by R. J. Lee
Yes, I saw that picture on the wall at Brentwood, Wendy had concluded then. Brent Ogle rubbing it in, had been her knee-jerk assumption. It would have been so typical of him.
Now, however, she was having very troubling second thoughts. All those pictures she had seen at Brentwood had been about Brent Ogle and no one else. His many victories, his countless celebrations in the end zones and on the sidelines, his spectacular plays—some called by the coaches, some he had improvised in the form of scrambling and rolling out of the pocket—but every one of them resulting in success. They were all a celebration of his prowess as the athlete who had come to be known as The Baddest Devil of Them All. Had she really seen a picture of Coach Doughty in defeat on Brent Ogle’s walls? Had her brain just been a bit lazy and taken the path of least resistance to reach that conclusion?
If she had not seen the picture at Brentwood, then why was the shot so familiar to her and where else could she have seen it?
Of course.
There was only one other place she could have seen it. On Mitzy Stone’s apartment walls. There had been lots of sports pictures on her walls, and now Wendy was positive that there had been one of Coach Doughty hanging there as well.
Part of the puzzle was beginning to fall into place for her. Was this the answer? To find out, she must set up another interview with Mitzy as soon as possible—tomorrow, if she could. Perhaps Mitzy was the only person who could answer the question: what had happened to Coach Doughty’s family after they left Rosalie?
* * *
Halloween Day in Rosalie dawned with a bite to it. The temperature was hovering a few degrees above freezing, and there was frost on all the manicured lawns everywhere. Although the sun was predicted to come out and warm everything up into the high fifties, it would still be trick-or-treating weather, getting every child in every neighborhood primed for the privilege of being something or somebody different and being rewarded for it as well. That was the undeniable attraction of Halloween and the spell it cast, even for some adults who took the opportunity to let off some steam and revert to the more carefree days of their youth when they had been allowed to eat ridiculous amounts of candy without being scolded.
As Ross prepared to interrogate Gerald Mansfield down at the station, his mind briefly wandered to the costume he had chosen for his dinner date later with Wendy. Although he had no idea who or what she had chosen to be, he was certain she would be delighted to sit across the table from the venerable White Knight from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass.
Ha! Who was he kidding? He wanted to be her knight in shining armor, literary reference aside. Thank goodness, the costume he had rented only appeared to be made of metal. Instead, it was just white cloth with a bit of cardboard reinforcement sewn inside to give it a more substantial look from a distance. At least he would not be clanking around the restaurant or feeling like he was packed unmercifully inside a sardine can all evening.
Once the interrogation began, however, he tossed aside all thoughts of the end of the day and bore down, dispensing with his customary smile.
“We know you’ve been following Wendy Winchester around the last few days, in case you were wondering why we called you in today,” Ross began. “We need to know what you’re up to in case this has a bearing on Brent Ogle’s murder. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll level with us. This is serious business, you know. Make it easy on yourself if you’re holding something back that we ought to know.”
Gerald looked incredulous, his jaw dropping immediately. “Mr. Ogle’s murder? How did we get onto that? You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“I assure you, I am not. We had a tail on you yesterday, and we know you headed for Miz Winchester’s place of business around lunchtime. Then, you followed her to Simply Soul, but you didn’t go in to eat apparently. You just stayed in your car the whole time Miz Winchester was in there. That’s very peculiar behavior in my book.”
“I . . . I wasn’t hungry.”
“Then why did you follow her at all? We also know you were at The Toast of Rosalie the other day while she was having lunch there with her editor. And she spotted you getting into your car a little later after she’d finished visiting Hollis Hornesby’s art gallery.”
Gerald added a hint of an attitude as he answered. “I was hungry that day. That’s all. I like their food a lot. Most everybody in Rosalie does. And I waved to Miz Winchester when I saw her, and she waved back. You ask her if that’s not what happened. It was just a friendly gesture between the two of us is all. What was I s’pose to do—ignore her?”
