Tuesday's Caddie

by Jack Waddell

  Conor smiled and nodded. He looked over at Billy and tossed his head to the side. “Let’s go,” he said.

  * * *

  The scene at the first tee was awkward. The usual pleasantries and any exchanges of “good luck” or “play well” were absent. This was not lost on the crowd of about forty people who had come out to watch the last group of the day tee off and start their round. Instead of politely applauding the player’s shots as they had the earlier groups they remained silent in the mood of the moment as the four players hit their tee shots and walked down the fairway, their caddies in tow. More than half the crowd followed them off the tee to gallery the match, Robert and Charlie among them. Conor kept looking for Annie in the group following them but couldn’t see her. Perhaps, he thought to himself, she would catch up with them on the back nine.

  All four players were accomplished and had prepared enough for the event so that the pace was brisk and the caliber of play high. Each team recorded two birdies over the first six holes. Parker Pennington then got hot, making three consecutive birdies on his own to bring his team to five-under at the turn. Conor and Billy both had birdie chances through that stretch but couldn’t convert.

  By the time they reached the par three fourteenth hole, Billy and Conor had each made a birdie to get within a stroke of Babcock and Pennington. Standing on the tee at fourteen, Conor stared at the hedge behind the green. He had convinced himself that this is where Annie would finally appear. So rapt was his attention Billy had to nudge him when it was his turn to hit. Conor could no longer focus on his game. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come out to watch as she said she would? He went on to make his worst swing of the day, pulling the ball well left of the green. Billy gave him a quizzical look as they walked off the tee and down the hill to the green.

  Billy held par for them there and again over the next three holes as Conor continued his bad play. Babcock made a birdie on the seventeenth hole to take his team to six under for the round. Standing on the eighteenth tee waiting for Babcock and Pennington to tee off Billy leaned to Conor’s ear. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t even act like you’re here!”

  Conor looked at him. “’Tis nothing. I’m all right.”

  “Why are you looking around all the time?”

  “’Tis nothing.”

  “Well, snap out of it.”

  Conor tried to think. Maybe Annie was waiting at the clubhouse for him to finish. That was it, he thought. It must be.

  Billy teed off first for the team on the home hole pushing his ball to the right into the rough along the tree line. Conor then took the tee determined to play at least the last hole well. He hit a good drive – a low fade that followed the dogleg to the right around the trees. After Billy hit up short of the green and Skipper and Parker had played to the green, Conor walked to his ball and surveyed the scene in front of him. The green was perhaps a hundred and sixty yards away, uphill, with a light following wind. Then he surveyed the crowd behind the green. It had grown to almost two hundred people around the back of the green and up on the clubhouse veranda. It was impossible to pick out Annie from this distance. His mind went back to golf. He slipped his club out from his bag as Stovepipe stepped back out of the way with it. He addressed the ball and swung. The ball took off in a high arc drawing gently from right to left. It fell from the sky, landed on the green and bounced to within a foot of the hole. Applause and cheers fell down the hill from the crowd around the clubhouse.

  “That’s more like it!” Billy cheered.

  Conor grinned and tossed the club to Stovepipe. He began the march up the hill to the green all the while searching the crowd at the top for his Annie.

  * * *

  There had been no Annie anywhere in the crowd, in the clubhouse, or anywhere else at Biarritz Country Club. After the round Conor joined Billy, Charlie and Robert in the men’s grill for a beer. They talked about the round – how they were one shot ahead of three other teams and only one back of Babcock and Pennington. Which meant they would play the last day again with those two. Billy offered that their opponents had played much better than normal and that might make them vulnerable the second day when the golfing laws of average caught up to them. Conor promised to work harder on keeping his head in the game.

  As they sat there a number of members came by their table offering congratulations. Some even offered their regrets at losing Conor as a caddie.

  Conor still couldn’t get Annie out of his mind. Where happened to her? Maybe Meg knew. “Robert, is your wife joining you tonight here?” he asked.

  “No, tonight we’re going to dinner with some friends downtown. But she and the girls will be here tomorrow night. Why?”

  “I was just to be wondering. I wanted to tell her how sorry I am I won’t be caddying for her and Mrs. Burke come Tuesday,” he said trying to cover his question.

  “Oh, Meg knows all about that. Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll let Mrs. Burke know.”

  Conor took some hope in that. Maybe tomorrow Annie would show up. And, if not, maybe Meg would know why.

  The four had a second round before heading off their separate ways. Conor was having dinner with the Compton’s that night. Myrtle had promised him roast beef, potatoes and vegetables straight from the garden she kept behind the house. He couldn’t wait. He was famished.

  (back to top)

  Chapter 27

  Franklin

  Saturday, May 24, 1930

  Annie was sound asleep when Opal gently touched her arm and whispered, “Miss Annie, Miss Annie. Wake up. I’m sorry. Wake up.”

  She opened her eyes and gave a start. It took her a second to realize she was awake. The light was on in the room and the maid was standing beside the bed. “What is it?” she managed to utter blinking her eyes and rolling to her back.

