Murder for Bid

by Furlong Bolliger, Susan

  I took out my credit card. “You must work on commission.”

  “You got it,” she retorted victoriously.

  After being extorted out of a week’s worth of pay, I headed out to the hallway, my mind still spinning from my purchase. I only hoped that I’d be able to sell the outfit on-line and recoup some of the cost.

  I made my way down the hall and into the bar. Surprisingly enough, there were quite a few patrons drinking liquor, even though it was barely past noon. I sat on a high-back stool, parked my bag of ill-gotten booty on the counter, and tilted my head to the bartender. “Bloody Mary, please.” That sounded cool, even though I couldn’t stand the taste. What I really wanted was a glass of Chianti. I just didn’t trust myself to get started.

  I began rummaging for some money.

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss. Just give me your name.”

  “Oh, I’ll just pay cash.”

  The bartender looked perplexed. “I’m sorry, we can’t accept it. I need a name.”

  I could feel curious stares on my back, “Uh…”

  “Name please.”

  “I’m a guest of Sheila Scholstein. She should be here any minute. Just put it on her tab, please.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the bartender replied with a scrunched brow.

  So much for being discreet, I thought. Looking around, I tried to gain my bearings. Apparently, my outfit wasn’t as sophisticated as I thought; I was gathering stares from every direction. I felt like an overboard passenger of the ValueMart Cruise Ship, drowning in a sea of expensive brand names. Geez, I could sell these people’s outfits on-line and support myself for a year.

  I downed my drink in a few gulps.

  “Another, Miss?”

  “Well, sure. Why not?”

  By the time he returned with my second drink, I had a strategy. “Say, Sheila was supposed to be meeting me here, you haven’t seen her, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” I added quickly before he got away, “she said that she was going to talk to Jason for a few minutes and be right back.”

  “Jason, the caddy?”

  So, that’s it. “That’s what she said. Do you know where I might find him?”

  “I’m sure he’s out on the course,” he answered, studying me closely.

  “I see.” I drummed my fingers, looking around casually. “I must have misunderstood Sheila.”

  He shrugged.

  “Do you mind if I take this out on the deck? I thought I’d watch the golfers for a while.”

  “You can do whatever you want, Miss,” he replied, heading down to the far side of the bar where a group of rowdy golfers was gathering.

  From the deck, I could see much of the course with its rolling hills, ponds, creeks. The recent rains had left the course soggy, although it didn’t seem to deter the diehards. Groups of brightly dressed players dotted the ribbon-like fairway making it seem like decorative wrapping on an oversized green present. The strategically placed water features and sand traps added to its beauty, and I’m sure, created quite a challenge for players. I knew little about golf, but it didn’t take an expert to see that this course was difficult.

  After a few minutes of admiring the scenery, I caught a glimpse of a group coming in off the eighteenth fairway. As they neared, I took a chance. Leaning over the deck rail, I called out, “Jason!”

  A blond head snapped upwards. He was squinting into the sun. “Me?”

  “Yes, could you come up here for a minute?”

  The other caddy elbowed him and murmured something under his breath. They both chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I decided to try a new approach with the young caddy. “Hi, Jason,” I shook his hand fervently. “I’m from the Tribune. My editor wants me to do a piece on caddies for the Sunday Sports Section. You know, the angle is something like the trial and tribulations of today’s caddy.”

  Glancing about nervously, he leaned in, “Are you going to print my name?”

  He bought it. “Only if you want me to.”

  “No way, I’d lose my job. The pay’s not great, but the tips...” His eyebrows gave a little lift.

  “Completely confidential then.” I tapped my pocket holding my non-existent notepad. “We’ll forgo any notes, so no one will know.”

  “Cool. What do you want to know? I’ve seen it all,” he bragged, flipping a blond wisp of bang out of his face.

  “I’m sure you have,” I played into his adolescent cockiness. “So, you say the tips are good; what’s been your biggest tip?”

  “Well, I once got a hundred dollar bill for eighteen. The guy shot a great game and he was feeling generous, I guess. Usually it’s about twenty a game.”

  “Wow. I bet some guys stiff you, too.”

  “Stiff me?”

  “You know, don’t give you any tips.”

  “Not too much around here. These guys are usually pretty nice.”

  “Do they ever lose their temper and throw clubs at you?”

  That got a chuckle. “Well, not at me exactly, but sometimes I have to fish a club or two out of the ponds.”

  “Really, how does that make you feel?”

  “It’s part of the job. I usually end up with a bigger tip.”

  This was going nowhere. “Ever caddy for the VIPs?”

  “VIPs?”

  Geez, don’t today’s teens speak English? “Very … Important … People,” I spoke slowly so he’d get it. “The important club members, you know, like Scholstein or Schmidt?” I reiterated to the blank expression on his face.

  “Oh yeah, those guys, sure.”

  “It was actually Richard Schmidt that told me I should interview you. He said you’re one of the best caddies at the club.”

  “Mr. Schmidt said that?”

  “Of course, I talked to him before … you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sad, isn’t it, Jason?”

  “Really sad. I caddied for him that day.”

