loft-there was nowhere else to hide. He called to her gently. Listened for a little squeak of response, a rustling, anything. But there was nothing. Mitch had learned long ago that there’s nothing on the face of the earth that’s harder to find than a cat that doesn’t want to be found. And this one did not.
So he left her in peace, wherever she was. He was curious to see the country club. It was very exclusive. Three recommendations and full board approval exclusive, according to Dennis at the hardware store. Places that hard to get into fascinated Mitch.
He even put on a clean polo shirt.
Not that the Dorset Country Club turned out to be much. Eighteen rather flat, weedy holes. Two tennis courts that no one seemed to be using. A swimming pool that was cracked. A drab, circa-1957 vinyl-sided clubhouse furnished with mismatched plaid sofas and a worn, threadbare rug. There was a card room where a number of retirees were passing the afternoon with their eyes closed and their mouths open. There was a dining room. There was no bar. In lieu of one they had a storage cupboard with lockers where members could keep their private stock under lock and key. They carried it to their tables themselves.
Bud Havenhurst produced a half-empty bottle of twelve-year-old Glenmorangie and poured himself a stiff one. Mitch declined his offer. After taking a long, grateful gulp Bud said, “You would be surprised how many members buy bottom-shelf A and P store-brand whiskey and transfer it into expensive single malt bottles.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Appearances, Mitch,” Bud answered bluntly. “In Dorset, it’s always about appearances.”
There were about forty or fifty members having lunch in the dining room that afternoon. Still, it was so quiet in there that Mitch could hear the gentle clicking of forks against loose dentures from across the room. Nobody stared at Bud or made a fuss. But a number of people did stop by their table to pat the attorney on the shoulder and murmur sympathetic things. All of them asked after Dolly. None of them asked after Mandy.
“What’s good here?” Mitch asked, glancing at the menu.
“Not a thing. In fact…” Bud leaned forward so as to lower his voice to a whisper. His breath smelled sour, as if he were rotting on the inside. “The Friday night New England Boiled Dinner is downright repulsive. To save on overhead we take turns waiting on tables ourselves. Half of the corn on the cob-which is truly the only edible thing-ends up rolling right onto the floor.” He sat back in his chair, gazing down his long narrow nose at Mitch. “That’s your famous Yankee frugality for you. Cheapness is what it really is. I ought to know-I handle their business affairs. These people part with a dime like it’s their last precious asset on earth. And I’m talking about folks who are millionaires many times over. ‘Never touch the principal.’ That’s the credo handed down by every Yankee granddad on his deathbed. And, believe me, these people were raised to respect their elders.”
They ordered club sandwiches and iced teas. Bud helped himself to another scotch, gulping it down nervously. He was decidedly ill at ease. Frightened, even. Mitch wondered why. Was the man afraid that he might be the killer’s next victim?
“I wanted to tell you how much we all appreciate how you’ve respected our privacy, Mitch,” Bud said, his eyes firmly fastened on the tablecloth.
“It’s my privacy, too.”
“Still, I imagine one could make some real money for disclosing family secrets. Cash for trash-that’s what they call it, isn’t it?”
“They do.”
“Yet you’ve resisted that. Been extremely discreet.” Bud cleared his throat. Now his eyes were focused somewhere over Mitch’s left shoulder. “Even with regards to the lieutenant. It’s admirable. We’re all grateful, Mitch.”
The club sandwich lived up to Bud’s advance billing. The toast was cold, the bacon undercooked, the turkey processed. It came with a side order of potato chips. Mitch popped one of these into his mouth. It was stale. He chewed on it, waiting for the lawyer to continue. Mitch was positive this was about more than gratitude.
Bud ignored his own lunch. “There’s something highly confidential I would like to discuss with you, Mitch,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “You see, I am a man in desperate need of help. Can I count on you, Mitch? Can I trust you?”
“Of course. But what’s this all about?”
“Not here,” Bud whispered, glancing furtively around at the other members in the dining room. “Out on the course. We’ll talk out there.” He glanced at his watch. “Our tee time’s in ten minutes. Eat up-if you can.”
