Chapter 17

 

So much for getting an early start, I fussed as I trudged back along Berckmans Road. The day was heating up. I was both sweaty and cranky after my long hike. Although I might have to be scanned through security, I was grateful that at least I didn’t have to step on a scale. Before tossing my purse in the trunk of the Buick, I’d jammed as much into the pockets of my navy capris as space would allow, including a camera and a couple BAM! bars for good measure.

Polly was waiting for me inside the course gate weighted down with two bulging shopping bags. “Wait ’til you see all my stuff.”

“Stuff is exactly what got me sent all the way back to the car,” I grumbled. “We won’t make it until lunch if you have to lug those bags around with you.”

“Ma’am?”

I turned to find a woman in madras capris and a visor standing next to me.

“Sorry, hon, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she apologized with a friendly smile. “But there are lockers right over there where y’all can store your packages.”

I thanked the woman profusely for her suggestion. Now, there was an example of Southern hospitality at its finest. Polly and I might very well have walked right past the lockers, but there they stood, a bank of shiny metal ready and waiting. After considerable huffing and puffing, we managed to squeeze Polly’s souvenirs inside, slam the door, and twist the lock.

“Time’s a wasting,” I said. “Let’s see if we can spot Peter, Paul, and Mary in this crowd.”

Polly blinked up at me, confused. “Who?”

“Sorry,” I replied absently. “I meant Todd, Roger, and Betsy.” I opened the spectator guide to orient myself to the grounds.

“But what about golf?” Polly whined. “All these tanned and fit athletes, and me all dressed up.”

“Don’t forget, the motto of the day is business before pleasure.”

“Right,” Polly muttered. She looked more like a toddler about to have a tantrum than an AARP card-carrying senior citizen.

“There’ll be time for that, too.”

I studied a map of the course, then with Polly close on my heels, started off in the general direction of Amen Corner, a popular viewing spot for holes eleven, twelve, and thirteen, so named because of the critical action that often takes place there. We hadn’t gone far before we were nearly mowed down by an army of spectators bent on following a threesome. One figure in particular stood out as he marched down the fairway like royalty.

Polly tugged on my sleeve. “Is that who I think it is?” she whispered.

“Tiger,” I whispered back. “The one and only.”

How many chances does a person get in her lifetime to watch one of the sport’s greats in action? We wormed our way through the crowd until we were close enough to the roped-off green to watch him putt. I found myself behind a couple of brawny young men who looked to be in their early thirties. Each time I craned my neck for a better look, one or the other would inadvertently block my view. Next to me, Polly seemed to be running into the same trouble. She solved the problem by half turning and wedging her skinny body between the pair.

“Sorry, sonny.” She returned their dirty looks with a sweet smile. “Hope I didn’t step on your feet. When you get to be my age, dear, and know there isn’t much time left . . .” she said, blinking rapidly as she sniffed back crocodile tears.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the darker-haired one replied. “Here, let me make room for you.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but I had to hand it to Polly for winning herself a prime spot. When it suited her, she played the age card with finesse. The young men may have been taken in by her grandmotherly wiles, but I wasn’t. I was just miffed I hadn’t thought of it myself.

While the pros chipped and putted from various angles, I scanned the crowd searching for a familiar face. I was about to give up when I spotted Todd Timmons trotting alongside a CBS Sports crew like an obedient puppy. Clearly in his element, he wore Ray-Bans, a classic polo shirt, and an ear-to-ear grin. Todd chattered away in a futile attempt to engage an obviously uninterested cameraman in conversation.

I watched as one of the marshals approached him. “Sorry, sir,” I heard him say, “but I’ll have to ask you to step outside the ropes. This area is restricted to media only.”

Todd spread his hands and grinned even wider. “I’m a TV producer.”

The man didn’t return the smile. “If you’re media, why doesn’t it say so on your badge?”

“Todd Timmons.” Todd extended his hand. “How Does Your Garden Grow? You might have heard of my show.”

The marshal ignored Todd’s outstretched hand. “If you don’t remove yourself immediately, sir, I’ll have security escort you off the premises.”

