“Remind me again why I decided to keep you two clowns?” I ask, trying really hard not to laugh.
“Because you love us,” Holly chirps.
I roll my eyes, unable to contain a smile.
“Can we get into the club tonight?” Eli asks.
“Guess who can get in anytime she damn well pleases?” Holly says, jingling the keys triumphantly.
A few hours later, we’re striding into the men’s locker room on the ground level of the Dogwood Hills Country Club, wondering why in God’s name there’s an adjacent bar and grill (in a locker room!).
“Let it be said,” Holly says, “that I will only cross thisthreshold for you.” We pause, taking in the enormity of the space. “I’ve never been here before.”
To our right, there’s an actual restaurant and a full bar stocked with top-shelf drinks. To our left, polished dark mahogany lockers rise from floor to ceiling. Wood benches and sitting lounge areas are interspersed throughout. There’s a shower room, a sauna room, a steam room, and a marble vanity countertop with multiple sinks and a lit wall-length mirror. There are also plenty of amenities—Q-tips, razors, shaving cream, combs…
“Are these Goldfish crackers?” Eli asks, helping himself to the orange contents of a glass jar tucked inside a nook.
“Wait—” I say, my tone indignant. “Are those regular Goldfish, or do you also have some special, super-cheesy Goldfish recipe y’all are hoarding away?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny the source of the Goldfish,” Holly deadpans.
Eli drops a handful of crackers into my hand. I shove them in my mouth and chew, disappointed that they are, in fact, regular Goldfish.
We go in search of Griggs’s two lockers. When we open the first one, our spirits fall. We find a couple of golf shirts and pants, silk briefs, a pair of spiked shoes, and a bottle of Tom Ford Oud Wood cologne.
“Nothing,” I say after a thorough search. Could we be wrong?
That all-too-familiar hopelessness starts to expand in my chest as we approach the second locker.
“Here goes nothing,” Holly says, inserting her master key into the lock. She opens the door, and I almost fall to my knees.
Before us, there’s a hard drive and massive cache of documents. I rifle through, pulling out folders one by one, laying them out over one of the benches. We find copies of checks from Griggs’s family foundation to the various nonexistent nonprofits, and a trail of cash that funnels into the offshore bank in Panama, only to be laundered back into shell companies like Peachtree Holdings, LLC. The Lake Chiaha development sits at the center of a massive fraud scheme.
But there’s more—enough financial data to build a case on tax evasion, and a ledger containing a list of fake investors, records on bribes and political donations. Before I know it, I’m so overwhelmed that I’m wiping away tears of relief.
“The Castillos’ fake deed,” I say, holding up the certificate for Eli and Holly to take in.
Eli sighs and then releases a long, drawn-out “Hot diggity damn.”
CHAPTER 38Holly
Luisa’s perched on a barstool, sipping from a bottle of beer, when I walk into the Road Queen Grill. She’s looking drop-dead gorgeous, and she knows it—all curves and shining wavy hair and thick red lips. Luisa doesn’t belong in this place any more than I do. But, of course, she’s a total chameleon, and she has managed to blend right in, wearing silver-studded Italian leather boots, light-wash jeans, and a snug T-shirt.
Then she pulls out her laptop.
I pause by the doorway and watch, amused by the reaction of the biker sitting on the stool beside her. He’s in a denim vest straight out of the 1980s, covered in an enormous red-and-black patch that readsHog Mountain, GA. The biker’s got a nice build and a tight salt-and-pepper beard, and I wondered briefly whether he’s been trying to pick her up—until she slid that computer out of her bag and propped it onto the bar. Now he’s looking a little bewildered—probably wondering why she’s not over at the cute little coffeehouse on the Westlake town square.
“Luisa,” I call out, crossing the room.
I’m a little late to meet her, since I’ve been juggling a lot these days. My job as interim GM of the Dogwood Hills Country Club is going great—I’ve been working hard to spruce up the common areas and digitize the records, basically to bring us into the twenty-first century, while also maintaining the Old South feel of the place. This morning, I had the great pleasure of posting on the central bulletin board three terse but oh-so-civilized letters of resignation from Griggs Johnson, Jim Wade, and the judge. Not only is a greatly coveted Sunday morning tee time now up forgrabs, but the members get to avoid the indignity of rubbing elbows with high-profile criminals.
As has been the case for almost nineteen years, I’m grateful for the club, for my fellow staff members, and for all the kind members who have made a place for me there. But also, I know it’s time for a change. I’ve already told Buck Dorsey that I’ll serve as interim for a year, and then—with the nice little nest egg my forty-five-percent raise and frugal lifestyle provide—I’ll branch out on my own as an event planner.
Luisa and Eli will be heading out on a road trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, next week, to deliver an old truck Eli fixed up and sold to some billionaire. Eli promised that, with the profits, he wants to invest a little something in my business, which means the world to me. Who knows? Maybe, under the shadow of the magnificent Teton Mountains, they’ll get swept up in the romance of the landscape and decide to tie the knot. I’m kinda hoping a Luisa and Eli wedding will be my first gig. But I’m not going to push it and risk spooking Luisa. She needs to do things in her own time, in her own way.
Luisa looks up from her laptop and waves, then gives me a not-so-subtle once-over. I’ve learned a thing or two since my last visit to the Road Queen, and I ditched the flowery sundress—choosing instead fitted jeans, a pair of cowboy boots I scored a decade ago at the Goodwill on Northside Drive, and a black ribbed tank. Her eyebrows arch, and she nods in a way that suggests I’ve won her approval.
Not an easy task, but I’m getting better at it with each passing day.
