Hole in One (8 page)

This, being self-evident, earned an instant denial from Sergeant Moffitt.

“We'll handle the case this time,” he said. “And maybe this time, your boyfriend won't be so lucky.”

“Boyfriend, hah!” was all Hanna said, but it seemed to me the conversation was getting dangerously close to the point where the cops were likely to reach for their handcuffs and slap them on my wrists, which is what they seem to want to do, whenever in doubt.

“Gosh, Sergeant,” I said. “I certainly want to help the police in every way I can, but you surely can't suspect me of killing Dr. Rose? I never heard of the man until this . . . last night, and all I knew was that he was doing some research on a possible Indian burial site out at the golf course. I thought it might make a nice feature story for the
Lancer
. That's why Miss Klovack and I”—I wasn't going to let her get off the hook—“came here this morning.” There was no need to bother him, I felt, with the fact that I no longer worked for the
Lancer
. I went on, “I have already told you that the very first time I saw Dr. Rose was when we arrived for our prearranged appointment, a few minutes ago.”

I gave Moffitt my best, straight-from-the-shoulder, candid smile, but received none in return. “We'll check into that,” is what he said, followed by, “Wait here.” And he went off to supervise the scene-of-the-crime team inside the motel room.

It was close to one p.m. before we got away. The cops took a statement from Hanna in the motel office, while I stood around outside and tried to look nonchalant. Then I was called in and asked a number of questions, the answers to most of which came out as, “How the hell would I know?” Sergeant Moffitt then promised to jump up and down on me if I tried to leave the jurisdiction, and told me I was free to go. The remains of the late Dr. Rose were removed from Cabin 10 while we had our little chat, and, when I came out, Hanna was standing beside her car, waiting to give me a lift.

As soon as I got into the car, she said, “We've got a problem.”

“Oh, Lord,” I said.

“Did the cops ask you about the leather pouch Dr. Rose found? Or is supposed to have found?”

“What does that crack mean?”

“Did you ever see the leather pouch?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did anybody?”

“Yes, certainly. Dr. Rose did. He told . . . my God, Hanna, you don't think Joe made all that up?”

“I don't know. It's possible.”

“Not Joe,” I said. “Hell, Hanna, the man has an M.A. in English literature. He's working on a Ph.D.”

“Well, of course, in that case, he's cleared. Boy, Carlton, I can see why you were such a success on the police beat.”

This stung.

“The other possibility,” Hanna went on, “is that it happened just the way Joe said it did, but the cops didn't find the leather pouch in the motel room. You can be darn sure they'd have asked about anything like that if they had.”

“You mean the killer took it.”

“
Res ipse locitur
,” said Hanna, which was cheating; it means “the thing speaks for itself,” in Latin, and she'd whipped it from me. I picked it up covering courts.

“In that case,” I said, “we don't have a problem. The police have a problem.”

“The police don't know about it. We've got to tell them.”

“But if we do that, they're going to want to know how we know about it, and . . . we've got a problem,” I finished.

“We'll work it out after lunch,” said Hanna.

“And where are we having lunch?”

“The Club.”

“The Club? The Silver Falls Golf Club? Either you got a raise, Hanna, or somebody else is paying. Who's paying?”

Hanna nodded, and turned the key. “Peter Duke. I called him from the motel.”

“Ah, yes, the human hairball. He's putting us on the expense account, is he? And what are we giving him in return? The scoop on what happened this morning?”

Hanna nodded again and pulled swiftly out of the motel parking lot.

“No, we're not,” I said. “Or, at least, I'm not. You're on your own.”

“Okay.” Hanna pulled over to the side of the road. “Walk home.”

The dining room of the Silver Falls Golf and Country Club is at the back of the building, away from the highway noise, and looks directly out onto the first tee. This allows the diners to watch the hackers and hewers hack and hew, which imparts a warm glow of superiority, tastier than anything prepared in the kitchens. Here, they assure themselves that poor old Mary Louise should be forbidden by law from appearing in public in those shorts, and my, hasn't something happened to Harry's swing? He used to be such a fine golfer. It certainly whets the appetite.

Peter Duke had snaffled the choicest corner table, of course, and was holding court, with Tillie Winston, the waitress, and Michael Parnell, our genial maitre d', hovering about to catch the honeyed words that fell from the great man's lips. Duke was a large, blond personage, with capped teeth, a shaggy mane of hair, carefully arranged to look casual, and clothes by Harry Rosen. He looked terrific.

