“I suppose I could ask around,” I said, sinking back into the couch, trying to avoid his breath.
He leaned closer and grabbed my shoulder, made me look at him. “I know you can find her, boy. They say you’re good.” All right, he stroked my ego, plus, the intimidation factor was high. “You know this town, and you can get into the club. Talk to those women. Somebody knows where she is.”
“Mr. Goodman, I really don’t—”
“Here’s some money,” he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket and shoving them at me. “There’ll be five thousand more tomorrow. I’ll send Billy around with it. You find her. You hear?”
I was always mesmerized by huge wads of cash. In a moment of weakness I reached out and took the money. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“You find her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But be discreet. You will be discreet.”
“Discreet. Yes, sir.”
Parker filled me in on Lorna’s usual routine. We toured the master suite of the big house, the spa and exercise room, and finally her desk and computer.
“She spends a couple hours every morning in here,” he said, “then she goes to the clubhouse and works out there.” He pointed a thumb back at the exercise room. “I bought all this damn equipment, and she goes to the club to do her exercisin’.”
“May I?” I asked, sitting down at her computer.
“Sure. Sure. You look at whatever you want.” He moved toward the door and picked up his jacket. “I’ll be at the office. The housekeeper’s here today, so leave it unlocked.”
I tried to ask a few more questions, but Parker seemed to want to move on. He had delegated the job to me, now I was expected to produce.
Lorna didn’t use a password, but her computer yielded little of interest. The e-mails were all regarding volunteer organizations and church stuff. The housekeeper spoke very little English and didn’t appear to be close to Mrs. Goodman. I decided to go to the club and try my luck.
The Goodmans resided in a gated community alongside current and retired executives from Walmart, Tyson Foods, and J.B. Hunt. The clubhouse was lavishly appointed and was the hub of social life among the nouveax riches who made up its membership. I was welcome here because my father was a member. Not that Daddy was rich, far from it. His membership was paid courtesy of Goodman Poultry Company. The golf course gleamed in the sun with zoysia fairways, manicured greens, and freshly raked bunkers; it certainly rivaled anything on the pro tour. I had played the course occasionally with my dad, so I knew my way around.
In the clubhouse I ingratiated myself with some society ladies who had been friends of my mother. They invited me to have lunch with them, and I was making quite a hit with the old gals. I had received offers of introduction to two single daughters before I finally steered the conversation around to Lorna Goodman. I thought I was clever enough about it. I told them that I wanted to speak with Mrs. Goodman about a memorial my sister was in charge of. It concerned the Goodmans’ youngest son Roger. Judy, my little sister, was president of the local chapter of MADD. Roger Goodman had died in a tragic car accident involving alcohol just after he finished high school. Roger was a little different, as I remember, but he was universally adored by his classmates, and was a gifted artist and sculptor. He was also a first-class drug addict. The memorial project was to be a replica of one of Roger’s sculptures that they wanted to erect in the city park.
Although two of the women chatted on enthusiastically about the memorial, I noticed the other two exchanging glances just before they excused themselves and left the table. The remaining ladies offered to go to the Goodman home to introduce me, but I declined the offer, knowing full well that Lorna Goodman was not at home.
I was convinced that I had struck out as far as gaining any clues to Lorna’s whereabouts, but as I waited for the valet to bring my car around, Alice Henning, one of the ladies from lunch who had excused herself, walked up behind me and laced an arm in mine.
“I know what you do for a living, Bradley,” she said, raising an eyebrow. I had to smile at the eyebrow. Many of the ladies who frequented this establishment couldn’t raise an eyebrow to save their soul since the advent of Botox. “It isn’t like you to suddenly want to socialize with a gaggle of old women.”
“And . . .” I said.
“We need to have a chat,” she said. The valet had just stepped out of my car. She turned to him and said, “You can bring it round in half an hour, Chet. This young gentleman is going to buy me a drink.”
She steered me around the outside of the main hall through a series of patios until we reached an outdoor bar by the pool. She motioned to the girl behind the bar, held up two fingers, and guided me to a table.
“I might as well ask,” she said, “did that old fool Parker Goodman put you up to this?”
“Put me up to what, Mrs. Henning?”
“Pshaw!” she said, with a limp-wristed wave of her hand. “Now you don’t want to be that way with me.”
The barmaid arrived with two martinis; it seemed to be a day when other people were choosing my drinks for me. I glanced up at the girl, trying to escape Alice’s intense gaze.
“Hello, Bradley,” she said.
“Hello, Miss Bowen.” She looked right fetching in her little bartender outfit. That red vest accentuated her generous attributes. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well, you should come around more often,” she said. “You could fix that.”
“Now, sugar,” said Alice, “y’all can take this up later. Right now this handsome young fellow has business with me.” She leaned forward and put her hand on mine in a possessive gesture.
Karen gave me a wink and walked back to her post at the bar. The way she walked, she was expecting me to be watching. I felt obliged to meet that expectation.
“That’s enough of that,” said Alice, seeing where I was looking. “Now, answer my question, Bradley.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What were we talking about?”
