The Club

by Jane Heller

  “No, I suppose it isn’t,” said Delia. “Still, a child is a child. How I wish I’d had one. But as I told you, I was unable to conceive and my husband was against adoption. He maintains that, with adoption, you never know what you’re getting. Questionable gene pools and that sort of thing.”

  Aha! So Delia didn’t know that Brendan was her husband’s son. If she had, wouldn’t she have said something? I’d given her the perfect opening. But how was it possible that she didn’t know? Could Duncan have kept a secret like that from his wife all these years? Could he have kept her from knowing that he had fathered a son and hired that very son to work at his country club? A son with a shady past? Or was it that Delia Tewksbury was cagier than she seemed? Maybe she knew everything and wasn’t telling. But why?

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear. I must use the telephone,” said Delia. “Bridge game to cancel, you know.”

  “Right. Well, it was nice seeing you,” I said and left old Delia to her phone call.

  I was suddenly dying for an iced tea so I headed for the terrace dining room, where I spotted Duncan Tewksbury at a table for two, probably waiting for his wife to join him. I couldn’t resist stopping by his table to see how he’d react to questions about his son.

  “Hello there, Mr. Tewksbury,” I said.

  “Hlloo,” he slurred. He appeared to have had several gin and tonics.

  “I have a friend whose son is interested in apprenticing in the kitchen here, under Brendan,” I said, not really sure where I was going. “But before he fills out a formal application for employment, I wanted to be able to tell him something about Brendan’s background. You know, where he trained, where he worked before coming to The Oaks, that sort of thing.”

  “Why don’t you ask Brendan himself?” Duncan suggested, then hiccuped.

  “He seems so busy all the time,” I said. “I hate to bother him.”

  “Well, I don’t remember where the heck he trained,” said Duncan.

  Does Leavenworth ring a bell? “But you were the one who brought him here, right?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” said Duncan. “He was working at the Belford Athletic Club. We had an opening, and Brendan filled it.”

  “What happened to the chef he replaced?” I asked.

  “He was killed,” said Duncan. “In a car accident. Dreadful business.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, wondering if Brendan had anything to do with his predecessor’s demise and whether Claire’s death was merely another on a long list of his murder victims.

  “Oh, here comes Mother,” said Duncan as he eyed his wife bustling toward us.

  Mother? Don’t you just love men who call their wives “Mother”? I mean, how weird is that?

  “I’d better run,” I said, not wanting Delia to think I was insinuating myself in her life yet again. “Ta ta.”

  I walked over to the tennis courts and signed Hunt and me up for the Friday Night Tennis Tussle, just in case we reconciled and he felt like a little Friday Night Networking. Then I decided to go home. I wasn’t really in the mood for more snooping. Snooping, I’d discovered, was far more demanding than gossiping, a skill I’d mastered during my years in book publishing. Unlike gossiping, where you merely had to repeat stories about people you barely knew, snooping required the ability to uncover stories about people you barely knew—before they became gossip. And I was just too tired for that. I hadn’t slept the night before and my eyelids were heavy. Besides, it was hard to concentrate on Claire’s murderer when my marriage was in shambles.

  The parking lot at The Oaks was huge, so there was never a problem finding a spot. But there were a handful of spots that the members literally fought over—the coveted parking spaces that were in the shade, under a row of towering Oak trees. I say “coveted,” not because the members were desperate to keep their cars out of the sun, but because they were desperate to keep their dogs out of the sun. That’s right, their dogs. The Oaks had a rule that forbade members to bring their dogs to the club, but several fanatical dog owners—including Nedra Laughton, who owned a Yorkshire terrier named Bartholomew in spite of the fact that Ducky was allergic to dogs— couldn’t conceive of leaving their precious pets home alone while they went off to play eighteen holes. So they’d show up at the club at the shriek of dawn, secure one of the shady parking spaces, and leave poor Fido in the car with the window open—all day. It was inhumane, if you ask me.

