Authors: Roberta Isleib
The remainder of the round flew by without incident. A simple par on ten, a splendid birdie on eleven involving a seven-wood out of the fairway bunker and a long downhill putt from the back of the green. On the par-three fifteenth, I took a free drop away from mole cricket damage on my short drive and chipped in for bird from the improved lie. Maria's face told it all—a hearty disapproval for my taking full advantage of the local rule. Or was it anger at her own miserable display of putting? Whatever the facts of her inner turmoil, the fight appeared to have drained out of her after her tantrum on the eighth tee.
A small crowd gathered as we approached the eighteenth green. I remembered the scene I'd pantomimed in the moonlight before the tournament started. I executed a close approximation of the drive and approach shot I'd imagined, and just missed the long birdie putt. The spectators who waited under the shade of the live oak clapped enthusiastically as we walked off the green.
"A sixty-eight, you animal! You shot a sixty-eight!" yelled Laura. She picked me up and whirled me around until I begged to be released. I couldn't stop smiling. The sixty-eight, which threatened my best score ever in competition, meant an express ride away from the rock-bottom position where I'd started the morning.
A reporter gestured to me as I entered the roped-off scoring area. "Could you stop by the press tent when you're done here? We'd like to talk to you a few minutes about your round."
"Never thought I'd hear those words," I told Laura.
"They may get more than they bargained for," said Laura. "You don't have to describe every shot."
"Lay off, it's my fifteen minutes. Let me bask a little."
By the time we reached the press area, four reporters were shouting questions at a member of Deikon Manufacturing's brain trust. Which is to say, not Walter Moore.
"We are well aware that our equipment did not meet USGA specifications regarding the coefficient of restitution," he said. "For the layman, excuse me, layperson, that means the club's face did have a springlike effect due to the construction of its layers. In other words, it will fly one hell of a lot farther than anything else out there on the market."
He laughed, then cleared his throat solemnly. It appeared that he, too, was enjoying his short burst of fame. "In fact, however, this club had not yet been released, or should I say, unleashed, on the public." Another grin broke through, then he recomposed his serious expression. "We regret that our marketing representative did not follow company policy when he allowed the piece of equipment to be utilized ahead of its scheduled release date. He has been relieved from employment with our company." Poor Walter. The golf gods were really piling it on.
"Are you aware that the club was used to murder a golfer yesterday?"
Definitely a marketing nightmare.
The Deikon representative frowned. "We deeply regret Ms. Rupert's death and extend our sincere sympathy to her family. Otherwise, I have no further comment." He ducked under the ropes and stalked away from the press tent. The reporters turned to me.
"How was it out there today?" asked the reporter from the
Herald-Tribune.
Kind of a dumb question, but almost an obligatory opening for most golf interviews, and one I was delighted to answer.
"After the first few holes, I started to have fun, even though I left a few birdie opportunities on the course. But overall, my swing felt good, like I was hitting the sweet spot. Wow, what a time for that to happen!" Who was this talking? The reporters laughed with me.
"Maria Renda had a rough day. How did that affect your round?" asked the reporter.
"Yeah, she struggled." I searched for something non-confrontational to say. Truth was, on top of nearly sending my best friend to the great golf course in the sky with her temper tantrum, she'd been a royal pain in the ass. And here was my chance to let her have it. On the other hand, the women's golf world was a small community, and I did not need to juice up the intensity of her bitterness. "I've been there. I tried not to think too much about her. Just play my game while I had it rolling."
"Any thoughts about how you'll handle tomorrow's round?"
"Fairways and greens, then roll in some putts," I said. "Is that a brilliant plan or what?" The men laughed again. I was beginning to like this public relations business.
Just then Laura approached and tapped me on the shoulder. "The memorial service has started. I hate to interrupt your chance to wax on about the high points of your round, but..."
I thanked the reporters for taking the time to talk to me and we jogged back toward the clubhouse. There, the reality of the upcoming service was enough to subdue my euphoria.
"Keep your eyes open," I said to Laura. "In all the murder mystery movies, the killers always show up at the funeral. Maybe they have some twisted need to check out the results of their handiwork. I'm certain Joe could explain it."
