by Patti Larsen
Vivian French? Wasn’t. And that was damned sad.
“Hi, Viv.” I waved one dirty hand, joined her, almost grinned at the flash of uncertainty on her face. I guess I’d never really addressed her like she might be an almost friend before, not without some kind of conflict she needed resolved bringing us together. And, in another blip of insight, caught the reflection of the girl she’d been that day on the dock, the sobbing, terrified girl I’d pulled from the water. My friend, once upon a time. Was that the moment our connection died? With Victor?
She stared at me a long moment while my brain turned and I almost said something, was about to blurt out the contents of my nightmare, when she dropped her gaze, flinched. Visibly flinched, not like Vivian at all. Did she know? Sense what I was going to say? Her body showed signs of retreat though she didn’t move a muscle, and I gave her the emotional space she needed while my heart hurt for her.
I guess I was growing up finally.
“Kind of you to assist,” Vivian said as a few of her uniformed staff lugged bags of buns to the tent. “Your mother’s idea is, as always, ideal.”
I shrugged, hands tucked into my back pockets. “Best we could do on short notice. We’d have been happy to help if Alicia had just come to us in the first place.” No, I did not just grumble that to Vivian of all people.
She glanced at me quickly, lips pursed, though she didn’t seem angry. No, if I didn’t know better, that look she gave me had as much frustration in it as any I’d ever seen. Huh. But she was in bed with the Pattersons from what I understood. Was she, like Alicia, being controlled against her will and, if so, what did Marie have against her?
“I’m sure Alicia appreciates your assistance.” Vivian hesitated then, inhaled as if to speak up, held her breath another moment while I waited for her to tell me what she needed to say, clearly wanted to release into our shared awareness.
Except Olivia Walker chose that exact moment to pull up in a golf cart, practically throwing herself at us with her round face red, black bob swinging, cream suit more masculine than Vivian’s delicate designer wear.
And, again there was a moment, an exchange of looks, this time between the Queen of Wheat and the mayor of the cutest town in America and I felt myself stop, tense, shock and surprise freezing me in place.
Something had happened between Olivia and Vivian. They weren’t blatant about it, not overly antagonistic. But the animosity that flowed from one to the other—mutual, reciprocated—was impossible to miss despite the mayor’s attempt to hide it and Vivian’s typical cold, professional demeanor.
“Are you set up yet?” Olivia scanned the tent, noted the buns and the BBQ, turning to me and ignoring Vivian as if the woman wasn’t standing right there, showing zero indication she planned to change that anytime soon.
What the actual what?
I spluttered, unable to form coherent thoughts let alone have them reach my lips to make words from the sounds emerging. It was Vivian, as collected as ever, who answered her.
“Fee and Lucy have everything well in hand. As usual. Let me know if you need more supplies.” She nodded to me before turning and strolling away to her own golf car, making walking on grass in heels look like the easiest thing in the world.
Olivia ignored her retreat, looking a little less frantic. I was dying to ask her what was going on, but Alicia’s arrival in what looked like a limo cart, a few of her maintenance staff with her, cut me off. Not that I didn’t want to ask Olivia questions in front of Alicia, but…
Yeah. I didn’t want to ask Olivia questions in front of Alicia. (Bad friend, Fee.)
“This looks great.” Alicia rubbed both hands together, the stress gone from her face, faint smile aimed at me fading just as fast as it came. “Thank you. We have the pro-am this afternoon and we’re almost ready for the first tee off.” She hesitated as she turned back to her car before her jaw set. “Fee, can I offer you a ride back to the club house?”
Olivia seemed startled by the suggestion but I leaped on it, nodding as casually as I could with a shrug.
“Beats walking,” I said, joining her in the front seat, the rest of the stretched out vehicle empty.
Alicia waved to the mayor who was already heading for her own car and expertly maneuvered us around the green and onward back to the first tee. The soft hum of the electric motor was almost imperceptible, the chatter of people taking their places, spectators choosing spots on the course to watch the afternoon’s play, washed past us as we sped along the graveled path that turned to asphalt before we rattled across a wooden bridge, almost back.
