Authors: Roberta Isleib
"You must be Sheriff Pate," I said, offering my hand to a short, very sweaty man, whose uniform barely stretched over the expansive girth of his stomach. His shirt buttons had to work harder here than I thought their manufacturer had intended.
"Let me see your club," said the sheriff. "I had the same problem last year. I'll show you how I fixed it."
I didn't want to give him my club. It was a five-hundred-dollar titanium wood, with a graphite shaft and a custom Winn Contour grip. Three weeks of my paycheck at Palm Lakes had gone to pay for it. Even worse than lending him the club would be listening to his advice. It astonished me how the worst golfers considered themselves experts when it came to telling someone else what was wrong with her game. I sure didn't need a head full of Sheriff Pate's silly tips as I teed off on Tuesday. But I was in no position to quibble. I passed him the nine-wood.
"You're taking it away like this," he said, demonstrating an ugly baseball swing. "You want to hold it out here, so you don't end up comin' outside in. That's where you get your slice." I nodded. He took a couple of big cuts with my club, ugly and fast. "Let's try her out." The ball he hit barely cleared the grass, starting out right and curving almost ninety degrees before it hit the ground and bounced to a halt.
The sheriff scowled and inspected the club head. "I hope you didn't pay too much for this. The balance is all off. But you get the general idea."
"Hard to hit them straight with a girl's club." I hoped I could suppress a powerful urge to laugh in his face.
"So. You're the little gal they think offed that head-shrinker." He handed me my club.
"No." I wiped the sheriff's sweat off the grip of the nine-wood. "I'm the one who found him after he'd been shot."
"You don't 'specially look like a cold-blooded killer." He hitched his trousers up until they almost covered the stretch of stomach and undershirt that had escaped while he swung.
"I didn't—"
"Maybe a crime of passion," said the sheriff. "Yeah, that looks like more your style. Say you asked the doctor out for a drink and he says he's married. Then you don't want to take no for an answer so you push harder and he still says no. So you shoot 'im. Maybe you didn't think it out ahead of time, you're just hot-blooded, that's all." His eyes swept over my entire body, stopping to linger on my chest and just below my waist. "Or maybe he didn't say no. Those doctors all have couches in their offices, don't they? Just waiting for the pretty girls. Then he felt bad later about acting unprofessional and called off the whole thing. And then you shot 'im."
"I did not know the man." I spoke the words slowly, as if to a very young child or a mentally retarded person, trying to hold the fury and fear out of my voice.
He continued on as if I'd said nothing. "We know it couldn't have been a professional job. No hired gun worth his salt is gonna shoot some guy in the throat. Too messy, first of all. Second, might not really finish the job. Guy could talk or signal something on his way out. Know what I'm sayin'?"
What was he saying? It was hard to tell from his demeanor whether he considered me a serious suspect or just enjoyed playing with me, knowing he had me trapped. "I guess maybe I don't know what you mean," I said.
"I mean, if you didn't shoot 'im, chances are, the fellow that did thinks you know who did it. Get what I'm sayin' now?"
"I'm in trouble either way," I said. "Either I killed a man, or else the guy who did might be looking for me. Might think I know more than I do."
He nodded. "I'm sayin' watch your back, darlin'."
"Do you think this will get wrapped up soon?"
"We're tryin', little gal." Then he winked. "What kind of driver you hittin'?"
"I don't use a driver," I said. "I tee off with a three-wood."
"That so. Hope you get that shank thing worked out, then. You're going to need one hell of a short game." He grinned and walked away.
I packed up and left the range as soon as Sheriff Pate's squad car pulled away. I planned to stop at the Publix supermarket I'd passed on the way to the club, buy a few staples to stock my kitchenette, and retreat to the motel. From there, my plan consisted of blotting out my mounting anxiety with bad TV sitcoms and a six-pack of Busch beer.
I browsed the frozen food section in Publix and selected black bean burritos, well within my budget at three for a dollar. Then I moved to the produce section for a few bananas. Becky, of the postcard-to-Daddy fame, was there with her mother, who pushed a shopping cart loaded with strawberries, yams, melons, and broccoli. Sure, rub it in. Mommy was going to serve home-cooked meals all week so Becky didn't get gas or otherwise feel uncomfortable as she stood over her important putts. I glanced down at the frozen lumps in my carry basket, then abandoned them in front of the beer cooler and checked out with just the Busch. Screw the budget, microwaving frozen burritos would be too depressing.
More than anything, I wished for the familiarity of Chili-Dippers. Maybe the regulars I hung with were a peculiar bunch of misfits, maybe some of them even further out than odd. But sitting on the fourth barstool from the end would feel more like home right now than anyplace else I could name. I drove by a branch of the chain restaurant Chili's. That would have to do. The name was close enough, and I knew I could get comfort food, even if it wasn't hush puppies and Calabash seafood. In the bar, I took the fourth seat from the entrance to the kitchen. When my Corona arrived, I squeezed in a wedge of lime and sat back to watch the other customers.
