Marc glanced at Laura. “I’m aware of that. It’s just that the officer who was originally assigned to investigate the incident had to leave town. Family emergency. We’ve been tasked with following up. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”
Simmons hesitated, apparently unprepared for this sudden appearance of the police. He glanced over his shoulder back toward the door with the “Employees Only” sign on it.
“Oh, excuse my manners,” Marc said and extended his hand. I’m Detective Ryan, and this is my partner, Detective Burns,” Marc said, motioning toward Laura, attempting to urge Simmons along.
Simmons reluctantly shook Marc’s hand, but only gave Laura a quick glance. “I’m Jim Simmons, one of the managers, sort of. But, as you can see, we’re still closed due to the accident and the cleanup. Wish you’d have called ahead. Could have saved you a trip. Besides, you must be aware that I gave the responding officers a complete statement. I’m sure you have a record of that somewhere.”
“Uh, yes we do. We just have a few more questions. Only take a moment.”
Simmons glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, detective. But can’t we do this another time? As you can see, we’re still busy trying to get things back in order.” He glanced over his shoulder again.
Marc noticed a few beads of sweat forming on the man’s brow. He suspected Simmons was under some kind of pressure to end this conversation and get back inside. “We understand. Like I said, this should only take a moment,” Marc said.
Simmons started to protest again, but Marc cut him off. “According to the information I received, Mr. Saylor died from a chemical spill, correct?
“Yes, but--”
“What kind of chemical?” Marc asked.
Simmons glanced back through the door a third time. “Surely the other detectives must have told you, it was simple chlorine. We use it to sanitize our equipment before sending it out to the field. Unfortunately, for Zach, uh, Mr. Saylor, he must have accidently inhaled some of the pure chlorine before it was diluted. I’ve known Zach for years. Heavy smoker. I suspect years of inhaling cigarette smoke didn’t help. Plus, according to the autopsy, he also had a heart condition that even he didn’t know about. But like I just told you, the responding investigators have all this information.”
“Chlorine? Are we talking about bleach?” Marc asked.
“Sort of, but chlorine in its purest form is much stronger. We really don’t know how he ingested enough to kill him. There are strict safety regulations we follow when handling these chemicals, and to the best of my knowledge, everyone present at the time was properly protected. It was just some kind of freak accident. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must return to my work. If you need to get in touch with me, please call during regular business hours.”
With that, Simmons produced a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Marc. “My cell is the first number. I’m usually available after lunch,” he said and grabbed the door handle.
Marc held up his hand, “When do you think the cleanup will be completed?”
Simmons gave his head a quick shake, “Not certain. Actually, we’re not sure that we will even reopen the business. This whole thing has been very tragic, for all of us.”
“Sorry to hear that. Did Mr. Saylor have any family?” Marc asked.
“Yeah, a wife and two children. His kids are married and they don’t live around here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to return to work. Still have lots to do.”
“All right then, Mr. Simmons. Appreciate you taking the time to talk. We’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Simmons said and shut the door. Marc watched as he walked the corridor formed by the counter and the wall. He stopped a moment to secure his face mask, then he disappeared behind the door.
Marc turned and headed back toward the SUV and slid in behind the wheel. Laura got in beside him.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Laura asked as she buckled her shoulder harness.
He started the engine and swung the nose of the SUV back onto the street. He turned in the direction they had come. “Probably nothing,” he said.
They rode in silence for a few hundred yards. Marc could feel the intense stare he was getting from the passenger seat.
‘“Probably nothing? You take me to a business that has just experienced a chemical spill. You have us, you and me, falsely impersonating police officers sent to investigate the spill, and on top of all that, the chemical spill has apparently resulted in at least one fatality. You have a weird conception of what ‘probably nothing’ means,”’ Laura said, her annoyance as intense as the polish reflecting off her cherry-red fingernail extensions.
“Take a breath, Laura. I can explain everything over a very dry martini and a nice relaxing dinner. Why don’t you pull your cell phone out of that cute little clutch purse you’re carrying and get us the directions for the General P.T. Beauregard Restaurant. It’s somewhere on the outskirts of town. I just don’t have the exact location.”
“Look, Mr. LaRose. The only directions I’ll be giving you are the ones that take us back to our hotel. That’s where I want to go. I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“Why? You afraid of a little excitement in your otherwise uninspiring existence? Or is it because, for once, you are not calling all the shots and feel like you’re not in control?”
Laura looked away, toward a collection of double-wide mobile homes passing by her side window.
Marc heard her exhale, then saw her dig into her purse.
“What did you say the name of that restaurant was? Beauregard something?”
“It’s called the General P.T. Beauregard. It shouldn’t be far. I just can’t remember the name of the street it’s on.”
After a few moments of fiddling with her phone she said, “Take the next right hand turn. It should be on our left, about a half mile after the turn.”
A few minutes later Marc pulled the SUV into the restaurant’s parking area and maneuvered into what appeared to be the only available space that was left.
By the time Marc had come around the SUV to open Laura’s door, she had already made her way out and was walking toward the restaurant’s front entrance. Marc followed her up the entrance steps. A small man with a gray pencil-line mustache met them as they entered. He wore a nametag, “Maitre d’ Oliver.”
