Before breaking for lunch, I decided to head out to the practice range and get some reaction quotes from some of the famous players. My route took me through the main lobby of the hotel, where I ran into Honie Carlton. She was wearing a turban-style head bandage from her attack the night before and she was chatting with an elderly lady who was improbably wearing a light cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders. It was probably ninety-two outside in the sun.
“Hacker!” Honie called to me when she saw me. I trudged over dutifully. “Hacker, this is Ethel Burbank,” Honie introduced the old woman. “She is, or was, Benton’s secretary back at headquarters.”
I studied the woman. She was well into her sixties, with wispy, silvery hair pushed back from her face. Horn-rimmed spectacles hung on a string around her neck, where they banged into her formidable bosom as she moved. She was quite obviously distraught. She was clutching a damp-looking tissue in one hand and her face was red with splotches.
“How do you do?” I said politely. “I am sorry about your boss.”
“Yes, yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?” she said breathlessly. “I just heard about it as I was finishing my breakfast! What a dear, dear man he was.”
“Ethel has worked for Benton for more than ten years,” Honie explained to me. “They were a real team.”
“Oh, that poor man,” Ethel began weeping, dabbing at her eyes with her tissue. Honie wrapped her arms around the older woman and hugged her. Over Ethel’s shoulder, she gave me an eye-rolling look.
“Mrs. Burbank,” I said gently. The two women separated. “When did you last speak to Benton?”
“Well, now, let me see,” Ethel said, mostly to herself. But I did note a return of sharpness to her eyes. Ethel Burbank was nobody’s fool. “I spoke to him several times yesterday,” she mused. “We always conversed first thing in the morning. Took care of the usual detail work at that time. Correspondence, telephone messages, things like that. But he called me later that morning and asked me to fly right down to Miami. He said he needed my help today in preparing something.”
“Do you often join him out on Tour?” I asked.
“Very rarely, dear,” she said, nodding. “I really have enough to do back at the office. But Benton said this was important, and that he needed me to fly right down. So I did.”
“Did he say what it was he needed?”
“He didn’t give me any details, dearie,” Ethel said, dabbing at her welling eyes again. “I think…he said something about needing to prepare some materials for presentation to the players’ council. But I don’t know what he wanted. Frankly, I thought he might just be making the whole thing up to give me an excuse to come to Miami. He knew how much I loved going to the racetrack.”
At that thought, she broke down again, her shoulders shaking. Honie, bless her nurturing heart, put her arms around the woman and cried with her. I stood there thinking while they wept, oblivious to the stares of curious passers-by in the lobby. After a minute or two, they were finished.
“Miz Burbank, may I ask you just one more question?” I began. Wiping her eyes with her now-drenched tissue, she nodded.
“Did anyone else here in Miami know you were coming? I mean, anyone from the LPGA?”
She fixed me with a level gaze, her eyes liquid but sharp.
“Why no, dearie,” she said. “I don’t think so. Except for Miz Casey, of course. I called her to book me a flight and arrange a room. She’s our travel expert you know.”
Honie and I exchanged a glance. Then she grabbed Ethel by the arm and walked her off. I stood and watched them go.
Casey Carlyle, the Delicious One, Big Wyn’s eyes and ears. She had known that Benton had asked his personal assistant to fly down to Miami suddenly. I had no doubt that Casey had pried the reason for Ethel’s visit out of the old woman. So Casey, and soon Big Wyn, had known that Benton was preparing something to present to the player’s council. Big Wyn had known something was up, despite her demurrals at this morning’s press conference.
Had she confronted Benton and scared him to death? Not an outlandish assumption, after what I had learned about the woman over the last several days. Or had Benton’s death been a coincidence, his alcohol-soaked body giving out at just the right time? For some reason, it was the latter scenario I found the most far fetched. * * * Out on the practice range, a dozen players were striking balls, preparing for the first round. Already, some twenty threesomes had teed off, from both the first and tenth tees. The afternoon wave was about to begin. Down at the far corner, I spotted Mary Beth Burke talking beside the water jug with Sybil Montgomery. I made a beeline.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I said as I approached. “I need some suitably morose quotes about Benton Bergmeister for tomorrow’s paper.”
