Shake, Murder, and Roll

by Gail Oust

  While the pros chipped and putted from various angles, I scanned the crowd searching for a familiar face. I was about to give up when I spotted Todd Timmons trotting alongside a CBS Sports crew like an obedient puppy. Clearly in his element, he wore Ray-Bans, a classic polo shirt, and an ear-to-ear grin. Todd chattered away in a futile attempt to engage an obviously disinterested cameraman in conversation.

  I watched one of the marshals approach him. “Sorry, sir,” I heard him say, “but I’ll have to ask you to step outside the ropes. This area is restricted to media only.”

  Todd spread his hands and grinned even wider. “I’m a TV producer.”

  The man didn’t return the smile. “If you’re media, why doesn’t it say so on your badge?”

  “Todd Timmons.” Todd extended his hand. “How Does Your Garden Grow? You might have heard of my show.”

  The marshal ignored Todd’s outstretched hand. “If you don’t remove yourself immediately, sir, I’ll have security escort you off the premises.”

  Todd shot a hopeful glance at his newfound cameraman buddy, but when no support was forthcoming, he ducked under the rope to stand with the rest of us peons. His expression mirrored anger and embarrassment as he stood, face flushed, arms folded, and watched the golfers. After the threesome moved on, he attached himself to a crew from ESPN and trailed along, careful to maintain established boundaries. Watching him, if only for a brief time, I realized Todd had an agenda—and wasn’t one to give up easily.

  In spite of intentions to the contrary, I fell under the Masters’s spell. I forgot my plan to be organized and efficient and started to just enjoy the day. Under similar circumstances, I was certain Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher would’ve done the same. Polly and I roamed the course aimlessly. It was a magnificent setting. Banks of azaleas in full bloom and dogwood trees bursting with dainty white flowers made it seem more botanical garden than golf course. Acres of velvety grass rolled and stretched like the lawn of some grand country estate. The lawn…er, grounds…were interspersed with irregular patches of pristine white sand, a reminder that this wasn’t a park, but Augusta National, home of the Masters.

  We mingled; we watched. We oohed; we aahed.

  Watching the pros practice their putting proved a revelation. I was amazed at their intensity. One after another, they’d squat on their haunches to study the slope of the green, conferring with their caddies whether it might break right or left. When I play, I tend to do more finger-crossing than actual strategy. Trying to figure out the exact angle reminds me too much of Sister Marie Frances’s geometry class. No wonder I don’t excel at putting. Geometry was the only class in which I’d ever received a D. And let me tell you, boys and girls, I’d been ecstatic that I didn’t get an F. All those angles, planes, and point A’s to point B’s failed to register in my addled brain.

  I was also impressed by Polly’s rapt attention to the pros’ techniques. To the best of my knowledge, she’d never been particularly interested in the game. Instead of her usual voluble self, she became uncharacteristically quiet. Then I observed her more carefully. She was watching the golfers, all right, but it was their bottoms and not their golf balls that commanded her attention. I shook my head, glad Gloria wasn’t here to witness her mother’s affinity for anatomy.

  “Polly,” I said, giving her a gentle prod, “it’s lunchtime.”

  We wandered until we came across one of the concession stands that dot the course. Polly and I ordered sandwiches, pimento—a longstanding tradition at the Masters—for myself, and BBQ for Polly. We settled down at a picnic table under a stand of pine with our food. As much as I was enjoying the day, the time had come to get back to business. If I didn’t make more of an effort to exclude names on my persons of interest list, I’d feel somehow I’d failed Sheila. “We’re having way too much fun,” I announced, wiping my fingers on a paper napkin. “We need to try harder if we’re going to track down Todd, Rog, and Bets.”

  “But how?” Polly asked. “There are thousands of people here. It’ll be like spotting Waldo in one of those Where’s Waldo books.”

  “It’s almost time for the Par 3 Contest. Maybe we’ll have better luck there.”

  “Fine, but let’s check out Magnolia Lane first. It’s famous. I want my picture taken there so I can post it on Facebook.”

  While Polly chucked our sandwich wrappers and drink cups into a trash can, I consulted the map. “Looks like the clubhouse is that way,” I said, pointing straight ahead. “Long as we’re here, I’d like to see Magnolia Lane myself. Last time, all Jim wanted to do was watch approach shots.”

