“Thanks. You know, I like doing my column, helping women and all that But I’d forgotten how it feels to be digging, really digging for something.”
“You’re good at it. And I apologize for underestimating you.”
Marlee looked at Jenifer’s profile, so intelligent and strong as well as beautiful. For a moment, Marlee envied her youth. Then Marlee felt something close to love. “Jenifer, I should thank you for getting my juices flowing again.”
Jenifer pulled up in front of Marlee’s house. “We’ll sit down early in the week and hash all of this out,” Jenifer said. “Jeez, I’ve got a housing-authority story I have to do Monday. Never mind, I’ll make time for this somehow.”
“Do you have any idea what next?”
“Not really. It’ll probably be good just to let it simmer.”
“Maybe. Hey, do you want to come in for coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have some things to do. I guess I’ll see you at the country club thing tonight?”
“Oh, you decided to go. Good. Oh, it could be fun.”
“Maybe the only way I’ll ever see the inside of the place. Should I pick you up?”
“No, thanks. My car’s running fine. We should probably take separate cars, in fact, in case one of us has a better time than the other.”
Once inside, Marlee lay down on her sofa and tried to unwind. Let things simmer over the weekend, Jenifer had said.
No. Marlee wasn’t ready for that. She sat up, reached for the phone, and dialed.
“Ed, it’s me. We’re still friends mostly, aren’t we?”
“Sure.”
Marlee filled Delaney in on the meeting in the park. She couldn’t give the priest’s name, she said, but he had known the priest Ed had seen at the house where the killing took place. And she told him about Olga’s disappearance.
Ed hardly said a word while Marlee talked. Finally, she was done. “Ed, what do you think?”
“I think I’m a cop, and I want to do some digging.”
“Earlier, you were kind of—”
“I’m a cop, I said. A cop. We’ll get together on this. Soon. In the meantime, do you have any plans?”
“Well, tonight there’s the reunion banquet. And tomorrow there’s the brunch at the publisher’s house.”
“We’ll talk as soon as we can. Meantime, be careful.”
Thirty-one
Only a moment before, Grant Siebert had sent his first drive of the day a couple hundred yards down the fairway. He’s been practicing, Will Shafer thought. For a moment, Will envied Grant’s slacks and shirt, which he thought were more stylish than his own.
Will teed up nervously. He was too eager, and so he took his eyes off the ball at the last instant. He topped it, although he caught enough of it to send it a hundred fifty yards out.
“Not bad,” Grant said.
Will and Grant stood together off to the side as Lyle junior teed up. Will thought the publisher’s son looked tired and hung over. Lyle sliced, into the right rough but playable, and walked over to wait by Will and Grant. Then a pink-faced young banker who rounded out their foursome took a slow, smooth swing that propelled his ball two hundred fifty yards down the middle.
“Now we know how bankers spend their time,” Lyle said.
Walking down the fairway, Will resolved to enjoy the game, the day, as much as he could.
Standing over the ball for his second shot. Will forced himself to breathe deeply. This time, he caught the ball with the sweet spot of the three wood and sent it straight for the green.
By the time they paused for Grant’s second shot, Will was standing on a little rise that offered a view of Lake Erie. There were purple clouds on the horizon. Storms could blow in quickly from the lake in high summer.
Marlee dozed. Too many conflicting sensations and emotions had jammed her brain circuits, and she was tired. She had lain down on the sofa planning to sort things out; instead, she had drifted into sleep. Once when her eyes popped open, she reached down, expecting to touch Nigel’s tough, bristly back. Not there.
She turned her head slightly; out the window, a sun-filled sky. She could see a gently soughing tree.
Eyes closed again. The priest in the park had seemed like a good man. But how can we be sure he’s telling the truth? Or maybe he’s telling the truth as best he remembers, but his memory’s no good. Or suppose he’s not a priest. Oh, yes, he must be, because Jenifer’s boyfriend sent us to him. But what about Jenifer’s boyfriend, if that’s what he is …
I’m doing this all wrong, she thought. I start out with a few simple questions, but then I ask questions about the questions, and all of a sudden I have ten times as many questions as I started with. And no answers.
