The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  FINDING NO PRESS outside the hotel was an immediate relief. We walked through the lobby and took the large wood-paneled elevator up to the fourth floor. I changed into a fresh shirt, khakis, and a navy blazer. Within thirty minutes we were parked in front of a one story red brick house with a manicured lawn on Shirley Drive. Nothing distinguished Ben’s home from the red brick homes on either side except his had a porch and a porch swing. Well, one other thing: plywood covered two of his front windows.

  We pulled into the driveway, and Ben opened the front door almost before we got out of the car. He was wearing a dark grey suit, striped tie, and his shoes had been polished. I was glad Clovis had suggested a sports coat; clearly Ben considered us special company. He showed us into his living room, and I offered him a bottle of cabernet that Clovis had picked up at my request.

  “Thank you,” he responded, “but you shouldn’t have.” He verified the usual bromide by opening a closet door in the entry hall that revealed shelves full of wine and bottle after bottle of every kind of liquor you could imagine. My jaw dropped when I saw the quantity and quality of his liquor stash.

  Ben laughed. “Business friends and suppliers show up every Christmas with a bottle or two to honor the season. Linda makes me keep it all out of sight. She used to worry Preacher Barnes might drop by unannounced, but not so much anymore. Someday she’s gonna make me clean it all out. Maybe we’ll have a big party, invite everyone we know, and drink it all.”

  He waved us into the living room and filled glasses with ice, followed by a healthy shot of bourbon in each. I sank into a well-used armchair, looking around the room with interest. Family photos, mementos, and knick-knacks filled the walls and shelves; needlepoint pillows nestled in the corners of the sofas and chairs. It was a very comfortable room, full of family memories.

  Ben handed us each a glass and raised his in a toast.

  “Welcome to my home, gentlemen. Drink up.”

  We raised our glasses, and I took a sip—oh my God, I’d never tasted better. I let out an appreciative sigh. I could tell Ben was pleased with my spontaneous reaction.

  I had to ask, “What are we drinking?”

  Ben’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I did a man a favor a while back. He showed up last Christmas with a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 20 Year. Linda knows it’s expensive and knows better than to pour it on her fruitcakes, but doesn’t have a clue what it costs. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

  I couldn’t believe we were the special occasion, but enjoyed the honor. He shook off our thanks.

  “Jack, I know we have business, but let’s save it for after dinner. Linda wants to be part of that discussion, and right now she and her friends are fixing dinner. Tell me about that daughter of yours.”

  Ben had met my daughter, Beth, when we were in Little Rock for the Cole case. I told him she and her significant other, Jeff Fields, were living in St. Louis. Jeff was completing his internship at Barnes Hospital and Beth was working on her Master’s in Social Work at Washington University. I expressed my frustration that they still weren’t engaged, but acknowledged that conventions change with the times, and that they didn’t need my permission.

  I knew I’d stepped in it almost the minute I said it. Clovis cleared his throat, and Ben took a healthier sip of his drink, but nothing more was said. We spent the next half hour talking sports: the Razorbacks’ upset of Auburn the first game of the season, my Stafford State Cardinals’ chances in basketball, and Ben’s excitement over the upcoming deer season.

  A woman I didn’t recognize marched in from the kitchen and announced that dinner was ready. I’d met Linda several times at the restaurant. She was short, slight of build, and wore her graying hair short. This woman was at least five foot ten, her long black hair held back with several rhinestone barrettes. She looked to be around forty years old or so and was dressed in a long, flowery dress and heels. Large gold hoop earrings shaped her face.

  The mystery was solved when Ben pulled out her chair at the dinner table and introduced us to Jasmine White, a neighbor and close friend of Linda’s. There were only four chairs at the table. Ben forestalled the obvious question, saying that Linda was in the kitchen supervising dinner.

  “She’ll join us later,” he said, as if the seating arrangement were an everyday occurrence. Before I knew it, Ben had said grace and the door to the kitchen swung open.