“Quit, Hacker,” Mary Beth chastised me. “I thought he was a nice old guy. It’s so sad.”
“Right,” I echoed. “Nice guy. Real sad.’ Sybil? Got anything to add to that?”
She stared back at me. “How did it happen, Hacker?” she wanted to know. “What killed the poor man?”
“Don’t know yet,” I told them. “There’ll be an autopsy, probably this afternoon. For now, the police are assuming the guy just croaked.”
I saw Mary Beth and Sybil exchange a glance. I couldn’t read anything into it.
“It’s just a bit too neat and clean for me,” I said. “I mean, Benton told me a couple nights ago that he was thinking of quitting. I just found out that he called his secretary yesterday and had her fly in last night. She was supposed to help him prepare something to present to the player’s council. Then, he dies. From what I had gathered from the man, he was feeling like singing about something Big Wyn did or didn’t do to him. But now he’s dead. Pretty convenient for Big Wyn, huh?”
The two women looked at each other again. Something was passing between the two. As a mere mortal man, I knew not what it was.
“So I’m thinking there’s something below the surface going on,” I concluded. “And from what I’ve learned about this organization in the last few days, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that whatever’s going on might be nasty and subterranean. And watching you guys giving each other the secret look tells me I’m right and that you know what it is.”
They gave each other that look one more time, then looked at me. Perfectly blank-faced and innocent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burkey said calmly.
“Nor I,” said my British friend.
“Oh, bull,” I exploded. “We all are familiar with Big Wyn’s way of working, and we all know she had some kind of grip on poor Benton’s balls. He was about to break loose, finally, no matter how painful that might have been. But I don’t know what that hold was, and you both do. So tell me, for God’s sake.”
They looked at each other one more time. Another secret message passed. They turned back to me.
“Well, Hacker,” Burkey started, “We don’t know exactly what Big Wyn had on Bergie. All we know is the rumor that’s been around for years. Could be true, or it could be malicious gossip. That’s up to you to decide.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “That’s fair. What was it?”
Mary Beth sighed. “Well, the word was that Benton got caught in some kind of sexual fling with one of the rookies in his first year on the job. She was really a rookie, too, like about sixteen years old. That might have gotten Benton some jail time, if it were true. But the rumor is that Big Wyn bailed him out, had the whole episode buried and put Benton’s balls in her pocketbook.”
“Do you know who the young player was?” I asked. “Is she still playing today? Where does she live?”
I could smell the story now, and like a hunting dog, I was suddenly pitched into a fever of excitement. There were no fences too high, no thickets to overgrown, no holes too deep to prevent me from sniffing my way to the lair and howling to the sky at my discovery.
Burkey shook her head. “Nope,” sh
e said. “Neither of us ever heard a name to go with the story. Like I said, it could be there wasn’t a real person involved. Could be the whole thing was someone’s imagination all along.”
“Guess I’ll have to do some digging,” I said. “Somebody’s got to know something.”
“Hold on, Hacker,” Sybil cautioned. “You’re leaping the hedgerow without your mount. I shouldn’t think you’ll have much luck running around here trying to get someone to help you dig up dirt about the Tour or about the late Mr. Bergmeister. We all liked him, you know. We players tend to band together whenever someone threatens our Tour. I think you’d best let Mary Beth and I muck about quietly and see if we can uncover the name of the unlucky lass in this alleged episode. Don’t you agree, Mary Beth?”
“That’s A-One correct,” Mary Beth drawled. “If anybody does know something, they’re more likely to confide some gossip to Sybil here or me instead of some wise-ass reporter who’s a goddam Yankee to boot.”