“She told us about all of that. But you haven’t answered my questions to my satisfaction, Mr. Mansfield. What is all this really about? Are you taking orders from someone to spy on Miz Winchester? Does this have anything at all to do with Brent Ogle’s murder?”
“So you’re back to his murder again? And takin’ orders? From who? That’s ridiculous. Where’d you come up with that stuff?”
“Then explain it to me, please, so I can understand.”
Gerald became increasingly flustered. “I . . . uh . . . there’s nothin’ to tell.”
“This is not the time to play games with me, Mr. Mansfield.”
“I’m . . . not,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
Ross raised his voice to up the ante. “Last chance to come clean. Tell us what’s been going on. I can sit here all afternoon with you until you tell me the truth. I got nothing but time on my hands.”
Suddenly, something in Gerald Mansfield’s demeanor seemed to snap. He slumped in his chair, and if possible, his already-sunburned face grew even more flushed. “I haven’t done nothin’ wrong. Nobody put me up to what I been doing; I swear it. It’s all been on me.”
“So what exactly have you been doing?”
“I been . . . I have . . . it’s just that I have this . . . well, I have this crush on Miz Winchester. I have since she interviewed me the other day at the RCC. The only thing anybody put me up to was when Miz Deedah asked me to meet with Miz Winchester and see if I could help her with her newspaper article about her and Miz Mitzy and what they were doin’ at the RCC. That’s all there was to it; I swear.”
Ross made no attempt to disguise his displeasure. “So you were stalking her, is that it?”
There was now genuine panic in Gerald’s eyes. “Stalkin’? No, sir. I wouldn’t call it that. I just . . . I just wanted to see her, that’s all. She’s so pretty. Her hair, specially. Kinda red and kinda blond. The first time I saw it . . . uh, she . . . it just knocked me out, ya know?”
Ross continued his intensity, determined to shut Gerald Mansfield down for good. “I’m well aware of the color of her hair. Let me put it to you this way, then. You prob’ly don’t know it, but I’m seeing Miz Winchester socially, as they say. She’s my girlfriend. She’s spoken for, bud. She’s off-limits. So I don’t appreciate what you’ve been doing, no matter what you call it. You will cease and desist immediately; do you understand me?”
“Yessir. I do. And I didn’t know she was your girlfriend,” he said, swallowing hard. “If I had, I’da never’ve done it.”
“Well, now you know. And I expect you to act accordingly. You will not follow Miz Winchester around Rosalie or anywhere else under any circumstances. What you’ve been doing could definitely be considered stalking, whether you think so or not. Do you know what a restraining order is?”
Gerald exhaled noisily. “I . . . I think so. It’s where you can’t go nowhere near somebody by law.”
“That’s the gist of it. Now, you don’t wanna have me issue one against you on Miz Winchester’s behalf, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t. I promise, it won’t happen no more.”
“See to it that it doesn’t. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me that would have any bearing on Mr. Ogle’s murder?”
“No, I don’t know nothin’ about it. I wasn’t even there when it happened, I swear to you.”
Ross stood up and emphatically ge
stured toward the door and the stoic guard standing beside it. “Then I think we’re done here. Just remember what I told you about Miz Winchester, and that way, you’ll stay outta trouble.”
“Yessir. I got the message.”
* * *
Mitzy Stone’s office just off the pro shop was even smaller than Deedah’s was next door. The main difference was that it had a window to let in some light and air, unlike Deedah’s dark, stuffy closet of a room that had to be depressing and sleep inducing to occupy. Mitzy’s workspace also had the fresh scent of unsold merchandise—mainly from the brand-new golf bags made of nylon, canvas, and leather that were prominently displayed in the nearby shop. Mitzy was more than welcoming to Wendy as the two of them settled in across her desk; but Wendy couldn’t help but wonder how long the friendly feelings would last when the questioning began.
“You said over the phone there was this new development in the murder case you wanted to discuss with me?” Mitzy said, beating her to the punch. “I don’t know why you’ve come to me, but I’m intrigued.”
