Sage of Innocence

by Melissa F. Miller

  "Um, that's kind of you," I said once it became clear that Roman didn't intend to respond. Roman's cheek muscle twitched. "But I think it's premature for Roman to be thinking about a new job right now. I mean, the police haven't charged Chip with anything, you know."

  Rita barked out another laugh. "Not yet. Everybody knows his sponsors are dropping him faster than you can say 'scandal' and the club's calling an emergency meeting of the membership to vote him out." The triumphant note in her voice was unmistakable.

  I turned back to Louie. "Is that true? Can they even do that?"

  He was busy glaring at his better half. After a moment, he exhaled. "Now, I don't rightly know, Sage. And neither does anybody else. It's a suggestion that's floating around. But the club attorney hasn't weighed in, and not everyone thinks it's the right course of action. Shoot, I think anybody being honest would say it's an ugly mess, for sure." He paused and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Ain't nobody mourning Fred though. It's a good riddance sort of situation."

  I felt my eyes widen, and even Roman's face registered surprise.

  "Now, Louie," Rita began.

  "Don't you go hushing me, woman. You know it's true. I don't think even Marilee's weeping over her husband's death. The only reason she's not sitting over there knocking back wine spritzers with the rest of us is that it would look bad."

  Rita twisted up her face as if she were going to argue the point, but then she sort of shrugged. On that note, Louie led her away.

  Roman and I stared at each other for a long moment as we processed this piece of information.

  * * *

  After Louie's bombshell, the rest of our dinner was anti-climactic. We ate our meals and kept our ears tuned into the conversation at the other table, but mainly I spent the time puzzling over why everyone was more or less happy that Fred was dead.

  As I sipped my cappuccino and stole another forkful of Roman's cake, I asked, "Did everyone really hate Fred so much?"

  He swatted my hand away from his dessert before answering. "Hey, keep your paws off my plate. I didn't eat your ice cream, did I? And, to answer your question, I don't know. I don't talk much to the other caddies, and the members would never deign to have a real conversation with me. But I told you, nobody liked him much. I guess you could say the vibe around the course was that Fred kind of ... sucked."

  "As a golfer?"

  "Mainly as a person," he said in a soft, sad voice.

  I cocked my head. "Sucked how?"

  He rested his fork on the rim of his plate and considered his answer. "Well, he had a knack for figuring out a person's weakness or flaw--the thing that embarrassed him the most--and just homing in on it. He'd taunt guys, kind of bully them."

  "He sounds delightful."

  He nodded. "And I wouldn't go so far as to call him a cheater, but he sure did play all the angles. He wasn't exactly a good sport on the course."

  I mulled over this and eyed Roman's plate. "Did Chip ever have a run-in with him?"

  He shrugged. "Nothing personal, not that he ever mentioned. But I know he didn't care for the guy. He said Fred played to the letter of the rules but ignored the spirit of the rules."

  That sounded like a boring golfer complaint to me--hardly a reason to commit murder.

  His fork continued to sit, unused, and his cake continued to call my name.

  "Are you going to finish that or what?" I asked.

  He shook his head in amazement and pushed the plate across the table toward me. "Where do you put it?"

  "Hollow leg," I mumbled before taking a large bite.

  "If you're half as relentless about tracking down Fred's killer as you were about stealing my dessert, we should have this figured out in no time."

  I couldn't respond. It would have been bad form with a mouthful of fudgy, cakey goodness.

  While I chewed, he nodded toward the table full of golfers. "Chip doesn't have much of a temper. Some of those guys, though, they get really amped up on the course--cursing, throwing clubs, that sort of thing. I could see some of them lashing out in anger for sure."

  Interesting. "Like who?"

  "Not here."

  "Fair enough. Can I ask you this? Why did Louie say that to you?"

  "What? That I'm a good caddy? I suspect because I am." His tone was light but his face was tense again. Even in the candlelight, I could see his eyes darkening.

  "I'm sure you are. But I meant the other part--about getting you a job at a public course. That doesn't make sense, right? Golfers who play public courses don't have paid caddies, do they?"

