Murder, Malice and Mischief

by Quinn, Lucy

  I asked her, “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine,” Trudi said, slipping her phone into her back pocket. “Just introverting for a minute. The night seems to be going well.”

  I dropped my head to whisper, “Other than Oliver and Ruddy nearly brawling.”

  “Yeah, Ruddy’s a jerk at Accounting Board meetings, too.”

  “I’m worried their little scene will deter some of the guests who might be considering a membership,” I whispered to her.

  Trudi wrinkled her nose and swished her hand in the air. “Oh, Bee. Tomorrow, no one will remember that scuffle even happened. Look at all of them. Everyone’s having a great time. They’ll remember the amazing glow-ball golf and the fantastic steak and lobster for supper, not to mention the potato gratin. Chef Leo did an amazing job with that. I heard that another five people picked up membership packets in the last half-hour. I restocked the packet table because so many people were snagging one, and almost no one has gone home yet. Most interested guests will probably grab packets on their way out, rather than lug them around all night.”

  Trudi served on several of the club’s committees, including Ways and Means, Accounting, Regulatory Compliance, and Greens. She knew about the club’s money problems and the soggy grass, too.

  “I’m hoping for fifteen new memberships from this outing,” I told Trudi, still whispering. “If we can make that, we’ll be back on track.”

  She bit her lip. “It’s possible. We’ll have to see how many sit-downs we book in the next few weeks.”

  “Right. Did you see where Uncle Arnie went?”

  “He came in a few minutes ago and went straight to the bar.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I’d better mingle and be friendly to the people who might give us their money. Plus, socialization increases serotonin levels. So, there’s that.”

  Trudi trudged into the crowd to do her social duty and increase her serotonin levels.

  I shook hands and hugged my way through the crowd and into the bar, where the lights were dimmer and the crowd was sparser. A few people loitered while the bartender made special orders, but waiters roved through the crowd with glasses of beer and wine.

  Uncle Arnie was standing with a group of the older ladies and gents who were club members, back in a dark corner of the bar away from the DJ.

  Four, long, white hairs covered his bald pate, more speckled with sun damage the last few years because he had started wearing mesh hats. His little clutch of people was grousing about something political or social by the way they were holding their glasses in front of their mouths, so I couldn’t read their lips as I approached. I’d warned him to be on his good behavior for the prospective members that night. “Arnie, honey? What’s the news?”

  He set his empty glass on the polished, mahogany bar, and ice clinked in the crystal. “Evening to ya, Bee. Word is that people liked the glow balls. Ann lost hers, though. We hunted for it for ten minutes before we went on. Maybe have Bhagwan trim the rough a little closer before the glow-ball tournament next year.”

  The ladies and gents around him nodded, bobbing over their highball glasses.

  That was weird. “I’m surprised anyone could lose their glowing ball in the dark like that. They were very easy to find when I tried them out last week.”

  “Yeah, well, Ann isn’t known for hitting them straight. Other people would like to see nine holes next year instead of three.”

  It was a compliment, not a complaint, and I smiled at him. “Okay, good. The entertainment board will discuss more holes next year.”

  Nine holes would have taken too long, and Arnie and his companions would have complained about bedtime.

  Maybe we could play six holes next year, though.

  If the club still existed next year.

  I asked him, “How did your group do?”

  “Oh, we did well enough,” Uncle Arnie said, preening. “We aren’t in the money, but we did respectably, especially considering only three of us finished the three holes.”

  Yes, Arnie’s score probably had been a little more respectable than it should have been. I had sent him off with Ann Carmo, Thorny Williams, and Pauline Damir, none of whom would mind when Arnie modified their scores a bit, too.

  Golf reveals character, and it always revealed that Arnie was an intensely competitive, morally flexible old badger who stopped just short of taking other people’s money.

  Just barely short of it, though.

  I loved my uncle and helped him out, but I wouldn’t have let him hold onto my credit card without supervision.

  Uncle Arnie rolled his glass between his palms and whispered to me, frowning, “The bar is running out of Glenmorangie Eighteen.”

