Six Strokes Under (13 page)

"You can muzzle that freaking mutt," I said. "Now that would be helpful."

We made the turn with me four over par, not a good omen even by Laura's ever-optimistic standards.

"The hell with a training regimen," I said. "I need a big, fat hot dog, maybe two. Mustard, sauerkraut, and onions. And if they sold Budweiser, I'd buy one of those too."

"What training regimen?" Laura laughed. We ordered hot dogs and chips and stuffed them down while we waited for the tenth tee to clear.

 
With
the pressure relieved for the moment, I had time to notice that the puffy clouds that had filled the sky earlier this morning were turning dark gray. The starter informed us that the weather channel had promised 100 percent humidity. I felt every percentage point.

"Pray the rain holds off until we finish the round," said Heather's mother. By now, I couldn't have said which was more annoying—her mind-numbing commentary or the relentless squeak, squeak, squeak of her tennis shoes trailing behind us on every shot.

"New nine," said Laura. "Fairways and greens, then we'll worry about putts."

Maybe it was the nitrites in the hot dog, maybe I was just too tired to remain as tightly wrapped as I had been on the first nine holes. But my swing felt less foreign, and the ball stayed within the range I'd come to call "straight." After a near-miss putt on thirteen, I'd made two pars, one birdie, and only one bogey. No one liked a bogey on a par five, but at least I'd managed to scrape along without any penalty shots. Overall, holding steady. Then, an enormous crack of thunder clapped overhead, followed by one prolonged horn blast coming from the direction of the distant clubhouse.

"That's the warning siren! We've got to take shelter," said Heather's fiancé. "They said not to hit another shot after play is suspended." We all piled on the golf carts and rode to the shelter attached to the rest room to wait out the storm. Heather and her entourage began to discuss the merits of her new putting stroke.

"What's your beef with Gary Rupert?" I asked Julie, preferring to make conversation about anything other than golf.

"He's arrogant," she said. "He hit on me last month. Since I turned him down, he acts like we've never spoken. I hate that kind of guy—everything, including common decency, revolves around whether you worship their sex appeal."

I didn't say anything. Truth was, Gary had been nothing but charming as far as I was concerned. I could empathize with the "hit on" experience, but from my perspective, it was rather exciting.

Two more cartloads of golfers and their caddies streamed into the shelter, drenched from the sudden downpour. A tall woman with a long, narrow face and very dark eyebrows was shrieking at her caddie. "Damn it to hell, I know the goddamn rules. I played on the damn Tour for two years. Do you think I'd risk my damn career doing something that stupid?"

"I think she was trying to be helpful," the caddie offered.

"Calling in the rules official to chastise us? You call that helpful?" The tall woman poked a finger in her caddie's chest. "I'm warning you," she said. "Keep that bitch away from me or you're likely to find golf cart tire tread marks across her forehead." She stomped out from under the shelter into the driving rain and crossed the cart path to stand under a firecracker bush. Aptly chosen, I thought.

I glanced again at her caddie. He had a shoulder-length blond ponytail and blond mustache, and he'd dressed all in white, including a white straw cowboy hat. He looked like he belonged in some location more exotic than a Florida golf course. I suspected that's where he wished he was.

"What happened?" Julie asked him.

"Kaitlin Rupert turned us in for riding together on the cart," said the caddie.

"Did you get a penalty?"

"We had to argue like hell to convince the guy I'd only been standing on the cart while it was stopped at the tee. He let us off with a warning. Next time he catches us, it'll cost us two strokes. Believe me, there are lots of other ways she could add two strokes to her score. We don't need that one." He dipped his head in the tall golfer's direction. "I guess I'd better go try to calm her down. Not sure that's even possible."

"That's Kaitlin," said Julie, watching the caddie dash through the rain to the firecracker bush. "She's always scanning the horizon to see who might be inching ahead of her. And then wondering how she could knock them back. She's got her nose in everyone else's business like a dog tracking a hot trail."

"Then how are you two friends?" I asked.

