The Club

by Jane Heller

  “Let’s take one step at a time, huh?” said Tom. “Even if Brendan is ripping off the members of The Oaks, that doesn’t mean he killed Claire Cox. I think our next step should be to find out where this Sharon Klein lives and then pay her a visit.”

  He grabbed the White Pages of the telephone book and started looking for Sharon’s number.

  “You shouldn’t have much trouble finding it,” I said. “This is Belford we’re talking about, not Great Neck. There can’t be more than one Klein in the book.”

  Tom ran his finger down the page of the phone book, then stopped. “Here’s an ‘S. Klein’ on Rosebud Trail.”

  “Shame on her,” I said. “Years ago, single women listed their first initial in the phone book instead of their whole first name, because they wanted rapists and robbers and phone fetishists to think they were a man and leave them alone. But hide the fact that you’re a single woman in this day and age? Not very PC of Sharon. Tsk tsk.”

  “I’ll give her a call,” said Tom, ignoring my sermon.

  S. Klein did indeed turn out to be Sharon Klein, the Sharon Klein who was about to join The Oaks Country Club. When Tom explained the situation to her as well as the urgency, she agreed to see us right away.

  “It’s a good thing this isn’t tax season,” she said when we arrived at her house, a modest colonial on a couple of acres. “I would have been up to my ears in spreadsheets.”

  Sharon had short, no-nonsense brown hair, wore large, tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses, and had a serious, almost pained expression. She fit my image of an accountant in every way except for the fact that each of her ear-lobes was pierced in six places and the T-shirt she was wearing read: “I’m a Biker. You Got a Problem With That?”

  When we told her what we wanted her to do, she said to give her twenty-four hours.

  “Normally, it would take me a few days to do this sort of audit, but I’ll take a cursory look and try to get a sense of what’s been going on,” she said. “It’s the least I can do for Claire.”

  The following afternoon, after Hunt and I returned home from Tire World with our newly outfitted vehicle, we received a call from Tom, saying that Sharon had indeed detected a problem with the club’s accounting.

  “I’m not exactly a whiz at numbers, but according to Sharon, who said something about analyzing The Oaks’s food and liquor costs to sales, the food costs are way out of line with what they should be,” he said. “Sharon also mentioned something about ‘phantom bills,’ money that was paid to the food supplier even though the goods were never received. She said somebody at your club has definitely been up to something—and has been for quite a while—and that she’ll be glad to testify to that effect in court.”

  “Great! What happens next?” I said.

  “You’re going to replace the files you took from the bookkeeping office,” he said.

  “Replace them? But they’re evidence,” I said.

  “Sharon’s made copies of everything. I want you and Hunt to take them back to the club and make sure Brendan sees you do it.”

  “Why? So he can slash our tires again? I don’t think I could put Hunt through that.”

  “No, so we can catch Brendan—and whoever else is in on the kickback scheme with him—trying to cover their tracks. We don’t have any hard evidence against Mr. Hardy, Judy. We need some. I’m betting he’s going to go back into that office and either take the files or falsify them somehow.”

  “Fine, but how will you know if it’s Brendan who takes them?”

  “I’ll know if it’s Brendan, because you’re going to bug the place.”

  “I am?”

  “Yup. When you go back into that bookkeeping office today, you’re going to put a little surveillance wire in there for us. Then we’ll know exactly who’s doing what.”

  “But Tom, I don’t know a thing about bugs, wires, whatever you call them. And forget about Hunt. He’s a disaster at anything electrical. He almost blew up the kitchen when he tried to fix the toaster oven and—”

  “Judy, relax,” said Tom. “What I’m asking you to do isn’t brain surgery. Is there a tissue box in the bookkeeping office?”

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  “Because we’ve got a special surveillance antenna for tissue boxes. It’s easy to hide and it works great. So if there isn’t a box of tissues hanging around, bring one, okay?”

  “I guess so. Any special brand? Kleenex makes this new kind where there’s moisturizing cream on each tissue. They’re gentler on the nose.”

  “Swell. I’ll be sure to buy them the next time I have a cold. Now, I assume there’s a desk or a conference table in that office, right?”

  “A conference table.”

  “Good. You’ll mount the transmitter underneath that table and then hook the antenna up to the tissue box.”

  “But Tom, I’m not sure we’ll know how to—”

  “I’ll be over in twenty minutes to show you everything you need to know. Is that convenient?”

  “Yes, but there’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Do I get extra for this or is bugging an office considered part of my work as an informant?”

  “You get extra for this. I’ll buy you another Whopper at Burger King.”

  As it was a gorgeous Saturday morning in August, The Oaks was packed. Hunt was supposed to play golf with Ducky and Perry and Addison Bidwell, but he dropped out in order to accompany me on my surveillance mission. Ever since the elevator incident, he’d been by my side. Protecting me. Supporting me. Loving me. Being the kind of husband I needed him to be. My mother was right when she’d said, “Hang on to him. You could do worse.”

  “I hate to take you away from your golf,” I said as we walked past dozens of golfers on our way to the clubhouse. “You must be dying to play.”