“You’re good,” she said. “But dodging the question pretty well answers it. Parker sent you.”
“I don’t understand,” I tried. But it wasn’t going to work. Alice was too savvy for that, so I decided on a different approach. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Goodman was having some health issues . . .”
“Are you kidding me? He told you that?”
“Well?”
“That’s a damn lie!” Alice’s reaction at least told me that I was getting somewhere.
“Do you know where Lorna Goodman is?” I asked.
“I do not,” she said, taking a noisy slurp from her drink. “Parker’s just worried about that damn book.” She toyed with her olive for a moment and then said, “Let me give you some advice, honey.” She gave me a look that meant business. “You need to leave this alone.” I thought she put more emphasis on the “You” than was necessary.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s this book you spoke of?”
“Oh,” she said with a glance at her watch, “I’m going to miss my tee time.” She downed her martini, kissed me on the cheek, and left me sitting there with my untouched drink. I hate martinis.
“Did your date dump you?” It was Karen, cranking up an umbrella over the adjoining table.
“Looks like it,” I said. I was still watching Alice. She had joined Dee Wallace near the first tee, and they were in earnest conversation. Dee was the other one from lunch. I turned my attention to Karen Bowen. She was reaching up to untangle the umbrella from a potted palm. “What about you?” I asked.
She turned around to look at me. “What?”
“I’m feeling kind of lonely all of a sudden. And used. And dumped.”
“So what do you want from me? Another martini?”
“I don’t like martinis,” I said. “I like sweeter things.” I moved in closer.
“Poor thing,” she said. “You haven’t called me in months.” It sounded like an accu
sation or maybe a rebuke.
“I’m a busy guy,” I said as I slipped an arm around her waist. “I just don’t get out much anymore. No time to socialize.”
“Why, Bradley Carter, are you going to try to kiss me right here?”
“I was thinking about it. Yes.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“I am that.”
She looked around the pool deck. It was empty except for one old guy reading a newspaper and sipping a bottle of Evian. “Meet me at the outside entrance to the lockers in five minutes,” she said.
It wasn’t my first time in the ladies’ locker room at the club. Karen took me in the back way along a row of polished mahogany lockers with brass nameplates. She stuffed me into one of the changing rooms. The door didn’t go all the way to the floor, but at least it had a lock. Our little liaison lasted until Karen smoothed out her blouse and buttoned up the red waistcoat that was her uniform.
“I better get back out there,” she said. She was looking in the mirror and combing out her hair.
“No need to rush off,” I said, running my hands around her waist. I kissed her ear and put my cheek against hers. Her skin was still hot, in spite of the air conditioning.
She looked at me in the mirror and giggled as she ducked out of my grip. “You are something else, Bradley. Now let me get back to work.” She cracked the door open and looked around. “The coast is clear,” she said, stepping out into the locker room. “You better call me this weekend.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me and clicked the door shut.
After Karen left by the front entrance, I peeked over the top of the door and slipped out of the changing room. I walked back along the row of lockers until I came to one with Lorna Goodman’s name on it. The security at the club was topnotch, and it would have been an insult to the members to put locks on the lockers. I quickly scanned the contents, but found nothing but a sleeve of “Komen for the Cure” pink golf balls and a worn-out pair of FootJoy golf shoes. I closed the locker and was about to leave when I noticed Alice Henning’s name on one of the adjoining lockers. I opened it. Alice had left her purse in the locker, so I rifled through it. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve been amazed by all the pockets, nooks, and crannies in a woman’s purse, and it was no different with Alice’s. The purse smelled like Chanel No. 5, reminding me of my mother’s. For a moment I thought I was looking for a pack of Doublemint. There were credit cards and a checkbook, cosmetic case, and a ton of credit-card receipts. But then I found it: Lorna’s name on a piece of club stationery with an address in Naples, Florida.
Back at my apartment I wrestled with whether or not I should tell Parker Goodman what I knew. He was, after all, my client, and I had no stake in this if not for him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wad of bills that he had given me. There were lots of fifties and hundreds, and they smelled good when I fanned them with my thumb. I thought about what Alice had said, and I knew damn well that Parker was lying to me about Lorna. I wondered what was in the book that she had mentioned. I hate it when a client lies to me, but I can’t say that it is unusual. I decided to let it go for a while. I could call Parker when I knew for sure where Lorna was. I pulled a cold Budweiser from the refrigerator and sat down at my computer. I booked a flight to Florida for the following day.
Early the next morning Parker’s man showed up with five grand in a shoebox. I guess Parker didn’t want anyone at the office to know what was going on. I hadn’t counted the wad he’d given me the day before until now. All together, I had over six grand just in Ben Franklins. I put the shoebox in my gun safe.
I started to sweat as soon as I got off the plane in Fort Myers. Florida was a luxurious respite from the cold winters up north, but, as any of the locals would tell you, summer was another matter altogether. I rented a Ford Mustang with a GPS unit and found a hotel room for the night. Traveling always wears me out, and I watched the Cardinals play the Cubs in St. Louis on ESPN. I don’t know how it turned out; the Cardinals were up three to two halfway through the sixth inning when I fell asleep.
