Playing the Devil

by R. J. Lee

  “Two words,” she said cryptically while holding up two fingers. “Gerald Mansfield. Mean anything to you?”

  Ross frowned while searching his brain. “Nope, I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “Well, he could be a new suspect,” Wendy said. “He’s the greenskeeper out at the RCC.”

  Then she told Ross the rest of what Deedah had mentioned to her during their recent interview.

  “But he obviously wasn’t in the building Saturday night, and Miz Deedah said he had the day off,” Ross pointed out.

  Wendy gave him that kittenish look of hers when she wanted more out of him in an official capacity, that look when she expected him to cross the line ever so slightly and divulge things that properly belonged to the CID and not the general public. But she was not the general public. She was the daughter of the police chief, and Ross’s girlfriend as well. As a result, she was always the beneficiary of lagniappe and leaks.

  “So, let me guess. There were lots of unidentified prints and DNA out at the RCC, and there were no hits on any of them.”

  Ross nodded with a sly grin, obviously wise to her line of questioning. “Yes. But that was to be expected, since RCC members are always out there doing things. I’m sure the custodian can only do so much in a busy place like that. And, by the way, he wasn’t there on Saturday. We’ve confirmed that, and he has an alibi.”

  “Then there’d be no harm in interrogating Gerald Mansfield on his whereabouts Saturday as well. Particularly if he has no alibi.”

  Ross reached across the table and patted Wendy’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll follow up.” Then he managed a barely audible chuckle and a brazen wink at the same time. “I appreciate the lead, but you are incorrigible. Your father’s right. You sure you don’t want to switch from newspaper reporter to detective? We could be a husband and wife team like Nick and Nora Charles from the thirties. You know how much I love old movies.” He paused and calmly added as an afterthought, “Eventually . . . husband and wife, I mean.”

  Wendy gave him her best sideways glance, but she was only playing at being displeased. It had been over a year since he had last proposed and she had turned him down; and in that year, she had learned a great deal about investigative reporting—the main reason she wanted to postpone anything as monumental as a wedding engagement. “We both have our pressing agendas, don’t we?”

  Then Ross withdrew his hand and took another sip of water, gazing at her earnestly. “While I have your utmost attention, I’d appreciate any insights you’ve gathered from your interviews so far.”

  “From Deedah and Mitzy, you mean, since they’re the only ones I’ve gotten to talk to so far.”

  “Yep. Anything you have would be appreciated,” he said. “You have very good instincts about people.”

  Wendy thought for a while as she sipped her water and then said, “Mitzy Stone seems completely devoted to her golf pro career, and she’s very good at what she does. Offhand, I’d say she was way too strong a woman to let snide remarks from the likes of Brent Ogle bother her. Deedah seems to swear by her as well. It’s hard for me to picture Mitzy letting Brent get the better of her under any circumstances. She’s already proven her point at the RCC, and that means everything to her.”

  “And Deedah?”

  “Same story,” Wendy said. “She bucked tradition and went after the directorship after William Voss keeled over. She beat the odds. It takes a strong woman to do something like that and succeed, and I can tell you that she’s been doing a bang-up job at the RCC. If I hadn’t had to meet with her so much over the past several months to organize our Bridge Bunch, I wouldn’t know that. But she’s well organized and efficient and very pleasant to work with. Both women are perfect examples of professionals who get things done the right way.”

  Then Wendy hesitated for a moment, and her mouth twitched to one side. There had been moments when Deedah had made her a bit uncomfortable. “I will say this, though. Deedah is very protective of her son, Hollis. He’s her project, and I know she didn’t appreciate the way Brent Ogle treated him. The typical mother hen—or even tiger—in that respect.”

  “Those two are very different creatures,” Ross pointed out. “Hen is one thing; tiger is another. So it would not be a stretch to say that just as you and Deedah worked as a team successfully, you could easily picture Deedah and Mitzy working together as a team the same way.”

  “Of course.” Then Wendy eyed him intently. “Wait. . . . I have a feeling you’re going somewhere with this. Do you mind sharing this particular theory of yours, or is it off the boards?”

