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Missouri Catch

By Helen Gray

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Chapter 1

Thwack.
The baseball hit Dale Denning’s glove with such force that she nearly lost her balance.
“Strike two,” the umpire yelped.
Dale adjusted her catcher’s mask, glanced briefly at the runner on first base, and crouched behind the plate. She ignored the sweat trickling down her neck. The late June heat was stifling, even though it was five in the afternoon. She wiggled two fingers between her bent knees and fastened her gaze on Derek, her twin brother, willing him to throw one more strike.
He did. The batter swung, and barely hit the ball, sending it spinning toward the pitcher. Dale pounced on her knees, grabbed the ball and threw it to second base ahead of the lead runner. The second baseman touched the bag and threw to first, completing a double play and ending the inning.
Dale limped to the dugout, hardly hearing the cheers from the park benches, and removed her catcher’s mask and chest pads. She jerked off her left shoe and tapped it upside down on the bench. Gravel popped out. She pulled her foot up over her right knee and began to massage the irritated area.
“Dusty’s on deck.”
The team manager’s yell brought her to her feet. Yanking off the leg protectors and still clutching her shoe, Dale grabbed a bat and helmet and ran for the on-deck area. Suddenly her feet shot from under her. Flailing in midair, her hands went behind her in an instinctive move to break the fall. Her bat, shoe, and helmet went flying in different directions.
“That was some throw.”
Looking up from her undignified position on the ground, Dale saw a man holding up her cleated shoe. Wow. Nice physique. White toothed grin. Air of confidence. His tidy appearance made her feel even grubbier.
“Looks like you’re a good catcher,” she muttered, reaching back and rubbing the abused part of her anatomy while scrambling to her feet. As she did, the insignia on the pocket of his crisp white shirt flashed past her vision—Central States Charter Services.
“Here.” The man tossed the shoe back to her.
Dale reached up and snagged it mid-air. “Thanks.” She shoved her foot into it and leaned over to retrieve her helmet and bat, kicking away the other bat that someone had carelessly left behind. She removed her cap from her sweaty dark hair and replaced it with the batting helmet. Clenching her teeth to keep from groaning, she returned to the on-deck circle and squatted to tie her shoe, finishing just in time to bat.
As she took her batting stance, Dale sensed the man watching her. She breathed deep, forcing herself to concentrate only on the coming pitch. She hit a single.
An inning later, Dale removed her gear during her team’s turn at bat and placed the chest pad and mask beside her on the bench. Not expecting to bat this inning, she considered getting a cup of ice water from the cooler at the other end of the dugout. Nah. That took too much energy. Then she changed her mind and got up. She walked over to the cooler and got a cup. As she held it under the spigot, her eyes skimmed over the spectators, and stopped. Seated at the left end of the bottom bench was the man who had caught her shoe. At that moment he looked her way, and their gazes locked. She took a drink and quickly looked on past him to the snack stand, the aromas of popcorn and hot dogs reminding her that she had not eaten lunch. She hurried back to the bench.
By the time the game ended, Dale thought her stomach was in danger of touching her backbone. She headed for the concession stand and ordered a hot dog and a soda.
“Same for me,” her brother ordered, walking up beside her.
As soon as her hot dog was placed before her, Dale grabbed it and bit into it hungrily. Mustard squished out of the bun. She gave her mouth a hasty swipe with a napkin.
“Hello, Dusty. Good job.”
Dale looked up to find the shoe catcher standing next to her. He had the most piercing gray eyes, and he wore a watermelon slice grin. Speechless, she didn’t deny the nickname the guys had given her after it became a game to slide into home plate in a cloud of dust and hear her exaggerated protests and pants slapping.
“That is what I heard the guys call you, isn’t it?’ he asked when Dale didn’t respond.
“That’s right,” Derek said for her. “Dusty, meet Justin Whitaker, my boss.” He gave her a barely perceptible wink.
Dale swallowed, almost choking on the partially chewed hot dog.
“I believe we’ve met.” The man extended a hand.
“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Whitaker.” She spoke carefully, visions of her ridiculous fall earlier making her neck burn. As the only non-airline employee on the team he sponsored, Dale understood that he would monitor her performance. But had he detected their deception?
“My friends call me Justin.” His hand remained extended.
Realizing that her small hand in his large one might reveal her femininity, Dale was reluctant to shake. She squeezed her hot dog, and mustard oozed out over her fingers.
“Ugh.” She shook her hand and reached for a napkin from the box on the snack stand.
Justin grinned and withdrew the hand. He spoke to Derek. “I heard that when the guys asked you to pitch for the team you would only do it if you could recruit your own catcher. Now I see why. You two work together like you read one another’s minds.”
He turned back to Dale. “Are you from around here, Dusty?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, nodding and swallowing.
“We grew up together,” Derek added.
“I noticed on the team roster that you two have the same last name. Are you related?”
“There’s some family connection,” Derek answered vaguely before Dale could form a response.
She was more than happy to have him handle the questions. After all, he was the one who had gotten her into this.
