Amen Corner

by Rick Shefchik

  The sun was nearing the tops of the magnolias to the west of the range when Wheeling finally called it quits—the last one left. He handed his pitching wedge to Bluejay, his Augusta National caddie; Bluejay was not happy that he’d drawn a player who couldn’t accept prize money, and yet practiced more than Vijay Singh. He cleaned the wedge with a towel, put it into the bag, and started walking down the path toward the clubhouse with Wheeling. Doggett got up from his seat in the grandstand and caught up with them at the roped-off path to the locker room. He put on a pair of sunglasses and the bucket hat he had folded up in his pocket. He didn’t want Wheeling to be able to describe him, if it came to that.

  “Hey, Mr. Wheeling,” he said. Wheeling turned around to face him.

  “Yeah?”

  “I like the way you hit the ball,” Doggett said.

  “I don’t,” Wheeling said, with an expression on his face that said he’d like to toss his clubs under a car.

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  “Why would you want it?” Wheeling asked. “I shot 78 today. I missed the cut.”

  “It’s for my kid,” Doggett said.

  “Well…sure,” Wheeling said. “Bluejay, you can take the clubs back to the bag room. I’ll settle up with you there.”

  “Anything you say,” said the weary caddie, who’d been at the club since 7 a.m.

  “Make it out to, uh…to Laverne,” Doggett said, handing Wheeling the pairing sheet and a pen as Bluejay walked away.

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yeah. She loves golf. L-A-V-E-R-N-E. How about that Skarda fella? Is he around?”

  “He’s still on the course.”

  “You guys hang out together? I mean, the amateurs? You, like, eat together and all that?”

  “Not tonight,” Wheeling said, handing the pairing sheet back to Doggett. “I’m leaving tonight. Time to go home.”

  “What about Skarda?”

  “I think he’s staying through Sunday.”

  “I’d like to get the guy’s autograph.”

  “He’ll be around. Look, I have to go pay my caddie. See you later.”

  Doggett checked his watch. It was four hours since Skarda had teed off. He should be finishing soon. Doggett walked around the clubhouse to the 18th green to wait.

  The biggest names had finished their rounds, and the crowds were beginning to thin out. Doggett had found a place along the roped-off path from the 18th green to the scorer’s hut when Sam and Caroline came off the course, following Naples and their caddies. He glanced at the sign held aloft by a man walking behind them: Skarda was 9 over par for the tournament. That wouldn’t make the cut; even Doggett knew that. But Skarda seemed happy, and so did his caddie, whom Doggett immediately recognized from the news.

  “Nice round, Sam!” some fans shouted as the golfer walked past them.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching out to slap a couple of extended palms.

  “Seventy-three is a good score here anytime,” Naples turned to say to Sam, patting him on the back.

  “I’ll take it,” Sam said.

  Sam stopped outside the scorer’s hut and told Caroline he’d meet her back at the clubhouse for dinner. He’d make a reservation for a table on the porch. She could take his car.

  Doggett heard every word, and saw her give him a pat on the shoulder, then run her hand affectionately down his arm. So they could be more than just player and caddie. He might have to deal with Skarda, too.

  Caroline and the other caddie walked past the hut and down the hill to the bag room. A few reporters called to her by name as she walked past the oak tree at the corner of the clubhouse, but she never turned her head. Doggett drifted along behind her after she dropped Sam’s clubs with the bag-room attendant and continued on to the caddie building. About 10 minutes later she emerged wearing shorts and polo shirt, with a travel bag in her hand. She walked past the tournament headquarters building and up the service road to the players’ parking lot. Doggett waited behind the ropes in the clubhouse driveway until he saw Caroline come back down the road in a white Cadillac STS. She followed the driveway up to the clubhouse and Magnolia Lane. As she drove past, Doggett wrote down the car’s license number: BGH398.

  Doggett had what he needed. Time to leave. The gates closed 30 minutes after the last group finished, and Doggett didn’t want to get hassled by the Securitas guards, along with the other stragglers who’d had too much beer and didn’t know when to call it a day.

  He had plenty of time to drive his truck around to Washington Road, opposite the main gates—and wait for Caroline Rockingham to return.

  *

  Caroline could have showered and changed into some decent evening clothes at the caddie building, but there wasn’t a specific women’s shower in the building, and she didn’t feel like changing in the bathroom while the other caddies lounged around the common room drinking beer, playing cards, and gossiping about the pros. At this time of night, it wouldn’t take her that long to get back to the hotel, shower, change clothes, and meet Sam back at the clubhouse.

  She never noticed the man who wrote down her license number as she drove the courtesy car out of the players’ parking lot and up the driveway to Magnolia Lane, nor did she notice the same man parked at the hospitality house directly across Washington Road from the National’s main gate when she returned an hour and a half later.

