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May 8 - May 10, 2021
He said Fred played to the letter of the rules but ignored the spirit of the rules."
"No, Louie was reminding me of my place." "Your place?" He leaned his arms on the table and stared at me. "Because I'm biracial, Sage. Have you noticed that one of these things is not like the others?" He gestured around the dining room full of white faces. "Wait. You're biracial?" I mean, I'd never really thought about it, but given his first name, I'd more or less assumed his dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin were standard issue from a Latin heritage. Italian. Or maybe Greek.
Yes, ma'am, I'm mixed. My daddy, whoever he might be, is apparently lily white."
Thyme had once told me that she worked on a research study that revealed most men use humor to hide their feelings.
"Nope. I guess after he got the black girl knocked up, he didn't stick around."
The Lymans are African-American. Lifelong NAACP members. Active in the Baptist church. Definitely not country club material."
The flashlight app on my cell phone crashed my phone every time I used it, and Mr. Etiquette had left his at home because, as he informed me as if he were the Ghost Of Muffy Present, it was rude to bring electronic devices to the dinner table. So we were stuck with the overheads.
"So anyone, at any time, could just walk into the bag room and take someone else's clubs?" "Well, I suppose someone could, but no one would, Sage." He stared at me as if he thought I'd lost my blessed mind. I knew the feeling. "And why wouldn't they?" I gave the look right back to him. "It's a members only club. Most of the members have their tour cards—or at least did have them at one time. It's ... there's an honor system."
"So, you're telling me anyone who belongs to the club could have just strolled into the bag room, snagged Chip's club, slipped into the locker room, and taken a swing at Fred's skull?" He pursed his lips as if he were about to disagree, but he didn't. Instead he shrugged. "Theoretically, sure. So could anyone who works here. Or, heck, anyone could just walk in off the street and do that. They're golf clubs, not assault rifles. Nobody was worried about it." "What about theft? Wait, don't tell me—honor system."
"No. You can just call him Louie, because you're a white girl from up north. Different rules."
But Mr. Lewis doesn't have a tournament this weekend. And I know he's playing with his standing foursome in the morning. It'd be more convenient to just leave them here."
"Of course, I wouldn't use an eight iron either." "You wouldn't?" "Nah." He reached into Chip's bag and pulled out the shortest club. He hit the head against his palm. "I'd use a sand wedge. It's the heaviest club."
The decor was more formal than was typical of the island homes. Lots of polished brass instead of bleached driftwood and conch shells; patterned fabric-covered furniture rather than wicker; oriental rugs and not rattan.
In fact, I believe that human nature's a dark thing. I suspect many people are capable of murder.
"Fred seemed to think there was an endless supply of money. He loved the finer things—the fancier, the better. All of this was Fred's idea." She paused and swept a graceful hand across the kitchen as if she were a game show hostess. "But the last time Fred won a title was 2006. He hasn't finished in the money in at least five years."
"We made some good investments, but our money was running out. It had been a source of tension between us for the past two years. He just shrugged off my concerns and kept spending. It was ... a problem."
"After all these years of living as if we were rich, I apparently actually am now. That's why I asked for a meeting with the bank. I'm not sure what to do with all this money." I said, "You need a wealth management plan. Talk to a financial planner."
I started by putting all the documents in chronological order to get a sense of what I was dealing with. Then I organized them by category. Only then did I begin combing through them for substance.
sweet tea. When I'd first landed on the island, I'd considered the sugary beverage undrinkable. Now, I found it refreshing. Thirst-quenching, even. I poured myself a tall glass, downed it in two large gulps and eyed the pitcher, contemplating a refill. All things in moderation, I told myself, reciting Rosemary's favorite nutrition mantra.
"Well, sure. Driving around this island is for the foolish and brave-hearted. And I'm neither. The traffic's too aggravating.
The pedestrian-friendly lifestyle had been a bonus when I landed my job. I hadn't had a car when I lived in DC because I took the Metro everywhere.
"Saint Helena Island is Frogmore. Well, technically, Frogmore is the center of town, but for as long as anyone knew, the island was always called Frogmore. Then one day the U.S. Postal Service decided it's Saint Helena Island."
"Don't get me wrong—they'd adore you and your crazy Yankee accent. But today I just wanted to show you something that'll help you understand Mr. Lewis's view of me."
They had blown through their savings and were pretty much doing the credit card shuffle for a few years." "The credit card shuffle?" "They'd run up charges on a card until they hit their limit. Then they'd transfer the balance to a new, higher-limit card under a zero percent interest offer and start all over again." He winced. "That had to catch up with them after a while." "It sure did. That's when Fred took out a home equity line of credit, which I'm not sure Marilee even knows about."
The HELOC had a crazy high interest rate." "Had?" I nodded. "That's where Marilee was wrong. Fred's death will certainly increase her wealth, but it's not saving her from a life of poverty. He may not have been winning any tournaments, but about a year and a half ago, Fred started bringing in money from somewhere."
Unless the South Carolina Lottery pays out in cash." "Cash?" "He started making multiple cash deposits every month beginning eighteen months ago. At first it was just one deposit a month. Then two, three. For the last six months, he's made four separate deposits into two different accounts. All in different amounts. Big amounts, but sufficiently irregular so as to avoid a structuring charge."
