Amen Corner (28 page)

Her murder would be an outrage that could stop the tournament in its tracks.

He picked up a pairing sheet from a green wooden box with a roof like a birdhouse. The schedule said that Sam Skarda had teed off at 1:17. He wouldn't finish his round for several hours.

Doggett had never paid much attention to the Masters when he worked at the National. It was just a week of 18-hour days to him—more money, but a real pain in the ass. He did know that amateurs usually stayed in the clubhouse during Masters Week. They were in a room called the Crow's Nest. Skarda was probably staying there with the other amateurs. Doggett looked down the pairing sheet for the players with the “–a” designation after their names. Tom Wheeling was one; Brady Compton was another. If he could find one of them, they might know where Skarda was. Compton was still on the course, according to the pairings; he'd also gone off late. Wheeling had played in the morning, and should have finished.

He didn't see a caddie with wheeling on the back of his jumpsuit in the crowded area around the 9th and 18th greens. He walked over to the rope by the bag room and called to one of the employees standing in the breezeway.

“Has Tom Wheeling put his clubs away?”

“Wheeling's still on the range,” the man said. He looked at Doggett as though he knew him, but Doggett turned and walked away.

He walked across the driveway to the practice range. The grandstand had begun to empty out, now that all the players were either on the course or through with their rounds. A few players would be working on their game until the range closed down. Some guys never gave up trying to be perfect, and Wheeling was apparently one of them. He'll know where Skarda will be tonight, Doggett thought. I'll just have to wait until he's finished.

There were three players on the range: Wheeling and two pros Doggett had never heard of. Doggett took a seat in the first row of the grandstand and watched with no interest as the three players hit shot after shot down the range. Golf bored him to shit. He could fall asleep watching these pansies if he didn't have to keep an eye on Wheeling. And yet Doggett couldn't help but feel a tingle of anticipation as he waited for Wheeling to finish. The plan he had come up with was working perfectly. He had Stanwick, the National, the cops, the town—hell, the entire country—trying to guess what he'd do next. They'd never figure it out. They couldn't stop him. They were playing his game, by his rules—and he was on the verge of winning. For that, he could force himself to watch a guy hitting golf balls.

The sun was nearing the tops of the magnolias to the west of the range when Wheeling finally called it quits—the last one left. He handed his pitching wedge to Bluejay, his Augusta National caddie; Bluejay was not happy that he'd drawn a player who couldn't accept prize money, and yet practiced more than Vijay Singh. He cleaned the wedge with a towel, put it into the bag, and started walking down the path toward the clubhouse with Wheeling. Doggett got up from his seat in the grandstand and caught up with them at the roped-off path to the locker room. He put on a pair of sunglasses and the bucket hat he had folded up in his pocket. He didn't want Wheeling to be able to describe him, if it came to that.

“Hey, Mr. Wheeling,” he said. Wheeling turned around to face him.

“Yeah?”

“I like the way you hit the ball,” Doggett said.

“I don't,” Wheeling said, with an expression on his face that said he'd like to toss his clubs under a car.

“Can I have your autograph?”

“Why would you want it?” Wheeling asked. “I shot 78 today. I missed the cut.”

“It's for my kid,” Doggett said.

“Well…sure,” Wheeling said. “Bluejay, you can take the clubs back to the bag room. I'll settle up with you there.”

“Anything you say,” said the weary caddie, who'd been at the club since 7 a.m.

“Make it out to, uh…to Laverne,” Doggett said, handing Wheeling the pairing sheet and a pen as Bluejay walked away.

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah. She loves golf. L-A-V-E-R-N-E. How about that Skarda fella? Is he around?”

“He's still on the course.”

“You guys hang out together? I mean, the amateurs? You, like, eat together and all that?”

“Not tonight,” Wheeling said, handing the pairing sheet back to Doggett. “I'm leaving tonight. Time to go home.”

“What about Skarda?”

“I think he's staying through Sunday.”

“I'd like to get the guy's autograph.”

“He'll be around. Look, I have to go pay my caddie. See you later.”

Doggett checked his watch. It was four hours since Skarda had teed off. He should be finishing soon. Doggett walked around the clubhouse to the 18th green to wait.

The biggest names had finished their rounds, and the crowds were beginning to thin out. Doggett had found a place along the roped-off path from the 18th green to the scorer's hut when Sam and Caroline came off the course, following Naples and their caddies. He glanced at the sign held aloft by a man walking behind them: Skarda was 9 over par for the tournament. That wouldn't make the cut; even Doggett knew that. But Skarda seemed happy, and so did his caddie, whom Doggett immediately recognized from the news.

“Nice round, Sam!” some fans shouted as the golfer walked past them.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching out to slap a couple of extended palms.

“Seventy-three is a good score here anytime,” Naples turned to say to Sam, patting him on the back.

“I'll take it,” Sam said.

Sam stopped outside the scorer's hut and told Caroline he'd meet her back at the clubhouse for dinner. He'd make a reservation for a table on the porch. She could take his car.

Doggett heard every word, and saw her give him a pat on the shoulder, then run her hand affectionately down his arm. So they could be more than just player and caddie. He might have to deal with Skarda, too.

