by Terri Thayer
She recognized the low-slung, one-story building, the roofline interrupted by the blue and white striped awnings that sheltered the windows. The huge south lawn was the perfect site for a garden wedding.
Mitch was already heading up the slight hill, hands in his pockets. Could he be any more like Opie? If he started whistling, she was going to hit him.
She hissed at him from her hiding place behind the tree. “The club? Why are we here?”
Mitch stopped and looked back as though surprised she hadn’t moved. He took several steps back. “I told you I’d get you help. Well, help is inside.”
“I can’t go in there. I’m a mess.” She patted at her face and dragged her hand through her hair. Her clothes smelled of lemon, and her T-shirt and jeans were wrinkled and stained. She knew her face would be red from crying despite the stop at the stream.
Mitch looked at her. “You don’t look any worse than most of the teenagers that come here in their ripped jeans and holey T-shirts. Your pants could pass for that designer, whatsis, Losing My Religion.”
“It’s True Religion, dork.”
Mitch reared back at her insult, then laughed. She smiled despite her misgivings. The insult had just come out. She wiped her face on her sleeve and tucked in her T-shirt.
“It’ll be fine,” Mitch said. His deep-rooted sense of belonging would not allow him to believe she might be unwelcome. “Besides, you’ll be with me. The dork.”
April still hesitated. Mrs. H. was on that golf course somewhere. The last person she wanted to see.
But Mitch was already moving quickly on a slate path she knew led to the front entrance. If they were going in there, they’d do have to do it her way.
“Hang on,” she said, catching up to him. “Follow me.” She’d explored every inch of this place as a kid. She could show him some places he’d never been before.
She steered him away from the main entrance, through a nondescript side door that led to a dark storeroom. She paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Weird shapes began to coalesce into recognizable objects. A row of portable gas heaters were lined up, ready to warm the outdoor patios. A forest of Christmas trees, with the lights already strung, leaned in a corner. She saw a scarecrow, a disco ball. Everything needed to turn the club into a winter wonderland or a haunted house or the June bride’s fantasy.
Mitch said over her shoulder, “You told me you used to come here as a kid. I didn’t realize you meant backstage.”
“You’re about to find out what makes the club run so smoothly.”
She shuddered as she felt his warm breath on her neck. She walked faster, eyes adjusted now so she could make out a clear path.
She said, “I was here all the time. They let me use the pool because my mom worked in the kitchen. Still does. Now she’s the head chef.”
“Oh man, the food is the best. That’s your mom? When I was a kid, I would have starved without the club. My mother was a terrible cook.”
She wasn’t about to admit it to Mitch, but her attitude toward her mother’s employment at the club had been ever changing. The fact that her mother worked for the country club had been a source of pride when she was a little kid, then embarrassment in her early teens. Torture by the time Ed had left home. She was ashamed to admit to him how often she’d ignored her mother when she’d been here.
She opened a door at the far end of the room. April heard the rattling of dishes. She stopped to make sure the coast was clear. Dinner prep would be in full swing, and she knew better than to get in a prep cook’s way.
“Stand close to me,” she whispered, and Mitch obliged. Holding on to her waist, he was too close, but she couldn’t object.
She waited as someone whizzed past, carrying a pan of sizzling butter. She motioned Mitch to move forward. They looked through the round window in the door together. April ducked as her mother strode past and into the walk-in. Now was the time to move.
April thought for a moment. “Where do we need to be?”
“Get us to the restaurant.”
April conjured up the layout. Just beyond the walk-in refrigerator was a small butler’s pantry. The pantry held all the dishes and glasses needed for service. From the other end, it was accessible to the bar. The bar was in The Greens, the restaurant that overlooked the eighteenth hole.
“Follow me,” April said.
“Lead on, Nancy Drew. I haven’t had this much fun since I helped my date for the winter formal find an ear-ring in the cloakroom. Turned out she’d dropped it into her bra.”
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” she hissed. “My dad’s about to lose his business, and my mother won’t appreciate me barreling through her workplace.”
