by Gail Oust
“I didn’t think you liked to get your hands dirty.”
I could tell from Rita’s tone I was wearing her down. “I’ll wear gloves. They come in all sorts of pretty colors and patterns. And I’ve got the perfect straw hat to wear so I’ll look cute in case Bill happens to drop by.”
“Oh, all right, seeing as how I can’t talk you out of joining. My term as president is up, but I agreed to serve as the new membership chairman.”
“Great! Send me the papers, and I’ll sign on the dotted line.”
“Kate, this isn’t like applying for a second mortgage. Consider yourself a provisional member of the club. Active membership is subject to a vote. And, Kate, you’ll have to spend time working at our current beautification project.”
“No problemo.” I hung up feeling inordinately proud of myself. I’d not only beautify my yard, but I’d gain firsthand knowledge of which plants were safe and which weren’t. Happy I was on the right track, I made myself a cup of herbal tea, then settled on the sofa in the great room with a good book—The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics. After scanning the table of contents, I flipped open to Chapter Eleven.
“Death by Poisoning” promised to be an entertaining read.
Chapter 16
“Kate, this is Sheila. Are you doing anything special tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I flipped through the pages of my imaginary day planner. What day was tomorrow anyway? Wednesday…? Let me think. I mentally ran through my schedule: grocery shop, laundry, pay bills, clean the bathroom. “Nope,” I replied. “Nothing special.”
“Wonderful!” she enthused. “How would you and a guest like to attend the Masters?”
“Me…?” I squeaked. “Attend the Masters?”
Sheila’s pleased laughter tickled the phone lines. “It’s only a practice round. Belle Beaute is hosting a hospitality suite, so I happen to have extra tickets. I understand Wednesday traditionally is the day for the Par 3 Contest. I’m not a golfer, but I’ve been told it’s fun to watch.”
Only a practice round? I sank into a kitchen chair and stared out the window. Tickets for even practice rounds were scarcer than hen’s teeth. No tickets were sold at the gate. South Carolina has a lottery system in place for practice round tickets, but only a small percentage of those who applied are lucky enough to get them. Jim and I had been there once, and now compliments of Sheila, I’d be going again. The Masters Tournament wasn’t just big, it was HUGE. People who can’t tell a golf ball from a football know the Masters is golf’s premier event. More than premier, it’s legendary. Icons such as Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, and Byron Nelson were past champions. I was getting verklempt knowing I’d be walking the same fairways as past and present greats. Tiger, Phil, Vijay, ready or not, here I come!
“Kate…? You still there?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered. “I’m still here.” What I really wanted to ask is, What should I wear? Shorts or capris? Golf chic would be the name of the game. And another bonus: I could shop while there. Their golf shops carried a fabulous selection of all things golf and all sport the Masters logo. I’d get a golf shirt for Bill, blue to match his eyes, and one for my son-in-law Jason. No one loved logos more than Jason. Jen once confided he even had them on his socks and underwear. And I’d find something cute for the girls, something pink. Before long, golf would be competing for their after-school hours along with violin, gymnastics, and soccer.
“I’ve never played the game myself—too busy,” Sheila was saying. “Maybe I’ll take it up when I retire.”
“I’m so excited I hardly know what to say.” I collected my scattered wits and hauled myself back to the present. I tried for cool, calm, and collected but failed on all three counts. “I’d love to go,” I said, waving a hand to fan my flushed cheeks. Power surge to the max.
Sheila laughed again. “Great.”
“Thanks so much for inviting me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” I was gushing more than BP’s oil spill in the Gulf.
“Bring a friend. I’ll have Betsy leave the badges at the gate. You’ll also find directions to the hospitality suite Belle Beaute is hosting afterward at the Marriott. I hope you’ll have time to join us for a drink.”
Wow! The tournament and a hospitality suite. I felt I’d hit the mother lode. I swallowed hard. “We’d be delighted.”
“Oh, Kate, while I’ve got you on the phone I wanted to let you know Sheriff Wiggins paid me a visit this afternoon.”