  I covered my heart with my hand in mock horror. “Oh, heavens. There will be panic in the streets.”

  “We’re also out of Pacifico and Lord Hobo Boomsauce.”

  Which meant the bar was low on several of our best-selling beverages. “Well, then it is an emergency. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I consulted with the bartender, received a lengthy shopping list, and trotted out into the dining room. While I was joking with my uncle Arnie, we didn’t want the prospective members to find slim pickings at the bar, so I hustled toward my office upstairs.

  Members and prospective members asked me questions as I walked by again, and of course, I had to answer or discuss all of them. We needed the newbies, and we must keep all the current members. Losing more members might be catastrophic. The Lady Captain could not be seen as rude, even if she did have a list for half a dozen kinds of liquor in her pocket that needed to be taken care of immediately.

  More questions about the food.

  More comments about the pool, tennis courts, and the course.

  After four conversations wherein I extolled CGC’s many golfing virtues and another half an hour later, a group of ladies grabbed my elbow as I walked by, dragging me into their circle for a brief discussion.

  I tried to dodge because the bar needed me to order the booze, but two of the women latched onto my elbows. I smiled and desperately looked for a way to flee.

  A dark-haired woman leaned in to kiss me on the cheek, but I didn’t know who she was. Her head loomed large over the crowd as she swooped in for the greeting. Holy heck, but I could take a cheek-peck from a stranger for the club.

  The woman’s skin smelled like the club’s green-and-forest balsam soap that we stocked in the ladies’ locker room and the showers, a subject of some contention at the Ladies’ League board meetings. Some people wanted something more flowery and feminine. Others liked the balsam because it really stripped off sweat and stink. The fresh scent was pleasant in the large room that was becoming the slightest bit stale from the mixed sweat of golfers covered up with perfume and aftershave.

  The woman stepped back and said to me, “Bee, settle a question for us.”

  I almost jumped back from her. There were so many new guests I didn’t know at the party, and it was weird to have one of them grab at me like that and know my name. She was wearing a slim, black formal dress with a silver embellishment at her bustline and opera-length white gloves. She was radically overdressed for an appetizer reception following a golf tournament, and her face was pink and free of make-up. From her crow’s feet and forehead puckers, she looked a bit north of fifty.

  The woman was standing with some club members, though, including Pauline Damir. We’d ordered the flowers for tonight from Pauline’s florist shop. From the way Pauline was listing to the side and grinning moistly, it looked like she’d had more than a few drinks.

  The strange woman continued, “We think the club should have yoga classes in the clubhouse on a couple of weekday mornings. Don’t you think that would be a value-added service that would attract new members?”

  It took me a second of blinking to recognize the woman standing in front of me. I almost jumped in surprise that she was Ann Carmo, whom I’d known for years. Ann had worked as a kindergarten room aide for me back whe
n we were young, before she’d had her kids and stayed home to raise them. Her kids were away in college or on their own, now. Ann was on half the club’s committees because, when people asked for someone who would do a job or work on a project, Ann always stepped up. She was on even more committees and boards than I was.

  “Oh, good gravy, Ann, I’m so used to seeing you on the golf course with your hair back in a ponytail and sunglasses and a hat on. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your whole face with your hair down. You look great!” And she did, even though she wasn’t wearing make-up, and I don’t think I’d ever caught her without her bright red lipstick before. Her black, floor-length gown was fantastic, though.

  Ann laughed loudly over the crowd’s chatter, and her hand fluttered in the air. “Yes, well, I guess I over-dressed for the après-golf appetizer reception. Now, about my yoga idea?”

  All that made sense. I said, “I’m not sure we should make a commitment like that because of the budget.”

  Ann’s eyes widened, and her nose was above mine because she wore high heels, so I had to look up at her widening eyes. “Oh, we wouldn’t have to spend any money. We could ask one of the local yoga instructors to do a class here and make it a ten- or twenty-dollar donation from the people who attend. That way, there is no additional expenditure on the club’s part.”

