When Vanessa finally noticed her and waved back, Toni gave her a genuine smile. She liked Vanessa. She was spunky, Toni thought, although right now she looked distracted and worried. No doubt due to all the problems with rezoning Forest Glen.
And there was that strange Mr. Lynch—Jerry Lynch, a handsome fellow who used to be some kind of hotshot international financier. He was racing away, too, in a predatory-looking Humvee. Toni wondered whether he had agoraphobia, because she seldom saw him. He seemed to stay holed up in that elegant French chateau of his, although she’d heard that he regularly attended the local social gatherings that all the neighborhoods in Gryphon Gate held. She’d spot his wife, Renée, much more frequently, mostly at the pediatrician. They had a darling baby girl with the same color of jade green eyes as the Upshaw twins and the Anderson boys. When she’d told Bertha what she’d noticed about the eyes of all those children, Bertha had laughed and said it must be the Gryphon Gate water.
Thinking about the pleasures of ordinary, worry-free conversation brought Toni’s troubles back in a rush. Her mouth dry, her brow furrowed, she parked, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed around the clubhouse and out onto the putting greens. She didn’t play much golf, but Lincoln had. Sometimes she’d gone with him, so she had a good idea where the sixth tee was.
The place was deserted. She checked her watch. Two minutes until eight. She pressed her hand against her chest and felt her heart hammer. She tried not to think about what she was facing.
There was a foursome in the distance, over near the eighteenth tee. She broke into a lope across the greens, heading in the opposite direction. The pungent scent of pine was heavy in the air, and a twilight breeze was rising. Tree shadows were long and black and chilly. She felt uneasy. Who would be waiting for her? What would they want?
Maybe she should’ve phoned Sigmond Vormeister. He might know. He was a Ph.D. sociologist and was secretly studying the residents of Gryphon Gate for some kind of exposé book he wanted to write. She knew that only because he’d gotten tipsy at one of their neighborhood parties and confided it as sort of a lame apology after he’d tried to grab her butt and she’d stomped his wingtips hard.
She had her checkbook with her. The only thing that made sense was that the person who sent her the fax intended to blackmail her. One of the sweetest things about Lincoln had been that he’d planned wisely and left her filthy rich. Still, an insightful part of her knew it was unlikely she could ever pay enough. Once anyone allowed themselves to be blackmailed, there’d be no end to it. After all, decent people didn’t go digging into things that were none of their business. Decent people didn’t threaten to reveal other people’s secrets. Decent people didn’t blackmail. Whoever was waiting for her was an awful, despicable person, more to be pitied than feared.
Nevertheless, she was scared. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering. As she caught sight of the sixth hole, she slowed, watching as a family of deer stepped quietly from a stand of willows. A creek ran through the willows, and they’d been drinking from it. Their black noses glistened in the waning light. They were sleek and velvety and looked friendly. She wanted to stop. Maybe they’d let her pet them.
But there was no time. Regretfully, she loped past, searching the shadows ahead for whoever was waiting. When no one was standing at the tee, she stopped on the springy grass, peered all around, scrutinizing. No one.
She headed for the sand trap about twenty feet away. It lay in a shallow hollow, and if anyone was standing next to it, she’d easily spot him. There were no trees or bushes around there either, which meant there were no shadows for her to fear. Heart thudding, she closed in—and stopped abruptly. Someone was lying in the sand. There was still enough light to tell it was a man lying on his stomach, and he was wearing a rumpled suit. There was something vaguely familiar about him.
“Are you all right?” she called.
There was no answer.
She raised her voice. “Hey! Are you okay?”
There was neither answer nor movement. In fact, now that she studied him, his face seemed to be straight down in the sand. No way could he breathe. She dashed to his side, fell to her knees, and rolled him over. And stared. It was Sigmond Vormeister, the sociologist, his broad face twisted in fright. There was a gash on his forehead. Blood with a generous dusting of sand coated his face.
“Oh, poor Dr. Vormeister!”
