Six Strokes Under (19 page)

go."

"I'll take Turner and both Atwaters," said Joe.

"I'll look into the Ruperts and try to talk with the folks at the Deikon headquarters," said Laura. "That leaves you Walter Moore and So Won Lee." Laura picked up her tray and headed for the trash can.

"Look, Kaitlin made the headline again," I said. I read from the front page of the
Herald-Tribune.
" 'Kaitlin Rupert, a participant in the LPGA Sectional Qualifying Tournament at the Plantation Golf and Country Club was discovered dead on the grounds yesterday evening. Cause of death appears to have been head trauma by blunt instrument, reportedly a golf club.' "

I folded the paper in quarters. "The club used to kill Kaitlin bothers me," I said. "It wasn't a casual choice. When you think about it, an iron has a sharper blade—it would make a much better weapon than a wood. So it had to be someone who knew what had happened on the course earlier. Someone connected with the tournament. Or someone who understood the meaning of the experimental driver."

"Or someone who knew enough about all that to throw the club into the pit and confuse the hell out of the scene," suggested Laura.

"It's pathetic, when you think about Kaitlin's quote in the paper yesterday," I said. "She said she played every shot as though it was her last. And they
were
her last golf shots. She just didn't know it."

"Time for you to play golf, young lady," said Joe. "We'll work on these problems later this afternoon."

"I have other questions, too," I said. "Like why is Max Harding really in town? I didn't buy what he said when he was over the other night."

Laura frowned. "Max Harding was over the other night? You didn't mention that."

"I'm going to call Detective Maloney in Myrtle Beach, later, too," I said, ignoring her question. I hadn't meant to mention Max's visit at all. "I'm sure not going to get any inside scoop on any of this from Imposter Pate."

 The LPGA commissioner was holding a press conference in front of a small group of reporters and spectators when we arrived at the golf course. "This has been shocking news, absolutely unthinkable. Kaitlin Rupert was part of our golf family." He removed his glasses and polished the left lens with the end of his tie. He set the glasses back on his nose. "We have made the decision to continue on with the tournament in spite of the tragedy. We hope you will all demonstrate your support to Kaitlin's family by attending the memorial service. The service will be held next to the practice green at approximately four o'clock this afternoon. Questions?" He pointed to a small, thin woman in the crowd who had raised her hand.

"Are the rest of us in danger?" she asked in a trembling, reedy voice.

"The police have assured me that if they had a specific, reliable reason to believe the community was at risk, they would so inform us. They assure me that maintaining our safety is their primary duty. To that end, additional officers will be assigned to patrol the Plantation Golf and Country Club until the matter is resolved." Which did not sound altogether reassuring to me. I left the crowd and headed over to the range.

Both Joe and Laura stood by while I warmed up—I stuck with the routine I'd seen Mike use for nine months. Maybe it was pure superstition, but changing anything now felt like asking for trouble. First I checked the placement of my right elbow, then the extension of my left forearm, finally the clearing movement of my hips—all the technical details that had tripped me up at various points in the past. Details that now I knew by heart. Then, starting with sand wedge, and on up to three-wood, I hit exactly eight shots with each club. Finally, I tackled the important but elusive job of developing a smooth tempo for today's round. Easy rhythmic swings that might help me coast through a lifetime's worth of frayed nerves, all packed into one morning.

Although quiet while I worked at the range, Joe stepped forward when we reached the putting green. "Start with some lag putts here," he said. "Let's get a feel for the speed of the green." He stationed himself on the other side of the practice area and tossed the balls back to me after I rolled them toward the hole.

"Looking good," he said. "I'm going to make a call and see how Mike's doing over at Ponte Vedra. He should have made the turn by now. Finish up with two-footers, so you have the sound of the ball dropping into the cup in your mind when you tee off."

I'd sunk fifteen short ones in a row and was verging on pretty darn hopeful, when Gary Rupert and his parents approached my bag.

"Cassie, I think you've met my folks, Peter and Margaret?"

"Oh, God," I muttered. My putter dropped to the ground with a muffled thunk. "I'm so sorry about Kaitlin. This must be so awful for you." I hugged Gary and touched his mother softly on her hand. Margaret Rupert began to cry—from the condition of her mascara, I could see this was not the first time she'd wept today. Tears crowded my own eyes. I needed to back off emotionally and narrow my perspective from sympathetic acquaintance to skeptical observer. "If there's anything I can do..."