Todd shot a hopeful glance at his newfound cameraman buddy, but when no support was forthcoming, he ducked under the rope to stand with the rest of us peons. His expression mirrored anger and embarrassment as he stood, face flushed, arms folded, and watched the golfers. After the threesome moved on, he attached himself to a crew from ESPN and trailed along, careful to maintain established boundaries. Watching him, if only for a brief time, I realized Todd had an agenda—and wasn’t one to give up easily.

In spite of intentions to the contrary, I fell under the Masters’ spell. I forgot my plan to be organized and efficient and started to just enjoy the day. Under similar circumstances, I was certain Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher would’ve done the same. Polly and I roamed the course aimlessly. It was a magnificent setting. Banks of azaleas in full bloom and dogwood trees bursting with dainty white flowers made it seem more botanical garden than golf course. Acres of velvety grass rolled and stretched like the lawn of some grand country estate. The lawn . . . er, grounds . . . were interspersed with irregular patches of pristine white sand, a reminder that this wasn’t a park but Augusta National, home of the Masters.

We mingled; we watched. We oohed; we aahed.

Watching the pros practice their putting proved a revelation. I was amazed at their intensity. One after another they’d squat on their haunches to study the slope of the green, conferring with their caddies whether it might break right or left. When I play, I tend to do more finger-crossing than actual strategy. Trying to figure out the exact angle reminds me too much of Sister Marie Frances’s geometry class. No wonder I don’t excel at putting. Geometry was the only class in which I’d ever received a D. And let me tell you, boys and girls, I’d been ecstatic that I didn’t get an F. All those angles, planes, and point A’s to point B’s failed to register in my addled brain.

I was also impressed by Polly’s rapt attention to the pros’ techniques. To the best of my knowledge she’d never been particularly interested in the game. Instead of her usual voluble self, she became uncharacteristically quiet. Then I observed her more carefully. She was watching the golfers, all right, but it was their bottoms and not their golf balls that commanded her attention. I shook my head, glad Gloria wasn’t here to witness her mother’s affinity for anatomy.

“Polly,” I said, giving her a gentle nudge, “it’s lunchtime.”

We wandered until we came across one of the concession stands that dot the course. Polly and I ordered sandwiches, pimento—a long-standing tradition at the Masters—for myself and BBQ for Polly. We settled down at a picnic table under a stand of pine with our food. As much as I was enjoying the day, time had come to get back to business. If I didn’t make more of an effort to exclude names from my persons of interest list, I’d feel somehow I’d failed Sheila. “We’re having way too much fun,” I announced, wiping my fingers on a paper napkin. “We need to try harder if we’re going to track down Todd, Rog, and Bets.”

“But how?” Polly asked. “There are thousands of people here. It’ll be like spotting Waldo in one of those Where’s Waldo books.”

“It’s almost time for the Par Three Contest. Maybe we’ll have better luck there.”

“Fine, but let’s check out Magnolia Lane first. It’s famous. I want my picture taken there so I can post it on Facebook.”

While Polly chucked our sandwich wrappers and drink cups into a trash can, I consulted the map. “Looks like the clubhouse is that way,” I said, pointing straight ahead. “Long as we’re here, I’d like to see Magnolia Lane myself. Last time, all Jim wanted to do was watch approach shots.”

We threaded our way through a milling throng of people toward the clubhouse. The clubhouse was a white three-story structure built in the low-country style with porches encircling the first and second floors. “According to the website, this is the original plantation house dating back to the 1850s. The course itself used to be an indigo plantation,” I told Polly, showing off knowledge I’d gleaned the night before on the Internet. Only wished I’d paid more attention to the dos and don’ts. Knowing the size of handbags would have saved me a long hike. Get over it Kate, I scolded, the exercise probably did you good.

“Look at them magnolias,” Polly enthused, peering down the long sweep of drive that led from the clubhouse to an entrance gate. “Aren’t they a sight for sore eyes?”

“Speaking of sore eyes, look who else is admiring the view.”