Julie shrugged. "For whatever reason, she helped me out when I needed it. Still, I wouldn't describe us as friends. I feel sorry for her. She has no clue how she comes off and how she pushes people away."

"It shouldn't take a brain surgeon to figure that out," said Laura.

"She needs kindness, too," said Julie, her voice quiet. "Jesus didn't only befriend people who were easy to get along with."

The hour we spent waiting out the thunderstorm improved no one's game, including mine. Even Heather, with heaven and her mother watching over her, hit her tee shot out of bounds on fourteen and took a double bogey. I had managed a birdie on the par-three fifteenth, but lost that advantage with three-putts for bogeys on the final two holes. A big, fat seventy-seven: five strokes over par for the course and nowhere close to the score of my dreams.

"Not that I had that much to work with after the front nine," I said to Laura as we walked off the eighteenth green. "What's a couple more three-putts if you're not going to make the cut anyway."

"That's a lousy attitude," said Laura. I checked over and countersigned my card, then turned it in to the scorer's tent. Kaitlin and Gary were arriving from the ninth hole as we left. Out of Kaitlin's line of sight, Gary saluted me with a smile and a thumbs-up.

"I heard you shot the second lowest score today, Miss Rupert," a bystander said. "I'm with Golfnews Online. Could I have a few words with you when you finish here?"

"Let's hang around a minute," said Laura. "I want to hear this."

"How was it out there?" the reporter asked when Kaitlin emerged from the tent.

"I had a fantastic day," she said. "I played great. I hit greens; my putter was hot so I made some birdies. It was more fun than I could have imagined."

"There had to be a lot of pressure out on the course today. How did you keep your focus?"

"I just hit every shot as though this was my last day ever playing golf," said Kaitlin. "That way, everything else just dropped away." She patted Gary's forearm. "And my caddie was awesome."

"Don Sandos from the
Herald-Tribune,"
called out another reporter. Her royal golfing highness flashed a gracious smile in his direction. "We've heard a rumor that the False Memory Consociation is planning to contribute to your father's defense against your lawsuit. Would you care to comment?" Kaitlin's smile faded. Her shoulders tightened and she drew a slow breath.

"My father can spend as much as he likes. Run up the national debt, for all I care. Throwing money around will not change the facts. Will you excuse me, please? I'm in a tournament here." She huffed off toward the scoreboard. Gary trotted behind her, her enormous green plaid bag banging his calves as he ran.

"That must be why Max Harding's in town," I whispered to Laura. "Maybe they're upping the pressure on her when she's vulnerable, hoping she'll drop the lawsuit."

"Would Rupert do that to his own daughter in the middle of Q-school?" Laura said.

I shrugged. "There's an awful lot at stake on both sides."

We trailed Kaitlin back to the clubhouse, where a small crowd had gathered. Most were players who'd finished earlier in the day and waited anxiously for the news of the afternoon rounds. Julie's disheveled father stood in the background with his Leviticus sign, guarded by Sheriff Pate.

"Repent and the Lord will have mercy!" he shouted in our direction.

"Stand back," ordered Sheriff Pate. "Step aside."

"One Kings, fourteen: twenty-four," shouted Julie's father, thrusting his sign toward Kaitlin. "And there were also perverted persons in the land."

"He's not altogether wrong about that," I whispered to Laura.

"I can't even believe he's related to Julie," she whispered back. "She seems so normal."

We made a wide circle around Julie's father and approached the scoreboard that dominated the west side of the clubhouse. The scores from the morning had already been posted. The low round, sixty-seven, belonged to So Won Lee.

"Now there's a score you could sleep like a baby on," I said to Laura.

"Haven't you ever heard the expression 'sleeping on the lead'?" she asked. "It's a different kind of pressure, but pressure all the same. Most players I've seen shoot a super-low score like that blew up in the next round."

Kaitlin and Gary Rupert watched as her name was inscribed in black magic marker under the number sixty-eight, just below So Won Lee's sixty-seven. She accepted the congratulations of a cluster of players, then swept off toward the locker room. With the help of Laura's not so gentle persuasion, I dragged myself back to the putting green. There were demons to slay—I had to put today behind me, taking from it only what I could use profitably in tomorrow's round.

