Amen Corner (16 page)

“I trust you to keep that information confidential,” Porter said to Sam, staring straight at him. “We want to wait a few months before making the announcement. You can see how it would look now if we go ahead with the invitation.”

“It will look like we caved in to a few screeching harpies,” Stanwick finished. “There will be no end to the demands on this club if the public believes a mob at our front gate can dictate our policies to us.”

Stanwick's description of the WOFF made it clear to Sam that the decision to admit Margaret Winship had not been unanimous, and that there were still a good number of Augusta National members who would be quite happy to keep her invitation in their pocket indefinitely.

“How many of your members know this?” Sam asked.

“Only the board of governors,” Porter said. “Myself, Ralph, Robert—Harmon Ashby—and Johnny Brooks.”

“Who's he?”

“An old friend of Bobby Jones,” Brisbane said. “He was a fine amateur player in the '40s.”

“Is he here?”

“No,” Porter said. “He's too ill to attend this week.”

There was a knock at the entrance to David Porter's office. Dennis Harwell entered, accompanied by a man wearing a brown sport coat and a brown fedora with a broad hatband. Sam loved fedoras, but didn't think he could pull off the look. The man with Harwell looked good in a fedora. His face looked appropriately hardened, with a pock-marked complexion, dark eyebrows, and a nose that seemed a little large for the space it had to occupy. Yet there was an odd cheerfulness to his manner as he presented his badge for inspection.

“Good morning, Mr. Porter,” he said with the smile of a door-to-door salesman. “Mark Boyce, Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Atlanta office. How y'all doin' today?”

“As well as can be expected, Mr. Boyce, under the circumstances,” Porter said, rising from his chair. “Would you mind removing your hat?”

“Sure, I understand,” Boyce said, casually taking the fedora off as though he were going to do so anyway. “Another murder—shitty deal, with the Masters coming and all. I think you know Mr. Harwell of the Richmond County Sheriff's office?”

It was obvious who was running the investigation now. Sam was glad that the GBI had been called in; Harwell had been in over his head.

“Let me tell you up front, I sympathize with you people,” Boyce said. “I love this tournament. Makes me sick that some dickwad is ruining Masters Week for all of us. We'll get him. I promise.”

Boyce pulled up a chair from the edge of the office, placed his hat over his knee and pulled out a notebook.

“We're going to need to start interviewing your members,” he said. “If you can give me the names and locations of every member who is in town this week, that would be swell. We also need a list of all your employees, their shifts and their home addresses. Who're you?”

Boyce pointed his pen at Ralph Stanwick.

“My name is Ralph Stanwick,” he said. “I'm the rules chairman.”

“Good, good. Where have you been staying this week?”

“I'm staying in the Firestone Cabin with my wife.”

“Now, that's where the Ashbys were staying—right?” Boyce asked. He looked at Stanwick with an innocent, half-lidded glance that indicated he was enjoying the fact that Stanwick found this process degrading.

“Yes,” Stanwick said. “It's a large cabin, with room for two couples.”

“Let me see if I remember my Masters geography,” Boyce mused, theatrically scratching his temple with the pen. “That would be just to the south of the 10th tee, right? Right between where they found Mr. Ashby's body at Amen Corner, and where they found Ms. Scanlon's body this morning in Ike's Pond. That right?”

“Yes,” Stanwick said.

“Anybody with you when the murders occurred?”

Stanwick told Boyce that he and his wife were sound asleep in their cabin Sunday night when Ashby was killed. He hadn't heard him go outside. Last night they had early dinner on the porch outside the clubhouse library with Mr. Porter.

“That right?” Boyce asked Porter.

“Yes. I returned to my apartment after dinner.”

“And where's that?”

“In the eastern annex to the clubhouse.”

“We returned to the Firestone Cabin around 8:30,” Stanwick said. “We watched some television and went to bed.”

“Your wife with you the whole time?”

“Certainly.”

“She'll say so?”

“Why wouldn't she, Mr. Boyce?” Stanwick said. “It's the truth.”

“Is she here today?”

“Yes, my wife's at the cabin.”

“What about you, Mr. Porter? Your wife around?”

“No,” Porter said. “She doesn't attend the tournament. I'm too busy to spend any time with her. She's back home in New York.”

“We'll have a talk with your wife,” Boyce said to Stanwick. “Just a formality. Seems to me we're looking for somebody who'd enjoy running around at night throwing people into ponds. You don't look like that kind of a guy.”

Sam had to suppress a smile. Boyce was the kind of detective he liked to work with: blunt, but not overtly suspicious of everyone. He kept his interviews moving and kept his subjects off-guard without intentionally antagonizing them.

“And who're you?” Boyce said, pointing the pen at Brisbane.

“Robert Brisbane—competition committees chairman,” Brisbane said.

“Where're you keeping yourself this week?”

“I've got a room in the East Wing.”

“Your wife around?”

“No, she's back in Des Moines, recovering from a tennis injury. She's watching on TV this year.”

“And you?” Boyce said, looking at Sam.

“Sam Skarda. I'm a participant in this year's Masters.”

“Oh, hell, I've heard of you,” Boyce said, squinting at Sam as he turned to shake his hand. “That was some round of golf you played in the finals of the Publinx last year. Showed those college kids a thing or two.”

“You follow golf?”

“Hell, yeah. We all do around here—isn't that right, Detective Harwell?”

“Right,” Harwell said. Sam thought Boyce winked at him.

“You're a cop, right?” Boyce said to Sam.

“On leave,” Sam said.