Wendy thought on her feet to find just the right words to ease into what would likely become a testy situation. “It’s not exactly a development. It’s more me revisiting something that I hope you can help me with for the sake of the article.”
Mitzy maintained her smile. “And what’s that?”
“I was doing some research on The Four-Second Game at the library, scrolling through the microfiche, when I came upon this picture of Coach Doughty on the sidelines after the defeat,” Wendy said. “And then, if I’m not mistaken, I remembered that when I came to your apartment to interview you recently, you had that very same picture of him on the wall.”
Mitzy’s face fell immediately, and Wendy knew then that her hunch had been right. “What do you want to know, Wendy? ”
“Can you tell me what happened to Coach Doughty and his family? ” Wendy let that sit there for a while, as Mitzy kept her eyes downcast, obviously lost in thought.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice soft and steady. “Coach Doughty was my grandfather. I am his granddaughter—his only grandchild.”
Wendy did not speak immediately. She felt that the revelation demanded a certain degree of respect, a period of silence before gathering her thoughts. Then, she answered in the same quiet tone that Mitzy had used. “I would not have had a clue about any of this, of course, except for that picture in your apartment. I just go with my hunches. What else can you tell me?”
Mitzy was now making direct eye contact as she continued. “Grandpop didn’t want to leave Rosalie. My mother told me he and my grandmother loved it here. They made lots of friends, and my mother did, too. But his Achilles’ heel was not being able to beat RHS, as you know. So, he was let go for that and that alone, although the school made up some story about Grandpop having health issues. The only one he had, though, was probably being a little too fond of bourbon, his liquor of choice. Then he found another coaching job in Montgomery, Alabama, but things were never the same for him. He started drinking more heavily, and he was eventually fired from that job, too. As for my mother, she was uprooted at the age of sixteen when she had to leave Rosalie, and it broke her heart. She had to leave all her friends and classmates behind, and she was never the same, either. That was all before I was born, of course, and—”
Wendy decided to cut in. “You don’t have to go into all these details if you don’t want to. If it stresses you out too much, I mean.”
“No, it’s okay. I need to talk about it, and I’d rather do it with you than anybody else. Deedah and I both like your assignment for the paper, and we trust you.” Mitzy was somehow able to keep the emotion out of her voice as she continued. “Anyway, things went from bad to worse for Grandpop. Mother says she and my grandmother didn’t see it coming, but Grandpop took his own life—an overdose of sleeping pills. He left a note saying he thought of himself as a failure and was sorry he hadn’t done a better job of supporting them. They were devastated, of course, but somehow they were able to pick up the pieces. My mother fell in love with my father, Jason Stone, over there in Alabama, and then I came along after things had settled down a bit. That was twenty-seven years ago, but I grew up knowing what had happened to Grandpop here in Rosalie.”
Mitzy let out a sigh, seeming to have found a stopping point in her family story, so Wendy picked up the slack. It was clearly taking a lot out of Mitzy to revisit such unpleasant memories.
“How did you end up in Rosalie, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Here, Mitzy leaned back, briefly gazed at the ceiling, and sighed again. “On purpose, if you want to know the truth. I was determined to come to Rosalie if I could manage it, even though I’d never lived here before, and then I planned to make a success of myself as a golf pro. No one really had to know why I’d come here, but I would know, and that’s all that really counted. Where Grandpop had failed, so to speak, I would succeed in honor of his memory. I was working down at the Red Stick Country Club in Baton Rouge when I heard about the opening. So I sent my résumé to Deedah, and she hired me. It was lucky for me that the opening hadn’t occurred under Mr. Voss, from what I’ve heard. No way would he and Brent Ogle have given me this job. Not those two sexist so-and-sos. And that’s the politest thing I can say about them.”
Wendy steeled herself. The hard questions lay ahead. “You know I have to ask. How did it make you feel when you ran up against Brent Ogle here at the RCC? Did you even think about the possibility that you might run into him if you took the job?”
