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“As in golf?” Roarke asked as he poured wine.
“Yeah. Her report and analysis got me thinking about how he and Ziegler both had this ego that needed stroking—sex, status, money. So how would the golf game go? I played it with the caddy that I was digging for info on Ziegler seeing as he’s dead, then tickled out what I wanted about Copley. Copley played benefactor—and made sure Ziegler knew it, felt it. His club, his course, his caddy, his treat.”
“For some a gift is only a symbol of their own superior position, which makes it not a gift at all.”
“I’d just say the gift came with sharp, sticky ribbons—which is pretty much the same.”
“And more visual. Ziegler’s reaction to Copley’s largess?”
“The caddy said Ziegler expressed gratitude but didn’t mean it, not if you paid attention. The caddy said he thought Copley was a little ungracious, but probably because Ziegler trounced him four holes in a row, and Copley gets a little testy when he’s losing, which he told me means he—the caddy—gets blamed and gets stiffed on the tip at the end of the round.”
“So we add poor sportsmanship to Copley’s sins.”
“The caddy confided—we bonded—that Copley’s known for hurling his clubs into the trees after a bad—what is it—slice. And once after a bad lie—lay?”
“Don’t ask me.” Roarke only shrugged. “I’m no fan of the game.”
“After whatever it was, Copley and the guy he was playing against got into a shouting match that went into a pushy-shovey match. The other guy ended up in the water trap thing.”
“Extremely poor sportsmanship.”
“Wet guy threatens to kick Copley’s ass, sue off what’s left of it. He’s pulling himself out of the drink,” Eve continued. “People are starting to zip up in those cart things, and Copley backs down, lots of apologies. Buys the guy a high-class putter. And according to the caddy, bad-mouths the wet guy every chance he gets.”
“We have poor sport who has a poor temper to match, and is also a cowardly backbiter.”
“That’s what I see. So back to Ziegler and that golf game. Ziegler’s clearly winning by the sixth hole.” She paused to drink. “Who decided how many holes there had to be?”
“Again, I only play when I can’t avoid it. Ask someone else.”
“Maybe I will. Meanwhile, Ziegler’s ahead, Copley’s bitching. But then Copley ordered up drinks—prime brew. He stuck to water and power drinks while Ziegler got half cut and, being half cut, lost his focus and his form.”
“And Copley won the round?”
“Yeah, rubbed it in some, but took Ziegler to the nineteenth hole for more drinks. I get why they call the bar the nineteenth hole, but why are there eighteen to begin with?”
“It’s as good a number as any,” Roarke supposed. “Why four bases in baseball?”
“Because they make a diamond.”
“One might ask what a diamond has to do with baseball, but I won’t or we’ll be at this half the night. Let’s just finish off the golf.”
“Right. Copley had him back a couple times, but with the brother-in-la
w along, and that’s about it for the golf portion. Then Peabody came up with more weight, but of the gossip variety. Tales of cheating, divorce, cheating, elopements.”
“I may need more wine,” Roarke considered.
“Quick version. Copley cheated on first wife, cheated on almost-fiancée with current wife, and may have cheated on current wife before elopement with almost-fiancée.”
“He keeps busy.”
“Yeah, and for both of them it’s all about sex and money. Not for pleasure, but for ego and power. They had a lot in common only Ziegler was blackmailing and sleeping his way up, Copley married his way up.”
“Yet the side piece—this would be Felicity?” He tapped the photo on the board.
“Yeah, Shipshewana Felicity.”
“She’s lovely and very young. Shipshewana Felicity doesn’t have money or social status.”
