The Club

by Jane Heller

“Suit yourselves,” said Conrad.

  Hunt served a double fault, and the match got under way. The good news is that I played miserably and so did Hunt. The bad news is that Susan and Conrad Dingle played even more miserably. Consequently, just when I thought we were about to lose the match and be ousted from the tournament, as per our plan, the Dingles tied the score. On and on it went. Hunt blew a forehand. Conrad blew a backhand. I hit a ball into the net. Susan hit a ball into the next court. We were god-awful, all of us, and our awfulness made us testy with each other. Like when Hunt was winding up to serve and Conrad put his hand up and yelled, “Foot fault!” Or when Susan hit a lob that resembled the launch of the Space Shuttle, and I called the ball out after it finally landed.

  “Are you sure it was out?” she whined from across the net.

  “Of course I’m sure,” I said. How much do you hate when people who are supposed to be your friends (or at the very least, your fellow club members) question your integrity? If I didn’t think the ball was out, I wouldn’t have called it out. “Do you want to come over here and check the mark, Susan?”

  “Yes,” she said, then walked all the way over to the spot where her ball had landed and inspected the mark, all of which caused our already long match to last even longer. “It doesn’t look out to me,” she sniffed.

  “Are you calling my wife a liar?” said Hunt as he and Conrad converged around the notorious spot.

  “Hey, hey, simmer down,” Conrad told Hunt. “Let’s just do it over.”

  Oh great, I thought. If we keep playing points over, we’ll be here till midnight.

  Eventually and mercifully, the Dingles beat us.

  “Wow. That was quite a match,” Conrad chuckled as we all shook hands at the net.

  “Congratulations,” I said begrudgingly to the Dingles. “Who do you play next?”

  “Probably the Winstons,” said Susan. “But we’ll never beat them. They’re much better than you two.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” said Susan. “Besides, even if we do beat them, we’ll lose in the next round to Larkin and Perry Vail.”

  “Perry’s not much of a tennis player,” said Hunt. “Golf’s his sport.”

  “Maybe, but he’s got quite a partner in Larkin,” Susan said. “She doesn’t lose. Ever.”

  Hardly ever, I wanted to say but didn’t. There was no point in bringing up Larkin’s match with Claire—the one match she’d lost all summer.

  Hunt and I wished the Dingles luck against the Winstons, said we’d see them later, and rushed over to the clubhouse.

  “Did you bring the key?” I whispered to Hunt as we tiptoed toward the bookkeeping office, which was down the hall from the kitchen.

  “Of course I brought the key,” he said, looking annoyed.

  “I was just asking,” I said. “I remember the time we drove all the way out to Shea Stadium for a Mets game and you forgot to bring the tickets. And then there was the time you drove up to the cash machine and realized you’d left your ATM card in your other wallet.”

  “Thanks for the poignant retrospective,” said Hunt as we stopped at the door to the office. He reached inside his tennis racquet case and pulled out his key chain, which was sterling silver and shaped like a golf club. “Jeez,” he muttered as he fumbled with the half-dozen keys on the chain. “This could take a while. I forget which key opens the door.”

  I sighed. “Oh great. Why don’t we just stand here with little signs saying, ‘Look at us! We’re planning to snoop around in the club’s confidential files!’”

  Hunt ignored me and kept inserting different keys into the lock on the door. When we both heard footsteps coming from down the hall, we froze.

  “Now what are we going to do?” I moaned. “We’ll be caught.”

  “We’re not going to do anything,” said Hunt. “We have every right to be here. I’m on the Finance Committee, remember?”

  The footsteps grew louder and were accompanied by male voices.

  “Just act normal,” Hunt instructed. “Pretend we left something in the office and stopped by to pick it up.”

  “Left something? Like what?” I asked.

  Just as Hunt was about to answer, Brendan Hardy and Duncan Tewksbury came around the corner and saw us.

  “Hello,” I said, smiling, and gave them a little wave.