“No, I honestly didn’t even think about that,” Mitzy said. “He could have moved away or even died, for all I knew. But I have to tell you, I had to keep my head on straight when that particular reality kicked in, and he showed up bigger than life and right up in my face to boot. I kept telling myself, ‘Don’t lose it. Just do your job, Mitzy; do your job. Don’t pay attention to what that Neanderthal says or does.’ ”
Then came Wendy’s curveball. “Did you believe Brent Ogle when he said his father had paid the officials to cheat? Particularly that part about the clock operator?”
“I don’t know.... Uh, I knew Brent was good and drunk. What else was new? I thought he might just be being obnoxious to his friends. I mean, there was a remote possibility he might be telling the truth, but it was all ancient history. Whether Brent Ogle’s father paid off the refs or not, none of it was going to bring my grandpop back or change what happened to his family. And that includes me.”
Wendy saw that Mitzy was beginning to tear up, and fell back once again on what Ross had told her more than once about detective work. There was an art to it that came from evaluating human behavior and recognizing certain tells in body language and speech. It seemed to Wendy—at least for the moment—that Mitzy lacked the component of rage to bludgeon a man to death, even though she had good reason and the strength to do so. She also appeared to have made peace with her family story; and more than that, she exuded pride in her accomplishments at the RCC.
Then, as if reading Wendy’s mind, Mitzy added, “I did not kill Brent Ogle. What would that gain me? I’d be found out eventually, and he would win in the end. I’d be in prison, instead of enjoying my position here as the first female pro at the RCC. My grandpop would be proud of me for returning to Rosalie and doing what I’ve done. He would not be proud—no one in my family would be proud—if I’d actually committed murder.”
“Do you keep in touch with your family?” Wendy said, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
“My grandmother is gone now, but I Skype with Mother and Dad now and then. I mostly spend holidays with them over there in Alabama, but sooner or later I’m gonna host them over here when I can get a bigger place. I’ve been saving up for that, you know.”
Wendy started turning things over quickly in her head, and it was causing her to frown.
“What’s the matter?” Mitzy said. “Did I say something that puzzles you?”
“It’s just that I’m run
ning out of suspects that I can believe actually killed Brent Ogle. Everyone just seems incapable of doing such a thing. Something just doesn’t add up.”
Mitzy cracked an awkward smile. “But it’s not up to you to solve this case, is it?”
“No,” Wendy told her. “It’s just this thing I’ve got—this puzzle-solving thing in my head that I’ve had since I was a little girl. My daddy keeps after me to put it to good use by joining the police force, but I don’t want to carry a gun around. It’s not my style. I’ve always wanted to be an investigative reporter the same way you wanted to be a golf pro, and now we’re both living out our dreams.”
“I completely understand where you’re coming from.” Mitzy took a few moments and seemed lost in thought again. “Do you think I should tell Detective Rierson about my relationship to Coach Doughty, or do you think it matters at this point?”
Wendy’s smile turned into a prolonged chuckle. “That seems to be the story of my life these days. People coming to me and revealing their secrets and then I end up advising them what to do with those secrets where this murder case is concerned. I’m beginning to feel like some sort of graven image that people shouldn’t be worshiping. I’m sure I don’t have all the answers, though I try my best.”
Mitzy offered up an uncomfortable grunt. “In my opinion, you just described there at the end what Brent Ogle expected of everyone—to worship and praise him constantly and never stand in his way. The man never grew up. He was trapped forever in his football glory days. He couldn’t do without the crowd roaring for him, and there was hell to pay when people didn’t play that role for him.”
“That’s a sad epitaph. But to answer your question about telling Mr. Rierson, I can pass along what you’ve told me and let him take it from there. You’ll hear from him if he wants to question you further. Anyway, I’m glad you told me all that about your family. I think it will greatly enhance the article on you and Deedah that I’m doing. That is, if you don’t object to my revealing who you really are. You’re right about it being a success story. Here you are in Rosalie making a name for yourself after what happened to your grandfather. It speaks to my theme of strong women accomplishing things. So, what do you think? Do you object to my telling your backstory?”