  “Just conjecture on the part of your father and myself,” he told her. “We were tossing around the idea earlier that more than one person might have been involved in Brent’s murder. That one person might have done the deed while the other was watching out or keeping guard, so to speak.”

  “I never thought of that,” Wendy said. “But knowing Deedah as I do, I can’t picture her actually doing either one of those.”

  “And Mitzy?”

  Wendy did not answer immediately, and her tone was less than confident when she finally spoke up. “As I said before, I just can’t picture her letting Brent Ogle rile her up very much. After all, she was the one who intervened in the altercation between Tip Jarvis and Brent. I see her more as a forceful peacemaker.”

  Ross had an odd smirk on his face. “You just described a rogue. There are plenty of them out there who feel it’s their duty to serve up justice on their own.”

  “Maybe there are,” Wendy said, flashing a frown. “But I really don’t see Mitzy as that type of vigilante.”

  The waitress arrived with their food. Her plastic nameplate identified her as Cherry, and her personality fit her name perfectly as she served them like she was delivering lines in a Rosalie Little Theater play. “Your yummy Bluff burger, sir, and your scrumptious Cobb salad, miss. And two iced teas, all fresh from Miz Selena Chalk’s kitchen.”

  “Is she here today?” Wendy said, perking up noticeably.

  “Back in the kitchen watching over everything as usual,” Cherry said, pointing across the room.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, would you ask her if she could step out and say hello to us?” Wendy added. “We’re two of her best customers.”

  “Right away, and let me know if you need anything else.” And with that, Cherry was off and running.

  It did not take long for the Bluff City Bistro’s proprietor to appear at their table, though slightly out of breath. The significant girth beneath her formless frock usually did not permit her to do anything but lumber, but she was obviously making an exception, picking up the pace for Wendy and Ross.

  “I’m so glad to see you both,” she said, giving them a great double-chinned smile and then leaning down to deliver a peck to their cheeks. “I was in my office when you came in.”

  “How’s business, Miz Selena?” Wendy added. “I don’t see too many empty tables today.”

  Selena puffed up her already-formidable chest and made a sweeping gesture. “Thankfully, business has picked up. It’s been a gradual thing, of course, but it took some time after those Gin Girls—may they rest in peace despite what they said—wrote that nasty letter to the Citizen about my restaurant last year. Of course, not a word of it was true.”

  “I know,” Wendy said, shaking her head. “Dalton Hemmings should never have published it. I don’t know what he was thinking.” There was a brief pause. “Well, actually, I do. Those ladies all had him under their thumb.”

  Then Selena gave a little gasp and caught Ross’s gaze. “I read about the murder out at the country club in the paper, Mr. Rierson.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “An awful thing, but I have to say, I’m not surprised.”

  Now it was Ross who perked up. “Oh? Why is that?”

  Selena quickly surveyed the tables around her and continued in a low voice. “I hope I’m not stepping on any toes, but that Mr. Ogle was a very rude man. When he came in here, he treated
my waitstaff like they were slaves. He even made my dear little Cherry cry once. He threw a fork on the floor in a tantrum and told her it had food spots on it—which by the way could never happen at my restaurant—and he used profanity in telling her that. I’m sure the poor little thing had never heard so many words of that ilk hurled at her that way. And with all the money I know Mr. Ogle must have made as a lawyer, he was the cheapest tipper around. Not even ten percent. More like five. He might as well have left nothing on the table. We all cringed whenever we saw him come in. ‘What will he do next?’ we were all thinking. So what I’m saying is that I’m not surprised someone did him in, if that was an example of how he treated everybody. But don’t read me the wrong way now; murdering someone is a horrible thing to do, no matter what.”

  Ross nodded but spoke in a professional manner. “Thank you for that information, Miz Selena. We’ve already started our investigation, and every little bit helps, you know.”

  Selena gestured at their plates in her best restaurant owner manner. “Well, I’ll let you have your lunch in peace. So good to see you both again, of course. You let me or Cherry know immediately if anything’s not right, ya hear?”

