Timing is everything in life and in golf.
—Cecil Leitch as quoted by Arnold Palmer
“COME ON, SEYMOUR,” I pleaded. “It’s almost seven o’clock.”
Seymour weighed the heavy sledgehammer in his hand. “It’s vandalism, Pen.”
“Do it!” Brainert commanded.
“But this is a BMW M4 convertible in Tanzanite Blue. It’s a thing of beauty. I can’t bring myself to—”
“Seymour,” I said, “this is a complex operation which depends on precise timing and coordination.”
Hah! Jack Shepard scoffed. Then you’re doomed.
“Remember, Seymour,” Brainert warned in an ominous tone. “A great American writer’s future may depend on what we do here today. Why, our actions may echo in eternity!”
“Well, if you put it that way, Maximus.”
Seymour raised the hammer over his head with both hands. He closed his eyes and cried, “My name is Gladiator,” before he swung the tool with all of his considerable might, effectively shattering the taillight and the metal around it.
Seymour opened his eyes, then moaned at the sight of the destruction.
“Get out of here, Brainert,” I commanded. “If all goes according to plan, Seymour and I will join you at Millstone Creek in an hour or so.”
As Brainert drove off in his newly repaired car, Seymour and I crossed the Finch Inn parking lot. We saw more people than usual for a weeknight, all of them clustered around the entrance.
The Quindicott Elementary School bus told me Mr. Burke and the science fair kids had done their jobs.
Inside, proud parents and interested guests clustered around the inn’s library, where the science fair contestants—including my son, Spencer—were showing off their projects. Susan Trencher had placed her display front and center, and the photo of the teardrop trailer figured prominently.
I approached the front desk and gave Fiona the nod, leaning close so I could hear her phone call to the Lighthouse.
“Hollis West? This is Fiona Finch at the front desk. I’m afraid there’s been an incident . . . Yes, another one.”
I could hear angry shouts on the other end of the line. Fiona rolled her eyes and waited for the ranting to stop before she spoke again. “Apparently a delivery truck has damaged your car. If you would come to the main house, I’ll—”
Fiona blinked and put the receiver down. “He hung up, but I’m pretty sure he’s coming.”
I was pleased to see Mr. and Mrs. Waterman had hit their marks and were ready for their cue. The reverend even wore his clerical collar to make his performance all the more convincing.
Five agonizing minutes later, Seymour nudged me. “There he is, I recognize Hollis West from his beefcake shots you showed me.”
Heads turned as a tall, strikingly handsome young man came through the door—or rather, someone I once thought was strikingly handsome. But now, after all Norma had told us about the real man behind the façade, I could see the cruel glint in Hollis West’s eyes beneath his salon-highlighted bangs, the arrogant curl of his lips.
“Geez,” Seymour groused, “even that guy’s hair is smug.”
I let the Watermans know it was curtain time. The reverend nodded, recognizing our target. He and his wife deftly cut Hollis off, blocking the young man’s way to the front desk even as they discussed Susie Trencher’s display.
“Terrible,” Mrs. Waterman said. “All this pollution in our own community.”
Reverend Waterman’s eyes locked on one photo, as he performed a theatrical double take.
“Why, that’s Norma Stanton’s trailer,” the reverend cried, clearly relishing his return to acting. “I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s one of a kind. And there’s a map that shows exactly where it’s located.”
Mrs. Waterman pretended to read the map, effectively blocking Hollis West’s path.
“Why, we drove past this spot not two hours ago,” she faux-whispered. “We both saw smoke from a fire. Norma must be camping there right now.”
Hollis West was no longer trying to dodge the couple. Instead, he stood behind them, listening intently.
I felt a rush of relief. The picture of the trailer was only meant to get Hollis’ attention. He already knew the trailer was there—he’d seen Louis Kritzer’s letter, that’s how he likely found Kritzer himself, just like we did. What Hollis needed to hear was that that Norma had returned. I could tell by the young man’s expression that the message was received, loud and clear.
“I heard Norma was in some kind of trouble,” Mrs. Waterman continued. “Something about stealing jewelry. What should we do?”
“I’ll tell Chief Ciders. He’s coming to the church tomorrow morning. It can wait until then, I’m sure Norma is going to stick around. She would never abandon her home.”
As the Watermans drifted away, Hollis West smirked, and we knew the fish had taken the bait.
Seymour and I had to grit our teeth to keep from whooping and slapping high fives. We just grinned like fools instead.
A moment later, Fiona waved to Hollis West. “I have the information about who struck your car, Mr. West,” she called. “For your insurance company, because as you know the inn is not responsible—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Hollis replied. “Let’s make this quick.”
“Go!” I whispered, pushing Seymour through the front door. “We’ve got to beat Mr. West to the trailer.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, we were gathered at the campsite.
“Good grief, man!” Brainert declared, gawking at Seymour’s getup. “You look like a walking haystack.”
“It’s a ghillie suit,” Seymour proudly informed him. “Hunters and military snipers use it for camo.”
“Why in the world would a simple postman possess camouflage? Have all of your colleagues gone postal? Are you planning a coup against FedEx?”
“As a matter of fact, I use it for my postal unit’s paintball team, the Splatters. We’re three wins and no losses this year.”
“And why the golf club?” Brainert went on.
“I’ll tell you why.” Rustling in his camouflage suit, Seymour aimed the golf club as if it were a shotgun. “This Hollis guy is probably coming to the party armed. My Arnold Palmer nine iron makes a pretty convincing rifle in the dark. I’ll persuade him that he’s outgunned and get him to drop his weapon.”
Jack didn’t think so.
More likely? He’ll get plugged, the ghost warned.