She put her ear against his chest, hoping his heart was still beating. But there was only silence. “Oh, my God!” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit the buttons for 911. Shuddering, she looked around. She had a horrible, sinking feeling. Why were hers the only footprints in the sand?
2
TONI NO SOONER PRESSED THE “send” button than she pushed her thumb down hard on the “end” button. Yes, why were hers the only footprints in the sand?
Lincoln, who had loved her impulsiveness most of the time, recognized that it catapulted her into trouble at other times. “Look before you leap,” he’d counsel.
She was looking now.
Kneeling down, she was assailed by the odor of fresh blood as she squinted at Sigmond Vormeister’s wound. Deep though it was, the gash on his forehead couldn’t have killed him. She was tempted to roll him back over, but she knew better.
Surprised that this proximity to a corpse didn’t unnerve her, she slung her purse over her back and dropped the tiny phone in her pocket. She reached for the sand rake, hesitated, dropped her purse back in front of her, plucked out an embroidered handkerchief, wrapped the handkerchief around the sand rake, and carefully obliterated her footsteps from the sand.
Every noise or rustle of wind grated on her senses. She prayed as she raked that no one saw her. She gently laid the rake beside the sand pit and slowly walked toward the curving line of azaleas nestled under handsome pines.
It was bridge night at the club. Her hope was to slip into the ladies’ room at the end of the hall and then emerge just as the group took their break. She’d smile, chat, and go to the bar for a drink.
As she breathed deeply, calming herself, a slow tendril of anger crawled upward inside her.
Salinger. She’d jumped at the bait. I know about Salinger, that loathsome fax said. The only other person to know about Salinger was Salinger, a relationship she chalked up to her impulsive nature and her youth. Who else could know?
Sucker. She had been suckered.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She wouldn’t rise to the bait so quickly the next time. Toni, though impulsive, was capable of cold logic. She knew there’d be a next time.
It occurred to her that whoever sent her the fax had also killed Sigmond Vormeister. She opened the side door to the club. The coast was clear to the ladies’ room. As she scooted down the hall, she thought about it again. Maybe whoever sent that fax didn’t kill Vormeister, he was such an odd one.
She splashed water on her face then held her wrists under the cold running water. “Assume nothing,” she whispered. “Assume nothing.”
All she knew was that Sigmond Vormeister was glassy-eyed dead and she didn’t kill him. She cut off the tap, shook her head for the tousled look, and stepped into the long hall toward the main interior corridor.
“Toni,” Renée Lynch called out as she crossed the hall.
“You look wonderful in coral,” Toni complimented her. “How are you doing tonight?”
“Pretty good.” Renée winked. “So good that I need this break to pinch myself.”
The tinkling of a small bell alerted both women. “I don’t believe Laura Armbruster does that. She puts on more airs than any white woman I’ve ever met.”
Up until the seventies, wealthy Maryland families employed African-Americans in their households. A cherished ritual was for a smartly dressed man, sometimes in livery, to carry bells on a crossbar. These emitted a melodious sound as he made his stately progression through the lower floors of the house. It was the call to dinner.
&
nbsp; “Maybe because she’s not white. She’s going to remind us how it’s properly done.” Toni smiled.
“Actually, I think she’ll do anything to divert herself from Peter. Any of us could have told her marrying a preacher is a one-way ticket to engulfing boredom. Marrying a white preacher is boredom underlined three times.”
“Renée, God will get you for that.”
She laughed, the sound not unlike the tinkling of Laura’s insistent bell, calling the players back to the bridge tables. “No doubt, but I’ll have a whale of a time before Judgment Day. Well, I’d better get back in there before she has a conniption.”
“Wouldn’t want that.” Toni winked right back at her then sighed, sighed again with deep relief as she made her way to the bar.
The bar curved around the gracious room, paneled, filled with gilt framed photographs of members in moments of triumph on the golf course, tennis courts, hunt field, or sailing. One wall, encased in glass, held the silver trophies, colored banners, and other paraphernalia of sporting prowess.
