Death at the Member Guest

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Corpus what?” the cop said, writing furiously.

  Jack and I looked at each other and tried not to laugh. “Never mind,” I said. “Change it to ‘body.’”

  “Right,” the cop said. He looked at Jackie. “And you?”

  Jackie stuck his thumb in my direction. “What he said,” he said.

  The cop nodded. “Tierney says he’ll want to talk to you his own self later on. Don’t leave before he does.”

  We solemnly swore not to make a break for the border. Crossed our hearts and hoped to die. The cop nodded, satisfied, flipped his notebook closed and turned to get the yellow crime scene tape out of the trunk of his squad car. We strolled back into the main grille, where most of the contestants in the Shuttlecock Invitational had gathered. Most of the men wore shocked looks, and some seemed disappointed. I guessed they were the ones who had had good days on the course yesterday and were leading their flights. Now some dead guy was keeping them from competing. Murder can throw a double bogey into anyone’s day. I didn’t think Vitus Papageorge’s was off to a good start, either.

  The assembled group of golfers had obviously been talking about the events in the cart barn, and everyone fell silent when Jackie and I walked in. Apparently, everyone knew that I had discovered the body, and they had seen us getting the third degree from the cop even if it was only the first degree. Still, a hundred pair of eyes stared at us. I let Jackie make the first move.

  “Well, hell, boys,” he finally said. “Somebody get me a drink and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  There was a rush to get a cocktail into my partner’s hand, and the members crowded round to hear Jack’s story. He began to spin out a good yarn, embellished with some Gothic flourishes, obviously in his element as the center of attention. I drifted away from the crush and headed off to the telephone closet. I dialed the city room.

  “Journal news,” said a bored voice. I recognized the voice of the day shift rim editor, Howard Purcell.

  “Purce?” I said. “Hacker.”

  “Hack-Man!” he chirped. “How’s things on the links?”

  “Deadly,” I answered and quickly filled him in on the events of the morning at the Shuttlecock Club. Purcell listened silently, and I could hear his pen scratching furiously as I relayed what I knew about the victim.

  “Yeah, Papageorge was a player in the Merrimack Valley,” Purcell said. “Known to have a heavy hand in politics. Probably a thousand guys up there woulda liked to wring his scrawny little neck.”

  “Listen, Purce, can you do me a small favor?” I asked. “Donatelli thinks I’m covering the PGA tournament upstate New York. I sent an intern instead so I could play in this tournament. I’d work this one for ya, since I’m here and all, but I gotta do it on the Q.T.”

  “I hear ya, Hacker,” Purcell said. “I think Angela Murphy is in Lowell this morning, filing something on the city manager getting indicted for corruption. Gee, go figure, huh? Corruption in a Massachusetts city government? I’ll track her down and send her over.”

  “Thanks, Purce,” I said. “I owe ya one.”

  “More than one, pally,” he said, and rang off.

  Next, I called the press room in Endicott and got connected with Tony Zec. He told me that Jeff Sluman was now leading by two shots over Brad Faxon heading into the weekend. Be still my heart, I thought.

  We talked over some story lines for a few minutes and I told him to email me his stuff by six that night, so I could look it over and resend it down to the sports desk. Might as well keep the charade going as long as I could.

  I walked back into the grille about the same time that Teddy McDaggert came in from his pro shop, carrying a clipboard and looking even more frazzled than normal. His face was flushed and sweat gathered at his brow. A yellow pencil was stuck behind his ear where it disappeared into the curly regions of his hair.

  “Okay, gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please?” he called out in a wavering voice. The room slowly fell silent. When he had our attention, McDaggert began talking.

  “First of all, you are all obviously aware of the tragic events of the morning,” he said. “This is a terribly sad day for the Shuttlecock Club and for all of us who knew and were touched by Vitus Papageorge.” He paused, his hands shaking a bit. I waited for someone to make a snide comment, but the assembled crowd was as silent as death.