A somber crowd had gathered near the putting green, where Kaitlin's makeshift memorial service was in progress. A sprinkling of the players had already begun to weep, their brightly colored golf clothes contrasting with their tears. TV personnel from Sarasota Channel 10 News murmured into their microphones, no doubt describing the scene to their viewers. The conspicuous presence of ten or so sheriff's deputies around the perimeter of the small assembly reminded all of us that Kaitlin's death was both unnatural and unresolved.
"Today, we celebrate the life of Kaitlin Rupert," said a minister in black cloak and clerical collar who stood next to Gary and his parents. Mrs. Rupert sagged into the consoling arms of her son and husband. The grim set of Gary's mouth reflected the sadness of the moment, sadness that would linger in the weeks, months, and years to come.
"A beautiful young life was taken from us yesterday, prompting us to remember that we do not always understand the mysterious ways of God. Jesus was no stranger to grief. He told us: 'In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.' " An edgy, lonely feeling filtered through me as I listened to the preacher's words.
"I'm going to look around a bit," I whispered to Laura. "I see Jeanine on the other side—I want to say hello. I'll meet you later at the car."
I needed to move around, and not just to scan the crowd for murder suspects or chat with Jeanine. A lapsed Presbyterian, I was just no good with death. I wished I had the unquestioning beliefs of my Catholic friends from childhood: go to church, take Communion, confess your sins, and presto, you had a place reserved in heaven. That kind of blueprint could take the sting out of dying. But much as I wanted to believe it, I didn't. I couldn't get the picture of Kaitlin lying cold and lifeless on the ground out of my mind. Or worse yet, incinerated to a handful of ashes and stashed in some hideous, but pricey piece of pottery. Maybe you'd expect it when someone old died— that was the natural order of things. But with a person like Kaitlin, so young and full of expectations for her life ... well, even if she'd been annoying as hell while still alive, her death cast a shadow that blurred all the edges of what I could understand.
A representative from the administrative office of the Futures Tour introduced herself to the crowd. "We did not have Kaitlin with us long," she said. "Yet she left behind many strong memories of her short career."
In the present circumstances, that seemed like a safe enough generalization. I spotted Julie Atwater standing with a cluster of golfers. She leaned against one of them, tears leaking from under her dark glasses and down her face. Why was she still here? If I'd missed the cut yesterday, as she had, I would have been gone, baby, gone. Plantation Golf and Country Club a speck in my rearview mirror. Maybe she had left, then returned when she heard the news about Kaitlin's murder.
The minister led the crowd in a unison recitation of the Twenty-third Psalm. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me ...," I mumbled.
This was the other part that stunk about death. Each time someone I knew died, all the other sadness from my life piggybacked on the recent one. Just now, I had Coach Rupert's unexpected advice about my father fresh in my mind. I struggled to push back the memory of watching Dad's truck vanish down Cherry Lane, only black smoke from his cracked muffler and a fine silt of dust left behind. As I wiped my tears on my shirtsleeve, Jeanine tapped my shoulder.
"Hey, Cassie," she said.
"Hey."
"This is really hard. I didn't even know her, but I feel awful about this." I nodded, another tear running down my cheek.
"Gosh," she said. "I didn't realize you felt that close to her."
I shrugged, deciding it would be both too complicated and beyond rude to explain that my grief was really for fatalities in my own past, not for Kaitlin. The minister read a final blessing and the crowd began to disperse.
"Are you busy later?" I said. "Why don't you join Laura and Joe and me for dinner—meet us sometime around seven at the Starlight?" I gave her a quick hug and headed back to the car, where I'd planned to catch up with Laura.
"I need a nap," she said. "I've got a big goose egg and a headache to match."
"Can you find a ride home? I wanted to try to catch Tom Reilly, the publicity guy, before he leaves. Ask him a few questions about So Won Lee."
I snaked my way through the cars in the parking lot toward the LPGA office. In the row closest to the clubhouse, I saw the Deikon honcho unlocking the door to his SUV. "Excuse me," I called and trotted over to his vehicle. "I'm Cassie Burdette, one of the golfers. I've been very impressed with your equipment this week,"
The Deikon man smiled and shook my hand. "We're always pleased to find a new customer. Did you have a good day today?" He perked up when I told him about my sixty-eight.