“Here, here,” Sybil laughed. They stared at me, compatriots in secret messages and the sisterhood, and tried not laugh aloud. But the smiles playing at the edge of their lips gave them away.
“Damn, it’s hard being a man,” I said.
Their peals of laughter rang out over the range.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I noticed a good-sized gallery gathering around the first tee and strolled over to see who was about to begin her round. A young tournament volunteer held a sign on a pole that listed the members of the group about to tee off. Rosie Jones, a perennially tough competitor, was one of the three, along with Ellen Ferguson, a player I knew nothing about. The third name was Wynnona Stilwell.
I elbowed my way through the crowd to get next to the ropes. Rosie, dressed stylishly in Jamie Sadock threads, was standing on the tee box, staring down the fairway in rapt concentration. Ellen, a pretty, twenty-something with golden brown hair, stood nervously next to her caddie, swishing her driver back and forth, waiting to get started.
The tournament starter also seemed nervous, and kept glancing at his watch. The man wore a broad-brimmed Panama hat against the Florida sun and a short-sleeved white shirt and necktie. He studied his clipboard, glanced again at his watch, and tried to peer over the heads of the assembled crowd. He was looking for Big Wyn, the third member of the group, who was nowhere to be found.
“Stilwell’s not here,” I heard someone in the crowd whisper. “It’s almost one thirty-two. Where is she?”
“Could be a scratch,” another fan whispered back. “But if she doesn’t show up before the group is announced, she’s disqualified.”
The rumor of Big Wyn’s possible disqualification swept through the gallery like wildfire. Rosie Jones ignored the hubbub and continued to stare, focused, down the fairway, planning her tee shot and the one after that. The other golfer heard the whispers in the crowd, and leaned over to say something softly to her caddie. The two of them grinned, apparently not at all disappointed not to have to play this round with a living legend.
The starter looked at his watch one more time, shook his head sadly and picked up an electronic microphone to announce the players in the group. As if on cue, just at that last possible moment, there was a murmur and then the gallery parted like the Red Sea and a determined-looking Wynnona Stilwell marched onto the tee, followed by her caddie. The gallery burst into loud applause and heaved what seemed to be a common sigh of relief.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that Big Wyn’s last-second appearance had been contrived. It was a small psych game, waiting until the very last instant to appear on the tee. It let her opponents know that Big Wyn was the star, the alpha bitch whom everyone had come to watch, and the one golfer who could – and would – push the envelope to the limit and get away with it.
Big Wyn now strode around, shaking hands with officials and her opponents. I saw Ellen Ferguson’s face blanch when Stilwell had walked onto the tee, but she bravely shook Big Wyn’s proffered hand. Rosie Jones, on the other hand, never moved, blinked or otherwise acknowledged Big Wyn’s presence. It was apparent that the long-time veteran had seen this act before and refused to play along.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the starter now intoned into his speaker. “The one thirty-two group. From Bolton, Vermont, in her second year on tour, please welcome Ellen Ferguson!” The gallery gave the girl a polite round of applause. “From Atlanta, in her fifteenth year on tour, Rosie Jones!” The applause was louder and lasted a few seconds longer. Rosie, who had been fishing something out of her golf bag, held up her hand in acknowledgement.
“And finally, a player who needs no introduction,” the starter said, beginning to sound like the announcer at a prize fight, “From Phoenix, Arizona, the winner of 32 tournaments, including the U.S. Open and the U.S. Amateur, one of golf’s living legends, Big Wyn Stilwell!”
The burst of noise split the humid air, a solid wall of sounds, accentuated by whistles and cheers, that lasted for more than three minutes. Big Wyn reveled in it. She removed her visor and waved it high above her head, and when the applause picked up noise and momentum, she threw her head back and laughed in delight. Big Wyn was in her element, basking in the adoration of her fans.