  “I have talked to police detective Tierney who tells me that he wants to talk to everyone who had arrived at the club this morning before 8 a.m., which is probably most of you,” McDaggert continued. “I have given him a list of all participants in the tournament, and he has requested that no one leave the premises today before one of the Lowell police officers has a chance to interview you and check your name off this list.” He held out his clipboard.

  “Because of this, and because the Lowell police will need several hours to examine the crime scene, we’ve decided to cancel today’s rounds. We’ll try and start up again tomorrow, once I figure out a way to rejigger the board so we can try and have a competition. Thanks for your understanding and patience. Just hang tight here until the police are ready.”

  “Do you think that’s the best plan, Teddy?” a quiet voice said from the back. We all turned. It was Dr. Bainbridge.

  “The tournament committee has discussed it, Walter,” McDaggert said. “We all think that Vitus would have wanted us to continue the Invitational. We need to keep out of the police’s way for a few hours and let them do their job. Later, we can sort things out.”

  There were murmurs throughout the room as the contestants looked at each other and began talking. There were obviously divided feelings. McDaggert finally raised his hands and called for attention again. The debates stopped.

  “It’s only fair, I think, to let you guys decide,” he said. “If you don’t want to continue, that’s OK with me. But I think we should honor Vitus Papageorge’s life and keep playing the game he loved. If you agree, then I’ll reschedule the matches to begin early tomorrow morning.”

  The room was silent for a few moments, then, with a roar of approval, everyone began to applaud. The decision made, there was a rush for the bar, as the golfers in the room girded themselves for a wait to be interviewed. Others filtered into the locker rooms or upstairs to the card room.

  I followed Ted McDaggert as he walked back into his small office at the back of the pro shop, where he picked up a walkie-talkie and began barking orders. One of his assistants began working at the computer, trying to get two days worth of tee times rescheduled into one. Another one was glued to the telephone, trying to call all the members who had late tee times to let them know the day’s events had been cancelled. Ted let out a deep sigh.

  “Strange morning, huh?” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  “One that’ll live in infamy,” Ted said, smiling weakly.

  “How are you doing?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you must have worked pretty closely with Vitus over the years,” I observed. “This thing has gotta hit you pretty hard. You holding up?”

  McDaggert rubbed his chin, his eyes closed for a moment. His hands were still shaking slightly, I noticed.

  “Hell, Hacker,” he said finally, his voice thin and high. “Papageorge was one of my original backers when I tried the Tour years ago. He helped me get this job. I’ve known him for years. I … I guess I’m kinda shook. But I got a job to do here, y’know? Hundred guys waiting for me to tell ‘em what to do.”

  His voice trailed off and his eyes came back from some point out in space and turned on me. I saw some pain, some fright, some uncertainly. And something else too. The eyes of the condemned? I reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  He nodded, then reached under the counter and found a pack of cigarettes. With a trembling hand, he shook one out, lit it, took a deep drag and let the smoke o
ut in a billowing rush.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I went upstairs to the locker room to find my wayward partner. He was in the card room, sitting in one of the oversized plush chairs, cocktail at hand, lost in thought. I asked Raymond to bring me a cup of coffee and sat down next to him.

  “Well,” I said, “That was an interesting morning. What have you got planned for the afternoon? A car crash or a bank robbery?”

  He laughed, took a sip of his drink. “Hey, never a dull moment here among the country club set. You’d rather be writing dull stories about golfers?”

  “Touché,” I said as Raymond brought me my coffee. “But unfortunately I can’t go for the Pulitzer on this one since my dumb ass boss still thinks I’m in upstate New York.”

  “Ah, the tangled webs we weave,” Jack smiled at me. I nodded and sipped some coffee.

  “So,” I said, “Who do you think dun it?”