“Good evening. What name is your reservation under?” Oliver asked.
Laura started to say something, but Marc interrupted, “Sorry, we don’t have a reservation. We just stopped in on the off chance that you might still have something available.”
The man glanced at the clipboard he was carrying, “You’re in luck. We’ve just had a cancellation. Right this way, please,” Oliver said and led them to a small table situated next to a curtained window that looked out toward the street. Except for this table, the restaurant appeared to be full.
After they were seated, Oliver asked. “May I get you something from the bar?”
“Yes,” Laura said, “A double martini, Bombay Sapphire, if you have it. Rocks on the side.”
“Certainly, and for you, sir?”
“Goose Island IPA, please.”
As the Maitre d’ drifted back towards the bar, Laura asked, “Beer?”
“I don’t drink hard stuff when I have to drive. Besides, I like beer, and I’ve recently developed a taste for IPA’s.”
The two sat in silence with the typical hum of background restaurant noises filling the space around them.
A few moments later, their drinks were delivered.
“Would you like to hear this evening’s specials?” Oliver asked.
“I’d like a steak. A big one. Very rare, with whatever comes with it. No salad,” Laura said.
“Same for me, but not as rare as hers, and I’d like a salad as well,” Marc said.
“House dressing?” The man asked.
“House dressing would be fine,” Marc replied.
Laura took a long swallo
w of her drink then, set her glass on the table. “So, are you going to tell me what the fuck we were doing back at that irrigation supply building?”
“Just checking something out, it’s probably nothing.” Marc answered.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re feeding me a line of shit?”
Marc used his napkin to wipe the beer foam from his upper lip. “During one of my trips to The Palm Tree Golf Club this week, I learned that Mr. Saylor, the deceased, was supposed to play golf with a friend of his that day. His friend was Jim Simmons. However, due to an accident where he worked, he couldn’t make it. Later, I learned that Saylor died from the injuries he had suffered from in the accident.”
“Okay, but why are you so interested in an accident that occurred at some irrigation supply company. Has someone hired you to look into it.”
Marc glanced out of the window as he thought how to answer Laura’s inquiry. “When we were at the golf course today, did you happen to notice a man wearing a set of work coveralls with Apex Irrigation imprinted on the back of them?”
Laura seemed to give Marc’s question some thought. “No, not really. There must have been twenty thousand people milling around. Should I have?”
“Not necessarily. But I did.”
Just then, Marc’s salad was delivered, along with a basket of rolls and a small dish of butter pats.
While Marc broke one of the rolls in half, Laura took another long drink of her martini.
“So, you think there’s a connection between the man you saw at the golf course and the accident that occurred at the irrigation supply plant,” Laura said.
“Don’t know. Just thought of the coincidence,” Marc said as he buttered his roll. “I mean, we really don’t know anything yet, other than there was some kind of accident at Apex. A man is dead and Apex apparently does some kind of work at the Savannah River Golf Links.”
Laura grabbed the other half of Marc’s roll and took a small bite. “You know what I think, Mr. LaRose?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” he said, taking a swallow of his IPA.
“I think you’ve been in the PI business a little too long. You’re letting your suspicions divert your attention from the real reason we’re here in Aiken, South Carolina.”
“Believe me, I know where I am and where I’ll be tomorrow morning. Being aware of what’s going on around me has kept me alive for as long as I can remember. I guess it’s some kind of innate ability I was born with.”
Laura drained her glass, then held it up to her lips as the lone olive slipped from the glass and into her mouth. She slowly chewed the olive. “Speaking of innate abilities, Mr. LaRose, I have a few of my own,” she said as a light grin creased her face.
I bet you do, Marc thought.
A waitress appeared carrying two plates. Their steaks had arrived. Marc instinctively leaned back, allowing her to set them on the table. “Will there be anything else?” The waitress asked.
“Yes, I believe the lady would like another double martini,” Marc said.
Laura did not protest and as she cut into her steak, blood oozed onto her plate. “Um, fresh meat, my favorite.”
Chapter Ten
When Marc awoke the following morning, the events of the previous evening were still fresh in his memory—the visit to Apex Irrigation, the discussion with the plant’s owner and dinner afterwards with Laura McKay. He took a long shower, then dressed for another day at the Monarch Golf Tournament. Jake had arisen earlier and left the room, probably to meet up with Ann Marie somewhere. A copy of the day’s local newspaper had been pushed under the room’s door.
When he glanced at the lead story, he was momentarily stunned. “Canadian amateur makes the cut at the Monarch.” A photo of Jake walking off one of the tee boxes followed by Marc carrying Jake’s bag was under the headline. Marc’s face was partially hidden from the camera’s view by the bill of the golf cap he was wearing.
Good thing I had my head down. That Simmons guy over at the Apex plant doesn’t need to know my connection with the golf tournament. At least not yet.
