The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “About time you got back. I almost gave up on you. Pour yourself a glass of wine and come on over. I want you to teach me to play chess.” She had laid out the board on the coffee table in front of the couch.

  I did as ordered and said, “I like the outfit, but what if I’d brought someone home?”

  “You weren’t going to pick up anybody at that Italian place. Only snowbird couples go there. I mean do you really expect to find Little Italy on the beach?” She laughed and added, “I’ve been right here waiting.”

  I decided to ignore her jibes and began to arrange the pieces on the wooden chessboard that had been left behind by a previous guest. She was a quick learner, and the evening passed quickly. Jo was easy and uncomplicated, a nice change for me.

  Once more she was gone before I woke, and so a routine began. For me, a wonderful night, easy sleep, and a healthy morning walk. Did I mention uncomplicated? Most evenings I’d come home after dinner to find her curled up on my couch watching a ball game, a movie, or simply ready to talk over a game of chess.

  Conversation was effortless—no masks, no pretense. Raised by her mother and stepfather, she had begun working at the restaurant when she was fourteen, mainly to get away from home and the stepfather. Her early marriage had soured quickly, so she never left the restaurant. The owner and his wife appreciated her hard work and agreed to sell it to her when they retired. It now belonged to her free and clear.

  She was like a woodland sprite—I never knew when she might appear. It was a kick to let someone else be in control. And she certainly was in control—of when and where she appeared, of what we did that night, and definitely of the sex. I was okay with that, too. Some nights it was wild and glorious, some nights we simply spooned and fell asleep.

  I felt better as the days passed—there’s nothing like regular sex to lift one’s spirits. I even added the occasional jog to my morning walk. And my thoughts began to return to Rachel.

  At first my walks had been just mind-clearing exercise, but I couldn’t forget what Ben had told me about handling her defense. Nor could I forget Rachel’s words to me, “it’s not as it seems.” So the walks had also served as incubators, helping me hatch out the beginnings of a strategy. First I spoke with Maggie. She wasn’t surprised by either my ideas or the list of requests I had for Brian. I spoke with Janis Harold about probating Rachel’s will. Each morning I spent phone time with both Micki and Maggie vetting ideas and our options.

  Bottom line: I didn’t believe Rachel had committed suicide, and I didn’t think she was guilty of espionage. But it would take lots of digging, lots of work to get to the truth, and who knew where the chickens would come home to roost. I needed more information before I brought my proposal to Ben and Linda—after all, whether to proceed would be their decision.

  My fledgling plan was risky. I could be wrong—Rachel could be proven guilty without a doubt, a bitter pill for all of us.

  I also hadn’t forgotten about the rest of my life. It turns out that productive change requires more than good intentions. I called Susan Sandler at Evers to re-start the conversation about selling my house.

  “Really, Jack? Are you sure this time?” She sounded skeptical, and who could blame her? She’d been down this road before.

  We talked about various neighborhoods and property types. Her probing questions led me to think about issues I hadn’t considered. I had no idea where I wanted to end up, but she was patient, and every day I received a new set of listings in various neighborhoods. I asked her to copy everything to Beth, who knew the DC area as well as I did. I valued Beth’s opinion and hoped we could have some fun in the process.

  Most of my clients left me alone during this three-week period, but I emailed back and forth with a few of the needier ones. Maggie told me Carol had called the office several times asking where I was. I got the impression that Maggie enjoyed telling her that she “wasn’t at liberty to tell, but she’d be happy to convey a message.”

  She also texted me directly a few times and left a couple of voicemails, all of which I deleted. I wasn’t ready to muddy my vacation with Carol. I honestly didn’t know what I would say. She would have to wait.

  Jo and I fell into another game. I ate dinner at one obscure restaurant after the other, but each night she knew exactly where I’d been. If I didn’t know better I’d say she was having me followed. After a few bad meals I gave up trying to win—I enjoyed a good dinner too much.

