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Still busy when she arrived, the Donegal dining room looked suited to northerners. Instead of palm-frond ceiling fans, it was fitted out with Colonial brass light fixtures and Queen Anne tables. Happy Hour was still in progress two steps up, behind frosted glass panels.
A hostess seated her and gave her a menu. When the waitress came, Brenda ordered a glass of chardonnay, then looked over the entrees. Here, too, conventional tastes figured: steaks and chops, pasta with meat sauce, fish and chicken, prices reasonable. The waitress returned with the glass of wine and looked apologetic. “I’m afraid we ran out of the snapper,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“I’ll leave it up to you.” Brenda handed back the menu. “I’m a rookie.”
“How are you with red meat?”
“Committed to it.”
“I’ve been serving a lot of prime rib,” the waitress said.
“You can’t go wrong, it’s outstanding—”
The voice came from her left. Two couples sat at the neighboring table, all four in their sixties or early seventies. They looked fit and tan, well-dressed. “We all ordered it,” one of the women said. “I think we’d recommend it, wouldn’t we?” Nods and thumbs-up.
“Prime rib it is,” Brenda said. “Medium rare.” She ordered a baked potato and salad with ranch dressing.
“I hope you won’t be disappointed,” the woman said, and smiled. “By rookie, did you mean you’re a new owner?”
“No, just a guest. I’m staying at Mrs. Krause’s.”
“She’s on the eighth fairway, isn’t she?” The woman didn’t wait for an answer. “That means you didn’t see all the ruckus. We were just talking about it. The two of us were playing when it happened.”
Cutting his prime rib, the man next to her shook his head. “Police, EMS,” he said. “We talked to the attendant. He went in to get the lunch, and bingo.”
The woman nodded. “We saw him maybe twenty minutes before it happened.”
The second woman put down her fork and looked at the others. “He always waved, didn’t he?” Everyone nodded. “It was sweet. Every day he had his routine. He’d be out there about eleven, he had this little radio-controlled car. Then the attendant helped him into the pool. He always waved.”
“All by himself in that huge house,” the first woman said. “But it’s a lot better than a nursing home.”
“A nursing home is certainly what the daughter-in-law wanted,” the second woman said. She took up her wine glass and rolled her eyes. “She and her ‘gentleman caller.’ But George Ivy stuck to his guns. Nurses and All Hands on Deck, no ‘facility.’”
The server brought Brenda’s salad and rolls. “Just a few more minutes,” she said. She left, and Brenda looked again to the foursome. “You said All Hands on Deck?”
“That’s the attendant service,” the first woman said. “Supervision, small repairs. One of their people was on duty when it happened.”
“If you say so.” The man next to her glanced at Brenda. “She thinks I’m full of it,” he said of his wife. “I say the guy messed up. He should’ve been there.”
His wife gave Brenda a bored look. “He’s young, with tattoos,” she said. “The attendant. That’s why Herb doesn’t like him. With or without tattoos, you can’t be there every minute.”
“You have your opinion, I have mine,” her husband said. “I say he dropped the ball.”
“What time did it happen?” Brenda asked.
“One?” The wife nodded. “Some time in there,” he said. “The fourteenth fairway is right in front of the Ivy house. We were looking for a ball and saw EMS people arrive.”
Seeking support, he leaned over his plate. “You have this elderly gentleman,” he said. “Frail, a little—” He spun a finger next to his ear. “You leave the guy alone in a swimming pool?” He went back to cutting his prime rib. “Give me a break.”
Milwaukee, 7:50 p.m.
Five minutes after Brenda’s call on Wednesday, Charlie Schmidt had phoned her back. Only then did he actually understand what she meant: that it was over between them. When his call went to voicemail, he broke the connection. Then he called Tina Bostwick. Would she have dinner with him on Friday? Tina had said yes.
He picked her up at seven-thirty, and now they were nearing downtown Milwaukee. They were on their way to Mader’s. Schmidt had wanted to talk about Brenda’s call, but driving with Tina, he had changed his mind. Why? What was the point? Tina would ask questions and just make him feel worse.
“How’s Sonny?” He slowed and stopped for a red light. Sonny was Tina’s golden retriever.
“He likes snow,” Tina said. “Generally, he’s well-behaved, but not about that. When we go out, I have one of these leashes with a retractable handgrip. As soon as he’s out the door, off he goes, down the ramp. I need to time it, otherwise I have to let go. If I don’t, down goes Humpty Dumpty and all.”
From the way Tina said it, Humpty Dumpty had happened more than once. Tina had multiple sclerosis and used an electric wheelchair.
“What happens then?” Schmidt asked.
“Well, assuming I’m not making snow angels, and the worthies responsible for plowing the sidewalk have done their job—and assuming my wheelchair’s battery doesn’t suddenly go the way of all batteries—Sonny and I trundle off to Biff’s for a nice donut and coffee.”
“Brenda told me he likes beer. How about donuts?”
“Sonny is passionate about donuts,” Tina said. “He should have been be a police dog. If given a choice, he prefers glazed sour cream.”
Schmidt laughed. The light changed, and he gently pressed the accelerator to keep from sliding. Wisconsin winters kept road salt from working well, but even so he was glad to be driving the Mercury. He almost never took his wife’s big sedan out of the garage, but for sentimental reasons he had not been able to sell it. Tonight, that was a good thing: Tina needed help getting into his SUV. She was independent and preferred getting in and out of cars
