It wasn’t my first time in the ladies’ locker room at the club. Karen took me in the back way along a row of polished mahogany lockers with brass nameplates. She stuffed me into one of the changing rooms. The door didn’t go all the way to the floor, but at least it had a lock. Our little liaison lasted until Karen smoothed out her blouse and buttoned up the red waistcoat that was her uniform.
“I better get back out there,” she said. She was looking in the mirror and combing out her hair.
“No need to rush off,” I said, running my hands around her waist. I kissed her ear and put my cheek against hers. Her skin was still hot, in spite of the air conditioning.
She looked at me in the mirror and giggled as she ducked out of my grip. “You are something else, Bradley. Now let me get back to work.” She cracked the door open and looked around. “The coast is clear,” she said, stepping out into the locker room. “You better call me this weekend.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me and clicked the door shut.
After Karen left by the front entrance, I peeked over the top of the door and slipped out of the changing room. I walked back along the row of lockers until I came to one with Lorna Goodman’s name on it. The security at the club was topnotch, and it would have been an insult to the members to put locks on the lockers. I quickly scanned the contents, but found nothing but a sleeve of “Komen for the Cure” pink golf balls and a worn-out pair of FootJoy golf shoes. I closed the locker and was about to leave when I noticed Alice Henning’s name on one of the adjoining lockers. I opened it. Alice had left her purse in the locker, so I rifled through it. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve been amazed by all the pockets, nooks, and crannies in a woman’s purse, and it was no different with Alice’s. The purse smelled like Chanel No. 5, reminding me of my mother’s. For a moment I thought I was looking for a pack of Doublemint. There were credit cards and a checkbook, cosmetic case, and a ton of credit-card receipts. But then I found it: Lorna’s name on a piece of club stationery with an address in Naples, Florida.
Back at my apartment I wrestled with whether or not I should tell Parker Goodman what I knew. He was, after all, my client, and I had no stake in this if not for him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wad of bills that he had given me. There were lots of fifties and hundreds, and they smelled good when I fanned them with my thumb. I thought about what Alice had said, and I knew damn well that Parker was lying to me about Lorna. I wondered what was in the book that she had mentioned. I hate it when a client lies to me, but I can’t say that it is unusual. I decided to let it go for a while. I could call Parker when I knew for sure where Lorna was. I pulled a cold Budweiser from the refrigerator and sat down at my computer. I booked a flight to Florida for the following day.
Early the next morning Parker’s man showed up with five grand in a shoebox. I guess Parker didn’t want anyone at the office to know what was going on. I hadn’t counted the wad he’d given me the day before until now. All together, I had over six grand just in Ben Franklins. I put the shoebox in my gun safe.
I started to sweat as soon as I got off the plane in Fort Myers. Florida was a luxurious respite from the cold winters up north, but, as any of the locals would tell you, summer was another matter altogether. I rented a Ford Mustang with a GPS unit and found a hotel room for the night. Traveling always wears me out, and I watched the Cardinals play the Cubs in St. Louis on ESPN. I don’t know how it turned out; the Cardinals were up three to two halfway through the sixth inning when I fell asleep.
The next morning I headed south on I-75 toward Naples. It didn’t take long to find the address. It was a cozy little townhouse on a canal, a short walk from the beach. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door.
“They’re not home.”
I turned to see a woman on the porch next-door watering some flowers in hanging baskets. She was younger than me and sported a deep tan under her cotton sundress and bleached-blond hair.
“Do you know where I might find them?” I asked.
She concentrated on her job until water ran out of the soaked basket, then she put down the hose and came down the steps. She crossed the small yard and stared up at me. “Are you related?” she asked. “You sound like you’re from Arkansas.”
“Just a family friend,” I replied, “a friend of Lorna’s.”
“Well, she’s here, but I think she went to play golf,” she said.
Lorna loved the game, so it made perfect sense. “Do you know what course she goes to?” I asked.
“The one right on the beach, at the hotel.” She shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted at me in the bright sunlight. “And you’re not a relative?”
“No, ma’am, just a friend.” I started towards my car before she got too nosy. “Thanks.” I gave her a wave. She waved back slowly, looking perplexed.
I drove back north to the Naples Beach Hotel and Golf Club. The place was crawling with activity. Summer vacation had sent families scurrying to Florida to see the Mouse and go to the beach. It appeared that many had infiltrated the Gulf side of the state as well. I headed straight for the golf course thinking that I might talk my way into a look at the schedule for the tee times.
A cute blonde in a too-small pink polo shirt smiled at me from behind the counter at the pro shop. She was brown and fit and looked like she might be on the college golf team somewhere; her name tag said “Doris.” “What can I do for you?” she said.
“I was going to ask if a friend was on the course,” I said. “But if you’re the instructor, I think I need a golf lesson.”
She laughed. “You don’t look like you need lessons — in golf or anything else.”
“Depends on the level of play, I guess.”
“Who’s the friend? You supposed to meet someone for a tee time?”
“No,” I said. “She’s not expecting me. Her name is Lorna Goodman.”
She scrolled down the computer and then spun the monitor and leaned over to show me. “There’s only one Lorna, but her last name is Wagner.” She pointed to the name. “She’s not a hotel guest.”
I wondered if Lorna would use her real name. The chances were pretty good that she wouldn’t, and I thought I remembered seeing that name, Wagner, somewhere else. “You know, that might be her,” I said. “I think she went back to her maiden name.”
“She should be coming up on nine soon.”
“You mind if I wait and see if it’s her?”
“Not at all. Can I get you a drink or something to eat?” She was eager to please.
“Sure.”
I ate a hot dog and was finishing off a soda when I saw a tall blond woman get out of her cart on the ninth fairway and walk to her ball. From that distance she looked a lot younger than the fifty-eight years I knew her to be. She had an athletic build and looked as healthy and vibrant as any of the ladies on the LPGA tour. I watched as a divot flew up, and I heard the click of her iron. The ball lofted high and thudded onto the green, backing up a few feet before stopping within a yard of the pin.
“Is that her?” Doris had come up behind where I sat at a table in the shade.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s the Lorna I’m looking for,” I said.
“She’s good,” said Doris. “Low handicap. She’s been turning in her cards all week.” She leaned over and grinned at me. “Isn’t she a little old for you?”
“And you’re a little young,” I said. She stuck out her bottom lip as if I had hurt her feelings.