The Club

by Jane Heller

  “Now then,” said Ducky. “Here we are, just the three of us.” He sighed, glancing up at the sky, which was beginning to redden in anticipation of a spectacular sunset. He returned his gaze to us. “I suppose you both want to know why,” he said matter of factly, as if he were about to explain to us why he’d played a hole with a nine-iron instead of a three-iron.

  “Ducky,” Hunt said, wide-eyed with fear and confusion. “Tell me this is all some kind of a joke.”

  Ducky laughed his genial, avuncular laugh and tightened his grip on the gun.

  “No, it’s no joke,” he said. “It’s a sad story, actually. And since neither of you is in a big hurry to leave, I suppose I’ll give you the unabridged version.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “First, let me apologize to you, Hunt, for all the anxiety I’ve caused you,” Ducky began as he continued to point the gun at us. “I don’t want you to think I haven’t valued our friendship. I’ve enjoyed working with you at F&F and playing golf with you here at The Oaks. You’ve even made serving on the Finance Committee tolerable.”

  Hunt shook his head. “Then why?” he asked plaintively. “Why all this? Why the gun?”

  “The gun?” he shrugged. “Just for extra protection. When you play the games I play, you tend to need extra protection.”

  “The games?” I said disgustedly. “Is that what you call murdering the woman you considered your grand passion?”

  Ducky cocked his head and looked at me. “So you did overhear that little conversation,” he said. “I thought you might have. No, killing Claire was not a game. Not a game at all.”

  “I can’t believe this. You really did it,” Hunt said, finally accepting the fact that his friend was a murderer. “Back in July, when Judy told me she suspected you, I actually defended you. I kept telling her and the detective she was working with that you were an honest, stand-up guy. And now I find out that you’re not. You’re a fucking murderer.”

  “Guilty,” said Ducky, nodding his head.

  “You God damn son of a bitch! Why, I ought to—” Suddenly, Hunt was charging toward Ducky, as if he wanted to tear him apart, but Ducky shoved the gun into Hunt’s chest and pushed him back.

  “Let’s not get emotional,” said Ducky, straightening the collar of his polo shirt. “Not if you want to hear the whole story.”

  “Hunt!” I cried. “He could have shot you!”

  Hunt composed himself and stood next to me. We joined hands and waited for Ducky to speak.

  “Now, you two. I wonder if you’d mind stepping back just a few feet,” he said, using the gun as his pointer. “That’s right. Closer to the lake. A little closer. Yes, that’s perfect. I love being near the water, always have. And besides, I’d rather we stay out of sight, in case one of our fellow club members comes moseying along on this balmy evening.”

  We were on the edge of the lake then. The mosquitoes that had emerged in the humid dusk air began to nip at my bare legs, but I had bigger problems. Much bigger problems.

  “So,” Ducky said. “I’d like to start by telling you that I hadn’t planned things to turn out this way today. I had fully expected to play nine holes of golf and go home. But then I had to use that silly voice of mine, and Judy had to notice. Tant pis, eh?”

  I squeezed Hunt’s hand and tried to silence my heart, which was thumping so loud in my chest I thought I’d die within seconds.

  “I was always a risk taker,” Ducky said wistfully, like a favorite uncle about to tell the story of his glory days on the high school basketball team. “But I was a closet risk taker. I didn’t seem the type to take the more dangerous, less cautious route, but that was precisely what I always did. Sweet, mild-mannered Ducky, the boy who played with fire.” He chuckled. I shuddered. “Yes, I was the kid who didn’t study until the night before the exam, knowing he might fail. The kid who stole money from his father, knowing he’d get six lashes with the belt if he got caught. The kid who ‘pushed the envelope,’ as they say, always staying one step ahead of disaster. It was sport, you see. Strictly sport.” He paused to swat mosquitoes with his gun. “I decided to go to Berkeley, instead of U.Va., Dad’s alma mater, just to piss the old boy off. But soon after I arrived there, I found that I was bored stiff. The academics didn’t interest me, nor did they challenge me particularly. And the social life—well, it was dreary, to say the least, all that rah-rah fraternity stuff. I kept myself from going stir-crazy by running card games in the dorms. Poker. Gin rummy. That sort of thing. Betting—gambling, as it were—was against the school rules, of course, but I had to feed my need for danger, didn’t I? Breaking the rules was my addiction, you see?”

