Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

The sound set Marilyn’s teeth on edge. She grabbed the cordless telephone receiver from the end table and punched in the radio show’s telephone number. She turned off her stereo and waited for the call to connect.

Was Warrick listening to the program? God, she hoped not. He didn’t pay attention to sports writers or broadcasters during the season. He considered them too much of a distraction. She hoped he hadn’t changed his mind about that now. The possibility of his hearing what she was about to do made her even more nervous.

Marilyn jumped as the program host answered the phone.

“Good Monday afternoon. You’re on the air with the LaMarr Green Show. Who’s on the line?”

Marilyn swallowed the lump in her throat. Speak confidently. “Hello, LaMarr. This is Mary from Brooklyn.”

“Hi, Mary from Brooklyn.” LaMarr’s voice radiated goodwill down the phone line. Nothing in his tone gave away that this call-in had been planned. “What’s your question for our guest?”

LaMarr’s enthusiasm gave her confidence. Marilyn wiggled her bare toes against the floor and took a long, deep breath. “Ms. Hyatt, you’ve said you’ve seen Rick Evans’s tattoo. It’s on his hip. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. And, please, call me Jordan, Mary.” Jordan sounded as self-assured as Marilyn was straining to be.

Marilyn shivered in revulsion. She stared blindly across the family room toward the hallway. “Which hip?”

“His right one, next to his hip bone.” Jordan’s voice grew husky.

Marilyn wanted to reach into the phone and slap Jordan Hyatt’s face. Instead, she fisted her hand, forcing herself to lull her prey into a false sense of security. “Is that the only tattoo he has?”

A suggestive laugh. “It’s the only one he needs.”

“What does it look like?” The silence was sudden but not unexpected.

“It’s hard to describe.” Jordan seemed flustered.

“Give it a try.” LaMarr cajoled.

“I can’t.” An edge of desperation entered her speech.

The Wives had anticipated this reaction. Marilyn pressed the other woman. “Don’t you know what it looks like?”

“Of course I know what it looks like,” Jordan snapped.

“Then go ahead and tell us.” There was a smile in LaMarr’s voice. Always the genial host.

“How many questions does she get to ask?” Jordan’s voice was sulky. “I don’t want to give away all of Ricky’s secrets.”

LaMarr chuckled. “You already told us that he has a tattoo. You might as well tell us what it looks like.”

The silence lasted a little longer this time. Marilyn wished she could see the other woman. She closed her eyes and waited for the answer.

“It’s a bird.”

Marilyn blinked her eyes open. She walked across the room and dropped onto the sofa. Jordan was right. But the tattoo had appeared small and shadowed in the picture. How had she known it was a bird? If she couldn’t force the other woman to admit publicly that she didn’t have specifics about Warrick’s tattoo, how could she convince the public that Jordan Hyatt was a liar?

“What type?” Her voice was tight.

“What type what?” Jordan’s confusion seemed feigned.

Marilyn held on to her patience. “What type of bird does he have as his tattoo?”

“A peacock.” Jordan’s confidence was returning. But this time she’d guessed wrong.

Marilyn exhaled. Only someone who’d never seen the tattoo up close and personal would mistake a phoenix for a peacock.

“Why did he get that particular image?” She rose from the sofa and wandered back to the armchair and end table beside it.