Hole in One

by Walter Stewart

  “Tell them about the Indian thing,” said Conrad.

  “In addition,” Robinson went on, “we are informed that there is the possibility that an Indian burial ground was once located on what is now the fifth fairway of the golf course. As you may know, Mr. Jowett’s grand-niece, Amelia, is very much interested in the cultural history of the Indian peoples of North America.”

  I didn’t know it; Hanna, by the look of her, didn’t believe it for a minute.

  “There are therefore a number of grounds for us to become concerned. Mr. Jowett is prepared, if the Indian burial ground claim holds up, to buy some more property adjacent to the golf course . . .”

  “That would be the Woods’s farm,” I put in.

  “. . . from the Woods’s farm, and have the course layout altered to restore the burial site. However, this will not be possible if the course has, as we are told, been sold to a developer.”

  “My information,” I said, which is a classier way of putting it than to say that Winifred Martin had squealed, “is that it has, but how it could be, in view of Sir John’s will, I don’t know.”

  “Tell them about the deed,” said Conrad.

  Robinson extracted a file folder from his briefcase. “I have just come from the county Land Titles Office,” he said, and Hanna gave me a kick under the table—that was what I was supposed to have done—“and this file contains a copy of everything in the Bellingham County docket on the golf course property.”

  He handed it across to me.

  The folder was empty, except for a copy of a slip that obviously identified the file for the internal use of the county office staff. This contained a number of dates—very few of them, in fact—which presumably represented times when the docket had been signed out. The last date was about four weeks ago.

  “The county office will have a name and signature for whomever signed it out last,” I pointed out.

  “They do; it is the name and signature of Parker Whitney.”

  “Parker Whitney? The Lancer’s legal beagle?”

  Robinson nodded. “I have spoken to him on the telephone, from the Land Titles Office, and he assures me that he has a signed receipt proving that he returned the file, with its contents intact, to the clerk at the Land Titles Office, which is where he read it.”

  “And did he tell you why he read it?”

  “He said that that was a matter of solicitor-client privilege.”

  “Or, in other words,” put in Hanna, “go fry an egg.”

  “I am not familiar with the phrase,” said Robinson. “I would have said, rather, go suck a zube.” He grinned, and Hanna grinned back, but I couldn’t see what there was to grin about.

  “Well, we can guess, can’t we? He read it because he was acting for Mrs. Post in the golf course purchase and . . .”

  “Just a minute, Carlton. He did go so far as to tell me that his client in this matter was not Mrs. Post. He said he assumed that I thought that to be the case, but it was not. He knew that many people in the area had come to the same conclusion because of what he called ‘totally unfounded rumours,’ but he said he could give me his personal assurance, as a gentleman . . .”

  “Hah!” exclaimed Hanna.

  “. . . and as a solicitor, that he had not acted for Mrs. Post in this matter.”

  “Well, that’s a crock, for starters,” I began, but stopped when I received another shrewd kick on the ankle and switched what I was going to say. “Because if it wasn’t Mrs. Post, who the hell could it have been?”

  “That’s what we want you to find out, Carlton.”

  “Me? How am I going to find out?”

  “Tell them about the deadline,” said Conrad, who had gone back to fooling about with the poker.

  “It is our belief,” Robinson continued, “that time is of the essence in this matter. As you know, developers tend to bring in the bulldozers first and argue the legal niceties later.”

  “Well, they can’t this time. The cops won’t let them,” I pointed out.

  “That is correct. The murder, regrettable though it may be, has given us at least some respite.”

  “Although Hanna tells me they’re still going ahead with the Martini Classic tomorrow,” I said.

  “Tommy says they’ve roped off the third green, that’s all,” said Hanna.

  “What we want you to do,” Robinson rolled on, “is to find out for us, within the next forty-eight hours, which is when we are told the police will have finished their investigations, who is the actual purchaser. We know that, with your reporting skills and local contacts, Carlton, you will be able to do this for us. You will find the task,” he gave me a significant look, “well worth your while.”

  I said, “There are a couple of things here I don’t understand.”

  Jowett glowered. He is of the just-do-what-I’m-telling-you persuasion. Robinson merely smiled, “And they are?”

  “You said earlier that there were a number of grounds for you to become concerned, but you only mentioned two: the need to preserve Sir John’s bequest and the possible Indian burial site. What else is there?”

  Robinson looked at old man Jowett. Jowett looked at the fireplace.

  “There is another reason,” Robinson began. “A matter of some . . . uh . . . delicacy . . .”

  “None of your damn business,” growled Jowett, and then, switching from tough old tycoon to hearty charmer once more, he added, “You will learn about it in due course, Carlton, I promise you. In fact, it may give you something of what you newspaper people call a scoop.” He smiled in turn.

  “And it’s this other thing, whatever it is,” Hanna put in, “that makes you want to work through Carlton rather than a lawyer.”

  “Precisely,” said Robinson. “I was sure you would understand.”

