I had showered and dressed and was sitting on my white, art deco couch with my feet up on the ottoman staring at the black television screen, sipping on a scotch, neat, when Imogen came strolling down the stairs dressed for dinner. She was wearing a skintight little black dress that came just above her knee. She had on her large emerald necklace that sat just above her ample cleavage. The jewel made Imogen's green eyes glow, and her dark hair accentuated the effect.
"Getting a head start on the night?" she asked, descending the stairs.
I took a sip of my drink and crossed my outstretched legs.
"Thinking," I said.
"With a scotch?"
"Is there any other way?"
"I suppose not," she said, now standing in front of me.
"Don't you look lovely," I said.
"Why thank you, Max," she said. "And I see you've dressed up for the occasion."
I was wearing a black suit, no tie. For me, these days, that was a rare occurrence. I had fallen into a habit of dressing in jeans and V-neck T-shirts.
"I'm a classy guy, with a capital K," I answered.
Imogen had walked over to the bar that sat in the corner of our living room. She was in the process of pouring herself a drink.
"So, what were you thinking about?" she asked.
"Bill," I answered.
"Funny you say that because I just spent the better part of the afternoon staring at that picture of his schedule book. No matter what I do, I can't seem to figure out what those erased marks look like."
"He knows something. And that something is the key to those marks."
Imogen had finished making her drink. She was now sitting in a chair off to my left. Her legs crossed, the middle of her thigh exposed. I took a sip of mine and closed my eyes, letting the alcohol consume me for the moment.
"How do you propose we find out what those marks mean?" she asked.
She had interrupted my alcohol stupor. I thought about her question for a moment, took another sip of my drink, and ran my fingers through my hair.
"I think we need to poke around that shed a little more," I said. "Without Bill there."
"How are we going to do that?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. And who knows if anything's there. But it's a start."
I picked up my cell and checked the time.
"It's getting late," I said. "You ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," she said, downing the rest of her drink in one sip.
"You need to stop doing that," I said.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's not very ladylike."
"It is where I come from," she said, slamming the empty glass down on the table. "Cheers. Now, let's go."
* * *
We arrived at Delmar a good half hour before dinner in order to give ourselves ample time to consume as many alcoholic beverages as needed to make it through the meal. I was only halfway through my first one before we left, so I was going to need, at a minimum, a full drink before we sat. Imogen, on the other hand, could probably have used a glass of water.
The main dining room, at the main clubhouse, was crowded tonight. I ordered my drink sitting at the bar, surveying the room. It was elegant. It always was. With floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the golf course, bright and airy, white linens on every table, candles glowing, and magnificent chandeliers draped from the ceiling, it was hard not to be impressed.
Sometimes I felt like I should be in a top hat and tails with Ginny next to me in an evening gown and long white gloves.
Imogen was sipping on a glass of sauvignon blanc. I was on my second scotch of the evening.
"It's always quite lovely in here at night," Imogen said.
"Country club living," I said. "It has its perks."
"I think we should call John."
"And why's that?" I asked.
"About the Alese thing," she said. "The death threat voicemail."
"She said the police weren't interested unless there's a physical threat," I said.
"I know, but surely the voicemail is a game changer."
"I don't think so, my love. But I do think that you're onto something," I said. "We do need to call John to ask him for his help. Maybe he can trace the call. Certainly the police have those means at their disposal."
"I think we could do it quicker," Imogen said.
"You really think so? How?" I asked.
"Sure. We call the phone company and ask for the number," she said.
"But it came up private," I said.
"We tell them to start digging on their end. See if they can come up with it."
"But the number could have originated with another phone company, or maybe it bounced across a few different phone companies. We might need a court order to get that information," I hypothesized.
"Yes, Max," she said. "That is a good point. Maybe I shouldn't be trying to figure this out right now. I'm enjoying my wine too much."
"Drunk or not, you make sense," I said.
"Hey, I'm not drunk, Max."
"No? Then what are you?"
"Relaxed," she said.
"Perfect. That's exactly how I want you tonight. Nice and relaxed."
"Well, you're not going to have to worry about that. By the time dinner starts I'll be almost ready for bed."
"Now, now, we wouldn't want that."
"Oh no?"
"Let's save that for when we get home."
"I wasn't talking about sleeping, Max."
"Neither was I."