Bill was an interesting fellow. For starters, he was the golf marshal at the world-renowned Delmar Country Club and Golf Course. Actually, there were two golf courses at Delmar. There was the short, par-three, executive course and the professional course. The professional course that was designed by Bill himself. In addition to being known as the guy who designed the Delmar course, he was a former professional golfer. In the sixties and seventies he made quite a splash on the PGA Tour. Although never a winner of a Major, he earned the nickname Bridie, as in Bridesmaid, because he always managed to finish in the top five.
Being fifth didn't get him much fame, but it did earn him enough money to retire after he hung up his clubs. He moved to Manors, helped design the course, and set up shop as the resident pro and marshal. He'd been here ever since. Checking you in right before you teed off, greeting you when you parked your cart, and even sometimes laughing with you as he ushered the not-so-great foursomes along on a busy day with a bitingly hilarious remark.
He was serious, intense, passionate, and funny all at the same time. He would have scared the shit out of me if I were competing against him on the tour. But that wasn't going to happen. Hell, I liked scotch too much to actually train for qualifying school. For the time being, I had decided that I would stick with drinking and solving crimes with my wife. Maybe I'd hit the Senior Tour. A guy can dream. And usually especially well after a few drinks.
I was back in my office, comparing the list Bill gave me to the handwritten list that I swiped off of his paper schedule. I blew up the picture on my laptop and started with the 7:00 AM times. Four people actually teed off at that time. Seven in the morning. That means you had to be up at 5:30 or 6:00. Jesus Christ. That is not fun. At least not for me. I like sleep. I treasure sleep. I do not like to disrupt my sleep to play sports. But I may be in the minority. Because here were four guys who felt different about sleep, golf, and apparently life.
Everything matched. Four names on Bill's list and four names on the printout. I moved on. Everything moved along the same way. 7:30, 8:00, 8:30. Then we came to 10:00. There was a discrepancy. Looked like Dan Millwood was a scratch. He was on the printout but not on Bill's list. Bill only had the three guys who did play. I knew them all, and believe me, no one was breaking any records in that threesome. I kept on keepin' on. Everything continued to match up, until we came to the one o'clock tee time.
The printout had one person listed, Carl Westbrook. Scheduled for his post-lunch tee off. But when I turned my gaze to the blown-up, handwritten, tee-time schedule, I saw something odd. Carl's name was there as you would expect, but there was something else there. Something illegible. But something nonetheless. No other foursome, threesome, twosome or solo golfer had it next to their group. But it was here, and it was odd.
"I'm calling her in," I said to Jabber.
She looked at me from under my desk, curled up in a ball, just her eyes. She didn't even bother to move her head.
"Ginny!" I yelled.
Nothing.
"Ginny!"
Then I heard a faint reply. I needed to install an intercom or some other way of getting in touch with Imogen when she was in her office. Yelling wasn't going to cut it. Maybe carrier pigeon would work.
"Why in God's name are you shrieking at me like a shrew?" Imogen said, approaching my doorway.
"Working on alliterations? How about shrieking at me like a snotty, psychopathic, stern shew? Really? You couldn't think of anything better?"
"You are such an asshole sometimes."
I smiled.
"Anyway, Jabber liked it," she said. "I can see her wagging her tail."
"She's sleeping. She must be dreaming."
"Oh. At any rate we need a better way to communicate in here."
"Agreed."
"Well, now that I'm here…"
"Yes, well, now that you're here. Keep the momentum going, and walk over to my desk."
She shot me an exasperated look, walked her lovely body over, and then rolled an Aeron chair meant for a guest right next to me behind my desk. She crossed her legs, exposing a fair amount of her well-toned, perfectly tanned thigh, picked up a pen off of my desk, lifted the capped point to her lips, and nibbled on the tip.
"Yes, Max."
This was seductive Imogen. This was playful Imogen. This was the Imogen that distracted me from work. Of any kind. I was going to ignore her.
"Look at this," I said.
I directed her attention to the blown-up picture of Bill's schedule book.
"Do you see this?" I asked, pointing to the illegible mark.
She looked closely at my computer screen. Tapping it with the pen right on the illegible mark.
"Don't do that," I said.
"Do what?"
"Tap the pen on the screen."
"Why?"
"What do you mean why? You'll scratch it."
"Oh Jesus. Can we move on?"
I would try to move on. I hate scratches on my screen. And, since she didn't scratch it, well, from what I could gather, I would try to let it go.
"OK, sorry. So, do you see anything?"
"Yes, I see something, but what is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But look at this."
I handed her the printout and then proceeded to walk her through all of the tee times. Showing her that Bill never makes any sort of mark when there's a scratch or someone doesn't show. He only writes the names down of the people who are standing in front of him when they check in.
"In this case, there's a mark," I said.
"Yes, I see that," she said.
"There is something there," I said.
"Yes. You're not crazy if that's what you're getting at."
"No, I didn't think I was, well, maybe."
"Can you blow it up any more?"
"Let me try."
I increased the zoom. Slowly and then it was maxed out. I centered the image, and then we both stared at it.
It was some sort of circle. But it was poorly constructed. It may even have been a spiral. A spiral?
"What do you think it is Imogen?"
"I don't know, Max. A really bad circle."
"His penmanship sucks. But I guess he was a golfer not an artist."
"Maybe an at sign?"
"He didn't strike me as tech-savvy. I had a feeling if he was writing down an email address, which I don't believe that he has ever done, he would write the word at, not make a symbol."
Imogen laughed.
Then I looked closer and could barely make out something behind the symbol. Something very faint.
"Do you see that?" I asked, pointing to the faint line.
Imogen squinted. Then she squinted harder.
"Do you have a pair of reading glasses ol' man?"
"Don't be a wiseass," I said.
She chuckled and then smiled. "Touchy, touchy. You're not old, Max."
"So you say, my love. So you say. C'mon do you see that?" I asked, pointing again to the faint line.
She looked closely and then answered, "Yes, I think I do. Like a faint line."
"Yes. Some sort of line," I said.
"It looks like it might be a letter. That was erased. Very hard."
"Look here," I said, pointing to what might be another separate line.
"Yes, I see that too," she said. "Another letter?"
"I think so."
"Initials," she said.
"The killer's initials," I said. "That's if we can piece together these two letters."
"Bloody hell," she said.
"More like bloody Carl."
"Oh, Max."