The Club

by Jane Heller

  No, there was plenty of room for a scam at The Oaks, plenty of rope for someone to hang himself with.

  “Judy? Are you there?” said Valerio into the phone, as I had completely forgotten about him. “You’re really not holding up your end of the conversation today, darling.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to go now, Valerio. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  I hung up and went to find Hunt. He was on the phone with Kimberley.

  “I love you too, pumpkin,” I heard him say. “I understand that. Of course I do. That sounds great, but I want to talk to Judy about it before I say yes. No, Kim, it is important what Judy thinks. Why? Because she’s my wife and your stepmother. I’m sorry you feel that way. No. I don’t care what your mother says. When you’re with us, you’ll abide by our rules. No. No. Kim, we’ve been all over that. Yes, I’ll talk to Judy and call you back. Give my love to Grandma and Grandpa. Bye, sweetheart.”

  I walked over to him and threw my arms around his neck. “Whoever thought up the expression, ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ was an asshole,” I said.

  “You’re referring to me, I presume?” Hunt grinned.

  “Yes,” I said, mussing his hair so it fell across his brow. “I was wrong to think you couldn’t change where Kimberley and her mother were concerned. I heard you with my own ears. You said no to her—not once but three times! In one conversation! Do you realize what a milestone that is?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s more, you gave her the message that you and I are a united front. I’m sure it was hard for you, but you did it, kid. I’m proud of you!”

  I kissed him.

  “What did she want you to say yes to, by the way?” I asked.

  “She wants us to take her with us when we go to visit your folks in Florida,” said Hunt.

  “Now that’s a surprise,” I said. “I thought Kimberley hated taking trips with us. Or maybe it was just me she hated taking trips with.”

  “Well, apparently she’s had a change of heart. How do you feel about her coming along, Jude?”

  “The truth?”

  Hunt nodded.

  I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to upset Hunt, not when we’d just reconciled. On the other hand, I’d envisioned our trip down to Boca Raton for my father’s seventy-fifth birthday as a sort of second honeymoon for us, a respite from weekends at The Oaks, a break from the craziness of Hunt’s job and my lack of one, a change of scene at the very least. Bringing Kimberley along would put a different spin on the trip.

  “I don’t know if we can get another plane ticket,” I said. “The airlines get pretty booked up the weekend before Labor Day, don’t they?”

  “Could be. But what if we could get a ticket for Kimberley? Your parents have four bedrooms, and I don’t think they’d mind having an extra guest. What about you, Jude? How would you feel about her joining us?”

  The moment of truth. “I would rather she didn’t, I admit it,” I said. “When Kimberley’s around, things get very tense between us.”

  “What if I made sure they didn’t get tense?” said Hunt. “What if I swore to you that I wouldn’t let her come between us, that the trip would be just as much fun as if she weren’t with us?”

  I looked at Hunt and felt his conflict. Of course he wanted to spend time with his daughter. I’d be a fool not to understand and support that. She was his baby. He adored her. It killed him not to be able to see her more often. Who was I to come between them?

  “Under those conditions, I say yes, she can come with us,” I said. “Maybe the trip will be a fresh start for all of us.”

  “I love you,” said Hunt. “I really love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said. “But there’s just one thing.”

  “I know. I’ll call Delta about getting another ticket.”

  “No, it’s something else. We can’t go anywhere until Claire’s murderer is arrested. I’m on the Belford Police Department’s payroll now, and Tom never said anything about vacation time.”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Besides, I wouldn’t feel right about leaving town before the case is solved.”

  “Then we’d better solve it in a hurry, don’t you think?”

  I nodded and kissed Hunt. I couldn’t wait for us to go to Florida, even if it was unbearably hot and humid there in August and even if Kimberley was coming along. The thought of getting out of Belford thrilled me. But first, we had to find out who killed Claire.

  I told Hunt about my conversation with Valerio.

  “It struck me that Brendan might be ripping off the club,” I said, “that he might be in cahoots with his vendors. What if they’ve been selling him inferior goods and he’s been overcharging the club and pocketing the money?”

  “Why would he do that?” said Hunt.

  “Because they all ‘do that,’ according to Valerio,” I said. “He says the restaurant business is nothing but kickbacks and scams and dirty dealing.”

  “Okay, but let’s not forget about Duncan Tewksbury. Why would Brendan go to work for his father and then steal from him?”

  I thought for a minute. “Maybe Brendan isn’t stealing from his father. Maybe he’s stealing for his father. Maybe Duncan’s in on the scam.”

  “Duncan? A crook?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t have to steal from the club. He’s already got plenty of money.”

  “Oh, yeah? What does he do for a living, anyway?”

  “He does what a lot of the older members do: nothing. He’s a retired something or other.”

  “I think we should find out what kind of a something or other he was before he retired,” I suggested. “Maybe he spread himself a little too thin and now he’s using the club to fatten himself up again. Maybe that’s why he hired Brendan, Mr. Ex-Con, so they could cook up a rip-off scheme together.”

