Sage of Innocence Page 3

  "Come on," I trilled. "Let's bake cookies."

  Skylar whooped with glee, and Dylan raised his fists overhead like a conquering hero. "Yes!" he shouted.

  They scurried to return the playroom to order, working together to clean up so cheerfully that for a few moments I felt just like Mary Poppins. My heart swelled. I really loved the Moore kids. And my job.

  And just that fast, reality intruded on my fantasy world, and I had to blink back tears. I'd miss these little turkeys so much.

  "Nice work, team," I managed. "To the kitchen!"

  They raced ahead of me, out of the room, and down the stairs. I turned out the playroom light and paused to survey the tidy, empty room for a moment before following them to the kitchen.

  Chapter 5

  I was up to my elbows in dish soap suds, washing the large glass mixing bowl. Skylar and Dylan were loading the measuring cups and spoons into the dishwasher. The misshapen and variously sized oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies were cooling on a wire rack.

  The back door banged open. For a moment, I thought it was the wind, but then Chip and Roman rushed inside, slamming the door shut against the lashing rain. They stood just inside the threshold, dripping all over Muffy's floor. As if that weren't bad enough, Roman pushed down the hood on his raincoat and shook his head. Rain drops flew from his slightly too long dark hair and splattered the linen wallpaper.

  "Wait. Let me run and get you some towels," I said before Chip could follow his lead. I dried my own wet hands on a dish towel and skittered across the floor to the laundry room. I grabbed what I judged to be the oldest two towels from the neat stack in the cabinet above the dryer and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Chip took one with a grateful smile and shed his soaking wet jacket. "It's disgusting out there."

  "Looks like," I replied as I handed the second towel to Roman. He mopped his face with it.

  Dylan ran over. "Dad, Roman, guess what we made?"

  "Hmm ... is it cookies?" Roman asked.

  Dylan's blue eyes went wide. "How'd you know?" he demanded.

  Roman laughed. "I can smell 'em. And see 'em."

  Chip reached across the counter and snagged two.

  "They're still hot, Dad!" Skylar warned as Chip popped them into his mouth.

  "Mmm. Yum. They're delicious. Did you really make them? All by yourselves?"

  "We did! All by ourselves," she said, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet. Then she shrugged. "Well, we let Sage help."

  I couldn't suppress a laugh.

  "Good job, kiddos," Chip intoned, giving the baked goods the official seal of paternal approval. The kids beamed up at him. He turned to Roman. "I'm going to change into dry clothes."

  As Chip walked toward the hall stairs, I gestured toward the cookies. "Help yourself," I told Roman.

  He draped his towel over the back of a chair and took a cookie. "Thanks."

  The kids watched in anticipation while he tasted it.

  "Well?" Dylan demanded.

  Roman gave them a double thumbs' up, and Skylar squealed.

  Roman finished chewing and turned toward me. "Thanks for the cookie. And you were right about ... that other thing."

  I scooped two cookies onto a plate and handed them to Dylan. "I'll finish cleaning up. You and Sky can enjoy the fruits of your labor. Eat them at the table, please."

  He took the plate but shot me a quizzical look. "Cookies aren't fruits, Sage."

  I swallowed a giggle. Before I could explain the saying, he and Skylar had scampered into the craft room--apparently for some multitasking noshing and coloring.

  I took a closer look at Roman's tense, drawn expression. "I'm sorry I was right."

  He sighed. "Me, too. I need this job."

  "Me, too." I passed him another cookie and helped myself to one. “What about the whole can’t go on tour without a caddy business?”

  “Chip says the PGA is doing its own investigation. Even if he’s not found guilty of killing Fred, they might still boot him off the tour for the sake of appearances. And he’s probably going to lose his sponsor exemptions.”

  “Right, the sponsor exemptions.” Whatever those were.

  “Basically, he can’t keep paying me now in the hopes that he’ll be allowed to go on tour later. It’s messed up.”

  We sat in silence for a moment eating our cookies. I don't know what he was thinking about. I was thinking about the looming debt that my parents had more or less dumped on me and my sisters. Working for the Moores allowed me to contribute a lot of money each month to paying it down. Way more than my government salary ever would.