  “There’s gentlemen downstairs who need to speak to you.”

  “What? What time is it?”

  “It’s just past five o’clock, Miss Annie.”

  “Five o’clock? Downstairs? Who’s downstairs?”

  “Two gentlemen.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know. But I think they said they was the police.”

  “Police?” Annie was suddenly wide-awake. “Tell them I’ll be right down.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” Opal said a worried look on her face. “Right away, Ma’am.”

  Annie drew back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She tried to think but could only feel dread starting to well up inside her. Her heart began to pound. She slid into her slippers, rose and walked to the chair. She picked up her robe and put it on. She went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She toweled it off and then looked into the mirror and tried to arrange her hair quickly with her hands. She realized looks didn’t matter and gave up.

  As she came down the stairs she saw the two men in suits standing and waiting inside the front door holding their hats in their hands. Opal was standing to the side. As she walked to them the taller, older one spoke.

  “Are you Mrs. Franklin Burke?”

  “Yes I am,” she replied.

  “I’m Detective Gleason of the Malibu Police Department. This is Sergeant Miller. May we come inside?”

  “Yes, certainly. This way.” She nodded to Opal to leave them and then led the way into the living room. “Please, sit down.”

  “You should probably have a seat as well, Mrs. Burke,” Gleason suggested, taking a chair next to the coffee table. Miller continued to stand as Annie sat down on the couch. She felt suspended in time, her pounding heart the only measure of reality.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid we come with some very bad news,” Gleason began. “Your husband, Franklin Burke, is dead.”

  “Dead? Dead! What do you mean, dead? How…? What…?”

  “He was murdered. It happened last night. We’re very sorry to have to tell you this.”

  “You
can’t be serious. Murder? This can’t be real.”

  “I’m afraid it is. We need to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions? Why questions?” Annie could feel herself losing control. She reached her hands down to steady herself on the couch.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Saw him? I don’t know. Wednesday? Yes, Wednesday he stopped by the house.”

  “Did he say anything unusual? Did he talk about anyone else?”

  “No. Nothing unusual. He hasn’t been staying here much at all.”

  “I see. Do you know a Leslie Delrina?”

  At the sound of a name Annie gasped and brought her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “So you do?” Gleason asked.

  Annie dropped her hands. “No. Not really. Who is she?”

  “It’s not a she. He’s a man.”

  Annie gagged, again covering her mouth. Her mind raced back to the letter in the bedside table. She began to shake.

  Gleason looked at Miller. “Go find her some water,” he ordered. He turned back to Annie. “I know this is hard. I’m sorry. Take you time.”

  Annie shook her head still trying to compose herself. She couldn’t stop trembling. Eventually Miller returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. She took a sip but her hands were shaking too hard to take another. She set the glass down on the coffee table. Her eyes were red and starting to brim with tears.

  “We believe it was a murder-suicide,” the detective went on. “We think this Leslie Delrina killed your husband and then took his own life. We need to know if you knew of anything going on between them.”

  “No,” Annie whispered. “Nothing. I don’t know. Just a letter. I saw a letter.”

  “A letter? What kind of letter? Do you still have it?”

  Annie gagged again at the thought. She reached for the glass but stopped short. “It was a love letter,” she managed to gasp. “I don’t know where it is now. An ‘L’ signed it. That’s all I know.”

  “So you never met this person? You don’t know where he lives?”

  “No.”

  “Where was your husband staying when he wasn’t here?” Gleason pressed on.

  “I don’t know. He talked about Santa Barbara and Malibu. But I don’t know where. I never asked.”

  “I see,” Gleason said. He shifted forward in the chair. “There’s one more thing, I’m afraid.”

  Annie’s eyes widened. “What?” she breathed.

  “We need you to come with us. We need you to identify the body.”

  “Oh my God. No. You can’t mean that.”

  “I’m sorry. We must. You are next of kin. There is no one else. We’ll wait until you can get ready. We’ll take you there and bring you back. Take your time.”

  Annie buried her head in her hands and wept.

  * * *

  There are times in one’s life you exist in a place where there is no time or world around you. There are no sounds to hear, sights to see, scents to smell, objects to touch. The mind can only look in on itself like one might look in a mirror, its reflection at once mesmerizing and terrifying.

  Annie rode in the unmarked police car to the Los Angeles County Morgue in such a state. It was as if the reflection of her mind was but a surreal dream that would evaporate when she opened her eyes. Except her eyes were open. They were open as she rode through the city streets. They were open as she walked through the door of the morgue and down its too bright empty echoing antiseptic hallways. They were open when they pulled Franklin’s corpse from the refrigerated vault as if pulling the drawer from a file cabinet. And they were open when they pulled back the white sheet revealing his face.

  The shock of seeing him dead, lying cold and draped in white in a sterile white room with spotless linoleum tiled floor somehow jolted her back to some semblance of reality. She swallowed hard and then heard the detective speak.

  “Turn on the recorder, please,” Gleason ordered. Then in a few seconds, “Is it running now?” He waited until he heard an affirmative sound from within the room. “All right, then,’’ he said. “Mrs. Burke, is this your husband, Franklin James Burke?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Louder, please.”