“Ah, Hanna, darling,” he said, half-rising from his chair and giving Hanna the deep tones, the boyish-yet-serious, smile, and the obligatory hug. “And you”—direct, manly look, firm, friendly handshake with the other hand going to my elbow to make the thing official—“must be Carlton Withers, of whom Hanna speaks so highly.”

“I'll bet,” I said.

“And this is Teresa Wanstead, my assistant.” He waved a languid hand towards the other chair, where a dark, intense young woman sat, peering through spectacles the size of snowshoes and clutching a notebook.

“Charmed,” said Teresa, who looked anything but. She went back to scribbling in her notebook.

“Ah, Michael,” the Duke went on. “Our guests would no doubt enjoy some liquid refreshment. I can recommend the cassis and water.”

So, of course, we had to have cassis and water, and Michael shot off in one direction to put in the order, while Tillie shot off in the other to round up some breadsticks. This was the first recorded instance in history of either of them moving at more than a snail's pace.

“I can't tell you how much I envy you, Carlton,” the great man intoned, when we were duly slurping and chewing—cassis is a liqueur, I gather, and appears to be made by grinding up erasers in fusel oil. I allowed as to how it tasted swell. “Envy you in your enjoyment here of the simple life.” He gave a grand wave around the room, centre of the local economy's most strenuous attempts to get away from the simple life.

“The birds, the bees, the whack of the old club on the old ball. What could be more pleasurable? It seems to me those of us who allow ourselves to be caught up in the mad, gay whirl of the news biz—you might want to write this down, Teresa, we can use it later for one of my commentaries—sometimes forget what's really important in life. It isn't the money, the big car, the chauffeur, the gourmet meals, the adulation of our many fans . . . No, these are fine things, and I don't belittle them. But do they really count? People may look on us with envy, but, I'll let you in on a little secret, Carlton,” and he leaned across the table to give me a playful little tap on the arm. “You're the lucky one at this table. Don't you think so?”

“Well, gosh, I don't know,” I said, and Hanna said, “Yes, well, now we've got all the bucolic bullflap out of our systems, suppose we get down to work.”

“Ah, Hanna, our Hanna,” the personage said, giving her one of his roguish smiles. “I see you're still as down-to-earth and practical as you were when we worked side by side at the
Toronto
Star
.”

“I worked. You combed your hair,” was Hanna's reply.

“Ha, ha,” said the Duke. “Still a great kidder.”

Just then, Michael came back, bearing a telephone, which he proceeded to plug into an outlet behind the regal chair. “You asked for a telephone, Mr. Duke,” he said.

“Thank you, Michael.” Peter uncorked one of his my-good-man smiles at the maitre d'. “Actually, it's for Teresa.” He handed the instrument across to her. “Mustn't lose touch with the world, must we?”

Teresa poked her glasses up on her nose, flipped to the front of her notebook, and dialled a number.

“Check the hotel for messages,” the Duke told her.

“I am,” she said, and then, into the instrument, “I am calling on behalf of Mr. Peter Duke of the CBC. Mr. Peter Duke of the CBC. D-U-K-E. No, that is not a title; it is a name. Of the CBC. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. You know, television. That's right. We're staying in the hotel. The Garden Suite. Oh, it's the only suite. Well, we're staying there. Are there any messages for Mr. Duke of the CBC? Well, I don't know how the hell you should know, madam, but I presume there is some way for you to—Oh, I see.”

She put one hand over the mouthpiece. “The woman on the switchboard says if there had been any messages, she would have put a note under your door,” she said. “She's gone to check. How quaint.” Then, into the instrument, “There aren't. Thenk ew so much.” She hung up the phone.

“Edna Tilbury,” I told Duke, who looked blank. Well, he always looks blank, but this time, he
really
looked blank. I explained. “You got hold of Edna Tilbury on the switchboard at the Dominion House, which I guess is where you're staying, since it's the only decent hotel in town.”

Teresa was seething. “Well, she didn't even know who Mr. Duke is. She didn't even know what the letters CBC stand for.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I said. “She worked for the CBC for about ten years before she moved here from Toronto. My guess is that she was just having a little fun with you.”

“I see. Well, I fail to see the humour in—”

“Never mind, Teresa,” the great man interrupted. “There aren't any messages, that's the main thing. Let's get on with the investigation.” He turned to me with his best, man-to-man, now-let's-cut-the-cackle-and-get-to-the-bottom-line look, as seen on
Miami Vice.
“Well, Carlton, what have you got for me?”