April ignored the looks of the cooks who were chopping vegetables and chattering in Spanish. She kept an eye on the door. There was no way of knowing if Bonnie would be in there for one minute or ten, gathering up the produce and protein she needed for tonight’s menu. Her heart was pounding, but Mitch was right. This was fun. She pulled him into the butler’s pantry just as the door to the refrigerator opened. She stopped, breathing hard, leaning on a shelving unit full of glassware of all shapes and sizes.
“Hey, look at this,” Mitch said, grabbing a wooden bowl off a high shelf. “This is Brazilian hardwood. Zebra wood. Completely extinct.”
“Put it down,” April said. “Let’s get out of here before one of the staff decides they need a soup tureen or highball glass.”
“Where’s this door lead?” Mitch said, moving in front of her and pulling it open.
April jumped back. A startled bartender took a step away from them. He’d been filling a glass with soda and held the nozzle up, ready to shoot.
Mitch flung an arm over her chest, as if she were his passenger and he’d had to stop short. She stumbled and he caught her.
“Idiot,” April said. “The other door leads to the hallway. We would have been home free.”
“Oops,” he said. There was no turning back. He leaned in and smiled at the bartender. The bartender lowered the soda trigger and smiled. To her amazement, he turned away and placed the drink in front of the customer at the far end of the bar.
She looked to Mitch for an explanation.
“What?” he said. “The bartenders around here are used to far weirder behavior, believe me. That’s what big tips are for—to encourage memory loss.”
They hustled through the bar, ignoring the stares of the patrons, mostly middle-aged women drinking Trix-colored drinks. April pretended that if she didn’t look at them, they couldn’t see her. Mitch kept his smile pasted on.
They were across the restaurant in a few short strides. He threw open the French doors that led onto a wooden deck overlooking the tee. Large trees shaded the lush grounds. Rhododendrons and azaleas dotted a water hazard, their color the only break in the expanse of green. A flag, designating the hole as number eighteen, snapped in the wind. A bevy of golf carts sat under a wooden portico. Mitch jumped into one and started the engine. An attendant in a blue vest started toward him, but Mitch waved him off.
“Get in,” he said to April. “He’s going to call the ranger. We’ve got to move fast. Golfers don’t like extra people on their fairway.”
“What are you doing?” April hissed. She was still in the doorway. The young man in charge of carts looked unhappy. “Not the golf course,” she pleaded.
Mitch grinned and pulled up to her. “My expert is on the fifteenth green. She’s got a putt to sink and then we can talk to her.”
April sat down, and he took off with too much force. She clutched the side and heard herself gasp as they bounced down the paved path.
Luckily, after the abrupt start, the golf cart wouldn’t go more than ten miles an hour. April’s breathing steadied, and the breeze cooled her skin. She felt the tension in her belly ease as they moved away from the club. Then her stomach retightened at the sight of a fringe-topped golf cart. She shaded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun and saw that the fr
inge was not yellow. This better not take too long. Mrs. H. was on this golf course somewhere.
“Where’s the third hole from here? Mrs. H. had been on the third hole when she came in and fired me,” April said. “I don’t want to go anywhere near there.”
Mitch flapped his hand in the direction to his left. “Way over there. She’s like a mile away. Don’t worry.”
Mitch steered around a curve, then braked suddenly. April managed to keep her balance, but barely, her butt leaving the seat. She braced her feet on the floor.
April looked for the cause of the abrupt stop, expecting to see a squirrel or possum in the path. Instead, twenty feet ahead, Rocky was standing alongside a cart, putting her putter in a golden leather golf bag. She pulled out a driver. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that was threaded through the back of her navy visor. Her long tan legs looked great in the crisp white skort. A tan like that in June meant winter vacations somewhere tropical.
“There she is,” Mitch said, pleased with himself.
April asked, “That’s your expert? I know her. That’s Rocky.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Rocky is a painter. A very good painter.”
April protested. “She told me she was a collage artist.”