  As I walked to my car, past the row of shady parking spaces that Thursday afternoon in July, I noticed that one of the dogs was barking nonstop: “Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!” Thinking the poor pooch might be sick or hurt, I approached the car he was yipping from to see if I could help. The car, it turned out, was Nedra’s big black Mercedes.

  “Hi, Bartholomew,” I said, peering into the car. The windows of the Mercedes were tinted that God-awful limousine dark-gray, so I practically had to plaster my face up against them to see inside. And when I did, I got the gist of what was making Bartholomew bark: it seems that while he was yipping away in the front seat, Nedra was performing fellatio on Rob in the back seat. In fact, at the very moment my hot breath was making circles of steam on the tinted glass, Nedra’s hot breath was making Rob yip even louder than Bartholomew.

  “Uh-oh, we’ve got company,” she groaned to Rob when she saw me leaning against the window. Apparently, the tinted glass didn’t make it hard to see out, just in.

  She quickly disentangled herself from her lover and ordered him to pull his tennis shorts on. Then she hopped out of the car. Rob lingered in the back seat.

  “Well, if it isn’t The Oaks’s little snoop,” said Nedra as she stood there eyeing me, her hands on her hips. Her face was flushed with afterglow. She smelled of sex, reeked of it. I was filled with envy.

  “I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “I heard a dog barking, and I came over to see what the problem was.”

  “Good try,” she said. “I know you were snooping. You’ve been snooping around the club for weeks. Everybody’s talking about what a busybody Hunt Price’s wife turned out to be.”

  “Everybody?” I was aghast. People were saying I was a busybody? I hated busybodies. On the other hand, having them think I was a busybody was better than having them think I was a police informant, hired to find out which of them was a cold-blooded killer.

  “I suppose you’re just dying to run off and tell people about Rob and me,” said Nedra. “For all I know, you’ll tell Ducky, too.”

  “Why are you putting me on the defensive?” I asked. “I’m not the one who was screwing the tennis pro in the middle of the parking lot.”

  She smiled, then licked her lips. “No, honey. You weren’t. Jealous?”

  I scowled. Okay, so Nedra felt no remorse for her actions. No embarrassment either. Was she in love with Rob? Was that why she was so desperate to be with him that she couldn’t wait until they got to some seedy motel, so desperate that she had to have sex with him in the bushes behind the tennis courts, in the parking lot of the country club? And where would they strike next? I wondered. On the golf course? On the putting green? In a sand trap?

  A sand trap? Suddenly, a thought came to me with an electric jolt: suppose that Nedra and Rob were the ones who beat Claire with the pitching wedge and left her for dead in that sand trap.

  I had first put Nedra on my list of possible suspects, because I’d thought she was jealous of Claire and threatened by the fact that Ducky’s old girlfriend had come back into his life. I had first put Rob on my list of possible suspects, because I knew how angry he was at Claire for accusing him of sexual harassment and trying to get him fired from his job. But the revelation that Nedra and Rob were lovers put a new spin on things. Maybe Rob had told Nedra that Claire was out to get him. Maybe Nedra didn’t want to lose her boy-toy at the club. Maybe the two of them decided to put a stop to Claire’s plans by bashing her over the head with a golf club. Nedra did have a volatile temperament, after all. And what did I really know about Rob? Just that he was a
n eager beaver who hoped to parlay his job as a tennis pro into his own sporting goods store someday—maybe sooner rather than later. They were both at the club the night of the July Fourth party. I’d seen Nedra sitting with Ducky and two other couples. And I’d seen Rob in the parking lot as we were arriving at the club. Maybe they’d rendezvoused while everyone else was having cocktails and had lured Claire onto the golf course. Then while one of them talked to her, the other one bopped her over the head.

  “So can I assume you’re going to tell Ducky about this, Judy?” Nedra said as my mind raced.

  “I have no intention of telling your husband,” I said. “However, there is something you can tell me.”

  “Let me guess: you want to know if Rob has a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes, for you. I saw the way you drooled at us through the window, honey. I have a hunch that you and Hunt haven’t exactly been burning things up in the bedroom.”