  “That does sound good,” I said. “We’ll talk about it next week, okay?”

  Ann beamed. “Next week. You bet.”

  When I finally got upstairs to my office to call about the booze, I flipped on the light and sat down at my desk, leaning back in my chair. As Lady Captain, I was entitled to a small office to organize the Ladies’ League, events, and such.

  Oliver Shwetz must have gone back down to the party after his few deep breaths. I’d see if I could find him later to check on him.

  Just then, I needed to arrange for a booze delivery for the club.

  In a big city, a service might have picked up the liquor and delivered it, but in a small town, connections are everything.

  I tapped my phone’s screen, found a contact, and let it dial.

  A man’s gruff voice answered, “Hello? Mrs. Bee?”

  I had taught Jacob Hibbert’s four kids and a couple of his grandkids when they had been in kinder, and habits die hard. Mrs. Bee had been a perfect kindergarten-teacher name, and it had stuck after I’d retired. “Jacob, there’s been a catastrophe over at Canterbury Golf Club. It seems that the bar has only one-quarter of a bottle of Glenmorangie Eighteen and even less of a few other staples. Is there any way I could entice you to bring us a case or two of your finest liquors?”

  Jacob chuckled over the line. “You managed to get my grandson reading before you retired, something I thought would never happen. What do you need and how much, Mrs. Bee?”

  I rattled off the list that the bartender, Maurice, had handed me. “Or any rational substitutions if you don’t have something on hand.”

  Jacob hemmed and then said, “I hate to tell you this, but I’m going to have to ask for payment before we unload the boxes.”

  That was unusual. “The club has stellar credit. Have our checks bounced?”

  “Not bounced, but that Ruddy Agani keeps putting off paying your liquor bill. We have a standing order for delivery every month, but your account is three months in arrears. That’s why we didn’t make the usual delivery last week. Didn’t he tell you?”

  No, Ruddy Agani had not mentioned that the club had not received its scheduled liquor delivery only days before an important prospective-member reception. Oh, I could just punch him sometimes.

  Surely, the club’s financial difficulties hadn’t gotten so bad so fast that we hadn’t been paying our bills. “Just a second, Jacob.”

  I logged onto the club’s daily operating bank accounts through our computers. I had view-only access but didn’t have the authority to cut and sign checks or authorize purchase orders.

  Plenty of money was in the account designated for paying the bills.

  I could imagine what Ruddy would say, though. He would ask why the club should have to pay for people to drink alcohol. He didn’t drink alcohol. He didn’t approve of drinking alcohol. Why should he have to pay for people who did?

  And then, once again, I would remind Ruddy that the club did not give away the alcohol. We sold it in the bar area, and the club made a substantial profit from alcohol sales, which lowered all the members’ dues, including his.

  And then a few weeks later, we would do it again because Ruddy loved to find reasons to believe he was persecuted or somehow having to pay for other people’s privileges, even though he was always wrong.

  To Jacob, I said, “It’s just reprehensible that a business would not pay its vendors, especially small business owners. I’ll have a check in hand for tonight’s delivery and the whole bill. Please tell me how much we owe you and how much these cases of liquor are, too.”

  Jacob said a number that was neither surprising nor exorbitant. As a matter of fact, it was quite reasonable. Overly so. Jacob must be giving us a break on the prices, which made Ruddy’s failure to pay him all the more deplorable.

  I said, “I’ll meet you by the deliveries door with the check. Thank you for your patience with us, Jacob.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Bee. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  We hung up, and I looked into the corners of the room, sighing. “Well, Henry, I’m trying. I don’t know if we’ll be able to save the club, not with nearly sixty families quitting within a month, but I’m trying. It’s funny that I feel you more here than anywhere, but that’s why I moved into a smaller place after you were gone. This is where I feel you the most, in the clubhouse and on the course. I still miss you, my Henry.”

  The office was silent, but even after a few years, I needed to talk to him sometimes.

