Chapter Eight
“Ladies and gentlemen,” called a man from the opposite side of the foyer. “If you could please follow me to the terrace, we will begin our services forthwith.”
“Here we go,” Clayton muttered, holding out an arm for her.
If Clayton’s taste in art had tended toward refined minimalism, Warren’s gardener had fully embraced the maximalist life.
Juliette had never seen so many shaped topiaries interspersed with bright blasts of neon flowers on tall stalks, with fountains and hedge mazes and putting greens throughout.
They had even installed a mini windmill, and she was pretty sure there was a small-scale replica of the Empire State Building with a child-size King Kong hanging from the top.
“This is…” Juliette started, not at all sure how to actually finish that sentence.
“He bought it from a defunct Putt-Putt place down in Tacoma,” Clayton said with a wry smile. “I oversaw the installation of the gator pond myself.”
“Gator pond?” Juliette said, suddenly aware of the exposed nature of her ankles. At least she didn’t have to be barefoot for this one.
“They’re animatronic,” Clayton said. “But don’t touch the water, they have a bad habit of shorting out. Put our last gardener in the ICU trying to fish out a sunk ball.”
“Noted,” Juliette murmured as everyone moved forward into a wide cobbled courtyard.
Racks of minigolf clubs lined the open space beside buckets of brightly colored balls.
Clayton guided her toward the line, but Juliette hung back.
She wouldn’t make any headway on her missing manuscript by knocking neon balls into tiny replicas of famous landmarks.
“It’s okay, it’s part of the service,” Clayton said, misreading her hesitation. “Warren wanted everyone to play one last round in his honor.”
“That’s very … Warren,” Juliette said. “But I think I’ll just get a drink first.”
They’d passed an outdoor bar on their way into the gardens, and Juliette made a beeline for it as the rest of the guests started their nine holes.
There were a few other stragglers hovering around the bar, and as Juliette put in her order for a white wine spritzer, a halo of floral perfume enveloped her.
“June,” she said, recognizing the woman’s signature scent before she even turned around. “Lovely to see you.”
“Juliette!” June Piedmont said in surprise, pressing one hand to her chest. “Darling, you startled me. I hardly know where I am these days. Grief can do such funny things to a mind.”
So can guilt, Juliette thought.
“It really has been a shock,” she agreed aloud. “Especially with the police investigating his death.”
“What have you heard?” June fairly snapped, before remembering where she was.
She gave a hasty smile, patting absently at her hair.
“I mean to say, everyone at the club is just champing at the bit for information. You know they’ve taken the yacht, tied it up in their ghastly yellow tape business.
Claiming they need to collect evidence. Evidence of what?
Warren died of a heart attack, plain as day.
And now they’re putting us through the ignominy of an investigation? It’s downright invasive.”
“There was a theft that night, though,” Juliette said, watching the woman carefully. “Warren’s manuscript, the one you were so keen to get a sneak peek of. Stolen from his safe while he died.”
“Oh, that,” June said, waving distractedly.
“We’re all better off with Warren’s secrets buried alongside him.
This business with the theft has been horrendous, I don’t mind saying.
As if our people would have had anything to do with it!
We stand by our staff, regardless of what the police might insinuate.
And yet we’ve got to do our due diligence, same as anyone else.
We’ve had to run background checks on every waiter and ball boy now, a real ghastly affair.
My poor Robert has had to fire four of the line cooks in the club restaurant because they were undocumented.
” She said the last word in a dramatic whisper, as if they were speaking of back-alley abortions in the 1950s.
“And for what? Nothing. Now we’re short-staffed at the most crucial juncture in club history. It’s a nightmare.”
Juliette imagined it was far worse for the workers who had lost their livelihoods, but June Piedmont didn’t think in terms of other people’s welfare. At least Juliette knew the police were actually investigating the missing manuscript. But thanks to June, she also knew they had found bupkis.
“You know,” Juliette said, putting on her best ingratiating smile, “now that you mention it, I’d love to chat with some of your support staff who were on the yacht that night—”
“Oh, darling, no, no. Inconceivable!” June took a dramatic gulp of her wine.
“No, we’ve been traumatized too much already.
First, poor, dear Warren dies right in front of us!
Then those policemen come poking around, invading our members’ privacy, asking insulting questions.
It’s atrocious. We’ve already lost five of our oldest members due to the scandal.
” June sniffed, pulling herself up and tilting her chin.
“No, what we need is closure. A chance to move on, to revitalize. Both for ourselves and the club! I don’t mind telling you, there are those among our ranks who are quite happy to see Warren’s pet project put to rest along with him.
The things that man knew could bring down a country.
Some secrets are better carried to the grave. ”
Was it possible there were those among the Pacific Pines ranks who were willing to send Warren to the grave to keep his secrets from being known? As June spotted someone more important to talk to and moved along, Juliette spotted someone of interest herself.
A Black man in his mid-forties stood on the edge of the crowd, worrying the edges of a large yellow envelope.
He was dressed a little too frumpily to belong to the Pacific Pines set, a little too square for the younger waitstaff, and trying so hard to be inconspicuous that he stuck out like a sore thumb in his scuffed-up loafers and rumpled button-down shirt.
Plus, she recognized his profile from the few newspaper articles about him that she’d found online.
Detective Marks, the lead investigator in Warren’s death.
She abandoned her wine in favor of something far juicier—getting the information she needed, directly from the source.