Enclosed, please find your bill for unscheduled maintenance required on the fourteenth fairway, Monday morning, February 11.
Please be advised that owners and renters are required to abide by community rules as stated in the DGCC owners manual.
Please also note that club by-laws authorize Donegal’s management to assess fines and/or other penalties where deemed necessary.
The second sheet was an itemized bill: golf-ball retrieval: $80.00. Litter cleanup: $30.00.
“Is it from Pat?”
She handed it to Rayette and moved from the bedroom, out through the open slider. She slipped off her shoes, stepped down onto the flooded deck, and followed where the hose led. He didn’t do it, she thought, slapping through chilly water. He walked me to my car and waited for me to leave. She turned off the spigot, then crossed to the screened door. Mounded outside was a dumped pile of balls and a plastic trash bag. Folded next to it was the blanket. Sweeney’s bag of clubs rested against the cage frame.
“I don’t get it,” Rayette called. “When did you all leave?”
“About eleven. Maybe later.”
“So, he drives you home—”
“I had my own car.”
“So, he says goodbye, he goes in the house. Leaves the door unlocked. When you left, was his garage open?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What’s this bill?”
“Because of the golf lesson.” She turned and stepped back. “I wanted to help pick everything up,” she said. “He told me he’d take care of it.”
“But he didn’t,” Rayette said. “And his car’s here.”
“He must have walked somewhere,” Brenda said. “We said goodbye, he was going to use the blanket to collect the balls. It’s outside with everything else.”
“And the crew found it.”
“When they cleaned up this morning. That means Patrick had the blanket with him. When he went out to clean up.”
“Whoa, whoa—” Rayette sat on the top step and unfolded the note. After a moment, she looked up. “Yeah, maybe so. They do this if anything’s out of line. It’s a very uptight place.” She looked again at the bill. “They did the cleanup today, not last night. A groundskeeper checks the course every morning before the first people tee off. He found your golf stuff and had his crew take care of it.”
Brenda sat next to her. “What do you think?”
“Not a clue.” Rayette stared out at the fairway. “I’m still dealing with the story on your laptop. And the shotgun.”
“We know what he had planned.”
“All that blue plastic.” Rayette rubbed her hands between her knees. “See, it may sound cold, but I’ll tell you something. All those measures to keep it clean in his closet? That would be a pride thing with Patrick. And it would be a pride thing making sure all those golf balls got picked up before he did it. You know, like etiquette. Good form. You don’t just leave a mess—that would be Patrick’s thinking.”
“What’s it mean?” Brenda asked. “This is your club. What happened?”
Rayette looked back out, elbows on her knees. “I think he did what you said.” She nodded. “Yes, he took a walk. Or he went out to pick up the balls. But something happened.”
“A distraction.”
“Or someone he knew saw him, and called him over for a drink. Maybe just to say hello. Anything.” She looked at Brenda. “Hell, he could’ve got sick. Did you all both eat the same food?”
“Chinese carry-out. There was nothing wrong with it.”
“Or he could’ve had a heart attack.”
“And called for help.”
“Yeah.” Rayette nodded, but stopped. “No, that doesn’t work. Unless the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s up to, they wouldn’t give a bill to a sick person. They’d send him a get-well card.”
“There must be a log at the gate.”
“If someone called EMS, yes, that would be in the security log.”
Brenda stood. The flooded deck was draining. “Shouldn’t we do something here?” she said.
Rayette got up. “With the gun, anyway.”
“And the plastic.”
Rayette nodded solemnly. “We’re not gonna make it easy for him.”
“There’s no reason anyone else needs to know.”
They went back into the bedroom. Rayette stepped into Sweeney’s closet and came out with the chair and shotgun. She set them next to the bed, then she and Brenda began pulling the plastic free from the walls. They struggled to fold the heavy pool blanket, then began working it through the entry. “Know what these are?” Rayette asked.
“He told me.”
