"I gotta go—the press wants to talk to me," I said. A total lie, but it sounded good. "So good luck." I punched the end button with more vigor than was necessary, cutting off his second round of effusive congratulations.
At some primitive operating level of my brain, I had known that the relationship with Jack had been more fantasy than real. Hell, we barely knew each other. The fierce physical attraction had been fueled by the improbability of its consummation. With the sudden clarity of vision that comes with being dumped, I recognized that I probably wouldn't have liked what I found, knowing Jack better. But I'd needed something to hang on to, to help get through these hard weeks. Something to keep me floating while I navigated the disappointment of Mike's permanent dismissal, the serious stress of living back home, and then, the trauma of qualifying school. But the relationship with Jack should have come with a warning label: do not mistake this for a life-saving device. Just now, it felt like the air had whooshed out of my water wings, and I found myself dogpaddling alone.
I sat up cross-legged and returned to watching the other players as their numbers were inscribed on the scoreboard. Anything to shut Jack out of my mind. Despair, elation, rage—those girls showed every reaction you could find a name for. I imagined the volunteers manning the Magic Markers were glad they had a table between themselves and the golfers.
"Cassie," said Gary. "I almost fell over you. Congratulations! I'm so happy that you played well."
I smiled. "Thanks. There's only a couple threesomes left, so it looks like I'm definitely moving on up."
"Have you had lunch? Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'd love that, but I have plans with Laura and Joe. Can I get a rain check?"
"I'll call you when we're back in South Carolina. Great job!" He kissed me on the cheek.
On my way to meet Laura at the car, I dialed the Myrtle Beach Police Department. Detective Maloney picked up his own line. At the sound of his voice, I felt a rush of the rage I'd suppressed all week. "It's Cassie Burdette."
"How did it go?"
"Fine. It looks like I'm in. But I'll warn you, I'm pissed. That jerk you sicced on me this week not only made life miserable, he nearly ruined my shot at this tournament. He harassed me every chance he got. And he masqueraded as the sheriff when in fact he's a freaking peon."
"Slow down," said Detective Maloney. "Take it easy. Pate called me this morning and admitted you mistook him for the sheriff." He began to laugh hysterically, which did nothing for my mood.
"It's not funny. It's probably grounds for a lawsuit. And that idiot would not come off well in front of a jury."
"Easy, Cassie," he said. "I'm sorry. I don't think you'll be able to squeeze a lawsuit out of it-—he just failed to correct your mistake." He began to laugh again.
"I can see this phone call was a waste of my time," I huffed.
Maloney's voice grew serious. "Sorry, but the idea of Arthur making sheriff is so unlikely. Now tell me how you played."
"Well enough to move on to the finals," I said. "No thanks to Pate."
"I'm sorry. I screwed up," he said. "Arthur's my wife's sister's husband and she's always pressuring me to give him a hand, give him a chance to move up the ladder. I figured this would be a way to keep an eye on you and do my family duty, all at once. I had no idea he'd dress up like the sheriff. How can I make it up to you?"
"How about telling me what's going on with the Rupert murder case? And what's up with Walter Moore?" Maybe I could squeeze some inside info out of him, while he was feeling contrite.
He hesitated. "This isn't official."
"Come on. You owe me."
"The whole thing's about to be wrapped up. They arrested him for Kaitlin Rupert's murder just an hour ago. And attempted murder, in your case." A chill coursed through my body. “Thanks to your tip, they found his fingerprints on the Smith bar and a smudged print on the illegal golf club, too. He's denying everything, but the evidence is strong."
"Wow," I said. "I thought he was a little crazy, but I never had the feeling he'd really murder someone."
"That's not all," said the detective. "We're closing in on Will Turner for Bencher's shooting."
"Wow," I said again. "Two different killers. And I stumbled into both of them." I noticed Laura weaving toward me through the crowd of golfers around the scoreboard. I accepted Maloney's third apology and signed off.
"Guess what?" said Laura. "Mike's caddie just quit— couldn't take the heat."
"That doesn't surprise me one bit."