  Finally, we were getting somewhere. “Did he have a good game?”

  “I’d say. He shot a seventy-five.”

  “He didn’t throw any of his clubs in the pond that day, huh?”

  Another chuckle. “No, but he has before. I’ve had to fish his driver out of the pond on the seventh tons of times.”

  “Well, I suppose he has an expensive set. He’d hate to lose one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a full set of ten, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. Ten plus his new driver.”

  “New driver?”

  “Yeah. He had it custom made. It just came in a couple of weeks ago.”

  “So he was carrying eleven clubs?” I could have sworn I only counted ten.

  “Yeah. I guess he didn’t want to give up his old driver until he got used to the new one.”

  Bingo. “So, yesterday he played with eleven clubs, right?”

  “I should know. I carried them all morning.”

  “You’ve been really helpful, Jason.”

  “Really? Is your article going to be in this Sunday’s paper?”

  “It’s really hard to say. Sometimes it takes these special features a while to make their way to print. In the meantime, keep it under wraps. I’d get into big trouble if another paper got a hold of our idea, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” This time I got a raised fist and another chuckle as we tapped knuckles.

  I smiled all the way to the parking lot. It may have cost me a week’s pay, but I got some great information. In fact, I may have just figured out what the murder weapon was.

  I spied Sheila leaning against her car talking with a tall, athletically built man. Even from a distance, I could tell that Sheila was piling on the charm. The guy was probably wealthy; women like Sheila always liked to keep a spare man, just in case their rich hubby should kick the bucket. Or, maybe Sheila was a player. Who would blame her? The guy she was talking to was definitely hot and her husband … well, not so m
uch so.

  Shelia’s gleam dimmed a bit as I approached. “Hi Sheila. I’m ready to go when you are,” I said, smiling at her friend.

  Sheila sighed before initiating a reluctant introduction, “Phillipena O’Brien, this is Greg Davis. He owns Davis Construction. I’m sure you’ve heard of his company.”

  Of course I had heard of Davis Construction; their signs were plastered in the front yard of almost every newly built residential and commercial property in town.

  So the guy was worth tons and cute, too. I shook his outstretched hand and took quick stock of his appearance. With a great body, strong features, thick wavy black hair, intense eyes, and an air that exuded confidence and power, he was almost too perfect.

  “It’s a pleasure, Phillipena.” He held my hand for a second longer than necessary, causing a warm flush to flood over my body. His full lips parted in a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “I won’t keep you ladies any longer. I’m sure you have things to do today,” he said, locking on my eyes and giving me a quick wink.

  After a brief exchange of a few more pleasantries, Greg took off across the lot in the opposite direction with Sheila staring hungrily at his backside. I did a little looking of my own. Greg Davis was one good looking man.

  “Is he married?” I asked after we were seated in the car.

  “Greg? Married? Are you serious? He’s way out of your league,” she retorted, emphasizing the word way.

  I shrugged her off. “I’m happily involved anyway. By the way, what’s a sponsor?

  Sheila faced me, her eyes sliding from my carefully done hair-do all the way down to my deal-of-the-day sneakers. “Something you’ll never have, Phillipena.” She jammed the car into gear, chuckled softly, and peeled out of the lot.

  *

  After enduring an icy ride back to the coffee shop and then returning to my own home, I was ready for an afternoon of lounging and eating chocolate. I threw my purse on the floor near my door and immediately headed for the fridge stopping halfway to the kitchen when I spotted Sean, wrapped up like a cocoon, on my living room sofa.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked.

  “Where have you been?” he countered.

  “I asked you first.”

  “Your mom let me in.”

  I rolled my eyes. I’d have to talk to her about this. “So you decided to take a nap on my sofa?”

  “We worked all night on the case, I’m beat. Besides, there’s no place else to go in here. When was the last time you cleaned?” he asked, looking around at my place. “Look at all this stuff.”

  I followed his gaze to several stacks of used books in the corner, to an assortment of clothing that I was trying to separate by size on the kitchen counter and finally to the shipping supplies on my coffee table. “This isn’t stuff; it’s business,” I retorted. I moved to the kitchen and glanced into the fridge. “Want a drink?”

  “Sure,” he replied, struggling to free his arms from underneath the blanket.

  We cracked open a couple of sodas and sat at opposite ends of the sofa with a bag of mini candy bars between us.

  “What are you wearing? You look like you have tumors up and down your back.”

  “What?”

  “Tumors. On your back.”

  “Oh. They’re not tumors. They’re safety pins. You can see them?”

  “Well, yes I can see them. They’re quite obvious.”

  I thought back to the bar patrons earlier that day. “No wonder everyone was staring at me.”

  “Who’s everyone? What have you been up to?” he asked.

  “You’ll thank me after I tell you.”

  He gave me that look. “I doubt it, but tell me anyway.”

  “You know Sheila Scholstein, right?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “She invited me to the Middleton Golf Club today.”

  “She invited you?”

  I shot him an indignant look. “Yes, and while I was there I talked to Richard Schmidt’s caddy.”

  “Pippi!”

