Chapter 32

 

I came away from Connie Sue’s the reigning bunco queen. The bunco gods had smiled down upon me. Buncos and baby buncos fell from my hands as effortlessly as spring rain. Much to Monica’s chagrin—and in spite of my inattention—I’d enjoyed an extraordinary run of luck. And had the tiara to prove it.

I also came away from bunco with a fourth name for my list of possible suspects: Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. Megan’s version of his relationship with Rosalie contradicted that of the good doctor. He had led me to believe he barely knew Rosalie. That she and his wife, Gwen, were mere acquaintances, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Not if Rosalie was racking up frequent-flier miles sitting in his dental chair every couple months.

And I’d seen the way she gazed up at him in that photo.

I pondered all this as I got ready for bed. Why would Baxter lie unless he had something to hide? It was definitely worth considering. I squeezed toothpaste onto my brush, then stood there thinking of Pam’s bombshell.

Bill had gone to medical school.

My mind veered away from this disturbing tidbit and all its nasty implications. I scrubbed my teeth, slathered moisturizer on my face, and climbed into bed. Maybe a good night’s sleep would help put things in the proper perspective.

In spite of efforts to the contrary, I was still mulling over the seemingly endless possibilities the next morning. Instead of one person to prove innocent I now had two. Since instinct told me both Earl and Bill were innocent, I’d zero in on the next name on my suspect list—Brad Murphy.

The golf pro might be flying under the sheriff’s radar, but not mine. The good-looking pro reportedly had a hot temper along with a reputation as a ladies’ man. He’d mentioned that he and Rosalie often worked together arranging various golfing events. Betty from the putting clinic mentioned he had regripped Rosalie’s clubs. That meant time spent in each other’s company. A visit to the pro shop was definitely in order.

While I went about housework, I formed, then discarded, a laundry list of plausible excuses for my visit. It wasn’t until I was changing sheets on the bed that I settled on the perfect ruse. I’d claim I was interested in purchasing a set of hybrid clubs. I’d heard golf pros get a commission on sales, so I’d appeal to Brad’s pocketbook. Not especially clever, but it should do the trick.

Since every detective—well, maybe not every, but most—has a sidekick, I elected Pam as mine. Pam’s logical, smart, and a veritable fountain of common sense. Besides, she spends nearly as many hours watching Law & Order marathons as I do. I’d hate her to miss out on a chance to apply all that know-how. And it had been Pam who raised the possibility that Earl was being framed for Rosalie’s murder. It seemed only right she help eliminate suspects. As added enticement, I dangled lunch afterward at the Cove Café. She agreed to meet me at the pro shop at noon.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Pam asked me as we crossed the parking lot.

“Just follow my lead.”

Except for a woman behind the desk, the pro shop looked deserted.

“Is Brad in?” I asked. I’d debated calling first, but instead elected the element of surprise. This approach seemed to work best for the Law & Order crew. Even newer cast members favored this route.

“Brad’s giving a lesson. Oughta be back any minute.” The woman, who had Doris engraved on her name tag, didn’t look up from her romance novel. Instead of giving her a more youthful appearance, her dyed black hair emphasized weariness and wrinkles. Clairol had failed to fortify this woman in her march against time.

Pam and I checked out the merchandise while we waited. We wandered around racks of golf shirts, hats, and visors. I paused to examine golf sandals on clearance at the end of the season.

Pam held up a coral and black argyle sweater vest and matching golf shirt. “What do you think?”

“Cute,” I said. “Gonna try ’em on?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Pam studied the outfit from arm’s length. “I’m trying to decide if I should wait a couple weeks, see if they’re marked down one more time.”

“Final markdown,” Doris said in a raspy smoker’s voice, still engrossed in her paperback. “All sales final.”

Just then, Brad breezed in a side door. “Hey, y’all.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doris hurriedly tuck her novel under the counter and pretend to look busy.

“Hey, yourself.” Hey replaces hi as a casual hello here in South Carolina. It’s one of the few Southernisms I’ve adopted since the moving van transported all my worldly possessions across the Mason-Dixon Line.

I casually sauntered over to a display of golf clubs along one wall. I picked up one of the clubs, wrapped my fingers around the grip as I’d been taught, and took an abbreviated practice swing.

Brad moseyed over. “Thinking about new clubs, Miz McCall?”

I pursed my lips. “Actually, I might be in the market for a set of these new hybrids everyone is talking about.”

Pam joined us. “Me, too. A friend of mine has a set and loves them.”

“Great!” He rubbed his hands together, obviously sensing a sale. “Ladies, you came to the right place. Here’s a set you might like to take out for a test-drive, so to speak.”

Pam picked up one of the hybrids and examined it as if she actually knew what she was doing. Way to go, Pam, I thought, proud she was serious about her role as sidekick.

“Tell you what I’ll do.” Brad pushed back his visor and gave us a big old grin. “Since you’re such nice ladies, I’ll knock off another five percent right here and now. You’ll have delivery in seven to ten business days.”

“Whoa!” I took an involuntary step backward. I could practically hear a robotic voice boom, “Step away from the clubs.” If I didn’t watch myself, I’d have these babies signed, sealed, and waiting on my doorstep. “Not so fast. I don’t know the first thing about hybrids.”

Brad rose to the challenge. Tapping the clubface for emphasis, he expounded. “To begin with, a hybrid is much more forgiving than a fairway wood. You’ll hit the ball higher and longer with a hybrid than an iron.”