  I understood, all right. They wanted me to rat on the boss. She would not be amused if she found out. Maybe I should just blurt it out now, and get it over with. Would I still get paid?

  I was starting in to ask the key question when my ankle, which was beginning to register fierce resentment over the treatment, got another shrewd buffet.

  “We’ll be happy to take it on,” said Hanna. “Carlton knows everybody. Consider the task done.” And she started to get up.

  I finally got in my question, “What will you do when you know?”

  “Whatever is necessary,” growled Conrad Jowett.

  “Make them an offer they can’t refuse,” said Robinson. “I’ll see you out.”

  Chapter 17

  We had just begun to cross the yard to where Hanna’s car was parked, when she started in. “We’ve got time to get to the Land Titles Office before lunch.”

  “Why are we going to the Land Titles Office?”

  “To check on that file, silly.”

  “Robinson had the file, or a copy of it. What’s to check?”

  “Boy, Carlton, you really are a sap.”

  “You mean you don’t trust Robinson? You think he could have whipped the file himself?”

  “I mean I don’t trust anybody in this setup.”

  “Is that why you kicked me on the ankle when I was about to tell them that the mystery developer is Mrs. Post, no matter what Parker Whitney said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What difference does it make? They’re bound to find out, sooner or later.”

  “I don’t know why; I just know there is something about this whole deal that I don’t like. Including,” Hanna added, “I don’t like being summoned to the big house on the hill and bullied.”

  “You weren’t bullied.”

  “The attempt was made. Besides, you were. The big galoot would have had you jumping through hoops in about two minutes.”

  “Boy,” I stopped dead in the driveway. “You really are something. Here is a man trying to do his best to
help his community, and you think he’s up to something.”

  “Of course he’s up to something, nitwit. The thing is, what is he up to?”

  “Consider the possibility that he—they—were telling the exact truth, and want nothing more than to block the golf-course development and restore the Indian burial site, if there is one.”

  “Yeah. On behalf of Amelia ‘Big Boobs’ Jowett, the friend and student of oppressed peoples everywhere. Oh, hello there.”

  This was not addressed to me, but to Amelia herself, who had materialized, on cue, and was strolling towards us with a couple of croquet mallets in her hand. She was wearing one of those halter-top arrangements that seem to have been designed in defiance of the laws of gravity, and a very short white skirt.

  “Carlton, honey,” she said, “I was hoping to catch you before you got away. Come and play some croquet.”

  “Oh, hi, Amelia. Gee, thanks, but not right now. I’ve got to . . .”

  “Now, don’t you say that to me, you hear? I’ve got the croquet course all set up, just for a nice little game for two?” She ambled over and hooked her arm through mine, tugging gently. Hanna immediately grabbed the other arm and tugged, not so gently. Amelia unleashed a smile.

  “Unless, of course, your friend . . . Hester, is it? . . . wants to play?”

  “Hanna. And no,” said Hanna. “Come on, Carlton, we’ve got work to do.” She tugged again.

  Amelia tugged back. I was beginning to feel like the rope in a tug-of-war. “Well, of course, honey, if Hazel wants you to go,” Amelia purred, “I guess you have to go?”

  “No I don’t. Of course not.”

  “Carlton!” Hanna rapped out my name, and I wasn’t so darn sure I liked it. She is a trifle imperious, and it wouldn’t do her any harm to learn that I am not at her beck and call.

  “Come to think of it,” I said, “I could do with a little break. I’ll tell you what, Hanna. You drive over to my place, and I’ll catch up to you in about half an hour.”

  “Carlton!” She was rolling her eyes and jerking her head to tell me—the message was fully conveyed in a couple of jerks—that I could get in the car, forthwith, or face the consequences.

  “Read a magazine, if you like.” I handed her the one she had just pressed on me. “I know you’re always checking into other people’s magazines.”

  “I—will—see—you—later.” Through her clenched teeth, five friendly words sounded like a death threat. She snatched the magazine from me, marched off to her car, and roared out of the driveway as if pursued by wolves.

  I turned to Amelia. “Hand me a mallet, Miss Jowett,” I said. I played croquet as a kid, but it is not my idea of sport. Not much of a game, really, unless you have about six couples, wearing boating hats, Olde Tyme costumes, and a lining of liquor. For two people, it’s just a lot of boinking around the lawn.

  However, I was prepared to put up with it if it would teach Klovack a lesson, even if it was immediately obvious that Amelia hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to play. She insisted that I show her how to hold the club, with both arms around her to guide the stroke. We got through the first hoop, and my ball kissed hers, entitling me to put one foot on mine and whack it against hers. I did this, with some vigour, and Amelia’s ball disappeared into the shrubbery beside the lawn.

  “Carlton, you meanie,” she trilled. “Come help me find it?” And she skipped off behind a large clump of lilac. I ducked my head to go through the bushes, and when I came out the other side, Amelia was standing there looking broody. Then, without another word, she suddenly hurled herself into my arms and burst into tears.