  "Okay," Roman said in a determined, settled voice interrupting my fretting.

  I blinked at him. "Okay?" I repeated uncertainly.

  "Okay, I'll help you clear Chip's name."

  "Okay!" I enthused.

  * * *

  In an apparent effort to dodge the media, Muffy and Chip decided to take the kids on a surprise trip to visit their grandparents in Atlanta. I helped buckle Skylar into her car seat and then passed the container of cookies across the backseat to Dylan.

  "Road snacks," I told him. "Don't eat them all before you get to the mainland."

  He nodded seriously. "We won't. Are you sure you don't want to come see Mum-Mum and Pup-Pup, too?"

  I ruffled his hair. "I'm going to take care of the house while you're gone. But give them my love, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Bye, Sage," Skylar squealed.

  I stood in the driveway and waved goodbye until the minivan disappeared from sight. Then I headed to the guesthouse to change into a good sleuthing outfit before Roman arrived for our first detecting effort.

  "What should I wear to go skulking around looking for clues at the club?" I asked Rosemary, holding the phone in my left hand while I flipped through the crush of hangers squeezed into my closet with my right.

  "Hmm ... Maybe a dunce hat?" she snarked.

  "Har har har. Seriously. What did you wear when you prowled around that apartment with Felix? Black yoga pants and a black shirt? Maybe a ski cap? Do I need gloves to make sure I don't leave any fingerprints?"

  "Gloves? One, you're an idiot. Two, if you weren't an idiot, your goal would be to blend. So, some kind of pink and green Lilly Pulitzer get-up would be better than dressing like a cat burglar. And, three, take my advice, wear flats. No heels--"

  Her sartorial advice was cut off by Dave's bellowing in the background. "Don't help her with her harebrained scheme."

  "I heard that. Rude," I informed her. "Your boyfriend is rude."

  "He's right though. What do you think you and this Roman character are going to accomplish?"

  I shrugged and reached for a lemon yellow polo dress and pastel pink cardigan. "I don't know. It's better than just sitting around waiting to be fired."

  "Look, obviously, the police don't really think Chip offed this guy. They'd never let him leave the island if they did."

  Offed this guy? She dates a homicide detective for a few months and suddenly my big sister's talking like an extra from a Sopranos rerun. I rolled my eyes and wished someone had gotten around to inventing honest-to-goodness videophones. FaceTime just wasn't the same. That said, she had a point about the shoes. I dug through the pile of stuff on the floor of my closet until I found my sparkly silver ballet-style flats. Totally Southern chic and good for running when necessary.

  As I slipped them on, I reassured her. "Muffy said they had to give the authorities Chip's parents' address and phone number. And Chip agreed to check in with them once a day. He's a suspect, all right, but he's also a good old boy. Fashion's not the only thing that's different down here, you know."

  She chewed on that for a minute before responding. "I hope you know what you're doing, sis."

  Me, too, I thought.

  But what I said was, "You worry too much."

  Chapter 6

  Roman apparently got the memo about blending. He was wearing a lavender- and gray-st
riped golf shirt and khakis. And a nervous grimace.

  "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he whispered in my ear as we stepped into the clubhouse bar.

  "Trust me. The members' cocktail hour is always a hot bed of gossip," I assured him out of the side of my mouth.

  It was true. Although I personally didn't usually choose to spend my free time hanging around Muffy and Chip's staid and stodgy golf club, Muffy rarely missed the weekly cocktail party. She claimed it was the best source of information on the island--she always came home with a report on who was having an affair, whose house was going to be up for sale, who was having a baby, you get the idea. In fact, I was pretty sure the timing of the Moores' trip to Atlanta was not coincidental. Muffy knew Fred's murder and Chip's possible involvement were guaranteed to be this week's hot topic.

  Katy, the club's preternaturally cheerful hostess, spotted us lingering awkwardly in the doorway and slipped out from behind the hostess station.

  "Sage, Roman, how nice to see you!" Her eyes drifted over our shoulders. "Are the Moores parking their carts?"

