Amen Corner (22 page)

“She loses a lot if she doesn't,” Brisbane said.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The deaths—and the lies—were piling up. How many questions would he have to ask before he asked the right one? Working as a cop was simpler. He could be as indelicate as he wanted to be when he was trying to find a killer, because the only thing that mattered was getting to the truth. Working as a private investigator got complicated when you had to investigate the people who'd hired you.

He glanced out the window at the colorful mosaic of Masters spectators wandering over the grounds. They didn't care that Danny Milligan was dead. They didn't care that somebody was trying to stop a woman from joining the National, or ruin the Masters, or both. They cheered for Tiger and Phil, they ate their pimento cheese sandwiches, and they thanked their personal deities that they were lucky enough to be standing where they were today. It was golf's finest annual holiday, and Sam was trying to figure out who wanted so desperately to spoil it. He wasn't getting much help.

“What's her name?” Sam said, turning back to Brisbane.

“I can't…”

“Sure you can,” Sam interrupted. “If she exists.”

Sam knew he was pushing his luck with the Masters poo-bahs, but he didn't care. They'd hired him to find the killer. They'd promised him full access. What was the worst they could do if he pushed too hard—fire him?

Brisbane finally said, “Peggy Francis.”

Porter looked at Brisbane with surprise.

“The gal who works in the Golf Shop?”

“That's her,” Brisbane said.

“Hmmm,” Porter said, the note of disapproval indicating either that he was disappointed in Stanwick's behavior, or that he thought Ralph could do better. He wrote the woman's name on the back of one of his business cards and slid it across the desk to Sam.

“You'll find her in the merchandise shop next to the main entrance,” Porter said. “She works with us at every Masters.”

“How will I recognize her?” Sam asked.

“Ask any of the clerks. They'll know her.”

Sam picked the card up from the desk and put it in his pocket.

“You're wrong about Ralph,” Brisbane said again to Sam.

“Without question,” Porter said. “I hope you'll stop wasting your time on Ralph. Nobody is more dedicated to this club—not even me.”

Porter picked up the remote, turned up the volume and switched channels to the cable broadcast of Thursday afternoon's play. The network put up a picture of a grinning Danny Milligan, and the dates of his birth and death on a black background.

“Did you know that Boyce and Harwell are interviewing our members and employees in the Butler Cabin?” Porter said, as though the subject of Ralph Stanwick had never come up. “The police are hauling our people over there one by one, like a goddamn perp walk. That's where we present the green jacket to our winner on Sunday.”

He looked at the screen again, which now displayed a leaderboard that showed Padraig Harrington on top at 3 under par.

“If we make it to Sunday,” Brisbane said.

*

Sam left the clubhouse and walked to the shaded, bricked plaza where most spectators entered the grounds. The Golf Shop was located immediately to the right of the media building—conveniently positioned as the first structure an entering Masters fan would notice. Hundreds of customers waited in line to enter the high-ceilinged, one-story green building, with its multiple check-out lanes that opened out to the plaza. Inside, Sam could see that shoppers were nearly elbow-to-elbow as they selected hats, sweaters, balls, shirts, jackets, visors, towels, and anything else stamped with the famous Augusta National logo.

Sam showed his player's badge to one of the attendants at the head of the line and told her he was there to speak to one of the employees. Inside, the building looked like a country club pro shop crossbred with the clothing aisles at Target: bright lighting, long shelves of cotton, wool, and cashmere, and countless floor racks of shirts, jackets, pants, and sweatshirts.

He stopped a young woman replenishing a shelf with $125 Bobby Jones polo shirts and asked her if she knew where he could find Peggy.

“She's over at Artwork and Collectibles,” said the young woman with a pleasant but slightly harried drawl, as she continued to fold and stack.

Sam looked across the room and saw a glass counter containing commemorative plates and jewelry, above which hung framed prints of Augusta National holes. He made his way through the crowd to the counter. He was looking at the photos and paintings when one of the saleswomen asked him, “Do you collect golf course prints?”

