“And the consequences?” I asked, racking my memory for a similar story.
“Grounded for a month, plus we had to pick up litter in the parking lot before the store reopened.”
I had no similar story, nothing to compete, anyway. Much of the hilarity of my life had taken place at my driving range. I supposed some people don’t find their real sense of humor until they find their niche, and this had been the case for me.
The restaurant’s back deck overlooked the Intracoastal Waterway, and we made our way out there after dinner. Moonlight by itself would have been enough, but tonight we had moonlight, starlight, slow-moving waters, and the chill of autumn—a great spot for a first kiss.
Brief but enjoyable, she called it. “And perfectly timed,” she added a few seconds later. At the railing we watched a pair of sailboats lower their sails and drift by in the waterway.
Molly nudged her foot against mine and said, “Chris, tomorrow I think we should—”
“Should what?” I wondered what kind of lovey-dovey thoughts had invaded her mind.
She peered out at the moonlight’s watery shimmer. “Tomorrow I think we should check with the Democrats at noon, the Republicans around two or three, and collect any and all completed questionnaires.”
Ah, yes . . . romance.
23
LESSON FOR TODAY
The game, like a new relationship, does not so much mold character as it does expose character (and on occasion, intelligence).
Already penmanship excited us. Even before the receptionist at Democratic headquarters handed Molly the stack of completed questionnaires—and a six-inch stack of pamphlets to distribute at our leisure—I anticipated the analysis of many variations of the letter B. What I did not, or could not, anticipate was the diversity of opinion on who held the status of fifteenth president of the United States.
Stack in hand, we rushed through hordes of Saturday volunteers and hurried to my truck. Ten minutes later I was Christopher Hammond again, and Molly, Mildred C., exchanging smiles and pleasantries with overconfident Republicans.
The smiling man seated at the information desk said, “So you’re the two offering the golf club giveaway. What kind of clubs?”
“A set of Nike irons,” I gushed. “They’re brand new.” I had stored the clubs in my closet, having acquired them from a sales rep during a summer demo day at my range.
“Well then,” he said, motioning to the entries, “I just might win because I’ve had all the presidents memorized since fifth grade.”
Molly congratulated him on his knowledge, and I considered offering him a gold star, but I kept my mouth shut and accepted the return of my one-question questionnaires. Then we rushed out to my truck, drove to a neighborhood bagel shop, found a corner booth, and went about the task of discovering the guilty party.
We began with the Democratic stack of questionnaires and read through them quickly. Molly peeled them from the stack one by one, muttering, “wow,” “shocking,” and “imbecile,” as we studied each page.
James Buchanan
Calvin James Coolidge
Jefferson Buchanan
Ulysses F. Grant
James E. Buchanan
F. Scott Fitzgerald
William Jefferson Buchanan
James Buchanan
Thomas Filmore Buchanan
Hillary Rodham Rushmore
James G. Buchanan
Dishonest Abe
James “No WMDs” Buchanan
Herbert Ike Buchanan
Buchanan Jefferson Hoover
Teddy Roosevelt
James “Antiwar” Buchanan
From the stack we found four entries whose handwriting employed long tails on the letter B. Three of them were from males, one from a female. I set these four aside, and Molly began sifting through the Republican stack.
“Not much better,” she said and passed these one at a time into my waiting hands.
James G. Buchanan
Abraham Lincoln
James K. Buchanan
Stonewall Jackson
Boris Yeltsin
James “Rush” Buchanan
Richard Millhouse Buchanan
James “I Luv Red States” Buchanan
Abe
Not Dubya
J. Pro-life Buchanan
William Henry Harrison
James Buchanan
James Taylor
Jesse James
Republican handwriting also displayed, in three instances, a long tail on the B. Two from men, one from a woman.
Mass confusion set in. Four Democrats, three Republicans—this was not supposed to be a close race. Exit polls had shown the battleground signatures of the Democrats winning in a landslide. But now the total suspects numbered seven.
Molly studied each one, arranged them in order of gender. I rearranged them in order of suspicion. Then I rearranged them again according to size of signature. Then I remembered the arson investigator felt sure the spray painter was male, so I set aside the two female suspects and flipped twice more through the males.
“You feel positive it’s a man?” Molly asked.
“Yep. I do.”
Our next move seemed obvious: I would call each one, thank them for their hard work on the campaign, and casually ask what they were doing on the night of September 23.
But first I called the arson investigator and asked for another update.
At the sound of my voice, Jonathan sighed. “Chris, this may sound out of left field, but it might be good to get away from this altogether for a few days. Why don’t you concentrate on rebuilding your business, use that effort to keep yourself occupied.”
I didn’t tell him that I was already occupied with deciphering the penmanship of lefties and righties. All I did was thank him and promise not to bother him again until he called with his next update.
Before I could hang up, however, he said, “Chris, I need you to answer something for me.”
“Um . . . sure.”
“You and Molly aren’t trying to solve this case yourselves, are you?”
A pause, a cough, a longer pause. “What makes you think that?”