"So Joe and I are leaving right now—driving up to Ponte Vedra so I can carry Mike's bag tomorrow. Joe talked Jeanine into coming, too. Come on along and we'll buy you dinner at Sawgrass."
My gut erupted into queasiness. "Nah." There was no logical reason Laura shouldn't take the job with Mike. But I felt sick anyway. Dr. Baxter would have had a field day with the feelings that were making their ugly appearance. "I already booked a flight out early this evening. I'll watch for you guys on TV tomorrow."
"What are you rushing home for? Come with us."
"I'm exhausted," I said. "I need to just collapse. In my own bed."
"Any words of wisdom about carrying Mike's bag? I'm nervous. This is important stuff."
"Keep it simple," I said. "Use the old caddie maxim: Show up, keep up, shut up. The less you say, the less he can blame you for. Just don't take any crap from Mike. It's not good for him, and it won't help you either." This I knew well from my own excruciating experience.
"Don't worry. He'll think you're a pussycat when I finish with him." She hugged me. "Thanks."
I pulled away. "Thanks for carrying me through this week."
"You sure you'll be okay here alone? I feel bad about bugging out and leaving you here."
I didn't really feel okay about being left alone. But it was time to grow up and depend on myself, not lean on an entourage of old friends, supposed boyfriends, and headshrinkers. "Don't worry about it. You helped me get the job done. I'll be fine. I just talked to Maloney—he said they've arrested Walter Moore for Kaitlin's murder. They found his fingerprints on the Smith bar."
"No way. That's great. I feel better leaving you then." She turned and scanned the crowd, then waved to Joe. "I've gotta go. We're catching a cab to Hertz. I'll call you tomorrow. And don't worry, baby, we have some unfinished celebrating to do."
I watched her wind her way back through the crowd. I hadn't had the chance to tell her about Jack getting married to the Japanese sucker. We hadn't had a victory toast. We hadn't laughed about every stupid shot I made today or reviewed the great ones, the few we'd find to agree on. And my so-called pal Joe had left without a word. Talk about double-crossed.
I ran out to the parking lot to look for Gary. As he backed his car out of its parking space, I waved at him to pull over.
"Is the offer for lunch still good?"
"Absolutely," said Gary. "Hop in." Gary might not have been an athlete, a smooth-talker, a gorgeous hunk. But he seemed real, and he was available. Right now, that meant a lot.
I buckled my seat belt.
"Ready?"
I nodded. I was ready for something; we'd find out what.
Chapter 26
Gary followed my directions to the little French place Laura had discovered the night she'd arrived in Sarasota.
"I have something to celebrate today, too," said Gary, after we'd been seated. "They nailed that bastard Walter Moore for Kaitlin's murder."
"That's great," I said. "Joe saw him get dragged off the course in handcuffs today." Gary's face looked sad. I fumbled around for the right words. "I don't mean it's great that they had to arrest anyone. It's not great that it happened."
"I know what you mean." He patted my hand. "I told her from the beginning that signing with him would cause trouble. Those clowns at Deikon thought they could pull her strings—tell her what tournaments to enter, what she could wear, you name it."
"Gosh, Kaitlin didn't strike me as the kind of girl who'd follow anyon
e's instructions, unless she saw something really big in it for her."
"You didn't know her the way I did." A tear swelled in the corner of his eye. He blinked it away. My turn to pat his hand. "Anyway, the sky's the limit, champ," he said. "And I'm ordering the best bottle of wine on the menu."
"After the week we've had, it might take two," I said, mostly joking.
"I'll make sure they have a second one standing by." He motioned the waiter to approach our table.
"My name is Evan. I'll be your server today." His hands and his voice shook slightly. He hooked a wisp of streaked blond hair behind his ear. I wondered whether ours was the first table he'd ever waited on.
'Tell me about your selection of Chardonnays, Evan."
"I'll get the wine list," said the waiter.
"I'd prefer to hear it from you."
Evan the waiter, who looked as though he'd be more comfortable surfing than discussing the finer points of white wine, stumbled forward. "Well, we have a nice, fruity Fetzer."
Gary grimaced.
A red flush appeared on the waiter's neck and slowly spread across his face. "Let's see, the Woodbridge is popular, too. Our female guests seem to enjoy it." He grinned at me.