  No matter how long, beach vacations always end too soon. When I woke up on the last Friday morning, I found her sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee.

  “Not at the restaurant this morning, Ms. Murphy?”

  “I feel like a walk on the beach. Yvette can handle the restaurant this once.”

  An easy response, but a serious tone. We walked down the path through the dunes to the quiet beach. It was still early, and I saw only a few determined fishermen. I tried a little tease. “What about your reputation?”

  “See for yourself—the shell seekers have already gone inside for breakfast. We have the beach almost to ourselves.”

  She took my hand and we walked for a while in silence. I noticed someone on a deck looking out at the ocean through binoculars, but I assumed he was looking for dolphins or sharks. For some reason he looked out of place, but I didn’t say anything to Jo.

  She finally turned and said, “Jack, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure—most anything,” I responded.

  She gave me a quick kiss. “How did I know that would be your response? I’ve decided to break my own rule. I would like you to take me out to dinner tonight.”

  “Like a date?” I kidded.

  She smiled. “Like a date. Get us two chairs at the bar at Frank’s tonight at seven.”

  Definitely an unexpected request, but I was happy to comply.

  “Just one question,” I asked. “Do you kiss on the first date?”

  Her eyes twinkled, and she changed her tone to match mine.

  “I don’t normally, but just for you I might. I’ve had enough of this beach walking. I don’t get the point—besides I’m suddenly horny. You think you can help me with that, Mr. Patterson?” She took my hand and we ran back to the house.

  50

  I WANTED TO SAVOR THE MORNING and anticipate the evening, but knew I needed to keep to my routine, so I sat down with a cup of tea and called Brian and then Micki and Maggie to catch up on what had happened at home. I asked Maggie to check flights to Little Rock for Tuesday so I could meet with Ben and Linda. I was glad to be through with business in time to walk and occasionally jog the whole length of beach at noon. I kept to my usual schedule of afternoon reading—I didn’t want to skimp on the last day. After a final sunset walk I took an Uber across the causeway to meet Jo.

  Frank’s was always busy, whatever the time of year, but I caught sight of Jo almost immediately. She was seated at the bar, wearing a very short black dress and heels, red hair more or less controlled by a twist of black fabric.

  She looked uneasy, and I walked over quickly, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She moved her purse from my chair, and the guy sitting next to her moved away abruptly. She was sipping a martini, so I ordered the same.

  She turned to me in confusion. “I’m glad you’re here—that guy…. I don’t know how people drink this stuff. It’s basically straight Gin and a little olive oil. What should I have ordered?”

  I suggested a Manhattan and ordered her one, which she liked much better.

  “Why the bar instead of a table?” I asked. “I’m fine with either, just curious.”

  She seemed reluctant to answer, but finally said, “Well, I’ve lived on Pawleys all my life, but I’ve never been here. My girlfriends come here whenever they can; they love the food and tell me the bar is the place to be. Now that I know what they’re talking about, they can keep it.”

  It occurred to me that working twelve to fourteen hours seven days a week couldn’t be conducive to a social life. I
took her hand and said, “Jo, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. You look fabulous. I love the dress, your hair, the whole look. Right now, every man in this room is envious. Let me ask for a table.”

  She wore very little make-up, just a bit of mascara, so her sudden blush highlighted her freckles. I felt like the king of the mountain. She, on the other hand, had a complaint.

  “You may love the look, but these damn shoes are killing me. I don’t know how why in the world I ever bought them. I miss my boots!”

  I laughed, “Cowboy boots with that dress would definitely draw a crowd.”

  “Well, are you going to just sit there, or are you going to feed me? I’m starving, and I want the most expensive item on the menu.”

  A few words with the owner got us a table and over she-crab soup, deviled eggs with jalapenos, and cornmeal-crusted grouper we talked about her restaurant, football, and where she liked to vacation. Turns out she closed the restaurant for the first two weeks of every year and vacationed in Key West, where she was a complete unknown and could “let her hair down.” I couldn’t help but wonder how much further down it could get.