  Hunt and I were supposed to nod, I guessed, but we clung to each other, offering Ducky nothing in the way of understanding.

  “Then came the antiwar movement and the protest marches and rallies. Talk about breaking the rules! The movement was made for me. I could break rules and be thought of as a selfless activist! And then I met Clissy. Beautiful Clissy.”

  Ducky looked like a lovesick teenager suddenly, and I felt a wave of revulsion toward him. How could this man who had seemed so normal, so harmless, turn out to be such a monster? I’d suspected him, and Tom had talked me out of it. If only I hadn’t been so quick to dismiss my feelings and examined his behavior more closely. It wouldn’t have saved Claire, but it would surely have saved Arlene.

  “It wasn’t hard to fall in love with Claire Cox,” Ducky continued. “Every guy with half a brain fell in love with her. Every guy who wasn’t threatened by her, that is. She was lovely and passionate and alive. She had principles, which, of course, I did not, and when I was in her presence, I felt as if I were the most moral, principled guy in the world. Her goodness made me good. Her righteousness made me righteous. I volunteered for the committees she was on. I raised money for all the causes she supported. I made her care for me, through planning and hard work and, yes, cunning. Obviously, I wasn’t going to win her with my dashing good looks. I’m a chipmunk, my charming wife never ceases to remind me. Look at me.”

  He patted his paunch and laughed.

  “But it worked, you see,” he went on. “Gradually, she realized how grateful she was for all the money I’d raised, how comfortable she felt with me, how much we had in common. We both came from old New England stock and we both angered our families with our antiestablishment stances. We were Claire and Ducky against the world, and when we finally became lovers, I felt as if I’d accomplished something important. Something that would last forever. Something that went beyond the games and plots and schemes that had been my sickness and salvation since I was a kid.”

  “What went wrong between you?” I asked hesitantly, aware that I might upset Ducky with my question and provoke him to use the gun. But I needed to know how his romance with Claire had led to murder, how two lives full of promise had ended in tragedy.

  “Oh, there was someone else,” said Ducky offhandedly. “For Claire, of course, not for me. Never for me.” He swallowed hard. “He was a Russian exchange student, and he lasted a few months at the most.”

  “And after they broke up? You and Claire couldn’t pick up where you left off?” I asked.

  “Regretfully, no. I had left Berkeley and transferred to my father’s alma mater by then. I’d been banished, you see. Bounced out on my bloody ass.”

  So Arlene’s boyfriend Randy had recounted the story accurately. Ducky had left Berkeley under a cloud of suspicion.

  “You see, I had been found out,” he explained, his eyes becoming glassy and unfocused. “For the first time in my life, I’d gotten caught.”

  “Caught at what?” asked Hunt.

  “Remember when I said I’d helped Claire raise money for her causes?” said Ducky. “Well, how do you think I came up with the money? From my father, Mr. John Birch Society? Hardly.”

  “You stole it?” I ventured.

  “Oh, Judy. You underestimate me,” Ducky chuckled. “I was never a thief. Not really. I
was a game player, a sportsman.”

  “Just tell us what you did,” Hunt said impatiently.

  “Easy, easy. I’m getting to it,” Ducky replied. “Actually, my first idea was to ask my father for the money. I thought it would impress Claire if I came up with some cash myself, rather than to take the time to stage rallies and lectures and all that. I was always one for shortcuts, you know?” He didn’t wait for a response. “But old Dad turned me down flat. He said that my ‘Communist’ activities were an embarrassment to the family. That’s Dad for you. Conservative to a fault.” He sighed. “So I came up with another idea: I stole tests. English lit. Poly sci. Economics. The whole lot.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “And I thought you said you weren’t a thief,” said Hunt.

  “Now, now, you two. Let me finish,” said Ducky. “I stole the tests, complete with the answers to the tests, and sold them to students. Lots of students. Students who were warned that if they breathed a word to anyone, they’d be risking expulsion. And since nobody wanted to get expelled, the scheme was a grand success. I made good money and gave it to Claire. For her antiwar causes. She thought I was wonderful, which was the point, of course.”