  Duncan would have kept going, I was sure, but Brendan stopped in his tracks and looked first at me, then at Hunt, then at me again. He seemed nervous, fidgety.

  “We just came from the Tennis Tussle,” I said, feeling the need to explain to them why we were standing in front of the bookkeeping office, even though it was none of their business and even though there was nothing in the bylaws of The Oaks that said we couldn’t hang out in the bookkeeping office if we felt like it. “We lost in the first round,” I went on, “so I suggested we take a little walk before dinner. That barbecued chicken of yours is so tempting, Brendan, that I wanted to be sure I made room for it.”

  “Glad you like it,” he replied without emotion.

  “Yes, well we really can’t stay and chat,” Duncan chuckled as he practically grabbed Brendan’s arm and dragged him off. “Brendan and I have some business to discuss.”

  “Please, don’t let us detain you,” said Hunt.

  “Right-o,” said Duncan. “Have a pleasant evening, Hunt. You too, Mrs. Price.”

  Hunt. Mrs. Price. The man lived on Mars.

  When they were out of earshot, I turned to Hunt and whispered, “What do you think all that was about? Duncan looked upset.”

  Hunt shrugged. “Maybe one of Brendan’s soufflés fell.”

  “Cute. Or maybe Duncan knows we’re on to their little kickback scam.”

  “You really think Duncan’s in on it? He’s the brother of the club’s founder, Jude.”

  “And the father of a convicted felon. Can’t you just picture the two of them plotting to silence Claire? I’ll bet Duncan was the brains behind her murder and Brendan was the one who whacked her on the head. He’s so big and strong he probably killed her with one awesome blow.”

  “Oh, neat. I found the right key.”

  “Yeah, neat.” I rolled my eyes as Hunt jiggled the lock and opened the door. We were in!

  “Now let’s see if we can find something to incriminate the two of them,” he said, then closed the door behind us and flipped on the light.

  “Don’t do that,” I whispered. “People will know we’re in here if they see there’s a light on.”

  “Jude, we can’t read the files in the dark.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Now, I think the food bills are in here.” He walked over to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” I asked as I scurried over to him.

  “I don’t know. Some kind of discrepancy in the invoices, I guess. Something that would show that the club has been paying for items it hasn’t received.”

  He pulled out a manila folder marked Rheinhardt’s.

  “What’s Rheinhardt’s?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “The food service company The Oaks uses. They specialize in country clubs. They function like a middle man, selling us all our meats, fruits, vegetables, everything.”

  “So if Brendan’s got some kind of scam going, someone at Rheinhardt’s is in on it, right?”

  “I would think so. Apparently, we started using Rheinhardt’s when Brendan came to the club a few years ago. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine him saying to somebody there, ‘Overcharge me for x, y, and z and I’ll give you some of the money back.’”

  “Sure, and with Duncan protecting him, he’d never get caught,” I said. “So what we’ve got to do is find a recent bill from Rheinhardt’s and see what they’ve been charging us for.”

  Hunt leafed through the papers in the file and pulled out one of them.

  “Here’s one,” he said. “Dated June firs
t and marked ‘Paid.’ It’s got Brendan’s signature on it.”

  The bill listed various types of foods in varying quantities, along with prices.

  “Wow! I never realized how expensive it is to feed three hundred members of a club,” I said.

  “Look, here’s another one,” said Hunt as he pulled a bill from the folder and examined it.

  “Does it seem to be on the up-and-up?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m not an expert in this stuff. Ask me about cattle futures and I’ll be able to help you.”

  “Well then, we’ll have to take it.”

  “Take what?”

  “The Rheinhardt’s file.”

  “Jude, we can’t take the whole file. Somebody’s bound to notice that it’s missing.”

  “We’ll only keep it for a day or two,” I said. “If somebody comes looking for it, they’ll think it’s been misplaced, that’s all. The same goes for the budget file. It’s here somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “The budget file? Yeah, it should be right in here.”