  “Oh, calm down, Sean. It’s cool. He doesn’t even know my name. He thinks I’m a reporter from the Tribune.”

  “A reporter?”

  I held up a silencing hand. “I had to use some sort of cover. Besides, it worked. I found out something crucial to the case.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  I resented the skepticism in his voice, but continued anyway, “Schmidt used a golf club to kill Amanda. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

  He moaned. “I hate to ask, but how do you know this?”

  “Because, I was at the crime scene, remember? I could see his golf bag in the foyer and there were only ten clubs.”

  “So?” he asked, taking a long drag from his beer. For some reason, he didn’t seem all that interested in my new theory.

  “Well, his caddy swears that he had been carrying eleven. It seems that he had a driver custom made just a couple of weeks ago. I figure that he bludgeoned her death with a club, took her jewels to make it look like a robbery, and then disposed of the stuff somewhere close by. Does the autopsy show a wound pattern that could fit a golf club? Did your guys check out the clubs or look around for a possible place that he could have disposed of one? Did…”

  He stood up, soda can still in hand. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”

  Oops. “No, of course not,” I backtracked. “It’s just that I thought I’d do a little investigating myself. I was there, remember? You told me how she was killed; it was awful. And to make matters worse, my description is all over the news, like I was the one that killed her!”

  “Don’t worry about the press. They just need a storyline. You’re not an official suspect so no need to get involved. Just let me do my job and stay away from Schmidt.” He took one last drink and tossed his empty can down amongst the clutter on my coffee table and started to pace, which was a sure sign that he was becoming irritated.

  Well, I was becoming irritated, too. In fact, he was really ticking me off. How could he not see how obvious it was that Schmidt was involved? Why wasn’t he on the phone demanding a search warrant or something? “I can’t believe you. You never take me seriously. I’m practically handing you the murder weapon and you’re not even listening. Have you determined that the murder weapon was something else?” I asked, frustration stinging my fair skin.

  “No, that hasn’t been established.”

  “Are you going to at least check into it?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have someone check into it.”

  His indifference infuriated me. “You’re not going to check into it!”

  He threw up his hands. “I said I would. What do you want?”

  “Just forget it!” I snatched up my keys and purse and headed for the door.

  He blocked my way, one hand on the door. “I can’t let you go unless you promise me that you’re going to let this drop.”

  I tried batting his hand away. “What are you going to do, arrest me?”

  His black mood broke immediately. Grabbing my shoulders, he spun me around and moved in closer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “House arrest, maybe.”

  I knew he was just trying to distract me by getting me worked up into a hormonal frenzy so I couldn’t think clearly. Which was really making me mad, since it was working.

  I gave him a little shove, but he persisted, pulling me even closer.

  “Stop it,” I spat, putting my hands on his chest and wedging a little space between us. “Let’s get serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “No, about the case, I mean.”

  He sighed. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re going want to pursue this Schmidt thing.” His sexy tone was gone and he was back to business. “I’m asking you to leave it alone. It’s dangerous. I don’t want you hurt. Not to mention that it involves a lot of high profile people.”

  “Are you afraid that I’ll tarnish their reputation? Or your reputation
?”

  He cringed. “Look, I’ve already had to spend a lot of time smoothing things over. The guy saw you going through his garbage, remember? He thinks you’re somehow involved with his wife’s murder. Face it; you’d be trying to find a defense attorney right now if it weren’t for me.”

  He was right. What could I say? I had really landed myself in a mess this time. Still, it was no excuse for him to ignore my golf club theory. “Fine, I’ll leave it alone for now.” I slung my purse over my shoulder. “You’d better move out of my way because I’m leaving; I have a lot of work to do today. Lock the door on your way out,” I said, squeezing past him before he could push the issue any further.

  He, of course, being the gentleman that he was, followed me out. After seeing me safely to my car, and making me promise several more times that I wouldn’t interfere with police business, he gave me a quick kiss and waved goodbye amicably. As if it was all that easy. Little did he know that he had as good as challenged me to prove that the golf club was indeed the murder weapon and that Schmidt was the murderer. Now, I just needed to figure out how to prove it.

  Chapter Three

  After driving aimlessly for a few blocks, I finally decided give the case a rest and hit a few garage sales. I stopped in at the gas station and picked up a couple of candy bars and a newspaper, which of course featured the headline Vagrant Woman Suspect in Socialite’s Murder. I glanced around, red faced, before extracting the classifieds and throwing away the rest of the paper.

  I checked off the sales as I made my way through the addresses, but by late afternoon, I’d found only a couple of items. Plus, it had started to spit rain again and people were shutting down early. I was losing interest quickly. Besides, with everything going on, I couldn’t seem to keep my mind on business anyway.

  Rounding the corner to Elm Street, which was to have housed a multi-family sale, I suddenly decided to veer off on a slight detour. Schmidt’s house was just two streets away; what would it hurt to drive by? More than likely, he was still staying somewhere else until a cleaning crew could take care of the crime scene. If it were me, I would never go back. I couldn’t imagine living with the reminder of my loved one’s cruel death. Although, Schmidt, being a cold-blooded murderer, probably didn’t share my perspective.