  Most of the clubs' members drove their personal golf carts around the island and had reserved parking at the club. Roman and I could have borrowed one of the Moore's carts, but we decided to walk instead.

  "It's just us tonight, Katy," I said. I gave what I hoped was a mysterious smile and linked my arm through Roman's. Roman and I were both entitled to use the club's facilities by virtue of our employment--at least for now. That said, neither of us generally ventured to the club without the Moores. I was hoping that Katy would assume we were on a date, which would be an excellent cover story for our presence at the bar.

  "Oh. Oooo-h," Katy drew out the syllable and shot me a knowing look as if to say, 'good for you, girlfriend.'

  Roman seemed to be blushing, although his dusky complexion made it hard to tell. I snuggled closer to him and winked at Katy.

  "Right this way," she chirped, as she led us through the noisy, crowded bar. She stopped at a two-top wedged into a corner. "How's this? I think it's the coziest table we have."

  Cozy was an understatement. Our knees were going to be touching under the table. But it was positioned catty-corner from the biggest, busiest table in the joint: A large oval that had at least ten chairs squeezed around it. Five couples--all professional golfers and their wives--were deep in animated conversation and, judging by the multiple half-empty pitchers of sangria littering the table, well on their way to tomorrow's hangover. We'd be able to hear every slurred word.

  "It's perfect."

  Roman raised an eyebrow at that description, but dutifully yanked out one of the leather chairs and held it for me.

  Katy returned to her station as he pushed in my chair.

  “You didn't tell me you were going to pretend we're on a date. Some warning would have been nice," he said in a low voice, his mouth just beside my right ear.

  I waited until he took his seat to answer. "It was a last-minute inspiration. Is it a problem? Oh no, do you have a girlfriend?"

  It hadn't occurred to me that Roman might be involved with someone. In retrospect, I don't know why I'd assumed he was single. True, he'd never mentioned a girlfriend or brought any women around the Moores' place. But, then again, he was notoriously close-lipped. Muffy and I called him the mystery man. He never said anything personal. He was like a vault.

  "No."

  "Well, then what's the problem?" I pressed, slightly irritated by the monosyllabic response. I was a perfectly presentable date. I'd even taken the time to brush my hair and slap on some makeup--mascara and lipstick.

  His mouth quirked into a smile. "I'd have brought you flowers," he deadpanned.

  Roman making a joke? This was a first. I rewarded the effort with a wink.

  Then he grew serious and nodded toward the big table. "So what's the rest of the plan?"

  I was able to delay breaking the news that this was the entire plan by the arrival of our waitress.

  "I'm Trisha. I'll be taking care of you tonight," she announced as she placed an oversized, leather-bound menu in front of each of us. "Can I start you off with a drink?"

  "Um ..." I stalled as I eyeballed the cocktail menu in the Lucite card holder in the middle of the table. "How about a mint julep?"

  "Great choice," she said with an approving grin.

  "I'll have an Arnold Palmer," Roman said stiffly.

  I rolled my eyes at him. 'Some date,' I mouthed.

  "Spike it, please," he amended.

  Trisha nodded and left us to peruse the menus. Roman picked his up and started scanning the insert with the day's specials. I twisted my napkin in my hands and watched him.

  He looked up. "Not hungry?"

  "I already know what I'm going to order. But--there's something I have to tell you first."

  He lowered the menu and pinned me with a gaze that seemed to say 'now what?'

  I took a deep breath. "Remember how I said I have a forensics background?"

  "Yeah?" He arched an eyebrow.

  "It's true, I do," I hurried to assure him. "It's just ... I think I may have misled you a little. My forensic training is in, um, well, forensic accounting," I mumbled toward the table.

  To my surprise, he laughed. A genuine, throw-your-head-back, open-throated guffaw.

  I waited. The partiers at the next table turned to watch.

  When he was finished, he wiped a tear away from one eye and leaned across the table. "You got me good, Sage. You got me good."

  Trish materialized with our cocktails.