The next morning I headed south on I-75 toward Naples. It didn’t take long to find the address. It was a cozy little townhouse on a canal, a short walk from the beach. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door.
“They’re not home.”
I turned to see a woman on the porch next-door watering some flowers in hanging baskets. She was younger than me and sported a deep tan under her cotton sundress and bleached-blond hair.
“Do you know where I might find them?” I asked.
She concentrated on her job until water ran out of the soaked basket, then she put down the hose and came down the steps. She crossed the small yard and stared up at me. “Are you related?” she asked. “You sound like you’re from Arkansas.”
“Just a family friend,” I replied, “a friend of Lorna’s.”
“Well, she’s here, but I think she went to play golf,” she said.
Lorna loved the game, so it made perfect sense. “Do you know what course she goes to?” I asked.
“The one right on the beach, at the hotel.” She shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted at me in the bright sunlight. “And you’re not a relative?”
“No, ma’am, just a friend.” I started towards my car before she got too nosy. “Thanks.” I gave her a wave. She waved back slowly, looking perplexed.
I drove back north to the Naples Beach Hotel and Golf Club. The place was crawling with activity. Summer vacation had sent families scurrying to Florida to see the Mouse and go to the beach. It appeared that many had infiltrated the Gulf side of the state as well. I headed straight for the golf course thinking that I might talk my way into a look at the schedule for the tee times.
A cute blonde in a too-small pink polo shirt smiled at me from behind the counter at the pro shop. She was brown and fit and looked like she might be on the college golf team somewhere; her name tag said “Doris.” “What can I do for you?” she said.
“I was going to ask if a friend was on the course,” I said. “But if you’re the instructor, I think I need a golf lesson.”
She laughed. “You don’t look like you need lessons—in golf or anything else.”
“Depends on the level of play, I guess.”
“Who’s the friend? You supposed to meet someone for a tee time?”
“No,” I said. “She’s not expecting me. Her name is Lorna Goodman.”
She scrolled down the computer and then spun the monitor and leaned over to show me. “There’s only one Lorna, but her last name is Wagner.” She pointed to the name. “She’s not a hotel guest.”
I wondered if Lorna would use her real name. The chances were pretty good that she wouldn’t, and I thought I remembered seeing that name, Wagner, somewhere else. “You know, that might be her,” I said. “I think she went back to her maiden name.”
“She should be coming up on nine soon.”
“You mind if I wait and see if it’s her?”
“Not at all. Can I get you a drink or something to eat?” She was eager to please.
“Sure.”
I ate a hot dog and was finishing off a soda when I saw a tall blond woman get out of her cart on the ninth fairway and walk to her ball. From that distance she looked a lot younger than the fifty-eight years I knew her to be. She had an athletic build and looked as healthy and vibrant as any of the ladies on the LPGA tour. I watched as a divot flew up, and I heard the click of her iron. The ball lofted high and thudded onto the green, backing up a few feet before stopping within a yard of the pin.
“Is that her?” Doris had come up behind where I sat at a table in the shade.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the Lorna I’m looking for,” I said.
“She’s good,” said Doris. “Low handicap. She’s been turning in her cards all week.” She leaned over and grinned at me. “Isn’t she a little old for you?”
“And you’re a little
young,” I said. She stuck out her bottom lip as if I had hurt her feelings.
Lorna frowned when she saw me. She chirped the tires on the cart as she locked up the brakes. I got up and walked over to her as she wrote down her score. She stopped writing and sat there in the cart looking straight ahead. When she pulled off her sunglasses, I could see a tear running down her cheek. I started to say something, but she interrupted.
“That damned old coot!” she said, pounding her gloved hand on the steering wheel.
“Mrs. Goodman, I—”
“Don’t call me that!” She turned to look me.
“Ma’am, my name is—”
“I know who you are.”
I had always found it difficult to react to women in situations like this, so I did the only thing I knew. I turned on the charm. “Can I buy you some lunch?” I asked.
“I think you better buy me a drink,” she said. She wiped away her tears with a tissue and got out of the cart, tossing her scorecard onto the seat.
We walked over to a little cabana bar next to the beach and sat at a table under the thatched roof. The bartender came over and Lorna ordered a martini. I asked for a beer.
“Is he here?” she asked.
“Parker?” I said. “No.”
“Of all people,” she said to herself, shaking her head. “How did you find me?”
“I’m an investigator,” I said. “It’s what I do.”
“How much did he pay you?” she said. “I’ll double it.” She looked suddenly frustrated. “I’ll get the money.”
I’ll admit that I was a little disgusted with myself getting into a bidding war between a man and his wife. But I was painfully aware that this woman way outclassed the man who had actually hired me.
“Are you feeling okay?” I said. “Your husband is worried about you.” I felt like a fool.
She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Do I look sick to you?”
“Definitely not,” I said. We sat there for a moment and stared at each other.
She downed the first drink and the bartender brought her another. She leaned back in her chair and looked at me. Suddenly, she sat up. “You have no idea what’s going on. Do you?”
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 02/01/11 Page 16
