“Barry is the club treasurer,” Ron added.
“Pleasure,” Barry said to me.
The third unknown face wasn’t unknown at all. Not once I saw him from the front. He was Dig Maddox, a minor local celebrity. Dig owned a chain of retail garden supply outlets up and down the coast, inspiringly called Dig’s. He did his own ad spot on local TV. But he really specialized in growing and selling wholesale sod. I remembered seeing the signs. His company was called Sod It All, which told me all I needed to know about the marketing genius of the man. He had miles and miles of fields out on the wrong side of the turnpike, out near Wellington. Grass as far as the eye could see. South Florida gets plenty of sunshine, but we also get plenty of tropical rain, and most of the lower half of the state was built on a primordial swamp, so it’s a great place to grow grass.
Ron said, “This is Rick Maddox.”
Maddox offered his hand. “Dig,” he said. I wasn’t sure if it was a correction on his name or a command, but I shook his meaty paw and sat back.
Keith Hamilton took the baton from Ron. “Miami and Danielle, we make up the board of South Lakes Country Club. Please let me start by offering our thanks to you, Deputy, for taking charge of events yesterday. Things might have gotten out of hand if not for you.”
“That’s what we do, Mr. Hamilton.” Danielle didn’t concur with my surname/first name thinking, but then few law enforcement people did. They liked surnames. They were simultaneously personal and impersonal, and with a firm voice sent even the hardest criminal’s mind back in time to their childhood and being told off by their mother.
“It’s Keith, please, but no, we owe our thanks. Now to matters at hand. The health department is conducting tests to ascertain the nature of yesterday’s, um . . .”
“Eruption?” I added helpfully.
“Quite. Now we need to offer them all assistance necessary. Because I don’t think I need stress the importance of getting them out of here as soon as is humanly possible.”
The other members of the board shook their heads gravely.
“I have asked Ron to take the lead on keeping on top of things. We can’t afford for this to interrupt preparations for the tournament.”
“How long will they be here?” asked Barry Yarmouth.
“That’s the thing,” said Keith. “They’re saying they might be here weeks.”
“That’s crazy,” said Dig. “So some folks lost their lunch.”
Martin Costas said, “Is there any evidence that suggests the club is even the source?”
“Of course not,” said Keith.
Ron put his hand up. “That’s actually unknown at this point. That’s why they are testing. As Keith said, we need to offer every assistance to get that job done so they can get out. In the meantime, we need to look at our options.”
“What options?” said Barry.
“Alternative scenarios. If they are still here for next weekend. Or if they close us down.”
“Close us down?” said Keith. He looked like he’d choked on a piece of hot dog. “They can’t do that.”
“Technically they could. I haven’t had much chance to ask around yet, but they seem to be concerned about the kitchen. They might be looking for a food-borne virus. In which case, it is possible they could shut the kitchen down. Maybe even the clubhouse.”
“Preposterous,” said Keith.
Danielle said “That would be protocol if a food-borne virus were found in a restaurant. I don’t see the club being different.”
“We can’t allow that,” said Keith.
“Might not be our choice,” said Martin. “So Ron’s right. We need to consider alternatives.”
“Like what?”
“Like additional hospitality tents. Mobile kitchens.”
“If the health department allows those things on the grounds,” said Danielle. She got a roomful of furrowed brows.
“Then there’s also the ultimate contingency,” said Martin. “Moving or canceling the tournament.”
“That’s not possible,” said Keith.
“It might be necessary,” said Barry.
“All I’m saying is hope for the best but plan for the worst,” said Martin. “It’s Sunday. We don’t have the luxury of time.”
“Which is why the timing is so suspicious,” said Keith.
“Not the conspiracy theories again,” said Barry. “This is not the time, Keith.”
“They are not theories, Barry. There are too many to ignore. How do you explain this happening the weekend before the tournament?”
Barry shrugged.
Martin spoke. “The big hospitality tent was only here because the tournament is on next week. That’s why the O’Neil family used it for the wedding. Otherwise they might have gone elsewhere, and this wouldn’t be happening. It’s not really that big a coincidence, Keith.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Can I say something?” asked Dig Maddox. It wasn’t so much of a question as a warning that he was entering the conversation.
“Of course, Dig,” said Keith.
“Not to be rude, but this is all board business. Why are they here?” He looked at me.
“I asked Ron to take lead,” said Keith. “Investigating things is what he does. He suggested his boss could help.”
“Help with what?”
Ron said, “Miami is more removed from the situation than I am. He won’t be seen as an insider by the health department people.”
“So what?” said Dig. It was a good point. I didn’t see why I was there either. The health department would do what they would do, and they would tell the club the results once they were in.
“We need someone to look after our interests,” said Keith. “And Ron thinks it would be best if it were someone outside the club. He trusts Miami, so I do too.”
“How much is this going to cost?” asked Barry. He was the treasurer of the club and he seemed like the right man for the job.
“That depends on what we need to do,” said Ron.
“That sounds like a blank check,” said Dig.