  Three women came into the room with platters and bowls piled high with crappie, hushpuppies, potato salad, collard greens, fried okra, and lima beans. A fourth woman came in with a chilled bottle of white wine for Clovis, Jasmine, and me. Ben continued to sip on his bourbon. The crappie was cooked to perfection, and the vegetables must have been fresh from someone’s garden.

  I have to say Jasmine acted the perfect hostess, engaging Clovis and me in conversation about current events, our childhoods, and our favorite vacation spots. Ben ate little, but encouraged Clovis and me to have our fill. It was hard to stop because as soon as we finished one helping, one of Linda’s watchful friends would appear to pass around a new platter.

  On her third round I begged, “Please, I can’t eat another bite. I really can’t—I might explode.”

  The friend holding the serving spoon looked disappointed, but backed away. Clovis tried to suppress a relieved sigh.

  Jasmine asked, “Would anyone like coffee with dessert?”

  We all declined. On cue, a woman brought in a piping hot apple pie accompanied by a bowl of vanilla ice cream, impossible to resist.

  We didn’t see any sign of Linda until the table had been cleared. We all jumped up as she peered around the kitchen door, but she still didn’t join us. She looked to her husband and said, “Ben, why don’t you take our guests to your study; I need to thank Jasmine and my friends. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Clovis and I duly said good night to Jasmine, who didn’t seem at all annoyed to be excluded from the rest of the evening, and we followed Ben into a comfortable study off the living room. I declined a cigar, but accepted a brandy, as did Clovis, who had arranged for one of his men to drive us home.

  A big desk dominated the room’s center, and family pictures and mounted fish covered the walls. An iMac and a couple of unused legal pads sat on the credenza behind the desk.

  Ben sunk into the chair behind his desk, waving Clovis and me into aging, but still comfortable armchairs. We’d enjoyed no more than a single swallow when Ben sat up with a start and looked toward the door. “Okay, I need to explain before she gets here. I know you’re wondering about dinner. Linda got her way of doing things from her mama, and she just can’t let go. She likes to be in charge of her kitchen, and she doesn’t trust anyone else to cook for her guests. She and Jasmine worked this out between themselves, and I can’t complain. It’s her kitchen, and…” he whirled around in his chair as the door opened.

  “Linda, that was a mighty fine dinner. Come on in—I was just pouring after dinner drinks.” He rose and handed her a glass of bourbon, neat, no ice.

  She settled into a rocking chair in the corner and put the glass on an end table. After a single appreciative sip, she reached into the corner behind the chair and retrieved a lumpy quilted bag. From there she pulled out a large ball of yarn connected to a rather small piece of work-in-progress and began to knit. I wondered how long the bag had lain in the corner.

  She gave us a Yoda-like smile and said, “Now don’t mind me. I’m just going to listen for a while.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute, but I was ready to play the game. Who could complain after such hospitality?

  Ben cleared his throat. “Well…Jack, thank you for coming. After all these years, it’s an honor to have you grace our home. Clovis told me you had no idea Rochelle was married. Let’s not waste any time on apologies. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “What can I do to help?” I asked. His formal tone threw me—our conversations had always been in his restaurant or on the baseball field.

  “For
tonight, just listen to what I have to say and ask me anything you like. Tomorrow after church we’ll figure out what you can do. I want you to have time to digest what you hear.”

  I nodded, ready to learn if or how Ben and Linda’s daughter had become an international spy.

  6

  BEN LOOKED AT LINDA before he began as if to ask permission—an interesting dynamic. She carefully finished her row and then dropped her work into her lap, removed her glasses, and looked at Ben with a mixture of pain and strength, as if they shared a shameful secret they didn’t want to tell. She gave a slight sigh and nodded.

  He cleared his throat and spoke clearly, “I was so pleased when Rochelle got in touch with Angie. She told Linda that she felt like your house was a home away from home. Angie was always there for her, and Beth was the little sister she always wanted. Linda and I were so grateful. I’m sorry we never told you how much we appreciated your family welcoming our baby girl.