They carried it out to the lanai, went back inside and closed the door wall. Brenda got the shotgun, and they passed back through the house. Rayette opened the door to the garage and stepped down to the car. It was a red Mazda. She leaned and cupped the side window, shook her head, and straightened. “I’ll go out this way,” she said. “You go out the front. We should leave the door unlocked.”
Once Rayette was outside, Brenda pushed the button. She stepped back inside, hearing the door rumble down. His wonderful swing, she thought. His bucket hat and fancy shoes. She walked back quickly to the kitchen. Still on the counter were liquor bottles and cocktail napkins, a corkscrew, the ice bucket.
She set the shotgun on the oven, then moved to the corner and returned the liquor bottles to the cupboard. She next emptied the ice bucket and left it upside down in the dish rack. She began rinsing glasses. Good form, she thought, holding his scotch glass under the faucet. Etiquette. When nothing was right, sometimes this was all you had. Some blind commitment to detail.
Brenda put his glass in the rack, rinsed the wine glasses, and wiped her hands on a towel hanging from the oven door. She stepped back to the kitchen table, looked and found her name in the notebook. Then the photo of Teresa Sweeney reading to her grandchildren. She grabbed the shotgun and hurried to the front.
“She’s supposed to phone with a name.”
The guard stood in the gatehouse entry and looked down again at his clipboard.
“She couldn’t,” Schmidt told him. “She didn’t know I was coming. Miss Contay is a guest, a family friend. She’s here for two weeks.”
“The by-laws say you can’t rent for less than a month.”
The man was just doing his job, a retiree picking up some walking-around money. Schmidt stared straight ahead and waited. At a gated Florida golf community, if you weren’t wearing dreadlocks or an Arab headdress—if you were white and driving a Lincoln Town Car—things would probably work out.
“You say she’s a family friend.”
“Mrs. Krause owns the duplex,” he said. “I guess you call them villas in Florida. The daughter’s married name is Ross. I have a number you could call.”
“Nah, go on.”
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
The guard stepped inside. He came back and handed Schmidt a small map. He tapped at Paisley Court and motioned for Schmidt to turn right.
“Thank you.”
“Just tell Miss Contay about calling first.”
The barrier rose, and Schmidt drove inside. Calling was something he should have done himself. As he approached a boulevard, on the far side two women were practicing on a putting green. Behind them, the sprawling clubhouse had thick pillars and a gently sloping green tile roof. Beds of impatiens surrounded palms of various kinds. Schmidt came to a stop and turned right.
Last night, without a cell phone or land-line service until spring, he had driven the half mile to the Nielsons’. Surprised to see his neighbor in February, John Nielson had asked questions. It’s business-related, Schmidt said. He had made plane reservations, driven back to his cabin, and packed some summer clothes in a spare suitcase. At five the next morning, he woke with a sense of urgency. The commuter flight from International Falls would arrive in Milwaukee with just enough time for him to make a morning Northwest flight to Sout
hwest International Airport.
On the flight, Schmidt had not been able to read or watch the movie. He stared down at a jigsaw puzzle of winter fields as it slipped beneath wispy clouds. He had tried calling from International Falls. But once more hearing her recorded voice, he all at once hated the thought of leaving messages. Especially hated to think she was listening and not picking up, and he broke the connection. If it was over, it was over, but not with phone calls.
Passing between rows of palms and flowers he couldn’t name, Schmidt wondered whether his wife could identify them. Lillie had known so much, cared about so many things. They had come down to Fort Myers twice, after the kids left home. Before that, they’d all gone each spring to Myrtle Beach or Daytona.
On the left, a mixed-doubles tennis game was in progress. Behind the courts, a fairway stretched and broadened. The lawns and roads looked well maintained, everything green. Small variations figured in the houses and landscaping but not the overall style. Schmidt had restrictions in his own apartment buildings, simple ones to protect himself and his tenants. No DayGlo paint jobs or aluminum-foil wallpaper. Except for internet commerce, no using your apartment for business or waking up your neighbors with loud parties. Here, the no-list would be much longer. He had read that rules at some Florida communities even limited visits made by grandchildren or visitors. Others controlled the size and number of pets, what plants you could use. No boats or trailers except in the garage. No pickup trucks.