I decided to enter the fray. I was bored, and I didn’t see the point of being present. But Ron wanted me there for a reason, so I’d back him up.
“If you want, I’ll speak with some people this morning. See if we can’t get a read on the direction of the wind.” I looked at Ron to confirm my yachting metaphor was on the money and he nodded. Score one, Jones.
“I’ll let you know what I find out and you can all decide how to proceed. This morning’s labors will be on the house.”
“You’re asking questions, not mining for coal,” said Dig.
“Or I could go home and enjoy my Sunday.”
“No,” said Keith. “No, we appreciate your efforts. We’ll let you get on with that . . .” His mouth turned down. “. . . while we discuss these contingencies.”
I took that as my cue to leave. Danielle and I stood and offered nods and made to walk out. As we reached the door Keith Hamilton spoke.
“Oh, and for future reference Mr. Jones, the club dress code requires knee-high socks and dress shorts. Or trousers.”
I gave him a look like he was an exhibit in a zoo and walked out.
The club was quiet for a Sunday. I imagined the security guy in the parking lot was turning people away. Or maybe the members got a newsletter that told them the course was closed for tournament prep. We wandered through the lobby. The reception girl wasn’t there, so we passed through into a large lounge area. There were chairs and coffee tables. The floor was carpet. Then it became hardwood and morphed into a dining room. White linen tablecloths but no cutlery or napkins or condiments. The room was dark despite the sunshine streaming through the large picture windows overlooking the golf course. We moved to look at the view.
There was nothing to see. There were no people around. I wondered who had arrived in the vans and trucks out front. The window looked out over the practice putting green. It was the size of two tennis courts a
nd held eighteen knee-high flags, denoting eighteen holes. To the right was the first fairway, where the healthier attendees of the wedding had been checked out the day before. The pop-up drash shelter was gone. To the left of the practice green the folding chairs from the ceremony still sat in a haphazard mess. There was a trellised arch behind where the happy couple had stood for their nuptials, back when they were still happy. I hadn’t seen it the day before, when it had blended into the background of the course. Now the flowers on it were flagging badly, and the platform beneath was strewn with petals. Farther on, the large hospitality tent sat waiting for the tournament to begin. I had grave doubts that was going to happen. There was some kind of tape across the entrance to the tent, and I was trying to focus through the opening to see what was inside when my attention was drawn back closer to home. Two people came out of the door that Danielle and I had stood next to during the brief ceremony. The lead person was all in white, the second all in black. They moved at pace until the one in white stopped, spun around and yelled in a gravel voice.
“I’ll kill ’em, I swear I’ll kill ’em all.”
Chapter Four
Danielle and I slipped out of the dining room and through the door to the outside. The person in white was a man. He wore a five o’clock shadow like he had been born with it. The stubble was heavier on his jaw than it was on his head. He was clearly agitated. And he was clearly a cook. The white getup was a uniform, and the name of the country club was embroidered on his chest. He was gesticulating at a slim woman in a black shirt and black trousers. She had her palms out like she was trying to tame a lion.
“Calm down, Lex,” she said.
“Don’t tell me to calm the hell down!” he screamed. He sounded like a two-pack-a-day man. It figured. I’d met my fair share of cooks and kitchen hands. We often kept similar hours. And I knew that as a group they tended to smoke more than the population in general. I never really got it. I always figured they needed their tastebuds working to do their jobs properly. Maybe that explained why they used all that salt.
“Is there a problem?” asked Danielle in her preschool teacher voice. She stepped past me. I let her go. It’s amazing how often a fired-up guy will calm down at the direction of a strong woman’s voice. Maybe it was a mother thing. It didn’t hurt that Danielle was athletic and lean and pretty damned gorgeous. I may have been biased, but I didn’t think so. I’d seen the looks she got.
I followed behind. Danielle could handle herself just fine, if the calming voice didn’t work and the guy did something stupid. But it was always good to have a plan B, and I wasn’t above giving the guy a fist in the kisser if he got too feisty.
He didn’t. He frowned, and gave Danielle an up-and-down look that was more obvious than a construction worker, but he remained mute.
The woman in black spoke. “We’re okay. Chef Lex is just blowing off some steam.”
I realized belatedly that it was the woman from the front desk, the one with the Florida smile. She had her dark hair in a ponytail.
“I am a sheriff’s deputy,” said Danielle. “I heard some threats being made.”
“He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Was he threatening you, ma’am?”
The woman shook her head and her ponytail flopped about.
“I was threatening those pencil-necks in my kitchen,” said the gravel-voiced cook.
“Who?” asked Danielle.
“The health department,” said woman. “They’re testing the kitchen for cleanliness.”
“My kitchen is spotless,” yelled the cook. “Don’t they know what bleach does? Every damned day.”
“Sir, I don’t think they are inferring you don’t look after your environment,” said Danielle. “But they must be thorough. There were some very sick people here yesterday.”
“You think I don’t know that? I was here, damn it. But it all happened before the reception. They hadn’t eaten anything yet. Whatever it was didn’t come from my kitchen, you get it?”
“I do get it, sir. But they are still required to be thorough.”
