Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik Read Free Book Online Page A

by all the residents of the suite.
    There was no sign of U.S. Amateur runner-up Brady Compton from Oklahoma State or U.S. Mid-Amateur champ Thomas Wheeling III from Newport, R.I., the two players who would be sharing the room with Sam. His luggage had been put in the first cubicle to the right of the stairway. He unpacked his bags, hung up his clothes, and then went back downstairs. Before stopping at the pro shop to set up his practice round, he thought it would be a good idea to introduce himself to chairman David Porter and thank him for the invitation.
    He returned to the tournament headquarters building, went up the stairs, and found Porter’s secretary, a woman in her mid-50s wearing a white blouse, a green vest, and a motherly expression. She nodded at him when he introduced himself, but she looked upset.
    â€œI just thought I’d stop by and thank Mr. Porter for inviting me,” Sam said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said in a strong Southern accent. “Mistuh Porter is speaking with a gentleman in his office. He might be busy for a while. We’ve had some trouble this morning.”
    â€œWhat sort of trouble?”
    â€œI’m afraid one of our members has died,” she said in a tremulous voice. She brushed a tear away with the palm of her hand.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Sam said. “Maybe I’ll stop by later.”
    He thanked her and went back down the stairs to the pro shop.
    Masters Week was getting off to a rough start.
    *
    Richmond County Sheriff Leonard Garver felt like an unwelcome guest, rather than an authority figure, as he sat across the desk from David Porter in the chairman’s office. Garver was a wiry man with narrow-set eyes, bushy eyebrows, and short, graying hair that he could feel getting grayer with each day of this year’s Masters.
    Aside from an occasional trespassing call, Augusta National normally didn’t need his department’s services. Garver had been invited to play the course several times, but had politely turned down the offers. He didn’t have time for golf. Nevertheless, David Porter had made sure to have a bottle of George Dickel, Garver’s favorite bourbon, delivered to his office every Christmas—a token gift that Garver politely accepted. In addition, the sheriff was given the opportunity to buy two Masters Badges each year at the face value of $200—just as the mayor, the city council president, the district attorney, and the local judges were offered the same opportunity.
    Cordial relations between the club and the local officials were thus maintained. But this quiet enclave of American power-brokers—a source of deep pride for a small city in northern Georgia one week per year, nearly invisible the other 51 weeks—was suddenly becoming a headache.
    First it was the women’s group causing problems during Masters Week, and now there was a very suspicious death. The body had not yet been taken to the morgue, but the medical examiner had already detected signs of trauma.
    â€œLooks like he was strangled,” Garver told Porter. “It could have been one of your members.”
    Porter, a slightly heavy man with a thick head of short, graying hair, fixed Garver with a stare that contained all of the dignity and authority that the Augusta National chairman could muster.
    â€œThat’s horseshit, Leonard,” Porter replied.
    â€œNow, it’s not an accusation, David,” Garver said. “How many cabins do you have on the property?”
    â€œTen. Between the cabins and the residence wings of the clubhouse, we have beds for 105 guests on the grounds.”
    â€œYou got somebody in each one this week?”
    â€œWe’re always filled during the Masters.”
    â€œHow many security guards patrolling overnight?”
    â€œA dozen.”
    â€œSo you got more than one hundred members, family, players, and employees spending the night here. Could have been any one of