  Hunt opened another drawer and pulled out a file marked The Oaks: 1995 budget.

  “Great,” I said. “We’ll take it, too.”

  “But what are we going to do with them?” said Hunt. “I’ve already told you that the invoices look okay to me.”

  “We’re going to take both files to our accountant,” I said. “When Valerio was getting ripped off at his restaurant, it was his accountant who saved the day.”

  “We can’t take the files to our accountant,” said Hunt.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Because our accountant’s a member of this club, remember? I switched us over to Peter Kendall six months ago when he opened an account with me at F&F. I thought it would be a nice quid pro quo, you know?”

  “Oh, Hunt,” I said, and sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I considered our predicament. Then an idea came to me.

  “I know another accountant,” I said, thinking of the woman who had been one of Claire’s guests at the July Fourth Wild West party. “Her name’s Sharon Klein.”

  “Klein. Klein,” said Hunt as he tried to place the name. “Isn’t she one of the women who applied for membership here?”

  “Yes. Claire sponsored her. I bet she wants to see her friend’s killer brought to justice just as badly as we do, and I bet she’ll go through the files and be very discreet about it.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Hunt.

  I nodded and unzipped his tennis case, pulled out the Wilson Sledgehammer, and placed the files inside.

  “Thank God for oversized racquet cases. These files would never have fit in mine,” I said. “Now, let’s go eat some barbecued chicken.”

  The Tennis Tussle dinners were casual affairs, held on the deck of the tennis house. When we arrived, the kitchen staff was setting the tables in anticipation of the end of the tournament, which was now in its final round with Larkin and Perry Vail pitted against Penelope and Reggie Etheridge. Everybody sipped Bloody Marys, watched the action, and offered their assessments of the match.

  “Wow! Great shot,” shouted Bailey Vanderhoff after Larkin blasted a blistering forehand past Penelope Etheridge’s outstretched racquet. Then, while we all clapped for Larkin, Bailey turned to me and whispered, “The bitch can hit the ball, I’ll give her that, but I’ll never forgive her for showing up Penelope in front of all these people.”

  I laughed, marveling at how two-faced people at the club could be. And competitive. Couldn’t they get it through their heads that the Friday night Tennis Tussles were supposed to be fun?

  “He foot-faulted!” Conrad Dingle yelled onto the court after Perry stepped over the line while delivering his first serve.

  “You need glasses,” I told Conrad. “Not to mention a muzzle.”

  “You need glasses,” Conrad shot back.

  “I’ve already got a pair,” I said, reaching into my purse for my new gold-wired Ralph Lauren specs, the ones that were supposed to help me read the newspaper without holding it three feet in front of me.

  “Gee, that’s funny,” I said to Hunt, ignoring Conrad Dingle for the moment and concentrating on the fact that my eyeglass case was not in my purse. “I could have sworn I brought my glasses with me.”

  “You did,” Hunt whispered. “You had them on when we were in the bookkeeping office.”

  “Right, but they’re not in my purse.”

  Hunt turned pale. “You didn’t leave them in there, did you, Jude?”

  “God, I guess they could have dropped out of my purse and fallen on the floor. Or maybe onto the conference table.”

  “Oh, great,” he muttered. “Now everyone will know that we took those files.”

  “They will not,” I said. “The glasses could belong to anyone on the Finance Committee.”

  “No, they couldn’t,” he said. “They’re women’s glasses and we don’t have any women on the committee.”

  “You would have if Claire had lived,” I sighed.

  “We’ll just have to go back and get them,” said Hunt.

  I nodded.

  We got up from our chairs, tossed our empty plastic cups into the garbage, and were about to walk back to the clubhouse when one of the boys from the kitchen staff rushed over to us.

  “Mrs. Price?” he said, sounding out of breath, his accent thick with an Irish brogue.

  “Yes?”

  “Are these yours?” He handed me my eyeglass case.

  “Why yes, they are,” I said. “But where did you find them?”