Marlee gave up; she let herself drift away.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the sky had changed. Could she have slept that many hours? No. But the day had taken on a gray skin, and the trees were tossing harder; Marlee could hear them.
Far away, thunder rolled across the sky like barrels. It took her a moment to pick out the other sound, of someone at her door.
“If we start to get lightning, we don’t want to be under any trees,” Will said.
“Why not?” Grant said. “The way I’m playing, it might be a blessing.”
“Only a game,” Lyle said.
Will actually felt sorry for Grant, the man who had once been such an annoyance to him. After a good start, Grant had faltered, hitting some balls out of bounds, another into a pond, and making a lot of mistakes by trying too hard.
Will’s own round had been mediocre, which was about what he had expected. He was having fun, all things considered, and was not disappointed. Lyle, too, was playing a so-so round, having bounced back from his hangover.
Only the banker was playing really well, and he didn’t seem to be enjoying it all that much. When the first raindrops came, Will started to unbuckle the umbrella from the side of his golf bag.
“Never mind,” Lyle said over the suddenly mounting wind. “Right down here.”
Lyle led the way down a gravel path to a wooden shelter separated from the nearest patch of woods by a good hundred feet. The size of a small garage, the shelter had an overhanging roof and screened windows with shutters.
“I don’t remember this being here,” Will said.
“It’s new,” Lyle said. “My father’s idea. He thought it would be good because this is the farthest point from the clubhouse.”
The foursome ducked inside, leaned their bags along one wall, and sat on the Wooden benches. Now the rain began to drum like pennies on the roof.
“Just a shower,” Lyle said. “Almost like the tropics. In a half hour, we’ll be back out there. Meanwhile, we can relax.”
“Fine,” Will said.
“How about you?” Lyle said, looking at Grant. “Are you having a good time?”
“So far. I wish I was playing better.”
“You’ve got a decent swing,” Lyle said. “You just need to loosen up.”
“I’ll try.” Grant smiled, darkly.
“No, don’t try. If you have to try to loosen up, you’re not loose. Get it?”
“Now I do,” Grant said coldly.
Will flinched at Grant’s tone and saw Lyle narrow his eyes. But after a moment, Lyle broke into a grin. “Smart-ass New Yorker!” he said. “Tell me the truth: if you had it to do all over again, would you stay in Bessemer? Work for Will here?”
“Hard to say,” Grant said. “I can’t do it over.”
“So what brings you back here?” the publisher’s son asked.
Grant shrugged; Will thought he looked uneasy. “Just to renew old … acquaintances,” Grant said evenly.
That made Lyle guffaw. Grant smiled, and the banker tried to smile.
“You haven’t been back in twenty years. Since you said good-bye to this god-awful town. Am I right?”
“That’s right.”
To the banker, Lyle said, “You’re too young t
o give a damn about reunions. How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-eight.” The banker looked as if he wanted to be in another solar system.
“Well, you’re a damn good golfer.” With that, Lyle slapped the banker good-naturedly on the shoulder.
“Thank you.” The banker managed a smile.
“Which makes me wonder how good you are with money if you’re spending so much time on your golf,” Lyle said.
Finally put at ease, the banker laughed.
“It’s raining harder,” Will said.
“I came prepared,” Lyle said. He went over to his golf bag, unzipped the big pocket, and took out a paper bag. Lyle ripped off the top of the paper bag, scattering ice cubes onto the floor of the shelter, and smiled triumphantly as he displayed a gleaming six-pack of beer. “Who’s gonna join me?”
“Glad to, Lyle,” Will said. It was early in the day but what the hell.
“Sure,” Grant said.
Lyle handed them each a beer, then turned to the banker. “I forgot your name.”
