“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Babette patted her sides as if looking for something, “I didn't even bring my crochet bag. I'm so scattered.”
Clara and her sister exchanged a pointed look; it was no surprise to them that Chief Cobb and his new deputy had put the screws to Babette. If the good mayor were correct, they’d soon turn their attention to the Balefires.
Gertrude pierced Babette with a curious stare that Mag guessed, if they hadn’t been in public, might have turned into a compulsion spell, eager as she was to find out all the dirty details of the interrogation. “What did the police want? Did they find out who … you know?”
Babette looked at the faces that were turned in her direction, the prying eyes of her unapologetic neighbors, and let loose a wail that could have woken the dead. Mag hadn’t thought the woman had it in her, and despite her reservations regarding Babette’s innocence, her heart went out to the woman. Not, mind you, that she would have openly admitted the fact.
“They think I hit my own husband over the head with a golf club! Kept asking me where I stashed my set, and wouldn’t listen when I told them I don’t even play. I was in the steam room, barely a stone’s throw from where my husband was being brutally murdered at the time.”
Breathing as if she’d been running, Babette seemed determined to get the whole story off her chest.
“Suspicious, they said, that nobody can corroborate my story. How is it my fault the steam room is deserted at that time of day? If only I’d kept my massage appointment, then I’d have an iron-clad alibi, and none of this would be happening.” Babette lamented, her voice having reached a pitch that could have cut glass.
“To add insult to injury, they said some horrible things about my Taylor. As if my heart isn’t broken already, now every tongue in town is going to be wagging.”
“What kinds of things, dear?” Gertrude prodded without remorse. Clara wanted to smack the tinsel right out of her head but dialed it down to a seething glare that did absolutely nothing to stop Gertrude’s fishing attempt. After all, what better place to start the tongue-wagging?
“Just…terrible things. That he was a scoundrel, a cheat, a thief. All Taylor ever did was try to give me the life he thought I deserved. And now all he’s going to be remembered for are these lies.” Tears rolled down Babette’s cheeks. “And the worst part of all is Chief Cobb had the nerve to insinuate that my husband beat me, which is ludicrous. Taylor never laid a hand on me. He loved me, and he was the best husband I could have asked for.”
Maude cast a sidelong glance at Babette but appeared to follow the adage that if you couldn’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.
Gertrude apparently had no such filter. “You do tend to look a fright, Babette. We’ve seen the bruises.”
“Gertrude!” Clara’s voice rang out with authority. She’d had enough. “Leave the poor woman alone. Can’t you see she’s distraught?”
Heavily chagrined, Gertrude shut her mouth with a snap. “Of course, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. It’s all right, Babette. I’m sure they’ll find the real killer, and things will be put to rights.”
Mag didn’t think even finding the killer would redeem Taylor’s reputation, but that was a thought better saved for later discussion.
Babette mouthed a silent “thank you” to Clara, and business carried on as usual.
When the crochet hooks had been stowed, and the group had filed out of the library, Babette hung back to have a word with the Balefire sisters.
“Thank you for that. I do want you to know since you’ve been so nice, that what I said before is the honest-to-God’s truth. I happen to be anemic which, among other things, causes my skin to bruise easily. Doesn’t help that I’m also clumsy. Taylor used to ask me where each one came from, but I can never remember. I’m always banging into something.” She seemed desperate for anyone to believe her, and Clara’s heart went out to the woman.
“Babette, I’m sorry to tell you this, but my mother and I were the ones who found Taylor’s body. It looked as though whatever took place happened quickly if it makes you feel any better.”
Fresh tears welled in the widow’s eyes, “It does, and it doesn’t, you know? I appreciate you telling me. It appears I don’t have as many friends as I thought I did, but it seems I can count you two among them. Thank you.” That was all Babette could manage, so Mag and Clara merely nodded before she scurried out the door.
“That was nice of you, Clarie,” Mag commented, “And she certainly seems innocent. But you know we’ve got to make doubly sure.”
