by R. J. Lee
She laughed and gave her father a familiar, affectionate look. “Well, you have to admit, I’ve solved more than a few puzzles because of it—not to mention The Grand Slam Murders last year.”
“That you did. You wowed the entire department. Some of the rookies still talk about you.”
Ross spoke up quickly, sounding a bit annoyed. “Yeah, and I have to remind a couple of them with roving eyes now and then that I’m already seeing you. I’ve overheard some conversations in the locker room about your hair and your—” He came to an abrupt halt and trotted out an artificial smile. “Well, we won’t go there.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I assure you, I’m flattered,” Wendy told him. “I can handle it if you can.”
What was really sticking in Wendy’s head as Bax picked up the tab, however, was that phrase again: backstory.
She did not know why quite yet, but her sleuthing skills were telling her that she needed to pay attention to it; and that gift of hers would prompt her at the appropriate time to dig into it with the dedication of a dachshund flushing out a pesky mole in the backyard.
CHAPTER 8
Just after the RCC was finally released as a crime scene the next day, Wendy sensed it was coming. Had she dreamed about it, or had it just been hovering over her like an unpaid credit card bill piling up interest? And then finally, there it was in reality in Deedah’s office, delivered with the solemn essence of a message from one of the Armed Services in wartime.
“I assure you I’m devoted to making a success of our Bridge Bunch just as much as you are,” Deedah said, squirming in her seat a bit behind her desk. “But I don’t think we should resume playing bridge out here until this case is solved. All eyes in Rosalie are on us.”
Wendy had rehearsed what she would say if the subject actually came up at some point: “We don’t want to act like we’re guilty, do we? Won’t that look a bit strange to everyone?”
But she didn’t say that when the words came out of Deedah’s mouth. Instead, she headed in another direction. “What if it never gets solved? Do we abandon our club altogether? What do we do then?”
Deedah gave her the most skeptical glance she could manage, tapping her ballpoint pen on her desk. “I don’t think it’s a matter of guilt as much as it is respect. Don’t you have more faith in the police department than that? After all, your boyfriend and your father are on the case. And if I recall, you very neatly helped them solve The Grand Slam Murders last year when no one else could.”
Wendy perked up noticeably at the mention of her achievement. She never tired of hearing about it all this time later. “You do have a point. I guess I wasn’t thinking of it that way. And, yes, I just this minute replayed our earlier conversation in my head, and I didn’t sound very concerned about the importance of solving a murder case versus playing a card game, did I?”
Deedah stilled her pen and adopted a more sympathetic tone. “Well, I do understand where you were coming from, but I don’t think it would be very appropriate for us to continue our bridge games with what’s happened. Even if we’re talking about the murder of Brent Ogle, someone I know I’ve wished would’ve dropped dead more than a few times. And now, I seem to have gotten my wish. Yet, the whole thing leaves a bad taste in the mouth, doesn’t it?”
Wendy’s shrug was hesitant. How had everything gotten so complicated? “It is a slippery slope, I’ll admit. But in the case of the Bridge Bunch, we’re only talking about you and me and your son and Carly. I expect us all to be taken off the board of suspects soon enough.”
“I would hope so.” There was a lengthy pause, and something about it suggested to Wendy that problematical things were going on inside Deedah’s head. “Anyway, I think we should put the Bridge Bunch on hold, knowing that we fully intend to resume playing when everything is finally out in the open and we’re comfortable again. I think it’s the best course of action right now.”
“Are you going to let Carly know, or do you want me to tell her?” Wendy said. Then she broke into a frown. “You know, I was out there visiting with her recently, and we never even brought up the subject of bridge. She probably doesn’t feel like playing it right now anyway. Why would she?”
“Again, I think it’s the right instinct for all of us not to play,” Deedah said. “I just wanted the two of us to agree to make it official. You let Carly know.”
“I will.”
At that moment, Wendy also mentally conceded that perhaps her fascination with becoming an accomplished bridge player was a pipe dream and fated never to come to fruition. It seemed to be backfiring on her, over and over again. She could always go back to chess, which she had learned by watching her father and his cronies play while she was growing up, looking over their shoulders. Chess only took one other person to play, and it could even be done by postcard with a partner halfway around the world. She recalled that her father had once played for the better part of a year that way with a professor in Finland of all places. Besides, she had her newspaper feature to create, and that was far more important to the advancement of her career.
“There was another reason I wanted you to see me today,” Deedah resumed. “I was thinking about your newspaper article on the women who are running things in Rosalie, and I thought it might be useful for you to meet and interview Gerald Mansfield, our greenskeeper. He could tell you what it’s been like for him to work with me and Mitzy Stone, as opposed to the previous regime. That might be another way of illustrating that women can do just as good a job as men can—and sometimes even better. What better way to judge an employer than through their employees?”
All thoughts of bridge vanished as Wendy smiled and said, “I think that’s an excellent angle to explore. When and where do we meet?”
“Right now,” Deedah told her. “Right this afternoon. Just wander out onto the back deck. Gerald’s waiting for you in one of the rocking chairs. I’ll text him that you’re on the way.”