“My secretary said someone called in yesterday asking if there were any books she could recommend on deciphering male handwriting. That wouldn’t be a phone call that you—”
My first instinct was to tell a little white golfer lie. But my second instinct was a reminder that this man was on my side. “Okay, sir, Molly and I had this idea. But you should know that we’ve whittled the suspects down to just five men. Three Democrats and two Republicans. All of them local campaign volunteers. I got their signatures, and each one puts a long tail on the letter B.”
From my cell phone I heard laughter. Then a snort and more laughter. “You really should get away from this, Chris. Get a part-time job, anything at all.”
“Why? You don’t want us to check the alibis of these suspects?”
“It’s highly unlikely that the arsonist would be working the very next week as a local campaign volunteer. Even if a political party is connected to this, the perpetrator would likely be an operative, someone paid off with a bag of money and told to disguise his work so it would look like either party could have done it.”
Embarrassed by my feeble efforts, I said good-bye to Jonathan, shut my phone, and spun it on the table in mock frustration. “He says I should stick to rebuilding the business.”
Molly thought hard on this suggestion. “Maybe God is shouting at you not to get involved in crime solving.”
I gulped a pint of pride and tore my questionnaires in half. Molly shrugged and said she was glad she no longer had to think up names like Cusackski.
She then plucked my cell phone from the table and opened it. She pressed a couple buttons and said, “Hmmm, looks like you’ve made four calls to the investigator this week, but only two calls to me. Bad ratio, Golf Man. Tsk Tsk.”
Her ability to amuse me was unequaled. I told her this and rea
ched for her hand and helped her from the booth. “Since we’re already in jeans, wanna go scope another piece of land?”
“As long as there’s no snakes.”
Molly was not only helpful, but understanding. We left my truck parked along a frontage road next to Highway 17 in Mt. Pleasant, and for long minutes we stood scanning the parcel, shielding our eyes from the glare and admiring rich soil that looked like it would host well the grass seed I could sprinkle into it.
I pointed to the east end and then to the west. “How’s it look to you, Mol?”
She wasn’t the type to just agree with anything a man said, and she did not fudge her answer. “Looks like barren ground to me, except for those ugly bushes on the far side. How does it look like to you? You’re the range expert.”
“Looks flat enough, and possibly long enough.”
She moved closer, picked up a stick, and swung it in slow motion. “And just where would I get my private golf lessons?”
With the heel of my shoe I carved a large M in the dirt. “Right here?”
She inspected the spot and then used her own heel to carve a big NPA a few feet to the side.
“What is that for?”
“This is where your sign goes that reads ‘No Politics Allowed.’”
I shook my head at the memory. “Lesson learned.”
For twenty minutes we walked the width and breadth of the land, Molly gushing that this was great exercise, never mind the occasional ant mound.
I noted that the afternoon sun shone from behind the future hitting area, a big plus. Always one to double-check details, I tromped the breadth one more time, trying to fit a golf shop, thirty-six hitting mats, a practice putting green, and a maintenance shed onto the property.
I wondered if Molly had already grown bored, but as I walked back in her direction over all that red dirt, she waved and shouted, “I know what you’re thinking, Chris! I can see your mind turning from here.”
I smiled and held my tongue until I was within a few yards of her. “Okay, what am I thinking? Tell me.”
She made a kind of beginner’s golf swing. “You’re picturing slicers slicing, hackers hacking, and duffers duffing. Right?” She looked almost as giddy as she did confident. “Am I right?”
The woman rendered me defenseless. “How in the world did you guess that?”
“I was just trying to put myself in a golf teacher’s shoes.” She motioned to the real estate sign posted just this side of the frontage road. “Want me to call the number and ask how much?”
The sign was huge and read FOR LEASE. I stared at it for a moment, trying to guesstimate both a leasing price and a sales price. “Thanks,” I said, “but I should probably make the call myself.”
I noted the phone number on the sign, pressed the appropriate digits on my cell, and in seconds found myself speaking to the manager of the leasing company.
“Oh, that’s prime property,” she said after I told her where I was standing.
“Somehow I expected you to say that.”
Next she recited her credentials: member of board of Realtors, graduate of an appraisal institute, top sales person for eight straight years. I figured she was just bragging a bit, but perhaps her motives lay in the realm of softening the blow. They wanted $5,500 per month for leasing the land, with two months’ deposit up front, plus they retained a sixty-day notice should some developer want to buy the land outright. In comparison, Mr. Vignatti had leased his land to me for $1,950 per month, a deal that I didn’t fully appreciate until this moment.
With great trepidation I asked the buyout price of the property. With no trepidation at all, the Realtor said, “Two point four million, sir.”
I thanked her and ended the call. For a minute I just kicked the red dirt, as if to punish it for being so costly. Then I turned and noted the sheer size of the sign. It stood more than ten feet tall and at least that wide; this alone should have been warning enough. The land had looked so right, though. Three hundred forty yards deep by four hundred ten yards wide.
In a fleeting fit of frustration I picked up a rock—about the size of a golf ball, which seemed appropriate—and hurled it at the unpainted back of the sign. It bounced off a post, however, and ricocheted back into my right big toe, protected only by the old sneaker I’d worn to walk the land. Even with my shoe on, the impact stung.