“I know, Maggie. I know. I think it’s time we paid an official visit to Rolling Hills.”
Chapter Seven
Mag kept shrewd eyes peeled as Clara maneuvered the old VW bus into the parking lot of the Rolling Hills Country Club, and snapped a mental picture of her surroundings.
The moniker of Rolling Hills fell trite on Mag’s ears, but she couldn’t deny it a fitting description for the vast expanse of acreage that spanned out against the backdrop of fir trees lining its border.
Mag wondered whether the owner of the neighboring Christmas tree farm had held out for top dollar when the land was sold to make room for all the bored businessmen who considered golf an excellent excuse to get away from the office. And they likely even managed to claim the exorbitant membership fees as a hefty tax write-off.
“Clarie, this bus sticks out like a sore thumb here—I didn’t realize so many people in Harmony own a Lexus. Waste of money if you ask me.”
“Do me a favor and don’t repeat that once we get inside,” Clara admonished. “We need to get a good look around, so can you at least pretend to be genuinely interested in joining? I know, it goes against your rebellious nature, but we’re not the only innocent suspects in this investigation, so there’s more at stake than just our reputations.”
Mag put on a fake southern accent and batted her eyelashes at her sister, “Don’t forget about my considerable talents as an actress, daahling.”
“It’s a good thing rich old ladies also tend to come across as eccentric.” Clara ignored Mag’s blown raspberry, parked the bus, and hurried her sister around a couple of golf carts and through a pair of automatic doors into the main clubhouse.
Mahogany polished to a shine gleamed from every surface as sunlight poured through a wall of windows showcasing a view of the landscaped hills behind the building. Mag noticed a series of tiny flags dotting the expanse as she oriented herself in relation to the crime scene.
A chain link fence separated the clubhouse and its surroundings from the maintenance path that ran alongside Ridge Road. It would serve, Mag assumed, the dual function of keeping patrons confined to approved spaces and deer from wandering freely through the course.
To get from the clubhouse to the spot where Taylor Dean had met his demise would require a lengthy walk to get around the fence, and a detour through sections marked Staff Only.
She waited patiently while Clara spoke to a petite brunette concierge who dripped sweetness and light—along with a healthy dose of doubt the Balefires could afford the membership fees—while launching into a well-rehearsed sales pitch.
“We have all the amenities you could ask for: golf, of course; tennis; a full-service spa and gym; and a four-star restaurant that caters to our guests’ various dietary preferences. And that’s not all. Would you ladies like a tour of the facilities? We do offer day passes for potential members if you’d like to explore on your own.”
Choosing the latter, Clara scribbled their names into the guest book and handed it to the concierge, who entered them into a sleek, flat-screen computer that beeped a couple of times before a printer housed somewhere beneath the chest-height counter spit out a sheet of visitor’s badges.
Mag grimaced as she peeled the label from its paper backing and stuck the offending rectangle right in the center of her tie-dyed tee-shirt which, unfortunately, meant it was positioned over the top of her low-hanging décolle
tage. Her breasts had been pert once upon a time, but now they bore a striking resemblance to tennis balls in tube socks.
“You can rent a golf cart at the garage out past the spa.” The concierge handed over a map and ran a finger over various points of interest. “And if you need equipment or perhaps a new golf or tennis outfit, stop by the pro shop on your way out,” She eyed Mag’s ensemble with a sidelong glance.
Mag’s lips pursed, but to her credit, she refrained from informing the poor girl that there was no way she’d be caught dead in a tennis skirt and, furthermore, she wasn’t in the market for a makeover.
Clara peeked into the pro shop on their way back outside, noting that it stocked everything a country clubber might need. Hundreds of loose golf balls filled a four-foot diameter circular bucket in the center of the space, and floor-to-ceiling displays of clubs in various sizes lined the walls, some sporting protective covers that reminded Clara of child-size boxing gloves. Racks of apparel and accessories ranged around the shop, many sporting the Rolling Hills logo in bright colors.