  “We also have two sons, Ben Jr. and Lee. Ben Jr. joined the Marines after graduating from Catholic High, did several tours in the Middle East, and now works for the U.S. Marshals Service in Tulsa. He’s yet to marry.

  “Lee works for the U.S. Forest Service, and his wife, Tina, is a special agent with the FBI Tina grew up in Oregon, so after they graduated from Arkansas they settled outside of Portland. Rochelle’s brothers and sister-in-law live in fear that someone will connect them to Rochelle, and that such a connection could cost them their careers.”

  I heard a mumble from Linda’s corner. “They should worry about their sister—not how it might affect them. Lee’s all worried about ‘poor Tina.’ Poor Tina needs to have babies and quit fretting so much about her precious career. Her career isn’t going anywhere out in Oregon, that’s for sure.”

  She never looked up from her knitting, and I could tell Ben didn’t appreciate her interruption.

  After a long pause Ben continued, “As you know, Rochelle was our first-born. She was popular at Central High, a good basketball player, and an excellent student. Headstrong, like most teenage girls, but never got in any real trouble. She helped out at the restaurant, helped Linda care for the boys, and never gave either of us cause to worry. She earned a Nalley scholarship to the University of Virginia, a full ride—could never have gone, otherwise.

  “Sure, she learned to party in Virginia, but she was active on campus and kept up her grades. But when she came home, she’d changed—didn’t want to help out at the restaurant, refused to go to church, wasn’t respectful of her mother. She wasn’t the same girl. I blame the school.”

  I remained quiet, but since my own daughter had recently graduated from Davidson College, I recognized her changed attitude as a sign of normal maturation and independence—cutting the apron strings, so to speak.

  Linda spoke up, not mumbling this time. “It had nothing to do with college. College may have filled her head with new ideas and made her independent, but we lost her the summer she graduated—when she went to New York and met Ira.”

  Ben continued, “She was a good student at Virginia. She stayed on campus during the summers working and taking classes, and graduated in four years. The summer after she graduated from UVA, she took a job with the Department of Justice in the Community Relations Service. They sent her to New York right off the bat.

  “She met her future husband, Ira Goodman, on a task force trying to ease tensions between the African-American and Jewish communities in Brooklyn.”

  I interrupted, “Am I right that Ira was a rabbi?”

  “Yes. He was also ten years older than Rochelle. She called at the end of the summer to say she was bringing someone home for us to meet. Let’s say he didn’t turn out to be quite the fellow I’d expected, and I wasn’t prepared to hear they were getting married. I will give him this: he was polite, respectful, and asked my permission. That was something.

  “I tried to talk about the obstacles they’d face, but my words fell on deaf ears. They weren’t worried one bit. But what am I saying, Jack? You and Angie faced some of the same obstacles.”

  My late wife, Angie, was African-American, and yes, early in our relationship we faced more than a few difficulties.

  “Angie’s parents weren’t excited about me, either, but we turned out okay,” I said, smiling.

  “Their reluctance had more to do with what happened at Stafford than the color of your skin, Jack,” Ben said.

  One particular night from hell was a distant memory that surfaced more often than I’d like to admit.

  “You’re right. Were Ira’s parents supportive?”

  “They were not. Linda and I didn’t care about his skin color, or the fact that he was ten years older, or that he was Jewish. It was so sudden, so out of character. We were trying to take it all in when she announced she was converting—our little Baptist girl had decided to become a Jew—and to top it off she was changing her name to Rachel. Don’t you know people talked when word got out! Preacher Barnes told Linda that Rochelle would go straight to Hell. I’m sure that man has got his own invitation waiting. It never felt right, but Linda and I stood proud and gave them our blessing.”

  “Sounds like you did the right thing. Did they get married in Little Rock? Did Ira’s parents come?”

  “No, they got married in a private ceremony in DC, witnessed by a few friends. His parents held out in their opposition to the marriage. They refused to take part, and so neither set of parents were invited. That’s probably why you didn’t know she was married; none of our family or friends were included. A private ceremony was their way of avoiding confrontation.”