“Jim Powell,” the banker said.
“Well, Jim Powell, how about a beer?”
“It’s a little early for me.” Jim Powell smiled wanly as his three golfing companions drank beer. Will didn’t want him to feel left out, so he said, “Where did you learn to play golf like that?”
“Been playing since I was a kid—” Powell began.
“Powell?” Lyle said. “Now I know where I heard that name. Your father is the dentist.”
“Orthodontist, yes,” Powell said. “That’s him.”
“So,” Lyle said, “you played a lot of Wednesday afternoons with your father, I bet?”
“Yes. Still do.”
“And probably played on your college team.”
“At Cornell, yes.”
“That’s one school I never tried,” Lyle said.
“Anyhow,” Will said to Powell, “you have a game to envy.”
“Amen,” Grant said.
“Thank you,” Powell said. “I enjoy it.”
“You’re lucky if you enjoy playing golf with your father,” Lyle said. “I wish I could enjoy playing with mine.”
Will saw something in Grant’s eyes. It might have been anger, might have been understanding, might even have been sadness. Then it was gone.
It rained harder. Some drops splashed into the shelter. Powell got up and closed the windows partway.
“You’re with Bessemer Trust,” Lyle said.
“Yes, I am,” Powell said.
“They tell you at the bank that golf is important?”
“Some people do use it for networking, yes.”
Will braced himself for a snide remark from Lyle. He wished the young banker wouldn’t make himself such an easy target.
“Networking,” Lyle said as he hurled his empty beer can noisily into a corner and opened another beer with a spurt of foam. But Lyle’s kindness had taken over, and he merely snorted mildly with disgust.
“Listen,” Powell said. “I do believe the rain’s letting up. I think I’ll swing a club for a few minutes so I don’t lose my groove.”
“Rain or not, he’s wet behind the ears,” Lyle said when the banker was gone.
“He’s young,” Will said. “He’s just trying to figure out how he fits in. Like we all had to do once.”
“Like we all had to do,” Lyle said wistfully.
“All of us,” Will said. He looked again at Grant and thought he saw him nod.
The rain on the roof was much fainter now.
“How will we know whether to start playing again?” Grant said.
“They’ll sound a siren from the clubhouse,” Will said.
Lyle threw his second empty can noisily into the corner and stood up. “I need some air,” he said. “Then I’m ready to tear this goddamn course apart.”
“It’s a good course,” Grant said. “Very pretty.”
“I agree,” Lyle said. Picking up his golf bag, he lurched toward the door. Then he paused and looked straight at Will. “Tell you something you didn’t know,” he said coldly. “Arkie Grisanti built this little shelter ’cause he thought it would make my old man happy. No big deal, right? You know damn well Arkie is gonna want something in return. So be ready, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Thanks,” Will said. “I appreciate that.” When Lyle had gone, Will looked at Grant and said, “Grisanti’s a builder. The paper’s had his feet to the fire on a couple of things, and he keeps trying to go over my head to the publisher.”
“And the publisher’s son was warning you?” Grant said incredulously.
“A decent guy, Lyle is. Publisher’s son or not, he has it tough. Maybe because he’s the publisher’s son. I can’t imagine the pressure he must feel sometimes.”
“Some job you have,” Grant said. “You must really have to watch your ass.”
Will chuckled. “I just try to do it the best I can and only take the important baggage home with me. It pays to have a tough hide. I didn’t, at first, but I’ve acquired more of one.”
“I bet.”
It was hard to tell now whether the drops on the roof were fresh rain or just water being stripped from the trees. From the distant clubhouse a siren sounded.
“I guess we can go chop up the grass again,” Will said.
“Yep. Maybe the beer’ll help my swing. I just hope Lyle doesn’t fall over.”
“He’ll be okay.”
They picked up their bags and went out. It was a short walk through the rain-cooled air to the next tee, where Lyle and the banker were staying a good distance apart as they took their warm-up swings.