"I'm going to need woods and irons," I said. The rep's face crinkled into an even wider smile. "Who should I contact about trying some clubs? I take it Walter Moore's on the way out."
"He's out, not just on the way out. I'll give you my card, you can call me at headquarters," he said.
"How long did Walter work for you? It must have been a shock when all this happened."
"A couple years," answered the rep, his smile gone now. "I warned my boss not to hire him."
"You predicted trouble?"
"It didn't take a brain surgeon," said the rep. "A guy comes to you with work experience as a bouncer and a used car salesman, plus a manslaughter charge in his curriculum vitae. You be the judge."
"A manslaughter charge?"
"I have to get back," said the rep, sliding into his front seat. "Give me a buzz and I'll be sure you get fitted for those clubs. I can't promise we'll sponsor you, but a sixty-eight is a darned good start." He winked and slammed the door shut.
I continued on to the LPGA office and found Tom, alone, typing furiously on his laptop. "Give me a minute," he said. "I need to send out the quotes from today's round. I see from your interview that you hit the sweet spot."
I laughed and wandered back out into the hall to peruse the players' bulletin board. The Bible study notice and list of nonconforming drivers were still posted. The Fairway Bruiser brouhaha continued to puzzle me. Why would Kaitlin Rupert have put the illegal club in the Korean golfer's bag? Was the elimination of So Won both from Q-school and Walter Moore's elite stable of sponsored golfers worth the risk Kaitlin would have been taking?
I tried to picture the scene around the building where the carts were stored, where she could have tampered with So Won's golf bag. There would have been a crowd of milling golfers, as well as volunteer expediters, and club personnel tending to the carts. Easy enough to slip the driver into someone's bag, presuming you weren't caught in the act by its owner.
Then it occurred to me that So Won's golf bag looked a lot like Kaitlin's Deikon monster—dark green plaid with brown leather piping, and a forest of expensive woods sprouting from the lip. Maybe someone had intended to place the club in
Kaitlin's
bag and chose So Won's by mistake. Standing behind So Won's bag, an observer might not have noticed that the Deikon logo was missing. And I could make a long list of girls who might have enjoyed seeing Kaitlin knocked on her ass for breaking a USGA rule. In fact, there'd be a catfight to get top billing.
"I'm ready for you, Cassie," said Tom Reilly, poking his head out into the hallway. "How can I help? I hope you're not here to complain about your write-up—it's already been e-mailed to headquarters and posted on the website."
"I'm sure it's fine," I told him. "I'm just curious about So Won Lee."
"That was a darned shame," said Tom. "From what I saw, she was a nice girl, and a nice player."
"I know you can't show me her profile," I said. "But could you look it over and tell me if you see anything unusual, anything that might possibly connect her to Kait-lin's murder?"
He brought out a thick notebook containing the profiles from the entire Q-school field. Mine would be there, too. Husband, no. Children, none. Hobbies, none I cared to make public. Organic gardening made me sound like a dork, and I didn't want someone goading me to perform hot licks on a banjo I hadn't touched in years. Lowest score ever, sixty-five, Palm Lakes Golf Course, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Lowest score in competition, sixty-eight, Seminole Golf Course, Tallahassee, Florida— a flat, wide-open layout that took some of the bragging rights out of the number. If I had planned on playing here next year, I'd be able to replace that score with today's round. Teachers or individuals having influenced your career—this blank was remarkable only for the absence of my father's name.
Tom interrupted my thoughts to read from So Won's page in the notebook. "She was born and raised in Korea, has been playing on the Futures Tour this year, enjoys time with her family, shot a sixty-two at her home course in Seoul, sixty-three this year at the Lincoln Futures Golf Classic in Avon, Connecticut. I don't really know what you're looking for, there's no question asking whether you'd cheat or kill somebody to make it onto the LPGA Tour. Point is, she didn't need to do either. You could see from her scores the past two days, she's one of the ones who's going to make it. Unless this whole illegal golf club affair brings her down."
"I hope not," I said. "Thanks anyway, for looking."
"You might try speaking with Jung Hyun Ro—she's the gal who does most of So Won's translating. I saw her earlier on the range."