Black Princess Mystery (10 page)

“Upbeat,”
Adam said. “Father Murphy was a good player, but Mike was playing excellent
golf, the best I saw all season, and he was really confident he could beat
every man left. He just had to get by Father Murphy.”

“There
must have been some tension between them.”

“You know
Mike. He’s viciously competitive.”

“I know. I
went to school with him for thirteen years.”

“Mike and
Tim Murphy didn’t like each other,” Adam continued, “and everyone knew it. You
heard about the soup kitchen, right?”

“A
little.”

“What’s
your understanding?”

“Father
Tim wanted to put a soup kitchen in the church basement for anyone who needed a
hot meal, but Mike got together with some other businessmen and blocked it.
They didn’t want so-called ‘undesirables’ flowing into the neighborhood.”

“Tim
Murphy was pissed,” Adam said with emphasis. “I know he wore the uniform, but a
couple times I swear he wanted to punch Mike right in the mouth. It’s the Irish
blood. When you caddy, you can feel tension between players, but it’s usually
just one guy wanting to beat the other one. Golf is funny that way. It’s a
sport known for gentlemanly conduct, but in reality it was created by the
warlike Scots. Every player is literally walking around the course with a bag
full of lethal weapons.”

“Maybe
that’s why golf developed such a civilized attitude,” Tasheka speculated. “If
it hadn’t, people would be getting killed all over the links.”

“Probably,”
Adam said. “All I know is that they hated each other.”

“Hate is a
pretty strong word.”

“Not in
this case. I’ve caddied hundreds of rounds, Tasheka, and I’ve seen some pretty
fierce competition, but I can safely say that these two hated each other. And
it wasn’t just one way either. Both of them never smiled when the other guy was
around, never complimented one another on a good shot, did not speak, and wouldn’t
even look at the other man. You could feel it big time.”

“But they
respected each other?”

Adam
shrugged. “If they did, I never saw it.”

“What
happened, Adam?”

The young
man took a deep breath and cast a very serious look.

“I was
talking about you with the manager of Green Landscaping,” Tasheka said sweetly,
“and I mentioned that you might be a good fit for the golf course this spring
and summer.” She paused and looked hard at him. “He’s going to leave the
decision to me.”

“Really?”

“Really,”
Tasheka assured him. She waited several seconds. “What happened, Adam?”

“They were
tied when they came to the tee on the last hole,” Adam began. His expression
grew solemn. “Mike was so nervous he was sweating like a pig. His shirt was
soaked and it looked like he had just climbed out of the tub. But he collected
himself, took a deep breath, and teed off. I don’t know who was more shocked,
him, me, or Father Murphy, but Mike hit a beautiful drive forty yards past Dead
Man’s Oak. He left himself a perfect angle and an easy nine-iron into the fat
part of the green.”

“That put
a lot of pressure on Father Tim.”

“A lot of
pressure,” Adam agreed. “But Tim Murphy came to the tee and hit a sweet drive.
Unfortunately, it caught that little hump forty yards before the tree and
skipped to the left. His ball came to rest smack dab behind Dead Man’s Oak.”

“Behind
the tree or beside it?”

“Behind
it,” Adam assured her. “The tree might as well have been a wall.” He laughed
slightly. “It’s ironic. The eighteenth fairway is wide open except for that one
tree and the low hedge, but he put his ball directly behind Dead Man’s Oak at
the absolute worst time. It was literally sitting flush against the middle of
the trunk, an impossible position. There were no options. He would have to pitch
out on his second shot while Mike could attack the pin. It looked like a done
deal and Mike was smiling like he won the lottery.”

“But,”
said Tasheka, leaning forward, “something happened.”

“I walked
with Mike to check his lie and Tim Murphy walked up to his ball. Mike and I
both looked and confirmed that it was, in fact, square behind the tree. The
priest squatted down to look at angles and to consider his options.” Adam
paused. “Then the ball suddenly moved.”

“The ball
suddenly moved? By itself?”

“Some people
joked later that it was an act of God, but Mike wasn’t laughing.”

“Maybe it
did roll,” Tasheka said. “If the ball was lying right on the edge of a little
mound, it could have rolled down by itself. A gust of wind, a loose piece of
dirt, who knows? Right?”

Adam said
nothing.

“Right?”
Tasheka queried.

Again Adam
remained mute.

“Tell me,”
she insisted. “I swear I’ll never mention what you say here today.”

“All
right, but this is between you and me,” Adam said, lowering his voice. He
hesitated and then seemed to gather the courage to speak. “I just happened to
look at the priest at the perfect moment and saw him move the ball.”

“Father
Tim cheated?” Tasheka asked incredulously.

“He
cheated,” Adam said gravely. “I saw it and so did Mike. Golf here in Lakeside
is a gentleman’s game. There were no marshals or anyone else watching each
group. It’s always been the honor system, just like at the tennis club where
the players call their own lines. People follow the rules. But Tim Murphy
cheated. And he didn’t just give it a little nudge, he pushed the ball several
feet so that he could have an unobstructed swing on his next shot.”

“What did
Mike do when he saw that?”

“Mike
called him a cheater to his face.” Adam nodded almost comically. “Right beside
Dead Man’s Oak, Tasheka. So long as I live, I’ll never forget that moment.
Father Murphy denied it, of course, swearing that the ball had been moved by a
gust of wind and merely rolled down the little hill and into the open.”

“Did Mike
or Father Tim ask if you saw what happened?”

“Mike did,
but I didn’t want to get pulled into a huge controversy. I told them I wasn’t
looking and didn’t see anything.”

“How did
Mike take it?”