“Oh?” I felt my euphoria fade. Leave it to the mean ol’ sheriff to rain on my parade. “What did he have to say?”
“Preliminary toxicology results came back from the crime lab in Columbia.”
I picked a pencil off the table and began playing with it. “And…”
“He said they found no trace of either E. coli or botulism.”
“Well, I guess folks around the buffet table will rest easy knowing it wasn’t food poisoning.”
Sheila lowered her voice. “That’s not all.”
I held my breath and waited for her to continue.
“He insinuated there were some elements that merited further investigation.”
“Does he have any idea what they’re looking for?” I absently tapped the eraser end of the pencil up and down on the table.
“No, but I think he’s taking my allegation of poisoning seriously.” An urgency had crept into Sheila’s voice. “He agreed it’s strange that Vaughn and I were the only ones at the banquet who were affected. Then he asked if we had any enemies. Anyone who would want to harm us.”
“What did you tell him?” I could picture her elegant shrug.
“I told him with our success we were apt to make people jealous. The culprit could be any number of people. I also told him to look extra hard at Kel Watson and the reasons why.”
When we disconnected a few minutes later, the day of fun and frolic I’d anticipated had been transformed into a day of work. Sheila had off-handedly mentioned Roger McFarland planned to take publicity stills of her with the Masters as a backdrop for his coffee table work of art. Todd Timmons would be there as well, shooting promo for upcoming episodes of How Does Your Garden Grow? Naturally, Betsy Dalton, smug in her role as VP at Belle Beaute, would be flitting around. Tomorrow my search for the Big Three as I referred to them—motive, means, and opportunity—would begin in earnest. Business before pleasure is the motto of the Kate McCall School of Private Detecting.
I resumed my impatient tap-tap-tap with the pencil. Which friend should I bring? I pondered my choices. Bill was the first person to spring to mind. Not only did Bill make my heart go pit-a-pat, but he possessed the ability to be objective and rational. Traits that sometimes eluded me. I was about to punch in his number when I remembered he’d promised to drive a pal to the airport in Atlanta. After considerable thought, I settled on Polly as my number two choice. She liked solving mysteries nearly as much as I did.
“Hey, count me in,” Polly agreed readily after I explained the mission. “I’ve got the perfect outfit to wear.”
“Polly, this isn’t a play day, it’s a work day.”
“Don’t mean I can’t look spiffy for all those good-looking golfers.”
“No, but we don’t want to blind them by one of your neon-bright getups.”
“Gotcha. We need to blend, be inconspicuous.”
“Gates open at eight, so be ready by seven.”
“Roger and out, girlfriend. I’ll let you be Sherlock; I’ll be Watson.”
I smiled to myself as I hung up. Sherlock and Watson, the Masters and the Big Three. Yessiree, tomorrow promised to be quite a day.
Wednesday morning dawned bright and sunny with a cloudless, blue sky. I’d been so excited I’d barely slept a wink. I downed a cup of coffee and choked down half a bagel. And cautioned myself to stay focused, not to get distracted by all the hoopla. Not that I’d allow that to happen of course, but I warned myself all the same. Sheila’s unexpected invite afforded me the perfect opportuni
ty to mingle with my unfavorite trio of Todd, Rog, and Bets. I wanted to get a better handle on them, see if one of them stood out more sharply than another as a suspect. If Sheila’s assumption was true, and she was the intended target not Vaughn, whoever was responsible might try again.
But what if Sheila was wrong? What if she, not Vaughn, was collateral damage? It was a sobering thought. My resolve hardened. I was more determined than ever to study the crime from both perspectives. Two sides to every story, right?
If the day was bright, it dimmed next to Polly. I felt positively dowdy in comparison. “If memory serves, I thought the dress code was going be on the conservative side.”
“I don’t remember saying anything about conservative,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “I said we needed to blend, be inconspicuous.”
“You call that blending?” I asked, eying twiglike legs protruding from shocking-pink capris.