  We threaded our way through a milling throng of people toward the clubhouse. The clubhouse was a white three-story structure built in the low-country style with porches encircling the first and second floors. “According to the Web site, this is the original plantation house dating back to the 1850s. The course itself used to be an indigo plantation,” I told Polly, showing off knowledge I’d gleaned the night before on the Internet. Only wished I’d paid more attention to the do’s and don’ts. Knowing the size of handbags would have saved me a long hike. Get over it, Kate, I scolded, the exercise probably did you good.

  “Look at them magnolias,” Polly enthused, peering down the long sweep of drive that led from the clubhouse to an entrance gate. “Aren’t they a sight for sore eyes?”

  “Speaking of sore eyes, look who else is admiring the view.”

  Roger McFarland stood midway down the drive, staring through the viewfinder of a camera. Not just any old camera, but the long-lens type paparazzi might use. The type I’d expect from a man charged with editing a book about plants and shrubs. A man with an eye for detail.

  “Enjoying the Masters?” I asked as Polly and I sauntered up.

  He jerked at the sound of my voice, and I heard the shutter whirr. “Dammit,” he cursed, turning on me. “I had the perfect mix of light and shadow until you ruined it.”

  “Here.” Polly shoved her digital camera at him. “Take our picture, will you? I want everyone to see us on Facebook.”

  He let his Canon dangle from a strap around his neck. “Fine,” he said in a voice heavy with resignation.

  Polly pulled me closer, put her arm around my waist, and we smiled, smiled, smiled until our cheeks ached. “That oughta do it,” Roger announced, returning the camera to Polly. “Say”—he squinted at us from behind horned-rimmed glasses—“haven’t I seen you two before?”

  “We’re friends of Sheila’s—good friends,” I said. And we’re here to spy on you. “Right, right,” he muttered.

  Judging from his baffled expression, he still didn’t have a clue as to who we were. Apparently I hadn’t made much of an impression. That happens to me a lot, but I try not to let it affect my self-esteem. “We met at the hospital the night Dr. Bascomb…expired.”

  “You might’ve seen us at his memorial service,” Polly offered. “We were the two at the buffet table eating shrimp rangoons. Guess everyone else was afraid they’d get poisoned.”

  Roger’s ruddy face turned even ruddier. “I, um…”

  I could see the word “poison” was making him nervous. Good time to change the subject. “Are you taking photos for Sheila’s book?” I asked.

  “Ah, no.” He rubbed a hand over his short carrot-colored hair, making it stand on end. “Horticulture is my true passion, not photography. I study plants and shrubs every chance I can.”

  Horticulture his passion? Hm, that would lend itself to my planticide theory. “That must help with your job as editor for a university press.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he muttered.

  He turned to leave, so I fell into step alongside him. “How did you happen to go from a career with flowers and shrubs to book publishing?”

  “Fate, timing.” He shrugged. “Bad luck.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Someone else landed the job I wanted. Just because a person happens to look more qualified on paper doesn’t necessarily mean they’r
e the right pick for the job, does it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Roger stopped and waved an arm back in the direction we’d just come. “Did you know, for instance, that those magnolias were planted from seed before the Civil War?”

  “Um, no.” Sad to say, but my homework last night hadn’t included the history of trees. If this was a pop quiz, I failed miserably

  “Say, Roger,” Polly said, catching up with us, “could you snap a picture of me standing against that big tree over there?”

  “We’re surrounded by ‘big’ trees, lady,” Roger said, sounding exasperated.

  Polly was unfazed by the gruff tone. “The big one next to the clubhouse. The one with the purple flowers.”

  “Those purple flowers happen to be wisteria,” he growled. “That particular vine happens to be the first wisteria established in the United States. It’s believed to be the largest of its kind.”

  Polly handed over her camera. “You don’t say.”

  While Polly posed for pictures, I mentally cataloged the information I’d gathered. Roger, the pudge, had not merely a liking, but a passion, for all growing things. That implied considerable knowledge of plants, both poisonous and nonpoisonous varieties. Aha, I said silently. Knowledge translated into M-E-A-N-S.

