Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Ben followed Mitch out of Pearson’s office. He might just have to drop in at that board meeting himself.

  18

  BEN WAS AMAZED AT how Mitch’s demeanor relaxed the instant they were away from Pearson. He had previously been stiff and obedient—the perfect flunky. A few minutes out of Pearson’s office, however, and he was casual, lighthearted—almost impish. Ben wondered if he just put on an act for his boss, or if he put on an act for whomever he was with at any given moment.

  Mitch started the tour in the main dining room. The word impressive did not do justice to the immense majesty of this room. The walls were oak, on all sides. Huge bay windows with burnished drapes provided a breathtaking view of the course. The raised ceiling gave the room a feeling of almost infinite size. The enormous bricked-in fireplace was taller than Ben.

  Mitch waltzed Ben through a series of smaller areas—offices and conference rooms. A music room with a grand piano Ben would die for. A stereo system he would die twice for. And the obligatory pro shop overlooking the putting green. Ben quickly surveyed the leisurewear, all sporting the Utica Greens crest. Not a price tag under seventy-five bucks. Not even the sun visors.

  They descended a staircase to the main locker room, which Ben was informed was referred to as “Chambers.” Huge bathing areas, rows of spacious showers, a Jacuzzi, implacable attendants, sky-high mirrors, wall-attached hair dryers, and forty different bottles of cologne and aftershave. The faucets and handles were made of brass; the countertops were solid black marble.

  Not someplace you’d drop by just to clip your toenails.

  It occurred to Ben that this might be an appropriate time to milk Mitch for whatever information he could provide. “So how long have you been working for Pearson? Uh, Captain Pearson, I mean.”

  “Now there’s a captain who never sailed the stormy seas. I don’t think he could pilot a paddleboat.” Mitch laughed. “It’s an honorary title, I guess. To answer your question, I came onboard fresh out of business school, a little less than ten years ago, not long after that murder. All the bad publicity that incident generated convinced the board members they needed someone to manage the grounds on a full-time basis. So they hired me. As you may have guessed, I do the work that keeps this Disneyland-for-dilettantes afloat.”

  “Does the job pay well?”

  “Not as well as having rich parents does.”

  Mitch spun Ben through the locker room. The lockers were of carved pine. None of them had locks; Ben surmised that would be considered bad taste. Such a measure would suggest it was possible that one of the esteemed members might actually commit theft, perish the thought.

  “Not a bad place to take a leak, huh?” Mitch said dryly.

  “It’d do in a pinch,” Ben concurred.

  They left the building and walked outside to survey the perfectly trimmed greens. The sun was still blazing; Ben found himself feeling nostalgic for the air-conditioned paradise of the locker room.

  At Ben’s request, Mitch showed him the caddyshack. The scene of the ancient crime. After a short walk, Mitch removed a key and opened the door.

  “Who has keys to this place?” Ben asked.

  ‘Ten years ago all the board members. Today, just me. After the murder, when the keys turned them into suspects, the board didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. They turned in their keys and put me in charge of the shack. Actually, I requested the assignment. I figured I couldn’t do any worse than those guys had.”

  Together, they entered. The shack was a well-constructed building more spacious than Ben’s apartment. Benches and chairs lined the walls; golf magazines cluttered every table.

  “I don’t see many caddies around today,” Ben observed.

  “Right. Welcome to the post-golf cart era. Caddies are not essential anymore to ensuring that you can play eighteen holes without the least bit of physical exertion. It’s mostly just the old codgers who use caddies these days.”

  Well, thank goodness someone is preserving those grand old traditions, Ben thought. “You know, I’m kind of surprised that this club would hire Leeman Hayes as a caddy. Or anything else.”

  “What’s wrong with this picture, huh? Well, I think I can explain that mystery. You read the papers much?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know. About every five years or so, some crusading-journalist type decides to rail against the gross inequities represented by the old boys’ country-club system. ‘How dare they live in such grand opulence, when less than ten miles away you can find the poorest, most impoverished families of north Tulsa?’ Or: ‘Why are all the board members men?’ Or: ‘Why are the employees all the same color?’ ”

  “So the board indulges in a little equal-opportunity sham,” Ben murmured.

