Before his warm-up session on the range, he walked into the Trophy Room to get some breakfast. Caroline Rockingham was sitting at a sunny window table with a bagel, a glass of grapefruit juice, a cup of coffee, and the New York Times. She looked utterly at home.
“Want company?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, flashing him the smile that he’d thought about until falling asleep the previous night in the Crow’s Nest. “Sit down.”
She pushed a chair away from the table with her tanned, sandaled foot and kept reading. Sam ordered a plate of bacon and eggs and a cup of decaf. He picked up a copy of the Augusta Chronicle and saw the screaming headline: “masters official found dead at amen corner. Police investigate possible homicide.” Several pages of coverage followed, but the reporters didn’t seem to have much more information than he’d heard on TV Monday.
Could one of Ashby’s fellow members really have done this? And on the eve of the Masters, when the club was obsessed with running an orderly tournament and keeping negative press to an absolute minimum?
“They made an example of him,” one of the members of WOFF was quoted in the paper. “He was a martyr for our cause.”
Ashby’s wife didn’t seem to think so. Another story quoted Annabelle Ashby saying that no member of Augusta National would ever do such a thing.
“They were the people he loved most in this world, besides his family,” she had told a reporter. “I know they all loved him, too.”
Not necessarily. Sam knew how it was at golf clubs. Nobody is universally liked unless he loses all his bets and pays up cheerfully and immediately. When Ashby went public with his opinion on women at Augusta National, he must have made some enemies.
“Read this,” Caroline said, handing Sam the sports section of the Times, folded open to a column by Deborah Scanlon:
See, hear and speak no evil at Augusta National
Poor Annabelle Ashby. Not only did she lose her husband, Harmon, sometime early Monday morning, but she seems to have lost her sense of reason and outrage well before that.
Harmon Ashby was found murdered at Augusta National Golf Club Monday. The Masters Rule Committee Chairman was a wonderful man, according to his friends.
The thing is, Harmon Ashby’s friends are a little hard to find at the National these days. You see, he died less than a week after telling this columnist that he believed women should be admitted as members to Augusta National. As everyone, including the widowed Mrs. Ashby, knows all too well, the club bars women from joining. Always has—and, say many of the members, always will.
But here’s poor Annabelle, rationalizing in her grief that it couldn’t have been—just couldn’t have been—one of her husband’s golfing buddies who did him in. Oh, no—they loved him too much, she says through her tears.
To that I say, wake up and smell the fertilizer, dear.
Love, trust, friendship and most other decent human emotions are stopped at the National’s gates, along with women who’d like to become members there. To many at Augusta National, the issue of keeping women out of the club is even more important than it was to keep blacks out of the club. After all, Augusta National finally broke down and let a black man join in 1990. Now there are five black members, if you trust the unofficial count—David Porter won’t comment on his members—but still not a woman to be found.
Keep in mind that this club is located in the heart of the Deep South, where thousands were once willing to die to retain the monstrous evil of slavery. What makes Annabelle Ashby believe that at least one good ol’ boy member wouldn’t be willing to see her husband die to retain the despicable institution of all-male country clubs?
Sure, it’s within the reach of one’s imagination to picture an intruder penetrating the maximum-security walls of the club and, finding Harmon Ashby strolling the grounds in the dark, killing him for no particular reason—and then spraying THIS IS THE LAST MASTERS on the adjacent fairway with herbicide.
Isn’t it a bit easier to picture an angry Neanderthal in a green jacket—one who has unlimited access to these ultra-private grounds—taking it upon himself to teach Harmon Ashby and the world a lesson?
And what is that lesson? That anyone who speaks out against the virulent sexism of Augusta National will pay dearly for the indiscretion, and that the Masters itself is expendable if women keep beating at the gates. A lesson of that sort, written in blood, would certainly keep the rest of the members in the fold.
The world is finally closing in on these throwbacks to the antebellum South; the noose—if you will forgive the use of that term in this context—is tightening around the club. It is hardly a leap to picture one of Harmon Ashby’s brethren lashing out in response. I believe Ashby paid the ultimate price for crossing over to the enemy when he openly opposed the club’s arrogant, misogynist ways.
There is still time for this club to redeem itself. If, as so many suspect, the killer can be found in the club’s directory, David Porter must do all he can to help bring him to justice. Then, the next step is clear: Begin to remove this stain by admitting not just one woman, but many. And not next week, or next year.
Now.
Sam put the paper down and started to take a sip of his lukewarm coffee. A waiter appeared before he could even bring it to his lips and asked him if he wanted a refill. The waiter—a white-haired black man wearing a gold jacket—refilled Caroline’s cup from the pot of regular coffee he held in his other hand. Most of the clubhouse employees that Sam had seen were black. He assumed the jobs paid well, and judging from their ages, the employees obviously clung to them. But he also knew that many social critics would presume that blacks waiting on whites at Augusta National was a symbolic preservation of plantation life.