“He
growled like a dog,” Adam said, nodding. “Just like a dog. Me and Father Murphy
both heard him. For weeks afterwards, Mike told everyone who would listen that
Father Murphy cheated, but priests have always had a good reputation in
Lakeside, so who would distrust a priest? People thought Mike was whining and
being a bad sport.”

“Did they
continue playing?” Tasheka asked intently.

“Yes,
Father Murphy was away, so he played first. By sheer chance he went after the
flag and made the best shot of his life.”

“That
good?”

“It came
to rest three inches from the hole,” Adam said with the most serious look imaginable.
“It was a miracle. Father Murphy had never made a shot close to that quality in
his whole life, especially not on the eighteenth hole to save a tournament.”

“How did
Mike react?”

“He was
pissed.”

“But he
kept playing?”

“Sure he
did. If he had left, people would have called him a quitter.”

“So how
did his shot turn out?”

“Not good.
Mike was so enraged that he was totally off his game. His face was as red as a
beet, but everyone was watching and now he wanted to win even more. He took a
deep breath and hit his nine-iron into that deep bunker on the right, the one
with the overhanging lip. After it came to rest, he slammed the club into the
fairway so hard that I thought it was going to break. Everyone saw that part,
but only me, Father Murphy and Mike knew what led up to it.”

“How did
the bunker shot go?”

“Terrible,”
Adam said. “Mike was grinding his teeth as he walked toward the sand trap and I
could hear him swearing under his breath the whole way. On his next shot, he
hit the lip of the bunker and the ball rolled right back to his feet.”

“Ouch.”

“All his
hard work was ruined because the priest had cheated. There was no way he could
win now and he was determined not to give Father Murphy the satisfaction of
finishing routinely. Mike picked up his ball, threw it into the lake, and
stormed off without shaking anyone’s hand or even talking to a soul.”

“He threw
his ball into the lake?” Tasheka said, raising her eyebrows.

“Right
into the lake,” Adam confirmed. “He stormed over to the clubhouse and made an official
complaint. Tim Murphy tapped in and celebrated as if he had won the Masters.”

“You can’t
blame Mike for being angry, I suppose.”

“Not at
all. I believe his second shot would have been a whole lot better if the priest
had chipped out onto the fairway like he was supposed to. But Mike looked
downright homicidal when he stomped out of there that day.” He shook his head.
“I’ll never understand that kind of mentality. It’s just a game.”

“Where men
are involved, there is no such thing as a game,” Tasheka said. “It’s always a
matter of life or death.”

Adam
laughed uncomfortably. “I’ve seen men bitch at each other on the golf course
because they’re frustrated or humiliated, but this was something completely
different. You could really feel it. They hated each other.”

“And Mike
publicly accused Father Tim of cheating?” Tasheka said incredulously, surprised
her mother had not informed her of this incident.

“He did.”

“Did you
ever tell anyone what you saw?”

“Not in
this lifetime,” Adam said firmly. “Mike was always a good tipper and I didn’t
want anyone saying he paid me to lie. I still tell everyone I didn’t see a
thing, except that the ball did somehow move. The official line was that I
didn’t know if it was the wind, the hand of God, or some other factor.”

“How did
Father Tim move the ball?” Tasheka asked. “Did you see him actually do it?”

“I saw the
whole thing. So did Mike.”

Tasheka
shook her head and lightly bit her lip. “Did Father Tim kick the ball, brush it
with his knee, or did he move it some other way?”

“He pushed
it with his right hand.”

“And Mike
clearly saw it?” Tasheka asked, staring deeply into his eyes.

“Yes. If
Mike Power could have killed Father Murphy at that moment without going to
jail, he would have bashed his brains in with his nine-iron. His eyes were
crazy.”

Chapter
Seven

“Anyone
would have been mad, for sure,” Adam said, “but Mike’s the kind of guy who
flips the switch. You know what I mean? He’ll give you the shirt off his back
on a cold day, but if you’re beating him at something, he’s, um, I’m not sure
of the exact word.”

“Peevish?”

“That
works,” Adam said with a grin.

“Hateful?”

“Even
better. When he’s playing something, and he’s losing, he’s hateful. He hates
your guts. I can only imagine how he felt about Father Murphy, because not only
was he losing, he was being cheated, and at the biggest event of the year, the
one year he had a legitimate chance to win and get his name on the trophy.”

“I see.”

“If he had
an ax, he would have cut Father Murphy’s hand off,” Adam said. “He looked that
mad.”

“Have you
ever seen him commit an act of violence on the golf course?”

“No, but
there have been times when he got heated. Most of the men at the club won’t
even play him anymore. When he’s in a funk, he’s like some kind of train
speeding along out of control. He’s hateful, like you said. One day I saw him
go ballistic because a spectator was yawning.”

“Are you
serious?” Tasheka asked, surprised.

“He said
the man was friends with the guy he was playing and the guy who was yawning was
trying to throw him off. He told the yawner he wasn’t welcome in his store
anymore.”

“Why did
you caddy for him?”

“He tipped
well, especially when he won.”

“What
about when he lost to Father Tim?”

“He didn’t
give me a red cent. He just stormed off and I haven’t spoken to him since. I
sure wasn’t going to phone and ask for anything.”

“Had you
ever seen him that angry?”

“I caddied
for him for five years and I’ve never seen him that angry. Not even close. He
even tossed his clubs.”

“What do
you mean?”

“Mike was
driving two-hundred mile round trips to take lessons from a pro,” Adam said,
“and he bought a new set of clubs at the Pro Shop. They were top of the line
clubs that cost him a small fortune, and I have to say that he never played
better. But after he lost to Father Murphy, he threw the whole set into the
shed behind his store and hasn’t touched them since.”