It was right about then that her glance fell on me, standing on the ropes. I was not cheering or clapping or whistling. I was standing there with my arms crossed, staring at her. I’m sure she read on my face what I was thinking, because her own countenance darkened and her eyes narrowed. For that moment, we were gladiators, facing off in the Coliseum; knights about to begin a joust; linemen on opposite sides of scrimmage at the Super Bowl.
The crowd finally fell silent. Big Wyn broke away from my stare. “Go ahead, honey,” Big Wyn said loudly to the youngest member of the threesome. “Show us what you got.”
The crowd chuckled, but Ferguson shot an angry glance at Big Wyn. She did not appreciate the condescending tone nor the bald attempt at psychological warfare. Her drive was a fine one, but it drifted in the wind a bit to the right and finished well down the fairway in the first cut of rough. She was rewarded with a fine round of applause. I watched her shoulders heave in relief. The first one is always the hardest.
Rosie Jones was next. Big Wyn knew better than to try a psych job on the veteran and kept silent. Jones methodically teed her ball, went through her pre-shot routine and launched a beautiful drive that split the fairway. The fans cheered.
Then, Big Wyn stepped forward. “C’mon Wyn,” someone yelled. “Do it, Mama!” cried another.
Wyn teed her ball, then strode over to her caddie, selected her driver, and took a couple of practice swings. She was frozen at address, ready to pull the club back, when someone behind me snapped a picture of her. The distinctive, high-pitched whine of the camera’s motor drive resounded like a gunshot in the abnormal silence of golf.
Big Wyn stepped away from her ball and looked over in my direction. I smiled at her.
“Goddam it,” she snapped loudly at the tournament official standing nearby. “That son-of-a-bitch did that on purpose! I want his press credentials confiscated and his sorry ass thrown the hell out of here!”
Her outburst stunned the crowd into silence. The official, white-faced, strode over to the ropes where I stood. I continued smiling and held my hands out to show him. Empty.
“Tweren’t me, Wyn,” I said gaily. “Nice try, though.”
Behind me, we all heard a quavering voice. “I-I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …” We all turned around to see a white-haired old dear, clutching her Kodak to her chest. She looked mortified.
“There are no cameras allowed on the course during the tournament,” the official told the woman sternly. He turned to Big Wyn, who was still glaring angrily at me, shrugged in apology and held up his hand. “Quiet, please,” he intoned.
Big Wyn slammed her driver on the turf in frustration. She threw one last glare my way before turning again to the task at hand. But I could tell her concentration wasn’t on go
lf. She hurried now, made a jerky, rough pass at the ball, and hooked her shot into a fairway bunker waiting down the left side. A bad start, all around.
The gallery groaned in sympathy. “That’s okay, Wyn,” cried one supporter. “You can do it.”
She looked at me again before striding off down the fairway. I continued to grin at her. I hoped I looked like Banquo’s ghost. I hoped that every time she prepared to swing, she would see my smiling mug in her mind’s eye.
Before she turned to go, she spat, very unladylike, in my direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Most of the gallery followed their heroine down the first fairway. I noted a few dirty looks from some of Big Wyn’s staunchest fans. Obviously, any enemy of Big Wyn was an enemy of theirs, too. I just smiled at everyone.
Once the crowd thinned out, only about a dozen people were left outside the ropes. Looking across the tee box, I saw Harold Stilwell standing in the meager shade of a palm tree, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.. He was wearing his denim coveralls and a white T-shirt, looking every inch the country mechanic he had once been. He was staring thoughtfully down the fairway at the crowds chasing after the fast-striding form of his wife.
I sauntered around to his tree. He looked up.
“Buy you a beer?” I asked.
“You do and I’ll be your friend for life,” was his reply, and we headed for the nearest concession stand.
I glanced at the electronic scoreboard as we skirted the eighteenth green. Patty Sheehan and Beth Daniel were tied for the lead at four under par, but both were still on the back nine. Betsy King wasn’t far behind and Maggie Wills, a coltish young blond from Florida, was also hanging around the lead.
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