Schmidt believed that if it worked for you, fine. You would know how it was going in. You bought a place here for the sun, to swim and play golf during the winter, eat seafood. You couldn’t paint your house fuchsia, but you could wear loud clothes and throw away some money in an Indian casino. Then you went home to real life in Michigan or Massachusetts.
The opposite applied to himself and Brenda: going in, they had known nothing about each other. Nine months later, they still didn’t.
He was looking for Paisley Court and kept track of the street signs. Across the fairway, large houses occupied the center of the golf course. Angular slabs of glass and stone rose aggressively above trees or crouched in deep foliage. The high rollers, Schmidt thought. The one percenters who were locking in second or third homes for the Golden Years. They were the ones Brenda had come to write about, and maybe that was another reason he hadn’t wanted to come here with her. The whole retirement idea was too close to home.
He saw the street sign, slowed and turned. At the address, Schmidt swung up the drive. He got out and immediately felt sun on his head. Surprise, surprise, he thought, walking toward the entry. He tugged down his short-sleeved camp shirt, found in the closet at the lake and still smelling faintly of cedar. He felt nervous, like someone who couldn’t make up his mind. Here I am, Schmidt thought again. Fresh from the frozen north. He pushed the bell and heard chimes.
He would keep it simple. Just say they needed to talk. As the chimes echoed inside and stopped, Schmidt remembered a random detail about stone crabs, a gulf coast delicacy. Crabbers didn’t take the whole crab. They broke off one claw, threw the crab back, and it grew a new one. The animal survived, and the idea cheered him.
He touched the button again and waited. She wasn’t here. Brenda opened doors and answered phones very fast. One ring and she was there, or standing in the entry, ready for him. It was something he loved about her. Yes, Schmidt thought. Loved.
He heard something and turned to see a woman crossing the lawn.
“Can I help you?” She stopped on the grass, shading her eyes.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Krause’s villa,” he said.
“She’s not here. There’s a guest. If you have something for Mrs. Krause, I’ll see she gets it.”
“It’s the guest I’m looking for,” Schmidt said. “I’m a friend.”
“You’re not from the club or police?”
“I’m from Wisconsin.”
She lowered her hand and stepped into the shade of the house. She wore white shorts and a yellow shirt tied to show off her breasts. “Charlie something?” she asked.
“Schmidt.”
“I’m sorry. I’d remember, but it’s real confusing here right now.” She put out her hand. “I’m Rayette Peticore,” she said. “I’m next door.” They shook.
“Is Brenda working?” Schmidt asked.
“Sort of, but not what she came for. Come around the back.”
The woman moved quickly, and he followed. She led him between houses, sidestepped a pool heater. “I must be a little scattered,” she said. “You don’t look much like police.”
“How do police figure?”
“Well, they don’t yet, but they might. I don’t see any way around calling them.”
When they reached the back, the woman pulled open the screen and held it for him. He stepped in and looked down at the swimming pool, then at the patio furniture.
“Have a seat,” the woman said. “I’ll get us something to drink and tell you what’s going on. Are you a soda drinker?”
“No thanks,” Schmidt said. “What’s this about police? Is Brenda all right?”
“Oh yeah, she’s fine. One sec.”
She went up two steps and disappeared. Schmidt sat at the table. For some reason, he felt glad for a difficulty, for something he might be able to help with. I need your input—that’s how Brenda would put it, making fun of the word. I’m in a bind, she’d say. I need your expertise. He wanted her to come to him, to forget clean breaks and kiss him in front of the neighbor, laying her claim to him.