  “Elementary, my dear Hacker,” Jack said in his best affected-Brit accent. “I don’t have the first clue. That’s what I’ve been sitting here thinking about. The problem is, there are maybe a thousand people who had good reason to string ole Vitus up. Maybe more.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “But there weren’t a thousand people who were here this morning. More like a hundred or so. It’s gotta be someone who’s still on the island.”

  “Unless they high-tailed it before the body was found,” Jack pointed out.

  “Or swam across the river,” I added.

  Jack made a face. “Phew,” he said, “Then the cops would just have to smell him out.” He paused and sipped at his drink. But his eyes were bright and alert. The events of the morning had obviously captured his attention.

  “Here’s what I think,” he said. “A lot of people hated his guts. But there’s a pretty big leap between hating someone’s guts and actually killing them.”

  “True enough,” I said. “Murder is usually a crime of passion. Something that tips the scales from good old-fashioned hate to actually acting on it. It can be a threat to someone you love, or a threat to something you love, like money, a job, a Callaway ERC II driver.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jack laughed. “That’s it…Vitus was trying to steal someone’s driver.”

  “Let’s take the lovely Leta, for example,” I said. “She somewhat engenders the concept of passion.”

  “Somewhat,” Jack said. “Like with about half the membership here at Shuttlecock.”

  “At least one of whom I saw playing tongue tag with her last night,” I said, and told Jack the story of my inadvertent voyeurism the night before.

  “Do tell?” Jack said, raising his eyebrows. “Any idea who the lucky guy was?”

  I shook my head. “Too dark,” I said. “And I was trying to keep out of their way.”

  “So,” he said, “Mystery Kisser goes to the head of the class. Suspect number one.”

  I held up my hand. “But it could be coincidental. And, in truth, the fact that Leta was fooling around with someone here at the club, not an uncommon occurrence according to you, is not really a good reason for someone to kill Vitus. Better reason for Vitus to kill the guy, or maybe even Leta.”

  “She coulda asked our Mystery Man to off her husband,” Jack mused. “She’d then inherit all his money.”

  “But it seems that she has the full use of it anyway, as long as she drapes herself on his arm when he needs her,” I said. “It doesn’t quite add up to me.”

  “Who else?” Jackie asked.

  “Well, I thought about the chauffeur,” I said.

  “We did hear Vitus chewing his ass out last night, didn’t we? Maybe it was the chauffeur who was fooling around with Leta.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. He was in the car with the engine running when I saw Leta and the Mystery Kisser down by the pool. And I don’t think getting reamed by your boss, especially a boss like Vitus who seems to use reaming as his main management tool, is enough of a reason to kill the guy. Still, I’m sure the cops will find out where he went after dropping Vitus off here this morning. If he even drove him to the club.”

  “Hmmm,” Jackie stroked his chin. “I might have one of our young hotshots at the paper do a little digging. See what turns up.”

  “Of course,” I said, “Vitus also had a rather strong reputation as a hard-nosed businessman who liked to step on people’s toes. Maybe somebody felt ripped off and decided to do something about it.”

  Jack shook his head again. “That widens the field again,” he said. “And I still don’t think somebody could have snuck in here this morning, done the deed in the cart barn and snuck out again without someone noticing. Nor would Vitus have willingly gone into the cart barn with someone he thought might have reason to do him harm. It’s gotta be someone he knew, someone from the club.”

  “Or someone he wasn’t afraid of. Isn’t old Freddie a customer of his bank or something?”

  “You really think Fred is a cold-blooded killer?” Jack asked.We looked at each other and simultaneously said aloud: “Nah.”

  “Maybe he got tired of Vitus telling him how to swing the golf club,” I said, and we laughed.

  Just then, a uniformed cop stuck his head in the door. “Tierney wants to see you guys, pronto,” he said.

  “Thanks Officer Krupke,” Jack said, “We’ll be right down.”

  The cop eased his 250 pounds into the locker room. “He said now and I think he meant it as in ‘immediately and without delay,’” the cop said. “And the name’s O’Malley.”