  I felt my face burn up. “What on earth makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Just a guess,” she said. “If Hunt is anything like Ducky, he thinks making partner at F&F is the end-all be-all. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hunt is as apathetic about sex as Ducky is.”

  I was angry now. My sex life was none of Nedra’s business. “Has it occurred to you that Ducky’s apathy may have coincided with Claire Cox’s arrival at the club?” I asked. “You always struck me as the jealous type, Nedra. Perhaps you had a reason to be jealous where Ducky and Claire were concerned.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that Ducky seemed pretty shaken by Claire’s death. Maybe you and Rob weren’t the only ones having parking lot sex at the club. Maybe Ducky and Claire had an affair before she was murdered.”

  “Ducky? Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “Ducky doesn’t have parking lot sex or any other kind. His rocket hasn’t been launched in years.”

  “But…I don’t understand. It always seemed as though you and Ducky had the hottest—”

  “Look, Judy. Things are never what they seem. Ducky Laughton’s not a sexual animal. He just isn’t. He gets his rocks off in other ways.”

  What other ways? I was dying to ask but didn’t, because Rob picked that very moment to emerge from Nedra’s Mercedes—and he had a big guilty smile on his face, the kind that said, “I’m embarrassed that I was caught having sex with the wife of one of the members, but I can’t wait to do it again.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Price,” he said, appearing a little wobbly in the legs. I guessed Nedra had sucked the life out of him.

  “Hello, Rob,” I said.

  “Judy promises that she’s not going to tell anybody about us,” Nedra said to him. “Right, Judy?”

  “Right, Nedra, if you tell me whether you and Rob were already seeing each other in the beginning of July.” Before the night Claire was killed, for instance.

  They looked at each other.

  “What makes you ask that?” she said.

  “Just curious. I wondered how long you two had been together.”

  Rob draped his arm around Nedra’s shoulder. “About a year,” he said proudly. “My job at the club makes it pretty easy for us to see each other. Everybody assumes Nedra’s wild about tennis, when what she’s really wild about is me.” He grinned on the word “me.” The guy was obviously very taken with himself and with the fact that he had found a woman who was rich, socially prominent and sexually promiscuous, not to mention a respectable tennis player.

  Nedra grinned back at Rob. “‘Wild’ doesn’t begin to cover it, baby.”

  “I think I see things clearly now,” I said.

  “And I see things clearly, too,” said Nedra. “I see that people around here were right about you, Judy. You are a busybody. You ask a lot of questions and you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  I smiled and looked at the two of them. “I wouldn’t talk about sticking things where they don’t belong,” I said, then walked toward my car and headed for home.

  Instead of going straight home, I took a detour to the Stop ’n’ Shop. No, not for a meeting with Tom, but to buy myself something to eat for dinner, since Hunt was staying in the city to dine with Loathsome Leeza. I figured I’d tell Tom all about my theory about Nedra and Rob tomorrow, when I felt more rested.

  The supermarket was packed, and I had to wait in the checkout line for what seemed like an eternity. Of course, there were compensations: I got to leaf through The National Enquirer and The Star and The Globe, and find out more than I ever wanted to know about Burt and Loni, Oprah and Stedman, and a 100-year-old woman who gave birth to a dinosaur.

  I pulled into our driveway at about six o’clock and parked in front of the large red barn that doubled as our garage. I gathered my packages and carried them to the back door that led directly into the kitchen. Balancing both bags in one arm, I fumbled around in my purse for my key, which I found and inserted into the lock.

  “That’s weird,” I mumbled. “It’s already open.”

  Had I forgotten to lock the door as I sometimes did, especially when I was in a hurry?

  I proceeded inside with some trepidation, hoping that the house hadn’t been burglarized. Fortunately, everything seemed perfectly in order, and I came to the conclusion that I must have left the door open. I was exhausted when I’d left the house, I reminded myself, and not a little anxious about the state of my marriage.