  “You look great,” Sam said, when they met in the main lobby of the clubhouse. Her dark hair was pulled back in a French twist, and she wore a pair of turquoise and silver earrings, nicely complementing her simple white skirt and black sleeveless sweater.

  “At least the shower in my room works,” she said.

  They walked up the winding stairway to the Library—the preferred dining room among Augusta National members and guests. The room featured wooden shelves lined with valuable old golf books, glass cabinets filled with mementos from the lives of Bobby Jones, Clifford Roberts and Dwight Eisenhower, and plaques commemorating members’ accomplishments on the course. A waiter led them outside to a table on the porch overlooking the course. As they walked through the small dining area, several of the green-coated members, some dining with their wives, looked up and watched Caroline, almost as though they knew her.

  The table on the porch was perfect, with a view through the branches of the old oak tree to the 18th fairway, where a row of seven triplex mowers, headlights gleaming ahead of them, was cutting the grass in a diagonal formation. They’d be done soon, leaving a breathtaking view of the empty golf paradise bathed in moonlight.

  They’d just opened their menus when Robert Brisbane came onto the porch and walked over to their table.

  “Hello, Sam,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Hello, Robert,” Sam said, standing up.

  “Hello, Caroline,” Brisbane said, shaking her hand. “Have you heard anything from Shane since yesterday?”

  “No. He didn’t call last night. Maybe he’s gone back to Tucson to trash our house.”

  “I’m sorry we had to disqualify him.”

  “Well, he’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”

  “Mind if I sit down for a minute?” Brisbane said.

  “Please do,” Caroline said.

  Brisbane had a neatly groomed yet weathered look; he appeared to spend just enough time in the sun to avoid the boardroom pallor of many of the Augusta members, but not enough time to come off as a member of the idle rich.

  “Nice round today,” Brisbane said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Any progress on finding our intruder?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” Sam said. “I’m going in a couple of directions. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “David tells me the police have finished questioning all our employees, and all the members wh
o are here this week,” Brisbane said, sliding a butter knife back and forth on the white tablecloth. “They don’t have anything yet.”

  “Where’s Ralph Stanwick tonight?” Sam said.

  “He told me he had a talk with Peggy Francis—and with David. He’ll be staying home tonight with Lorraine.”

  “Isn’t that what he always says?”

  “If it will make you feel better, I’ll drop by the Firestone Cabin after dinner. Ralph and I need to talk, anyway.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Sam said. “Whoever the killer is, I don’t think he’s finished.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Brisbane said. “I’ve been watching Caroline on TV all day.”

  “The interview yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Brisbane said. “I saw it on NBC, CNN, Fox, and the Golf Channel. I’m sure all the networks played it at some point.”

  “Sorry,” Caroline said, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse. “I didn’t know every reporter in town was going to jump me. I was just talking to that guy from the L.A. Times, Russ Daly. Then they all surrounded me.”

  “They tend to do that,” Brisbane said.

  “But I’m not backing off what I said,” Caroline said, after lighting and exhaling. “You ought to admit a woman member.”

  “Many of us agree with you.”

  “You might have put a target on your back,” Sam said to Caroline. “Another critic of the club.”

  “That’s what worried me when I saw your interview,” Brisbane said. “But let’s not panic. I just wanted to make sure you were taking precautions. We can’t have another death. Especially not someone as important to us as Caroline.”

  She smiled gratefully at Brisbane, but felt a cold chill run through her. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that the killer could be watching her.

  “Where are you staying?” Brisbane asked her.

  “At the Southwinds Inn, a few miles from here,” she said.

  “I’ll drive you over there tonight,” Sam said. “And I’m staying with you.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” Caroline said.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Brisbane said.

  “I really don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “You can drive me back to the room. I’ll be fine from there.”

  Sam decided not to press the issue now. Once he got to her hotel, he’d look the place over to see how safe it was. If he wasn’t satisfied, he’d sleep in the hall outside her door, if he had to.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  No one came out from the party at the hospitality house to tell Doggett he couldn’t park his truck there. He was able to sit and watch each car that exited from Magnolia Lane onto Washington Road.

  He turned the key in the ignition when he saw a white Cadillac exit the grounds, but the driver didn’t look like either Caroline or Skarda. He managed to catch a look at the license plate, but it wasn’t the one he was looking for. A few minutes later, another white Cadillac exited the club, and then another. Shit—they gave all the pros identical courtesy cars. He’d need to be very careful about reading each license plate, or he’d miss her.

  A little after nine, one of the courtesy cars emerged from the driveway and turned left onto Washington Road. A man was driving, with a woman in the passenger seat. He couldn’t tell if it was Skarda and his caddie through the tinted window, but the license plate was the one he was looking for: BGH398. It must be them.