“Fee.” Alicia’s voice wavered when she said my name, her face rigid, her eyes locked on the clubhouse up ahead. “Stop digging. Into everything. Please. I’m begging you.” She finally looked at me, tears in her eyes. “Let it go. It’s not what you think, and it’s not worth it.”
No she did not just dump that on me, not as she slammed on the breaks and locked them in place, exiting the driver’s seat and hurrying away before I could grill her for more information.
She had to know me better than that. Telling me to stop? Like pressing my GO button.
But did she mean it? That talking to me put her life with Jared at risk? Could I live with myself if I was their ending, my need to know truths that maybe should be put to rest forever?
Was this about Fiona Doyle?
I exited the golf car, heading for the main tent and Mom, almost ready to dump all of it, Malcom and Dad and Siobhan and all. The mystery was over thirty years old. What did it really matter now? Sure, it did to her father, her mother. But why did I care?
Maybe I would have let it go. Perhaps I could have gotten to a place where I accepted Dad had done everything he could and who was I really to challenge his years of expertise and investigation? Yeah, maybe.
Except for the flag someone erected next to the main tent, the big, midnight hued flag with the gold B emblazoned in the middle, with the name of the tournament sponsor written beneath.
Blackstone was here. And that changed everything.
***
Chapter Thirteen
While it had been my intention to return to Petunia’s immediately, to resume my own work and leave the staff of the lodge to the setup Mom had so artfully created, I instead found myself, two hours later, slinging hotdogs and hamburgers while Mom served them off the smoking grill next to her. She worked with her usual aplomb but I could tell even she was getting to the point of irritated frustration. At least, if the not-so-subtle depositing of each plate into my hand, hard enough despite being only paper, to smack my skin with a soft sound, was any indication.
Thing was, I lingered on purpose, feeling more than a little guilty that seemed to mean to Mom she needed to stay behind with me and help. But the sight of that flag with the Blackstone logo just wouldn’t let me leave until I found out something at least minor—but relevant—I could take back to my B&B with me. Because Blackstone, yo. That mysterious corporation that had tried to ruin Jared’s friends when they opened the Zip It! park, the same corp my ex, Ryan Richards, worked for. That mysterious and unidentified business that even the FBI couldn’t seem to crack.
I’d find something to cut through the darkness and let light in, just watch me.
Stubborn. You betcha.
Most of the people buying were visitors, tourists, so I was used to the type—the men with their ball caps and binoculars, cameras loaded with long telephoto lenses, cheeks pink from the sun, bellies a bit too rounded though they were dressed to match the leaner, muscular athletes who participated in the round. The pro-am, I was informed by one of the maintenance workers, combined professional players competing in the actual tournament with a selection of amateur golfers who’d either paid for the privilege or won their own accolades at a lower level of competition and were invited to join the play.
He’d shared a lot more over his two hot dogs but it had gone in one ear and vanished down the swirling whirlpool of my overactive mind. I hadn’t ev
en noticed when he’d ambled off, too engaged in glaring unhappiness at the Blackstone flag next to the tent and handing over food to the hungry people who slapped down cash for Mom’s cuisine.
We’d been doing a rollicking business and I was actually starting to come out of my focus coma a little, long enough to wonder about the revenue we were generating—for free—for Alicia. Grunt. Another thing to be sour about. And, when the line thinned somewhat, I turned to Mom, ready to go, to put an end to my obsessive feelings about Blackstone, at least for now, and get out of here, if only to escape adding the insult to the injury of being cut out of the lives of some of my favorite people while I was a sucker and helped them anyway.
“You serving or what?” I spun back before I could tell Mom we were done, to find the tall, lean golfer who’d spoken leaning over the table between us, his brown eyes heavy lidded under thick, dark brows shot with gray. His cap barely hid the bushy curls of his outgrown haircut, deep wrinkles from years in the sun adding a slightly orange tint to his skin. I’d met the local teaching pro a few times in the past, but only as brief intros. This was my first real up close and personal encounter with Gavin Maloney and I wasn’t impressed.
