Amen Corner (24 page)

“I suppose,” Daly said. “But how would he get on and off the property?”

“He'd know how to get over the fence,” Sam said. “On Tuesday, he could have bought a practice-round ticket from a scalper. Look, I'm not saying he's definitely the guy. It could be Stanwick, or somebody else. But I went through the personnel files looking for somebody who might have a grudge against the club, and Morton's name popped out. I'm trying to find him.”

“Good luck. Guys like him are hard to find if they don't want to be found.”

Dwight Wilson was probably Sam's only hope, and Dwight hadn't called back. He stood up and slowly flexed both knees until the ache began to recede. It was time to meet Caroline and get something to eat. Night had fallen, and he began to worry about her walking across the clubhouse grounds after dark.

“I'll be around if you hear anything,” Sam said. He started up the steps to the exit.

“Hey, your caddie looked good on TV today,” Daly yelled after him.

“Did we make the news?” Sam asked.

“All day.”

*

While Sam waited in the clubhouse for Caroline, he saw Wheeling and Compton coming down the stairs. He'd forgotten to look for their scores in the media building, but their expressions told him how they'd played. Wheeling, who shot 73, was giddy; Compton, who shot a 77, looked like a kid who'd been told he had to wait another year to get his driver's license. They invited Sam to join them for dinner in the men's grill, but he told them he had a date.

There were more security guards around the clubhouse than Sam had noticed the night before. Still, the thought of a lone, unarmed woman walking the grounds of Augusta National suddenly seemed no more prudent than an unaccompanied woman walking through Central Park after dark.

Sam's cell phone rang as he waited. It was Dwight.

“One-eye called,” Dwight said, sounding nervous. “He said he'll come in to talk, but no cops. I said you're not a cop—right?”

“That's right,” Sam said. “Right now, I'm a private eye. We're on our way over.”

“We?”

“I'm bringing Caroline Rockingham,” Sam said.

“Shane's wife?”

“Yep.”

“What's going on there?”

“She's my caddie now.”

“Anything else?”

“Not yet. But she's not a cop, either.”

He was relieved when he spotted Caroline walking from the players' parking lot to the clubhouse. Her dark shoulder-length hair shone in the parking lot lighting. She wore a pair of black walking shorts and a pink long-sleeved shirt bunched up at the elbows. Her clubhouse badge hung from a belt-loop.

“So what's for dinner?” she asked him.

“Hamburgers.”

“Did somebody murder the chef?”

“We're going into town.”

They returned to the courtesy car in the players' parking lot. Sam drove down Magnolia Lane and took a right onto Washington Road. He turned to look at Caroline, whose smooth, tanned face was illuminated by the passing streetlights in the twilight. She sat with her weight leaning slightly against the passenger side door, her left leg bent and pulled up onto the large, plush seat, as though she wanted a better angle from which to examine Sam. They hadn't had much time to get to know each other beyond the time spent together during that day's round.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going, and what this is about?” she asked.

“We're going to Dwight Wilson's restaurant,” he said. “He's the caddie you replaced.”

“And the food's good there?”

“I don't know. I'm doing some detective work for the National. Dwight arranged for me to meet a guy there who might know about the murders. In fact, he might be the guy.”

“Aren't you a fun date.”

“If you'd rather not go…”

“No, I don't mind. But why not let the cops handle it?”

“Porter wants to stay ahead of the cops.”

“He's probably protecting someone.”

“That occurred to me,” he said.

“I don't get it,” Caroline said. “Why would you stick your neck out for these people? One of them could be the killer.”

“That's occurred to me, too.”

“Who else cares whether women join their little club?”

“Most of America, apparently,” Sam said. “It's in all the papers.”

They rode in silence for a while, until Sam dialed up his April 1975 playlist on the iPod. The car's multi-speaker system enveloped them in Bob Dylan's “Tangled Up in Blue.”

“You know, I hope they are forced to admit women,” Caroline finally said with a slow shake of her head. “It would serve them right.”

She pulled her other leg up underneath her and faced him as they drove into downtown Augusta.

Dwight's restaurant was on a wide commercial boulevard with diagonal parking in the center of the street. A group of middle-aged white guys—all in long pants and polo shirts, a few with women companions—were drinking glasses of wine and beer on the sidewalk outside an Italian restaurant with a maroon awning. Masters fans out on the town. Next door to the Italian place was Big D's Bar and Grill, with large plate-glass windows on either side of the open front door. There appeared to be an apartment above the restaurant.

Sam knew they looked as though they belonged at the restaurant next door when they walked into Big D's. The clientele was a mix of black and white faces, couples and groups, sitting in wooden booths eating thick hamburgers and baskets of French fries and drinking oversized mugs of beer. The place smelled deliciously greasy and salty, with the heavy aroma of sizzling onions coming from the grill behind the bar. Dwight was standing at the deep fryer next to the grill, emptying a fresh load of fries into a basket.

It was about 8 p.m., and the dinner crowd had not thinned out yet. Most of the spacious wooden booths were occupied, and all four of the pool tables at the far end of the long, high-ceilinged room were in use. B.B. King's “How Blue Can You Get” was playing on the jukebox in the corner.

Dwight stood behind the bar, watching as a girl of about 12 flipped patties on the grill. He spotted Sam and Caroline and called out to them.

“How ya doin',” Dwight said. “Sam, this is my daughter Cammie. She's a big help around here. Cammie, this is Mr. Skarda and Ms. Rockingham.”