  I shook my head. The man was sick, and his sickness was terrifying.

  “Sad to say that the school eventually conducted an investigation,” Ducky went on. “And it led to me.”

  “They found out that you stole the tests?” I asked.

  “Exactly. One of the kids ’fessed up, to my grave disappointment. Claire found out about it and wanted nothing to do with me. No surprise there. My father exerted his considerable influence and talked the dean at U.Va. into letting me come to Charlottesville after Berkeley threw me out.”

  “That explains why Claire avoided you when she joined the club,” I said. “It doesn’t explain why you killed her.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ducky conceded. “When I heard she was joining The Oaks, I was thrilled. I thought perhaps she had forgotten what had happened in college. It was so long ago, after all. I wanted the chance to show her I’d changed, that I’d made a life for myself as a respected and respectable member of society, that I could be trusted, that I was worthy of her at last. But it was Claire who played games, Claire who tried to pull a scam on me.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Hunt snapped.

  “Claire tried to ruin me, folks,” said Ducky. “Yup. Our Lady of Truth and Justice tried to destroy my life.”

  “Why would she want to do that?” I said. “If you ask me, it seemed as if she didn’t give two shits about you.”

  “Oh, you’re right there, Judy,” Ducky said. “She certainly didn’t, and she made that very clear. You see, when she found out that I had been skimming a little money off the club’s—”

  “You!” I interrupted him, suddenly putting things together. “So it wasn’t Duncan Tewksbury. It was you who helped Brendan rip off the club! We suspected that one of the members was in on the kickback schemes, but we didn’t suspect you, Ducky.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Neither did anybody else,” he said. “And I was on the Finance Committee, for God’s sake.”

  “On second thought,” I added, “I’ll bet you engineered the schemes and used Brendan to do your dirty work. Am I right?”

  “Right as rain,” said Ducky, almost proudly.

  “Jesus,” said Hunt as he drew me to him. “You need help, Ducky. Big-time help.”

  Ducky threw his head back and laughed out loud. “I need help all right,” he said. “I need to finish this story and get out of here. Nedra’s having the Vails and the Bidwells over for dinner and I’m running late.”

  “Jesus,” Hunt said again.

  “Now, may I go on?” Ducky said. “Claire called me at the office, just before the July Fourth weekend, and told me she wanted to talk to me. In my naiveté, I thought she wanted to rekindle the romance, reconsider what we had together, see if she felt anything for me after twenty-five years. So I suggested we meet in a romantic place, away from Nedra and everybody else. The golf course at The Oaks seemed like a good idea—at the time. When I arrived at the fourth hole, where we’d agreed to meet the night of the party, Claire hadn’t shown up yet. I noticed that someone had left the pro’s pitching wedge in the sand trap. While I waited, I dug it out, walked onto the green, and took a few swings. I was all keyed up about being alone with Claire, and the exercise sort of helped me work off the tension. Then Claire came. She walked toward me, and she didn’t look happy. I dropped the pitching wedge and put my arm around her. She pulled away. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me she knew all about the kickbacks and threatened to have me arrested. She brought up what happened at Berkeley and said just what you said, Hunt: that I needed help. I told her the only thing I needed was her. We quarreled. I told her I loved her. I even promised to see someone, a shrink, anything. But she wouldn’t budge. She said I was a menace to society and should be put away. Not very sporting of her, eh?”

  Ducky was still pointing the gun at us, but he was gripping it tighter and waving it slightly as he gestured. I squeezed Hunt’s hand and prayed our ordeal was coming to an end, that Ducky would finish his story and let us go. Fat chance.

  “She said she’d heard enough and started to walk away from me,” Ducky continued, becoming more agitated. “I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t let her go back to that party and tell everybody what I’d done. There was my marriage to think of. My job at F&F. My membership at the club. Everything. I panicked. I spotted the golf club on the ground and grabbed it. The next thing I knew I was hitting Claire on the back of the head. Over and over. I never saw her face again. I just watched her sink to the ground, then I dragged her body a few feet and laid it in the sand trap, facedown. I waited a few minutes to compose myself and then went back to the party.”

