Three hours later, the pair, followed by their small, but supportive gallery arrived at the eighteenth fairway. Jake had again driven two balls onto the narrow uphill fairway, both barely missing a large sand bunker that was set off to their left. Up ahead, Marc noticed there was a thick stand of pine trees behind the bunker that extended to within twenty yards of the green. Three sets of long metal bleachers had been constructed at the back of the green for patrons to sit and observe as the players finished their rounds. A large scoreboard was positioned between the thick section of trees and the green, allowing the contestants as well as the gallery to observe each player’s position as the round progressed.
Marc estimated the distance from Jake’s second shot to the center of the green was about 185 yards. “What do you think, eight iron?”
Jake nodded as Marc handed him the club.
“Thwack,” Marc watched as Jake’s ball drew slightly to the left and with a single bounce, stopped at the front portion of the green.
“Provided there’s no wind, I think that would be the club of choice, keeping the ball below the hole,” Jake said and handed the club to Marc.
“You wanna try another?”
“Sure, give me the seven,” Jake replied.
When Marc handed him the club, he noticed a movement in the trees up ahead, which he suspected was probably a few golf patrons taking in some of the action.
“Thwack. “ Jake’s ball again curved slightly to the left and this time landed at the back of the green. “Leaves me a downhill putt, unless, like you say, there’s wind in our face.”
Both Laura and Ann Marie approved with another cheer.
When the pair approached the green, they noticed that it indeed sloped slightly upwards from front to back. Marc again referred to the course yardage book to locate the possible flag, or pin placements for the first two days of the tournament. Jake took his time lining up his putts before sinking them with the standard two strokes for pars.
Having finished their first eighteen practice holes Marc noticed there was another twosome standing in the fairway with their caddies patiently waiting for them to leave the green. Marc and Jake joined Laura and Ann Marie who were standing just outside the ropes. As they left in the direction of the clubhouse, Marc glanced to where he’d noticed movement in the trees just minutes before, but now, all he saw were the tops of the pine trees, swaying in the gentle breeze. Apparently no one was interested in following a little known amateur.
After returning to the driving range and depositing Jake’s clubs in the member’s bag storage, they left the grounds of the Savannah River Golf Links then headed back to Aiken and their hotel. Although the day was just a practice round, Marc was impressed with Jake’s play and felt certain he was capable of completing the course below par and told him so. Ann Marie was excited to hear how well Jake had done.
Laura didn’t seem so sure, however. “Unlike some, I’ve had the advantage of following my son’s career in competitive golf for the past two years. I’ve seen what he is capable of, especially during tournament. Doing well in a practice round is one thing. It’s success under pressure that counts.”
Were he and Ann Marie the “some” Laura was referring to, Marc thought? Laura’s statement confirmed what he had suspected. The woman was more than a perfectionist, she seemed driven to the point of compulsion. Apparently, failure was not an option for Laura McKay, and Marc was beginning to fear that Ann Marie might be putting herself into a situation she could regret down the road.
Chapter Six
When they arrived back at the hotel, Ann Marie asked if anyone wanted to join her and Jake for a walk through the center of town to do some window shopping.
Marc suspected the couple really wanted a few moments alone and Ann Marie was asking out of courtesy.
“When do you expect to return?” Laura asked, glancing at her watch.
“Depends. If it’s all the same, we thought we’d look for a diner, somewhere for a light supper.”
“Sounds good. Mind if I tag along?” Marc asked.
“Sure thing, Mr. La… I mean, Marc,” Jake replied, then glanced at his mom with a questioning look.
Laura sighed, “Why don’t you all go ahead. I still have some unpacking to do. Just don’t be all evening. You have another long day of practice tomorrow.”
Marc watched as she exited the vehicle and walked through the hotel’s main entrance.
“Jake, when you get back, let’s plan on going over the notes I made today in preparation for tomorrow’s round.”
“Where are you going, Dad? I thought you were coming with us?” Ann Marie asked.
“I think you two would rather be alone, besides, there’s something I want to check out. I’ll see you later.”
“Okay, Dad. See you after supper then,” Ann Marie said with a light giggle as she and Jake drifted off in the direction of the city center.
Marc turned and headed toward Whiskey Road, the main drag leading from the older section of town past a row of stately homes surrounded by brick fences and crepe myrtle trees. Fifteen minutes later he found what he was looking for, The Palm Tree Golf Club. A sign in front of the building said, “Private.” Marc had read about The Palm Tree Golf Club and knew that it had its beginnings a few years before the Savannah River Golf Links in Augusta was founded.
Passing the sign, he entered the club house through its front entrance. Marc wasn’t there to make a tee time and, rather than stopping at the check-in counter, he made his way to the interior of the clubhouse. He was immediately impressed by the collection of club memorabilia that adorned the walls of its history room. He found a plethora of photos of past members of the club, plus those of Presidents Eisenhower and Taft, actors Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby as well as notable golfers, Ben Hogan, Byron Nelson and Sam Snead.
As Marc was perusing the array of artifacts, he heard the old wooden floor creak behind him. He turned and saw an elderly gentleman sauntering into the room. Marc looked over at the man and nodded. “You work here?” he asked.