“You have a plan for everything, Deedah. I can’t thank you enough,” Wendy said, heading out the door with great anticipation.
* * *
Having never met a greenskeeper before, Wendy did not know quite what to expect as she emerged from the locker-room hallway out onto the deck. But she was more than surprised by Gerald Mansfield’s appearance as he rose from his rocking chair to extend his hand. He was dressed in a coat and tie as if he were going to church, but the suit he was wearing was too big for his young, lean body and the maroon color did not flatter his bony, sunburned face and slicked-back haircut. It flashed into Wendy’s head that these were clothes he was not accustomed to wearing and perhaps had even thrown together from a visit to a thrift shop at the last minute to make a favorable impression.
“It’s very nice of you to come and visit with me,” Gerald said, as Wendy completed the handshake. “Miz Deedah says she thinks I can help you with that newspaper article a’ yours. But my goodness, you sure do have pretty hair. What color would you call that there?”
“Strawberry blonde is what I think most people call it.”
“Never seen anything like it. It’s part red and part blond. I think you got the best a’ both.”
“Well, thank you very much. I forget all about it until someone like yourself calls my attention to it again.”
“Did I say somethin’ wrong, Miz Winchester?”
“No, indeed. I was just thinking out loud, I guess. I appreciate your compliment very much.”
Wendy took a seat in the rocking chair next to his but was made somewhat uncomfortable by the fact that the hot tub in which Brent Ogle had been murdered was across the way a bit. “It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Mansfield,” she said, taking her notepad and pen out of her purse. “I hope you can help me a lot with this article of mine on the management here at the RCC.”
Gerald smiled in a disarmingly boyish way. There was an element of obliviousness in it, too. “I’ve never been so popular.” But he left the remark at that.
“What do you me
an?” Wendy said finally.
“The police, they want to talk to me, too. I’m supposed to go down to the station later today and talk to a detective. Miz Deedah thinks I can help you, and the police think I can help them.” He pointed to the lapel of his jacket, preening. “I even bought some new clothes, see? I wanna look my best.”
Wendy nodded with a forced grin, but she wondered why Ross hadn’t texted her about interrogating Gerald Mansfield. Of course, he was under no obligation to do so—even less to share the results of his investigation with her—but he often let her know little bits and pieces nevertheless.
“You’ll be talking to Detective Rierson then,” Wendy said.
Again, Gerald’s face lit up. “Yes. I think that’s his name. I’m flattered that they think I can help ’em solve the murder of Mr. Ogle. Of course, I have to say I didn’t like him very much. That’s no big secret around here. He was always on me about somethin’, but I always did the best I could for the country club. Miz Mitzy, now she never had any complaints about me when she came, and I work with her a lot. Still, I don’t know anything about the murder.”
Wendy decided to put aside her newspaper article mission for a moment. The sleuth in her couldn’t help but take the microphone as if she were on a TV field assignment. “You were off the day it happened, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I was at home watching TV in my recliner. College football, mostly. Except when the power went off. Then I had to find where I’d put the candles, you know?”
“Was anyone with you?” Wendy continued. She could picture Ross asking the same questions, but she would get there first.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I live by myself in uh apartment complex. There are some pretty ladies living there, though. I just wish I could get one of ’em to be my girlfriend, ya know? ”
“I’m sure you will. Just be patient and the right one will come along,” Wendy said, but she could see why he was having trouble with the women. He came off as a bit undereducated and entirely too needy. Confidence was certainly not his middle name, and she knew for a fact that women were not impressed by that.
Then Wendy decided to switch back to her feature article. “Tell me about working with Miz Deedah and Miz Mitzy, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s like night and day since they showed up,” Gerald began. At first his demeanor was pleasant, but it began changing as he continued. It was as if a switch had been turned on somewhere inside him. “Mr. Voss, he was always on me to cut the rough down to nothin’. Well, it’s not supposed to be that way. That’s why they call it the rough. The greens is one thing; the rough, another. But once Miz Deedah and Miz Mitzy came aboard, they pretty much let me do things my way. They’re nice ladies, they’re a good team, but I can tell you that Mr. Ogle didn’t like ’em at all. He made life miserable for ’em and all the rest of us, too.” At the end of what had become a rant, Gerald’s ruddy countenance had taken on an almost devilish intensity. Where had the innocent boy of a few minutes ago up and gone?
“That seems to be a common sentiment around the RCC,” Wendy said. “Mr. Ogle was certainly unpopular.”
“No lie.” He practically spit out the words, and his brown eyes had a strange glint in them that had not been there before.
The awkward silence that followed, plus the fact that Wendy could still see the hot tub out of the corner of her eye, worked together to push her toward changing her impression of Gerald Mansfield. Her initial perspective of a somewhat unsophisticated young man following orders to be helpful was being replaced by the sensation of a scene being played out for her benefit. It hardly even seemed to be conscious on her part. That island of knowledge she possessed when it came to solving problems was emerging once again for her. The same one that had allowed her at a young age to point to pieces of jigsaw puzzles that always fit without even thinking about it. It was that gift of hers acting up again, and she fully intended to use it.
