Chapter 18

 

“Hey, Kate! Look at this!” Polly held up a wildly flowered notebook filled with scrawls. “I got me a whole bunch of autographs.”

I blew out a breath. “Polly, the tournament adheres to a strict no autograph policy. You could’ve gotten us kicked out of here.”

“But I didn’t. The golfers were only too happy to oblige.”

“You told them it was for your grandson,” I said through clenched teeth. “You don’t have a grandson.”

“But if I did, the cute little bugger would be thrilled with all these autographs. Probably sell ’em on eBay and pay for his college tuition. Costs a pretty penny to become a brain surgeon these days, you know.”

We were standing at the bank of elevators in the Marriott on our way to Belle Beaute’s hospitality suite. Polly, bless her heart, hadn’t been worth her salt as my assistant, Dr. Watson. Instead of searching for motive, means, and opportunity, she’d spent the day shopping for souvenirs, taking photos, having them taken, and collecting autographs for a hypothetical grandson. I, on the other hand, had stayed true to the course. I knew with certainty Roger McFarland possessed the unholy trinity of motive, means, and opportunity. Todd Timmons was next to come under my microscope.

When the elevator door whooshed open, we rode in silence to the top floor. We walked down a carpeted hallway and stepped into an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Only thing missing was Robin Leach. The large living room was filled with comfy overstuffed sofas and chairs in muted shades of green, gold, and burgundy. A giant flat-screen TV mounted on one wall replayed Masters coverage from previous tournaments. On the far wall, a floor-to-ceiling window provided a spectacular view of the Savannah River glittering in the late-afternoon sun. A long table in the dining area was nearly buried beneath trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. A wet bar, complete with ice maker, held a vast selection of liquor, all top shelf, as well as wine, both red and white.

Polly stood transfixed on the threshold. “This sure is the cat’s meow.”

“Sure is,” I echoed. I felt like the proverbial fish out of water, but I guess that’s why the cat meowed.

People milled about, drink glasses in hand, laughing and chattering like they didn’t have a care in the world. Some were in cocktail attire, but most wore casual chic. The cut of their clothes along with the flash and jangle of jewelry was the type only wealth could bring. In lieu of flash and jangle, I’d taken time to freshen my lipstick before mingling with the bold and the beautiful. I was glad I’d recently colored my hair and no gray roots showed in the ash blond.

“Been a long time since lunch,” Polly muttered. “I’m a little thirsty, too. Think I’ll get me something to drink. A nice cold margarita always hits the spot after a day on the links.”

Sheila spotted me from across the room, where she stood surrounded by a group of women. Fans? I wondered. She waved. I waved back.

Come to think, it had been a long time since lunch. And all the walking around had made me thirsty. I followed the same trail Polly had blazed. Sashaying over to the hors d’oeuvre table, I filled a plate with fruit and cheese, then helped myself to the shrimp and other goodies. Next I wandered over to the bar, where a nice bartender poured me a glass of pinot grigio. I sipped; I sampled; I eavesdropped.

Seeing Betsy Dalton talking to one of the up-and-coming young golfers, I sidled closer.

“I heard buzz that your company is coming out with a men’s line,” the guy was saying. He was tall, tanned, and gorgeous with sun-streaked blond hair and Nordic blue eyes. His name was Tyler or Trevor, or maybe Taylor, Something-or-other.

“Rumor’s true. We plan to debut our new product line in time for the holidays.” Betsy Dalton gazed up at him with a smile that all but whispered, “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.”

He grinned engagingly. “My agent mentioned you’re looking for endorsements.”

“Also true,” Betsy purred.

I tried not to choke on my meatball when I saw her reach out and smooth the guy’s shirt collar—a collar which even to a woman with gradient lenses didn’t need smoothing. “Naturally, we have a certain type in mind to best represent our products.”

He flashed a blinding set of pearly whites. “Babe, you’re looking at him.”

Gag me with a spoon, will you? I can’t believe a woman with Betsy Dalton’s sophistication would fall for the corny “Babe” routine. But seeing, as they say, is believing. I watched her give him a coy smile and playfully run a finger down his cheek. “The company is searching for a man with certain . . . attributes.”