  I recalled the conversation I’d overheard in the ER the night Vaughn…died, passed, or entered into eternal rest. Roger had complained Vaughn interfered with his vision of the coffee table masterpiece he was editing. With Vaughn out of the picture, literally and figuratively, he’d remove the obstacle that stood in the way of the book’s successful completion. In addition, Roger harbored a grudge against the person who had beaten him out of a coveted position in a field he adored. Could that person have been Sheila? Or perhaps Vaughn? At some point had resentment spilled into rage? Rage and resentment spelled M-O-T-I-V-E. My fingers itched to jot this down in my little black book.

  I returned to the course with a new bounce in my step. The day was starting to look up.

  Chapter 18

  “Hey, Kate! Look at this!” Polly held up a wildly flowered notebook filled with scrawls. “I got me a whole bunch of autographs.”

  I blew out a breath. “Polly, the tournament adheres to a strict no autograph policy. You could’ve gotten us kicked out of here.”

  “But I didn’t. The golfers were only too happy to oblige.”

  “You told them it was for your grandson,” I said through clenched teeth. “You don’t have a grandson.”

  “But if I did, the cute little bugger would be thrilled with all these autographs. Probably sell ’em on eBay and pay for his college tuition. Costs a pretty penny to become a brain surgeon these days, you know.”

  We were standing at the bank of elevators in the Marriott on our way to Belle Beaute’s hospitality suite. Polly, bless her heart, hadn’t been worth her salt as my assistant, Dr. Watson. Instead of searching for motive, means, and opportunity, she’d spent the day shopping for souvenirs, taking photos, having them taken, and collecting autographs for a hypothetical grandson. I, on the other hand, had stayed true to the course. I knew with certainty Roger McFarland possessed the unholy trinity of motive, means, and opportunity. Todd Timmons was next to come under my microscope.

  When the elevator door whooshed open, we rode in silence to the top floor. We walked down a carpeted hallway and stepped into an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Only thing missing was Robin Leach. The large living room was filled with comfy overstuffed sofas and chairs in muted shades of green, gold, and burgundy. A giant flat-screen TV mounted on one wall replayed Masters coverage from previous tournaments. On the far wall, a floor-to-ceiling window provided a spectacular view of the Savannah River glittering in the late-afternoon sun. A long table in the dining area was nearly buried beneath trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. A wet bar, complete with ice maker, held a vast selection of liquor, all top shelf, as well as wine, both red and white.

  Polly stood transfixed on the threshold. “This sure is the cat’s meow.”

  “Sure is,” I echoed. I felt like the proverbial fish out of water, but I guess that’s why the cat meowed.

  People milled about, drink glasses in hand, laughing and chattering like they didn’t have a care in the world. Some were in cocktail attire, but most wore casual chic. The cut of their clothes along with the flash and jangle of jewelry was the type only wealth could bring. In lieu of flash and jangle, I’d taken time to freshen my lipstick before mingling with the bold and the beautiful. I was glad I’d recently colored my hair and no gray roots showed in the ash blond.

  “Been a long time since lunch,” Polly muttered. “I’m a little thirsty, too. Think I’ll get me something to drink. A nice cold margarita always hits the spot after a day on the links.”

  Sheila spotted me from across the room where she stood surrounded by a group of women. Fans? I wondered. She waved. I waved back.

  Come to think of it, it had been a long time since lunch. And all the walking around had made me thirsty. I followed the same trail Polly had blazed. Sashaying over to the hors d’oeuvre table, I filled a plate with fruit and cheese, then helped myself to the shrimp and other goodies. Next I wandered over to the bar, where a nice bartender poured me a glass of pinot grigio. I sipped; I sampled; I eavesdropped.

  Seeing Betsy Dalton talking to one of the up-and-coming young golfers, I sidled closer.

  “I heard buzz that your company is coming out with a men’s line,” the guy was saying. He was tall, tanned, and gorgeous with sun-streaked blond hair and Nordic blue eyes. His name was Tyler or Trevor, or maybe Taylor, Something-or-other.