A crowd of blue-hairs who'd taken advantage of the early bird special was leaving, replaced by young couples starting their Saturday night fun with a Chili's happy hour. A waitress dressed in jeans and a red golf shirt presented herself next to me. "Hi, my name is Cindi! I'll be taking care of you tonight."
Damn, that sounded good. Though I knew she didn't mean taking care of what I really needed—reassurance that I belonged here and that everything would turn out just fine. Instead, I consoled myself by ordering fried chicken and mashed potatoes with cream gravy—heavy on fat and carbohydrates. It might not make any coach's list for a desirable training meal, but it was the closest I could get to South Carolina low-country cuisine.
I watched Cindi work the room. She was adorable— her appeal centered mostly in the smile, the dimples, and a heartfelt solicitousness that seemed wasted at Chili's. I doubted she had a single thought about golf or murder on her mind, and she was the happier for it. If I bombed out this week, maybe Chili's was hiring. Realistically, though, I lacked the dimples and, more importantly, the sincere and sunny concern for the well-being of random customers.
Halfway into my second Corona, I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts, Cassie. You're looking very serious tonight. As well as lovely, I cannot help but add," said Gary Rupert. It took me just a moment to recognize him, then I felt a rush of relief and gratitude for a familiar face. Any familiar face.
"You startled me," I said. "I didn't expect to see anyone I knew in here. Have a seat. You're down here to watch Kaitlin?"
"I'm her caddie," said Gary. "I thought you knew that."
"Lucky her," I said. "You don't see my brother out here with me." I felt disloyal even mentioning Charlie. He supported me the best he could, considering his own pressure-cooker career as junior partner in a big D.C. law firm. "How'd you get the time off?"
"At the moment, I've got all the time in the world," he said. "I made the mistake of signing on with a dot-com last year. They did a great selling job—I was going to make a million before I hit thirty-five. Instead, they hit the skids and I'm on the street."
"Sore subject, I guess. But good timing for Kaitlin."
We chatted about our respective trips down and places we'd found to stay. The Ruperts had rented a condo on the Bobcat's eighteenth fairway—"Kaitlin wanted to be close in," Gary explained. He looked hard at me. "How are you holding up?"
I sighed. "Rough day."
"Practice didn't go well?"
"There's that, though I hardly got any in, really. The worst is this business about Bencher's murder." I told him about my meeting with Sheriff Pate.
"So he thinks the murderer might believe you know something about how Bencher was killed?" I nodded. "Like what?"
"Like maybe Bencher said something identifying his attacker before he died and I heard him. That's what my shrink friend Joe Lancaster thinks, too."
"Did he say something?"
I shrugged. "I don't think so. It was just a bunch of horrible gasps and gurgles as far as I could tell. And I've explained all that to the police several times."
"Maybe Pate was just blowing smoke up your ass, enjoyed seeing you squirm." He half-patted, half-rubbed my knee.
"Quite possible," I said. "The more rattled I felt, the more cheerful he seemed."
"Was there anything else unusual about Bencher's office? Besides a dying headshrinker, I mean."
I chuckled and thought back to the scene. "It was a mess—papers strewn everywhere. I caught hell when I started to clean things up. I know it was dumb. It was strictly instinct."
"Or your mother's excellent training," said Gary. "So did you see anything there?"
I shrugged again. "I don't think so." I laughed. "Maybe if they put me through hypnosis, all this important subconscious stuff would come out. On the other hand, could be you'd just hear gibberish about how Mom didn't play classical music when she was pregnant with me or some other stupid psychobabble."
"Couple of beers here," Gary called to the bartender. "The police seem eager to relate this problem to Kaitlin's lawsuit. But from everything I've heard, Bencher was like a heat-seeking missile when it came to controversy."
"That's what my friend Joe says," I told Gary. "He
promised he'd ask around the shrink circles and see what dirt he could turn up."
"Sounds awfully distracting, this bullshit. Let me know if I can help." He patted my knee again and smiled. " Kaitlin's not really so bad, you know," he added. "She's just mega-insecure. In her mind, everyone's a threat. Especially a woman as talented and attractive as you."
His hand brushed a little farther up my thigh, maybe accidental, maybe not. In any case, the combination of alcohol, Gary's concern and compliments, and the feel of his touch on my leg was surprisingly pleasant. I tried to think why I'd been so definite about refusing a date with him ten years ago. Just a dumb, shallow teenager, I decided. Drawing conclusions based on how clear someone's complexion was or how many touchdowns they scored. Attributes which didn't mean too much at this stage of life. Then I decided that if he touched my leg again, even farther up the thigh, I would not remove his hand.
Kaitlin's arrival at the bar truncated any further development. She had her Deikon rep in tow, radiating an odd combination of testosterone and bonhomie.
"I hope I'm not interrupting something," she said. The unpleasant curl of her lip suggested the opposite.
"Hi, sis," said Gary. "I'd just about given up on you. I'm starving. Have you met Walter Moore, Cassie?"
"Yo." My hand disappeared briefly into the Deikon equipment hunk's fleshy palm.
"Want to join us for dinner?" said Gary.