“We’re standing right in the center of the club now.” Mag opened the map with a flourish the moment they exited the clubhouse, thoroughly enjoying the fact that Clara’s annoyingly perky GPS lady was useless for once.
“So, as the crow flies,” Mag continued, “the spot of Taylor’s demise is due south from here. The golf course takes up the whole northern section, with the clubhouse, spa, and tennis courts acting as a divider.”
An efficient layout, Clara supposed.
“Aside from that small, wooded picnic area that stretches down toward the access road where the murder took place, there’s not much located on the southwest end. Probably because that road leads into the middle of nowhere.” Clara took the words right out of Mag’s mouth.
“Exactly, so that access path is for staff, which means those golf cart tracks might not have been left by a guest after all. One of the groundskeepers or even a caddie has more reason to be out here than a member, and since Mayor McCreepy told us the staff has all been cleared, maybe our murderer arrived on foot.” Mag suggested.
Clara nodded, rubbing her chin. “It’s entirely possible. We need to revisit the scene, but let’s check out the steam room first since that’s where Babette said she was that morning. As much as my intuition screams she’s telling the God’s-honest truth, we both know that’s not usually the case. Everyone has a secret—I think we learned that from Leanne when Marsha Hutchins was killed. I definitely don’t need to see any boudoir photos of Babette Dean, so let’s hope hers are a little more PG.”
After tugging on the spa door two more times than necessary to figure out that it was locked and required a key card for entry, Clara rolled her eyes and pressed the button marked guests.
Another petite brunette staff member buzzed them in and greeted Mag and Clara in a near whisper, even though there were no other guests around to disturb. Dressed the same and similar height and build, this attendant and the one from the main entrance might have been twins.
Like everything else at Rolling Hills, the spa was decorated in tasteful shades of beige and gray that elicited the feeling of complete boredom those of a less adventurous constitution might consider serene. It only made Clara want to go shopping for some colorful throw pillows or at the very least an interesting piece of art to break up the monotony of the neutral tones.
“The spa is through these double doors”—the girl motioned down the hall a bit—“and the women’s steam room is on the other side of the locker room down that door to your left. My name is Amy. Let me know if you need any assistance.”
“Actually,” Clara’s eyes twinkled as she tossed a conspiratorial glance at her sister, “A friend of mine recommended I make an appointment with her massage therapist, but I can’t remember what she said his name was. Could you check—my friend is Babette Dean, and she was here last Friday morning.”
Mag poised herself as backup, ready to let loose a persuasion spell if Amy suddenly proved a model employee. Fortunately, she didn’t appear overly concerned with her guests’ privacy and agreed to check the schedule if they’d kindly wait a moment.
“Are you sure it was Friday? I don’t seem to have an appointment scheduled for your friend that day. I can see she usually books with one of our top therapists, Stefan, though.”
Amy tapped on the keys and squinted at the screen, her forehead scrunched together as if she were trying to solve a complicated math problem. “Oh, here it is. Yes, now I remember. Mrs. Dean came in, but canceled her appointment and said she’d rather take a steam. Stefan doesn’t have an opening available for the next two days, but I can put you on the list for last-minute cancellations if you’d like.”
The idea of being rubbed with fragrant oil for an hour by a masseur named Stefan sounded like a little slice of heaven to Clara, but she tactfully declined, stating she would call around for an appointment next week.
“Maybe they’re robot clones,” Mag muttered after Amy had taken her leave.
“Maybe you’ve been binging too much Westworld, Maggie.” Clara teased.
Mag rolled her eyes, “No such thing.”
The pair marched through a meticulously clean locker room and peeked into the steam room. “There’s nobody here right now—and this is just about the same time the murder happened.” Clara noticed. “It seems Babette was telling the truth when she said mid-morning is the best time to take a steam—assuming you want to hide your jiggly bits from the rest of the club.”
