Page 47 of Rage

“Any connection to Yutzy or Shetler?” he asks.

“Just the landscaping job,” I say. “Based on the word of Shetler’s younger brother.”

“Did Wingate deal with Samuel directly?” he asks. “Or is there a groundskeeper?”

“Lois couldn’t come up with the name of a grounds manager.”

“Maybe Mr. Wingate will be able to fill in the blanks.”

I make the turn onto a sleek asphalt driveway lined with stately elms. Beyond, the main building greets us with an austere façade of red brick, mullioned windows, and a grand portico with Ionic columns. The architecture is unusual for this part of Ohio, an aesthetically pleasing mix of Georgian colonial and Colorado rustic.

I park in the spacious lot at the side and we take a pavestone walkway around to the front. Entering The Club at Paint Creek is an assault on every pleasure center of the brain. From the intricately laid marble floors to the lush tropical greenery to the arched doorways and gleaming cypress woodwork, the club rivals any five-star hotel.

“Who says rural Ohio isn’t fancy?” Tomasetti mutters.

“I think they’re called farmers.”

He gives me the side-eye. “Evidently.”

I grin as we enter the lobby. A smattering of tables to my right offer a view of a sparkling pool. Poolside, I see patio tables with umbrellas emblazoned with the club logo. To my left, two leather-tufted sofas are poised for conversation; there’s an antique coffee table in between. A massive river-rock fireplace takes up an entire corner. Wood beams as thick as a man’s waist hover overhead. An attractive woman of about forty stands at a carved wood counter next to an areca palm, tapping something into a sleek laptop.

She smiles when we approach. “Welcome to The Club at Paint Creek,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

Matching her smile, I show her my badge. “We’d like to speak with Lance Wingate.”

“Oh.” Frowning, she looks down at the laptop, taps a few keys. “Is this about the fundraiser for bodycams? I thought that was for the sheriff’s office. I think he donated to that, didn’t he? You know, if I’m not mistaken, he’s in a meeting this afternoon. Can I have him call you?”

“Anita?”

At the sound of the deep male voice, I turn to see a smartly dressed man striding toward us, cell phone in hand, a stack of pamphlets in the other. He’s sandy haired and tall with the build of a distance runner.

“Hi, Mr. Wingate.” Her gaze flicks to me. “Chief Burkholder was just asking to speak with you.”

“Hey, no problem.” He sets the pamphlets on the counter. “These are good to go, by the way. Make sure the whole team gets a stack.”

“Of course.”

Wingate turns his attention to Tomasetti and me and offers his hand, his expression open and curious. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about Samuel Yutzy if you have a few minutes,” I say.

His expression falls. “I heard what happened to him and I’m absolutely stunned.” He cocks his head. “Are you wondering about the landscaping job he did?”

“We’re interested in anything you can share,” I say.

“Sure.” Wingate turns his attention to Tomasetti and sticks out his hand. “I’m not sure how I can help, but we can talk in my office. Come on.”

We follow him down a paneled hall. The walls are packed with framed certificates, photos of the club, and several shots of visiting celebrities.

“Here we are.” He opens a door and motions us inside.

I go through first. It’s a spacious office, all dark wood and leather, a wall of books, and a picture-perfect view of the golf course. The desk is midcentury modern and stacked high with pamphlets. Dueling laptops are open and humming. In the corner, there’s a round table at which two little girls sit, busy with crayons and coloring books.

“Ah … sorry.” Wingate offers a self-deprecating smile. “Uh … this is the meeting Anita was referring to.” He clears his throat. “Wife had to run down to Cincy. I got the girls today. Had some stuff to finish up, so I brought them with me.”

“No problem.” I smile, liking him.

“Probably the best meeting you’ll have all week,” Tomasetti says.