  We sat there and looked at his imposing figure.

  “Alphonse?” I said, motioning to my partner.

  “After you, Gaston,” he said, and we got up and walked out the door.

  The Lowell cops had been busy in the hour or so since they had arrived on the scene. When Jack and I wandered out behind the golf clubhouse, the entrance to the cart barn had been cordoned off with the familiar yellow police-line tape, and a large white RV painted on the side in blue letters that spelled “LOWELL PD – CRIME SCENE SQUAD” had parked near the barn. We could see the flashes of a photographer’s strobe coming from inside the barn, where Vitus’ body no doubt still dangled from the electrical cord. Officer O’Malley led us to the back of the RV, and we climbed in a doorway, up three stairs and into a tiny room, about five feet square. The room was painted bureaucratic green, and had a narrow table bolted to the floor at which sat Detective Leo Tierney, who was studiously reading his notes from a small, flip-up notebook. There was even a small, mirrored rectangle on the back wall behind Tierney’s head. Jack sat down in one of the two plastic chairs opposite Tierney while I made an elaborate show of checking my teeth for stray detritus in the little mirror. I thought I heard a muffled chuckle from behind the glass and sat down, feeling pleased with myself. Officer O’Malley closed the door behind him and assumed the position: standing against the wall, hands folded in front of him, eyes locked straight ahead, seeing nothing.

  “Quite the set up, Leo,” Jack said. “Do the taxpayers know how much this joy wagon set them back?”

  “Funded by a special state and federal grant,” Tierney said, not looking up from his notes. “And the taxpayers seem to want to do something about the rising crime rate in the city.”

  “While the cops seem to want to play with all the expensive toys money can buy instead of actually walking a beat and arresting bad guys,” Jack countered.

  “So go write an editorial,” Tierney replied. “I know better than to argue with someone who buys ink by the barrel. I’m trying to catch a murderer here.”

  “And how’s that going?” I interjected.

  Tierney looked at me and smiled. “We’re following several promising leads,” he intoned in perfect police-ese. “And anticipate a quick arrest of the perpetrator.”

  We all chuckled.

  “Now,” he said, “If we can stop our little game of cops and reporters, maybe you can tell me what you know.”

  I
retold my story again, from the time I had gone in search of my putter until I discovered Vitus hanging from the ceiling. Jack chimed in that he had been upstairs in the private lounge “getting his game face on” – I had to laugh at that – and had been standing in the pro shop with Ted McDaggert when the cart kid came running in with the news.

  “What did he do?” Tierney asked, jotting down things in his notebook.

  “I think he said ‘fuck,’ and called 9-1-1,” Jack said. “Then he ran out to the barn.”

  “You sure?” I asked. “He called the cops before he came out?”

  Jack nodded. “He made a call and then ran out there. I went looking for you. Didn’t want you to miss all the fun. When I couldn’t find you, the cart kid told me you were already out in the barn.”

  Tierney made a note. “How well did you guys know the deceased?”

  I sighed. “I played golf with him twice this week and swore never again,” I said. “Vitus was an asshole.”

  “I’ve known Papageorge since he joined the club more than ten years ago,” Jack said. “What my partner means is that Vitus had a well-earned reputation as a self-inflated, overbearing, pompous, tempestuous and holier-than-thou person who often cheated at golf.”

  “Sounds like the technical definition of an asshole,” Tierney said.

  We nodded.

  “Interesting how a guy like that can be president of the club,” Tierney said. “Especially for … how many years?”

  “About six I think,” Jack said.

  Tierney let that number hang in the air in the little interrogation room, where the air was suddenly close and clammy.

  “Don’t blame me,” Jack said. “I never voted for the son-of-a-bitch. Then again, I never voted.”

  “Kinda interesting, isn’t it?” I said. Tierney looked at me, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. “How can a guy who is universally disliked maintain his hold on power, if being president of the Shuttlecock Club means having power?”