  “Jesus. This is all so crazy. I joined The Oaks so I could expose myself to people who were…who were ‘nifty,’ for want of a better word.”

  “Hunt, any word but ‘nifty’ would be a better word. I can’t believe I’m married to a man who uses the word ‘nifty.’”

  “I can’t believe I’m married to a woman who has involved me in a murder case.”

  “I think you’re glad. I think you’re enjoying all this.”

  “I hate to admit it but I am, just a little. It’s very different from trading pork bellies.”

  “Yes, well, getting back to Brendan and Duncan, see if you can find out how Duncan made his money and whether he has any left.”

  “Right.”

  “But more important, see if you can get us into the bookkeeping office at the club.”

  “No trick to that. All we have to do is walk in. I’ve got a key.”

  “Fabulous! What do you say we go to that Tennis Tussle at the club tonight? Then after we get knocked out of the tournament in the first round, we’ll sneak off to the bookkeeping office and have a look-see at the invoices?”

  “What makes you think we’ll get knocked out in the first round? I haven’t played much tennis this summer, but I still have a wicked topspin forehand.”

  “Really? Well, I have no forehand at all. Besides, I say we should lose in the first round on purpose. It’ll give us more time to dig around before they start serving the Bloody Marys and barbecued chicken.”

  “Why rush back for the Bloody Marys and barbecued chicken? You hate barbecued chicken.”

  “Yeah, but it’s included in the Tennis Tussle. We’ve already paid for it. Surely, you remember my mother’s motto: ‘If you’ve paid for it, you should eat it.’”

  “That’s one of the things I love about you, Booch. You’ve got such a good head on your shoulders.”

  “Oh, Hunt, I think we’re close.”

  “You’re darn right we’re close, especially after that marathon in bed last night.”

  “I meant, I think we’re close to solving this case. If
we can prove that Brendan has been ripping off the club—and that Duncan knew about it—we’ve got our murderers.”

  “What do you say we celebrate?”

  “How?”

  Hunt checked his watch. “I’m all done with my calls to the office, and we don’t have to be at the club for a few hours. How about a matinee?”

  A matinee. The word transported me back to the first year Hunt and I were married. He used to call me at work in the middle of the day and ask me to meet him at our apartment. “For a quickie,” he’d say. Sometimes I could get away from the office and sometimes I couldn’t. Either way, I was enormously flattered by his interest. And then, seemingly overnight, his interest waned. Pretty soon, there were no phone calls suggesting a midday tryst. There were no phone calls suggesting much of anything—not even lunch. There were calls about who was picking Kimberley up at school and did I remember to call the plumber and was the termite guy coming this week or next. But no “Do you want to run home and make love?” Not until now. Now, seven years into our marriage, it appeared that Hunt had rediscovered sex. Had being involved in a murder investigation revved him up? Had the idea of working for the police turned him on? Or had our near separation and tearful reconciliation recharged his battery?

  Who cared why he was back, I decided. He was back—period. The man I married was back!

  “A matinee sounds divine,” I said. “Where would you like to have it?”

  “In the Jacuzzi,” he said.

  “A hot bath? It’s ninety degrees out.”

  “I’ll make the water nice and cool.”

  “No, I’m not in the mood for the Jacuzzi. I hate it when my skin shrivels up. How about the living room floor? On the dhurrie rug in front of the fireplace?”

  “No, that rug is wool. Too scratchy.”

  “Okay. What about the rug in the library? It’s synthetic.”

  “I don’t think I want to do it on the floor. My back’s sore. I overswung on a drive last weekend and it hasn’t been the same since. Let’s do it on the couch in the library.”

  “I just had it recovered.”

  “How about the rattan chaise in the sun room?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “The fabric’s Scotchguarded.”

  So off we went, arm in arm, our bodies poised for a thrilling half-hour or so, our minds secure in the knowledge that sex, like marriage, is a mysterious and wonderful thing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hunt and I were a few minutes late for the Tennis Tussle. When we arrived at the club, Johnny, the head pro, had already posted the tournament ladder showing which couples we’d be playing in which order. Most of the teams had gone out to the courts and were warming up for their matches.

  “Oh, shit. Look,” I whispered to Hunt as I surveyed the ladder. “We’re playing Susan and Conrad Dingle in the first round.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” said Hunt. “Conrad’s a neat guy, an orthopedic surgeon specializing in sports injuries. The last time I saw him he said he wanted my advice about commodities. He—”

  “Hunt, would you stop with the networking?” I cut him off. Conrad Dingle was far from a “neat guy,” but that was beside the point. The point was to get the tennis over with as quickly as possible so we could start snooping. “What I’m trying to say is that Susan and Conrad Dingle are as hopeless a mixed doubles team as we are.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “Sorry, but it’s true. She’s a klutz and he’s a hog.”

  “Which am I, in your opinion? A klutz or a hog?”

  “A hog, of course. You’re always poaching in mixed doubles. When I play with you, it’s a miracle I get to hit the ball at all. But the reason I’m bringing this up is that since we’re evenly matched with the Dingles, we’ll never get off the court unless we tank the match.”