“Sure,” I said, doing my best to be nice, even managing a smile. “Hot dog or hamburger?”
He grunted, looked over my shoulder at Mom who stood there, spatula raised, green eyes fixed on him like she was challenging him to say something. Now, my mother was a gorgeous woman, no matter her age and I was always glad to see who I’d turn into as I got older. The one time I’d seen a man hit on her, it turned my stomach. Today? No different. And, from her expression, the coldness in her face, her rigid carriage, it wasn’t the first time he’d winked at her the way he did now, creepy smile pulling his lips tight, eyes traveling her body in a way that shut down any opportunity he had to redeem himself.
Two other golfers appeared beside him, chatting over their last hole, this pair clearly pros from the casual and confident way they carried themselves, their young faces tanned, handsome, smiles easy as they interrupted.
“Smells amazing,” one of them said, his bright pink golf shirt looking only masculine on his lean, young body. Fee, shame on you. He was at least ten years younger than me. “I’ll take a hamburger, thank you.”
Mom resumed her serving while Gavin’s attention snapped from my mother to the two pros. I saw the equally hungry look cross his face, and understood in an instant what it meant even before he spoke to them.
“How’s your round going?” He didn’t wait for them to answer, drawling on like they’d asked him to pontificate and were waiting with baited breath for his wisdom. “Watch your tee off on ten. That dogleg is a real challenge. Might want to pull back on your driver or you’ll end up in the woods.”
Did he just give golfing advice to two touring pros?
Neither of them seemed put off by his unsolicited suggestion, pink shirt nodding politely while his friend in pale blue grinned at me and took the plate with his hamburger, liberally adding condiments.
“I’ve played this course a million times,” Gavin went on, arms crossing over his White Valley Golf Course shirt, voice dropping lower, like that would lend wait to the air he was blowing. “You boys need anything, just let me know.”
“Thank you.” They hustled out of there, nodding to me, though it was apparent they couldn’t wait to escape. Gavin watched them go with that same hunger, longing, really. Made me wonder how bitter that level of jealousy actually tasted while hoping I never found out.
Time to go. Except our window closed yet again as three more men approached, these faces ones I knew. Tyler Hendy grinned at me, tipped his hat to both me and my mother, but Jack Nethersole, the cad, just grunted as he slipped the white glove from his left hand and held it out behind him for Leo Amstead to catch.
“Hot dog or hamburger?” I barely had that out when Gavin spoke up, aiming his next comment right at the cranky jerk I’d been avoiding at my own place. Which made me perk, no judging. How fun to watch the two of them collide…
Fee. Shame on me. You might not be allowed to judge me, but I sure could.
“Saw your chip shot on eight,” Gavin said. “That slice into the bunker cost you.”
Wow, I had no idea what he was talking about and even I knew he’d just insulted the pro.
Jack spun on Gavin as if he planned to take his head off, his temper clearly at the surface, but Leo instantly interjected in what had to be his familiar role in their relationship, so smooth and practiced was the interference. I handed Tyler a hamburger, willing the poor kid to just leave, when Gavin turned his attention to the younger player.
“Heard you’re struggling with your short game today,” he said. “Let me know if you want some time on the practice green before play starts tomorrow. I have some ideas for you.”
Tyler’s easy smile was so surprising compared to the snarly reaction from Jack (who still hadn’t spoken a word) I felt my estimation of him rack up further. Just a nice kid doing his best. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be okay.” He tipped his burger at me, at Mom. “Thanks, ladies. Long time since breakfast.” His giant, enthusiastic bite and subsequent eye roll of delight made Mom smile, at last.