  Hunt and I were silent. What could we say? Or do? We were in the presence of a madman with no means of escape. Our golf cart was at the bottom of the lake. Our captor had a gun which he seemed quite capable of using.

  We were stuck there, alone with Ducky, at his very mercy.

  “And then, of course, you two started snooping around,” said Ducky wearily. “I tried to scare you off in the elevator that day, Judy. Then when you wouldn’t leave it alone and got Brendan to incriminate himself in the bookkeeping office at the club, I figured I’d be the next one on your hit list. And I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to find out if you had evidence against me. I knew you were going down to Florida, so I broke into your house. I had no idea you had a houseguest, obviously. Poor woman. Attractive too. I left one of Brendan’s cigarettes in your kitchen sink, just in case the police wondered who hurt your friend. I try to think of everything, you know?”

  I did know, and suddenly the tears came. Big, fat tears that rolled down my cheeks onto my blouse. I had dreaded the moment when Ducky would come to the end of his gruesome tale, for I knew it probably meant the end of me. And now he had.

  “Ducky, listen,” I said. “I can understand why you did what you did. Honestly. You’re the type of person who loves a good prank, and you did those things—stealing the tests in college, overcharging the club for food, etc.—for sport, just like you said. They were pranks, that’s all. Now as far as Claire’s…accident, well I’m sure that a good lawyer will—”

  “That’s going to have to be all,” Ducky cut me off after checking his watch. “As I told you, we’ve got company coming for a little Sunday night supper. Now, Hunt, I’d like you to stand here.” Ducky pointed to a spot near the lake. “And Judy, you stand here.” He pointed to the ground just to the left of where he was standing.

  We followed his instructions, having no choice in the matter.

  “What are you planning to do with us?” Hunt asked through clenched teeth.

  “I’m planning to arrange a murder-suicide,” he said matter of factly. “You read about them all the time in the newspaper. Dreadful stuff, don’t
you think?”

  I gasped. “Please, Ducky,” I said, the tears continuing to fall. “Please don’t do this. If you let us go we’ll—”

  “There’s been so much talk about the two of you at this club,” he went on. “People have wondered about your marriage, about what the stress of working for the police has done to you, about the fact that Judy can’t get a job in publishing and Hunt isn’t going anywhere at F&F. And then there’s Hunt’s daughter who’s always coming between you. I’ll just explain that we went to play golf this afternoon, but that you two had a disagreement. I’ll say that I left you alone, to work things out, and went home. I’ll say what a tragedy it was that Hunt couldn’t control his temper, how sad that he had to shoot his wife and then himself. Sad, sad, sad.”

  “You don’t really think anybody will believe you, do you, Ducky?” Hunt said. “People who know us know I would never—”

  “Please!” Ducky snapped. “I’d like you both to be quiet, while I explain the sequence of events. Now, I’m going to shoot you first, Judy. I’m not a bad shot, considering my lack of practice. Do you have any final words for Hunt? A goodbye? Something?”

  I was about to speak when I watched in horror as Hunt charged toward Ducky a second time, tackling him around the knees and wrestling him to the ground. Miraculously, the gun dropped out of Ducky’s hand without going off. I raced over and grabbed it, then pointed it at Ducky’s head.

  “Okay, okay,” I said breathlessly. “Now you’re going to do what I say, Ducky.”

  Ducky stood up, his hands in the air, and laughed. Laughed!

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Judy,” he said. “We both know that. Now give me the gun.” He walked toward me. I backed up, then realized that if I backed up anymore, I’d be in the lake, along with my golf cart. I stopped and tried to hold the gun steady. “Give me the gun, Judy,” Ducky repeated as he drew closer to me.

  Hunt went at him again, this time with his fist. He overswung wildly, missing Ducky’s head. Then Ducky swung at Hunt and caught him in the eye. They fought, while I stood there, holding the gun, knowing that I didn’t know the first thing about guns, knowing that if I fired I’d very likely shoot Hunt, not Ducky, or maybe even myself.