“That woman is a stick. The only way she’d have jiggly bits is if she was covered in Jell-O.”
“Ugh, Maggie, I didn’t need that mental image,” Clara wrinkled her nose.
Ignoring the caution, Mag continued, “Babette definitely came into the spa and canceled her massage. And that clone verified her story that she was in here.” She yanked the door open and practically disappeared in the cloud of steam that wafted out.
Mag shook her head and closed the door, “That steam is too much for me. I wouldn’t be able to breathe in there for more than two minutes—and that little sign says there’s a fifteen-minute maximum. There’s no way Babette could have stayed inside that room for an hour. Now, it’s getting interesting.”
Clara, having begun a thorough search of the changing room during Mag’s musings, disappeared around a bank of lockers. “Maggie, come quick. There’s another exit back here, marked for employee use.”
“I don’t see one of those key card contraptions anywhere.”
“It’s probably only required for entry.”
“Let’s find out,” Mag pushed the metal bar with more force than necessary and stumbled out onto a paved path that surrounded the building and was lined with shrubs and fragrant summer flowers.
Straight ahead, the pavement ended in a dirt path that branched off at right angles. Taking a left would, if Mag’s sense of direction was correct, lead straight through a strip of pine trees and down to where Taylor had been murdered.
A lone picnic table squatted on a patch of trampled-down grass about a hundred feet from the exit, next to which sat a plastic cigarette butt disposal container.
Mag pointed to a large rock positioned next to the door they’d just exited. “I’d be willing to bet they use this rock to hold the door open during staff breaks. Which means Babette could have left, whacked her good-for-nothing husband in the side of the head, and slipped back inside without anyone being the wiser.”
“Maybe, and if so, she’s back on the suspect list. Let’s head down to the crime scene, see if it was possible for Babette to have made it there and back.” Clara suggested.
Her navigational abilities proved infallible as Mag led Clara past the picnic table, through the woods, and around the fence to where, upon exiting the other side, they approached the same expanse of grass where they’d found the body, except from the opposite angle. “There's no quick way around that fence. Either through the woods or walking along the access path, it's a good ten mi
nutes on foot. Not exactly the speediest of getaways, huh?”
“Not for Babette, or anyone else, unless they were a runner. It’s possible, but it seems like a stretch. More likely, the golf cart tracks belong to the killer, just like we thought.” Clara held her hands up in a frustrated gesture and pulled Mag along behind her, “We need more information, and I have an idea. Come on.”
By the time they’d made it back to the front of the spa, Mag was huffing and puffing and cursing Clara’s superior lung capacity. “Where are you taking me?” she snapped
“To the cart garage, for a little subterfuge and petty theft,” Clare replied airily, increasing her pace another notch.
Mag grumbled something about not performing magic in public, which Clara, for once, duly ignored. “I swear, Maggie, you’d rather castrate a flock of sheep than agree with me. Sometimes I think you do it just to grate on my last nerve! And I never said anything about performing magic, but you know what? You’ve convinced me to do just that.”
“Oh, and I’m the petulant, combative sister?” Mag shook her head, a wide smile spreading across her face, “Then again, maybe I just push it because you’re the most fun when you’re acting like a rebel. You should do it more often.”
Clara shot her a sideways glance. “And perhaps you should do it less frequently. Then I wouldn’t have to be the level-headed one all the time. Do you really think I give a unicorn fart about what Penelope Starr thinks? Oh, to Hades with it.” Clara let out a grunt, took a furtive look around, and muttered a spell under her breath.
“Technically,” She qualified, “We’re not in public.” And with the whisper of a breath, the golf cart sign-out sheet appeared in her hand.
“Risky, conjuring like that.” Mag commented, her voice holding a measure of pride.
“Says here, the only people with golf carts signed out that morning were Miriam May, Maude Prescott, Perry Weatherall, and Selena Sanderson.” Clara read.
Mag’s nose crinkled, “Now why does that last name sound familiar?”
Murder on the Backswing Page 5