I watched the calculation add up on Gavin’s face, how he knew he’d missed his mark entirely with Tyler and saw him pivot back to Jack who glared at the table, Leo whispering something in his ear to which he shook his head, almost violently. Gavin’s face lit up, the clear intent he had to continue to undermine the golfer’s day so apparent I almost stepped in. Not because I had a sudden sense of loyalty for the jerk staying in my B&B, but out of my innate sense of fair play my parents thought was a good idea to teach me.
Go figure.
Before I could intercede, Leo met Gavin’s eyes. “Just leave it, Gav. Please. It’s been done a long time.”
Wait, they had history? Didn’t seem to influence Gavin’s decision to press on, no matter the protective look on Leo’s face. But just as Gavin, clearly with his sabotage strategy formulated and ready for delivery, opened his mouth to speak, a tall shadow cut off the sunlight streaming into the tent as the looming form of Norman Shively, course manager, interrupted.
“Maloney!” I swear Norman used to be a football coach. The giant hulk was bigger even than my dad, with shoulders that could rival a bull, his almost shaven head glistening with the fuzz of silver hair over his cold, gray eyes. Gavin jerked upright, sullen expression returned as he faced off with his boss, his shorter stature and lack of comparative bulk making him no match for Norman. “I told you to go back to the club house and sort the merchandise. What are you doing on the course?”
Gavin muttered something that sounded like an excuse before slumping off, hands in his pockets, head down. Norman shook his head, deep voice dropping when he ducked under the lip of the tent and waved at Mom.
“Lucy,” he said.
“Norman.” She handed him a plate personally.
Tyler looked at the passing food with such longing I turned and made him another, pretending to sneak it to him. He grinned and winked, taking a bite before wandering off to join a small group outside. Next to the Blackstone banner. Grrr.
“He gives you any further trouble, Mr. Nethersole, you come to me.” Norman’s tone had shifted completely, to respectful and quiet.
Jack’s mood hadn’t changed. “Keep that washed-up nobody away from me,” he snarled before spinning and stalking off. Leo accepted the plates Mom offered him with an apologetic smile before leaving without a word as Norman sighed.
“This was a terrible idea,” he grumbled. “I told Olivia and Alicia. Pro tournaments are a headache. We’re more than busy enough without all this extra hassle.” He finished his burger in three giant bites while I watched the mingling golfers break into groups and head off to the tenth hole, just as a new rush of hungry people descended. Making it impossible for me to ask any questions.
Whatever. Not the first time Olivia bit off more than she could che
w. At least no one died.
Yet.
Was I really that much of a pessimist?
***
Chapter Fourteen
There’s nothing more disgusting, in my estimation, than a Porta-John. I exited the dark blue box with a sense of general uncleanliness and the need to scrub from head to toe, shuddering as I stepped aside to allow the next person in line to have their go inside the humid, dank space that really was likely the first level of a new hell we’d created for ourselves.
As I made my way back to the table and Mom, I paused to give my hands a solid three-fold wash in the portable unit the maintenance workers set up, wondering if I was the only one who’d taken advantage of this ability to clean up and not wanting to think about it. Not that I was fastidious or anything, but after three years owning a bed and breakfast and dealing with all kinds of indescribable, irritating and, at times, gag-worthy messes, I had a particularly keen sense of right and wrong when it came to just what level of gross I could tolerate. And, actually, that tolerance was pretty high. Except when it came to sharing a plastic bathroom box with a million other people.
Just yuck.
I did my good deed for the day, tossing the paper towel I’d used into the trash on the way by, looking up with my thoughts still full of grossness I didn’t want to think about, frankly, to spot Vivian French speaking with Petra Stowers. Next to the Blackstone banner, no less. Without control of my feet I found myself marching toward her, the GoGolf rep not even on my radar, frankly, questions burning in my mind that maybe the Queen of Wheat could give me answers to. Sure, we weren’t besties, but she owed me, I figured, for helping her friend (and mine, now, because she was awesome) Grace Fiore not so long ago. And besides, she was the one who’d told me she more or less trusted me to have her back when the time came—whatever that meant—and wanted me to trust her in return.