“She does that to make a living. But she is a serious artist. Very serious. Studied at the Sorbonne, spent a year in Venice, the whole enchilada.”
The whole enchilada that had not been available to April. She’d worked her way through San Francisco State, taking six years so she could work part-time and minimize her student loans.
She swallowed her resentment. Chances were Rocky knew more about paints than she did. Besides, what choice did she have? She had to fix the mural today. “Lead on,” she said.
Mitch let the cart drift until he was just about touching Rocky’s foot.
“Nice, bro. Back it up,” she said, giving the cart a push on the hood with her golf shoe, her long legs graceful. She looked at April significantly, glancing at Mitch and back at April. April rolled her eyes. Did this count as some sort of tryst?
Mitch dutifully put it in reverse and moved back several inches. He jumped out of the cart. April followed. Another cart was parked in front of Rocky’s on the asphalt cart path. Next to the cart, three golfers huddled over a scorecard. April recognized them as the stampers Piper, Mary Lou and Tammy. They waved to April and Mitch.
“I got a six on that hole,” Piper said. She was dressed in faded plaid shorts and a white polo trimmed in matching madras.
“If you’re counting by twos,” Rocky put in, leaning on her club. “You took at least twelve strokes. Of course after three Long Island iced teas, I’m sure you’re seeing double.”
Piper scowled. “Why do you have the last word on the score?”
“Hey, Mitch. Hi, April,” Mary Lou called. She wore a shirt and ball cap that advertised her business, Rosen Realty. She waved them over. They returned the waves but didn’t move any closer. April didn’t have time for niceties. Mrs. H.’s golf cart might turn the corner at any moment. April’s scalp tingled as though she sensed the woman’s presence. She didn’t want to see her until she had repaired the damage she’d done to her wall.
Mary Lou said, “Rocky, I think you’re going to win longest drive today.”
Rocky shrugged, her competency not an issue. April was sure she was good at everything she tried. She felt a ray of hope. Maybe her talents extended to fixing wall murals.
“What’s the art emergency?” Rocky said, keeping her tone light.
April was grateful for her interest. She gave Rocky the lowdown on what she’d done to the wall and how the paint had reacted. As she listened, Rocky moved her club in a small arc, clipping the grass under her feet. The stampers remained at the other cart, still huddled over the scorecard.
“Are we talking about that horrible mural in the dining room? Was there still color on the wall?” Rocky asked.
April nodded and said, “The shoe seemed to change from brown to a mustardy color.”
Rocky took a full swing, her bracelet jangling. She held her follow-through, arms in the air, watching her imaginary shot. April felt the breeze as the club’s trajectory ruffled the air, uncomfortably close. She backed away.
“Mustard, huh?” Rocky said. “You’re screwed.”
April blanched, and Mitch said, “Come on, Rocky. You must know something she can do.”
Rocky leaned on her club. “My advice is to paint over it. Black.”
“Not helping,” Mitch said, his big-brother tone a clue for her to get serious.
Rocky made a face. “Well, I don’t know what you want from me, Mitchell. It’s paint, and if the paint is gone . . .” She shrugged her shoulders.
April stepped in. “Wait. You can’t really tell how bad it is without taking a look at the wall. Can you come over there with me? Mrs. H. won’t be there right now. She would never have to know I was there.”
Rocky looked as though she’d forgotten April was part of the conversation. “Not now. I’ve got four more holes to play. My club championship is at stake here.”
April bit the inside of her lip. Her mind raced. She said quickly, “Can we get Mrs. H. out of the house tomorrow? I could see if my dad could take her to the supply house to pick out fixtures.” She hit her forehead. “That won’t work. I don’t want to tell my dad yet.”
Mitch held up a hand. “Not to worry. It’s wash-and-set day.”
April stared at him. Rocky let out a barking laugh.
“Brother,” she said, “you’ve been neutered. What do you know about wash-and-set?”
Mitch defended himself. “I’ve been working in that house for the past five months. Friday is beauty parlor day. Every week at 9 a.m. Pardon me for noticing.”
