I knew Carl. I'd known him for years. He was one of the loudmouths that we had taken money from. But he wasn't one of the bad guys. He was friendly enough when he wasn't gushing about his golf game. His wife was nice as well. We'd had dinner at the club with them a number of times. Seeing him dead was a shock to the system. I hunched over hands on knees and dry-heaved. I know, not very manly. The good news was the scotch didn't come up.
"You OK, Max?" John asked.
"Max?" Imogen asked in a worried tone.
"I'm OK," I said. I stood back up.
"First time to the dance. It happens," John said.
"I did know the guy. He was a friend. When you said his name, it, well, just hit me."
"Understandable, Max. Like I said, it happens."
I guess John was right. It happens. It's not everyday that you see a friend dead on a golf course. With his throat cut no less. Not a pretty picture.
I wanted to know who had done this to Carl. Why did they do this to him? What had he gotten himself mixed up in? He needed my help. He needed someone to fight for him now that he couldn't fight for himself. We had to help John figure this out.
"I'm kind of glad, well, I mean, I had a hunch that you might be able to help out with this one. And, if you knew the guy, well…"
"Hunch?"
"Yeah, I figured you were a member here and knew the deceased. That's why I called."
He was right. The first time his gut had told him to trust me. That I wasn't a murderer. That I could help him figure out who killed Ted Baxter. And now his gut had served him well once again.
"So you're using me?"
"Yeah, if you call retaining your private investigative services using you, then yes, I'm using you. You are a private investigator now, right?"
"We are, John," Imogen interrupted.
We were. She was right. We were private investigators. And we were at an actual crime scene. Where my actual friend was laid out on the ground with his throat sliced open. I needed to find out who did this. I needed to find out who would kill my friend in broad daylight in the middle of a golf course.
"It had to be someone who he knew. Or someone who he was comfortable with was part of the plan. There had to be two killers," I said.
"You sure you're not going to pass out?" John asked.
"Is this really the place to be making jokes?" I asked.
"Good as any. So go on, Max."
"I think there had to be two killers. One who he knew. One who he was talking to or looking at or doing something with and—"
"Then one came up from behind him and slit his throat," Imogen said, interrupting me.
"Precisely," I said.
Carrington thought about it. As per the norm, he stopped talking and paced a little, thinking, running the scenario though his head. Probably thinking about his theory, the one-killer theory. Where the killer waited, perched behind a tree. Waiting for Carl to make a terrible shot. One that landed him in the trap. Where he'd then jump out, surprise Carl, manage to get around him, and slit his throat. And then theory two, mine.
"I think you might have a point, Max, and you too, Imogen."
"But who? Who would he have been with out here? He was playing alone."
"That's the question, Max."
The coroner walked back over toward us. He motioned to John, and they both walked away, just out of our earshot, to discuss something.
"Max, we just had dinner with him last week!"
"I know, my love."
"Dreadful," she said.
There were some words that really accentuated her English upbringing.
"That goes without saying."
Carrington returned with the coroner.
"We're going to flip the body, take some pictures, do some police work. So, if you guys want to—"
"I get the hint. We'll wait for you by the marshal," I said.
"Won't be long."
Imogen and I turned our backs on Carl and headed back up to the green. There were little cards in a line leading the way. There were also guys in white lab coats taking pictures and hunched over different areas of the grass, wiping things, putting powder on blades of grass. Doing things that I've only seen on television.
"What are you guys looking for?" I asked.
"Who are you?" the first guy said.
"We're with Sergeant Carrington," I answered.
"Beat it," he said.
I wasn't going to push the situation. Imogen and I kept walking. We arrived back on the green and decided to head out of the crime scene and over to the golf marshal who was still sitting in his little shed made of wood. After a nice long walk, we had arrived.
"Bill," I said.
"Max, Imogen. I didn't know you two were with the police."
I was going to fake it. See if I could get some information out of Bill. He knew Imogen and me well.
"Not something you advertise," I said.
"This is terrible," he said. "Bad for the club."
"Worse for Carl," I said. "I wouldn't worry about the club. It'll be fine."
"Suppose you're right," Bill said.
"Listen, Bill, I'm going to need your help. Can you do that?" I asked.
"Of course, you're the police," he said.
Right. I was the police. Well, not technically. And I needed to make a mental note: You don't ask for help. You tell people what you want them to do for you. And they oblige.
"I'm going to need a list of everyone who was out on the course today. Can you get that for me?"
Stop asking. Tell them what you want.
"Sure, Max. I can get it for you now. I gotta pull it off of the computer inside the club. Give me a few," he said.
"Thanks."
Bill walked out of the shed and headed over to the clubhouse.
"That was good thinking," Imogen said.
Half-listening, I opened the swing-out door that led into the shed and closed it.
"What do you think you're doing?" Imogen asked.
I started looking around, examining the appointment book that sat right by the window. The entries were in Bill's hand. Who played, who canceled, and who never showed. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the two pages. The morning and the afternoon tee times. I wanted to make sure Bill's entries matched the print out.
"I'm busy," I said, busy snapping photos.
"Max, get out of there."
I looked around some more. I couldn't find anything.
"Max, hurry. He's coming!"
I opened the door and slid right out, next to Imogen once more. And just in time. Out came Bill from the clubhouse with two pieces of paper in his hand.
"Here you go," he said, handing me the pages. "The complete list of people who were on the course today and the ones who were supposed to be out there this afternoon before, well, all this happened."
"Thanks, Bill," I said. "One last question, anything funny happen today on the course?"
"Well, Mark Goldsmith shot a 71. That was something out of the ordinary."
We both laughed. Mark was a terrible golfer. And if he shot a 71 then something really crazy must have happened out there on the course. It was probably more like a case of lying to yourself on your scorecard.
"Nope, Max, it was business as usual. Same old, same old."
"Thanks, Bill."
Something happened today out of the ordinary, and I sure as hell was going to figure out what.