Amen Corner by Rick Shefchik

than one way to do it. Stanwick and the other members would be on their guard now, and harder to get at. But he could kill someone who hated the National, someone everybody knows, like Deborah Scanlon, Danny Milligan or Rachel Drucker. He could leave the same this is the last masters message, and the cops, the media and the public would drive themselves crazy trying to figure out who was doing it, and why. A psycho member of the National killing the club’s enemies? A nut-job protester?
    Only two people—Doggett and his father—would really know what was going on. And, in a few days, he’d make sure that number was down to one.
    He pulled out his wallet and found the scrap of paper on which he’d written the phone number for Augusta National’s main switchboard. As he had a day earlier, he dialed the number and asked for Ralph Stanwick in the Firestone Cabin. This time a man answered the phone.
    â€œHello,” the voice said.
    â€œRalph Stanwick?”
    Doggett could sense a fearful pause on the other end of the line.
    â€œWho’s calling?” Stanwick finally asked.
    â€œYour son. Enjoy your last Masters, old man.”
    Doggett hung up.
    Chapter Eight
    After his practice round, Sam took a long shower in the locker room and then went up to the Crow’s Nest. His roommates had arrived and unpacked, but they were apparently out on the course. He settled into an armchair in the common area and turned on the TV.
    The coverage of the Masters on Augusta television must have been over the top in a normal year. This year, with the death of Harmon Ashby, it was beyond shrill. He flipped stations and found that the networks and cable news channels were also devoting extensive coverage to the mysterious death. One of the networks had already created a logo for the story: “Murder at Amen Corner?” They were obviously hoping to remove the question mark as soon as possible. He clicked back to one of the locals, where a big-haired female anchor was reporting on the case.
    â€œâ€¦Augusta National Chairman David Porter said this afternoon that the club did not know whether Ashby’s death was self-inflicted, foul play, accidental or a result of natural causes.”
    Sam had to laugh at that last possibility. What were the odds that a member of Augusta National would topple into a pond a few feet from a warning message that the Masters was going to end?
    The station went to footage shot at the afternoon press conference. The calm, no-nonsense figure of David Porter stood before a bank of microphones and tape recorders, the Masters logo displayed behind him and the sound of automatic cameras squeezing off shot after shot in the background. He looked grim and concerned, but not devastated, as though announcing a failed business deal.
    â€œAll of our hearts go out to Harmon’s wife, Annabelle, their son Robbie, and their daughter Cassie,” Porter said. “He was my friend for more than 20 years…there wasn’t a more dedicated member of this club. No one loved Augusta National and this tournament more than Harmon Ashby. We will miss him dearly.”
    The reporters paused for a respectful instant, and then bombarded Porter with questions.
    â€œNo, this will not delay the start of the Masters,” Porter said. “We will have a moment of silence for Harmon Thursday morning before our ceremonial first tee shots, and then we will run the tournament as usual. Harmon would have wanted it that way.”
    Sam always wondered how people knew what a person would have wanted. Maybe Harmon Ashby would have wanted the membership to postpone the tournament for a year and add a dozen women members before starting it up again. Who could know?
    â€œWhat’s that…?” Porter said on the TV, pointing at a reporter to distinguish between the many questions being shouted at him. “No, I have no idea how those words got on the 12th green, or what they