Amen Corner (17 page)

“We've heard that the same message was sprayed on the grass—this is the last masters,” a woman said, speaking clearly yet emotionally. It looked like the woman who'd sat with Scanlon last night, now standing in the front left section next to an NBC cameraman who was taping her while she asked the question. “It appears someone is trying to intimidate Augusta National.”

“That won't happen,” Porter said.

“The message suggests the killer is an enemy of the club, but so far he—or she—has killed critics of your membership policy,” the correspondent said. “How do you explain that?”

“I can't,” Porter said. “Next question.”

“Are you rethinking your policy of not allowing women members?” another reporter asked.

“There is no such policy,” Porter said, doing his usual admirable job of hiding the exasperation he must have been feeling. “Next question.”

Porter ended the press conference shortly thereafter, refusing to go into any further details. The reporters grumbled as Porter and Brisbane left the room, but there really wasn't much more to tell them. Somebody was killing people at Augusta National. The police were trying to figure out who it was. In the meantime, the Masters would go on.

Sam took a look around him at the assembled reporters, tapping away at their laptops, talking on the phone, or bouncing ideas off each other. Some of these reporters had been covering the Masters for thirty years or more, and knew anyone worth knowing in Augusta. They wouldn't run to the cops if they knew something that would help the investigation, but they might be willing to talk to a private investigator, if they didn't have to reveal their sources.

Russ Daly might be helpful.

The fat columnist was haranguing the reporter next to him on the merits of the National's barbecue pork vs. barbecue chicken sandwiches when Sam approached.

“Daly, let me buy you a beer,” Sam said.

“I'm working,” Daly said. “Make it a Diet Coke.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “Someplace private.”

He got up from his seat and followed Sam up the aisle. They walked outside the media building to the deserted concession windows across the bricked plaza. Rain continued to fall, dripping off the trees and cascading off the roof of the souvenir shop next to the media building. Even the Lords of Augusta couldn't control the weather.

Sam bought a Diet Coke for Daly and a beer for himself and explained the situation to the columnist as they took shelter from the rain under the eaves of the concession building. He told the L.A. sportswriter that the club had hired him to investigate the killings. He had access to all the National's records, phone numbers, and membership information.

“Porter's hoping I'll find something before Boyce and Harwell do. He doesn't want them ransacking the club, but the longer we go without finding out who's behind the killings, the more access he has to give them.”

“Is Porter trying to find the killer, or protect him?” Daly asked.

“Find him, I think,” Sam said. “Another murder might finish off the Masters for this year…maybe longer. Any idea who I should be looking at?”

“You mean, club members?” Daly asked.

“Anybody,” Sam said. “Who stands to gain from these killings?”

Daly's first thought was Rachel Drucker. Sam repeated his conclusion that Deborah Scanlon was the best friend the WOFF had.

“If anything, somebody's trying to scare off the WOFF by killing their supporters,” Sam said.

“I can think of a dozen members who hate the idea of a woman joining this club,” Daly said. “Benton Sinclair…but he's 80, can barely get around in a cart these days…Henry Lockwood…but God, he's gotta be 90, and senile…well, there's Riley Oakes, the retired football coach at Georgia Tech. What he really hates is the University of Georgia, and Georgia's former coach is also a member here—Jerry Jennings. Jennings is an arthritic old fart who hates seeing women on the golf course, so Oakes almost has to be for 'em. Then there's Ralph Stanwick. He's a Wall Street guy from Connecticut.”

“I figured as much,” Sam said. “I met him in Porter's office this morning. Definitely anti-women.”

“I hear he loves women.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's rumors that he has girlfriends all over Augusta.”

“What about his wife?”

“You ever seen her?”

“No,” Sam said.

“Face like an unraked sand trap.”

The conversation was heading in a direction Sam had no use for. He didn't care about the personal peccadilloes of the Augusta National membership if they didn't relate to the killings. Daly finished his Diet Coke with several big gulps and started swishing the ice cubes around, expectantly. Sam bought him another one.

“What about Porter?” Sam asked.

“He's not going to do anything Clifford Roberts wouldn't have done, until he has to. But as soon as he thinks a majority of the members are for it, he'll let women in here.”

Sam thought about telling Daly about Margaret Winship's near-invitation, but decided he'd keep that piece of information in reserve.

“What do you know about Ashby?” Sam said. “Did he have any enemies here?”

“Not that I know of,” Daly said. “He was pretty wrapped up in putting on the tournament.”

“Were you surprised when he came out in favor of membership for women?”

“Sure. Nobody here talks on the record, except Porter. It's a good way to get the boot.”

“I wonder why the Ashbys and the Stanwicks were sharing a cabin,” Sam said.

“Usually the Stanwicks and the Brisbanes use the Firestone Cabin,” Daly said. “But Brisbane's wife stayed home this year. I guess they offered the extra space to the Ashbys, instead.”

“What do you know about Robert Brisbane?”

“Not much. He and Stanwick are best buddies. I like Brisbane—he'll go off the record almost any time, but if you want a quote, he'll tell you to get it from Porter. Which reminds me—I got a column to write. Let me know if you turn up some dirt.”

Daly waddled back into the media center while Sam headed around the corner to the administration building, hardly noticing the steady drizzle except to step around the widening puddles.

Chapter Sixteen

Sam returned to Porter's office and asked to see the membership records. Porter took him to an unoccupied office and called up the computerized membership directory, which contained personal information about each member: age, marital status and family details, home address (some had many addresses), educational background, employment records, investment holdings, religious affiliation, professional awards and honors, club memberships, charity work, volunteer organizations—even jacket size.