I pretended more interest in a crab cake than it merited. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him take her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Babe, I’m at your disposal,” he said in a low voice.

“Really, Ty.” Betsy gave his arm a playful swat. “I was referring to skin tone, but it goes without saying, good looks and a buff body are part of the total package.”

“Feel free to check out my . . . attributes . . . any time you like.”

The Ty guy dropped his voice so low that in order to eavesdrop I practically had to stand on one leg. I listed so far right I nearly lost my balance.

“There’s a bed in the next room,” I heard him say.

When Betsy didn’t seem to object, he hooked a bronzed arm over her shoulders and led her toward the bedroom.

My, my, I thought, taking a sip of wine to calm my nerves. If I wanted to watch this much action, I could tune into the afternoon soaps. I wasn’t a prude but sheesh! The golfer was young enough to be her son. Right before my very eyes, I’d seen Betsy transform into Erica Kane, Susan Lucci’s character on All My Children. Wait ’til Polly finds out what she missed.

Speaking of Polly, where was she? Left to her own devices, God only knew what mischief she might tumble into. People continued to arrive, making the suite even more crowded. I scanned the partygoers and found Polly in an animated discussion with one of the pros. Don’t give my powers of deduction too much credit. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Golfers are easy to spot. Just look at their hands. The right hand of a golfer always has a deeper tan than the left. Unless putting, they always wear a glove on the left. Clever of me, eh?

“Hey, Kate,” Polly sang out. “Justin here was nice enough to give me his autograph.”

“I’m happy to be able to cheer the poor little guy,” Justin explained with a self-deprecatory smile. “He’s a real trooper to go through all those operations. And lucky to have such a nice lady for a grandma. Now, if you ladies’ll excuse me.”

I wagged my head. “Polly Curtis, you’re incorrigible.”

Totally unrepentant, Polly tucked her autograph book away. “Where’s the harm? It made him feel good to think he was helping a kid.”

“And gave you an excuse to ogle a good-looking guy,” I pointed our acerbically. “Keep it up and I’m going to have to replace you as my assistant.”

“All right already, what do you want me to do?”

“Cozy up to Roger. See what else you can learn. I’ll spy on Todd. And, Polly, go easy on the booze,” I cautioned, eyeing the near-empty margarita glass she held. “Remember how upset Gloria gets at seeing you tipsy.”

“That girl is wound too tight. Takes after her father that way. Needs to loosen up.”

We separated, working the room from opposite directions. I milled through the crowd, smiling and nodding where appropriate, listening to snippets of conversation.

“Did you see Tiger’s chip shot . . .”

“How about Phil’s drive on number five . . .”

“Trust me, that guy from the UK, what’s his name, is the one to watch.”

And so on and so forth.

I noshed my way through a plate of appetizers. The shrimp were a little chewy, but the baby bella mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat were to die for. Wish I had the recipe. They’d be a big hit at bunco. I was on the verge of going back for seconds when I spied Todd Timmons. He stood off to one side, studying the conglomeration of people. Then, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, he settled on his prey—a distinguished-looking gentleman with a well-endowed blond on his arm. I held my breath as I watched him stalk his potential victim. Again, I wished I could make note of this in my ubiquitous little book, but it might garner unwanted attention. I think my cell phone might have a record feature, but didn’t have a clue how to use it. Shifting into stealth mode, I moved closer.

Todd waylaid the man, stuck out his hand. “Todd Timmons. Say, haven’t we met?”

Hmph. That line failed to score in the originality category. I hope Todd has a better repertoire when he goes clubbing.

“Sorry, you don’t look familiar.” The man smiled politely. “Dick Phillips, Fox Sports.”

“Are you in television, too, Rod?” the blond asked.

“That’s Todd, not Rod,” he corrected. “Yeah, I’m a TV producer. Maybe you’ve heard of my show, How Does Your Garden Grow?”

“Never heard of it,” the blond said with a vacuous smile. “But then I’m not into gardening. It ruins my manicure.”