  “Mr. Hardy said to bring them to you,” he said. “He said you’d left them.”

  Brendan? My heart jumped. “How did he know they were mine?” I asked the boy.

  He shrugged. “He just said that I should tell you to be more careful in the future.”

  The boy turned and ran back to the kitchen.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Hunt, my mouth dry with fear. “Brendan just gave me another warning.”

  “Jesus. The guy must have been prowling around in the bookkeeping office after we left,” he said. “I guess he wanted to know what we were up to—badly.”

  “That means he could be the killer, Hunt, and the person who broke into the house and disabled the elevator,” I said. “All we have to do now is get the evidence.”

  Suddenly, there was thunderous applause coming from the tennis house. I suspected that Larkin and Perry had won the tournament and were being congratulated by the rest of the participants, many of whom had trashed them only minutes before.

  “They’re going to start serving dinner now,” said Hunt. “We’d better head over there.”

  “Not a chance,” I said. “The only place I’m heading is over to Sharon Klein’s.”

  “But we don’t even know where she lives,” said Hunt.

  “She lives in Belford,” I said. “We’ll look her up in the phone book.”

  “Are you sure about this, Jude?” he said.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” I said. “Sharon will help us. I know she will.”

  “No, I meant are you sure you want to leave before they serve dinner? You haven’t missed a meal in all the years I’ve known you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We hurried out to the parking lot.

  “Do you see the car, Hunt?” I asked. It was twilight and hard to see much of any thing.

  “I think we parked over there,” he said, pointing to the area near the driveway.

  “Oh, right. I see it now,” I said after spotting the BMW, all black and shiny and new. Well, almost new. We had bought the car the year before, when I still had my job at Charlton House and Hunt still thought he’d be made a partner at F&F any day. As we drew closer, Hunt grabbed my arm so hard he nearly broke it.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” I said, looking at him.

  “That!” He pointed to the car and gasped.

  All four tires had been slashed. “Who would have done such a thing?
”

  “Who do you think?” Hunt muttered.

  “Brendan.” It had to be. Or maybe he had one of his little kitchen boys do it. To send us yet another message. “Oh, Hunt. What are we going to do now?”

  He didn’t answer. I think he was calculating how much a complete set of new Michelins would cost him.

  “Look, this has really gotten out of hand,” I said. “We need Tom’s help now, don’t you think?”

  He nodded. His complexion had turned a sickly shade of green, the way it always did when his car or his house or his daughter required a large and unexpected outlay of cash.

  “You hang on to the racquet case and the files. I’ll go inside the clubhouse and beep Tom. He’ll be here in no time,” I said.

  “Make sure you tell him we want a flat-bed truck for the car, not one of those cheesy tow jobs,” he called out, then sat on the hood of the BMW and put his head in his hands.

  I ran to the pay phone in the ladies’ locker room and beeped Tom, who called me back within five minutes. When I told him what had happened, he said Hunt and I should wait by the car, that he’d be there to pick us up in ten minutes and that he would send a tow truck—a flatbed tow truck—right away.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me.

  “A little shaky, but that’s probably because I haven’t eaten since lunch,” I said.

  “I’ll stop at Burger King and bring you a couple of Whoppers,” he said. “Or are you a McDonald’s person?”

  “I’m a Lutèce person, but a couple of Whoppers would be just fine,” I said.

  Tom picked us up in his unmarked Chevy Caprice and took us over to police headquarters, where we sat in his office and wolfed down our burgers and fries. I know that some people simply can’t eat a morsel of food when they’re upset, but I was ravenous. My mother’s daughter, apparently.

  “You’ve got to help us find Sharon Klein,” I told Tom between bites. “I think it’s important that she look over these files and tell us if there’s anything suspicious in them. If there is, you can arrest Brendan.”

  “Not so fast,” Tom cautioned.

  “Come on, we all know he’s a crook,” said Hunt. “Why can’t you just lock him up?”