Cammie turned and offered a shy smile and a quick wave, then resumed her watch over the grill. She had meticulously braided cornrows and wore a white apron over a red crew-neck shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Sam and Caroline took seats at the bar.

“I thought I'd take Caroline out for a meal at the best restaurant in town,” Sam said.

“Where's that at?” Cammie asked.

“He means here, baby girl,” Dwight said, smiling at his daughter. “When you finish those burgers, go see if your grandma can come down and help for a while.”

Dwight led Sam and Caroline to a booth. He smiled as he presented menus to them, but Sam could tell Dwight was on edge.

“Got time to sit down, Dwight?” Sam asked. Dwight nodded and eased himself into the booth on Sam's side, taking up what was left of the bench seat. He glanced at his watch, then at the door. Sam knew he was worried about One-eye showing up, and what might happen if he did.

“So what's good here?” Sam asked Dwight.

“Burgers, fries and beer,” Dwight said. “We keep it simple.”

Dwight's mother had come down the stairs and moved behind the cash register to handle the bills of the departing diners. She was a slightly overweight woman with a net over her short, gray Afro. She had a brisk manner and lively eyes, and looked perfectly at home in the role of part-owner, manager, cook, waitress, cashier, and cleanup crew of her son's bar and grill.

After two groups paid their bill and left the restaurant, she came over to the booth. Dwight introduced her as Helen—which Sam already knew from looking at her Augusta National employment file.

“Can you join us?” Caroline asked.

“Sorry, but somebody's got to run the place,” Helen said, giving Dwight a stage glare. She had a rag in her hand and almost reflexively wiped the tabletop in front of them. “But I'm pleased to meet you both. Dwight says you are a fine golfer, Sam, and a good man.”

“I would have been clueless if Dwight hadn't helped me with the greens Monday,” Sam said. “He's amazing.”

“Who picked up your bag?” Helen Wilson asked.

Sam smiled and pointed his thumb at Caroline.

“Now, why do you want to be lugging around a man's golf bag?” Helen said to Caroline with an exaggerated frown. “It's bad enough all the things we have to do for them. Dwight here is a big, strong man. He's made for carrying stuff. You ain't.”

“I'm sure she does just fine, Mama,” Dwight said.

“And you—you should be ashamed of yourself,” Helen said to Sam, enjoying her lecture. “Making a woman carry your bag. That's like Dwight doing a load of laundry.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“And I don't like you asking One-eye Morton to come here,” she said, still looking at Sam. “He's been no good his whole life, and worse since he got fired at the club. He's better off in jail.”

“Never mind now, Mama,” Dwight said. “We're just going to be talking, is all. Can we get a couple of cheeseburger baskets, and two glasses of beer for these people?”

“I'll see if the kitchen's still open,” she said with mock indifference, then turned to shoot them a sly smile as she left.

When the hamburgers arrived, Sam and Caroline both devoured the meal as though they hadn't eaten in days. They were finishing their fries when the door opened and a thin black man stepped hesitantly into the restaurant. His mouth was framed by a caterpillar moustache and a scraggly gray soul patch. His graying sideburns extended below his ears from under a light green bucket hat that bore the yellow Masters logo. He wore his frayed blue nylon jacket unzipped and held an open can of Budweiser in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

“D?” the man said, looking around the room.

“Over here,” Dwight said from the booth.

“Can I smoke this in here?” the man asked, walking toward them.

“Sure,” Dwight said. “Ashtray's on the table there.”

The man pulled out a plastic lighter and lit his cigarette, exhaling nervously, and waited for somebody to say something.

“Sam Skarda, Caroline Rockingham,” Dwight said. “This is One-eye Morton.”

Chapter Twenty-five

One-eye stood five feet from the booth. He took a swig of his beer and came no closer. Sam recognized the look of uncertainty on One-eye's face: He expected that this was some kind of set-up, but couldn't figure out exactly how it would go down, and he didn't want to risk missing out on free money. Sam didn't know whether to feel pleased or disappointed that One-eye had come in. If he had killed Ashby, Scanlon and Milligan, it was unlikely that he'd be here now. On the other hand, there was always the chance that he was greedy and overconfident as well as homicidal.

“Have a seat, Reggie,” Sam said, choosing to call him by his given name.

“Might as well call me One-eye,” he said. “Everybody does.”

“Okay, One-eye, then.”

Caroline slid deeper into the booth, glancing back and forth between Sam and One-eye. She did not seem alarmed by the idea of sitting next to a man who might have committed the nation's three most publicized murders.

“Before I say anything, I gotta see the money,” One-eye said.

Sam expected as much. He pulled out his wallet and extracted two hundred-dollar bills. He put them on the table and slid them across to One-eye, who picked them up quickly, folded them in two, and stuck them into an inside pocket of his jacket. The private eye business was already getting expensive.

“I don't know nothin' about no killing,” One-eye then said. “I was out of town.”

“Where?” Sam asked.

“Down in Waycross, seeing my sister.”

“You ain't got a sister, One-eye,” Dwight said.

“Not one you know about,” One-eye said defiantly. Dwight looked at Sam and shook his head. Sam looked back at One-eye, who was exhaling smoke away from Caroline. Quite the gentleman. Caroline took out her own pack and lit one up.

“Look, One-eye, I'm not the cops,” Sam said. “You could be telling the truth that you didn't kill anybody. I don't think you'd be here if you did, but that's not my call. If I give your name to the Sheriff and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, they'll find out soon enough where you were and if you have a sister. I don't have time for all that. I work for the National, and they don't want anybody else getting killed.”

“I got no reason to help you or the National,” One-eye said. “They never helped me none.”