Amen Corner Read Free Page B

Stensrud said. “I can’t hold your job open any longer. I need a cop, whether it’s you or somebody else. In or out, Sam—it’s time to make a decision.”
    A maroon airport taxi pulled up next to Stensrud’s squad car and sounded its horn.
    â€œThere’s my limo,” Sam said, getting up from his chair.
    â€œNeed a hand?” Stensrud asked.
    â€œThink you can handle a golf bag?”
    They walked down to the street as the cabbie opened the trunk for the bags.
    â€œYou’d make a good caddie,” Sam said to the deputy chief, who easily slung the bag off his shoulder and into the trunk.
    â€œI’m a cop,” Stensrud said. “So are you. Call me as soon as you get back.”
    Chapter Two
    Lorraine Stanwick sat in front of the mirror in the bedroom of the Firestone Cabin and fiddled with the clasp of her pearl necklace for several minutes before deciding she had to ask her husband for help.
    â€œRalph, could you come in here a minute,” she called toward the living room. “I can’t get this fastened.”
    Ralph Stanwick was sitting in a padded armchair, alternately watching television and looking at the golf course through the living room window. He never got tired of the view of the 10th fairway, even during Masters Week when tens of thousands of ordinary golf fans traipsed up and down the hills, some within just a few feet of the cabin, leaving their footprints, their trash, and their common taint on his beloved Augusta National.
    Stanwick got up from his chair with a muttered curse and walked into the bedroom. The one-story house with white wooden siding and a gray roof was located next door to the Jones cabin and just east of the clubhouse, facing the 10th tee. The central living room was decorated modestly with framed photos of the National’s early years, and furnished with casual, comfortable arm chairs, a leather sofa, and a dining table off the kitchen. The bedrooms were located on either side of the living area. Due to their membership seniority and Ralph’s position on the club’s governing board, the Stanwicks had stayed in the Firestone Cabin during Masters Week for many years.
    â€œWhat is it now?” Stanwick asked.
    â€œThis necklace,” Lorraine said. “Can you do the clasp?”
    She turned her back to her husband and held the two ends behind her neck.
    â€œI need my glasses,” said Stanwick, a tall, trim man who was mostly bald, with gray hair at the temples and eyebrows. His wife was five years younger, carried no extra weight, applied just the right amount of makeup to deal with her aging skin, and was wearing a tasteful Oscar de la Renta spring skirt and blouse combination. Stanwick thought his wife was shapeless, bland, and dressed like an old woman.
    Stanwick returned to the living room to find his reading glasses, and stopped in front of the TV to watch a local news reporter talking about the annual influx of golf fans that would hit town Monday morning. The reporter mentioned—as reporters always did, because the club requested them to—that police would be looking for scalpers and counterfeiters along Washington Road all week.
    â€œRichmond County Sheriff Leonard Garver said that his department confiscates as many as a dozen bogus badges each year,” the reporter said. “Augusta National won’t comment, but sources say a four-day badge can sell for up to $10,000 on the street…”
    Stanwick couldn’t help thinking back to the trial. He hadn’t been there, of course, but he’d gotten the verdict he wanted—or so he thought. Sixteen years would have been just about enough. Enough for Lee Doggett to get killed by an inmate, or maybe kill one himself. Even if he did make it to the end of his original sentence, Stanwick would either have been dead or too old for Doggett to bother with.
    But Stanwick didn’t dare attempt to influence the Sentence Review