“Delighted,” she said pleasantly. “If you would excuse us, Detective? Ms. Morgan and I have a need to chat before the game begins.”

Glenn bobbed his head. “Yes ma’am. I’ll get you both a drink if I might.”

“That would be lovely.”

I rolled my eyes at the political niceties, relieved when Mrs. Sarong put a light hand on my shoulder and led me away. She smelled like ferns and moss. Every man watched us as we moved together to stand by a window with an excellent view of the field. It was a long way down, making me slightly queasy.

“Ms. Morgan,” she said, her eyes not at all apologetic, “it has just come to my attention that you were contracted to retrieve our mascot. A mascot that was never missing.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, surprised how the title of respect just seemed to flow out of me. “When I was told, my time and energies were given no consideration.”

She exhaled slowly. “I detest digging out prey. Have you been magicking the field?”

Pleased at her frankness, I decided to be the same. “I spent three days planning how to break into Mr. Ray’s office when I could have been working on other cases,” I said. “And while I admit that isn’t your fault, someone should have called me.”

“Perhaps, but it remains that the fish was not missing. I am not in the habit of paying out blackmail. You will stop.”

“And I’m not in the habit of offering it,” I said, having no trouble keeping my temper as her pack surrounded me. “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t make you aware of my feelings in the matter. I give my word I won’t interfere with the game. I don’t need to. Until I get paid, every time a ball goes foul or a bat cracks, your players will wonder if it’s me.” I smiled without showing my teeth. “Five hundred dollars is a small price for your players’ peace of mind.” Lousy five hundred dollars. It should have been ten-times that. Why Ray’s henchmen wasted bullets on me for a lousy stinking fish was still beyond me.

Her lips parted and I swear I heard a small growl in her sigh. Athletes were notorious for being superstitious. She’d pay.

“It’s not the money, Mrs. Sarong,” I said, though at first it had been. “But if I let one pack treat me like a cur, then that’s what I’ll be. And I’m not a cur.”