  “How about some dessert?” I asked after the waiter had cleared our plates.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather have some ice cream at your place. Tonight you are finally going down in chess,” she challenged. “Besides, if I don’t take these shoes off soon, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

  So we returned to the beach house. She looked much more comfortable, sitting barefoot, Indian style, studying the chessboard. She was close to putting me in checkmate, when she turned serious.

  “Jack, you leave tomorrow, and I need to remind you of my rule. No emails, no calls, no flowers, and no contact for at least a year. You’re an easy man to get used to, but you and I both know we live completely different lives. If we don’t back off, it will end badly, and all our good memories will turn sour. Okay?”

  I wanted to argue, but I didn’t want to make the leave taking harder on either of us. I thought for a moment, trying to get the words right.

  “Jo, these three weeks will stay with me forever. You are special, and I want so much to say no to your silly rule. But no matter how much I want to stay here with you, I have to leave, at least for a while. But a year? I want to negotiate.” I smiled, she didn’t.

  “One year’s a minimum, probably should be two, but my bet is it will be never. Some lucky woman will realize what a find you are, that she needs to grab ahold of you and not let go. A few years earlier and I might have been the one.”

  “What’s wrong with now?” I asked as I moved my chess piece. I admit the black dress interfered with my concentration.

  “Checkmate!” she squealed as she stood up. “Now it’s your turn to have your way with me.” As I stood up, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me flush on the lips as her dress fell to the floor.

  SATURDAY

  51

  HER SMELL LINGERED on my pillow the next morning, but of course she was gone. Pondering whether I could possibly practice law from the beach, I went into the kitchen to start the coffee, only to discover it was already brewing. My heart jumped—maybe she hadn’t left after all.

  “Mornin’, Jack—sleep well?” Clovis was sitting at the kitchen table.

  “No offense, but what the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be home recuperating in a rocking chair?” Disappointment had made me snarky.

  “Sorry, but your vacation is over—it’s past time for you to come back to the real world. Maggie’s with the plane at the airport; we’re going to Little Rock so you can meet with Ben and Linda. We’ll bring Micki and Stella back to DC with us.”

  Maggie was always a step or two ahead of me, but I needed a couple of days to recover from the beach, not to mention Jo.

  “Oh, jeez, Clovis, I’m sorry but—wait a minute,” I said realizing something wasn’t right. “Why is Maggie with the plane? Why didn’t she ride in to pick me up? What’s the rush? I could easily have flown back commercial. And why are you here?”

  “Let’s close up the house. I’ll tell you everything on the way to the airport.”

  I finished packing, loaded the dishwasher, and put out the linens. I took a few minutes to watch the ocean from the deck, wondering when I’d see it again. Finally, Clovis and I drove away. After we’d cleared the causeway, I turned to him and asked, “Okay, Clovis, what’s up?”

  “Jack, you were followed almost every second you were in Little Rock for the funeral. Your pockmarked friend even attended the service. Martin and I decided one of his men should come to Pawleys.”

  I started to object, but Clovis silenced me. “I know it was an invasion of your privacy, but you seem to be oblivious to reality—it’s as simple as that. Stella discovered that both your phone and computer were being monitored, and sure enough you had a tail the first week you were here.

  “We wanted to tell you, but Maggie insisted we should leave you alone unless it became absolutely necessary. Fortunately, whoever it was lost interest after a few days. Your regular schedule and those long walks on the beach convinced the bad guys you really were on vacation—they packed up and left.”

  “What about Martin’s guy? Did he leave, too?” I knew I sounded churlish, but damn!

  “Well, no, but he kept a discreet distance. And, yes, we were also concerned about Ms. Murphy. Your bad judgment has almost got you killed twice before.”

  I sighed, ready for the worst. “Well, give me the bad news.”

