“It can’t be. That is just not possible,” I said, breaking the silence of my house.
Stunned was an understatement. There probably are words, somewhere in the world, to describe what I felt at that moment. But even now, I can’t find them.
I read the name in the photo’s caption again. My mind was thrown into reverse, forcing me to look at those words again and again. This was not a coincidence. This period in British history on pre-American soil, these urgent demands for information, the focus on this area, and how all these things fit together—this had to be Paul’s father.
Even on that warm April night, I was chilled. I must have done ten or more laps from the kitchen through the family room into the dining room and study and back around, rubbing my crossed arms to warm myself up. Why were the Eastons so interested in this land—and the secrets it concealed? What was their connection here?
Fortunately, I realized it was now after 8 a.m. in England. Time to call the Ganton Golf Club. My initial excitement about this opportunity was long gone. The enormity of the day finally caught up to me. I stepped onto my screened porch and looked at the beautiful, clear night sky. There must have been a million stars in the sky, and the moon was bright. The night would be over soon. It was already tomorrow and I was just waiting for the sun to catch up.
Today would be another challenging day. It would start with a call to Julie to talk about the Eastons and to hear updates on the evidence she collected at Beach Road. Then, we would need to speak with Paul and we needed to strategize for that. There were so many questions—about Paul’s books, his concho, and his family. And, what if we heard back from Amelia Burke? What if we didn’t? I would need to try to find her as well. Did Theresa know Amelia Burke? Then, of course, there was Missy. What had she been doing at Governor’s Point? Today already felt like I was sorting a brand new 500-piece jigsaw puzzle. Piece by piece, I could start building the puzzle’s frame, but the main scene, the part inside the frame, was missing.
There was one last thing to do before I tried to grab at least a couple of hours of sleep! I placed the call to the Ganton Club pro shop. After several rings, a deep, male voice shouted a greeting: “Ganton Shop, Wesley here, will you be needing a tee time?”
It was surprisingly more casual than their website presented. From what I read, it was a club steeped in championships, history, and tradition, and to me, that meant a formality. “Hi Wesley, no thank you, I don’t need a tee time, but I was wondering if you could help me?” I found myself shouting back at him. There was so much background noise, it was hard to hear.
“What can we do for you?” he said helpfully, and the noise subsided. I appreciated that he must have moved to an area outside the hub.
“I am calling regarding a belt a neighbor of mine has—a belt from your club, I believe. I can tell by the insignia on its silver pieces.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt. As I said the words out loud, I had second thoughts. Self-doubt, so familiar these days, appeared firmly at my side. Golf clubs on a golf belt? How many logos have these in them? There must be dozens of clubs, maybe hundreds of clubs with the initials G and C in their name. All of this was clearer to me a few hours ago.
He answered, “Right, our leather concho. You’re talking about the standard course belt, or our deluxe championship model? Would you mind holding a bit? I am here alone and we have several members ready to head out. Be back in a flash, luv.”
Before I could answer, I was listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Spring, as I held the line. A few minutes passed and Wesley was back. “Right, sorry to delay, which style were you calling about?”
“While I was holding, I looked at the merchandise on your website. I am afraid I don’t know the model but I found that it was your club from the logo on the concho and I …”
Wesley jumped in: “Logo? The golf clubs and G and C? Not the Ganton gorse flower?
“Right, the clubs and the initials, not a flower,” I said.
He chuckled and said, “Okay, well, you have yourself a standard model then, luv. What can we do for you?”
Here comes the story, I thought, and said, “Well, unfortunately, my neighbor lost one of the conchos, popped right off it seems, while he was doing some outside work. I would like to replace the belt for him, knowing how much he loves it. I was wondering if you could help me figure out which one to get him.”
He didn’t answer immediately. I heard the register chiming and another phone line ringing but finally, he said. “Well now, that’s quite a bugger, isn’t it? Next to our navy jumpers, these belts fly out of this store. In all my days, I do not recall anyone losing a concho. It is what our members and their guests expect and pay for. I assure you, our vendors are the best you will find. We don’t offer inferior products, I can tell you that.”
Somehow my inquiry seemed to have offended him and now we were off track. “Would you be able to help me replace the one my neighbor has? I know it would mean the world to him,” I said, hoping this would appeal to his sentimental side, assuming he had one. “I don’t have all the information you need like his size, but I was hopeful you could maybe search your sales records to see what he bought. I wanted this to be a surprise for him, of course.”
Reluctantly, at least that was what I interpreted his slowed response to mean, he agreed and said that if I provided the member or guest name, he would be able to search records from the last three years, assuming my neighbor charged his club account or used a credit card. Three years ago, the club had installed a new payment system, so those were the only accessible records. We exchanged contact information. I provided Paul’s name to Wesley. If Paul was a member, Wesley had no reaction.
“Hmmm, luv, I’m not finding an entry here in our system, but I can do a little more digging in our records.”
In a moment of what can only be described as divine intervention or some other supernatural inspiration, I blurted out: “Wesley, before we hang up—perhaps Ms. Amelia Burke purchased this for Paul Easton?” I held my breath and noticed both hands were clenched into tight balls.
He replied instantly, with a whole new different tone. Gone was the offended, reluctant Wesley. He was oddly deferential. “Why, of course, apologies for not connecting Mr. Easton to Ms. Burke. Of course, now that you say it. Apologies, certainly, luv. I didn’t realize we were speaking of this specific Mr. Easton. It is entirely my fault. Because you were talking about a neighbor, I assumed it was an American guest playing here. Yes, of course, please extend my apologies to Mr. Easton and Ms. Burke. If I remember right, this was already a replacement belt, as he needed a different size. We haven’t seen Mr. Easton in several weeks, but Ms. Burke is a great patron of our club and has done wonders for the ladies’ program. Were you in attendance at their anniversary party we hosted? Lovely, lovely night, incredibly generous for them to have included the entire club. Wonderful, wonderful event.”
When he finally stopped talking, I suggested he email me his findings. He assured me he would and from the tone of his voice, I knew this was one promise he would keep. As the call disconnected, I collapsed into an overstuffed chair. This day was just beginning, and it started with perhaps the biggest bombshell yet.
Amelia Burke, the landowner on Beach Road, was married to Paul Easton.