“What did you think?” Caroline asked after he put the paper down.
“I disagree.”
“With what?” Caroline asked. “That somebody here killed him? That the club should allow women?”
“With her premise that there’s something evil about an all-male club. People like Deborah Scanlon always assume the worst. They think exclusion means discrimination. People make choices every day about who they want to be with.”
“Would you be a member here—if you could?”
“I wouldn’t have much to contribute when the conversation turned to investment portfolios.”
“You could be their token middle-class member.”
“How about you? Would you join?”
“They don’t allow women, remember?”
“You know they will eventually.”
“So what are they waiting for?”
“For their members to demand it. It’s their club—not ours. And not Rachel Drucker’s, either.”
Caroline tilted her head, thinking about what Sam had said, then pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse.
“You mind?” she asked.
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t mind smokers, just like I don’t mind all-male clubs. If I don’t like it, I can go somewhere else.”
“Seems reasonable,” Caroline said, lighting up.
“Have you seen Shane yet?”
“No. I’m not looking for him, either.”
“You can see both of us on Thursday. I’m paired with him and Frank Naples in the first round.”
“I might have to catch that threesome. Naples is a hunk.”
Sam actually felt a slight pang of jealousy. He put his napkin on the table and stood up.
“Time to practice. Maybe we’ll see you Thursday.”
“Maybe,” she said. Then she returned to reading the newspaper in front of her.
*
Sam got to the range at 10:45 a.m. He was determined to really study the course today, not gawk at it. With all the commotion Monday, he had no idea what kind of score he could hav
e posted. He thought he could finish close to par if he kept his concentration and managed to make a few putts. On Monday, Dwight had constantly reminded him to aim a little higher and hit it a little softer with the putter. Maybe today he’d drop a few.
“No distractions today,” Dwight said on the first tee, as though reading his mind. “Keep the ball below the hole and inside the treeline, and you’ll do fine.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Old and fat,” Dwight said.
Sam teamed with Bellecourt, a tall, burly, black-haired man with large teeth and dark moles on his face and arms, against Cremmins and Cartwright in a best-ball match. Cremmins was a cocky young kid with a spiky haircut, wrap-around shades and one of those pretzel finishes to his swing where the club ended up behind his back, pointing all the way around to the target again. It would have put Sam in traction to swing that way, but it was obvious that kids like Cremmins were the new wave. Cartwright, by contrast, was an old-school practitioner of the controlled fade and positioning off the tee. He was rarely in trouble and relied on his short game to compete with the long bombers.
Sam played decently, but he was clearly the least skilled member of his group—and he hadn’t had time to listen to music that morning. The song that kept intruding into his thoughts was a mildly irritating commercial jingle he’d heard on the locker room TV while he was changing into his golf shoes. He tried humming “Georgia on My Mind” to cleanse his brain, but the jingle wouldn’t leave.
Dwight wasn’t doing well, either. His limp got worse on the front nine.
“Hamstring tightenin’ up,” Dwight said through clenched teeth as they walked up the steep 9th fairway.
“You want to put the bag down?” Sam asked. “I can carry it.”
“No, no, I’ll get through this. Don’t worry about me.”
Beyond the occasional sight of a private plane flying overhead or the sound of a train passing somewhere in the distance, there was never a hint of anything existing beyond the shrubbery-covered fences—except that, for Harmon Ashby, the outside world might have gotten inside the cloister just long enough to kill him.
There was no sign of Monday’s drama on the 12th green. The police tape was gone, the gallery was in its usual place in the grandstand behind the tee and up the hillside along the 11th fairway, and the grass where the message had been written looked almost unscathed. Augusta’s makeup magicians had figured out a way to hide the blemishes. Only the faintest discoloration was visible. CBS—at David Porter’s insistence—would find a way to filter their camera shots of the fairway so that the repair work would be invisible to the viewing audience.
Sam’s team lost $50 each in the best-ball match, but Bellecourt didn’t mind. He was like most pros Sam had met: all business on the course, but once the round was over, it was forgotten. Just another day at the office.
“Good luck this week,” Bellecourt said, shaking Sam’s hand after the round. “If you don’t do anything stupid, you could make the cut.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “That’s what my caddie thinks, too.”
“Listen to him. He’s the best thing you got goin’ for you.”
Dwight had barely been able to make it up the hill to the 18th green, and there was pain and concern etched into the soft folds of his face after the round. Sam didn’t want to risk losing him for the rest of the week.
“Let’s skip the practice round tomorrow, Dwight,” he said. “We’ll just do the Par 3 Contest in the afternoon.”
The Par 3 Contest had been a Masters tradition since 1960. It was played on the nine-hole par 3 course to the west of the short-game practice range, and behind the cabins. Players often had their wives or children caddie for them on the short course that wrapped around Ike’s Pond—named for the former president, who suggested creating it for fishing.
