Pat’s thick, stubby fingers grasped the edges of the table as if he was dangling from a cliff edge. As she completed the question, his fingers dropped into his lap and he coughed once before answering. “Rico is more or less what you see. He knows a lot about baseball—not just the game, but the history of the game. He’s determined to win both a World Series and a Cy Young Award.”

  Stasey inhaled from her cigarette and blew out the smoke. “Really? I’d have thought he’d be happy just to play ball and make money. Not to mention having the opportunity to live in a country where he’s free to do pretty well anything he wants to do.

  Pat shifted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table in front of him and interlacing his fingers, thumbs pressed together in a steeple. “Well, of course, he’s thrilled to be living here in Canada, and to be on a Major League team. The other things—they’re just dreams he’s added on now that he has the ability to dream. In Cuba, his future was simply to keep playing until he was too old to play. Now he has the joy of playing for a great team, making a very good living, and dreaming new dreams.”

  “Pat, you’re waxing poetic on me here. So tell me—” Stasey leaned forward, her eyes gleaming, “—if Rico is so happy to be here and all, why is it the players on his team would be glad to get rid of him?”

  Pat pressed his back against his chair and squared his shoulders as though taking part in a tug of war with an invisible rope. His voice rose slightly. “I think you’re generalizing. There may be a few players who don’t like Rico—”

  “Oh, come now—” Stasey’s tone of voice didn’t change “—most of the players and everyone else who knows what goes on in the locker room think Rico is a jerk.”

  Pat cleared his throat. “He’s in a strange country where he doesn’t speak the language very well, and he’s anxious to succeed, so he might have stepped on a few egos. People need to be more tolerant.”

  Stasey took a fourth puff from her cigarette before stubbing it out in the chipped saucer Ted had found in the station’s tiny kitchen and now put out for her use every day. “Pat, I realize you’re making a lot of money from the guy, so you have to defend him. But, can you honestly tell me it doesn’t bother you to go to all the effort you have—even your two interpreters—and then have to clean up after his messes? You’re an intelligent man. Is the money worth it?”

  With his right hand, Pat rubbed the front of head, displacing strands of brown hair that had been carefully combed to cover his thinning pate.

  Dead air space beckoned.

  Stasey grinned. “Pat, tell us the truth. Did you know what he was like when you took him on?”

  Pat licked his lips before answering. “I knew he was a great young pitcher,” he said doggedly.

  “Did you know anything about him as a person?”

  Pat glanced toward Ted, busy in the booth. “Not much,” he said slowly.

  Stasey was lighting another cigarette as she said, “It must have been an unpleasant surprise to discover what he’s like.”

  “He’s not as bad as you’re making out. He’s—”

  “A jerk.”

  “—just getting accustomed to living here and being famous. It’ll take a while. Lots of players find it hard to make the adjustment to a new lifestyle. And being in the public eye is hard for anyone.”

  “And meanwhile, he has that very nice signing bonus and that very nice contract, and you’re getting your share, right?”

  “I—I—”

  “We have to take a break for a sports update. Back in a jiffy to take your calls.”

  When he was sure they were off the air, Pat said, “I thought you wanted to interview me. All you did was attack Rico.”

  “I said what I thought my listeners wanted me to say,” Stasey said. “Those are the questions they wanted asked.”

  Pat’s eyes went past her. “So there’s nothing personal in your making me look like a money-hungry fool?”

  “Nothing.”

  Pat sighed. “You know, I really wish you’d give Rico a chance. With your influence, you could change the way people think.”

  From the control room, Ted’s voice interrupted. “Back on the air in five…four…three…two…one.”

  “This is the Stasey Simon Show and my guest today is Pat Davis, agent for Ricardo Velasquez, fondly or perhaps not-so-fondly known by his fans and teammates as Rico. Why don’t you give us a call with your question for Pat?” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “So, Pat, you think Rico has been treated unfairly? You think we’re expecting too much of him?”

  Pat cleared his throat before responding. “He’s a bit like a kid visiting a candy store for the first time. He’ll settle down. People need to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Translated, I guess that means as long as he pitches well, he should get away with behaving like a spoiled brat?”

  “That’s not what—”

  “Okay, here’s our first caller. Joe, how are you doing?”

  “I’m doing great, Stasey. You know, I don’t think we need players from Cuba coming in and taking jobs from our North American players. Look what’s happened in hockey with all the European players coming in! I don’t like it. I think Rico should go back to Cuba and play there. Leave the job for one of our own people.”

  “Okay, Joe. Always on your toes, aren’t you? Who’s our next caller? Brian, what have you got to say?”

  “Hi, Stasey? How are you today?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just fine
, Brian. What’s on your mind?”

  “Hi, Pat. Stasey, I like Rico. Sure, he gets a little upset with the other players if they make a mistake, but I like that. I’d rather have someone with his emotions on his sleeve than someone with no emotions at all. And the last caller was crazy. If we didn’t have players from outside the U.S. and Canada, we wouldn’t have had Fernando Valenzuela, Roberto Clemente, George Bell, Alfredo Griffin, Tony Fernandez, El Duke, Hideki Matsui, and many other fine players. I want to see the best, Stasey. And I don’t care where they come from.”

  “All right, Brian. Thanks. And you’re so right. We’ve had lots of fine players from outside North America—many of whom were also fine people.” She paused for a second. “Anyone else out there have a question for Pat? Annie, you’re on the Stasey Simon Show.”

  “Thanks, Stasey. Mr. Davis, the report in the paper says he trashed the locker room. I teach high school, and I shudder to think my kids might copy him. And saying he’ll settle down eventually is ludicrous. No one ‘settles down’ without discipline. He has to learn what’s right and wrong, what’s appropriate behavior and what isn’t. You have to give him rules to follow and hold him accountable. As his agent, it’s your responsibility to be a mentor to him.”

  Pat rubbed his hands together. “Well—Annie, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Annie, I hear what you’re saying. And I agree. When I say we need to give Rico time to adjust, I don’t mean just wait. We’re working with him—I am, his manager Blake Harrison is, and some others are. I know Ferdinand Ortes has taken him under his wing. But I still say the adjustment will take time. And let’s face it, Toronto is a bit of a fish bowl.”

  Stasey interrupted. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning professional athletes here get more than usual coverage from the media. And their personal lives go under more scrutiny.”

  “What does all that have to do with our expecting him to show some team spirit and self-control?” Before Pat could respond, Stasey switched gears and asked, “Who’s our next caller? Wayne? What would you like to say to Pat?”

  “Just this. I want a team that wins! So make sure this guy doesn’t mess it up. He should be grateful to us for giving him the chance to play here, and he’d better behave! And you’d better see that he does!”