  I put the groceries away and pushed the “call” button for the elevator. Yeah, I know. I should have walked upstairs to the master bedroom. It would have been so much more aerobically correct. But I had very little energy, and all I could think about was letting the elevator carry me up to my bedroom so I could take a nice little nap before dinner.

  The elevator arrived at the first floor and I walked in, flipped on the light, closed the gate and the elevator door, and pressed the button for the third floor. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes as I ascended slowly through the house—and I do mean slowly. The woman who’d installed the elevator hadn’t cared about speed; consequently, riding between the three floors often felt like creeping along I-95 in rush-hour traffic.

  So there I was, riding in my painfully slow elevator, nearly falling asleep standing up, when I suddenly felt a jolt! The elevator had stopped, somewhere between the second and third floors! What’s more, the light on the ceiling had gone out. I was stuck in the elevator in the dark, with no light and no air.

  “Help!” I screamed. “Somebody help me!”

  I started to hyperventilate and my heart sped. Then I remembered the phone that Hunt had insisted on putting on the wall of the elevator. “In case somebody gets stuck,” he’d said. “Who’s going to get stuck?” I’d said, thinking he was being overly cautious. “You never know, there could be a power outage,” he’d said. “With a phone in the elevator, you can always call for help.”

  Bless you, my darling husband, I said silently.

  I was about to reach for the phone when it rang! I was so surprised I actually jumped. Maybe it’s Hunt, I thought, telling me he’s changed his plans and will be home for dinner after all.

  I lifted the receiver eagerly, grateful for the opportunity to ask whoever it was to rescue me.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Price.”

  It was a strange voice. A high-pitched, singsong voice. A voice that could have belonged to either a man or a woman.

  “Yes?” I said tentatively.

  “It’s very hot and dark in that elevator, isn’t it, Mrs. Price? A little claustrophobic, too, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A chill ran through me. A cold terror I had never experienced in all my life. A realization that my little rest stop in the elevator was no mechanical mishap or fluke of nature; it had been planned—by the person on the phone. The same person who had evidently broken into my house and waited for me to come home and was now calling me on our other line. God, there was a real-live wacko somewhere in my house at that very moment! />
  “Who…who is this?” I said. I could barely get the words out. Fear was strangling me.

  “A friend,” said the voice, which I now realized was disguised. “Someone who just wants to send you a little message, Mrs. Price.”

  Mrs. Price. As I told you earlier, no one ever called me “Mrs. Price” except Hunt’s parents, telephone salesmen, and members of The Oaks.

  Members of The Oaks! The elevator disabler had to be someone from the club! But who? Had Nedra and Rob driven over to my house after our little scene in the parking lot? Or had Brendan come to shut me up? Or was it the Tewksburys? And what about Ducky? And Larkin?

  “Mrs. Price? Are you there?” said the eerie, sickeningly sweet voice.

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to let hysteria overwhelm me. “I’m here.”

  “Good. Now, I’ll just say what I came to say and leave.”

  I waited, my anxiety building.

  “Stop asking so many questions at the club, Mrs. Price. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”

  Jesus. I was sorry already. Sorry that my snooping had gotten back to Claire’s killer and that he or she felt the need to pay me a visit.

  “I’ll stop,” I said. “No more questions.”

  “That’s a good girl.”

  “Now, whoever you are, won’t you please let me out of here?” The walls of the elevator were beginning to close in on me and I’d only been in there for a matter of minutes.

  “You know, Mrs. Price, I was going to flip the circuit breaker back on,” the creepy voice continued, “but I don’t believe I will.”

  “Why?” I wailed. “I said I’d stop snooping around the club. You can’t leave me in here.”

  “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m going to do—just to make sure we understand each other. Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Price.”

  “No! Don’t go! I can’t breathe—”

  Click. The voice had hung up.

  I pressed my ear against the wall of the elevator and listened carefully. A few minutes later, I heard a door slam. The voice had left the house, and I was still stuck between floors!