  “You really want us to lose on purpose?”

  “Yes. This is not the time to be macho. This is the time to solve Claire’s murder so we can close the case, go to Florida, and have a wonderful time.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time right now,” said Hunt, his eyes filled with love. He reminded me of a puppy dog. A golden retriever in a tennis outfit. I reached out to pet him.

  “I love you,” he said, looking at me adoringly.

  Boy, it was nice to see that look again, that look that made me feel positively cherished.

  “I love you too,” I said softly. “But we’ve got a job to do, you know?”

  “I know, but I can’t help it if I’m happy,” he said. “Happy to be back where we started.”

  I nodded and put my arms around him. We held each other for a few seconds. Then I spotted the Dingles on Court 13 and suggested that we walk over to join them.

  Susan Dingle was thin and dark and humorless. She was so humorless that she never said “Good shot” to her opponent. Never. Not even if you hit the zippiest forehand or the snappiest backhand or the most hard-to-return serve. What’s more, she always had this pinched, sour expression on her face, as if she spent every waking moment sucking on lemons. You’d never know she had gobs of money and loads of friends and every reason in the world to be happy. And as for her husband, “Con,” as his intimates called him, he was an incredible asshole. No class whatsoever. For starters, he had the sense of humor of a fourth grader. Totally immature. He was also one of those tennis players who never shut up—not even while a point was in progress. You’d be playing your heart out, running to this side of the court, running to that side of the court, and he’d yell (and I do mean yell) things like: “Oh, brother, that sun is hot!” And: “Wow! I thought that ball was out but it caught the line!” And: “I can’t believe how much spin there was on that dropshot!” All in the middle of a point! With him around, there was no way to maintain your concentration. But worst of all was the way he spit on the court. I swear to God, the man actually cleared his throat and spit—like those gross pigs you see in the street or in the subway—as if it were the most natural thing in the world to hurl little blobs of phlegm onto the ground, just inches from your feet. I tell you, it’s amazing what members of a country club will put up with. But then, that’s what they get for being members of a country club: they get stuck with people like Susan and Conrad Dingle.

  “Well, hello, you two,” Conrad bellowed as Hunt and I approached him and his lovely wife. “Susan and I were wondering if you’d chickened out when you saw that we were your opponents!” Conrad flapped his arms and made clucking noises. Get it? Chickened out? God, what a jerk.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Hunt as he unzipped his racquet case and removed his mammoth Wilson Sledgehammer.

  “If you’d been five minutes later, we would have won the match by default,” said Susan. “It says so in the rule book: If your opponent’s a no-show, you win automatically.”

  I smiled. “Yes, well we’re not a no-show. We showed up.”

  “Just in time for us to whup your asses, right, Susie?” Conrad elbowed his wife, who winced and gave him a dirty look.

  “Darn,” said Hunt. “We forgot to bring balls.”

  “I have balls,” said Conrad as he held up a can of Wilsons. Then, thinking he had just said something terribly double entendre-ish, he snickered like a goofy adolescent.

  While Conrad Dingle struggled to open the screw-top can, he and Hunt chatted about the commodities market, interest rates, and the pros and cons of air bags, and I was forced to make conversation with Susan.

  “How’ve you been, Susan?” I asked old pursed lips.

  “Oh, you know how it is. We’re redoing the house.” She sighed in that plaintive, exhausted way people who are redoing their houses have. “The place is a mess. Completely uninhabitable. Especially the kitchen.”

  I’m sure I was supposed to fall to my knees and sob over Susan’s trouble, but I really couldn’t work up much sympathy. I mean, what is it with people who get their houses redone? Nobody is putting a gun to their head and saying, “Tear down the walls, refinish the floors, renovate
the kitchen, or I’ll blow your brains out!” And yet, they act so put-upon, so victimized, so…abused. Show me a person who whines about her contractor, her decorator, and her wallpaper hanger, and I’ll show you a real pain in the ass.

  “What do you say we get started?” I suggested. I was dying to get the match over with.

  “Capital idea,” said Conrad as he placed the head of his racquet on the Har-Tru surface before spinning it to determine which team would serve first. “Up or down?”

  “Up,” I said, just as Hunt was saying, “down.”

  Conrad laughed. “Hey, you two, with that kind of team work, you won’t have a prayer of beating us. Yuk yuk.”

  He spun his racquet again. “Up or down?”

  “Down,” said Hunt. I remained silent this time.

  “It’s down,” said Conrad. “You guys want to serve?”

  I looked at Hunt, who had absolutely no control of his serve. Sometimes it would land in the court. Sometimes it would sail over the fence. Sometimes it would hit me in the back of the head.

  “Sure, we’ll serve,” he said and picked up all three balls and put two of them in his shorts pocket.

  We took our respective positions on the court. Then Hunt yelled, “These are good,” as is customary when you’re about to serve to begin a match.

  “Whoa,” said Conrad. “Don’t you two want to warm up first? Susan and I hit for a while before you got here.”

  “No,” I said, trying to hurry things along. “We warmed up at home.” Yuk yuk.