Pam edged closer, hanging on his every word. “Is that true, even for a poor shot?”

“Yes, ma’am. I can see you’ve done your homework.”

Pam preened under the compliment. I gave her a gentle nudge to remind her we were here on business. Our mission was to learn about Brad’s relationship with Rosalie. Not to fall for a sales pitch for new golf clubs.

“It all has to do with the club’s design,” Brad continued. “A hybrid has a wider sole and increased moment of inertia.”

Huh?

He must have read the confusion on my face and took pity on me. “All you need to remember, ma’am, is these clubs will shave strokes off your game.”

Well, la-di-da! These clubs would also shave dollars off my checking account. If he had promised to shave years off my age, I might’ve paid closer attention.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” He positioned himself behind Pam and slipped his arms around her waist. “Put your hands over mine.”

A closed mouth collects no flies, as my mother used to tell me. So I closed my mouth and watched a fine demonstration of Brad’s aw-shucks brand of country charisma. If he gave all the women this kind of instruction, no wonder his dance card was filled. How could Earl possibly compete with this?

“There you go. See how easy.”

Before Pam could respond, the door burst open and in walked chaos in the form of Mort Thorndike and Bernie Mason. Mort and Bernie are the same two idiots we encountered on the eighth hole the afternoon we found the Walmart bag containing the arm—Rosalie’s arm. The same morons who insisted they play through and thought we found yarn.

Mort held a towel pressed against his forehead. “You did this on purpose.”

“Did not,” Bernie heatedly denied.

“Did, too.”

Brad Murphy released Pam and stepped back, a frown marring his handsome face. Pam and I exchanged looks.

“I asked you to throw the beer to me—not at me.”

“You were supposed to catch it.”

“I would’ve caught it if you knew how to throw.”

Brad moved toward the arguing duo. “Gentlemen, please, what seems to be the problem?”

“Look what this fool did.” Mort removed the towel to reveal a nasty inch-long gash on his forehead where his hairline used to reside. Without a towel to staunch the flow, blood trickled down Mort’s cheek, making him resemble a victim in one of those slasher films young folks seem to enjoy.

Brad paled, his skin the color of wallpaper paste. “I’m feelin’ dizzy.”

Doris hurried over from behind the counter, but was too late. Brad’s legs folded beneath him like a yardstick. There he sat, his eyes glazed, legs splayed, limp as an overgrown Raggedy Andy.

Pam bent to help, but Doris shooed her away. “Don’t worry, hon,” Doris said, waving a vial of some evil-smelling stuff under Brad’s nose. “He’ll come around in a minute or two. This happens every time he sees as much as a drop of blood. Poor baby, won’t even put on his own Band-Aid.”

The door opened again, and I looked over my shoulder to see Bill enter.

“I heard there was an accident of some sort on number nine.”

I pointed to Mort and Bernie, who stood glaring at each other near a rack of marked-down golf shirts. Then I motioned to Doris and Brad.

Bill took in the situation at a glance. “Doris, take Brad outside for some fresh air. Kate, if you look behind the counter, you’ll find a first aid kit. Would you get it, please, and bring it to me?”

While I went in search of a first aid kit, Pam took one of Brad’s arms, Doris the other, and they hoisted him to his feet. Once he was upright, Doris wrapped her arm around his waist and guided him away from the carnage. Bill, meanwhile, used the towel to reapply pressure to the cut on Mort’s forehead.

I silently handed Bill a green metal box bearing the familiar Red Cross. “Thanks,” he murmured absently, then turned his attention back to Mort. “I’m sure Bernie will be happy to drive you over to the clinic. Looks like this is going to need stitches.”

Mort gave his buddy a satisfied smirk. “Told you.”

“Don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over a little scratch,” Bernie grumbled.

Bill expertly applied a butterfly dressing to the wound, and the pair bickered their way toward the door.

“You owe me a buck for our bet on the last hole. Don’t try to weasel out of it.”

“Pure luck. No way you coulda made that shot. You’re not that good.”

“Wasn’t luck. Was skill.”

The pro shop seemed unnaturally quiet after the door closed behind the pair. Bill turned to Pam and me. “You ladies okay?”

“We’re fine, Bill,” I replied, answering for the both of us. “Thanks. You handled that situation like a pro.”

He shrugged off the compliment. “As long as it’s not a mangled body part, blood usually doesn’t bother me.”

One positive result from the little drama I had just witnessed: I could cross Brad Murphy’s name off my list of suspects. Anyone who’d faint at a small laceration wasn’t the type to dismember a body.

Bill, on the other hand, hadn’t broken a sweat when confronted with Mort’s bloody gash. He remained calm, cool, and collected under pressure. I recalled an earlier conversation in which he told me he had been a hunter all his life. And he also had a year of medical school under his belt. Intuition told me he wasn’t capable of murder, but just like in Law & Order, life came with unexpected plot twists. I vowed to try harder to keep my investigation objective in spite of my burgeoning feelings for him.

I turned to Pam, who once again was inspecting the set of hybrid clubs. “Ready?”

“Let’s wait until Brad comes back,” she said. “I’m going to order these babies.”

I stared at my friend in disbelief. Who was this woman? Here was someone who hesitated to buy a sweater vest on clearance, yet was primed to buy a pricey set of golf clubs. Would wonders never cease?

I looked from her to Bill. Who knew what really went on inside a person?