“What made you come back?” Will said to Grant. “I was surprised, frankly.”
Will thought he saw something in Grant’s face, as though his guard had come up instantly.
“I just felt it was time, that’s all,” Grant said.
“Well, I hope you enjoy everything.” Will saw the flecks of sand and mud on Grant’s golf slacks, looked down, and saw similar stains on his own clothes. “At least we look like golfers,” Will said.
“Yeah. Bad ones.”
“Funny. Years ago, when you worked here, we never played together.”
“No.”
“If we had, we might even have liked each other,” Will said. He saw Grant flinch, but he went on. “Stranger things have happened. As I remember, we kind of rubbed each other the wrong way back then.”
“Yeah, I guess we did.”
“Ever do an imitation of me?”
“No.”
“Ever wish you’d stayed?” Will asked quietly.
“Hey, you guys!” Lyle shouted from down the path. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I suppose there’ve been times I wish I’d stayed.”
“I can tell you there’ve been times I wish I hadn’t,” Will said. “Maybe we can compare notes before you go back.”
“Okay. Sure.”
They were at the next tee. Lyle was standing off to the side as Powell prepared to drive. The banker swung too hard, topped his ball, and barely sent it over a knoll a hundred yards out
Lyle steadied himself enough to hit a decent, safe drive. Will followed, going a little to the right but playable. Then Grant hit his ball in the same direction, so they walked down the right side of the fairway together.
“The publisher treats Lyle like crap sometimes,” Will said. “Of course, we can’t choose our parents, can we?”
“No. Sure can’t.”
“I guess the trick is to see them as just people. Are yours still around? Alive, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Mine are gone.”
Grant felt uneasy. For some reason, Will Shafer seemed to want to empty his soul.
“Do you keep in touch with your folks?” Will said.
“Kind of. My folks and I are planning a football trip to Notre Dame this fall.”
Grant was surprised when Will stopped dead in his tracks
for a second.
“Ah, that must be great,” Will said softly. “I used to envy you—still do—because you went there.”
Grant was out of things to say for now.
“Yeah, I wanted to go there,” Will said. Then he shook his head and resumed walking. “The rough’s not too bad. Looks like I can use a four wood from that lie.”
Marlee had been surprised when Ed Delaney knocked at her door. She let him in, apologized for being half-awake, sat him down, and made some coffee. They talked for a few minutes about the weather, how rain was blowing in off the lake and would probably screw up the golf tournament.
“Serves ’em right,” Delaney said. “If I can’t play at the country club, why should anyone else?”
“Shame on you,” Marlee said. “There are some really nice people playing right now. One or two.”
“I doubt it.”
Marlee waited. It was up to Ed Delaney to speak next, because they both knew he had come for a purpose. Marlee was eager to tell him as much as she could about the meeting in the park, but first she would wait him out.
“Twenty years can go by awful fast,” Delaney said.
“For people our age, yes.”
“Reason I say that, all of a sudden I’ve got twenty years on the force. Means I can retire at half pay and start a new career, managing a security company or something like that, the way a lot of old cops do. Put it another way, as long as I work after twenty years, I’m working for half pay. In effect.”
“Oh. It’s hard to think of you as ready to retire.”
“I’ve been fighting the whole idea. Part of me, maybe the best part, likes being a cop. But lately this thing we’ve been talking about … Damn it, I don’t know how to put this.”
As Marlee waited for him to go on, she noticed that the rain was letting up.
“Truth is,” Delaney said, “if I’m enough of a cop that I’m not ready to retire, then I should still be enough of a cop that I don’t back off. I’ve been reminding myself of that.”
He paused, Marlee waited.
“What I said on the porch, how I was, that wasn’t the cop in me,” Delaney said. “Being a cop, a good cop, means doing what you have to do. Even if you risk pissing somebody off and getting busted to patrolman and walking a beat again.”
Night of the Ice Storm Page 26
