The Marsh Madness

THE COUNTRY CLUB and Spa was worth the drive. I sped along the access road, noting the number of Beamers, Mercedes and glossy Caddies parked near the entrance. The Infiniti fit in.

I used my most businesslike stride to arrive at the front door. A fresh-faced teenage boy was stationed at the door for security. His sandy hair had natural highlights from the sun, and he stood well over six feet with a build that indicated time in the gym. He was pretty enough for any movie screen. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was discovered here one of these days. If I read his tag correctly, his name was Braydon. I approached him for what I assumed was an entirely normal and appropriate member’s ID check. I resisted straightening my tightly curled blond wig—which would only draw attention to it—and donned the look I remember from my third grade teacher, Miss Dagenham. It could stop your blood cold and could not be withstood.

He stepped back a bit. I held up my hand to stop any requests for ID.

“Kathryn Risley Rolland, auditor. Jackson and Dogherty,” I said, crisply. “The police are aware that I’m here. I need to visit your corporate office, please.”

He blinked. He also blushed. So cute. Of course, this was a country club and spa, so he probably didn’t know there was a corporate office.

“The person in charge,” I said. “Lisa.”

“Oh right. Lisa Hatton.”

I wasn’t sure why he was blushing quite so much, until I noticed a cluster of women arriving right after me. He glanced their way and then back to me, a slightly hunted expression on his handsome face. They looked to be in their late thirties, expensively dressed, and they were all giggling as they took the stairs. I hoped they weren’t laughing at my shoes, but I suspected they were acting like high school girls because of Young Mr. Handsome and Blushing. Ladies, your hormones are showing.

I made sure I still had his attention. “Do you accompany me, young man, or shall I go on my own?”

“Oh. I’m supposed to stay here. You can go over on your own, ma’am. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” I stepped confidently through the front door. I experienced a small frisson of excitement. Yes, I was going straight and I genuinely planned to live my life on the up-and-up, but this gaining entry while wearing a disguise, while technically totally illegal, was a bit of a rush. I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to be making a habit of it and that it seemed to be the only way to start trying to figure out who was trying to frame us for murder.

Of course, the offices were near the front of the establishment, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. First, the ladies’ room. I knew that would be a good spot to overhear gossip.

I was followed through the door by the giggling clump of women. As far as I could tell they were speculating about Braydon in ways that could have him blushing to death. Poor thing.

The conversation changed as two gray-haired women entered, both talking about Chadwick. Yes!

“Can’t believe it, really,” the shorter one said.

“Neither can I. It’s terrible. I mean, he looked so well the other day.”

While reapplying my hideous shade of coral lipstick in the vast gilt-framed mirror, I noticed the taller woman blink at her friend’s comment. Chadwick had, after all, been murdered, which didn’t really reflect on his state of well-being before that violent act.

The gigglers stopped and looked appropriately subdued.

“Which is more than you can say for poor Lisa,” the shorter one said, fluffing her pale reddish curls and frowning at her wrinkles. “She’s certainly having trouble holding things together.”

I noticed the gigglers making eye contact. One managed to let a loud snicker escape. Both older women fixed her with looks that could easily have killed. With a swirl of their expensive curly blowouts, the younger crowd departed.

Hmm.