She had a wavy auburn perm and a little too much pink lipstick on her thin, smiling lips, and a Masters name badge that said peggy. She was wearing the Golf Shop uniform: khaki pants and a pink polo shirt with the green-and-yellow Masters logo over the breast pocket. No great beauty, Sam thought, but her smile seemed sincere, even after dealing with throngs of golf fans who cleaned out her building each day.

“No, I can't afford them,” Sam said. “Maybe I'll learn to paint my own someday.”

“Oh, you should,” Peggy said. “Painting is a wonderful hobby.”

“You paint?” Sam asked her.

“Well, no, but I'm told…”

“You're Peggy Francis, right?” Sam said.

“Yes,” she said, still smiling. “Have we met?”

Sam told her who he was and why he was there to see her, and the smile disappeared.

“Is there a place we can talk?” he said. “A break room or something?”

“I don't think we have anything to talk about, Mr. Skarda,” she said—not coldly, but nervously. She looked around as though hoping to spot a customer who needed her help, but none came to her rescue.

Sam pulled out the business card with Peggy Francis handwritten written on the back and showed it to her. The front of the card read David Porter, Chairman, Augusta National.

“The boss sent me to see you,” he said.

Peggy took the card and looked at it, as though she expected it to tell her what to say. Eventually she handed the card back to Sam.

“Your friend Ralph Stanwick might be in a lot of trouble,” Sam said.

“I doubt it,” Peggy said, with a tone of almost mirthful bitterness. “Lorraine will never leave him. I'm sure she knows about me. And the others, too.”

“Others?”

“I'm not the only girl he sees when he's in town. Ralph's a popular man.”

“I don't much care who he sees, or how many,” Sam said. “I need to know where he was last night.”

“Why does it matter?”

Sam asked her if she'd heard about Danny Milligan's murder. She had. When she realized where Sam was going, she laughed, genuinely.

“Forget it,” Peggy said. “He was with me.”

“Mrs. Stanwick made it sound like he was with her when I called their cabin last night. I didn't believe her, either.”

“She's been lying for him for years.”

“Wouldn't you lie for him?”

“No.”

“What did you do last night?”

“He came over to my house. I grilled steaks.”

“Can anybody else verify that?”

“We don't double-date,” Peggy said. “You can probably understand why.”

“How late did he stay?”

“Until about five this morning. Then he went back to the National.”

Decent of Ralph to go home to his wife, rather than stay out all night. He could check with the guardhouse at Magnolia Lane to see what time Stanwick returned, but that wouldn't prove where he'd been.

“Was he with you Sunday night? And Tuesday night?”

“You don't think he killed Harmon Ashby and that reporter, too? Look, Ralph might not be the nicest man in the world, but he's no killer.”

“What makes you so sure?” Sam said in a low voice, looking around to see if they were being overheard. The expensive jewelry and plates continued to deter the shoppers. “You'd be surprised who's capable of murder.”

“Not Ralph,” Peggy said. “He's a sneak and a cheat, but he doesn't like to muss himself up.”

“Sounds like a real catch,” Sam said.

“He used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he used to be a fun guy, at least. This week he's been, I don't know—spooky or something. The phone rang a couple of times last night and he practically jumped out of his chair.”

“Maybe he thought it was his wife calling.”

“No, he knows she wouldn't do that. I think these murders have really gotten to him.”

As a cop, Sam could have taken Peggy Francis downtown for more questioning and maybe found a hole in her story. But she was going to defend Stanwick no matter what. And she just might be telling the truth.

Sam asked her if she'd ever heard Stanwick complain about the WOFF protests or Rachel Drucker.

“I don't think I'm going to say anything more,” she said. “I told you I was with Ralph last night. That's all you need. That's all you're getting.”

She walked to the other end of the display case, flashed a smile at a customer and asked him if he was interested in buying a print or a collectible. She glanced quickly at Sam, then back to her customer. Sam walked out of the shop, not sure if he had made any progress.

The clouds above the tops of the shade trees in the plaza were ivory wisps against the brilliant blue—a perfect day for the afternoon pairings. Occasional bursts of applause and cheers rang across the course from distant grandstands. The Masters was unfolding all around him, in its usual orgy of perfection. Sam wished he could get back to work on his own game—it needed it—but his outside job was just beginning. He'd taken his suspicions about Stanwick as far as he could for now. It was time to look in another direction.