Molly suppressed a laugh as I hopped on my left leg, and it was then that her cell rang. Her glance at the caller ID told me this was probably business. Her frown confirmed just that.
Interesting how one can tell the nature of a call from mere observation: The person you’re with turns partially away, head tilted down, her free hand cupping the phone, lots of nods accompanying each recitation of “Yes, boss, I understand.”
Twice Molly looked over and frowned with sympathy—she even stomped her foot on the ground before she ended the call.
I leaned against the side of my truck, waiting for her to speak. She walked straight up to me, stuffed her phone in her pocket, and clasped both of my hands in hers. “Chris, they want me on a plane to Richmond in two hours. I have to cover a debate.”
Though disappointed at the news, I was moved by the gesture. She could have just said it; she didn’t have to come over and say it with such feeling.
I probably should have shown some affection and hugged her, but instead I embraced maledom and employed logic. “But I thought they gave you three days?”
She squeezed my hands. “It’s election year. Sorry, I have to do what they ask.”
I still wasn’t ready to give up. “But—but I was gonna take you out in my johnboat and show you the pelicans.”
“I’m really sorry, Chris.” With her head she motioned to the highway. “Want to follow me to the airport, say good-bye there?”
First I drove her to her hotel and waited in the lobby while she grabbed her suitcase and checked out. In the parking lot I agreed to follow her and meet up at the United ticket counter. She tossed her luggage into her rental car, and we sped for the airport.
I parked on the first floor of a parking deck and walked toward the terminal, where the sound of jets ascending and descending made me yearn to take a trip myself. Possibly to DC. And possibly in the near future.
Inside the terminal, Molly bought her ticket and joined me beside some fake potted plants, directly across from the escalators. I handed her a golf ball on which I had written in red Sharpie Vote for Golf Man.
She smiled and tucked it into her purse. “I had a blast,” she said.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Our parting hug lasted longer than our parting kiss, though both were enjoyable. Then she pulled her luggage onto the escalator and rode it backward, facing me.
I waved.
Ten feet above me and rising, she waved back. Then she said, “I keep thinking about that sod you dug up.”
“No hidden clues there,” I replied with upturned face. “Just a few yards of sod with gas poured on it.”
Now twenty feet above me, she looked down over the metal steps and said, “Hmmm. Interesting.”
24
LESSON FOR TODAY
In golf (and dating), being aggressive at the wrong time can lead to disaster. But woe unto competition if one is aggressive at the proper time.
My mailbox lying in the gutter offered the first clue that something was wrong in suburbia. I had just returned home from the airport, and had ended a cell call to Cack about where we should relocate the business.
In a generally good mood—I knew I’d see Molly again soon and felt confident that Cack and I could find the right piece of land—I eased into the first few feet of driveway and craned my neck to look down at the fallen mailbox. Probably just kids whopping boxes with a baseball bat. A minor inconvenience, at most. Nothing to ruin my day.
Then I looked across my yard at my house and saw familiar words, huge and blue: “Biased Loser” spray painted on the vinyl siding to the left of my front door. I stopped and b
acked up my truck for a wider view, scanning windows to see if someone was inside. Nothing moved.
My heart raced. My breath quickened. To call authorities or not to call. What if he’s still here? Urgency pressed upon me, and I searched the floorboard of my truck for any kind of weapon. In the backseat lay the only weaponry I possessed—my golf clubs.
I chose the 4-iron.
Out of the truck, I stepped softly through my front yard. Strange, sneaking up on your own home. Some forty feet from the front steps, I cringed when the muffled ring of my cell phone sounded from deep in my pants pocket.
I ducked behind a holly bush and pulled the phone out.
“Chris, where are you?” the voice asked. It was Jonathan, the arson investigator.
I kept my voice low. “I just arrived at my house. Looks like whoever set fire to my range just paid a visit to my neighborhood.”
“Are you in your house?!” he demanded, his tone frantic.
“No, I just got here. I’m behind a bush in the front yard.”
“Did you just leave the airport?”
“About an hour ago, yes . . . but how’d you know that?”
“Your girlfriend called me from the terminal. She had an idea, and it led me to one of your competitors.”
“But how did she—”
“Stay put. Better yet, lock yourself in your truck. Police are on the way.”
Sirens sounded from down my street. I retreated to my truck and saw blue lights flashing from a block away—two patrol cars, closing fast. I spun around to look again at my house and saw a tall guy in jeans run out the side door. He sprinted across my deck toward the backyard fence, dropping a spray can as he fled.
He’ll get away. And that cannot happen.
I ran up my driveway, toting my 4-iron like a war club. I had no idea if I’d hurl the club at the guy or just threaten him with it. On the other hand, I had no idea if he had a knife, or a gun, or nothing at all. Sirens grew loud behind me. Cops in my driveway. I passed the right side of my house and ran onto a lawn that had never, to my knowledge, hosted a foot chase. Tires skidded just behind me, and before I knew it—I was not even across my backyard yet—a strong hand tugged my shirt collar.
Par for the Course Page 17