There was far more information about each of the 300 members than Sam could possibly absorb in an afternoon, but he skimmed the list, hoping something would pop out at him.

Ashby was from Atlanta. He had graduated from Georgia Tech—Bobby Jones' alma mater—in 1956, with a degree in chemical engineering. He'd started his own company in Atlanta that produced biodiesel from animal byproducts. He'd joined the USGA in 1962 and become a rules official, working a number of U.S. Opens. He became a member of Augusta National in 1970. In 1993, he became rules chairman at the Masters. He and his wife Annabelle had two children.

Robert Brisbane was a resident of Des Moines, graduate of the Choate School and Yale, Class of 1967, where he'd lettered in basketball; married to the former JoAnne Koneiczny, with whom he had three children. He was president and CEO of Iowa Futures, Inc., a commodity-trading company he founded in 1971, and a member of the Chicago Board of Trade for over 30 years. He was on the board of the American Cancer Society and a member of the Des Moines Country Club.

When he got to Ralph Stanwick's entry, Sam quickly learned why he and Brisbane were buddies. Stanwick, a Wall Street stockbroker who lived in Greenwich, Conn., was also Yale '67, where he'd won All-Ivy honors in tennis. The rest of Stanwick's information was pretty standard: married to the former Lorraine Nelford, no children, member of several corporate boards and three golf clubs: Augusta National, Pine Valley, and Connecticut Golf Club. Augusta National and Pine Valley shared at least two important traits: Each was ranked among the top five golf courses in the world, and each was all-male. But Sam knew nothing about Connecticut Golf Club.

He ran a Google search and found CGC's home page, which included four thumbnail photos of the course, the club's logo—an Augusta National-like map of Connecticut, with a flagstick protruding from the club's location—and a mission statement that said the club was founded in 1969 as golf club, not a country club.

There were menu options on the club's home page: Login, Directions, and Weather. Sam clicked on “Login” and found that the club was private. He clicked on “Directions” and found the club was located in Easton, Conn. The page also included a phone number for the clubhouse. He dialed it and asked for the manager, who confirmed for Sam that yes, in fact, Connecticut G.C. was an all-male club.

Sam leaned back in his swivel chair and thought about Stanwick. He was on the tall side, and seemed to be in good shape for his age—probably still a tennis player. But would he be capable of strangling Ashby and dumping his body in Rae's Creek, or dragging Scanlon down a steep hill into Ike's Pond?

One thing was certain: Ralph Stanwick believed passionately in all-male golf clubs.

He picked up the phone, got the clubhouse operator, and asked her to ring the Firestone Cabin. After a minute, a woman's voice answered. It was Stanwick's wife, Lorraine. No, Ralph wasn't at the cabin this afternoon. No, she didn't know when he'd be back. Was there a message? Sam said there wasn't. He'd call back later.

Sam walked down the hall to Ida's desk and asked if she knew where Robert Brisbane was.

“He's out on the golf course with Mr. Porter and Jimmy Fowler,” Ida said. “They're checking the drainage.”

“Any idea what hole they're on?”

“They were concerned about the lowest holes—11, 12, and 13,” Ida said.

Amen Corner. Walk or take a cart? The walk would do him good, give him time to think. But it would take at least 15 minutes to walk that far in the rain, and he didn't want to waste that much time. Sam went to the pro shop and asked for a cart. In less than a minute a young man drove a cart up to the pro shop door, and wiped the seat with a towel before Sam sat down.

By the time he had driven around the sodden putting green, past the deserted 10th tee, and negotiated the steep, rain-slick service road that led down to Amen Corner, he was doubting his own theory. Sure, Stanwick was opposed to women joining the club. He obviously preferred all-male enclaves. But would he kill to keep women out of Augusta National? Sam couldn't answer that. Brisbane was the member who knew him best.

He found Porter and Brisbane, both clad in yellow rain ponchos with the Masters logo over the breast, standing with another man Sam didn't recognize on the Hogan Bridge, which crossed the wide pond in Rae's Creek to the 12th green. Porter looked up at the sky, where the cobalt clouds were moving swiftly to the east, but continuing to leave sheets of rain as they blew past. They didn't notice Sam until he was standing on the bridge next to them.

Porter introduced Sam to Jimmy Fowler, the club's superintendent—a short man who looked like a garden gnome in his oversized poncho.

“Can I have a minute with Robert?” Sam said as the rain beat like little drumsticks on his Gore-Tex bucket hat.

“Must be important, for you to come all the way out here,” Porter said.

Brisbane nodded at Sam, and Porter and Fowler walked off the bridge toward the 12th green. Sam could barely see the putting surface under the pooled water.

“Do you have any idea where Ralph Stanwick is?” Sam asked Brisbane. “I'd like to talk to him.”

“Ralph's not going to be back till later tonight,” Brisbane said. “He said he had some business to attend to.”

“What sort of business?” Sam said.

“He didn't say. Why do you ask?”

Brisbane gazed at Sam from underneath the hood of his rain poncho with a look of simple curiosity. Sam plowed ahead.

“I know he's against women joining Augusta National.”

“That's no secret. Many of our members still feel that way.”

“The way I hear it, he feels more strongly than most.”

Brisbane didn't respond, which told Sam he was going in the right direction.

“I know he's a member of Pine Valley and Connecticut Golf Club—both men-only,” Sam continued. “And I know you two went to Yale together.”

“That's right. We were roommates our junior and senior year.”

“Yale wasn't co-ed then, was it?”

“No, it wasn't,” Brisbane said. “But we knew it was going to happen soon.”

His eyes held Sam's gaze.