  "Must have been some joke," she remarked as she placed the heavy glasses on the table. "I'll be back to take your order in a few. I have to get some food into those guys before they get any rowdier," she said as she cocked her head toward the table of pro golfers and their wives. She headed to their table to let them know their meals would be out in a moment.

  Roman raised his glass. "To forensic accounting," he said drily.

  I lifted my cocktail and clinked it against his glass hesitantly. "I'll understand if you want to change your mind about helping me."

  He took a sip then shook his head. "No. I mean, don't get me wrong--I'd be a heck of a lot happier if you told me you could analyze blood splatter patterns or something, but I can't just sit back and do nothing. I gotta try to help Chip. Even if it means teaming up with a geeky bean counter."

  I twisted my face into an expression that suggested he wasn't as funny as he thought he was, but, inside, I was sighing in relief.

  "Okay, good. Now that that's out of the way, here's what--" I stopped mid-sentence as Rita Lewis, the auburn-haired, third wife of Louie Lewis, banged into the edge of our table as she careened toward the ladies' room. "Are you okay, Rita?"

  She straightened to standing and flipped her hair out of her eyes to squint at me in the candlelight. "Sage?" She turned and examined Roman. "You're Chip's caddy, aren't you? Well, you two sure have some balls."

  "Pardon?" Roman said in a voice that was perfectly polite but held the barest hint of a growl.

  I rested my hand lightly on his forearm and gave Rita a blank look.

  "Pretty rich that the Moores' help would show their faces here when everyone knows Chip skipped town with his tail between his legs," she elaborated.

  I decided to ignore the sneering way she called us the help and focused on the substance of her slurred accusation. "Rita, I know you're not a lawyer--that was Louie's second wife, right?--but, anyway, surely you've heard of the concept of innocent until proven guilty? Chip's a person of interest or whatever, but that doesn't mean he killed Mr. Spears. Besides, Chip and Muffy have been planning to visit Chip's parents for a while. Their trip has nothing to do with the murder." I could hear the stammer in my own voice. It's the curse of being a terrible liar.

  She obviously wasn't buying what I was selling. She leaned forward over the table, bracing herself with her well-toned, too-tanned arms. "It's strange then that Muffy was supposed to host a luncheon this weekend and
asked me to step in for her at the last minute, don't you think?"

  I didn't even bother with a retort. I just turned back to Roman as if she weren't there. "What do you think you're going to have?" I asked sweetly.

  "Uh ... probably the crab cake sandwich," he mumbled distractedly, cutting his eyes toward Rita, who hadn't moved.

  "Anyway, you're not a lawyer either, missy. You're just the babysitter," she jabbed. Venom and disgust dripped from her voice.

  Well, ignoring her wasn't going to work.

  "I'm an attachment parenting consultant, Rita. Do you need me to explain any of the big words?" I asked in a bored tone.

  While she geared up with a comeback, I craned my neck and caught Louie's eye at the next table. I painted him with a look that said 'come fetch your drunk wife.'

  From his reaction, I got the sense that he was on the receiving end of this particular look fairly regularly. He jumped up, pushed his chair back, tossed his linen napkin on the table, and hustled over.

  "Hi ya', Sage. Roman," he boomed as he hooked an arm through Rita's elbow and more or less pulled her upright.

  "Mr. Lewis," Roman replied formally.

  "Hi," I echoed. "I think your wife needs some help locating the restroom." I flashed him a sympathetic smile.

  "Come on, now, Rita, let's let these kids enjoy their date." He put just enough emphasis on the word date to make my skin crawl.

  Rita laughed. "You're dating? Oh, this just keeps getting better."

  I had no idea what that could mean, so I wrote it off as the ramblings of a drunk, but Roman's entire body stiffened and his face looked like an expressionless mask.

  Louie shot his wife a warning look. "So, Roman, I heard that Chip might be letting you go." He held up a hand. "I'm not asking if it's true. I don't want to get in his business. But if you find yourself looking for a job, you let me know. You're one hell of a caddy. I'm sure I can help you get a gig--at one of the public courses now, don't go getting ideas."

  Roman's face hardened even further and he stared straight ahead.