  “Rumor’s true. We plan to debut our new product line in time for the holidays.” Betsy Dalton gazed up at him with a smile that all but whispered “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.”

  He grinned engagingly. “My agent mentioned you’re looking for endorsements.”

  “Also true,” Betsy purred.

  I tried not to choke on my meatball when I saw her reach out and smooth the guy’s shirt collar—a collar which even to a woman with gradient lenses didn’t need smoothing. “Naturally, we have a certain type in mind to best represent our products.”

  He flashed a blinding set of pearly whites. “Babe, you’re looking at him.”

  Gag me with a spoon, will you? I can’t believe a woman with Betsy Dalton’s sophistication would fall for the corny “Babe” routine. But seeing, as they say, is believing. I watched her give him a coy smile and playfully run a finger down his cheek. “The company is searching for a man with certain…attributes.”

  I pretended more interest in a crab cake than it merited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him take her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Babe, I’m at your disposal,” he said in a low voice.

  “Really, Ty.” Betsy gave his arm a playful swat. “I was referring to skin tone, but it goes without saying, good looks and a buff body are part of the total package.”

  “Feel free to check out my…attributes…anytime you like.”

  The Ty-guy dropped his voice so low that in order to eavesdrop I practically had to stand on one leg. I listed so far right I nearly lost my balance.

  “There’s a bed in the next room,” I heard him say.

  When Betsy didn’t seem to object, he hooked a bronzed arm over her shoulders and led her toward the bedroom.

  My, my, I thought taking a sip of wine to calm my nerves. If I wanted to watch this much action, I could tune into the afternoon soaps. I wasn’t a prude but sheesh! The golfer was young enough to be her son. Right before my very eyes, I’d seen Betsy transform into Erica Kane, Susan Lucci’s character on All My Children. Wait till Polly finds out what she missed.

  Speaking of Polly, where was she? Left to her own devices, God only knew what mischief she might tumble into. People continued to arrive, making the suite even more crowded. I scanned the partygoers and found Polly in an animated discussion with one of the pros. Don
’t give my powers of deduction too much credit. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Golfers are easy to spot. Just look at their hands. The right hand of a golfer always has a deeper tan than the left. Unless putting, they always wear a glove on the left. Clever of me, eh?

  “Hey, Kate,” Polly sang out. “Justin here was nice enough to give me his autograph.”

  “I’m happy to be able to cheer the poor little guy,” Justin explained with a self-deprecatory smile. “He’s a real trooper to go through all those operations. And lucky to have such a nice lady for a grandma. Now, if you ladies’ll excuse me.”

  I wagged my head. “Polly Curtis, you’re incorrigible.”

  Totally unrepentant, Polly tucked her autograph book away. “Where’s the harm? It made him feel good to think he was helping a kid.”

  “And gave you an excuse to ogle a good-looking guy,” I pointed our acerbically. “Keep it up, and I’m going to have to replace you as my assistant.”

  “All right, already, what do you want me to do?”

  “Cozy up to Roger. See what else you can learn. I’ll spy on Todd. And, Polly, go easy on the booze,” I cautioned, eyeing the nearly empty margarita glass she held. “Remember how upset Gloria gets at seeing you tipsy.”

  “That girl is wound too tight. Takes after her father that way. Needs to loosen up.”

  We separated, working the room from opposite directions. I milled through the guests, smiling and nodding where appropriate, listening to snippets of conversation.

  “Did you see Tiger’s chip shot…”

  “How about Phil’s drive on number 5…

  “Trust me, that guy from the UK, what’s his name, is the one to watch.”

  And so on and so forth.

  I noshed my way through a plate of appetizers. The shrimp were a little chewy, but the baby bella mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat were to die for. Wish I had the recipe. They’d be a big hit at bunco. I was on the verge of going back for seconds when I spied Todd Timmons. He stood off to one side, studying the conglomeration of people. Then, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and he settled on his prey—a distinguished-looking gentleman with a well-endowed blond on his arm. I held my breath as I watched him stalk his potential victim. Again, I wished I could make note of this in my ubiquitous little book, but it might garner unwanted attention. I think my cell phone might have a record feature, but didn’t have a clue how to use it. Shifting into stealth mode, I moved closer.