  “Will do,” Wendy said with a genuine smile as Selena headed back to her kitchen.

  Wendy’s phone pinged on the table, and she picked it up and read the text she’d just received.

  “Anything of importance?” Ross said, noting the surprised expression on Wendy’s face.

  “Not sure yet. It’s from Carly Ogle. She says she wants to talk to me ASAP at her house.”

  Ross nodded emphatically. “By all means, hear what she has to say. You’ll have to let me know what happens. I know I intend to question her further. She found her husband’s body even before you did, and there’s that odd business about somebody knocking her down in the hallway. We need to find out who that was, of course. Could be the killer, or someone who knows who the killer is. You never know where your leads will come from.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance Carly is holding something back? Am I reading you right?”

  Ross took his time, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Anything’s possible. Something was definitely strange about her attitude toward her husband’s death. She could have been in shock, of course, but on the other hand, I got the impression she just didn’t care. Between the two of us, maybe we can uncover the truth.”

  CHAPTER 6

  As Wendy drove down US 61 South toward Carly Ogle’s house, she was filled with conflict. Carly had made no secret of the fact that hers was far from a happy marriage. Her visible alcohol consumption alone pointed to a problem somewhere in her life, and Wendy had long ago concluded that her husband, Brent, was the problem. As far as it was possible to glean from a text in cyberspace, Wendy also detected a plea for help that she could not ignore. It wasn’t just the ASAP that had done the trick. It went further back than that. It was the way Carly had conducted herself from the moment that locker-room door had opened and she had just stood there like one of the walking dead. Perhaps Carly was going to open up to her in a way that she was very uncomfortable doing with the police. Maybe it was a “trust another female thing.”

  As Wendy turned onto the long gravel road that led to the plantation-style home that Brent Ogle had built for himself with his considerable fortune and called Brentwood, she was reminded of the character of the man, himself. He had obviously attempted to re-create the iconic Southern mansion with its white columns and many-shuttered windows across the two-story façade. But instead of actually buying and restoring an existing plantation in that style, he had started from the ground up and created something that reflected his personality inside and out—and no one else’s. Had he bought the real thing, he would also have inherited a row of mature, graceful live oaks dripping with Spanish moss that formed the typical alley or tunnel so admired by locals and tourists alike. Instead, he had been forced to plant oak saplings on his clear-cut acreage, and even though they had grown some since they were put in the ground a couple of decades ago, they were far from the majestic trees that fired up the imagination and gave people an undeniable sense of the past.

  Wendy also hoped that Carly might reveal things to her that could possibly enhance the feature she would be doing on women at the RCC. Who better to give her the proper perspective on that than the women who belonged to it?

  Minutes later, when Wendy and Carly finally sat down together on the tiger-striped sectional sofa that matched the purple portieres in the gold-carpeted parlor—obviously Brent’s idea of commemorating his years at LSU—there was a palpable tension hanging in the air. It was not Wendy’s imagination that Carly had not made eye contact with her since Reeny, the maid, had announced her in the doorframe. It also appeared that Carly had been crying—her eyes were pink, the lashes wet and clumped together, as she kept sniffling into a handkerchief.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Wendy finally said, since Carly had not even offered a perfunctory “hello.”

  Carly blew her nose gently and did not answer immediately. She was making quite the production of whatever it was that was upsetting her.

  “I got here as soon as I could. I somehow sensed you were in a bad place. Has something else happened since Saturday that I ought to know about?”

  Finally, Carly straightened her slumping posture and sighed deeply. “First things first. My son David’s arriving tomorrow from Wisconsin, so I can finally have a memorial service for Brent. But the truth is, I’m not letting it widely be known that we are even having a service at the First Presbyterian Church. I think the turnout will be embarrassing, considering how Brent treated just about everyone. And the coroner’s office called to let me know the State Medical Examiner in Jackson is seriously backed up and it’ll be a little while yet before they get to Brent’s autopsy. I don’t see why they needed to do it at all. I didn’t want them to. The very idea of cutting people open and rooting around inside makes me ill. But the coroner says that since Brent’s death was violent and not due to natural causes, they have to do it in this case. Meanwhile, Brent wanted to be cremated, so I have to even wait on that. I just want to get this over and done with, so I’m going ahead with the memorial service tomorrow. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.”