  “Right the first time.” Mitch picked up some golf shoes and slid them under a bench. “Leeman was a perfect face-saving hire. Not only was he black, not only was he from a bitterly poor family—he was retarded as well. Now how could anyone say Utica Greens was heartless after they made a magnanimous gesture like hiring him?”

  “No comment,” Ben said.

  “Hey, don’t spare my feelings. I’ve been living with it for a good long time.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “What, you mean like, do I have a conscience?” He grinned. “Naaaaah. I checked that in my locker my first day here and I haven’t seen it since.”

  Ben walked to the far north corner of the shack. “This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. That’s where they found her, slammed against the wall, the club shaft rammed through her throat.”

  Ben stared at the empty corner. “I suppose all traces have been long since eliminated.”

  “Obviously. In fact, that was a major source of controversy. The board wanted her removed and the room repainted immediately after she was found. They were having a big tournament the next day, and the last thing they wanted was a murder scene. The police, however, insisted on roping off the shack, taking pictures, and scouring the room for evidence. Put the board members’ noses extremely out of joint.”

  “And the four members of the board back then …”

  “Are the same four who compose the board today.”

  “Did they ever try to find out who committed the murder?”

  “Who? The board?” Mitch laughed. “You must be joking. Leeman was arrested at the scene. That was good enough for them. Once they cleaned up the mess and got their tournament back on schedule, I doubt if any of them ever thought about it again.”

  “Didn’t they try to protect Leeman? He was their employee, after all.”

  “Protect him? Hardly. I think they were glad to feed him to the wolves, to resolve the mystery before it attracted any more attention. He was the perfect scapegoat, for the board and the police. Ever since then, the board has used Leeman as an object lesson in what happens when you bring ‘one of them’ into the hallowed halls of Utica Greens.”

  “Mitch,” Ben said, his teeth clenched, “would you get me the hell out of here?”

  “My pleasure.” He opened the door and together they walked back into the blinding sunlight.

  19

  AFTER THE FEEDING AND the changing and the burping, Christina spent the remainder of the morning trying to convince Joey it really wouldn’t be such a horrible idea to take a nap. Or even just to close his eyes and pretend he was taking a nap. She wasn’t particular. Just so he wasn’t screaming anymore.

  Christina had done a considerable amount of baby-sitting during her teen years and thought she was fairly competent, but Joey was proving particularly fussy. She began to have a bit more sympathy for Ben, who had been dealing with the kid all night without any of her experience to fall back on. She wasn’t sure what Joey’s problem was; he was just unhappy. Poor babe was going through a lot of trauma—separated from his mommy and dumped with a bunch of weirdos he’d never seen before.

  Eventually she resorted to singin
g. He seemed interested, but didn’t care for any of her tunes. Everyone’s a critic. She tried “Annie Laurie,” a tune her mother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. Not interested. She tried “Ave Maria.” She tried “A Tisket, a Tasket.” “The Noble Duke of York.” “Polly Wolly Doodle.” She tried twenty other songs. No luck.

  Ben had made a suggestion before he left, but Christina had disregarded it. Totally lame. What did he know about babies, anyway? But finally, in sheer desperation, she gave in and began singing, “Flintstones … meet the Flintstones …”

  The caterwauling ceased, and by the time she got to the part about “courtesy of Fred’s two feet,” Joey was making a soft chortling noise. He giggled when she said, “Yabba-dabba-doo.” And after a few quiet repetitions, he was asleep.

  Praise the Lord. She rocked him a bit longer, then set him down in his laundry-basket-cum-crib. What an ordeal. A few more experiences like that and she could almost stop regretting her decision to—

  No. Even just thinking to herself, Christina couldn’t make herself believe that lie. She would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

  She went to the bathroom and splashed some revitalizing cold water on her face. She was burning up. The temperature was dancing around a hundred and five, and no big surprise, the air-conditioning in Ben’s apartment was on the fritz. She cranked the thermostat down to sixty-five, but it didn’t help.