Rocky grinned at him. “Eunuch!”
“Tomorrow, then,” April said, eager to nail Rocky down. “I’ll meet you there at nine.”
A cart careened off the path, barely missing running over them. April, Mitch and Rocky scattered. April felt her heart pound, and not just from the near miss.
The driver jumped out. Her feet were bare and she looked as though she’d just gotten out of the shower. April was relieved. This was not Mrs. H.
“Where’s Piper?” she asked, her eyes wild.
Rocky said, “Yo, Suzi, chill. You nearly ran us over.”
This was Suzi? April looked closer. She hadn’t recognized the stamper, whose short hair was plastered against her skull.
Suzi pushed a wet strand off her face. “Piper!” she called. “Come here.”
Tammy, Piper and Mary Lou walked over. Piper looked concerned at her friend’s state.
“Not all of you. Just Piper needs to hear this,” Suzi said, out of breath, her face flushed. She stopped to catch her breath, pushing on her chest with the flat of her hand.
“Hear what?” Rocky asked. She’d stopped swinging her club, all her attention on Suzi now.
Suzi looked from Piper to the group and back again. “Look you guys, this doesn’t really concern you. I just need to tell Piper something. I’m not even supposed to know.”
“Know what?” Piper said.
“Spit it out,” Rocky said. “We’re not going anywhere until you tell us.” She looked around the group. “All of us.”
Suzi looked to Piper for permission. Piper nodded.
Suzi took in a breath. “Mitzi Parkhurst is in the dressing room telling everyone. Her husband is Dr. Parkhurst?” Suzi’s voice went up at the end in a question.
Everyone stilled. Rocky was the only one who kept moving, sliding the club into her golf bag. The club banged into the others with a noisy clang.
The moment stretched. April didn’t understand what was going on. A bullfrog croaked deeply in the water hazard, a barking noise that sounded human and sent a chill through April. A hawk soared overhead. The breeze ruffled through the willow tree. Giggles from the foursome on the next hole filtered back to them.
“So?” Rocky said. Sh
e sounded casual, as though she didn’t care what Suzi had to say. But April detected a vein throbbing in her forehead and found her actions a little too studied. Her gaze kept slipping over to Tammy.
Suzi said, “Dr. Parkhurst, the dentist.”
“We know he’s a dentist, Suzi. Get to the point,” Rocky said.
“The Castle. The skull,” Suzi said, stuttering. “He had a patient that matched the dental records of the skull. Mitzi’s not supposed to tell anyone, but she’s in there, blabbing . . .”
April froze. The identity of the dead man was about to be revealed.
Rocky roared, “Who is it, dammit?”
Suzi’s eyes searched for Piper, who was standing still as though she’d taken root to the sawgrass beneath her feet. Suzi’s gaze didn’t leave Piper’s face. “It’s Frankie. Frankie Imperiale.”
Piper’s eyes grew wide, and she brought her hand up over her open mouth. She made a groaning noise, and she bit down on the soft space between her thumb and finger.
Frankie Imperiale was the body in the Castle. Dots floated in front of April’s eyes. She blinked to clear her vision. The sun was too bright.
Frankie Imperiale. Now April knew where her father’s last employee from 1993 was. Buried in the Castle wall.
Her throat closed as though she was trying to swallow golf balls. She had to get to her father. Did he know? What would Yost do if he knew? Had the cops already arrested him?
April was surprised to hear Mitch speak first. “For sure?” he asked. He was frowning, arms tightly across his chest. He glanced at his sister. April heard recognition in his voice. How would he know this guy? He wasn’t home that summer. Was the name someone their father knew?
Rocky shook her head at her brother slightly. He took a step toward her, as though to protect her. The memory of Frankie was between them. April didn’t know what their connection was, but it was palpable.
The group of golfers was quiet, each of them taking in the information that Frankie Imperiale’s skull had been found in the Castle ruins. Mary Lou cleared her throat.