  Doggett put his truck into gear and pulled out onto Washington Road, staying just close enough to the Cadillac to keep it in sight. He assumed they were going to Caroline Rockingham’s motel. Maybe Skarda would stay with her tonight, which would cause problems—though it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He could kill two of them almost as easily as one. It made no difference to him, except that it would mess up the story line. If the public believed someone from the club was killing its political enemies, they’d buy Caroline’s killing, too. But Skarda? Doggett couldn’t recall hearing Skarda say anything about admitting women to the club. Killing the club’s critics was one thing, but would anyone believe a club member would murder a player?

  Then again, Skarda was the one who’d brought her to the club, who’d let her shoot her mouth off about women members. Someone at the club might be pissed off at him. Or maybe the spin would be even simpler: Skarda died trying to save his caddie—his lover. Yes, that could work. Either way, killing them both might be the end of it. They’d almost have to call off the tournament. Augusta National’s reputation would never recover. Then he could kill dear old Dad.

  Now that he’d found Caroline, he had to develop a strategy. He had to find out what room she was in. He had to slip past the front desk and somehow get inside her room—preferably after Skarda had left. Then it would be a simple matter of overpowering her and cutting her throat.

  The Cadillac was holding steady at 40 miles an hour on Washington, heading west. Doggett found it easy to stay a half block behind them. If they made a turn, he’d have no problem exiting with them. He turned on the radio, wondering whether he was still the lead story.

  “…Richmond County police and state investigators are thought to be focusing their investigation on someone with connections to Augusta National, though they would not say if there was a suspect. Mark Boyce of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation told reporters late this afternoon that all evidence points to one killer, with a political motivation. Each victim has been an open advocate for a change in the club’s membership policies…”

  *

  “Did you hear that?” Caroline asked Sam, who had turned on the radio when they got into the car.

  She now wished she had kept walking, instead of stopping to talk to Daly and the other reporters. But she was being paranoid, she told herself as she lowered the passenger side window and lit another cigarette. Nothing was going to happen. No one knew where she was staying.

  “Yeah, I heard it,” Sam said, turning up the volume on the news station.

  “It’s creeping me out.”

  “You shouldn’t have talked to those reporters.”

  “I know. I made a mistake. Let’s drop it.”

  Sam wasn’t in the mood for music, so he left the radio on. Rachel Drucker and the WOFF were calling for the cancellation of the tournament, out of respect for the deaths of Ashby, Scanlon, and Milligan. As many as 3,000 protesters were expected to gather on Washington Road Saturday to condemn Augusta National. Sergio Garcia and Phil Mickelson were leading at the halfway point, seven under par. Fair skies and highs in the low 80s forecast for Saturday.

  It was all so incongruous. The ideal Masters combination—beautiful weather, great scenery, outstanding golf—was locked in a death struggle with some madman.

  Knowing that Brisbane would be hanging out with the Stanwicks in their cabin eased his mind a little. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Caroline had replaced the name on the back of her caddie suit with a big red target. He was going to stay with her tonight, no matter what she said.

  The Southwinds Inn parking lot was full when they arrived at about 9:30. Sam circled the lot, finally finding a parking space on the opposite side of the motel from Caroline’s room.

  There was a gentle breeze in the air as they walked across the parking lot. Sam noticed a truck with a loud engine pull into the lot as they neared the lobby doors. Good luck finding a spot, buddy, he thought. This motel is jammed. This whole town is jammed.

  They walked past the front desk and took a left down a hallway with brownish-maroon patterned carpet—the kind intended to disguise the spills and stains made by drunken tourists and their messy children; the kind that always looked dingy, no matter how new the motel. They went up the stairs to the second floor, turned left, and walked almost halfway down the hall. Caroline’s room was abo
ut 15 feet from the Coke and ice machines, which both gave off a persistent electric hum.

  “Does that noise bother you?” Sam asked, pointing to the machines.

  “I can’t hear it over my air conditioner,” Caroline said. “Five hundred bucks a night doesn’t get you much in this town.”

  She inserted her plastic key in the slot and opened the door to her room, and Sam immediately knew what she meant. The rattle of the air conditioner was instantly irritating.

  *

  As soon as Doggett saw Skarda and Caroline walk into the motel, he parked the truck just beyond sight of the front desk, blocking in two other parked cars, and walked quickly into the lobby. He carried the hunting knife in his gym bag.

  The lobby was empty except for the clerk at the front desk. Doggett ignored him and walked straight through to the first-floor hallway, looking each way. At the end of the hallway to the left, he saw Skarda and Caroline turning right and walking up the stairs.

  He walked quickly down the hall and up the stairs, opening the fire door at the top of the stairs and peering around it. They were halfway down the hall, stopped in front of a room on the left, with a Coke machine and an ice machine across the hall from the room. As soon as they entered, Doggett hurried down the hall to check the door they’d entered: Room 245.

  He wondered what Skarda was going to do. He hadn’t brought a bag in with him, so it didn’t look like he was planning to stay. He would watch the door for a while to see if Skarda left. There was no reason to kill him if he didn’t have to. Besides, Skarda looked like he was in good shape. It would be easier just to do the girl.