  He shrugged and focused on the tablecloth. "I imagine he meant a job working in the golf shop or as an instructor or something."

  "But why couldn't you find another caddying position? Just because of the scandal attached to Chip?"

  He laughed. "No, Louie was reminding me of my place."

  "Your place?"

  He leaned his arms on the table and stared at me. "Because I'm biracial, Sage. Have you noticed that one of these things is not like the others?" He gestured around the dining room full of white faces.

  "Wait. You're biracial?" I mean, I'd never really thought about it, but given his first name, I'd more or less assumed his dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin were standard issue from a Latin heritage. Italian. Or maybe Greek.

  He gave another laugh. This one was definitely mirthless. "Oh, you couldn't tell, huh? Yes, ma'am, I'm mixed. My daddy, whoever he might be, is apparently lily white." He put on a thick Southern accent.

  I ignored the shtick. Thyme had once told me that she worked on a research study that revealed most men use humor to hide their feelings.

  "You don't know your dad?"

  "Nope. I guess after he got the black girl knocked up, he didn't stick around."

  Pained silence hung over the table like a blanket. Maybe I should have let him go on with his comedy routine.

  Finally, I whispered, "I'm sorry." Lame, I know. But I wasn't sure what to say. I had my own family issues--and Rosemary would say our parents had abandoned us, but they took off on their boat after the three of us had left the nest, gone to college, gotten apartments and jobs. There was a world of difference between what they'd done and what Roman's father had done.

  "Don't be. I don't ever think about him," he lied in a hoarse voice.

  "So Lyman is your mom's last name?" I asked mainly to fill the silence.

  "Right. The Lymans are African-American. Lifelong NAACP members. Active in the Baptist church. Definitely not country club material."

  "But, Chip knows?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, Chip knows. Muffy, too. In fact, I guess Muffy met my Aunt Rosalia at some interfaith women's diversity something or other. She mentioned her husband is a professional golfer, and my auntie started bragging on my golf skills the way relatives do. Next thing I know, Chip's calling me to say his caddy was moving and did I want to come out to the club and try out for the job."

  Muffy was the consummate connection builder, so I could definitely see the scenario playing out that way.

  "How long have you worked for him?"

  "It'll be three years come spring. I mean, assuming we manage to keep our jobs."

  His words pulled me back to our more immediate concern.

  "Oh, we're keeping our jobs," I assured him. I pushed back my chair. "Come on."

  "Where are we going now?"

  "Do you have a key to the members' locker room?"

  He eyed me cautiously. "Yeah."

  "Good. Then we won't have to break in."

  Chapter 7

  Roman inserted the key into the lock, jiggled it, and eased open the door to the locker room while I shifted uneasily from foot to foot in the dark hallway wishing he would hurry up already. He held the door for me. I ran in, and the smell of musk and old sweat, masked by pine-scented cleaner hit me in the face.

  "Ugh." I tried not to gag.

  He closed the door silently then flipped on the overhead lights.

 
"Should I lock it?"

  "Might as well."

  I was nervous about the lights, but despite my, ahem, forensics background, hadn't thought to bring along a flashlight; The flashlight app on my cell phone crashed my phone every time I used it, and Mr. Etiquette had left his at home because, as he informed me as if he were the Ghost Of Muffy Present, it was rude to bring electronic devices to the dinner table. So we were stuck with the overheads.

  He snicked the lock into place and then looked at me. "Now what?"

  I looked around. It was pretty much as I'd imagined: dark wood lockers, plush carpet, leather chairs strategically placed throughout the space. On the far side of the room, the showers stood in a gleaming row of polished stainless steel and shining white subway tile. Between the two spaces, an open shelf held piles of neatly folded, fluffy white towels. Tucked around the corner were four narrow bathroom stalls.

  "Do you know where they found him?"

  He nodded and loped across the room. He paused in front of the bathroom stalls and examined the floor.

