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