“Thorough, my eye. They’re looking to blame someone. That’s what they’re doing.”
“Sir, why don’t you just take a moment to relax and I will go and find out what the situation is. Okay?”
The cook said nothing but the woman said, “Come on, Lex. Let’s go upstairs to the bar and get a drink.”
“They’ve probably closed the bar, too.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said. She had the preschool teacher voice down pretty well, too. She patted the guy on the shoulder and he sulked away. I gave Danielle the furrowed brow expression. It was a beauty. I had lines on my forehead fit for industrial farming. Twenty summers of baseball will do that to a guy.
We moved back into the dim light of the clubhouse. On the opposite side of the hallway from the dining room was a kitchen. I could tell by the double doors with little portholes in them. We didn’t go in because Connie Persil from the health department came out. She was still wearing her face mask. I nearly ran into her and we took a moment to regard each other before recognition kicked in. She glanced from me to Danielle.
“Deputy, Mr. Jones. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Mr. Jones was my dad. I’m just Miami. And we were in the neighborhood,” I said.
“You should be at home. You might be contagious.”
“I feel fine.”
“Still, it would be better.”
“Have you figured out what this is yet?”
She hesitated and looked at Danielle again. Then she directed us back outside and we stood by the practice green. Once in the open air she removed her mask.
“We’ve interviewed most of the victims. There’s a consistent infection point.”
“Infection point?” I asked.
“The common point where current victims were infected.”
“Who is it?”
“We don’t know the who, yet. That would be patient zero. That’s why I say infection point. In this case, everyone who had shown symptoms attended a pre-wedding dinner the evening before last.”
“So the dining venue was the source, not the club?”
“The dining venue was the club, Mr. Jones.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It seems the large hospitality tent over there was used for the dinner, and the catering was handled by the kitchen here.”
“So you’re giving the kitchen the once-over.”
“Exactly. We took initial environmental samples yesterday, from the kitchen and out here, the seating, the tent, et cetera. But the infection point conclusion means we’re doubling our efforts in the kitchen. It’s not unusual.”
“Do you know what it is?” Danielle asked.
“Not for sure. We should have some results later today. But given the infection point and the incubation period, my guess is norovirus.”
“What is that?” I asked. “Is it serious?”
“Serious, but not deadly. Not usually. In layman’s terms, it’s gastroenteritis. Victims usually suffer from diarrhea and/or nausea. The greatest risk is dehydration. It can be hard to keep even water down. And if the victim has some underlying illness it could get serious, but that’s rare.”
“And you don’t think we have it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You took your mask off.”
She looked at the mask in her hand and shrugged. “You weren’t at the dinner. We have a full guest list. And the incubation period suggests you’d be starting to show symptoms by now. You are not.”
“So if it is the kitchen, what happens to the club?”
“We close it.”
“But the tournament?”
“A game of golf is not my concern, Mr. Jones. Public safety is my concern.”
“Could they proceed if the infection is localized to the kitchen and they don’t use it?”
“That would be dependent on the environmental samples. It would very easy
for the virus to have spread to other areas of the clubhouse.”
“How does it spread?” asked Danielle.
“Mostly through human feces and vomitus.”
I squirmed and thanked my lucky bat that I never studied medicine. The internal mechanisms of our bodies were a marvel, but decidedly unpleasant.
Connie continued. “Then it can transmit via human contact with carriers, touching infected surfaces. It’s possible for it to be airborne briefly—a cough from someone who has recently vomited, for example. If it is what I think it is, then we’re talking about a nasty little bug that does just fine outside the body. It can remain on surfaces for days or weeks. There have been documented examples of months or years of survival in contaminated water.”
“How do we avoid it?”
Connie held up her hands. She wore latex gloves. “Don’t touch anything, don’t touch anyone. Short of that, wash your hands often, with lots of soap. Sing the national anthem twice while you’re doing it. That’s about long enough. Look, I need to get back to it.”
“You’ll let us know about the results?” Danielle asked.
“You’ll know when I stick a closed notice on the door,” she said.
Danielle and I stayed outside in the fresh air and watched her walk away.
“What do you think?” she said.
“Looks like the kitchen messed up.”
“Or it came in on contaminated food.”
“Wouldn’t the cook be sick then?”
She shrugged. “Maybe he wore gloves?”
The contour of land ran down from the front of the clubhouse to the rear where the course lay, so the back half of the building was two stories. I looked up at the wall of windows on the second level.
“Nothing better to do,” I said. “Let’s go chat with the cook.”
Chapter Five
The cook simmered. The line popped into my head and I couldn’t wedge it out, and I wondered if I had a future as a screenwriter. But it was a fair assessment. He was a solid guy, thick in the forearms and the chest. He didn’t exactly look like a merchant sailor but he could have played one on television. He was sitting with the woman in the black at a high table in the upstairs bar. This part of the club felt newer than the entrance. Maybe it had been renovated. The colors were light and breezy, sea foam greens and turquoise blues. There were pictures of golfers holding trophies around the room. Tournament winners was my guess.
Deep Rough Page 3