Roger McFarland stood midway down the drive, staring through the viewfinder of a camera. Not just any old camera, but the long-lens type paparazzi might use. The type I’d expect from a man charged with editing a book about plants and shrubs. A man with an eye for detail.

“Enjoying the Masters?” I asked as Polly and I sauntered up.

He jerked at the sound of my voice, and I heard the shutter whirr. “Damnit,” he cursed, turning on me. “I had the perfect mix of light and shadow until you ruined it.”

“Here.” Polly shoved her digital camera at him. “Take our picture, will you? I want everyone to see us on Facebook.”

He let his Canon dangle from a strap around his neck. “Fine,” he said in a voice heavy with resignation.

Polly pulled me closer, put her arm around my waist, and we smiled, smiled, smiled until our cheeks ached. “That oughta do it,” Roger announced, returning the camera to Polly. “Say”—he squinted at us from behind horned-rimmed glasses—“haven’t I seen you two before?”

“We’re friends of Sheila’s—good friends,” I said. And we’re here to spy on you.

“Right, right,” he muttered.

Judging from his baffled expression, he still didn’t have a clue as to who we were. Apparently I hadn’t made much of an impression. That happens to me a lot, but I try not to let it affect my self-esteem. “We met at the hospital the night Dr. Bascomb . . . expired.”

“You might’ve seen us at his memorial service,” Polly offered. “We were the two at the buffet table eating shrimp rangoons. Guess everyone else was afraid they’d get poisoned.”

Roger’s ruddy face turned even ruddier. “I, um . . .”

I could see the word poison was making him nervous. Good time to change the subject. “Are you taking photos for Sheila’s book?” I asked.

“Ah, no.” He rubbed a hand over his short-cropped carrot-colored hair, making it stand on end. “Horticulture is my true passion, not photography. I study plants and shrubs every chance I can.”

Horticulture his passion? Hmm, that would fit in with my planticide theory. “That must help with your job as editor for a university press.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered.

He turned to leave, so I fell into step alongside him. “How did you happen to go from a career with flowers and shrubs to book publishing?”

“Fate, timing.” He shrugged. “Bad luck.”

“How’s that?”

“Someone else landed the job I wanted. Just because a person happens to look more qualified on paper doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the right pick for the job, does it?”

“No, of course not.”

Roger stopped and waved an arm back in the direction we’d just come. “Did you know, for instance, that those magnolias were planted from seed before the Civil War?”

“Um, no.” Sad to say, but my homework last night hadn’t included the history of trees. If this was a pop quiz, I failed miserably.

“Say, Roger,” Polly said, catching up with us, “could you snap a picture of me standing against that big tree over there.”

“We’re surrounded by ‘big’ trees, lady,” Roger said, sounding exasperated.

Polly was unfazed by the gruff tone. “The big one next to the clubhouse. The one with the purple flowers.

“Those purple flowers happen to be wisteria,” he growled. “That particular vine happens to be the first wisteria established in the United States. It’s believed to be the largest of its kind.”

Polly handed over her camera. “You don’t say.”

While Polly posed for pictures, I mentally cataloged the information I’d gathered. Roger, the pudge, had not merely a liking but a passion for all growing things. That implied considerable knowledge of plants, both poisonous and non-poisonous varieties. Aha, I said silently. Knowledge translated into M-E-A-N-S.

I recalled the conversation I’d overheard in the ER the night Vaughn . . . died, passed, or entered into eternal rest. Roger had complained Vaughn interfered with his vision of the coffee table masterpiece he was editing. With Vaughn out of the picture, literally and figuratively, he’d remove the obstacle that stood in the way of the book’s successful completion. In addition, Roger harbored a grudge against the person who had beaten him out of a coveted position in a field he adored. Could that person have been Sheila? Or perhaps Vaughn? At some point had resentment spilled over into rage? Rage and resentment spelled M-O-T-I-V-E. My fingers itched to jot this down in my little black book.

I returned to the course with a new bounce in my step. The day was starting to look up.