  “I don’t miss the game all that much,” he said. “What I miss is the comraderie, the people-thing. I really like Perry and Ducky. Especially Ducky. He’s a nifty guy, Jude.”

  “Yeah, nifty.”

  “Oh, come on, Booch. I know you suspected him at one time, but he’s a real mild-mannered, low-key guy. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, believe me. When I called him this morning to cancel, do you know what he was doing?”

  “I know what he wasn’t doing: making love to his wife. Nedra says they never do it.”

  “Nedra says they do it. Nedra says they never do it. Nedra says a lot of things. She loves to shock people.”

  “True.”

  “No, when I called, he was operating on Bartholomew.”

  “Nedra’s little Yorkie?”

  “Yeah. Old Bart had stepped on a tiny piece of glass, and Ducky was taking it out.”

  “Aw, isn’t that sweet. Actually, I like Ducky well enough. Of all the clowns at this club, he’s probably the least clownish. It was just that when I overheard him telling Claire how he wished they were still together and all that mush…it made me a little queasy.”

  “Look, Claire Cox was a very attractive, passionate woman. It’s not hard to see how she would have made a huge impact on Ducky when they were in college.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  We arrived at the clubhouse with our “gear,” which consisted of the files, the transmitter, the antenna, and the box of Kleenex, all of which we had stuffed into my Barnes & Noble canvas tote bag and covered with a beach towel. As Tom had instructed, we went into the main dining room and asked one of the waiters if Brendan was around.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” said the waiter.

  “I know,” I said, “but I’d like to speak with him. Just for a second.”

  The waiter said he’d be right back and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, Brendan emerged.

  “Oh, hi, Brendan,” I said. “I just wanted to thank you personally for finding my eyeglasses and then having one of your staff bring them to me. That was so thoughtful.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “I left
them in that bookkeeping office when Hunt—he’s on the Finance Committee, as you know—was looking for some files. Now we’re going back there to return them, and I’ll be sure not to leave my glasses this time!”

  I extended my hand to Brendan in a gesture of thanks, but he declined to shake it.

  “I’m greasy,” he said. “I’ve been stuffing chicken breasts.”

  “I understand completely,” I said. “Take care.”

  And off we went to the bookkeeping office.

  Tom was right: setting up the surveillance equipment wasn’t brain surgery. Hunt and I returned the files, set up the transmitter and antenna, and were out of there in twenty minutes.

  “Now, all we have to do is wait,” Hunt said.

  We didn’t hear from Tom until four o’clock that afternoon.

  “Did you get anything?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Some guy blew his nose into one of your moisturized tissues.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  The next day, Tom called to say there were three people in the bookkeeping office.

  “Was one of them Brendan?” I asked.

  “No, all three of them were women. They were discussing the flower arrangements for the Labor Day Dance.”

  “Great. Well, tomorrow’s Monday and most of the members will be at work. If Brendan’s going to do anything funny, tomorrow just might be the day.”

  It was.

  “I’ve got great news,” said Tom when he called. “Brendan was in the bookkeeping office this morning, and he had someone else in there with him.”

  “Duncan Tewksbury?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell. The other guy only grunted a couple of times.”

  “You sure he didn’t chuckle? Duncan chuckles a lot.”

  “No, these weren’t chuckles. These were grunts.”

  “Okay, so did Brendan talk to this guy about the Rheinhardt’s file?”

  “No, it never came up.”

  “Then what did he talk about?”

  “The new kitchen. Your club is planning to renovate the kitchen, right?”

  “Yes, to the tune of three million dollars. Talk about a rip-off. Hunt showed me the architectural plans one night and I couldn’t believe how little we were getting for our money. I had a better-laid-out kitchen in my studio apartment in Manhattan.”

  “Well, it turns out that Brendan and whoever was in the room with him have a little kickback thing going with the general contractor on that three-million-dollar kitchen. Those architectural plans you saw were for a two-million-dollar kitchen; Brendan and his accomplice are splitting the million-dollar difference with the contractor.”

  “God, what pigs. Between the food service rip-off and this thing with the kitchen, Brendan must be squirreling away a small fortune.” I sighed, thinking of how rotten people could be, how devious. “Well, at least we’ve got some evidence against Brendan now,” I said. “When are you going to arrest him, Detective?”

  “I’m not.”

  “What do you mean you’re not?”

  “The evidence isn’t admissible in court, Judy. The only time I can use evidence gathered from technical surveillance equipment is when it falls under the heading of ‘consensual monitoring.’”

  “You mean you have to get Brendan’s consent before recording him? How lame is that?”

  “Look, here’s the deal. We don’t need his consent to obtain evidence of criminal activity if he has the conversation with a police officer or someone acting in an undercover capacity. According to Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 2511 (2), ‘It shall not be unlawful for a person acting under the color of the law to intercept wire or oral communications, where such person is party to the communication.’”

  “So you’re saying that Brendan has to be talking about his evil deeds with a cop before you can arrest him?”

  “Right. He’s got to be talking either to a cop or to someone working for the cops.”

