Chapter 29

 

I plucked a range ball from a yellow mesh bucket. “I’m telling you, Rita, it was strange. Very strange.”

As agreed upon earlier that day, the two of us met at the driving range. It was time for me to get back on the horse that threw me and, once and for all, get over my reluctance to play golf. I’d never excelled at the game. Doubted I ever would. But golf provided a great excuse to get outdoors for a little exercise with my best friends. Chasing a dimpled ball over acres and acres of land, all the while trying to avoid strategically placed pitfalls of sand and water, was simply a means to an end.

“Yeah, it’s strange but . . .” Rita’s nice, easy swing sent the range ball soaring into the wild blue yonder.

“He practically ran out of the office.” When Rita failed to respond, I got down to the business of golf. I balanced the range ball atop a tee in the center of a rubber mat. Mentally I ran though a checklist of things to do: feet shoulder-width apart, arm straight, knees flexed. I took careful aim, drew back for a calculated swing—and watched as my ball dribbled down a grassy slope. I heaved a sigh. Some things never change.

“Next time keep your head down,” Rita counseled.

“I wanted to watch to see how far it went.” My excuse sounded lame. Why couldn’t I just concede I was a better bunco player than a golfer? Truth is, I’m not even all that great at bunco. My scores have been so lousy, I haven’t taken home the tiara in nearly a year.

“Watch how I do it, okay?”

“Okay.” I was content to watch Rita until the cows came home, but in my heart of hearts I knew that wouldn’t help one iota. Golf required rhythm along with a good amount of coordination. I lacked both. Over the years I’d developed the theory that being a good golfer was directly proportional to being a good dancer. Therefore, if one could dance, one could golf. And vice versa. Take Pam, for instance. Pam can watusi, cha-cha, and recently won a shag—the official dance of South Carolina—contest. Pam can also drive a golf ball one hundred fifty yards down the fairway straight as an arrow. Suddenly I missed Pam. My BFF wouldn’t matter-of-factly tell me to keep my head down. She’d know I needed a “poor baby” pat on the head. Thinking of Pam made me wish I’d asked her for pointers instead of Rita. Why hadn’t I? Oh, yeah, I remember. I planned to pump Rita for information about Kel Watson.

“So, Rita,” I said, casually picking another range ball out of the bucket. “Tell me everything you know about Kel Watson?”

Rita groaned. “Please tell me you’re not playing detective again.”

“Can’t help it if I have an inquiring mind.” I placed the ball on the mat. This time I wiggled my hips as I took my stance, in the fond hope wiggling would simulate dancing. “I noticed Kel doesn’t wear a wedding band. I take it he’s not married?”

Rita rested her hands on top of her Big Bertha driver and cocked her head to one side. “Why do you ask? Thinking of trading Bill in for a newer model?”

“Chalk it up to the ponytail.” I took a practice swing, then stepped up to address the ball. This time it managed to leave the tee, but its departure wasn’t exactly a Kodak moment.

Bending, Rita dug out a ball, placed it on the mat. “Kel’s been divorced for years.”

“What happened?”

“Same tired story.” Rita adjusted the position of her hands on the club. “His wife left him for another man.”

Since my driver didn’t seem to be working properly, I exchanged it for a three wood. “Did Sheila and Kel know each other before Serenity Cove?”

“Hard to say.” Rita hit several drives while I looked on under the guise of studying her swing.

“Why is it so hard to say whether they’ve met?” I persisted when Rita paused to take a break.

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible they might have met at a seminar or conference over the years. After all, they are in the same field.”

I wasn’t making much progress—either with golf or my interrogation—but I wasn’t ready to give up. “Sheila’s convinced Kel was stalking her. You know the man better than I do. Do you think that’s possible?”

Rita whiffed, completely missing her ball. Almost unheard of for a golfer of her caliber. “Jeez, Kate,” she cursed. “Next you’ll try to convince me Kel is responsible for Vaughn’s death.”

Well, if the shoe fits . . . I didn’t need to be clairvoyant to sense Rita’s growing frustration, so I asked my next question before she stonewalled me. “Do you suppose Kel uses marijuana?”

“Who knows? Whether he does or not, it’s none of my damn business.” Rita took another practice swing, but I noticed she’d lost her rhythm.

“Think he might be growing pot?”

Rita whiffed again. “Those are only rumors. Unfounded, malicious rumors.”

Hmm, I thought as I took a swipe at a range ball. Much to my amazement, I seemed to be getting the hang of a semi-mediocre swing. The quality of Rita’s drives, however, seemed to be deteriorating.