  “Oh, Carlton,” she whimpered, “I’m so desperately unhappy.”

  Hard to frame a reply. “Gosh,” I said, patting her gently on the back and aware that I was not carrying this off very well. “That’s too bad. What seems to be the trouble?”

  “It’s Uncle Conrad. He’s so mean to me. You saw the way he talked to me, like a servant.”

  I gave the back another pat. “Hell, Amelia, he talks that way to everybody.” Except Hanna, of course.

  “I think he wants me to go away, back to Baltimore.” Amelia looked up at me, slantwise, out of those wondrous eyes, and added, “Just when we were getting to be friends.”

  I wondered if I should bring up the fact that I was starting to get a cramp in my left leg. I used to do this sort of thing better when I was a teenager. I glanced down, in what was meant to be a reassuring way, and found what seemed to be the entire horizon filled with the forefront of Amelia Jowett. I glanced hastily away. There was a giant hornet’s nest attached to a pine branch in the woods behind Amelia. Interesting.

  “I’m sure you’re imagining things,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the hornet’s nest. “Why would your great-uncle want you to go back to Baltimore?”

  “It’s this golf-course thing. I know you’re doing some research for him, Carlton, ’cause I stood outside the French doors and listened. Wasn’t that naughty of me?” She snuggled in, if possible, even closer. My left leg was definitely cramping. In a minute, it would start to twitch.

  “Uncle Conrad is really worried about what’s going on. I’ve heard him talking to Robinson.”

  “I don’t see why that would make him want you to go back to Baltimore.”

  “I think he’s worried about me.” She shuddered, daintily, causing indescribable sensations to shiver through me. Yes, my left leg was definitely beginning to twitch. “I think he regards me as just a hopeless, helpless little thing.”

  Then he is a fathead, I said, but not out loud, of course.

  “Say, Carlton,” Amelia was now running her right forefinger up and down the front of my shirt, raising goosebumps. “Since you’re a reporter, you can find things out, right?”

  “Some things.” I had a feeling we were now getting to the nub of this conversation.

  Once again, there was a sly, upwards, slanting smile. “Then I think you should find out about somebody named . . . Now, what was that name? I remember it came up between Uncle Conrad and Robinson. Watson, I think that was it. Charles Watson. Or, it may have been Cecil.”

  “Charles Watson? Are you sure of the name?”

  “Pretty sure. Sure of the last name, anyway. I don’t know about the first.” She shrugged lightly. “Carlton,” she said, “shouldn’t we be getting on with the game?”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Amelia,” I said.

  “Why not? Just because of that Hazel?”

  “No, not because of Hanna. Because I think we’re standing in poison ivy.”

  Which we were. Okay for me, I was wearing shoes, socks, and long pants. Below Amelia’s skirt were bare legs and open-toed sandals. Not so good.

  “Sunlight soap!” I shouted after her swiftly retreating form. “Scrub yourself thoroughly with Sunlight soap!”

  And then I sighed, and limped away. I hope somebody found that croquet ball.

  Chapter 18

  Hanna was sitting in the middle of my living room, stiffly upright on a wooden chair she must have hauled out from the kitchen.

  “Well, if it isn’t Carlton Withers, the sometime journalist and well-known croquet player. Have a nice game? I don’t care,” she added, before I could say a word in reply. “We’ve got to get to the Land Titles Office.”

  “Never mind the dudgeon, Klovack. I have a tale to unfold.” And I unfolded it, or, at least, a slightly edited version of the events of the past few minutes. “What do you think of them apples?” I finished.

  “Big Boobs is siccing you onto somebody named Charles Watson? What for? Does the name mean anything to you? Where did she get it from, anyway?”

  “Taking your questions in order, yes, I don’t know, no, and she said she overheard Conrad Jowett and Robinson talking about Charles—or perhaps Cecil—Watson in some context that was obvi
ously clear to her, but not to me. What do we do now?”

  “I guess we do what the little lady requests, and find out something about Charles-or-Cecil Watson. I’ll start looking into that while you’re searching the title. And Carlton,” she added, as she jumped up and headed for the door, “I don’t believe for a second that you’ve told me everything that happened between yourself and Big Boobs, and I don’t care.”

  We drove into Silver Falls in silence, and were soon outside the County Building, just down the highway from the Bide-a-Wee.

  “Out you get,” said Hanna.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “How would I know? Seek, and ye shall find. Out.”

  “What about lunch? It’s lunch time.”

  “We’ll go back out to Bosky Dell afterwards, for lunch. No, not your place. I’ll call Emma Golden and beg us a sandwich. Now, beat it, and call me at the office when you’ve got something.”

  I got out and stood on the sidewalk, feeling sorry for myself. Hanna drove off, and I went into the Land Titles Office.

  I walked around the end of the counter at which the public is supposed to line up for help, and went and sat on the edge of the desk occupied by Thelma Finster—one of the Bosky Dell Finsters—who was busily engaged in her usual pursuit: doing her nails on county time. She looked up after no more than thirty seconds.