"That's when someone deliberately deposits just under the amount that triggers the financial institution's reporting obligation," I explained. "Once more, in English, please." "Structuring, or smurfing, which is what we used to call it, is when someone tries to get around the Bank Secrecy Act or, more typically, the Internal Revenue Code, by making deposits in amounts that would otherwise cause records and reporting requirements.”
So, a bank has to file a form under the Banking Secrecy Act if someone deposits more than ten grand in cash. Because most criminals aren't stupid, they'd deposit nine thousand dollars instead. Or they'd come in four times in a month and deposit three grand each time. So that practice—trying to deliberately avoid scrutiny—was itself made illegal. I used to see it a lot in money laundering and tax evasion cases."
And it just so happens that the FDIC limit—that's the amount that the federal government will insure—is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per depositor. So, even with whatever other money was flowing into and out of those accounts, he never exceeded the insured amount."
He paid off the HELOC and the mortgage." "Pretty responsible for a spendthrift." I nodded. I'd had the same reaction. "I agree.
"Once upon a time, there were three sisters named Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme—" "For real?" "For real. And before you ask, yes, there's a Parsley, too. He's a cat."
So, our parents were basically hippies. They bought this ramshackle farm near the shore up in New Jersey and turned it into a 'green' resort before being green was hip. Like, they rinsed out plastic baggies and hung them on the clothesline to reuse them. Anyway, they homeschooled us, made homemade yogurt, and, you know, just sort of marched to the beat of their own drum. Friends of theirs used to come and stay with us to recharge, and, eventually, my mom and dad opened up a little bed and breakfast for likeminded patchouli wearers looking for a retreat by the water. Somewhere along the line,
...more
"But I guess they expanded too fast or something. I don't know the details. All I know is they borrowed a lot of money that they couldn't pay back. So, they left."
Anyway, my sisters and I took over the business." "And the debt, huh?" "Right." "How did you end up an accountant—I mean with your upbringing?" The truth was I grew up feeling like a circus freak. I craved normalcy. And nothing seemed more reassuringly solid to me than becoming a government accountant. But this wasn't a therapy session. So I simply said, "I like numbers."
little coastal towns I'd encountered in South Carolina. Cute, white clapboard structures, a mixture of nostalgic stores and diners
and upscale, shabby chic boutiques and high-end restaurants
west end of the island. "The money's all on that end. New developments, golf courses—it's not all that different from Hilton Head. But the heart of this place is just on the other side of town."
The center started out as the Penn School, the first school in the country established to teach the children of freed slaves. Then it became a community center. Now it's a national historic landmark—all fifty acres of it—meant to preserve the culture of Gullah people."
the public course in Lands' End on the other end of the island. The course superintendent was really nice. He gave me an official rule book so I could learn the etiquette and rules and let me hang around.
"Eventually, a couple guys invited me to play a round with them at the Seashore Golf Club. I was so excited I couldn't sleep the night before. I memorized that rule book, polished my clubs until they gleamed—and when we got there, I was a spectacle. People were driving their carts from every direction to see the poor, black, bastard kid with the ancient clubs. Everyone was too well bred to point and laugh, so they snickered and murmured into their cocktails. That's what it's like to grow up in Frogmore and have the nerve to think you belong anywhere but among the Gullah Geechee."
Ugh. Probate. That was an ugly mess, governed by state law, completely outside my area of expertise.
"Actually, it's a movie option payment." "A movie?" "If you can believe it. Oh, several years ago—this was just after Fred won his last title—some producer wanted to make a movie about him."
The win was viewed as something of a comeback. Fred had been diagnosed with cancer and beat it. He won the Seagrass Cup two weeks after he completed chemotherapy. And, of course, he was in his late forties. So, not exactly a spring chicken. Anyway, it was the kind of inspirational sports story that people tend to like. This producer flew out from California to try to convince Fred to let him make a movie of his life. But Fred said no."
No matter how many times Linda—she's Fred's agent—assured him that the movie would portray him in a positive light, he refused. I think in part, he was embarrassed by the cancer, which sounds crazy, I know. But he didn't like to talk about it. Whatever his reasons, no matter how much money the producer dangled in front of him, he wanted nothing to do with it. And the more Fred refused, the more that producer seemed to want to tell his story. The offer kept getting bigger and bigger."
At one point, about two years ago, when the offer was for half a million dollars, his agent and I basically held an intervention. I begged him to take it." She shook her head at the memory. "He wouldn't hear of it. Not long after, though, our money troubles seemed to ease up and he declared the subject closed." After he started making his cash deposits.
"They've offered mid-seven figures, Sage, to tell his story. At first, I demurred. I know he wouldn't have wanted it. But Linda negotiated creative control for me.
"Fred's agent—do you mean Linda Zaharee?" "Yes. Do you know her?" "Her agency represents Chip, too." She sat up a little bit straighter at that news. "How interesting. I didn't realize that. But in retrospect, I'm sure she represents most of the golfers who live here. She belongs to the club, after all. Well, that's great—she'll have a vested interest in making sure the movie doesn't hurt Chip. Don't you think?"
conflict of interest
"We don't have any other bank accounts, but Fred did keep a safe deposit box at the bank. I wonder if there's anything in there that might be helpful—stock certificates or the like?"
The under-five set wasn't exactly known for their conversational skills.
