Murder for Bid (5 page)

“That’ll be two hundred and twenty nine dollars,” she said.

Two hundred and twenty-nine dollars?
That was more than I had ever spent on clothing in my life!

I started to balk, but the snake slid her hand across the counter and placed it right next to a multi-line phone eyeing me with an ‘I-double-dare-you’ stare.

I took out my credit card. “You must work on commission.”

“You got it,” she retorted victoriously.

After being extorted out of a week’s worth of pay, I headed out to the hallway, my mind still spinning from my purchase. I only hoped that I’d be able to sell the outfit on-line and recoup some of the cost.

I made my way down the hall and into the bar. Surprisingly enough, there were quite a few patrons drinking liquor, even though it was barely past noon. I sat on a high-back stool, parked my bag of ill-gotten booty on the counter, and tilted my head to the bartender.
“Bloody Mary, please.” That sounded cool, even though I couldn’t stand the taste. What I really wanted was a glass of Chianti. I just didn’t trust myself to get started.

I began rummaging for some money.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss. Just give me your name.”

“Oh, I’ll just pay cash.”

The bartender looked perplexed. “I’m sorry, we can’t accept it. I need a name.”

I could feel curious stares on my back, “Uh…”

“Name please.”

“I’m a guest of Sheila Scholstein. She should be here any minute. Just put it on her tab, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” the bartender replied with a scrunched brow.

So much for being discreet, I thought. Looking around, I tried to gain my bearings. Apparently, my outfit wasn’t as sophisticated as I thought; I was gathering stares from every direction. I felt like an overboard passenger of the
ValueMart Cruise Ship, drowning in a sea of expensive brand names. Geez, I could sell these people’s outfits on-line and support myself for a year.

I downed my drink in a few gulps.

“Another, Miss?”

“Well, sure.
Why not?”

By the time he returned with my second drink, I had a strategy. “Say, Sheila was supposed to be meeting me here, you haven’t seen her,
have you?”

“No.”

“Well,” I added quickly before he got away, “she said that she was going to talk to Jason for a few minutes and be right back.”

“Jason, the caddy?”

So, that’s it. “That’s what she said. Do you know where I might find him?”

“I’m sure he’s out on the course,” he answered, studying me closely.

“I see.” I drummed my fingers, looking around casually. “I must have misunderstood Sheila.”

He shrugged.

“Do you mind if I take this out on the deck? I thought I’d watch the golfers for a while.”

“You can do whatever you want, Miss,” he replied, heading down to the far side of the bar where a group of rowdy golfers was gathering.

From the deck, I could see much of the course with its rolling hills, ponds, creeks. The recent rains had left the course soggy, although it didn’t seem to deter the diehards. Groups of brightly dressed players dotted the ribbon-like fairway making it seem like decorative wrapping on an oversized green present. The strategically placed water features and sand traps added to its beauty, and I’m sure, created quite a challenge for players.  I knew little about golf, but it didn’t take an expert to see that this course was difficult.

After a few minutes of admiring the scenery, I caught a glimpse of a group coming in off the eighteenth fairway. As they neared, I took a chance. Leaning over the deck rail, I called out, “Jason!”

A blond head snapped upwards. He was squinting into the sun. “Me?”

“Yes, could you come up here for a minute?”

The other caddy elbowed him and murmured something under his breath. They both chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

I decided to try a new approach with the young caddy. “Hi, Jason,” I shook his hand fervently. “I’m from the
Tribune
. My editor wants me to do a piece on caddies for the Sunday Sports Section. You know, the angle is something like the trial and tribulations of today’s caddy.”

Glancing about nervously, he leaned in, “Are you going to print my name?”

He bought it. “Only if you want me to.”

“No way, I’d lose my job. The pay’s not great, but the tips...” His eyebrows gave a little lift.

“Completely confidential then.” I tapped my pocket holding my non-existent notepad. “We’ll forgo any notes, so no one will know.”

“Cool. What do you want to know? I’ve seen it all,” he bragged, flipping a blond wisp of bang out of his face.

“I’m sure you have,” I played into his adolescent cockiness. “So, you say the tips are good; what’s been your biggest tip?”

“Well, I once got a hundred dollar bill for eighteen. The guy shot a great game and he was feeling generous, I guess. Usually it’s about twenty a game.”

“Wow. I bet some guys stiff you, too.”

“Stiff me?”

“You know, don’t give you any tips.”

“Not too much around here. These guys are usually pretty nice.”

“Do they ever lose their temper and throw clubs at you?”

That got a chuckle. “Well, not at me exactly, but sometimes I have to fish a club or two out of the ponds.”

“Really, how does that make you feel?”

“It’s part of the job. I usually end up with a bigger tip.”

This was going nowhere. “Ever caddy for the VIPs?”

“VIPs?”

Geez, don’t today’s teens speak English? “Very … Important … People,” I spoke slowly so he’d get it. “The important club members, you know, like Scholstein or Schmidt?” I reiterated to the blank expression on his face.

“Oh yeah, those guys, sure.”

“It was actually Richard Schmidt that told me I should interview you. He said you’re one of the best caddies at the club.”

“Mr. Schmidt said that?”

“Of course, I talked to him before … you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Sad, isn’t it, Jason?”

“Really sad.
I caddied for him that day.”

Finally, we were getting somewhere. “Did he have a good game?”

“I’d say. He shot a seventy-five.”

“He didn’t throw any of his clubs in the pond that day, huh?”