  Wendy’s eyes widened, and she reached over to rub Carly’s arm gently. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll want to be there for you and meet your son as well. What time is the service?”

  “Didn’t I say?”

  Wendy shook her head. “No. Those tears of yours are interfering with your memory, I’m afraid.”

  “Probably. Anyway, the service is at seven.”

  “I’ll be there. And I’ll try to round up Ross, too.”

  That seemed to calm Carly down for a few seconds. But that didn’t last long. She was soon dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief again. “There’s something else I wanted to tell you, though. It’s in the way of a confession. Just let me tell it, and then you can tell me what you think I ought to do.”

  Wendy felt her pulse quicken and her stomach muscles tighten. A part of her wondered if she even wanted to hear what Carly had to say. “I’ll give you the best advice I can.”

  “Let me put you at ease first,” Carly said, still sniffling lightly. “I didn’t kill Brent, and I don’t know who did. And everything else I told you and Detective Rierson is the truth about someone tackling me, knocking me to the floor, and running away. But I feel guilty about something else, and I just have to get it out.”

  “I’m right here,” Wendy said, tapping her chest lightly a couple of times. “You know you can trust me.”

  Carly seemed to be agonizing further for a while but finally told her story. “It was just that when you said you were going to the ladies’ room, and I told you I wanted to go with you, it wasn’t because I had to go to the bathroom at all. You’ll recall that I told you I wanted to check in on Brent out on the deck and that I left you at the locker-room door all by yourself.”

/>   “Yes. I can’t imagine what you’re going to say to me next, though.”

  Carly again avoided eye contact, staring at the handkerchief she’d now put in her lap. “What I’m going to say to you may come as a shock, but my intention was to find Brent so drunk in that hot tub that I could push him under the water and hold him down until he drowned. I can tell you that it flashed into my head once the power went out. It just came to me like some wicked wish and took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. I was still furious with him for that fight he picked with Tip and Connor, and I even thought about telling him that I wanted him out of my life for good. A divorce, finally. And you have no idea how sick of him I was.”

  “Yes, I think I do have some idea based on what I saw of your husband at the RCC,” Wendy said, getting a word in.

  Carly nodded and continued her story. “I stayed in the marriage for the sake of our son, David. But he’s a grown man now, teaching up in Wisconsin because he wanted to get as far away from his father as he could; and he would ask me from time to time when we were going to get a divorce. He grew up knowing how bad things were between his mother and father. David is so unlike his father, it’s not even funny. He’s much more like me inside, even looks more like me on the outside. He even started calling himself David when he got out on his own. He was christened Brent David Ogle, Jr., but he detested being called Brent Junior, and his father knew it. Maybe that’s another reason Brent was so at war with practically everyone. He couldn’t get his own son to give him the sort of respect he required, and I have to tell you, it wasn’t David’s fault that it turned out that way.”

  Wendy did not respond further. The revelations within the long monologue had indeed come as a shock to her, and her vocal cords seemed almost paralyzed. Her tongue had become very dry, and she even found it hard to swallow.

  “You see why I’m so upset now, don’t you?” Carly added. “There I was, seriously considering killing my husband, but someone beat me to the punch. How do you think that makes me feel? If whoever it was that killed him hadn’t done it, then I know I would have. I was not thinking straight, I can tell you. It was like I’d been possessed by the Devil. But I was saved from committing murder by someone who wanted to kill him as much as I did. Maybe even more. I can’t get that thought out of my head. It was almost a ‘take a number’ proposition. That’s why I didn’t bring any of this up to Mr. Rierson. I think it’s something he doesn’t need to know, since what I was going to do never happened. Still, I feel so guilty—and also grateful to whoever it was that got to him first to keep me out of trouble. That’s such a creepy combination, and you were absolutely right when you came in and said you sensed I was in a bad place. It’s a very bad place I’m stuck in, and it’s really driving me crazy.”