Profound contempt, combined with envy, was the answer that sprang to my lips, but I said, “There's been another murder,” and told him about Dr. George Rose.

He kept saying “Hmm,” and, “Have you got that, Teresa?” as I described the scene, and, at the end, he put his fingers together, tent fashion, and contemplated them for a minute or two.

“What are we to make of all this?” he rumbled, to no one in particular.

“That you go to a manicurist regularly,” I replied, and he shot me a look, as if suspecting some form of
l
è
se mojest
é. “I think we may conclude,” he told Teresa, in a now-I-am-dictating tone, “that there is some connection between the two killings.”

“Or not,” I said.

“Or not,” echoed the haircut. “Hmm,” he added. That seemed to exhaust the subject. There was about a one-minute silence around the table—perhaps in memory of Peter Duke's brain—which was broken by Teresa rapping out, “Studio interview with cops. File stuff on bucolic paradise. Location shots at motel and this . . .” flip through notes, “Bosky Dell golf course. We'll need another camera crew.”

“Quite so,” said Peter, still contemplating his exquisite hands. “Quite so. Let it be done.”

Teresa shot from her chair and left the dining room to set the mighty wheels of television journalism in motion, while the rest of us picked up our menus. Hanna lowered hers momentarily to give me a big roll of the eyes, and chirruped, “Maybe you should interview Carlton, as the man on the scene.”

“Well, of course, if you think it's absolu . . .” I began, but the great man cut across me like a steamer swamping a sailboat.

“I think not,” he said. “Less confusing for the viewer if the host acts as the main storyteller. I,” he added, in case we had missed the point, “am the host.”

“Too bad, Carlton,” said Hanna. “You could have bought a blue shirt and charged it to expenses.”

I was about to indicate how little we of the print medium care for the shallow, momentary fame conveyed by television, when there was a rumble at the door, and we heard the maitre d' shouting, “You can't come in here!”

Yes, they could. About a dozen of them, led by Chuck Wilson, and several others I had seen down at the Bide-a-Wee, came charging across the dining room, right to our table. They all wore blue jeans and dark complexions, but only two or three of them actually looked Indian. The process of assimilation has gone a long way in Canada; about the only thing that sets our natives apart is their poverty. Joe Herkimer was not of their number. Michael, the maitre d', brought up the rear, looking very rattled.

The Great Man was not at all rattled. “Ah, yes, gentlemen,” he said. “And what can I do for you?”

“You Peter Earl?” Chuck Wilson demanded.

A momentary look of annoyance creased the perfect features. “Duke. My name is Duke. And you are . . . ?”

“Spokespersons for the Circle Lake Band of the Ojibwa Nation. We need to see you.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” the Duke said. “Right after lunch. Would you care to join us for lunch? Michael, could we have a larger table?” Michael rolled his eyes, while thoughts of what the club members would do to him if he allowed this unruly red mob to dine on the premises did battle with other thoughts of what the Ontario Human Rights Commission would do to him if he didn't. He was saved.

“Naw,” said Wilson. “We've eaten. We'll wait outside.”

Michael mopped his brow, and the Indians left the dining room.

The Duke lifted his menu again. “Shall we?” he said.

Luncheon proceeded—clear soup and a small steak all around, and very toothsome, too. Teresa turned up about halfway through to report that “Everything's set,” and fell on the luncheon Peter had ordered for her with the fierce purposefulness of a tiger disposing of the morning lamb.

About halfway through the second cup of coffee, and a lot of boring conversation about Toronto media personalities that meant absolutely nothing to me, Peter suddenly jumped up and pushed back his chair.

“Well, back to work,” he said, and charged off, followed by a scent of some men's cologne, Teresa, and, for about two seconds, Tillie Winston, the waitress, who had emerged from the kitchen bearing a silver salver with the cheque on it. She stopped as the Duke swept out the door, shrugged, and then returned and deposited the bill, $118.60, with the tip still to come, in front of me.

I leapt like a gaffed salmon. “Don't aim that thing at me!” I squawked.

Hanna sighed and scooped it up.

“I may have made a mistake in calling that man in,” she said. “Even for the freelance fee. I remembered him as a charmer. I'd forgotten that he was also a jerk.”

I edged my chair closer to hers and picked up the hand not holding the cheque.

“But at least he's not a creep,” added Hanna, and withdrew the hand.