“Get a load of this.” She opened her matching lightweight jacket to reveal a poison apple–green T-shirt with bright orange flames sprouting from the slogan ONE HOT MAMA. “Like it?”
Like is a little mild to express how I feel about Polly’s wardrobe. “You’ve outdone yourself,” I told her. And that was an understatement. “How do you figure that’s blending in?”
“Simple.” Polly snapped on her seat belt. “The green blends with the grass; the pink matches the azaleas.”
“Of course. How silly of me not to see the connection.”
“I read a while back that bright colors stand out best in a crowd.” Polly settled back, ready for the hour-long drive. “The Augusta Chronicle says all the big dogs will be here filming: the Golf Channel, ESPN, CBS Sports and Jim Nance, along with crews from the local stations. We might even make the six o’clock news. I Tweeted everyone to be on the lookout for a cute blonde dressed in pink and green.”
I sighed as I pointed the Buick south. If the cameras favored bright, Polly would be a star. “Just remember, our mission isn’t to have fun. We’re on the prowl for possible murder suspects. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open. Pay special attention to Sheila’s sponsor, her editor, and her producer. I want to find out which one has the strongest motive and means.”
“Gotcha.” Polly gave me a wink. “Roger, Todd, and Betsy. Eyes and ears peeled.”
We drifted into idle chatter as we drove along a winding highway lined with pine trees and interspersed with small communities bearing odd names such as Plum Branch and Modoc.
“Sure nice of Sheila to invite us,” Polly said.
“Mm, hm,” I agreed. “Sheila’s gone out of her way trying to be friends. I feel kind of sorry for her. She doesn’t seem to have many women friends.”
“Too busy with her job, eh?”
“Something like that, I guess.”
The number of cars on the road increased as we approached Augusta. I waited for the light to change and made a left. Traffic along Washington Road barely crawled. The atmosphere seemed charged. Restaurant chains flew colorful banners advertising Masters Week specials. Marquees in front of shops and strip malls welcomed visitors to Augusta, home of the Masters. NO VACANCY signs blinked at hotels and motels near the I-20 interchange. Ticket scalpers, some in vans, others in RVs, hawked tickets along both sides of the road, careful to maintain the mandated distance from the Augusta National. Tickets could be had apparently, but at a premium. It was Mardi Gras Augusta-style.
“Place reminds me of Vegas.” Polly rubber-necked, not wanting to miss out on the action.
“You know Vegas?”
“Dated a blackjack dealer before moving in with Gloria and Stan.”
I shot her a glance out of the corner of my eye. Somehow I could easily picture Polly shooting craps or feeding coins into slot machines. Once again the saying, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas seemed to apply.
I turned onto Berckmans Road and spied a kid in a ball cap waving a yellow flag and motioning toward a grassy lot that fifty-one weeks a year served as a resident’s side yard. I slowed to a stop and handed the kid a twenty, ransom money for parking in a spot close to the street. He pocketed the bill and pointed to a spot behind a Toyota. Hefting a well-stocked bag to my shoulder, Polly and I joined the throng of people migrating toward the gate.
We found our badges waiting just as Sheila promised. Slipping them into clear plastic holders fastened to a lanyard, we put them around our necks. I felt anticipation mount as we approached the security checkpoint. “Showtime,” I announced cheerily.
“Halt!” a female voice called.
I stopped dead in my tracks. “You talking to me?”
A fresh-faced girl in her early twenties, a blond ponytail protruding beneath a cap with the Masters logo, held up one hand like a school crossing guard. With the other, she pointed at my bulging shoulder bag. “Ma’am, you can’t bring that in with you.”
“B-but…” I stammered. “It has all my…stuff.” Once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout. I’d come prepared with stuff, stuff, and more stuff. Camera, cell phone, binoculars, autograph book and pen, wallet and credit cards, peanuts, orange sections, and for good measure, a couple bars of BAM! My purse must’ve weighed a good twenty pounds.
Behind me I heard a rumble of dissension. “What’s the holdup?” one woman demanded querulously.
A man in the next line over jerked a thumb at a nearby sign informing one and all that purses could be no larger than ten inches wide by five inches high. “Can’t you read, lady?”