"I've never liked their whites," said Gary.
"How about the Sutter Home?" said the waiter, beginning to sound desperate.
"Nothing nicer than that? This is a big celebration."
The waiter's face lit up. "We just got in a case of Robert Mondavi Coastal Chardonnay."
"Fine," said Gary. "Bring it on. And set aside a second bottle to chill." He turned back to me. "You'll like this, even though it's probably a little heavily oaked. In my opinion, all the American Chardonnays spend too much time in the barrel."
"I'm sure it will be fine." Wine was wine, in my experience. "If it doesn't come with a screw top, I know it's special."
Gary laughed. He thought I was kidding.
"Where are your parents? How did they take the news about Walter? I feel so bad for them."
"I put them on a plane back home this morning," said Gary. "I doubt they've even heard yet. I'll call later this afternoon. If they're anything like me, first they'll be thrilled. Then they'll remember that Kaitlin's still stone cold dead, no matter who killed her or how many years he spends in jail."
"I'm sorry. What a mess."
"Anyway, let's move on to happier subjects. What happened to your lunch with Laura?"
I frowned. Not a happier subject. "Mike Callahan canned another caddie, so he talked her into pinch-hitting for the weekend at the PGA Championship."
"Wow, that's big time." The waiter arrived with the Robert Mondavi Coastal Chardonnay Gary had ordered and poured him a splash. "You swirl, then sniff for flavors," he explained. "The bouquet on this one is lemony and oaky." He motioned the waiter to fill my glass.
I sipped. "Much smoother than my usual Sebastiani from the jug."
"And it's not even in the same universe as Boone's Farm," he said with a smile.
I laughed. "Did you drink that poison, too?" I took another sip. "Delicious. I don't really get the bouquet thing, though. I guess my palate's not too sophisticated. I can tell the difference between red and white, though."
Gary chuckled. "You make me laugh, Cassie."
I drank quickly, a little embarrassed, and noticed an immediate reduction in the level of my tension. I hadn't realized just how tight I'd gotten over the course of the morning.
"Tell me how it felt being the player this week instead of the caddie," said Gary.
"Good question. There's a world of difference." Gary refilled the empty glass as soon as I set it down on the table. "As a caddie, you do every bit of planning you can to make sure each swing turns out right. You check the yardage, you test the wind, you read the green. Then you have to step back and let someone else swing the club. When you're a player, your caddie can help as much as she likes, but in the end you're alone with the club and the ball. It's weird. It felt incredibly weird."
The waiter delivered my chicken salad on croissant sandwich and a cup of ham and white bean soup, then poured me a third glass of the Chardonnay.
"Do you mind talking about Kaitlin?" I asked.
Gary shrugged. Now under the influence of Robert Mondavi, I ignored Gary's lack of enthusiasm and forged ahead.
"I was talking to my brother last night." I said. "I just don't get why Kaitlin thought your father had molested her. I didn't know Coach that well, but it makes no sense. Not to Charlie either."
"I can't explain it," said Gary, motioning to the waiter to bring the second bottle of wine.
"Are you sure we need that?" I asked.
"How often have you made it through Q-school?" Gary said. "It's a no-brainer."
I was on the edge, high but not yet drunk. I'd lost just enough judgment to be easily convinced both that I deserved more wine and that more wine would make me feel better.
"So back to Kaitlin," I said, after the waiter had removed our dead soldier from the table.
"My parents always spoiled her. Whenever she had a problem, they bailed her out. She's the baby, they'd say. You have to love her. It was the same when I was growing up." I detected a note of bitterness in his voice. "Frankly, I don't think they did her any favors. She never felt responsible for her own problems."
"So when she was unhappy, she looked around for who to blame. This time it was Coach."
"I guess," said Gary. He drained his glass and pushed his half-eaten croque monsieur away. "Could we talk about something else? This is depressing."
"I'm sorry," I said. I arranged my silverware in an even row next to my empty plate. "So what's up next for you?"
"Find a job. Preferably not as a caddie. I'm not into heavy labor and I don't enjoy prima donnas." He laughed. "Though I'd carry your bag anytime."