Vanessa perched at a small table under the trophies.
The bar was otherwise empty, as bridge night traditionally was a light night at the watering hole.
“Toni.”
Toni walked over. “Didn’t I just pass you?”
“You did. Then I pulled a U-ey. Couldn’t face the kitchen.” Vanessa clicked her fingers and Tiffany, a young waitress, appeared.
“Martini.” Tiffany smiled at Vanessa.
“You are so smart, Tiffany. That explains why you’re going back to Maryland this fall. Stinger for Toni.”
Tiffany looked at Toni to make certain she wanted a Stinger.
“Vanessa, you remember the smallest details.” Toni glanced up at Tiffany. “Stinger.”
As Tiffany walked back to the bar, Vanessa leaned toward Toni. “Let’s have something sinful to eat. My treat.”
“Well, only if you’ll let me take you sailing first really good day.” Toni had a spectacular forty-foot boat built in the 1920s and completely restored by Lincoln as an anniversary present.
“Deal.”
The drinks appeared, and the two women said they needed time to study the menu.
“Are you girding your loins for the battle tomorrow night?” asked Toni, referring to the Gryphon Gate council meeting concerning their action on Vanessa’s proposal to the county for Forest Glen.
“I’d rather gird my loins for something far more pleasurable. But yes, I am ready for battle, and more, I intend to win. God forbid a woman succeed.”
“I suppose there is that,” Toni paused, “but you can’t so easily dismiss the environmental concerns.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I love the Chesapeake Bay and all her tributaries.” Vanessa sipped her martini, deliciously cold. “I grew up in these parts.” Vanessa rattled off the details of the environmental impact study she’d commissioned, her wetlands preservation plan.
She’d foolishly been lured back from Alexandria, but as she drove, her mind had revved as fast as her engine. Who knew about her condominium? Senator Carbury of the great state of Maryland. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to discuss their deal or their affair even to Parker Upshaw, his best friend. She sipped her drink thoughtfully. Parker Upshaw was becoming the best friend to many people in Congress, thanks to his management consulting firm.
Vanessa didn’t believe anyone else knew about her arrangements with Carbury. But then politics and treachery were bosom companions. Someone knew.
She had paid off Ned Carbury in crisp new bills as well as with her perfectly maintained body. If the Rev. Dr. Peter Armbruster hadn’t been such a ninny, she would have paid him off, too. Bills only. Laura could keep his body. However, it was proving amusing to torture the devout member of the God Squad. She stifled a laugh, which made her drink go down the wrong way.
“Are you okay?”
Eyes watering, “Windpipe,” Vanessa gasped.
“Hate that.” Toni handed her a glass of water.
“Made myself laugh. I was thinking that I’ll drop the Drysdale and return to my maiden name, Smart. But then if I’d been smart, I’d have never married Henry in the first place.”
“And you wouldn’t be sitting in Gryphon Gate with a pile of money. You were plenty smart,” Toni replied evenly.
Vanessa, recovered, coolly assessed Toni. “I underestimate you.”
“Everyone does.” Toni smiled brightly.
Barbara “Babs” Blackburn, late twenties, swept into the bar. Her close-cropped blonde hair gave her the air of an adorable waif. Henry Drysdale certainly thought so when he ran his fingers through those artfully sculpted locks.
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed for an instant, “Ah, the lady of the moment, or perhaps the lady of the evening.”
Babs, lovely, had not yet mastered the art of emotional repression. She had mastered few arts, except for her computer and golf. Her handicap of two attested to her skill. But she had little direction in life, which tended to erode whatever gifts she may have been granted.
“I can’t believe you’d show your face in here, the way you’re trying to ruin Gryphon Gate,” Babs sneered with the indignation of the righteous.
“Better my face than my ass, and I’d advise you to cover yours,” Vanessa slyly replied.
“You’ll get yours.” Babs stomped off.