  “How likely is that?” I said, discouraged and not a little bit frustrated. Police procedures were beginning to sound as rigid and out-of-touch with reality as The Oaks’s bylaws. “Brendan will never talk about his scams to a cop. He may be a lousy cook, but he’s not a complete idiot.”

  “No, but he might talk to a member of your club who’s helping the police,” said Tom. “Especially if he felt he had no choice.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s say a member of your club set up a meeting with Brendan in the bookkeeping office, where we’ve got our surveillance gear planted. Let’s say this member confronted Brendan about all the kickbacks and then said something like, ‘If you cut me in, Brendan, I won’t go to the president of the club—or to the cops.’ Then we can get Brendan agreeing to the deal and admitting everything on tape. That we’d be able to use as evidence in court.”

  “Brilliant, but you’re not suggesting I be the member to confront him, are you? I know I’m working for you and all. But confront the guy who murdered Claire?” The man was a criminal, after all. Talking to him in public was one thing; having a secret meeting with him was another.

  “No, Judy. I’m not suggesting that you confront Brendan,” said Tom. “I’m suggesting that Hunt do it.”

  “Hunt?”

  “Did you call me, Jude?” Hunt yelled from the living room, where he was poring over his commodities charts. He was supposed to be taking the week off, but so far, he’d been spending every minute agonizing over this trade and that trade. The truth was, Hunt didn’t have the personality for commodities trading, which is high-risk and requires a strong stomach. He wasn’t much of a risk taker, period, which was why I was surprised that Tom had thought of him for such a risky operation.

  “You want Hunt to confront Brendan in the bookkeeping office?” I asked Tom.

  “It’s an idea,” he said. “Brendan already suspects that you two are on to him. What if Hunt sat down with him and said, ‘Listen, guy, I’ve been looking over the books and I know you’ve been pulling something. I’m having real problems at work and I’m desperate for money. If you give me a piece of the action, I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ Chances are, Brendan will feel squeezed and consider Hunt’s offer. The minute he says something to incriminate himself, we’ll go in and arrest him.”

  “But Tom,” I said. “Look what happened to Claire. She probably found out about Brendan, confronted him, and threatened to blow the whistle on him. Now she’s dead, something I don’t want my husband to be.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Hunt,” Tom said. “We’ll be sitting in the parking lot of the club, listening to every word they say. If it sounds like Brendan’s getting riled up, we’ll go in.”

  I considered the scenario. Obviously, I didn’t want to put Hunt in jeopardy. On television, cop strategies backfired all the time, and the good guys didn’t always win. But it was Hunt’s decision whether or not to go along with Tom’s plan, not mine.

  I hung up the phone and went into the living room to talk to Hunt.

  “Booch?” I said, cuddling up next to him on the sofa. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said, putting aside his papers. “Was that Tom you were on the phone with?”

  I filled him in on my conversation with Tom, then posed the possibility of Hunt’s playing undercover cop.

  “He really wants me to do it?” Hunt said, his eyes wide.

  I nodded. “But listen, Hunt. You don’t have to do it,” I said. “Don’t fall into that macho trap where you think you have to prove your manhood by putting yourself in danger. I love you just the way you are, whether you play undercover cop or not. Just remember that when you’re weighing the pros and cons of Tom’s idea and trying to decide what to—”

  “I’m doing it,” he interrupted me. “If it will bring this whole mess to a head, I’m doing it.”

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.�
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  Chapter Eighteen

  Tom arrived at the house and rehearsed Hunt for his undercover mission. Then Hunt called the club and asked to speak to Brendan, who wasn’t available. Hunt left a message. About an hour later, Brendan returned the call.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Hunt told him. “Tonight. At the club. It’s in both our best interests to have this meeting right away.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” Brendan asked.

  “Yes, and I think you know what it is,” said Hunt. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock. In the bookkeeping office.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got plans,” Brendan said.

  “Cancel them,” said Hunt, in a voice I hardly recognized. Hunt had never been the bossy type, the sort of man who orders people around with nonchalance. Which was probably why he hadn’t made partner at F&F, where they equated being a blow-hard with being smart. It struck me suddenly and with great clarity that Hunt would never ascend at F&F. He wasn’t obnoxious enough.

  Hunt drove over to the club in our BMW, while Tom and I followed in the Caprice. We parked in the lot, the only cars there.

  “Good luck, Booch,” I said as I kissed Hunt goodbye. “We’ll be right here if you need us, listening to every word.”

  “I know,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to get this guy to incriminate himself on tape, and we’re going to put this whole murder thing behind us.”

  While Hunt walked toward the clubhouse, Tom set up his surveillance receiver on the front seat of the car. He adjusted the controls, put on a pair of headphones, and handed me a pair. Then we waited. I nearly jumped when I heard Hunt’s voice. My own sweet Hunt, transmitted over that Kleenex antenna. So near and yet so far.

  “Glad you decided to show up,” I heard him tell Brendan. “We’ve got a few things to discuss.”

  I tried to picture them in that office, interacting. Who was where? Were they standing or sitting? Close together or on opposite sides of the room? Were they smiling at each other or glowering? The sensation of being able to hear Hunt but not see him was discomfiting, to say the least.