Another chuckle. “No, but he has before. I’ve had to fish his driver out of the pond on the seventh tons of times.”

“Well, I suppose he has an expensive set. He’d hate to lose one.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a full set of ten, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Ten plus his new driver.”

“New driver?”

“Yeah. He had it custom made. It just came in a couple of weeks ago.”

“So he was carrying eleven clubs?” I could have sworn I only counted ten.

“Yeah. I guess he didn’t want to give up his old driver until he got used to the new one.”

Bingo. “So, yesterday he played with eleven clubs, right?”

“I should know. I carried them all morning.”

“You’ve been really helpful, Jason.”

“Really? Is your article going to be in this Sunday’s paper?”

“It’s really hard to say. Sometimes it takes these special features a while to make their way to print. In the meantime, keep it under wraps. I’d get into big trouble if another paper got a hold of our idea, if you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I got it.” This time I got a raised fist and another chuckle as we tapped knuckles.

I smiled all the way to the parking lot. It may have cost me a week’s pay, but I got some great information. In fact, I may have just figured out what the murder weapon was.

I spied Sheila leaning against her car talking with a tall, athletically built man. Even from a distance, I could tell that Sheila was piling on the charm. The guy was probably wealthy; women like Sheila always liked to keep a spare man, just in case their rich hubby should kick the bucket. Or, maybe Sheila was a player. Who would blame her? The guy she was talking to was definitely hot and her husband … well, not so much so.

Shelia’s gleam dimmed a bit as I approached.
“Hi Sheila. I’m ready to go when you are,” I said, smiling at her friend.

Sheila sighed before initiating a reluctant introduction, “Phillipena O’Brien, this is Greg Davis. He owns Davis Construction. I’m sure you’ve heard of his company.”

Of course I had heard of Davis Construction; their signs were plastered in the front yard of almost every newly built residential and commercial property in town.

So the guy was worth tons and cute, too. I shook his outstretched hand and took quick stock of his appearance. With a great body, strong features, thick wavy black hair, intense eyes, and an air that exuded confidence and power, he was almost too perfect.

“It’s a pleasure, Phillipena.” He held my hand for a second longer than necessary, causing a warm flush to flood over my body. His full lips parted in a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “I won’t keep you ladies any longer. I’m sure you have things to do today,” he said, locking on my eyes and giving me a quick wink.

After a brief exchange of a few more pleasantries, Greg took off across the lot in the opposite direction with Sheila staring hungrily at his backside. I did a little looking of my own. Greg D
avis was one good looking man.

“Is he married?” I asked a
fter we were seated in the car.

“Greg? Married? Are you serious? He’s way out of your league,” she retorted, emphasizing the word way.

I shrugged her off. “I’m happily involved anyway. By the way, what’s a sponsor?

Sheila faced me, her eyes sliding from my carefully done hair-do all the way down to my deal-of-the-day sneakers. “Something you’ll never have, Phillipena.” She jammed the car into gear, chuckled softly, and peeled out of the lot.

*

After enduring an icy ride back to the coffee shop and then returning to my own home, I was ready for an afternoon of lounging and eating chocolate. I threw my purse on the floor near my door and immediately headed for the fridge stopping halfway to the kitchen when I spotted Sean, wrapped up like a cocoon, on my living room sofa.

“How’d you get in here?” I asked.

“Where have you been?” he countered.

“I asked you first.”

“Your mom let me in.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d have to talk to her about this. “So you decided to take a nap on my sofa?”

“We worked all night on the case, I’m beat. Besides, there’s no place else to go in here. When was the last time you cleaned?” he asked, looking around at my place. “Look at all this stuff.”

I followed his gaze to several stacks of used books in the corner, to an assortment of clothing that I was trying to separate by size on the kitchen counter and finally to the shipping supplies on my coffee table. “This isn’t stuff; it’s business,” I retorted. I moved to the kitchen and glanced into the fridge. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” he replied, struggling to free his arms from underneath the blanket.

We cracked open a couple of sodas and sat at opposite ends of the sofa with a bag of mini candy bars between us.

“What are you wearing? You look like you have tumors up and down your back.”

“What?”

“Tumors.
On your back.”

“Oh. They’re not tumors. They’re safety pins. You can see them?”

“Well, yes I can see them. They’re quite obvious.”

I thought back to the bar patrons earlier that day. “No wonder everyone was staring at me.”

“Who’s everyone? What have you been up to?” he asked.

“You’ll thank me after I tell you.”

He gave me that look. “I doubt it, but tell me anyway.”

“You know Sheila Scholstein, right?”

“Uh, huh.”

“She invited me to the Middleton Golf Club today.”

“She invited you?”

I shot him an indignant look. “Yes, and while I was there I talked to Richard Schmidt’s caddy.”

“Pippi!”

“Oh, calm down, Sean. It’s cool. He doesn’t even know my name. He thinks I’m a reporter from the
Tribune
.”

“A reporter?”

I held up a silencing hand. “I had to use some sort of cover. Besides, it worked. I found out something crucial to the case.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

I resented the skepticism in his voice, but continued anyway, “Schmidt used a golf club to kill Amanda. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

He moaned. “I hate to ask, but how do you know this?”

“Because, I was at the crime scene, remember? I could see his golf bag in the foyer and there were only ten clubs.”

“So?” he asked, taking a long drag from his beer. For some reason, he didn’t seem all that interested in my new theory.