  "Right about here." He tapped his foot on a floor tile about two-and-a-half-feet away from the second stall. "They think he had just opened the stall door, stepped out, and then--thwack."

  I winced. "Wait. Where does Chip store his clubs? They don't fit in those lockers over there, do they?"

  "No. There's a bag room down the hall." He looked at me as if he couldn't believe I'd ask such a stupid question.

  "Oh." I'd assumed the golf bags were kept here in the locker room, but I guess it did make more sense to store the equipment elsewhere. "It's locked, too?"

  "No."

  "It's not?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, it's probably locked now, but during the day, when the course is open, that room's unlocked. For that matter, so is this one."

  I could feel my forehead scrunching up into a mess of furrows. My mother's chiding voice, warning of deep wrinkles, rang in my ears, and I smoothed out my expression. "Okay, but inside the bag room--the golf bags are secured, right?"

  "No."

  "So anyone, at any time, could just walk into the bag room and take someone else's clubs?"

  "Well, I suppose someone could, but no one would, Sage."

  He stared at me as if he thought I'd lost my blessed mind. I knew the feeling.

  "And why wouldn't they?" I gave the look right back to him.

  "It's a members only club. Most of the members have their tour cards--or at least did have them at one time. It's ... there's an honor system." Roman sounded very sure. And also very naive.

  "So, you're telling me anyone who belongs to the club could have just strolled into the bag room, snagged Chip's club, slipped into the locker room, and taken a swing at Fred's skull?"

  He pursed his lips as if he were about to disagree, but he didn't. Instead he shrugged. "Theoretically, sure. So could anyone who works here. Or, heck, anyone could just walk in off the street and do that. They're golf clubs, not assault rifles. Nobody was worried about it."

  "What about theft? Wait, don't tell me--honor system."

  "Well, yeah."

  We stared at each other in mutual disbelief. Then I sighed. "Let's go check out the bag room."

  * * *

  The bag room was darker, less inviting, and altogether creepier than the locker room had been. It was the sort of dank, shadowy room that you just knew was harboring spiders. I found myself pressing closer to Roman than I'd meant to. He must have sensed my trepidation, because somehow his arm made its way around my bare shoulder.

  Trust me, I didn't complain. His touch was warm. His arm, muscled and strong. I felt secure, protected. And he smelled like a mixture of lemongrass and citrus--clean, fresh, but masculine. Under other circumstances, I might have stood there indefinitely, reveling in his touch and scent.

  But this wasn't a walk along the beach or a night at the movies. This was dangerously close to breaking and entering. I mean, we did have Chip's key, but I knew that we weren't supposed to be there, and there'd be some uncomfortable questions to answer if anyone found us. So I inhaled one last whiff of his cologne and then shook myself free of his arm.

  "Where's Chip keep his bag?" I asked as I peered into the dim room.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him. He sure was touchy-feely all of a sudden. I wondered whether he might have a touch of arachnophobia, too.

  "Here."

  We stopped in front of a bright blue golf bag. The clubs stood in a straight, tidy row like soldiers. Each sported a soft, leather cover to protect its head. One slot was obviously empty, one soldier missing.

  "The police kept his iron?"

  "Sure. It's the murder weapon, after all." Roman's voice seemed to say my forensics background was really quite lacking.

  "Of course," I covered. "But what did he use when you guys were at the course yesterday?"

  He pivoted and squinted at me in the gloom. “He’s a professional golfer. He has dozens of clubs. Maybe hundreds. He just grabbed a spare from home.”

  "Oh, right. So, does everyone have an assigned spot here? How’s it work?"

  "More or less." He pointed to an empty place near the corner. "That's Mr. Lewis's."

  "He's not here, you know. You could just call him Louie."

  "No. You can just call him Louie, because you're a white girl from up north. Different rules."

  I clamped my mouth shut because it didn't seem like the time to have a heart to heart about race relations--what with the potential spiders lurking in the corners and all.

  He went on. "Strange that he took them though."

  "Doesn't Chip sometimes take his clubs home?"

