Chapter Seventeen
“Step right up, little lady,” Chipper said, sweeping an arm out gallantly for her to take her position in front of the teed-up ball.
Little lady? Juliette knew for a fact that she was one inch taller than Chipper Floyd, because she’d done her research on him.
Born in Wilmington, Virginia, Arnold “Chipper” Floyd was the son of a former amateur golfer and a schoolteacher.
He was swinging putters before he was using the potty, and he’d gone to Stanford on a full ride in exchange for helping them win the NCAA championship in golf.
“Do you play professionally or something?” Juliette asked.
Chipper smirked as he selected a club from a nearby bag. “I won the Masters, and the US Open twice.”
Juliette also knew from her research that he’d had some kind of hush-hush scandal after that second US Open win, one that had forced him out of golf at the height of his career.
It had been followed by a decade of run-ins with the law over a series of DWIs and a costly high-profile divorce from his supermodel wife.
“You ever played golf before, Juliette?” Chipper asked, holding out the club.
“Oh sure, plenty of times,” Juliette said with a dismissive wave.
Of course, that had been minigolf at a children’s Putt-Putt course on a disappointing Hinge date, but it was basically the same thing.
As Chip handed her the club and squared up her hips—getting a little too handsy with her butt in the process—Juliette lined up her questions along with her shot.
“So, Chipper, how do you know Charlie?” she asked, setting her hands on the club.
“Doc Hawk fixed up my bum ticker,” Chipper said as he repositioned her hands. “Got my game back on track, didn’t you, Doc?”
“I performed a septal myectomy,” Charlie said casually, as if he were discussing trimming Chipper’s hedges or cleaning his floors, and not open-heart surgery.
“Yep, my heart used to go a mile a minute when I was just sitting down,” Chipper said. “If it weren’t for Doc Hawk, the old muscle would like to have given out before I hit forty.”
“And how is your heart now, since I can’t get you to come in for your follow-up?” Charlie asked dryly.
“Healthy as a horse, Doc,” said Chipper, pounding one fist on his chest for emphasis. “Only had one episode since I stopped the meds you had me on.”
Charlie frowned. “When did you have this episode?”
“Ah, couple weeks ago,” Chipper said. “It wasn’t a big deal, I went and got myself worked up arguing with somebody, and off it went. I’m pretty sure that’s what got me going. But I’ve been doing my meditations, working on my mindfulness like my coach says, and it hasn’t happened since.”
“You really should come in and let us run some diagnostics,” Charlie said.
“You worry too much, Doc, and with a pretty little lady like this on your arm?” Chipper gave Juliette’s hips a squeeze before stepping back. “Okay, honey, now what you want to do is line your ball up to the hole, square your hips like this, and give it a little tap. Go on and try it.”
“So, are you looking to get back on tour?” Juliette asked, gripping the club with intention and staring down the ball.
She’d never really golfed with an actual club on an actual green, and the club felt heavy and awkward, all the weight at the bottom.
But she was a seasoned track runner and former ballet prodigy; how hard could it be?
“Now that Doc Hawk’s got me back in fighting shape, you bet I’m gunning to get back out there.
Got a new team of sponsors lined up, working with a swing coach and everything,” said Chipper as Juliette wound up and let the club fly.
It bit into the dirt, sending a chunk of grass flying instead of the ball.
“Huh,” she said, scrunching up her nose.
“That’s all right, honey, happens to the best of us sometimes,” Chipper said. “Try again. Put a little less mustard on it, we’re not teeing off here. Maybe hit the ball this time.”
Oh, she’d hit a pair of them if he didn’t watch his tone. She set her stance again, gripping the club more forcefully. Obviously, the ball didn’t understand who was in charge here.
“So, Doc, you looking to join our club here?” Chipper asked, crossing his arms and watching Juliette’s form critically. “Maybe step your feet a little wider, honey.”
“That would seem to be why we’re here,” Charlie mused.
“What’s the club like?” Juliette asked. “You know, after the whole Warren Ellingham thing. Must have been pretty hard, losing a founding member like that. Has it affected morale at the club?”
“Yeah, it was a real shame, the way the old guy went,” Chipper said, shaking his head and looking not one iota regretful about Warren’s death. “And at his birthday party, too. Hell of a way to go out, in front of all your friends and family.”
“Were you there?” Juliette asked innocently, following through with her hips this time and sending another unsuspecting piece of turf flying. This had definitely been easier with a child-size club on Astroturf. But Juliette Winters wasn’t a quitter.
“I was at the party, sure,” Chipper said. “But I had to leave early. I had a five a.m. tee time with my swing coach. They brought me back on the tender boat around nine.”
“Oh, so you weren’t actually there when he, you know.” Juliette mimed a heart attack.
“Nope, I was already home in bed like a good boy. That was the night I had my little blip with the heart, Doc, but that was over two weeks ago, and no other signs.”
That would explain why Juliette hadn’t seen him during Warren’s speech, and she could confirm his departure time with the crew on the yacht.