“From what I’ve seen so far, you’re a welcome addition to the team, Dusty.” Without pressing further, Justin Whitaker turned and walked away.
*
Derek removed one hand from the steering wheel and snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot to tell you. I’m okay for next week, but there’s a mandatory security briefing the next week that will cause me to miss a game.”
Dale snorted. “Forgot, my foot. You just didn’t want to admit you were abandoning me. Who’ll be pitching?”
“I’m not sure.” He aimed an apologetic look at her. “I reminded Chip about it earlier tonight, and he assured me he’ll take care of everything.”
“Do I still catch?”
“He didn’t say anything about substituting catchers, so plan on playing as usual.”
“But what if your replacement doesn’t want to work with me?”
Derek reached over and chucked her under the chin. “How could anyone not want to work with you? You’re the best in the business.”
Dale jerked back. “I should never have let you talk me into this.”
Who was she kidding? Derek had always been a ringleader and prankster—and able to persuade or manipulate her into almost anything. This was a prime example. It bothered her conscience, but Derek had also been her lifesaver and rescuer too many times during their growing up years for her to deny him anything.
He chuckled. “We need the exercise. After all, we’ll be thirty this fall.”
“Not exactly ancient,” she huffed.
“Admit it. You’re having more fun catching for me again than you would have on your usual summer league team.”
“Maybe so,” she allowed. “But I still have to ask myself what I’m doing on a team sponsored by your company.”
The airline Derek worked for actually sponsored two teams, a softball one for the women employees, and the baseball one for the men. But each team ended up recruiting one or two non-employee players for certain positions each year.
“This will keep you from getting rusty. And the guys want you on the team.” He laughed. “They were skeptical when I told them what my high school softball coach sister can do. But their skepticism changed to respect as soon they saw you at work behind the plate. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces when they saw the rapport we have working together.”
She had to admit that it had been fun to surprise them.
“Chip is the one who decided you should conceal the fact that you’re female,” he reminded her. “He’s afraid he’ll be given a hard time if people find out what a ringer we have. And he’s right. The chest, kneepads and face mask you wear, along with your shorter hair style and low, mellow voice blend right in with us. You even have a male throwing and playing style that you developed during the years we played together growing up.”
“What about your boss? Shouldn’t you tell him that you have a female on the wrong team?”
Derek shook his head. “Not yet. Chip and I both think we should let him see you work some more games before telling him. This is the first one he’s been able to attend, but I’m sure he’ll be around for more.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll be angry if he finds out he’s been deceived? He looked like a pretty forceful guy, the little I saw of him.” His handsome face came to mind in amazing detail.
“He’s fair and treats us right, and all the guys like and respect him. But he needs to see you more of you in action so he’ll understand why we want you on the team,” he repeated.
“Okay, okay,” she cut off his arguments and leaned back against the seat. “I need to get home so I can clean up and change and get to the funeral home.”
Derek’s head swung around. “Funeral home?”
She nodded somberly. “The mother of one of my students died. The viewing is tonight, and the funeral is tomorrow.”
“That’s tough. How old is this student?”
“Fifteen. She’s my best pitcher. She has a brother who’s a little older. They’re good kids, and I’m concerned about what’s going to happen to them.” She knew the heartache of not having a dad around, or a mother’s care.
*
There was no smile on Justin Whitaker’s face as he drove to the airport. He was worried. Rita, his secretary, had called as he left the ball field and said she had discovered that the company’s discretionary fund was depleted. His gut tightened. If money was missing from that account, could there be shortages elsewhere? Rita had promised to do some more checking and report to him Monday morning. But he couldn’t wait that long.
Minutes later he entered his office and booted his computer. After an hour of studying the business accounts and examining bank statements, his mouth formed a grim line. He picked up the phone and dialed the company attorney.
“I hate to bother you on a Friday night,” he said as soon as Hillman Swayne answered.
“It’s okay. What’s the problem?”
Justin took a deep breath. “We have to do something about Dad. He wrote and signed some big checks for cash and raided the company operating and discretionary accounts. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I doubt he’ll remember what he did, much less when he did it. Or what he did with the money.”
“Can you get your family together for a meeting?” Hill asked. “We need to let them all have some input, especially your mother, before starting proceedings to declare him incompetent and remove his name from company accounts and positions of control. I know how difficult this must be for you. Alzheimer’s is such a sad way to lose a loved one.”
Justin ran a hand through his hair. This couldn’t be happening this soon. But it was. “Yeah. It sneaks up on you. Then, even when you know it’s time to do something like this, you put it off.”
“Until you can’t any longer,” Hill agreed. “How bad is the situation?”
“I wrote a personal check to cover the expenses of the baseball teams we’re sponsoring this summer. If we can’t figure out what Dad did with the money, I’ll have to take out a loan to meet payroll and operating expenses.”
“Then we need to get moving. How soon can we meet?”
“I’ll go see Mom and Dad as soon as I hang up. Then I’ll call Kent, Holly, and Lynn and arrange a meeting for Monday evening.”
*
Later that evening Dale parked her blue Mustang at the curb before a dilapidated house on a dead end street. She got the casserole from the back seat and was just going up the rickety steps when the door opened. Carly Prescott stared out at her through reddened eyes.