“Well, you could say that, ‘cept I don’t get paid. Guess that makes me a volunteer of sorts,” the old man answered with just a hint of a southern drawl.
The old fellow looked like he’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. His wire-rimmed spectacles covered a pair of intense blue eyes, and were perched precariously on the end of his nose. He wore a paisley bow tie that was obviously hand tied and was slightly askew at a 10-4 angle.
Those are the eyes of someone who pays attention to things that matter, Marc thought.
“I’ve heard about your collection. Thought I’d like to see it for myself,” Marc said.
“Yeah, as you can imagine, it’s taken a few years to compile. Go ahead and look around. I’ll be out behind the check-in desk if you have any questions,” he said and started to turn away.
“Tell me, I’ve heard that this course and the Savannah River Golf Links in Augusta share a bit of history,” Marc said.
The old fellow stopped and turned, “In fact, it does. Of course, The Palm Tree Golf Club has been around a little longer. Why do you ask?”
“I’m caddying for an amateur at the Monarch Tournament this week and I’m kinda new at caddying. Actually I’m just doing the kid a favor and I was hoping I could pick up a few pointers on how to advise my young friend on what to expect while playing the Savannah River course.”
The old guy scratched his head and gave Marc a light smile. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. You got a few minutes?”
“Sure do.” Marc said, extending his hand as he introduced himself. “My name’s Marc LaRose.”
The old man took Marc’s hand. “Ned, Ned Bunker. Most people just call me Ned. The Club’s put up with me hanging around here, for the past forty years.”
Marc heard the front door open. When he looked over, he saw a middle-aged man and a teen-aged boy enter and head for the check-in counter. The boy was carrying a small golf bag containing a few
clubs.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, Mr. LaRose, I just have to get these fellas taken care of,” Ned said, and ambled off toward the newcomers.
“Like I said, I’m in no hurry,” Marc said, then continued to peruse the walls of memorabilia.
“Hey Ned, we were hoping we could get in a few holes today,” Marc heard the man say.
“Sure thing. It’s kinda slow right now, Mr. Osbon. This your grandson?”
“My nephew, actually. Visiting from Charleston. He’s in town to watch the Monarch Golf Tournament. Tim, say hello to Ned. Ned’s the club’s main man here.”
“Hello, Mr. Ned,” the boy said.
“Glad to meet you, Tim,” Ned replied. “Should be no problem, Mr. Osbon. I’ll have Bill retrieve your clubs from the bag room and set them on a cart for you.”
“Thanks, Ned.”
Marc heard the screen door slam shut as Osbon and his nephew left through a side door that led to the first tee.
“Jim Osbon’s a life-long member. I remember when he first joined the club thirty years ago,” Ned said.
“You still golf much?” Marc asked.
“Me? Oh, I chip and putt around a little, mostly on the practice green. Occasionally, I’ll go for a ride in one of the golf carts, but my back won’t let me to take a full swing.”
Both men remained quiet for a moment.
“So, how about the Savannah River Golf Links? Are there any secrets you can share about the course?” Marc asked.
Ned hesitated as he seemed to consider Marc’s query. “Well, you gotta be good, damn good to win there, and that’s just for starters. Then you gotta be patient. It’s a tough track. Even the best are gonna make mistakes, especially the rookies like your young friend. What’d you say his name was?”
“Jake McKay. He was runner-up at the U.S. Amateur in Pinehurst which qualified him to get into the field for the Monarch Tournament,” Marc replied.
“Well, that should make him good enough, all right. But how come you’re his caddy? Usually kids who get as far as this Jake has gotten have their own.”
“Apparently, he doesn’t have a big desire in turning professional, at least not yet. His main interest is business. Guess I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, plus, he and my daughter are an item.”
“An ‘Item’?” Ned said with a confused look.
“Yeah, uh, they’re dating, you know, going together.”
“I see,” Ned said, again scratching his head as he seemed to think about Marc’s question. “Well, if there is any one thing I can say that might help, would be that if you and Jake are unsure which way a putt will break, nine out of ten times, it will break toward the river.”
“Toward the Savannah River?” Marc asked.
“It’s the only one around. For some unknown reason, that river, running southeast towards the Atlantic the way it does, seems to pull the ball toward it, even on a flat lie. Of course, you have to remember you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Mum’s the word,” Marc said, as he thought about what Ned had told him. Just then, the front door opened and another man entered.
“Hey, Ned. I was hoping to get in nine holes today. Any chance?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Simmons,” Ned replied, obviously acquainted with this new arrival. “Jim Osbon and his nephew left a few minutes ago. I think they just teed off.”
“Maybe I could catch up and join them. I doubt that Jim would mind.”
“Where’s Mr. Saylor? He’s your regular Tuesday partner. Not feeling well?” Ned asked.
“Zach? Yeah, well, his wife called the house and left a message. Said he had some kind of accident at work. Doubt it’s anything serious. What could happen at a place where they make PVC irrigation pipes?”
“Yeah, see what you mean. Good luck catching up with Mr. Osbon. At any rate, have a good round,” Ned said as this new arrival left the clubhouse.