The Dorset Country Club’s first hole was a relatively short par four. But the player’s tee shot had to carry over a pond. Which, to Mitch’s point of view, was not very friendly at all. He invited Bud to drive first so he could get in a few extra practice swings. He hadn’t played in over a year. And had taken only a handful of lessons from club pros at the various resort hotels where the various film festivals were held. That was what Mitch generally did to unwind at festivals since he did not gamble, chase women or hang out in bars. He had a wild, unrefined swing. When he connected he really connected. When he did not he really did not.
Bud’s swing, on the other hand, was grooved, compact and accurate. His tee shot carried the water hazard easily and landed smack dab in the middle of the fairway. Not much distance for a man of his size. But no embarrassment either. Safe. That was his game.
Mitch had long ago gotten over the fear of making a fool of himself on the course. He stepped up to the tee. He gripped it. He ripped it. Cleared that water hazard with ease, too-on his fourth try. His first three drives dribbled into the pond and sank without a trace.
“Nice one!” Bud exclaimed when Mitch finally connected. “Straight and true!”
Mitch gathered up Niles Seymour’s bag and marched down the cart path after it. It felt odd to be playing with a dead man’s clubs. Knowing that Seymour’s sweat had dried on the very same hand grip that Mitch was now clutching. He’d even found Seymour’s worn, crusty glove in a side pocket of the bag. Which he’d chosen not to wear. A scorecard was stuffed in there as well. Seymour had shot an 87 his last time out. Mitch wondered if he’d cheated. He figured he had.
The course was deserted. No one was ahead of them or behind them.
As they walked toward their tee shots Bud Havenhurst took a deep breath and blurted out, “It’s about this missing money of Dolly’s, Mitch. Niles had nothing whatsoever to do with it. I did, the truth be told.”
“Exactly what are you telling me here?” Mitch asked him. “You embezzled Dolly’s savings?”
“Absolutely not,” Bud answered vehemently. “I secured them. I had the idea Niles was preparing to leave. When I saw him with that woman, I mean. If a married man is planning to stick around he does not carry on with some babe in public. Not around here he doesn’t. It’s a kind of unwritten rule. Hence, I was deeply, deeply concerned for Dolly’s financial welfare. The man was a naked opportunist-I felt certain he was about to clean her out and run. So, strictly in the interest of shielding her assets, I did something a shade unethical…” He paused now to play his second shot, a 5-iron. Again, he played it safe, laying up just short of the green so as to avoid the sand trap. “I have power of attorney,” he continued. “I have the PINs to her checking and savings accounts. Also a key to her safety deposit box, where the stock certificates were kept. I liquidated everything. And hid it where Niles couldn’t get at it-in my own safety deposit box. That’s where it is at this very moment. Every penny of it. It’s not for me. I swear it’s not. It’s for Dolly. But I did it without her prior knowledge or consent. She doesn’t even know it’s there. And now the state police are looking into it. And I could be disbarred. Christ, I could even go to jail.”
Mitch shanked his own iron shot badly. It didn’t go more than ten yards down the fairway. But he nailed it on his next try. It went streaking straight at the green. It went streaking straight over the green. They resumed walking, Mitch shaking his head. “Why don’t you just tell Dolly? Why didn’t you tell Dolly? The poor woman thinks she’s broke.”
“That’s a fair question, Mitch,” Bud allowed, sticking out his big chin. “In response, I can only say I had a compelling personal reason-Mandy. She’s pathologically jealous of Dolly. And if she were to find out I’ve jeopardized my career for her, well, let’s just put it this way-I don’t want her to find out.”
“Afraid she’ll set you on fire while you sleep?”
The lawyer glanced at him sharply. “Lieutenant Mitry knows about that?”
“She does,” Mitch affirmed. “Doesn’t it bother you-living with a woman who’s so volatile?”
“Mitch, when you get to be my age you won’t ask a question like that,” the lawyer responded, smiling wanly. “You’ll understand that passion is something rare and precious. It was missing from my life for quite a long time. A man will go to great lengths to get it back. Even if that means accepting a bit of… uncertainty. With Mandy, I’ve gotten it back. And I’ve never been happier.”