"I'm thinking about changing my grip back over to the right hand down," I told Laura.

"I don't think you need to change anything," she said. "Your stroke looks terrific. Let's just work on tempo." We putted for half an hour—first, long lag putts, then dozens of short no-brainers that could turn into knee-knockers under the high-beam pressure of the tournament.

"I need a break," I said. We stretched out on a bench in the shade. "You were going to tell me your theory about me and men."

"It's no big deal," she said. "I was just thinking about what a hard time you've had choosing a driver this year. You try them for such a short time, you don't give yourself the chance to know if one really suits your game. Maybe it's the same thing with you and guys."

"I change drivers because my tee shots stink," I said.

"You could probably use any one of those clubs, if you stayed with it long enough to get used to it. You have the skills, it's what's in your head that trips you up."

"If I can't hit a driver any farther than I do the three-wood, there's no advantage to carrying one. One-fourteenth of my club allotment is wasted—I'd rather have a third wedge. Using a driver I can't handle only gets me into trouble."

Laura smirked. "Like I was saying about your guys ..."

"You know what? I'm not paying you to analyze my psychological issues. I'm paying you to carry the damned bag. Or, in this case, the damned putter, since the bag is riding on a cart."

"I hadn't noticed you cutting any paychecks at all," said Laura.

Her cell phone rang.

"Hello?" She listened to an excited female voice on the other end of the line. "Let me see what Cassie thinks," she said, then placed her palm over the mouthpiece. "It's my aunt Barbara. She wants to know if I'll come down to Boca Grande and spend the night with her. I said I'd have to talk with you. If you need me here tonight, I'll wait to visit until the tournament's over."

At this moment, space between me and Laura felt like a gift. As badly as I'd wanted to have her here, the intimacy of her commentary had begun to feel abrasive and maddening. "You should go," I said. "She doesn't get the chance to see you much. I'll be fine. I'm just going to get to bed early and rest up for tomorrow."

"Sure you don't mind?"

I nodded vigorously. As she concluded her conversation with her aunt, loud voices drifted over from the driving range. I turned and saw Kaitlin screaming at Walter Moore.

"I thought we had an exclusive deal here," she said. Her complexion had flushed to a mottled red and a hank of hair had sprung loose from her usually perfect ponytail.

"I said we would sponsor you. I never said you would be the only one that we sponsored."

"She's Oriental, for God's sake," said Kaitlin. "You think that's going to sell golf clubs?" Now her voice verged on hysterical.

"She hits the ball longer than any woman I've ever seen. You included. That's what sells golf clubs," said Walter. "And just for your information, Oriental is for rugs. Asian is for people." He stalked away, leaving her fuming alone on the range.

"Tut, tut," murmured Laura. "A lovers' spat."

"Go, Walter," I said. "I wouldn't have believed he had that much backbone in him."

"Afternoon, ladies," said the gravelly voice of Sheriff Pate. The bench creaked as he lowered his bulk down next to Laura. He sighed and mopped his forehead with a graying handkerchief. "I thought the thunderstorm would cool things off."

"I'm Laura Snow. You must be Sheriff Pate." She shook his hand. "You guys had your hands full out there today."

"You're tellin' me," he said, puffing up at her recognition of his importance.

"Any progress on the Bencher case?"

Pate snorted. "They've decided they like one of his wacko patients for the murder. The guy showed up at the Myrtle Beach station and confessed. He had a bloody rag with him he claims he used to try to stop the doctor's bleeding after he shot him. Voices told him Bencher needed ventilation in his neck."

"I guess we won't need to have any more of our chats, then," I said. "I'll miss them so." Laura pinched me.

"Personally, I think the guy's a crackpot who made that up for some extra attention," said the sheriff, staring at me. "I doubt we've seen the last of each other, Miss Bur-dette." He hoisted himself up off the bench, arranged his clothing over his stomach, and walked away.