He kept going back to something Russ Daly had said to Deborah Scanlon: The Augusta National members love their greens more than they hate women.

Sam suspected that was true. A member of the National might kill someone, but would he deface the golf course by spraying a message on the grass? Maybe that was for the cops to determine. They were doing the right thing, investigating the members. But that didn't mean the killer was wearing a green jacket.

As for the current employees, they had the best jobs in town. All he'd seen from them in three days was an almost fanatic devotion to making sure everything at Augusta National was impeccable. They seemed to take every bit as much pride in the building, the grounds, the golf course, and the club's reputation as the members themselves.

And yet someone was trying to create at least the appearance of a club backlash against the women's membership movement. He'd investigated enough property crimes against businesses to know that pissed-off ex-employees made good suspects. With no better ideas in mind, Sam resigned himself to a long afternoon digging through the National's employee files.

Chapter Twenty-two

Caroline changed out of her jumpsuit in the caddie building and walked out to the players' parking lot, where she found Sam's courtesy car. When she got onto Washington Road, she turned on the radio.

“…have no suspects in the latest Masters murder,” the newscaster was saying. “But yesterday's gruesome slaying of CBS golf analyst Danny Milligan—a frequent critic of Augusta National—has upset many here this week. Earlier today, the only woman caddie in this year's field said she was now in favor of women joining the all-male club.”

Then Caroline heard her own voice:

“‘Of course women belong here. I mean, look around. There are women everywhere. They're certainly willing to sell us tickets.' ”

Caroline couldn't believe that anyone really cared what she thought. She switched to a music station.

What a week—and it had all started when she met Sam. He was nothing like Shane on the surface, but in other ways she saw similarities. Both were self-confident—Shane more openly, but Sam had a quiet assurance. He reminded her of the soldiers she'd met growing up around military bases—guys who didn't just talk about what they would do in an emergency, but did it, and without hesitation. Most golfers she'd met were tigers in competition, but off the course they were often helpless little boys. She didn't get that feeling with Sam.

On the other hand, she had an anti-authoritarian streak in her that went back to her years on military bases, where there was always a rank system, where even the commanders had to answer to someone. Caroline had developed an aversion to being told what to do—not a particularly good quality in a caddie, she had to admit. Maybe that's one of the reasons things ultimately went bad with Shane. She wondered if the same thing would happen if she got involved with Sam. He was a cop, used to issuing orders. That wouldn't work with Caroline. Not anymore.

It was fun to carry a bag in a big tournament again, but at the first sign Sam expected her to be subservient outside the ropes, the way Shane had expected her to be, she was gone. Was there any reason to think he'd be that way? Just that he was a cop. Cops were that way.

She found a parking spot near the front entrance to the motel, locked the car and walked through the lobby and up the stairs to her room. The air conditioner was still making its grinding noise, as though a fan inside the unit needed a new bearing or something. She had called down to the front desk and they'd promised to have someone come up and fix it. So much for promises. She called the desk again and said the unit was still making too much noise. Sorry, the clerk said; they'd have someone come up as soon as they could.

Caroline switched on the TV and began taking off her clothes. A shower would feel great—then a glass of wine and a nap before dinner. The Weather Channel anchor was describing the high pressure system that had moved into the southeast, which didn't interest Caroline. Anyone could stick their head out the window and realize it was sunny and warm now, and likely to stay sunny and warm. She picked up the remote and switched to CNN.

The first thing she saw was her own face, with her name superimposed over the picture, identified as “Only Female Caddie at Masters.”

“…So you think women should be members at Augusta National?” an off-camera reporter's voice asked.

“Yes,” she saw herself answer, as spectators walked behind her and the tips of reporters' hand-held microphones and tape recorders bobbed in front of her mouth. “I didn't really care one way or the other when I got here. I just really like coming here. But maybe allowing a woman to join would put a stop to these killings.”

She thought she actually looked pretty good—especially after lugging that bag up and down those hills in that hot uniform. But she sounded stupid. She wished she'd just said, “No comment.”