"Thanks," said Coach Rupert. "Since Kaitlin can't be here, we'd love to see you play well today." He startled me by gathering me into an awkward, one-armed embrace. "I know this is none of my business," he said. "But don't be a stranger to your father. Life is too short." Whatever ugliness had passed between him and Kaitlin, the sharp pain in his voice was real. Though Gary wouldn't be carrying a bag on the golf course today, he had the far more difficult job of tending his family's grief.

Once they'd left the practice area, I tried to step away from the feelings that had washed over me and review what I thought I'd seen: three family members devastated by the death of someone they loved, the pain made sharper by the rift that had existed between them before she died. Hard to find the face of a murderer there.

I stopped by the bulletin board to check the pairings. I would be playing with cheery Jessica from Michigan, and a woman I did not know, Maria Renda. My 153 still anchored the rock-bottom position in the field. The powers-that-be had apparently decided not to admit another golfer in Kaitlin's place. So much for that potential suspect.

"Mike's hanging in there," said Joe when we met up on the path to the first tee. "He and his caddie aren't getting along too well, but it doesn't look like it hurt him to have me out of his way."

I chuckled. Even though I believed personality clashes and Mike Callahan went together like thunder and lightning, I was relieved to hear that I wasn't the only caddie who'd gotten on his nerves. A little mean, but I couldn't help myself.

When we reached the tee box, I greeted Jessica and her father. I recognized our third player as the tall woman Kaitlin had infuriated just before the thunderstorm in the first round.

"Maria Renda," she said, thrusting her hand in my direction, eyebrows raised like black boomerangs. "You haven't played in this kind of tournament before, have you?" I shook my head no. "Good luck, then." The tone of her voice said a lot more than that. Like, Good luck, you poor dumb bastard. And, What are you doing out here anyway? And, Stumble around as much as you like, but stay the hell out of my way.

"She's got a bug up her butt," said Laura, once Maria had returned to her cart.

"She lost her card two seasons ago," whispered Jessica.

"So she was already on the Tour?" I asked.

Jessica nodded. "She played for two years with the big girls, then her game went South. Just imagine the pressure she feels—reduced to struggling through the Q-school sectionals with us."

I broke into a commiserative cold sweat just thinking about it. How bad would that be—surviving two levels of Q-school, then flunking out of the real thing and having to come back and do it all again?

"Time, ladies," called out the starter.

Flashing a wide smile at her father, Jessica hit her tee shot down the center of the fairway. Maria teed off next, firing a towering hook that cleared the fairway bunkers to the left and died in the deep rough on the side of a mound. She stomped away from the tee, wearing the same fierce look she'd had two days ago in the lightning shelter. Her blond caddie, again dressed in his good-guy cavalry costume, trotted off behind her.

"Hope she pays that caddie better than you pay yours," said Laura. "Now go get 'em, girl!"

The sense of well-being I'd experienced earlier this morning had evaporated. My three-wood felt like a baseball bat, my arms like stuffed sausages—all fat and gristle and no muscle, certainly no sign of the muscle memory that should have carried me through this kind of panic. Choking, I believed they called it—no matter what sport you happened to be in the process of screwing up.

"Let it go," said Laura.

"Let it flow," urged Joe.

"Let it snow," I said, suddenly hysterical. What the hell? At this point, there was no place to move but up, up, up. I was a double murder suspect, the very worst golfer in the field, and an object of pity to even the second worst. DFL, the caddies on the Tour called it. Dead Fucking Last. Why not swing freely? My drive landed twenty yards behind Jessica's, with a flat lie and a clear shot to the green.

"That's a beauty," said Joe, beaming with relief.

"It's a sucker pin," said Laura, "right on top of the trap. Just go for the fat of the green."

Maria Renda located her ball lying dangerously close to the out-of-bounds line. She took a fast swipe at her second shot.

"See what I mean," said Laura as the ball dribbled into the bunker in front of the green. "She cut it too close." Maria screamed at her caddie in Spanish.

"I'd hate to hear the translation of that," said Jessica, covering her ears with her hands. The two of us hit our second shots safely on the green and two-putted for easy pars. Maria Renda left hers in the sand on the first try and carded a double bogey. "I feel bad for her," I said.

"Won't help her or you one bit," replied Laura. "You can buy her dinner later if you really feel sorry for her. But right now, eye on your own ball, please."

By the third hole, we began to understand the serious disadvantage of teeing off as the last threesome in the field. With three bogeys on the second hole, we'd set no records for speed. But we still had to wait five minutes before the third green cleared. Jessica knocked her ball just short of the green.