  She suddenly realized she had never gotten that shower and shampoo she had wanted. When better than now? She decided to take a quick, quiet soak before the tyrannical tyke returned to the world of the waking.

  She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. The cool beads of water flowed down her body, providing almost instant relief from the heat and stress of the morning. What a splendid invention showers were. What did people do before? She sang a quiet chorus of “Annie Laurie,” just for her own benefit, then borrowed some of Ben’s Pert Plus and washed her hair.

  When she was finished, she dried off and wrapped a white towel around her body and another one around her wet hair. Just as she twisted the towel into place she heard the front door buzzer.

  Isn’t this always the way it goes? she thought. Just great.

  Mrs. Marmelstein, no doubt. She probably heard me singing and ran up to make sure I wasn’t holding an orgy or anything.

  Christina trudged into the front parlor, wearing only her two towels, and opened the front door.

  The woman on the other side of the door was in her mid-sixties, although she was quite well preserved and almost wrinkle free. She was dressed in an elegant, obviously expensive pant suit. She clutched a Gucci purse and wore a diamond ring the size of a quarter.

  Christina pressed her hand against the towel covering her torso. “Oh, my gosh. You must be Mrs. Kincaid. Ben’s mother.”

  The older woman nodded slightly.

  “Omigosh. Oh my gosh.” She tugged desperately at her towel, trying to make sure she was amply covered. To her dismay, the knot came apart and the towel started to fall. She clutched it desperately to her chest. The back flopped open, exposing her pink wet backside.

  “I bet you’re wondering who I am,” Christina said, trying to pull the towel closed in back with her free hand.

  Mrs. Kincaid nodded again, even more imperceptibly than before. “I must admit to a soupçon of curiosity. …”

  “I … well, gosh …” As Christina spoke, the towel around her hair began to slip down her forehead, covering her forehead, then her eyes. She wanted to push the towel back up, but she couldn’t take her hands off the lower towel without exposing herself. She tried to blow the towel back up, but it didn’t work. The towel drooped down farther, over her nose.

  “I’m Christina McCall,” she said, trying to ignore the towel obscuring her vision. “I’m … well, I’m Ben’s friend. His … good friend.”

  “But of course you are, my dear.” Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and entered the apartment.

  “No—I mean—you don’t understand.” Christina suddenly realized she was standing in front of the open door half-naked. She pushed it closed with her foot. “I work for Ben.”

  Mrs. Kincaid positioned herself on the natty sofa in the center of Ben’s living room. “You mean he pays you?”

  “Yes. Exactly. That’s it.”

  Mrs. Kincaid shook her head and made a tsking noise. “It’s come to that, then. What a pity.”

  Christina realized she couldn’t go on conversing with this towel hanging over her eyes, so she shook the towel off her head. Her damp red hair cascaded around her shoulders. “I still don’t think you’ve quite got it. I’m a legal assistant. I work for Ben. In his office. I help him with his legal practice.” She looked at Mrs. Kincaid pleadingly. “I’m a professional!”

  Beads of water flew from Christina’s wet head into Mrs. Kincaid’s face. The older woman raised a hand and pointedly wiped away the drops. “And precisely what professional services are you rendering today?” she asked, scrutinizing Christina.

  “I was taking a shower,” Christina said, totally exasperated. “I was hot and sticky because, as you’ll soon realize, Ben’s air conditioner doesn’t work, and I wanted to wash off while the baby was still asleep—”

  “The baby!” Mrs. Kincaid’s face suddenly became animated. “Then he’s here?”

  “Yes,” Christina said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m babysitting.”

  Mrs. Kincaid rose to her feet. “May I see him?”

  “Of course. He’s in Ben’s bedroom in his, er, crib.” Christina showed Mrs. Kincaid to the back room.

  There, Mrs. Kincaid cracked open the door and peeked in at the slumbering child. He was lying on his back; a soft whistle streamed out of his mouth with each breath.