  "Sure. Everybody does. But Mr. Lewis doesn't have a tournament this weekend. And I know he's playing with his standing foursome in the morning. It'd be more convenient to just leave them here."

  I wanted to get off the irrelevant subject of Louie Lewis's missing bag and on with our search. "Maybe he's having them repaired. Or cleaned. Or something," I suggested.

  "Maybe." He sounded unconvinced.

  "So whose clubs are these on either side of Chip's?" I asked.

  "Ken Michelson's are on the left. Francisco Abate's are on the right." He turned toward me. "Why?"

  "Just wondering. If you were going to use a golf club to crack somebody in the head, would you use your own or someone else's?"

  He pursed his lips and pondered the question. "I don't know. I guess it would depend on what was handy. All else being equal? I wouldn't use my own club."

  "Me neither."

  He tilted his head to one side. "Of course, I wouldn't use an eight iron either."

  "You wouldn't?"

  "Nah." He reached into Chip's bag and pulled out the shortest club. He hit the head against his palm. "I'd use a sand wedge. It's the heaviest club." He pulled back and swung the club two-handed, as if it were a baseball bat, and connected with an imaginary skull.

  I shivered at the demonstration. It was too easy to imagine Fred Spears being on the receiving end of just such a blow.

  "Sorry," he said. He slipped the wedge back into its proper spot.

  "Where did Fred store his clubs?"

  "They're right here." He motioned to a maroon golf bag propped against the wall.

  "His wife didn't come get them?"

  "I'm sure she's dealing with more pressing issues at the moment. I mean, making the burial arrangements and stuff?"

  He had a point. And it gave us an opportunity if we were willing to do something that fell into an ethical gray area.

  "Grab them."

  "Grab them?"

  "Yeah, grab the clubs and let's get out of here. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies."

  He hefted the golf bag and slung the strap over his broad shoulder. "You probably feel that way because of all these freaking spiders."

  I sprinted through the doorway with Roman on my heels.

  Chapter 8

  Marilee Spears left the chain engaged on her fro
nt door and peered out through the two-inch crack at me and Roman.

  "Can I help you?" Her voice was soft but steady.

  Roman nudged me with his foot. I could feel him thinking 'this was your brilliant idea; you can do the talking.'

  "Mrs. Spears, I'm so sorry to show up unannounced. My name's Sage Field. I work for Chip and Muffy Moore."

  The door remained firmly locked, but I saw a spark of recognition in her red-rimmed eyes. "Of course. You're the child development expert."

  "Something like that. And this is Roman Lyman, Chip's caddy." I gestured toward Roman.

  She managed a tentative smile then said, "What I can do for you two?"

  Roman held up her dead husband's golf bag so that it was in her line of vision. "We were at the club and noticed Fred's golf bag was still there. We thought we'd bring it to you. I'm sure you have a lot going on right now." His voice was tinged with sympathy and concerns.

  She blinked then slid the chain off the door. "How kind of you. Thank you both." She stood in the doorway, backlit by the warm yellow light coming from a large lamp that sat on an antique telephone desk just inside the door.

  "Please, don't mention it," I told her. "We're so sorry about Fred."

  She waved one hand in a vague way in response to my condolences and then opened the door wide to usher us inside. "Please, come in."

  As we crossed the threshold into the brightly lit hallway, I flashed Roman a look for doubting my genius. Told you this would work. He gave me a nod of grudging approval.

  "Where would you like these?" he asked as if he were a solicitous bellboy at a swanky hotel.

  "Oh. Um ... I guess the hall closet?" Marilee seemed flustered by the question. She skittered across the floor and yanked open a coat closet. I peeked inside. A few out of season coats hung on one of the rods; empty hangers, probably reserved for guests' outerwear, dangled askew on the other end. The shelf above was lined with a row of wicker baskets, probably holding scarves, umbrellas, and the like.

  Roman ducked around her and placed the bag on the closet floor as if it were made of fine-bone china and not polyester. She reached out as if she might caress the fabric but, instead, wrenched her hand back and pulled the door shut.