“Miss Denning,” she cried, coming at a run. Dale hugged the girl the best she could with the casserole cradled in her left arm.
When Carly stepped back, Dale handed her the dish. “Can you do something with this?” Her heart ached for the Prescott teens. They had so much potential, and so little guidance or support.
“Please come in,” Carly begged. Dale let the girl lead her inside.
The room they entered was crammed with wall-to-wall clutter, resembling the aftermath of a tornado. Soda cans, clothing, books and newspapers covered every surface. A narrow path led through the debris to an equally piled kitchen.
Carly took the casserole to the kitchen and returned to the living room. “This is my Aunt Betsy’s house. Connor and I have been staying with her since Mom’s stroke.”
She scooped a pile of clothes off the end of the short sofa.
Dale sat, careful to conceal her dismay at the squalid conditions under which Carly and her brother were living. Connor was an excellent student, excelling in almost every academic area, and very mature for his age. Carly was no academic genius—sometimes what the students called dingy—but she wasn’t failing any classes. Now that Dale knew a little more about their living conditions, she was amazed that the two were doing as well as they were.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said as Carly sat beside her.
About five four, the girl wore too much makeup. Her dark chin length hair was shiny and straight, her nails polished a dark green. With some guidance and the right clothes, she had the potential to be a real knockout.
“How long was your mother ill?” Dale asked, feeling inadequate. She had only been at Central High School for two years, having transferred from Glendale, but she did remember hearing that about their dad’s trouble.
“She had a stroke two and a half years ago.” A large tear leaked from Carly’s eye and trailed down through the smudged mascara. “She’s been in the nursing home since then. That’s why we had to stay with Aunt Betsy. Our dad’s in prison,” she added with a shrug of acceptance.
“Where’s Connor?”
“He already rode his bike to the funeral home.”
“Do you need a ride?”
Carly shook her head. “Aunt Betsy should be home anytime. She said we’ll go soon as she gets here.”
Dale placed a hand over one of the girl’s. “I know something about how you feel, Carly. I also know that God will take care of you.”
Carly stared at her a long moment, her chin trembling. “Did you lose your mother?”
Dale nodded and swallowed at the remembrance of all she had missed. “There are some similarities between our backgrounds. I was fortunate enough to have a kind neighbor lady who took me in and helped me.”
“Just you? You didn’t have any brothers or sisters?”
“Another similarity. I have a brother. We’re twins.”
Carly produced a bleary smile. “Brothers can be a real pain, can’t they?”
Dale squeezed her hand. “Yeah. But they’re nice, too.”
Carly nodded. “You’re right.”
When Dale got up, Carly did, too. Dale gave the girl a tight hug and left, wishing she knew some way to help the kids.
*
“Dad, why did you take so much money out of the company accounts?” Justin asked carefully, keeping an eye on his father in the recliner facing him. At seventy, Henry’s hair was white, and he lacked the robustness of his youth. His temperament had also changed. Always quick to smile and even-tempered, Henry had dealt with problems with steady calm and purpose. No longer rock solid steady, he was increasingly forgetful and indecisive. Mom sat next to him, listening. Tall and trim, with salt and pepper hair and soft brown eyes, she was devoted to her family and always busy.
Henry’s wide brown eyes stared at Justin from a pale, troubled face. “I took money from the company?”
“Yes, Dad, you did. You wrote some very big checks and cashed them.”
Henry Whitaker’s brow wrinkled. Then he leaned forward in the chair, his eyes narrowed in thought. “That’s right. I remember now. I had to. It was an emergency.”
Justin leaned forward also, hoping for a few more moments of clarity. “What kind of emergency?”
“She said I had to hurry. It was important.” Henry’s words slowed and came to a halt. He sank back in the chair, like a slowly deflating balloon.
Justin closed his eyes for a moment, feeling frustrated and helpless. Was someone using Henry’s vulnerability to con him? His jaw clenched.
He didn’t know how to deal with this. Dad had started the company twenty-five years ago and worked tirelessly to keep it solvent and growing. Now he was single handedly destroying it. This was not the first problem, but it was the first big financial blow. More were sure to follow if they allowed Henry to stay involved in the operation of the company. It broke Justin’s heart, but action had to be taken. Kent and the girls would support him, but the major burden rested on him, since he was the oldest and president of the company. He had to take care of his dad and keep the company from bankruptcy.
God, do You know about this mess? Or care?
“Can you remember anything about it?” he asked gently, not wanting to upset his dad. Henry was not to blame for what Alzheimer’s was doing to him. “Do you know where the money is? Is it gone?”
Henry’s face creased in confusion, his eyes now vacant. “Gone? I don’t know. I don’t know. Where did I put it?” he asked in a small, confused voice.
Justin sighed and leaned back, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck.
“He hasn’t been sleeping well.” Molly spoke for the first time, her voice small and sad. “We have some savings that you can put into the company.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t want to do that. I’ll take out a loan if necessary. But I won’t make any decisions until after we all meet Monday night.”

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