  Mrs. Kincaid did not actually smile, but her eyes crinkled and glowed. “That’s my grandchild, you know,” she whispered. They tiptoed back to the front room. “My only one.”

  “Yeah.” Christina laughed. “Unless there’s something Ben hasn’t gotten around to telling you yet.”

  Mrs. Kincaid whirled on her. “What do you mean? Do you know something?”

  Christina flustered. “No, no. It was just a joke. Really. I don’t know why I said that. What a stupid thing to say.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Oh.” With a quick, almost invisible gesture, Mrs. Kincaid smoothed the crease of her slacks, whisking away several cat hairs she had acquired on the sofa, and reseated herself. “Pardon me if I overreacted.”

  The two women sat in silence. Christina knew Mrs. Kincaid was eyeing her, like a scientist analyzing a strange new specimen. She felt extremely uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps I should get dressed—”

  “So this is Ben’s apartment,” Mrs. Kincaid said.

  “Yup.” Christina knotted her fingers awkwardly. “Chez Kincaid. Have you never been here before?”

  “No. Never.” Her eyes drank in the room. “I’m beginning to understand why he hasn’t invited me to visit.” She pulled out a sofa cushion and stared at the considerable accretion of cookie crumbs, change, and chewed-up ballpoint pens. Wordlessly, she dropped the cushion back into place.

  “Ben’s been pretty short on cash these past few years,” Christina said in his defense.

  “I’ve offered him money a dozen times,” Mrs. Kincaid replied. “But he refuses to take it.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Mrs. Kincaid entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inventoried the contents. Two cases of Coke Classic, two large cartons of chocolate milk, a half-empty bottle of white milk that had expired three weeks before, and a stick of butter covered with toast crumbs.

  “Some things never change.” She pushed the fridge closed. “And so nutritious. I assume the white milk is for the cat?”

  “Cap’n Crunch cereal,” Christina said. “Although sometimes he eats it straight out of the box.”

  Mrs. Kincaid’s eyelashes fluttered. “His diet hasn’t altered in twenty-five years.”


  “Yeah, well, he gets takeout a lot.”

  Mrs. Kincaid noticed a spot of unidentified grunge on the kitchen counter and wiped it away with a quick and precise sweep of her hand. While she was at it she rolled up the paper towels and rearranged the canisters.

  “Uh, ma’am, I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want you to—”

  Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and looked into the sink. She gasped. The sink was filled with plates, glasses, and silverware, all encrusted with dried food (takeout, probably) and unrecognizable goop. On the bottom layer of plates, a gray fungus was growing.

  Mrs. Kincaid pressed her hand to her throat. “Do you suppose he has any … rubber gloves?”

  “Oh, look, I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to—”

  “I don’t want to, my dear.” She drew herself erect. “Frankly, I haven’t done dishes in years. But this is an emergency.”

  Christina showed her the place under the sink where Ben kept his cleaning supplies (but no rubber gloves). After inhaling deeply to fortify herself, Mrs. Kincaid poured a half bottle of dishwashing liquid into the sink and turned on the tap. She held her breath and tried not to look at what she was doing. “ ‘Once more unto the breach. …’ ”

  “Well,” Christina said, “now that you’re here, I guess I can bid adieu. …”

  “No, please.” To Christina’s surprise, Mrs. Kincaid reached out and placed a wet hand on her arm. “Please don’t.”

  Christina blinked. “You want me to stay?”

  “Please. If you can.”

  “I suppose. But … why?”

  Mrs. Kincaid picked up a plate and began to scrub. “I thought perhaps … we could talk.”

  Christina smiled nervously. “I can’t imagine anything we could discuss.”

  “That won’t be hard,” Mrs. Kincaid said reassuringly. “We’ll discuss my son.”

  “What about him?”

  “Anything would be of interest, when it comes to Benjamin. He’s an absolute mystery to me. I’ve never understood him.”

  “Aw, Ben’s not so tough,” Christina said. She was beginning to relax, despite the fact that she was still standing around practically starkers. “He’s a good guy. Goodhearted, you know?”