“You want to go another 18 tomorrow, I can make it,” Dwight said, but his sweating, pained face told Sam otherwise. He told Dwight to go home and get some rest, and took his own clubs back to the bag room.
He was looking forward to a hot shower and a beer. The temperature had again reached the 80s by the end of the round, and Sam felt drained. His knee was stiff and sore—for all the golf he’d played in the past year, he hadn’t played on a course as hilly as Augusta National. He thought about Al Barber and admired him even more. Somehow the old guy managed to get around this golf course in fewer shots than guys half his age.
Sam was about to enter the locker room when one of the Masters officials in a green jacket tapped him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Skarda? You’re wanted in the press building.”
“I am?” Sam said. “Why?”
“They’d like to interview you.”
Sam laughed and said, “Must be a slow news day.”
Chapter Ten
Sam walked with the club official down the hill from the clubhouse to the two-story media building, painted Masters green and hidden from view to the right of the first fairway by a row of tea olive trees.
Sam had worked as a volunteer security guard at the PGA Championship at Hazeltine, and knew that the other major tournaments—held at rotating sites—housed journalists in an air-conditioned tent the size of a football field, complete with carpeted floors laid over miles of computer, telephone, and video wiring.
The Masters, of course, was different. The permanent press building at Augusta National replaced an old Quonset hut in 1990. The new building had all the comforts of a luxury suite at a football stadium, combined with the amenities of a modern newsroom. The main press room looked like a concert hall: eight rows of work stations with enough seating for several hundred journalists and their computers, descending to a main floor dominated by a 20-foot-tall replica of the main Masters scoreboard. A half-dozen large-screen TVs were positioned around the walls, allowing reporters on deadline to keep up with every shot of the tournament. Reporters covered most golf tournaments anchored to their laptop computers in the press tent. At the Masters, they were even less likely to venture onto the course, because they were not allowed inside the ropes. With food, 60-inch TV screens, and air-conditioned comfort inside the press building, why fight with 40,000 spectators for sight lines?
The Masters official led Sam to the door of a separate interview room off to one side of the main press area. Clive Cartwright was just finishing up his interview with several dozen reporters looking for the second-day spin on Ashby’s death. A page stood near the rows of folding chairs, ready to pass a wireless microphone from one reporter to the next as they raised their hands to ask a question.
“…so, no, I don’t have a position on what Augusta National should do about its membership policies, to be perfectly honest,” Cartwright said in his crisp English accent. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, is it? I leave this matter in the good hands of the membership. I may have a green jacket, but I don’t have a vote. Incidentally, we have men-only clubs in the U.K., you know. Muirfield, for one. I’d wager some of you have played there? Well, cheerio, ladies and gents.”
Cartwright popped out of his chair, unclipped his collar mic and exited the room, having put the reporters on the defensive and then leaving before they could actually make him say something of substance.
Sam slid into the chair Cartwright had just occupied and pulled a chilled bottle of Mountain Spring Water—with the Masters logo on the label—from a cooler next to the table. He opened the bottle and took a drink while a page attached the mic to his shirt. He was uncomfortable staring at the faces before him—mostly middle-aged men representing the largest newspapers, magazines, TV stations, and networks in the country and around the world. As a cop he’d been interviewed many times by local newspaper and TV reporters, but there had rarely been more than two or three reporters present, and they were usually in a hurry to get back to their newsrooms. This was going to be different.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sam Skarda,” said a man in a green jacket who was in charge of the interview room. “Sam is the reigning U.S. Public Links champion. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. How old are you, Sam?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“You’re one of the older players to win the Publinx recently, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I think the college kids all felt sorry for me,” Sam said. “I was giving up 40 yards off the tee to some of them. I’ll feel right at home here this week.”
A few of the reporters laughed, but none jumped in with a question.
“Are you married? Have any kids?” the moderator asked.
“No,” Sam said.
“Who’s got a question?” the moderator asked the room.
Sam stared straight ahead, noticing the TV camera that was taping his interview. After a few awkward moments of silence, a thin man with a round pot belly and a New York accent asked the page for the microphone.
“Sam, now that you played a couple of practice rounds, what are your impressions of Augusta National?” the reporter asked, pressing down the record button on his tape recorder.
“Well, I made a few impressions on the pine trees to the right of the 5th hole this morning,” he said, drawing a few laughs. “It’s a spectacular place.”
“Did you play college golf?” one of the reporters asked.
“Yes—Dartmouth College. I usually played third or fourth spot. But you know Ivy League golf—it’s like Ivy squash, without all the glamour.”
“Weren’t you and Shane Rockingham teammates there?”
“Yes. Amazingly enough, we never made it to the NCAA tournament. I blame myself.”
“According to the press guide, you haven’t won any other significant amateur tournaments,” a reporter said.
“They have managed to elude me,” Sam said. “That’s because I haven’t played in any of them.”
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