Emerging from the front door of the hotel, Marc found that Saturday morning’s weather looked promising; a cloudless sky accompanied by a gentle breeze. An hour later, with Marc at the wheel of their rented SUV, Jake’s entourage arrived at the golf course just in time to take advantage of the breakfast offerings before a morning warm-up at the practice range. The cut line had been established and only the top fifty-five players, plus ties remained, reducing the number of golfers competing over the weekend to nearly half of the original field. Although Jake was deemed an amateur, he had played well enough the previous two days to place him somewhere near the middle of the remaining competitors. The downside was that he was ineligible to receive any prize money because of his amateur status, no matter how well he did. He was playing for status and recognition, should he decide to turn professional.
On the way to the breakfast concession, Marc stopped by a kiosk and picked up a couple of the day’s pairing sheets, one for him and Jake and another for Laura and Ann Marie. The sheets displayed the names of the players and their tee times. Although Marc knew Jake’s approximate tee time, he hadn’t heard who they’d be paired with. The amateurs were usually the last to know. As they sat down for breakfast, Marc scanned the sheet and saw he was paired with the South African Jake had played with on Wednesday’s practice round. Marc hadn’t noticed the man’s name on the tee sheet the day before and figured he’d missed the cut, but of course he wasn’t looking for him either.
After a full breakfast, Marc gave Jake the news of his pairing.
“Luther Van Zyle? I remember his caddy, Willum. He seemed a friendly sort, but Van Zyle, not so much.”
“Might have had something to do with the language. I’ve heard that Afrikaners aren’t as outgoing as some. I’m sure we can warm him up though,” Marc said.
“That might depend on how well he plays,” Jake answered.
Marc and Jake headed for the bag room to retrieve Jake’s clubs while the girls left to find a good vantage point to watch the golfers warm up.
Marc gave Jake’s name to the storage clerk who went to retrieve his golf clubs. Jake asked, “So Marc, have you given any thought to a strategy for today?”
Marc could see by Jake’s expression that the pressure of actually making the cut was just beginning to settle in. Jake busied himself by juggling golf balls, a habit some golfers use to relieve the tension. “Yes, I have. The strategy for today is the same as we had the first day we arrived here.”
“Uh, what strategy was that?” Jake asked. He’d stopped his juggling and looked at Marc, waiting for an answer.
“It’s the most basic rule in golf. You hit one shot at a time.”
There was a long pause.
“That’s it? Hit one shot at a time? Marc, you know I appreciate your help, but…”
Marc interrupted. ‘“Look, you were perfect the first day because you didn’t know what to expect. You played as you always have and, three days later, here you are, only the second amateur in this year’s field to have made the cut. That alone could be worth an invitation to play at a few other professional tournaments. Just relax and don’t get ahead of yourself. If you make a mistake, take a deep breath, readjust, and hit it again. Don’t try to make up for a bad shot; that will only lead to another miss-hit. Remember, as Bob May, one of golf’s greatest players once said, ‘you play the game of golf one shot at a time.’ You have loads of talent. Just relax and have fun. You’ll be fine.”’
“Okay, I guess,” Jake said.
“Remember, Jake. I’ll be right there beside you all the way from start to finish. You’re not in this alone.”
Jake paused as he seemed to give Marc’s advice some thought. He exhaled deeply. “Thanks, Marc. That means a lot.”
“Alright then, let’s show this crowd what you’re made of.”
With Marc shouldering Jake’s clubs, the pair made the short walk to the practice rang
e. Unlike the earlier practice days when the bleachers were only partially occupied, today there were few, if any, empty seats. A huge throng had gathered to watch some of the best golfers in the world go through their warm-up routines. Despite the crowd, Marc had no trouble locating Ann Marie and Laura, sitting in the front row. Ann Marie’s face beamed with pride as the crowd erupted with applause.
As was usual for Jake, he first went through a short stretching routine. Then he went to his wedges and slowly proceeded through each of his longer irons before reaching for his driver. His first practice drive sent the ball to the far reaches of the range, practically to the television broadcast booth that sat at the far end. This brought a reaction of ‘ooohs’ from the bleachers.
“Are you showing off for your girlfriend or your fans?” Marc said with a smile.
“I’m not showing off,” Jake said. “I really believe I can do this.”
“Good attitude. Now let’s hit the practice putting green before you take out one of the announcers.”
When they got to the putting green, Marc noticed that Jake’s playing partner, Luther Van Zyle and his caddy, Willum, were already there. There were also a few other players practicing while waiting for their respective tee times.
Marc dropped three balls on the green about ten feet from a hole. Jake easily putted the first two in, but the third one missed, just going over its left edge. Jake looked a bit confused as he stood back and eyed the miss.
“You probably pulled it a little,” Marc said. “Just take a deep breath and try to relax.”
Jake then tapped three more in from the same distance with no trouble. “I guess you’re right. Must be the pressure,” he said.
Soon after, Willum came over to where Marc was watching Jake.
“Congratulations on your boy here making the cut,” he said, nodding his head toward Jake. “For an amateur, that’s a pretty big deal.”
“Yeah, thanks, and same to you and your man. We’ve been so focused on making the cut, we sort of lost track on how Luther was doing.”
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 7