Still, he’d threatened Warren about revealing some kind of secret he clearly didn’t want getting out.
Which made sense, if he was trying to salvage his career (and probably his finances) by attempting the US Open this year.
Juliette’s third attempt at a swing finally hit the ball, but unfortunately she sent the club flying along after it.
“You sure you’ve golfed before?” Chipper asked, squinting at the trajectory of the club.
“It’s the shoes,” Juliette said, as if that explained everything.
“I hope you’re better at picking up tennis than you are at golf,” Charlie murmured.
“Why don’t I give it a go, show you some pointers,” Chipper said, grabbing another club and setting up his own shot. “It’s a lot harder than I make it look, I know.”
He couldn’t see Juliette roll her eyes as she rejoined Charlie, which was just as well. “What is a spectral smiley?” she murmured.
“A what?” Charlie asked, utterly lost.
Juliette huffed a sigh. “The surgery thing you did on Chipper.”
“You mean a septal myectomy?” Charlie said.
“Don’t act like that’s a normal thing everybody knows,” Juliette said as Chipper hunted around for a clear stretch of turf to set his ball. She’d really done a number on the green. “What’s it for?”
“It thins the walls in the heart to improve blood flow,” Charlie said. “Why?”
“He’s awfully young for heart surgery,” Juliette mused, watching Chipper’s form. He looked the same as she did, she figured. Must have been uneven ground that made her miss those shots.
“I can’t discuss a patient’s history, and certainly not with the patient standing right there,” Charlie said.
Juliette made sure he saw her roll her eyes at him. “Ugh, fine, Doctor Buzzkill. I know about his drinking history. Could it have been caused by excessive alcohol abuse?” When Charlie’s only answer was a stern glare, she tacked on, “Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes,” Charlie said, though he looked disappointed in himself that he let even that slip.
“And hypothetically speaking, would one of the conditions of that surgery be that the patient was no longer allowed to drink alcohol?”
“It would be a recommendation, hypothetically, yes.”
Juliette frowned. She distinctly remembered whiskey on Chipper’s breath when he came out of Warren’s room.
“Could alcohol have caused the palpitations he’s talking about?” Juliette asked.
Charlie frowned in consideration. “It’s unlikely. Why?”
“I’m not sure why yet,” Juliette said, frowning.
She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but she’d had some of the whiskey in Warren’s room, too, and her heart had started pounding.
At the time she’d thought it was the compound of anti-nausea meds and the whiskey, but what if it hadn’t been?
What if the whiskey bottle was the source of the digitalis poisoning?
Chipper had just had heart surgery; he certainly would have had access to a medication like digitalis.
What if he’d dosed the whiskey, but had been coerced into having a drink by Warren and had to dose himself as well?
“You know,” Juliette called out casually to Chipper as he found a clear stretch of grass between his ball and the hole, “I heard that Ellingham guy’s death might not have been so natural as they thought.”
“Yeah, everybody’s talking about that dang article,” Chipper said, positioning his ball and straightening up. “It’s all a bunch of bullshit, though, pardon my language. Brad told me the police had wrapped everything up in a nice neat bow and the whole business is closed.”
Now, that was interesting. Why would Chipper Floyd have been discussing Warren’s death with Brad Ellingham?
She couldn’t put the microphone directly in Chipper’s hand before Warren’s speech, but it had been in Brad’s.
What if they had been working together? That could explain why Chipper was MIA during Warren’s speech—while Brad set up the microphone to create the electric shock, Chipper was discharging the defibrillator.
Juliette waited until Chipper had lined up his shot and started his backswing before she spoke again. “The police think they have a lead on who stole the missing manuscript.”
Chipper whiffed the ball, missing it entirely, and letting out a string of curses as he slammed the club head into the turf, making angry divots in the grass to rival Juliette’s own attempts.
“So much for those mindfulness exercises,” Juliette murmured, giving Charlie a wide-eyed look.
“Chipper, are you all right, mate?” Charlie asked.
“I’m fine, Doc.” He practically threw the club into the bag in disgust. “I should have made that shot in my sleep. I need a damn drink.”
Charlie frowned. “You know your postsurgical recommendations say—”
“Of lemonade, Doc! Just lemonade.” Chipper continued to rage, storming off in the direction of the drink tent, the Floyd Flock trailing along with him and leaving Charlie and Juliette alone on the green.
“What was all that about?” Charlie asked, staring in wonder after Chipper. “I mean, I knew he had a temper, but that seemed out of line even for him.”
“Really? Because it was exactly the kind of reaction I’d expect from someone with a guilty conscience,” Juliette said, shielding her eyes to watch Chipper’s retreating figure.
Was he stomping? What a child. He practically ran right through a server holding a full tray of glasses that she suspected were not just lemonade.
The server stumbled back, the tray tilting perilously, and in that moment of panic Juliette recognized the man’s face.
“Duffel Bag!” she gasped, grabbing Charlie’s hand and making for the tent at a dead run.