When Ned returned to where Marc was standing, he said, “Look, Mr. LaRose, as you know, this is a private club, but with your situation, caddying for someone playing in the Monarch Golf Tournament, I’m sure the members wouldn’t mind if you wanted to play a round here sometime.
“Thanks, Ned. That’s very generous. I’ll keep that in mind.” Marc glanced at his watch. “Guess I should be heading back to the hotel. I’m sure my daughter will be wondering where her old man has wandered off to.”
“Alright, but if you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to stop by. I’m usually around during the day and always have time to share what I know, especially if it will help an amateur.”
“Thanks, Ned. I appreciate that.” With a wave, Marc left the clubhouse and headed back toward Whiskey Road. Taking his time, Marc retraced his steps down Aiken’s main thoroughfare with a heavy stream of traffic passing by the otherwise idyllic residential setting. He thought about the information he had gleaned from Ned and how it could help him as Jake’s caddy. But as he walked along there was something niggling at him. Something he had heard while in the clubhouse. He hadn’t been there very long, but it was like an itch you get, then it leaves you before you have a chance to scratch it.
Wonder what the kids are up to? He thought. The itch was gone.
Chapter Seven
The following morning Laura again drove the foursome to Augusta for Jake’s second practice round. Unlike the day before, the check-in routine was expected to go much smoother. Jake’s scheduled tee time wasn’t until eleven o’clock.
As they were crossing the Savannah River on I-20 into Georgia, Ann Marie asked, “So Dad, yesterday afternoon while we were downtown, you headed off. Said you wanted to check out something. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“If you must know, I went over to The Palm Tree Golf Club.”
“Like you didn’t have enough golf, caddying for Jake for over four hours, you needed to look at another golf course?” Ann Marie asked.
“The Palm Tree Golf Club was designed by the same guy who set up Savannah River Golf Links. I thought by checking out The Palm Tree course, I might learn what the two had in common.”
“And what did you learn?” she asked.
“Other than the fact that both courses had the same designer, probably not much. But, I don’t think the visit was totally for naught, however.”
“Oh?” she questioned.
“The old guy behind the counter invited me and Jake to play a round. I don’t think we’ll have the time to do that, but I thought it was nice of him to make the offer.”
As Marc turned to look at his daughter, he caught Laura rolling her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Laura. You disapprove?”
She remained quiet for a long moment as the SUV’s tires thumped rhythmically over the breaks in the pavement. “My son needs a caddy, someone who will give him advice on how to win a golf tournament, not arranging for free play at a secondary golf course.”
“Sorry you feel that way. My intention in going there was not to find a place to play. We already have that. I went there thinking I might learn something, and I believe I did. Just like any business, it doesn’t hurt to check out the area and introduce yourself to the locals.”
“Whatever,” she said, dismissively.
“Mom, I have to agree with Marc,” Jake said. “Yesterday, we worked well together. He only gave me advice when I asked for it. Then after a full day of practice, he went out on his own to conduct some research. I’ve never had anyone do that for me.”
Marc could see Laura was not happy with her son’s comment, but at least she didn’t repeat the eye roll.
“We’ll see,” she said.
Laura exited the interstate at the Washington Street turnoff. Though the tournament traffic was heavy, the obvious police presence provided an orderly flow. For the second day in a row, the weather was sunny with a light breeze. After checking in, Jake went through his forty-minute warm-up regime that included some stretching as well as hitting every club in his bag. Afterwards
, Marc and Jake walked to the practice putting green. Marc noticed Jake’s putting seemed to improve with every stroke. When they approached the first tee, they passed a throng of fans who’d gathered along the way, many holding hole-flags, caps and brochures. Several in the crowd pleaded with the more famous pros for an autograph. Jake, a virtual unknown, was only asked for his by a few as they looked curiously at this young unknown. Marc handed Jake a Sharpie pen he’d kept for marking Jake’s golf balls. Jake gladly signed a few autographs and chatted with his young admirers.
As they continued to the first tee, Marc noticed the gallery lining the fairway had doubled in size from the day before. For today’s practice round, Jake had been paired with another golfer, a professional who had won a major tournament a few years in the past. Although that win qualified him to play, Marc suspected that the golf gods had not been kind to him since. Marc noticed the pro and his caddy spoke English, but with an accent that Marc couldn’t place. When he looked at the player’s bag, he recognized the flag of South Africa affixed to it along with the name, Luther Van Zyle.
Although introductions went smoothly, rapport between the two players seemed stilted. The old pro apparently didn’t appreciate being paired with an amateur, even if it was for a practice round.
Finally, Willum, the caddy, asked, “Would you like us to go first?”
Although his accent was thick, Marc had no trouble understanding what he had said.
Jake smiled. “Sure, go right ahead.”
The South African teed his ball, then with practiced precision, hit a fine shot down the center of the fairway.
Jake nodded his approval.
The South African displayed a pleasant smile.
Then Jake hit his drive. They watched his ball sail past the South African’s by at least thirty yards.
Laura and Ann Marie clapped politely.
Willum looked at Marc and smiled. “The kid is pretty good, no?”
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 4