“Sort of, but not what she came for. Come around the back.”
The woman moved quickly, and he followed. She led him between houses, sidestepped a pool heater. “I must be a little scattered,” she said. “You don’t look much like police.”
“How do police figure?”
“Well, they don’t yet, but they might. I don’t see any way around calling them.”
When they reached the back, the woman pulled open the screen and held it for him. He stepped in and looked down at the swimming pool, then at the patio furniture.
“Have a seat,” the woman said. “I’ll get us something to drink and tell you what’s going on. Are you a soda drinker?”
“No thanks,” Schmidt said. “What’s this about police? Is Brenda all right?”
“Oh yeah, she’s fine. One sec.”
She went up two steps and disappeared. Schmidt sat at the table. For some reason, he felt glad for a difficulty, for something he might be able to help with. I need your input—that’s how Brenda would put it, making fun of the word. I’m in a bind, she’d say. I need your expertise. He wanted her to come to him, to forget clean breaks and kiss him in front of the neighbor, laying her claim to him.
“It’s this man,” the woman called from inside. “He owns a place here.” The refrigerator door closed, a can popped. “Pat Sweeney? From Michigan?” She appeared in the entry with a Coke. “I’ve known him for years. Brenda met him on the plane, and they talked. Anyway, then we talked, Brenda and me. This man’s wife killed herself last fall. I thought that was all of it. I mean, that’s bad enough, but my God.” Rayette shook her head. “Anyway, we thought he might be desperate, so we went to his place.”
The woman looked at him and drank her Coke. She lowered the can. “Maybe she should tell you.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I think she’s at the club. To talk to the head greenskeeper.”
“About this man?”
“He just up and disappeared,” the woman said. “He was at his place last night, Brenda was with him. He gave her a golf lesson. But she should tell you, I’ll get it wrong. She thought I should stay here. I guess that was a good idea.”
◆◆◆◆◆
She offered to take him to the greenskeeper’s office, but Schmidt said thanks, he could find it. He drove back along the boulevard.
Brenda was a journalist. She investigated things, needed to establish contacts. It would all finally make sense. But he kept having to stop for golf carts crossing the road. They trundled past, couples smiling, waving. He waved back, then accelerated, thinking about the golf lesson. So what? She was staying on a golf course. What was she supposed to do, knit? Still, it bothered him, seeing as he drove the stock image of a man behind a woman, coming in close, putting his arms around her for the “lesson.”
He reached the clubhouse, parked, and walked quickly toward the canopied entrance. Foursomes returning from the course were parking their carts along the circular drive. Men in hats and women in sun visors clacked over asphalt in golf cleats.
Inside, Schmidt moved past offices, then the pro shop. Signs led him along a row of cubicles to the greenskeeper’s office. He found the man seated inside, in his thirties and blond, dressed in a Donegal golf shirt. Rows of trophies lined the shelves behind his chair. Lost in thought, he sat at a promotional desk made from the bottom half of a giant Titleist golf ball. He looked up with stressed blue eyes.
“I’m looking for Brenda Contay,” Schmidt said. “I was told she might’ve come to see you.”
“She just left.” Not smiling, the greenskeeper began flicking a pencil between two fingers, drumming the blotter.
“Do you know where she went?”
“Sir, we’ve got the women’s tournament to schedule against water aerobics and karaoke. The ladies don’t want to miss aerobics class, but they definitely want to be done in time for karaoke. We’re short-handed. I told Miss Contay we can’t be sending out crews to clean up every time people party down. I think most people would understand that.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
Still tapping, the man rocked in his chair. “We found the blanket in front of the Ivy house,” he said. “We had to clean up that whole part of the fairway. I think she went there.”
He gave directions.
Instead of going back outside, Schmidt moved along the passage leading to the clubhouse. He passed real estate and development offices, then a design center full of tile samples and kitchen cabinets. A billiard room. Several steps down on his left, a dining room spread in late-afternoon shadows. A few people were still eating lunch. In the lobby, an easel placard announced tomorrow’s seafood buffet.
Schmidt stepped outside and walked toward his rental. We can’t be sending out crews every time people party down. Brenda liked a good time. So do you, he thought. But you like your good time with her, not someone you met on a plane.
He got in, backed out, and began following the greenskeeper’s directions. He had to stop and wave again. Maybe that was why he didn’t play anymore. The clothes and golf carts made you feel like a kid in a carnival ride at the state fair. That’s not it, Schmidt thought. You’re just mad about the golf lesson.
The last cart crossed, and he moved forward. A quarter mile from the club, the road led into an undeveloped part of the property. In another minute Schmidt was passing between the big houses seen earlier. Each address had been carved into a limestone pillar next to a brick or slate drive. At 12, he stopped and got out.
Every custom-designed house told you about the owner. This one spoke of post-modern pretense. Schmidt walked up the drive. He thought to call her name but wanted to find her first. The house appeared to be made entirely of unpolished granite and polarized glass.
Along the right ran a