He picked my hand up off the table and massaged the lifeline that ran down the center of my palm. Reflexively, I pulled my hand back. Too hot. Someday I'd figure out what I felt about this guy, but not today. Nothing felt clear in the confusing aftermath of the week's events. Old boyfriends, new boyfriends, no boyfriends. Missed the cut, made the cut, made the big cut. And dead bodies everywhere. I excused myself to go to the rest room. As I walked down the hallway, I noticed both a definite level of euphoria and a tendency toward lurching.
"Did you ever find out what happened with that barbell yesterday?" Gary asked when I returned.
"The cops think that was Walter, too." From the curious looks of the couple at the table next to us, I assumed the volume of my voice had veered too high. "If he killed Kaitlin," I whispered, "he'd already crossed the line once. He wouldn't have hesitated to do me in if he thought he needed to protect himself." I took a large bite out of the chocolate mousse cake that had arrived during my absence. "Mmm. You know, while I was trapped in that gym, I was forced to listen to the Maury show. Have you ever watched that?"
Gary shook his head.
"It was unbelievably bad. There was this crazy teenage girl who spent the entire hour screaming at her father. I kept thinking: Where the hell is the mother in this picture? Why is she allowing them to humiliate the whole family?"
"I'll remember to skip it."
I was aware that Gary had requested a moratorium on my amateur psychoanalysis of Kaitlin. But halfway through the second bottle of wine, curiosity overran politeness.
"So this girl kept talking about her brother—how she wouldn't let the father treat her the same rotten way he'd treated him. I know I'm straining the analogy, but I wonder if that's what bugged Kaitlin. Somehow she felt compared to you. It's hard to have a perfect older brother, I can tell you that from personal experience."
"I doubt that was it," said Gary. "I was far from perfect. There was very little to compete with. If anything, she was the perfect child. She won every athletic and scholastic award that Myrtle Beach High offered. Don't get me wrong, she deserved what she got—she had talent, but she worked hard, too."
"She might ha
ve been a contenda'." I giggled, hearing my words beginning to slur. I struggled to pronounce each one distinctly. "I guess I'm not a good detective. I just wouldn't have ever picked Walter as the murdering type. Plus, he was so into his career. Single-minded and a little crazy, that's how I would have described him. But not really dangerous."
"One never knows," said Gary. "People are strange."
"If they hadn't arrested Walter, I would have placed my bet on your mother as the killer."
Although I definitely surprised myself by blurting out this unexamined and tipsy insight, Gary was speechless. "My mother? Where in the hell does that crazy idea come from?" he finally croaked.
"Maybe I spent too much time with Pate this week," I said. "But let's say she was mad at Kaitlin for accusing Coach of the abuse, and she tried to talk with her, but it didn't go well. Kaitlin refused to drop the suit. So then they got into a scrap and your mom hit her harder than she meant to." Gary opened his mouth in protest. I held my hand up to cut him off. "There's precedent for my theory—I saw them tussle on the Grandpappy driving range. Though Kaitlin definitely had the upper hand in that incident. Can't you picture it?"
"No, Cassie, I can't."
"Hey, do you suppose it's possible that someone else in your family molested Kaitlin? She seemed so sure it happened. I think I read a book like that once, where the girl thought her father abused her, but it was really her uncle." I laughed. "Maybe she even suspected you!" I warbled the music that introduced The Twilight Zone: "Doo, doo, doo, doo..." The couple at the next table stopped eating to stare at me again. "Hey! I bet that's what my dream was trying to tell me—that Bencher's lips were saying Rupert, Rupert!"
"I think you've had enough, young lady." Gary reached for my wineglass and drained the last inch of Chardonnay. "You're starting to hallucinate." He frowned and signaled for the waiter to bring the bill. It didn't take a genius to see that my teasing had gone too far.
"Sorry, sorry," I said. "Speaking of hallucinating, I saw you talking with Max Harding this morning on the golf course. You never did like him."
"He stole my girl." Gary snorted, a little drunk now, too. "That's you, you know. Then he broke her heart and ruined her for anyone else."
Six Strokes Under Page 21