  I sat in my office for a few more minutes, listening to myself breathe, before I went to round up the caddies who were doing double-duty as waiters to ask them to carry the cases of booze into the bar once it arrived.

  Chapter 4

  ONCE I had the caddies lined up to carry in the liquor when it was delivered, I went to find Ruddy Agani to demand that he cut a check for Jacob.

  Only a few people had the authority to cut and sign checks, including Ruddy Agani, the hothead who had stormed out of the clubhouse. Others included the treasurer of CGC, Erick Walters, and the club’s manager. Ruddy was a financial officer on the Ways and Means committee.

  Unfortunately, the club manager wasn’t at the glow-ball tournament that night—something about his daughter’s wedding—so I needed to find Ruddy. If Ruddy had already gone home, it might be easier and more pleasant to call one of the other two.

  The dining room and entertaining rooms were both stuffed with people, but Ruddy was tall enough for his peppered, bristly head to be seen easily in the crowd. I stood on one of the lower stairs to look but didn’t see him, so I asked around.

  No one had seen him since he’d stormed out.

  Ruddy wasn’t in the bar, either, which wasn’t surprising, considering his aggressively teetotaling opinions.

  I asked my uncle Arnie if he could find out where Ruddy was.

  Uncle Arnie meandered through the dining room with his drink for a few minutes, chatting, before he came back to me. “He’s not inside. After Ruddy flounced out through the entertaining room’s doors, he walked out onto the course. Someone said it looked like he was heading the wrong way down the eighteenth fairway. No one has seen him come back in.”

  “So, he’s still out on the course?” I asked, looking out the windows into the black night. The Canterbury Golf Club was situated in the exurbs, far out in the land of small family farms, dairies, and a winery. The night out there was dark, and Ruddy had been gone for over an hour and a half.

  One of the bag boys jogged up to me. “Mr. Agani’s SUV is still in the parking lot. His clubs are in the back, a set of beat-up TaylorMades. I could see his bag tag, so it’s definitely his
vehicle. And I know his crappy clubs, too. I looked all around the parking lot, but I didn’t see him out there, either.”

  I didn’t like that Ruddy was out on the course, alone in the dark. “Okay. So, we need to take a walk to find Ruddy, if for no other reason than he needs to pay Jacob’s Package Store for the booze we’ve been drinking.”

  And we needed to check on him. Almost two hours is a long time to wander around on a dark golf course, even if he was having a rage fit.

  I snagged Trudi to go with me because I knew she’d be glad for a break from the crowds.

  Even though Ann Carmo was dressed in an evening gown, when I asked in her cluster of girls if someone wanted to go with us to check on Ruddy, Ann stepped up. Ann always stepped up when needed.

  As we passed a group of guys, Ann snagged Erick Walters by the arm to go with us.

  He grumbled but looked at his wrist. “Well, I need more steps, anyway.”

  Erick Walters was a big, strong guy who could drag one of us out of any quicksand that the course’s chronic overwatering might cause, even though quicksand had never actually been spotted at CGC. Erick’s wife, Afia, laughed as Ann dragged him off, exclaiming, “But you just came back!”

  Trudi popped back into the ladies’ locker room to change into her golf shoes before we walked the course, and Erick did the same in the gentlemen’s locker area. I had taken my golf shoes home to clean them that day since I hadn’t planned to play in the glow-ball tournament.

  There were too many things to organize, and I’d acted as a starting marshal to get the foursomes out onto the course for the tournament. We’d set up three holes with the glow-ball equipment, and my job had been announcing the foursomes and shooing them into the dark.

  I turned to Erick as we were preparing to walk outside. “Erick! You’re the club treasurer! You can write a check for the liquor, right? Then we wouldn’t have to go search the highlands for Ruddy in the middle of the faffing night? Please?”

  Erick winced and squinted as he looked out the dark windows at the inky golf course. “I’m afraid not. There’s a strict delineation of duties. One of the committee financial officers like Ruddy has to write the checks for incidental expenses. I only write the checks for monthly, recurring expenses like insurance, electricity, and water bills.”