She left her clothes on the floor in front of the TV and went into the bathroom to turn on the shower.

*

Sam found Bill Woodley in the clubhouse kitchen, discussing the Béarnaise sauce with one of the cooks.

“Not too much vinegar,” Woodley said to the cook, a black man wearing a white double-breasted coat with three-quarter sleeves and a starched white hat that extended from the top of his head like a chimney. “Mr. Sinclair mentioned to me that he'd prefer the Béarnaise a bit lighter.”

“Sure thing,” the cook said. He dipped a wooden spoon into the sauce pan and held it out for Woodley to taste. The club manager put his lips to the spoon and sampled the sauce.

“That's it,” Woodley said, with a nod. He looked up and noticed Sam standing a few feet away. “Can I help you, Mr. Skarda?”

“I need to look at your employee files,” Sam said.

The cook took a sip of his own sauce as they left the kitchen.

“Maybe a pinch more pepper,” the cook called to Woodley.

“Just a pinch,” Woodley said, and then looked at Sam almost apologetically. “Lunch must go on, even at a time like this.”

“I'm a big fan of lunch,” Sam said.

They left the clubhouse and crossed the parking lot to the administration building, where Woodley had a cramped office with windows facing the driving range. Woodley's office was furnished with a desk and a computer, several beige metal file cabinets, a bulletin board with photos, notes and business cards thumb-tacked to it, a framed painting of the 16th green, and a 17-inch TV sitting on an end table. The TV was tuned to afternoon Masters coverage. Sergio Garcia was now in the lead.

“Which files do you need?” Woodley asked, with the brisk tone of a busy, efficient man.

“Former employees,” Sam said. “How far back do you keep those records?”

“1931,” Woodley said, with a slight smile that indicated he expected the answer to surprise Sam. “We don't get the kind of turnover here that a lot of clubs have. Some of our current employees have been with us 50 years or more.”

“It must take a lot of people to run this club,” Sam said. “Cooks, waiters, maids, grounds crew, caddies, security people, golf shop staff—you've got all of them on file, from the beginning?”

“I'm told Mr. Roberts insisted that no club records be thrown away,” Woodley said. “We run the club the way Mr. Roberts wanted it run.”

“Where do you keep it all?”

“We have an archive.”

Woodley led Sam down the hall to a closed door. He selected a key from the chain he carried in his pocket and opened the door to a one-window room that had a desk with a phone and a computer, a fluorescent overhead light, and eight filing cabinets.

Woodley told him the filing cabinets included club expense records, insurance information and legal documents. He pointed out the cabinets that contained the records of past employees, all stored in alphabetical order, rather than by hiring or termination date. Sam knew he'd have to go through every file.

“Would you like some coffee?” Woodley asked.

“Sure,” Sam said. “You might as well bring a pot. I'm going to be here for a while.”

Woodley unlocked the two file cabinets with another key. Both three-drawer cabinets had a master lock above the top drawer; there would be six drawers to go through. Woodley said he'd be back in an hour or two to see if he needed anything else.

“Thanks,” Sam said. “By the way, do you remember the name of the bartender who was fired a few years ago for talking about members' private conversations?”

“Winston Lamar,” Woodley said. “It happened just after I started here. He was very popular with the staff and the members. I hated to fire him.”

“Then why did you?”

“He couldn't prove he wasn't leaking information about members to outsiders.”

“It's supposed to work the other way,” Sam said. “You're supposed to prove that he was.”

“Not here,” Woodley said. “Once the membership loses trust in an employee, he's gone. I know that sounds harsh, but our employees understand that when they come to work here. They're paid very well. They accept the conditions.”

“How long have you been the manager?”

“Six years. The previous manager died. He'd been here for 35 years.”

“Anyone else you've had to fire since you've been here?”

“Oh, one or two a year, I guess,” Woodley said. “Usually for showing up late for work. If they were fired, you'll see the reason why detailed on their separation form.”

Sam opened the top drawer of the first filing cabinet and pulled out an armload of folders, stacking them on the desk next to the computer.

“We want you to find who's doing this,” Woodley said. “Whoever it is.”

