“What are you on?”
“Heroin.”
“My God!”
“Believe me, I’ve tried to stop, but I…I can’t.”
“You need help, and there are places where you can get it.”
Woody said wearily, “I hope to God you’re right.”
“I want you to go to the Harbor Group Clinic in Jupiter. Will you try it?”
There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”
“Who’s supplying you with the heroin?” Dr. Tichner asked.
Woody shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Very well. I’ll make arrangements for you at the clinic.”
The following morning, Dr. Tichner was seated in the office of the chief of police.
“Someone is supplying him with heroin,” Dr. Tichner said, “but he won’t tell me who.”
Chief of Police Murphy looked at Dr. Tichner and nodded. “I think I know who.”
There were several possible suspects. Hobe Sound was a small enclave, and everyone knew everyone else’s business.
A liquor store had opened recently on Bridge Road that made deliveries to their Hobe Sound customers at all hours of the day and night.
A doctor at a local clinic had been fined for overprescribing drugs.
A gymnasium had opened a year earlier, on the other side of the waterway, and it was rumored that the trainer took steroids and had other drugs available for his good customers.
But Chief of Police Murphy had another suspect in mind.
Tony Benedotti had served as a gardener for many of the homes in Hobe Sound for years. He had studied horticulture and loved spending his days creating beautiful gardens. The gardens and lawns he tended were the loveliest in Hobe Sound. He was a quiet man who kept to himself, and the people he worked for knew very little about him. He seemed to be too well educated to be a gardener, and people were curious about his past.
Murphy sent for him.
“If this is about my driver’s license, I renewed it,” Benedotti said.
“Sit down,” Murphy ordered.
“Is there some kind of problem?”
“Yeah. You’re an educated man, right?”
“Yes.”
The chief of police leaned back in his chair. “So how come you’re a gardener?”
“I happen to love nature.”
“What else do you happen to love?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How long have you been gardening?”
Benedotti looked at him, puzzled. “Have any of my customers been complaining?”
“Just answer the question.”
“About fifteen years.”
“You have a nice house and a boat?”
“Yes.”
“How can you afford all that on what you make as a gardener?”
Benedotti said, “It’s not that big a house, and it’s not that big a boat.”
“Maybe you make a little money on the side.”
“What do you…?”
“You work for some people in Miami, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a lot of Italians there. Do you ever do them some little favors?”
“What kind of favors?”
“Like pushing drugs.”
Benedotti looked at him, horrified. “My God! Of course not.”
Murphy leaned forward. “Let me tell you something, Benedotti. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I’ve had a talk with a few of the people you work for. They don’t want you or your Mafia friends here anymore. Is that clear?”
Benedotti squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them. “Very clear.”
“Good. I’ll expect you out of here by tomorrow. I don’t want to see your face again.”
Woody Stanford went into the Harbor Group Clinic for three weeks, and when he came out, he was the old Woody—charming, gracious, and delightful to be with. He went back to playing polo, riding Mimi Carson’s ponies.
Sunday was the Palm Beach Polo & Country Club’s eighteenth anniversary, and South Shore Boulevard was heavy with traffic as three thousand fans converged on the polo grounds. They rushed to fill the box seats on the west side of the field and the bleachers at the opposite end. Some of the finest players in the world were going to be in the day’s game.
Peggy was in a box seat next to Mimi Carson, as Mimi’s guest.
“Woody told me that this is your first polo match, Peggy. Why haven’t you been to one before?”
Peggy licked her lips. “I…I guess I’ve always been too nervous to watch Woody play. I don’t want him to get hurt again. It’s a very dangerous sport, isn’t it?”