  I felt for Linda, sure that she had dreamed of a different wedding for her daughter.

  “I don’t think I read there were any children?”

  “She told me she wanted to wait until they were both ‘secure professionally,’ whatever that meant,” Linda responded. “Their careers were more important than family. What is with young people these days? What’s wrong with having children?”

  Ben frowned and changed the subject. “Besides serving as a rabbi, Ira also worked for the Israeli government. Rochelle never said what he actually did for the Israelis, but it involved a lot of travel back and forth to Israel.”

  Linda couldn’t let the children issue go. “Every time they were here, I’d ask Rochelle when she would make me a grandmother. She always said I should ask Lee’s wife, Tina. She knew how to get my goat. But I knew she loved children. She was proud of what she called ‘her girls’ at the community center. She talked about taking them to see the Mystics play and about the time she organized a trip to the Holocaust museum for the older girls. For the life of me…”

  Ben raised his hand and interrupted, “Ira and I found we had one thing in common—he liked to fish. He and I would go fishing most every morning when they visited. He knew his way around a boat, and we relaxed—he grew on me. He also spent a lot of time at the synagogue with Rabbi Strauss. I never asked what they talked about; didn’t seem to be any of my business. Rochelle enjoyed spending time with her mother and a few school friends. Whenever I tried to bring up her work, she made it clear she couldn’t talk about what she did for the government. They seemed happy, and we enjoyed the little time we had together.”

  I asked, “Did they ever talk about his parents?”

  Linda answered, “Not really. His parents were not as accepting of Rochelle as we were of Ira. Sometimes they took the train to upstate New York for some family event, but Rochelle used to text me saying she couldn’t wait to get home.”

  Ben continued, “We were resigned to the fact that our daughter had chosen to lead a separate and different life and were grateful for the time we got to see her. I’ll never forget the day she called to say Ira was dead. He was killed at an open-air restaurant somewhere in Israel. A single rocket fired by Hamas killed our son-in-law and twenty other people. It was all over the news.

  “We offered to come to DC, but she said she was leaving for Israel the next day. She cal
led to let us know she was safe when she arrived and promised to come see us as soon as she got home, but she never did. We called every week to check on her, but she was always too busy at work to talk or take any time off. It’s been over two years since we’ve seen her.”

  Linda spoke, “I’ll never forget what she said the day she called from Israel. ‘It was meant for him—they killed him, the bastards killed him.’ She said it over and over.”

  Clovis asked, “Who did she mean? Hamas?”

  “I asked her the same thing. She wouldn’t say, pretty much told me to quit asking. We wanted to help, but, well, she didn’t seem to want help from us, or anyone else, for that matter.”

  7

  ROCHELLE’S BELIEF THAT HER HUSBAND was murdered might explain erratic behavior, but wouldn’t be a defense to espionage. Now was not the time to discuss her defense, so I remained quiet. Ben took a healthy sip of brandy and cleared his throat.

  “We had no idea she’d been arrested until the FBI showed up at the house.” He continued, “Two agents knocked on the door one evening during Jeopardy. They were very polite, and the way they kept saying they were here as a courtesy, Linda and I thought something had happened to Tina. Then they told us that Rochelle was in custody.”

  “Did they tell you why?” I asked.

  “They wouldn’t give us any details, but said she was being questioned about documents in her possession. We didn’t find out she’d been arrested for spying until we read it in the morning paper.” Ben shook his head. He had stuttered and hesitated before getting out the word “spying.”

  Linda interrupted, “Oh, they were plenty slick. All official in those dark suits and ties. And they were real polite—asked us if we talked with her often, did she text or email us, had she sent us anything for safekeeping. I even offered them a glass of iced tea.”

  “Now, Linda, don’t get upset again,” Ben said. “We were in shock, but we didn’t have anything to hide so we answered their questions. I let them take my laptop—they said they’d bring it back in a few days, but they didn’t. Later they told me they couldn’t return it until the case was over. That’s why I have this new computer. First time I’ve owned an Apple—you know, a Mac.” He smiled at the computer on his desk.