“Let’s get some sleep.”
“That’s a good idea. Love you.”
“You, too,” Declan said, hanging up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TOMAHAWK COUNTRY CLUBread the bronze letters in a stone wall, and Mary drove onto the property with Bennie in the passenger seat. They were both in lightweight suits, which was the only thing they had in common. Boring clothes.
“People love golf,” Bennie said idly.
“Have you ever played?”
“No, I row. It’s the sport that’s the most like work.”
Mary smiled. She liked when Bennie was self-deprecating, which wasn’t often. In contrast, Mary herself raised self-deprecation to an art form. And liked it that way, frankly. “I never golfed in my life. I’m from South Philly.”
Bennie smiled, and they pulled up at a stone gatehouse, where an older guard opened a small window. “Good morning,” he said with a smile.
Mary introduced them both, then said, “We’re here to see the crime scene. The police are expecting us.”
“Fine.” The guard tsked-tsked. “Such a terrible shame about Mr. Eddington. We all liked him. Nothing like that ever happened here before. Everybody’s upset. Members and muckety-mucks, you know.”
“I’m sure. And I know Todd loved it here. Every Friday night he was here, no matter what, right?”
“Yes.” The guard nodded. “Like clockwork.”
“Did he usually come with anyone?”
“Usually alone. He met his foursome if he played in the morning.”
“His usual foursome? Guys from the office?” Mary took a flyer. “Like Ernie or Ray Matewicz?”
“Don’t know those names.” The guard shook his head. “I think he golfed with customers mostly. Mr. Davis, Mr. Cullen, Mr. Nustrall. Mr. Gallagher used to join but not lately. That’s who I remember. They’ll miss him.”
Mary made a mental note of the names. “Were you here last night, the night he was killed? Did you see him come in?”
“No, that’s not my shift. I’m off at four.”
“Oh, who’s shift is it?”
“The police already asked me that.” The guard frowned. “Hey, did you say you were with the police?”
“Not exactly, thanks,” Mary said, hitting the gas. “Take care now.”
“Well done.” Bennie smiled as they drove off.
“Thanks. Can’t blame a girl for asking, right?”
“Exactly.” They both laughed, and Mary steered up a winding asphalt driveway that bisected an immense front lawn, its grass so uniformly short and green that it could’ve been Astroturf. It was a beautiful day, the sun climbing a cloudless blue sky and in another mood, she would’ve felt good. They approached a large putting green on the left, where golfers practiced in complete absorption, their heads down.
Bennie looked around. “This will be a different kind of crime scene.”
“I know. It’s hard to believe somebody was killed here.” Mary drove them past a lovely Tudor mansion of gray stone withhatched windows and a gabled slate roof. A quaint wooden sign identified it as the clubhouse, and golfers were coming in and out in groups, talking and laughing.
“The parking lot’s around the back,” Bennie said.
“How do you know?”