"Stay below the hole," said Laura. "It looks like murder coming back down." My ball landed just past Jessica's and rolled five feet from the cup.

"You're the tops," said Joe.

Maria Renda glared in his direction, then yanked her shot left. It caromed off the stone wall lining the water hazard and plunked into the brackish pond. She let loose a barrage of enraged Spanish and sent her caddie off in search of a rules official. We waited by the green, assuming she wanted a ruling to determine the most advantageous, while still legal, drop. Of course, she had to know the rules of golf like her mother's face—we all did. But calling the official over was conservative play. At this point, nobody wanted to give up the slightest advantage or pull some dumb stunt that would add penalty strokes.

"Mike's two under after fifteen," said Joe as he returned to our group and slid his cell phone into his pocket. "But his caddie's threatening to quit."

"Who's feeding you these details?" I asked.

"One of my buddies is following Mike's threesome. He promised to keep me posted."

The rules official consulted with Maria, then approached the green and motioned Joe over to the cart.

"Excuse me, Dr. Lancaster, but Ms. Renda is distracted by your commentary," he said. "While there is no rule against speaking with spectators, we would appreciate it if you would take care not to inconvenience the other golfers."

"Of course," said Joe. "I'm sorry." He backed away from the green.

"Joe knows etiquette better than any professional golfer on the Tour," I said to Laura once the official drove off. "Her game would be in the toilet even if Bob Rotella and David Leadbetter were both standing by to patch her up. What a pain in the butt." We marched on in silence: I was just mad enough to birdie three and four, and eke out ugly pars on the next three holes. Jessica played steady, unremarkable golf, and Maria Renda dug her own trench deeper and deeper.

"Somebody has a sense of humor here," said Laura, pointing to a hand-carved sign in the garden by the eighth tee: "Time to Stop and Smell the Roses." Nice sentiment, but not likely today. Besides, it was hard to smell anything other than the bleach used by workers powerwashing the windows on the adjacent pink condos.

After both Jessica and I had planted our drives in the fairway, Maria stepped onto the tee. She pantomimed her swing twice in slow motion. From the particular attention she paid to the position of her elbow, I gathered she was trying to correct her string of snap hooks. After shifting her feet to point slightly right, she blistered her longest drive of the day. Straight down the middle. No duck hook there—not even a gentle draw. However, with the combination of the adjustment in her setup and the fact that the fairway took a dogleg to the left, her ball headed toward a finger of the same pond she'd encountered on the third hole. It skipped through the rough and hopped into the water. Maria stalked off the tee and slammed her driver against the Stop and Smell the Roses sign. The club head flew off the shaft and clocked Laura just above her left ear, knocking her to the ground.

"Oh, my God, you've killed her!" I yelled.

Laura cracked one eye open. "Not dead, just stunned. Give me a minute and I'll be fine." I rushed over to where she lay. A large red welt that reproduced the grooves of Maria's driver had begun to swell along her hairline.

The rules official who'd scolded Joe on the third hole drove back up to our group. He squatted down next to Laura and peered into her eyes. He asked her name, the date, and her current whereabouts, all of which she answered cheerfully and correctly. Then he turned to Maria.

"I hope you have a fruitful day. Because you can expect notice of a fine for unprofessional conduct when you return to the clubhouse." She slunk over to retrieve the club head from a rose bush, apologizing a second time to Laura on the way.

"I know you didn't hit me on purpose," said Laura.

"I'm going to take you in and have the nurse on duty check out that lump," said Joe. "At the least, you could end up with one hell of a shiner."

"I don't plan to see anybody except you guys tonight," protested Laura. "I don't want to leave Cassie."

"I'll be fine until you get back," I said. "You should get some ice on that." They rode off to the clubhouse with the official. On the way to my ball, I walked the length of the hole with Maria's caddie, who appeared to be maintaining a safe distance from his boss.

"She's a bit of a hothead," I said.

He grinned. "She is a lot of work, but it makes for an exciting ride. And there are other advantages." The sudden loft in his pale eyebrows suggested involvement in off-course activities, the details of which I preferred not to know. By the time Laura and Joe rejoined us on the tenth tee, I had carded another birdie on eight and was flying high.

"I just missed the lag putt on nine or we'd be three under," I said. "Let me see the damage." Laura removed the ice pack from her temple to show me the thin slit of her swollen and discolored left eye. "Whoa, baby. That's a doozy."