Sam looked up at Woodley to see if there was some special intent with that last remark. Woodley held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and walked out of the room. Sam wondered if this was an upstairs-downstairs situation. He got the impression that it wouldn't break Woodley's heart to learn that a club member was behind the killings. Or maybe he simply wanted this to be over as quickly as possible so he could get back to his normal duties—seeing that the flowers were fresh and the Béarnaise was not too acidic.

Chapter Twenty-three

Sam began plowing through the folders. Aaron. Abarro. Abbott. Acheson. Adderley. Each folder a story, a life.

He tried not to get caught up in imagining too much about them. There were too many folders to linger over any of them for too long. If something caught his eye, he put the folder in a separate stack.

Each employee's folder contained one form with personal information, including address, phone number, Social Security number, date of birth, salary information, performance appraisals, and benefits data, including pension plans, health care records, and 401K contributions on the newer forms. Under the performance appraisals, there was a space for warnings, but there were no warnings cited on any of the employees' records. Apparently, you didn't get a warning at Augusta National.

There was also a separation form in each folder, listing payroll processing issues, final expense reporting, benefits notification, security termination procedures, and reason for separation. In most cases, the employee simply retired. Form after form listed the age of the departing employee as 65 or older. Some had died while still employed. It was obvious that jobs at the National were hard to come by, and clung to by those lucky enough to get them.

The oldest forms were faded and yellowing, and a quick glance at the birthdate of the employee allowed Sam to skip past most of those. The first firing he came across was that of a William Askew, terminated from the grounds crew in 1939 for arguing with the head greenskeeper over how to mow around bunkers. Askew was 39 at the time; he was certainly dead now. Louise Bascombe, a maid, was fired in 1973 for stealing a small sum of cash from one of the cabins—at least, it was alleged that she had stolen the money. Sam kicked her folder into the separate pile to be looked at more closely, but he didn't expect to spend much time on her, either. She had been 51 at the time. She'd be in her 80s now.

He was looking for ex-employees still in their physically active years who might have a grudge against the club. A blue-collar or domestic worker would have a tough time recovering from losing a job at Augusta National. They weren't going to find a similar job that paid as well, assuming that you could find another employer willing to overlook a negative recommendation from the National.

Eventually he came to the folder of Winston Lamar, fired in 2002 for suspicion of discussing members' business with non-members. Lamar had been hired as a busboy at the club when he was 17 years old. His performance evaluations were excellent; he had moved up to waiter and eventually to bartender in 1987. Again, the performance evaluations were glowing: his acumen at handling multiple orders, remembering members' favorite drinks, engaging in conversation when asked, and keeping his accounts straight all were lavishly praised. He was clearly one of the clubhouse stars until his abrupt termination. No specific members were mentioned in the complaint against Lamar, but he was accused of revealing confidential business information that he'd overheard at the bar. His side of the story was not included in the reason for dismissal.

Lamar would now be nearing 50, according to the file. Certainly capable of overpowering a slender woman or an older man. The motive was there. Sam put the folder into the suspects pile.

He stood up to stretch, feeling buzzed from the coffee Woodley had sent to him. From his window he could see the driveway in front of the clubhouse—the last place Deborah Scanlon had been seen alive. Did he have his man already? Not likely. There were still more than 200 folders to look at. But experience told him he was not necessarily wasting his time here, even if it was a long shot that he'd find the killer in one of these folders.

Sam replaced the folders he'd looked at in the filing cabinet, and took out a new stack. He settled back down at the desk and began again. Eddie LePage. Carl Logan. Margaret Lucas. William Masters. Eugene Maxwell. All either retired or dead. No cause for revenge.

Reggie Morton. Another dismissal—in 1988.

According to his file, Morton had been a caddie at the club since the early '70s. He had steady work for 15 years, so he must have caddied at the Masters during those years—up until 1983, when the pros were finally allowed to bring their own caddies to the tournament. The Masters paychecks must have made his year. After 1983, when the Masters checks stopped coming, Morton had grown difficult and sometimes belligerent, according to the termination account. There were complaints about his attitude. Eventually he was told he was no longer welcome on the grounds.