My face burned with embarrassment at being singled out as an illiterate. Where was the infamous Southern hospitality? True Southerners were unfailingly courteous. I decided these rude people were aliens and ought to be deported for unsportsmanlike conduct.
“Sorry,” the girl said. “Rules are rules.”
When did these rules go into effect? Surely, since my one and only visit years ago. “But what about my camera, my cell phone, my autograph book?” I wailed.
“Cameras are allowed at the practice rounds, but no cell phones. For player safety, we adhere to a strict no autograph policy on the course. Now, ma’am, if you’ll please step aside, you’re holding up the line.”
Polly tugged on my sleeve. “What’re you gonna do?”
To make a long story short, I turned and started hiking back to the car. I left Polly behind to get a head start on souvenir shopping.
This was a less than auspicious start to a day of crime solving.
Chapter 17
So much for getting an early start, I fussed as I trudged back along Berckmans Road. The day was heating up. I was both sweaty and cranky after my long hike. Although I might have to be scanned through security, I was grateful that at least I didn’t have to step on a scale. Before tossing my purse in the trunk of the Buick, I’d jammed as much into the pockets of my navy capris as space would allow, including a camera and a couple BAM! bars for good measure.
Polly was waiting for me inside the course gate weighted down with two bulging shopping bags. “Wait till you see all my stuff.”
“Stuff is exactly what got me sent all the way back to the car,” I grumbled. “We won’t make it until lunch if you have to lug those bags around with you.”
“Ma’am?”
I turned to find a woman in madras capris and a visor standing next to me.
“Sorry, hon, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she apologized with a friendly smile. “But there are lockers right over there where y’all can store your packages.”
I thanked the woman profusely for her suggestion. Now, there was an example of Southern hospitality at its finest. Polly and I might very well have walked right past the lockers, but there they stood, a bank of shiny metal just ready and waiting. After considerable huffing and puffing, we managed to squeeze Polly’s souvenirs inside, slam the door, and twist the lock.
“Time’s a wasting,” I said. “Let’s see if we can spot Peter, Paul, and Mary in this crowd.”
Polly blinked up at me, confused. “Who
?”
“Sorry,” I replied absently. “I meant Todd, Roger, and Betsy.” I opened the spectator guide to orient myself to the grounds.
“But what about golf?” Polly whined. “All these tanned and fit athletes, and me all dressed up.”
“Don’t forget, the motto of the day is business before pleasure.”
“Right,” Polly muttered. She looked more like a toddler about to have a tantrum than an AARP card–carrying senior citizen.
“There’ll be time for that, too.”
I studied a map of the course, then with Polly close on my heels, started off in the general direction of Amen Corner, a popular viewing spot for holes eleven, twelve, and thirteen, so named because of the critical action that often takes place there. We hadn’t gone far before we were nearly mowed down by an army of spectators bent on following a threesome. One figure in particular stood out as he marched down the fairway like royalty.
Polly tugged on my sleeve. “Is that who I think it is?” she whispered.
“Tiger,” I whispered back. “The one and only.”
How many chances does a person get in one lifetime to watch one of sports greats in action? We wormed our way through the crowd until we were close enough to the roped-off green to watch him putt. I found myself behind a couple of brawny young men who looked to be in their early thirties. Each time I craned my neck for a better look, one or the other inadvertently blocked my view. Next to me, Polly seemed to be running into the same trouble. She solved the problem by half-turning and wedging her skinny body between the pair.
“Sorry, sonny.” She returned their dirty looks with a sweet smile. “Hope I didn’t step on your feet. When you get to be my age, dear, and know there isn’t much time left…” she said, blinking rapidly as she sniffed back crocodile tears.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the darker-haired one replied. “Here, let me make room for you.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but I had to hand it to Polly for winning herself a prime spot. When it suited her, she played the age card with finesse. The young men may have been taken in by her grandmotherly wiles, but I wasn’t. I was just miffed I hadn’t thought of it myself.