“I’m afraid I neglected to introduce my companion, Marlene Monroe.” Dick placed a proprietary hand on the girl’s curvy backside. “Marlene’s been showing me around Augusta.”

Ignoring Marlene’s generous cleavage, Todd zeroed in on Dick like a GPS locating an interstate. “Fox is a great station. Watch it all the time. Don’t know another network that’s better at taking the pulse of the people—or targets the right audience. It’s innovative. Top-notch.”

“You said you’re a producer?”

“My show’s on a cable channel. Small potatoes, I know, compared to Fox.” In spite of air conditioning set on max, I noticed beads of perspiration dot Todd’s hairline. “Here’s the thing, Dick,” Todd continued, “I’m ready to move on to greener pastures. I’ve done my time. Now I’m looking for more of a challenge. I’m hoping to land a job with a network such as yours, something with a larger market share.”

“You’re talking to the wrong guy, pal. With your background in the world of plants and shrubs, be happy you found your niche.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Todd said, making broad hand gestures. “That’s just it. I don’t know a damn thing about plants, shrubs, or flowers. I’m a techie, pure and simple. That’s where my true genius lies. I can’t tell a dandelion from a daffodil. Matter of fact, I flunked every science course I ever took.”

“I promised the lady a drink.” Dick urged Marlene “thanks to the wonder of silicone” forward. “Nice meeting you, Todd. Good luck in your search.”

As the pair moved off, I heard Dick tell his companion, “It’s all in the numbers, sweetheart. Unless his ratings are in the stratosphere, a network exec isn’t going to give him the time of day.”

I fiddled with a handsomely bound book lying on an end table, but my attention was still on Todd. A dark flush crept up from his collar. He clenched a fist and for a moment I thought he might punch something. Then, as I continued to watch, he reined in his temper. Taking a sip of his drink, he turned and scoured the crowd. He rolled his shoulders as though willing himself to relax, then sauntered toward a group I vaguely recognized as part of the CBS entourage.

I nibbled the lone cracker left on my plate. Todd blamed Vaughn for a drop in ratings. Was raw ambition motive to kill? And judging from the taut set of his mouth, Todd had a temper. Food for thought.

Suddenly I was ready to call it a day. As much as I’d like to fool myself into believing I can still dance all night, I can’t. I’m not admitting to “elderly,” mind you, but my dancing all night days are finished. Done. Over. Finito. Nowadays I’m lucky to stay awake late enough to catch the eleven o’clock news. Time had come to round up Polly and head back to the ranch—with one teensy detour along the way. First, though, I needed to find our hostess and thank her for an extraordinary day.

I found Polly heading toward the bar. I plucked an empty margarita glass from her hand and gave it to a passing waiter. “Let’s say our thank-yous like nice little girls and hit the road.”

Polly made a token grumble, but I could see, though she’d never admit it, that she was fading too.

Sheila stood chatting with Betsy and Roger near the window. At close range, I could see the Riverwalk far below, a two-tiered park that runs along the Savannah. It was especially lovely this time of year with bold splashes of color along its pathways. Stay focused, Kate, I chided. This isn’t the time to play tourist. I swung my gaze away from the Riverwalk and noticed the top button on Betsy’s blouse unfastened—the only hint of her dalliance with a man young enough to be her son. Sheila acknowledged our inclusion in the tight-knit circle with a slight smile and nod.

“Sheila, my love,” Roger was saying, “was the course all I bragged it would be?”

Sheila nodded her enthusiastic agreement. “It was truly amazing, Roger. Spectacular. The flowers alone made the trip worthwhile.”

“There are thirty varieties of azaleas,” Betsy supplied. “Most people aren’t aware azaleas were first popularized in Augusta when Baron Berckmans and his son started a venture called Fruitland Nurseries, which later became the Augusta National Golf Course.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’m truly impressed that you know all this.” And I was. Lipstick and night creams, yes. But the history of azaleas? No way; no how.

“Betsy’s full of surprises,” Sheila laughed. “You’d never guess it, but in college she double majored in chemistry and botany.”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed sourly, “under all that fluff she’s a real brainiac.”

Hmm. Another interesting tidbit to add to my growing list of interesting tidbits.