“I truly hope so.” Vanessa tightened the back of her pierced earring.
“She’s so young,” Toni remarked.
“And that’s all she has in her favor.”
“With men it seems to be enough,” Toni ruefully said.
“I resent that.” Jerry Lynch had walked up behind the two well-groomed women. “But you’re dead-on.”
“And what are you doing here?” Vanessa queried him.
“I promised Renée I’d watch the second half of her little contest and that I’d bring her a very large, very frosty daiquiri.”
“Sit down while Tiffany gets your daiquiri.” Vanessa pointed to a chair.
“And a single malt on the rocks for me, Tiff,” he called to the young woman.
“Okay.” She flashed a genuine smile.
Jerry stared at Toni Sinclair, realized what he was doing, and smoothly covered. “You’re so attractive, Toni. You need to get out more.”
She blushed. “It takes time.”
He smiled and thought what a cool customer she was.
Jerry had driven to the golf course, feared what might await him, and then cruised away, which was when he passed Toni. But the fax and the implied threat drove him crazy. He parked his Humvee in Bob Satterfield’s driveway. Bob and his wife Sue were in France for a month. Going through their backyard, he could easily get on the front nine. He crept up on the back side of the sixth green, hunkering down in the willows. No one came out of the gathering darkness.
Crouching, Jerry loped to the sand trap in five strides and nearly fell over when he saw the body. Breathing raggedly, he stared, trying to make out who it was. A man, for sure, who looked a lot like Sigmond Vormeister, but impossible to confirm without getting closer. No thank you! Jerry backed away, keeping low, and then caught sight of Toni walking across the fairway. He couldn’t see her features, but the way she walked, the purse over her shoulder, it had to be Toni Sinclair. He dropped into the creek, used the high banks as a cover. He saw Toni walk into the sand trap, walk out, and drop the rake.
When he reached his vehicle, he drove home to change his clothes, then returned to the club. He had promised Renée he’d cheer her on. For all his philandering, he tried to please his wife. He loved her. But he also loved risk, both sexually and financially. He had just encountered a little more risk than he imagined.
What was Toni Sinclair doing out at the sixth hole?
She didn’t kill whoever was in the sand, that was clear, but she didn’t report it either. She was becoming very interesting to Jerry.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about Forest Glen?”
“Sorry?
” Jerry blinked at Vanessa.
“For or against?”
“Uh, against; but I won’t stand in your way. Business is business, and it doesn’t devalue my investment.”
“That’s big of you,” Vanessa purred.
“I’m a big guy.” At six foot four inches, Jerry could say that. He turned his attention back to Toni. “Still being Mother Teresa to the deer?”
“Oh, they are so beautiful. I can’t bear the thought that they might be shot.”
“Not the killer type, are you?” His voice deepened.
Startled, then back to herself, Toni replied, “I suppose I could kill to save myself or my daughter, but no, I’m not the type. Are you?”
“Me? Violence comes more naturally to men.”
“Balls.” Vanessa laughed.
“Exactly.” He laughed, too, as Tiffany appeared at his elbow. “Ah, the magic potion. Thank you, Tiffany.” He stood up, inclined his head to the ladies, picked up the two drinks. “Renée’s dying to get the better of Laura tonight. Ladies, I enjoyed seeing you both.”
As he walked away, Vanessa smiled. “Cocksure.”
* * *
Later that evening Vanessa opened the door to her Gryphon Gate home and breathed in. The wonderful orangey odor of her house pleased her as well as its grandeur.
She kicked off her shoes, and before she could click on the news, she heard the grinding of the fax machine in her downstairs office.
A furrow creased her brow, which had been expertly unwrinkled with BOTOX. She padded down the thick carpet to the office and plucked the fax out of the machine.
I don’t like being stood up. You’ll hear from me.
“Asshole.” She crumpled the fax and threw it into the wastebasket.
* * *
Renée, curled up at home in their overstuffed sofa, was replaying her brilliant night. “Jerry, are you listening?”
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