One quick look at the expression on Kaitlin's face made it clear just how unwelcome I would be at the Rupert dinner party. "I'll stay where I am, thanks. I'm sure my order's just about ready to come up," I said. "How'd you make out today, Kaitlin? Hit 'em straight?" That said just for the annoyance value of making her acknowledge my presence.
"Just fine."
"It's common courtesy to ask, 'And you?' " Gary said.
"And you?" she said, her voice telegraphing controlled disdain.
"I've got a small case of the shanks," I said. "Nothing that should affect your appetite, though. Have a good dinner." If I was lucky, my mention of the forbidden s-word would worm its way into Kaitlin's superstitious golfer's psyche.
Gary patted my back and followed his sister, Walter the hunk, and perky Cindi into the dining room. I dug into the food the bartender deposited in front of me, eager now to clean my plate and return to the solitude of my room. Sooner I could get to sleep, sooner I'd have the chance to put all this out of my mind.
Three women I thought I recognized from the golf course walked by me on their way into the restaurant. "Are you here for Q-school?" asked the last one through. "You look familiar."
"Cassie Burdette." I offered her my hand. "I think we met a couple years ago at the NCAA tournament in Alabama."
"Mary Morrison," the girl said. "And these are Adele Simpson and Eve Darling. We noticed you having a little chat with our favorite golfer."
"Best thing you can do there is ignore the bitch," said Eve.
"Sounds like you all know her pretty well," I said, laughing.
"Futures Tour," said Mary. "She's a legend in her own mind. Come on, bring your plate and your beer and sit with us."
After ordering their drinks and dinner, the three women began to describe their experiences with Kaitlin.
"To put it bluntly," began Adele, "she's insufferable."
"Don't you guys live in the same town?" asked Eve. "You're not distant relations or anything?"
"Oh, please," I said. "Spare me that. Unfortunately, we do both come from Myrtle Beach. And I wouldn't mind having her talent off the tee, but any similarity stops there."
Mary laughed. "She hasn't made a lot of friends out on Futures. If she wins, she's unbearable. When she loses, she's worse."
"The only things she's really interested in talking about are her golf game and this false memory business," said Adele. "We're people, too. Even if you don't want to be best friends, you could at least make a little conversation. How're you doing? Where're you from? Are you married or happy?" I laughed, thinking of Gary insisting that Kait-lin ask about my day.
"It's worse than that," said Eve. "She's mean. Things don't go her way, she lashes out at whoever's in her path."
"And don't forget calling people on obscure rules in the USGA book. She's called girls on teeing up ahead of the markers, using tees as ball-markers, the two-ball rule, you name it. She's never heard of giving the benefit of the doubt," added Adele.
"The low point was a match play tournament when Kaitlin's opponent chipped in for bird and Kaitlin insisted she replay the shot because she was away," said Eve. "By the letter of the law, she was correct, but the spirit was mean. It really took the heart out of the girl she was playing."
"She's always correct," said Mary. "But what gets to you is the steady drip, drip, drip of her self-righteousness. Most of us avoid her like the plague."
"Except for Julie," corrected Eve.
"Who's Julie?" I asked.
"It's a long story," said Mary. "Short version, Julie At-water seems to be Kaitlin's new best friend. Long version, we think Kaitlin talked her into accusing her own father of incest a couple of months ago."
"I'm confused," I said. "Kaitlin got Julie involved with this stuff several months ago? I thought she just filed the suit against Coach Rupert last week?"
"The lawsuit is new," said Eve, "but the accusations against her father are not."
"Next thing we knew," said Mary, "Julie's wondering if she's a lesbian. You'll probably see her dad this week. He's been picketing every stop we've made for the last couple months. He's got the girls in the Bible study group in a tizzy over this, too. Julie used to hang with the Bible thumpers; now the group doesn't speak to her at all."
"Is her father that Leviticus guy?" I asked.
"You know this dude?"
"I saw him marching outside Kaitlin's shrink's office last week in Myrtle Beach." It occurred to me that these girls might wonder why I was that familiar with a shrink complex. "It was big news in the Myrtle Beach paper," I added quickly. "First Kaitlin filed her lawsuit and then the psychiatrist was murdered. I couldn't figure out why a Bible thumper was picketing there. So he blames that psychiatrist for his daughter's problems?"
"From what I heard, Kaitlin set Julie up for a consultation with her doctor. That's when the trouble started."
"What a mess." I sighed, more than ready to change the subject. "Have any of you played the courses yet?"
"The Panther's a bitch," said Adele. "I really hope I get it over with the first day."
"The good news is you only have to play it once," said Eve.
"Yeah, but once around the Panther's Claw is plenty."
As I finished my beer, the girls joked about their practice round earlier in the day. I suddenly felt exhausted. Some girls liked to socialize the whole time they were here at Q-school, distract themselves from what otherwise might feel like unbearable pressure. I was glad to have made the acquaintance of some friendly faces, but at the same time, I felt desperate to get off by myself and regroup. I hoped for an inspirational and sexy phone message from Jack Wolfe. I also wanted to talk to Joe. I just wasn't sure I was quite ready to forgive his defection.