My small bucket of range balls nearly depleted, I mused out loud, “I can’t help but find it odd that a man would lie about a beekeepers’ meeting”

“He probably wanted to get rid of you, but was too polite to say so. Look, Kate”—Rita rammed her driver back into her bag, a surefire sign my lesson was finished—“Kel Watson is one of the good guys. He’s always been ready to lend a hand with garden club projects either as a speaker or to help with the actual planting. I suspect Sheila’s spreading gossip. It would be just like her to stir up trouble.”

“Why would she want to do that?”

“You’re Nancy Drew. You figure it out.” Rita’s mouth compressed into a hard line. “Maybe Sheila views the man as a professional rival. I stopped trying years ago to figure out what was going on inside that woman’s head.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you.” I returned my clubs to the bag. “How about lunch, my treat?”

“Sure,” Rita relented. “Didn’t mean to be so touchy.”

“Sorry if my questions made you lose your rhythm,” I said as we trudged toward the Watering Hole, often referred to by golfers as the Nineteenth Hole.”

“I didn’t lose my rhythm as much as I forgot it,” Rita confessed.

I hoisted the golf bag higher on my shoulder. “How so?”

Rita grinned down at me. “If you promise never to tell anyone, I’ll give you my secret.”

The day seemed full of secrets, but I’m always up for a few more. “If this darn golf bag weren’t so heavy, I’d cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Stick a needle in my eye,” Rita completed the childhood phrase. “Suzie and the boobs,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

I looked at her, puzzled. “Who is Suzie, and what do her boobs have to do with your golf?”

“Simple.” Rita’s grin broadened. “Whenever I take my swing, I always chant the words ‘Suzie and the boobs’ to the tune of ‘Bennie and the Jets.’ ‘Suzie’ is the position of my hands before my stroke. ‘Boobs’ is the downstroke.” She shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “It helps me find the rhythm.”

I shot my friend an envious glance. Rita’s boobs were impressive forty DDs. As we deposited our clubs in a stand outside the Watering Hole, I caught myself wondering if invoking Suzie would help a modest thirty-four B.

 

• • •

 

Inspiration, like lightning, doesn’t usually strike twice. Today, however, was an exception. An idea occurred to me as I stepped onto my deck, morning coffee in hand, and surveyed my yard. The shrubs and flowers I’d recently planted were coming along nicely. The combination of warm, sunny days and occasional April showers had blessed them with a strong start. Plants, I’d discovered, often hid deadly secrets beneath their colorful faces. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of the certainty that Vaughn Bascomb had been poisoned.

And that the culprit was as plain as the nose on my face.

With this thought relentlessly looping through my brain, I went inside, picked up the phone, and began dialing. The Babes always come through in a pinch. I knew this would be no exception.

They didn’t let me down. An hour later, fortified by caffeine and armed with optimism, I started my rounds.

Gloria appeared from the back of her house carrying a plastic trash bag. “Iris and narcissus, as requested. Didn’t know what else to put them in.”

“The society garlic was my idea,” Polly said as she joined us. “Don’t smell too good, but it wards off evil spirits. I know this for a fact ’cause I’ve been watching one of those vampire shows on TV.”

“Perfect,” I laughed. “Maybe society garlic will fend off evil spirits at the sheriff’s.”

Janine’s was the next stop on my route. Seeing me, she stopped pulling weeds from a mulched bed near her front porch and waved. “Here’s the loropetalum, which, by the way, I’m pretty sure is harmless,” she said, handing me a woven basket. “Even though it broke my heart, I threw in some cuttings from my azaleas, roots and all. They’re blooming like mad right now. I’d hate to think I did something to stop the show.”

“Drastic times call for drastic measures.”

“I think it’s Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Janine corrected.

“Whatever. Drastic or desperate, it’s all part of the elimination process.” I placed her bag on the floor of the Buick next to Gloria’s.

A frown marred Janine’s smooth brow. “I hope you’re mistaken, Kate.”

“The worst my little experiment can do is to prove that I’m on the wrong track. It won’t be the first time. Thanks.” I waved as I drove off.

As promised, Pam had left a box containing her contributions—lantana, camellias, and calla—on the porch. Since this was Megan’s day off, the two of them had gone shopping. Sweet, I thought. I have to confess that I often envy their mother-daughter relationship. On my last visit to California, Jen had taken me to Rodeo Drive. A quick glance at price tags and I’d developed a severe case of sticker shock. I’d broken down and admitted Kohl’s and Stein Mart were more my speed. Jen swore she’d never heard of either.

Humming “Bennie and the Jets,” I drove into Brookdale. I wasn’t finished yet. Not by a country mile. A Jeep pulled out of a parking space near the sheriff’s as I drove up. I took this as an omen, a good one, and pulled in. I maneuvered close to the curb and turned off the ignition. Going around to the passenger side, I gathered my arsenal and, colors flying, marched off to battle.