Caroline and the other caddie walked past the hut and down the hill to the bag room. A few reporters called to her by name as she walked past the oak tree at the corner of the clubhouse, but she never turned her head. Doggett drifted along behind her after she dropped Sam's clubs with the bag-room attendant and continued on to the caddie building. About 10 minutes later she emerged wearing shorts and polo shirt, with a travel bag in her hand. She walked past the tournament headquarters building and up the service road to the players' parking lot. Doggett waited behind the ropes in the clubhouse driveway until he saw Caroline come back down the road in a white Cadillac STS. She followed the driveway up to the clubhouse and Magnolia Lane. As she drove past, Doggett wrote down the car's license number: BGH398.

Doggett had what he needed. Time to leave. The gates closed 30 minutes after the last group finished, and Doggett didn't want to get hassled by the Securitas guards, along with the other stragglers who'd had too much beer and didn't know when to call it a day.

He had plenty of time to drive his truck around to Washington Road, opposite the main gates—and wait for Caroline Rockingham to return.

*

Caroline could have showered and changed into some decent evening clothes at the caddie building, but there wasn't a specific women's shower in the building, and she didn't feel like changing in the bathroom while the other caddies lounged around the common room drinking beer, playing cards, and gossiping about the pros. At this time of night, it wouldn't take her that long to get back to the hotel, shower, change clothes, and meet Sam back at the clubhouse.

She never noticed the man who wrote down her license number as she drove the courtesy car out of the players' parking lot and up the driveway to Magnolia Lane, nor did she notice the same man parked at the hospitality house directly across Washington Road from the National's main gate when she returned an hour and a half later.

“You look great,” Sam said, when they met in the main lobby of the clubhouse. Her dark hair was pulled back in a French twist, and she wore a pair of turquoise and silver earrings, nicely complementing her simple white skirt and black sleeveless sweater.

“At least the shower in my room works,” she said.

They walked up the winding stairway to the Library—the preferred dining room among Augusta National members and guests. The room featured wooden shelves lined with valuable old golf books, glass cabinets filled with mementos from the lives of Bobby Jones, Clifford Roberts and Dwight Eisenhower, and plaques commemorating members' accomplishments on the course. A waiter led them outside to a table on the porch overlooking the course. As they walked through the small dining area, several of the green-coated members, some dining with their wives, looked up and watched Caroline, almost as though they knew her.

The table on the porch was perfect, with a view through the branches of the old oak tree to the 18th fairway, where a row of seven triplex mowers, headlights gleaming ahead of them, was cutting the grass in a diagonal formation. They'd be done soon, leaving a breathtaking view of the empty golf paradise bathed in moonlight.

They'd just opened their menus when Robert Brisbane came onto the porch and walked over to their table.

“Hello, Sam,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hello, Robert,” Sam said, standing up.

“Hello, Caroline,” Brisbane said, shaking her hand. “Have you heard anything from Shane since yesterday?”

“No. He didn't call last night. Maybe he's gone back to Tucson to trash our house.”

“I'm sorry we had to disqualify him.”

“Well, he's a big boy. He'll get over it.”

“Mind if I sit down for a minute?” Brisbane said.

“Please do,” Caroline said.

Brisbane had a neatly groomed yet weathered look; he appeared to spend just enough time in the sun to avoid the boardroom pallor of many of the Augusta members, but not enough time to come off as a member of the idle rich.

“Nice round today,” Brisbane said.

“Thanks.”

“Any progress on finding our intruder?”

“To be honest, I don't know,” Sam said. “I'm going in a couple of directions. I'll know more tomorrow.”

“David tells me the police have finished questioning all our employees, and all the members who are here this week,” Brisbane said, sliding a butter knife back and forth on the white tablecloth. “They don't have anything yet.”

“Where's Ralph Stanwick tonight?” Sam said.

“He told me he had a talk with Peggy Francis—and with David. He'll be staying home tonight with Lorraine.”

“Isn't that what he always says?”

“If it will make you feel better, I'll drop by the Firestone Cabin after dinner. Ralph and I need to talk, anyway.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Sam said. “Whoever the killer is, I don't think he's finished.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” Brisbane said. “I've been watching Caroline on TV all day.”

“The interview yesterday?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “I saw it on NBC, CNN, Fox, and the Golf Channel. I'm sure all the networks played it at some point.”

“Sorry,” Caroline said, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse. “I didn't know every reporter in town was going to jump me. I was just talking to that guy from the L.A. Times, Russ Daly. Then they all surrounded me.”

“They tend to do that,” Brisbane said.

“But I'm not backing off what I said,” Caroline said, after lighting and exhaling. “You ought to admit a woman member.”

“Many of us agree with you.”

“You might have put a target on your back,” Sam said to Caroline. “Another critic of the club.”

“That's what worried me when I saw your interview,” Brisbane said. “But let's not panic. I just wanted to make sure you were taking precautions. We can't have another death. Especially not someone as important to us as Caroline.”

She smiled gratefully at Brisbane, but felt a cold chill run through her. It hadn't occurred to her until now that the killer could be watching her.

“Where are you staying?” Brisbane asked her.

“At the Southwinds Inn, a few miles from here,” she said.

“I'll drive you over there tonight,” Sam said. “And I'm staying with you.”

“You don't need to do that,” Caroline said.

“I think it's a good idea,” Brisbane said.

“I really don't need a babysitter,” she said. “You can drive me back to the room. I'll be fine from there.”

Sam decided not to press the issue now. Once he got to her hotel, he'd look the place over to see how safe it was. If he wasn't satisfied, he'd sleep in the hall outside her door, if he had to.

Chapter Twenty-nine

No one came out from the party at the hospitality house to tell Doggett he couldn't park his truck there. He was able to sit and watch each car that exited from Magnolia Lane onto Washington Road.