  Clovis laughed. “Ms. Murphy is exactly who she appears to be—born and raised in Pawleys, hardworking—the only thing she’s ever done wrong is to get involved with you. Quit worrying, Jack, there’s not a phony bone in that woman’s body. I’m impressed—for once your choice in women was flawless.”

  Well, that felt good, even though Jo had done the choosing, not me.

  “How much does Maggie know about, uh, our relationship?”

  “She told me that unless Ms. Murphy turned out to be an international assassin, for which you have a strange affinity, she didn’t want to know. She said you’ve been a different person these last two weeks, and whether it was the beach or Ms. Murphy, she doesn’t care.”

  “It was definitely the beach,” I lied.

  His tone changed. “Hard to leave?”

  “More than you can imagine.” He knew I wasn’t talking about the beach.

  Maggie was waiting in the little office associated with the private airport when we pulled up. I pretended to be annoyed. “When were you going to tell me I had company? Don’t you trust me to stay out of trouble on a three-week vacation?”

  She replied in the same tone. “No, I don’t. You seem to find trouble most anywhere. I hope you had a good time while the rest of us have been working ourselves to the bone.”

  “I’ve been working, too. Just in between beach walks.”

  She relaxed and said, “You look good, Jack. Whoever she was, she was good for you, and I’m glad. The tan and dropping ten pounds also help.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, but I accept the compliment. Now let’s get to work. What’s the rush? Why do we need to go to Little Rock today?”

  “The guys who inventoried Rachel’s apartment found the asset forfeiture notice—it was sent weeks ago. If we want to object to the seizure, we’re almost out of time, and we need to get Ben’s permission to proceed. Of course, we could handle it by phone and Internet, but I knew you’d want to explain the process to the Jennings in person.” She handed me the government’s filing.

  Part of my strategy to discover what had happened to Rachel was to resist the government’s claim to Rachel’s bank accounts and assets. The government had sent the notice to her home while she was locked up in a military prison, an old and dirty trick. If we hadn’t gone into that apartment all her money, life insurance, and the assets in her pension plan would belong to the government by default.

  Normally a lawsuit against someone who has died must
be revived with sufficient notice to the heirs: in Rachel’s case, her parents. But a forfeiture proceeding is technically against the property itself, which, of course, has no heirs.

  Maggie enjoyed sitting up front, so Clovis and I had the rear seats to ourselves. Nonetheless, I leaned over and spoke quietly.

  “Assuming Ben and Linda give us the go-ahead, whoever was responsible for Rachel’s death is going to be pissed.”

  “We’re ready,” he answered.

  “I know you are, and Beth should be okay in St. Louis, but whoever was following me at Pawleys may know about Jo.”

  My conclusion was met with silence.

  “Look, Clovis, it was only a beach fling. We agreed not so see each other for at least a year—her stipulation, not mine. But I sure don’t want her to be in any danger.”

  “Jack, what is it with you? You finally find someone who has no pretenses and isn’t trying to murder you, and you agree not to see her for a year. What were you thinking?”

  “Well, when she first knocked on my door I wasn’t thinking about much. How would you have reacted?”

  “I know what you were thinking about,” he grinned.

  “Jack, from what I’ve learned, Jo is as tough as nails. She has to be to run that restaurant. I admit I hadn’t thought about it, but, don’t worry—we’ll keep her safe. What about Carol?”

  “Well, we’re not as close as we used to be. I think she’s moved on to greener pastures.” I tried to keep my voice even.

  Clovis raised his eyebrows. “You think she could be involved?”

  “No, at least not in the way you’re thinking. She’s been very public recently with Eric Hartman—he’s a top-dollar DC lobbyist. The fact is our relationship has gone south. I’m confident she’s not in any danger. I don’t have that same confidence about Jo.”

  Clovis teased, “You know it would be helpful if you stuck to one girl at a time. Protecting your girlfriends is spreading my folks thin.”