  “Yes it is!” she fairly shouted.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Burke. Turn off the recorder please.”

  Annie stood in silence as they pulled the sheet back over Franklin’s face and pushed the drawer back into the wall. She felt Gleason’s hand on her elbow leading her from the room through the double swinging doors and out into the hallway. There she saw two other policemen in suits standing on either side of an old woman, her eyes red from crying, a white handkerchief held to her mouth. Annie walked past her and through the halls to the doors leading to the outside and her ride home.

  She was not prepared for what met her. The instant Miller opened the door for them the air exploded in white-hot lights flashing and popping over and over again. Blinded, she held her arms up in front of her face. Gleason and Miller almost carried her past the phalanx of press photographers running along side them firing flashes again and again. They made it to the car, opened the rear door and pushed her in headfirst. The photographers continued to shoot through the car windows as the two policemen ran to their doors, got in and quickly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Burke,” Gleason said turning his head toward the backseat. “Word gets around fast in this town.”

  * * *

  Annie walked into the house and took the downstairs phone off the hook. Then she collapsed onto the couch in the living room sitting upright on the edge of the cushion. She couldn’t move. Opal came in and asked her if she could get her anything. Annie didn’t move. She asked again. Annie finally managed a weak, “No. Please go, Opal.” The maid left.

  Annie sat there staring straight ahead, unable to form a thought. She held that pose with her empty mind looking only inward on itself, seeing nothing, for more than an hour. Then she leaned over onto to the couch and curled herself into a ball and fell into a deep sleep.

  It was early evening when she awoke. Her first thought was of Conor.

  (back to top)

  Chapter 28

  Sunday

  Sunday, May 18, 1930

  As was his custom on Sunday mornings, Robert rose early and went downstairs for his coffee and orange juice. When the weather was nice, as it was this day, he would take it on the back flagstone patio where the maid had left him the service on the wrought iron table along with the business, sports and comic sections of the Sunday Los Angeles Times. Despite the slight chill he enjoyed sitting outside and smoking a cigar with his morning coffee. Eventually Lilith, and Sylvia if she was home, would join him to read the comics and share the coffee and juice. Meg would sleep in a while longer and then have her coffee and juice in bed. The maid would leave her service on a tray along with a white rose in a crystal bud vase and the front page, society and entertainment sections of the Sunday Times. So it was there, in bed, that Meg read the news. She nearly dropped her coffee cup when she saw the two-column story just below the fold on the front page:

  Murder-Suicide Claims

  Hollywood Screenwriter

  Franklin Burke Shot Dead

  In Apparent Lover’s Spat

  MALIBU – Academy Award-nominated screenwriter Franklin Burke, 45, was found shot to death early Saturday morning in what police describe as a murder-suicide at the hand of Leslie Delrina, 29, a waiter and part time actor.

  Police were summoned to Delrina’s beach side home at 1:30 a.m. by neighbors who reported hearing multiple gunshots at the residence. There they found the nude bodies of Burke and Delrina in the master bedroom.

  Malibu Police Detective James Gleason, the investigating officer, reported Burke suffered multiple gunshot wounds to the body while Delrina died of a single bullet to the temple.

  Burke, who resided in the Hollywood Hills, is best known for his screenplay Dandelion Wine
starring Glenda Moore and Frederick Carton, which earned him the Motion Picture Academy nomination last year. Other works include the films John and Maude, New York Express and Broken Promises.

  As Meg continued to read, the story broke to an inside page where she saw the photos: a file photo of Franklin taken at the Academy Awards, a publicity head shot of Delrina and a photo of Annie flanked by two policemen, her face contorted in surprise and horror with a caption that read, “Mrs. Franklin Burke leaving the Los Angeles County Morgue after identifying her husband’s body.”

  With disbelief Meg re-read the story. Then she got out of bed and went to the telephone. She looked in her phone directory and then dialed Annie’s number. There was a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Again a busy signal. Then she called friends. She had to share the news before she went downstairs and told Robert and the girls.

  * * *

  Annie had slept little through the night. She finally roamed from her bedroom into the study. She looked at the typewriter and the paper still in it with the words she had written when her world was whole. She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. The four cars full of tabloid reporters and photographers that had showed up early that morning were still camped on the street on either side of the driveway. Opal had turned them away when they came to the door but they had stayed anyway. She would have to deal with them later. She needed to talk to someone. She backed from the window and left the study. She went downstairs and put the phone back on the hook then returned to her bedroom. She dialed the operator for a long distance line.

  Louise picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said.

  “Auntie, this is Annie.”

  “Oh, hello Annie. How are you?”

  At the sound of her aunt’s voice Annie began to sob. “Oh Auntie… Auntie…”

  “Annie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Annie finally found her voice and told her aunt what had happened. Franklin was dead. She hated him even more that he was dead. Murdered. His lover was a man. That snake. Sickening. The lover killed himself. Police had come. She had to identify the body. It was horrible. The photographers. Now reporters. Don’t know what to do.