“It’s this man,” the woman called from inside. “He owns a place here.” The refrigerator door closed, a can popped. “Pat Sweeney? From Michigan?” She appeared in the entry with a Coke. “I’ve known him for years. Brenda met him on the plane, and they talked. Anyway, then we talked, Brenda and me. This man’s wife killed herself last fall. I thought that was all of it. I mean, that’s bad enough, but my God.” Rayette shook her head. “Anyway, we thought he might be desperate, so we went to his place.”
The woman looked at him and drank her Coke. She lowered the can. “Maybe she should tell you.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I think she’s at the club. To talk to the head greenskeeper.”
“About this man?”
“He just up and disappeared,” the woman said. “He was at his place last night, Brenda was with him. He gave her a golf lesson. But she should tell you, I’ll get it wrong. She thought I should stay here. I guess that was a good idea.”
◆◆◆◆◆
She offered to take him to the greenskeeper’s office, but Schmidt said thanks, he could find it. He drove back along the boulevard.
Brenda was a journalist. She investigated things, needed to establish contacts. It would all finally make sense. But he kept having to stop for golf carts crossing the road. They trundled past, couples smiling, waving. He waved back, then accelerated, thinking about the golf lesson. So what? She was staying on a golf course. What was she supposed to do, knit? Still, it bothered him, seeing as he drove the stock image of a man behind a woman, coming in close, putting his arms around her for the “lesson.”
He reached the clubhouse, parked, and walked quickly toward the canopied entrance. Foursomes returning from the course were parking their carts along the circular drive. Men in hats and women in sun visors clacked over asphalt in golf cleats.
Inside, Schmidt moved past offices, then the pro shop. Signs led him along a row of cubicles to the greenskeeper’s office. He found the man seated inside, in his thirties and blond, dressed in a Donegal golf shirt. Rows of trophies lined the shelves behind his chair. Lost in thought, he sat at a promotional desk made from the bottom half of a giant Titleist golf ball. He looked up with stressed blue eyes.
“I’m looking for Brenda Contay,” Schmidt said. “I was told she might’ve come to see you.”
“She just left.” Not smiling, the greenskeeper began flicking a pencil between two fingers, drumming the blott
er.
“Do you know where she went?”
“Sir, we’ve got the women’s tournament to schedule against water aerobics and karaoke. The ladies don’t want to miss aerobics class, but they definitely want to be done in time for karaoke. We’re short-handed. I told Miss Contay we can’t be sending out crews to clean up every time people party down. I think most people would understand that.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
Still tapping, the man rocked in his chair. “We found the blanket in front of the Ivy house,” he said. “We had to clean up that whole part of the fairway. I think she went there.”
He gave directions.
Instead of going back outside, Schmidt moved along the passage leading to the clubhouse. He passed real estate and development offices, then a design center full of tile samples and kitchen cabinets. A billiard room. Several steps down on his left, a dining room spread in late-afternoon shadows. A few people were still eating lunch. In the lobby, an easel placard announced tomorrow’s seafood buffet.
Schmidt stepped outside and walked toward his rental. We can’t be sending out crews every time people party down. Brenda liked a good time. So do you, he thought. But you like your good time with her, not someone you met on a plane.
He got in, backed out, and began following the greenskeeper’s directions. He had to stop and wave again. Maybe that was why he didn’t play anymore. The clothes and golf carts made you feel like a kid in a carnival ride at the state fair. That’s not it, Schmidt thought. You’re just mad about the golf lesson.
The last cart crossed, and he moved forward. A quarter mile from the club, the road led into an undeveloped part of the property. In another minute Schmidt was passing between the big houses seen earlier. Each address had been carved into a limestone pillar next to a brick or slate drive. At 12, he stopped and got out.
Every custom-designed house told you about the owner. This one spoke of post-modern pretense. Schmidt walked up the drive. He thought to call her name but wanted to find her first. The house appeared to be made entirely of unpolished granite and polarized glass.
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