“We've asked Mr. Skarda to help us look into this situation,” Porter said.

“You gonna do some pokin' around?” Boyce asked Sam. “Hell, that's fine. We can use all the help we can get—especially from the inside. Here's my cell phone number. Call anytime. Just keep us informed.”

Boyce smiled as he handed Sam a card, but his eyes lost their twinkle with his last directive. Boyce couldn't keep the club from bringing in a private eye—in fact, he must have expected it. But that didn't mean he'd let Sam interfere with his investigation.

“I've already interviewed Skarda,” Harwell said. “He was staying in a room called the Crow's Nest last night, with two other golfers.”

“That'd be Wheeling and Compton, the other two amateurs,” Boyce said, proving he did know his golf. “Say, I've always wanted to get a look at the Crow's Nest. Can you take me up there sometime, Sam?”

“Anytime you want.”

David Porter realized he had lost control of the room after Boyce had breezed in, and he wasn't a man used to surrendering control. He didn't let the situation last.

“What can you tell us, Mr. Boyce?” he asked the investigator. “Have your people had a chance to examine the victim today?”

Boyce regained his professional focus just as quickly.

“The body's at the county coroner's office,” Boyce said. “The autopsy isn't complete, but the M.E. says it looks like Ms. Scanlon was murdered, same as Ashby. Somebody jumped her, got her in the water, and held her under till she drowned.”

“And there are no signs of where the killer came from, or where he went?” Porter said.

“Nope. He's a wily devil.”

The room was silent for a moment as everyone contemplated the facts on the table. Someone was moving around the Augusta National grounds after dark with enough freedom to murder victims singled out for their support of women joining the club, and then escaping without a trace. Why wouldn't the finger point at an Augusta member?

“I have to prepare for a press conference,” Porter said, breaking the strained silence. “My secretary can help you with the membership information.”

With that, Porter stood up. Sam looked at the two cops, then stood up himself.

“I have to call my caddie and tell him he has the day off,” Sam said.

Chapter Fifteen

Dwight was disturbed by the news of Deborah Scanlon's murder, but not disappointed to hear that the day's round had been called off.

“I couldn't go today,” he said on the phone. “My leg is too sore.”

“How about tomorrow, Dwight?”

“You know I want to, but every time I try to move, it tightens up again. Maybe you better talk to the caddiemaster about gettin' someone else.”

“Stay off it if you can.”

“I can't,” Dwight said. “I got a restaurant to run.”

“A restaurant?”

“I got a bar and grill downtown called Big D's.”

Sam told Dwight he'd call him later to see how he was doing. Then he walked across the clubhouse parking lot to the media center to attend Porter's press conference. He wanted to know what the chairman was willing to tell the public, and what information he wanted to hold back. Porter had said the previous private investigator they'd hired had been “indiscreet.” Sam didn't intend to make that mistake.

The press building amphitheater was packed with reporters when Sam walked in. The golf writers and sports columnists who looked forward to covering the Masters as the year's plum assignment had now been joined by dozens of their newsroom colleagues—some sent after the news broke about Ashby, only to learn upon their arrival about their fellow journalist Scanlon being killed. Even the sportswriters who would normally sleep in on a Wednesday morning were elbowing for laptop space at their own assigned work areas.

Sam was trying to find some wall space halfway up the right-hand aisle when he heard a familiar rasp over his shoulder.

“I don't think we've had a turnout this big since Tiger told Fuzzy to go to hell,” Russ Daly said to anyone within ten feet of him.

Several of the reporters seated around him frowned at Daly's remark. He adopted a pained expression and said, “Aw, c'mon, I'm just trying to lighten the mood here. Debbie would have laughed…”

“Mr. Sensitivity,” Sam said, having worked his way next to the columnist.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Daly said. “Shouldn't you be out practicing your flop shot or something?”

“My flop shot's good,” Sam said. “I wanted to hear what Porter had to say about Scanlon's murder.”

“Well, that would make you the first player in the Masters since Bobby Jones to give a shit about anything but golf.”

“Don't forget fishing and fucking,” Sam said.

Robert Brisbane and David Porter took their seats at the table set up in front of the Augusta National logo background. Cameras flashed and whirred even before Porter opened his mouth. He waited several moments, and then began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I'll make this brief,” Porter said. “We are canceling today's Par 3 tournament because of an unfortunate event that occurred on our grounds sometime last night. A body was found in Ike's Pond on the par 3 course this morning. The police have identified the drowning victim as Deborah Scanlon, columnist for the New York Times. I'm sure you'll all join me in expressing our deepest sympathies to her family and loved ones.”

The cameras clicked and flashed as Porter somewhat theatrically bowed his head. Several reporters began to ask questions, but Porter resumed before they could finish.

“Out of respect for Ms. Scanlon, and in order to cooperate with the police investigation, we felt it best to cancel today's competition. But the Masters will begin tomorrow at 8 a.m. as scheduled. We are cooperating with the Richmond County Sheriff and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation to bring a quick resolution to this matter. I want to assure all of our patrons, our members, the news media, and other guests on the grounds this week that we have added extra security for the remainder of the tournament. You will be safe here at Augusta National. That is my promise to you all.”

“Mr. Porter will take a few questions,” a page said into a hand-held microphone.

“David, how can you guarantee anyone's safety here after two murders in three days?” a reporter near the front asked loudly.

“We will provide escorts for anyone who remains on our grounds after dark. We have employed a number of extra security personnel who will patrol day and night. We are confident we've addressed the problem.”