Words and phrases were flashing before her regarding Gerald Mansfield:
No alibi . . .
New clothes that didn’t fit . . .
A loner ...
Following orders ...
Part of a good team ...
Was there something sketch-like and theatrical about all of this? Deedah arranging for her to meet him on the deck near the hot tub? Wendy had not asked for such a meeting. Was there an agenda in the air, or was she just overthinking everything? She recalled how the entire power outage scenario had reminded her again of a stage play where the lights go off and a murder has taken place when they come back on. Was she being overly dramatic about it all just like Hollis Hornesby was about every single moment of his histrionic life?
Then she finally relaxed. If she turned out to be straining at gnats, she could always compare notes with Ross after he’d finished interrogating Gerald Mansfield. He likely wouldn’t share that much with her, but she could bounce some ideas off of him, as she’d done in the past. Talk about your teams.
That last thought about Ross stopped Wendy dead in her tracks. How long was she really going to keep him waiting? She knew she loved him, and that he loved her, but she also knew she had her investigative reporter mission that kept driving her to maintain a degree of independence in her little bungalow out on Lower Kingston Road.
And then talk about your teams, once again. Lyndell Slover was someone who would continue to allow her to grow in the job, not manipulate her as Dalton Hemmings had done. She was determined to make a name for herself, and nothing was going to keep her from her mission. Not even a wedding with all the trimmings that her devoted father had been just bursting to pay for anytime she said the word. Dear, dear Daddy, Captain Baxter Lewis Winchester.
The long, thoughtful silence was finally broken when Gerald said, “Do you think I can really help that police detective, Miz Winchester?”
“Just be yourself,” Wendy told him, realizing then and there how much her advice reflected her recent internal monologue.
When the interview came to an unremarkable end shortly thereafter, Wendy found herself wanting to walk in the opposite direction of the hot tub. She had to admit that it creeped her out to be anywhere near it. After all, she could reach the parking lot in the front by following the deck around, which she then chose to do. The significance of that particular maneuver was not lost on her, either.
* * *
Perhaps it was because they were just a few days away from Halloween now, but there was an eerie aspect to the fact that Ross presented the same unspoken concept that had occupied Wendy’s thoughts some of the time during her interview with Gerald Mansfield at the RCC. He had done so unprompted.
Team.
There it was again, and it caused Wendy to shudder slightly.
“What’s the matter?” Ross said, always attuned to her body language.
They were sitting once again at their favorite Bluff City Bistro front table overlooking the river, having dinner after trudging separately through what had been a long day. Wendy had finished up summarizing her meeting with Gerald Mansfield when Ross had included the magic word in one simple sentence.
“Bax came up with the idea of this murder possibly being the work of a team,” he had said. But Wendy had imagined that he had raised his voice when he said it. In fact, he had not. But she felt obligated to elaborate, putting down her fork and temporarily abandoning her Greek salad.
“Funny,” she said. “I’ve been tossing that idea around, too. But I think I’m making myself dizzy with all the possible combinations. Some of them seem impossible, and others seem insulting to these people I’ve come to know.” She paused. “Or think I know.”
“That’s the rub, isn’t it?” Ross said, picking up a French fry with his fingers and making short work of it. “My experience in law enforcement tells me that what you think you know about certain people is often completely wrong, and the truth is often shocking. The most appealing faces can be masks for hiding something truly ugly.”
“Then you do
n’t think I’m crazy for spending time on this, I take it?”
“No, I don’t. Bax and I have been doing the same thing. That, and working on the timeline during the blackout. That’s the real stinker here. One or more of the suspects have to be lying to us about where they were—at least part of the time. We have a dead body but no incriminating prints or DNA around the hot tub thanks to all the humidity, steam, and water, except that of the deceased. Meanwhile, the RCC is swimming in prints and DNA elsewhere, and none of it is the least bit incriminating. All these people, including yourself, were all over the place leaving traces of themselves, but it doesn’t help us much. I’d give anything if the RCC had had surveillance cameras anywhere, even in the parking lot. But there’s not a one of them. I think you should suggest that to Miz Hornesby next time you see her.”
Wendy resumed spearing some of her salad with her fork and said, “I’d be surprised if she hasn’t already authorized something like that herself, but I’ll bring it up.”
Ross took another bite of his Bluff burger and fell into a “cow chewing its cud” mode. Finally, he spoke up. “The other thing that Bax and I have been talking about is that wraparound covered deck. I made an overall diagram, and the fact is that the deck would have made it possible for someone—anyone—to go outside and get to the hot tub and Brent Ogle without going through the building. And they would hardly have gotten wet doing it. Everyone I interrogated Saturday night was as dry as they could be.”
“It wasn’t raining the whole time we were there, either,” Wendy pointed out. “We had lulls. There were gaps on the radar, and I’m sure some of us would have headed home had the murder not happened. But it’s interesting that you and Daddy and I seem to be on the same page again. When I finished up my interview with Gerald Mansfield, I deliberately went back to the car walking under the deck in the opposite direction from the hot tub. I’m just uncomfortable getting anywhere near it. It seems like a shrine of evil to me.”