“If there’s a weak link in this plan, it’s the mailman,” Brainert insisted.
Seymour scowled. “And you think your little rope trick will work?”
“These sorts of snares were effective during the Vietnam conflict,” Brainert replied while he covered a rope loop on the ground with loose grass. “This will trap Hollis, I’m sure of it.”
Yeah, Jack said, but will that dinky little snare rope the killer before or after he pulls the trigger?
THREE LONG HOURS later, I was standing alone behind a tree in the dark woods, fighting off gnats while watching the figure in the folding chair beside the teardrop trailer. She was wrapped in a flannel jacket and reading by the light of the campfire.
“Seymour? Brainert? How are you guys holding up?” I whispered into my phone.
I heard someone break a snore, then grunt. “Ah, yeah,” Seymour said. “It’s all quiet here.”
“I’m fine,” Brainert replied from his relatively comfortable position inside the teardrop trailer.
“I guess we didn’t have to hurry,” Brainert complained after a pause.
“Look, I’m sorry I disrupted your academic schedule with this—”
“Forget it, Pen,” he replied. “All I’m missing is another wine party disguised as a faculty meeting. The last thing I need is the dean of the arts shoving copious amounts of that evil juice of Dionysus down my throat. I almost perished the last time—”
“Hah!” Seymour cried. “So, you finally admit you were drunk when you wrecked your car. I knew—”
“Quiet!” I hissed. “Someone’s coming. I see a flashlight beam on the dirt road.”
We watched in silence as a black-clad figure faded in and out of the shadows. The newcomer spotted the campfire and immediately extinguished the flashlight. With only a half-moon glowing wanly in the clear night sky, the figure once again melted into the shadows.
“Can anyone see him?” I whispered into the phone.
Brainert’s response was so faint I could hardly make out his words. “I hear him, I think.”
Finally I could see the figure again, definitely a man. I watched in silent horror as he moved stealthily behind our target in the folding chair, who was still seemingly oblivious to the stranger’s presence.
The man pulled a handgun from his pocket and aimed. Though I expected it, I jumped at the gunshot blast.
The mannequin we’d borrowed from Judy’s Dress Shop flew out of the chair, its head exploding. Plastic fragments sailed in every direction. The mannequin tumbled forward, landing in the fire. Flames exploded and in the bright flash I spied the shocked face of Hollis West, a knit cap jammed over his smug hair.
“Now!” Brainert cried, springing his trap.
From somewhere in the woods, the bent sapling snapped back into shape, yanking the rope. But the loop failed to catch Hollis West’s ankle. Instead, it grabbed the toe of his sneaker, ripping it from his foot. Hollis was flipped end over end, and I heard a splash as his gun landed in the creek.
Realizing he’d been fooled, Hollis scrambled to his feet and took off in a limping run, the lack of a shoe slowing him down. As he bolted for the road, the bush right in front of him came to life, as Seymour sprang to his feet and aimed his golf club at the oncoming killer.
“Halt!” Seymour commanded, “or I’ll— Yikes!”
Hollis literally bowled him over. The camouflaged mailman looked like a tumbleweed as he rolled along the ground.
“Get him!” I shouted, bolting from the woods. “If Hollis gets to his car, he’s gone!”
Brainert rushed out of the trailer. Seymour jumped to his feet and took off after the fleeing shooter, with me hot on his tail. As I ran down the dark, pitted dirt road, I heard Brainert cursing behind me.
I was panting by the time we reached the highway. We’d parked our vehicles a quarter mile away to keep them hidden from Hollis. Now we had no way to give chase, as he dived into the open cab of his BMW and gunned the engine.
As Hollis peeled out into the night, the three of us stood watching in helpless frustration.
Jack? What do we do? Any ideas?
The ghost didn’t answer. Not with words. But as Hollis sped down that highway, a sudden icy gale whipped around us. The chill wind lifted dirt and dried leaves, shaking the trees all along the road. Suddenly, the heavy dead limb of an ancient oak dropped to the ground, right in front of Hollis!
The BMW turned sharply to miss it and spun across the road, bouncing off a guardrail. Just then we saw a red Nissan, in the wrong lane, racing toward the stopped BMW. The Nissan was speeding well over the posted limit and traveling too fast to stop in time.
The second crash was horrendous, with both vehicles spinning around like bumper cars. It took forever for the echo of that collision to fade.
Brainert had joined us in time to witness the accident, and now we all ran toward the smoking, twisted wrecks.
Seymour and I headed for the BMW. We found that the airbag pillowed the unresponsive driver like a giant marshmallow. Seymour touched his neck.
“Hollis is alive, but he’s out cold. I think he might be trapped under his airbag, too. I’ll call 911.”
As Seymour dialed, I noticed the BMW’s trunk had been damaged in the impact. That’s when another icy blast came rushing down the deserted roadway with enough force to blow the trunk’s lid wide open. To my shock, the interior light went on.
Take a peek, Penny, the ghost whispered.
Still shivering from the supernatural wind, I spotted a man’s leather bag. Its contents were spilled, and among the monogrammed shirts and designer slacks, I saw something gleaming.
Bingo! Jack cried in my head. You just won the kewpie doll.
I’d hardly compare the legendary Tears of Valentino to a kewpie doll, Jack, I said as I happily lifted the necklace out of the trunk.
Meanwhile Brainert reached the red Nissan. The airbag had been deployed in this car, too, but the driver was conscious. Now she struggled out of the wreckage, her business suit in disarray.
Brainert froze when he saw her.
“My God!” he cried. “It’s the dean of the arts!”
The woman’s eyes were unfocused, but her confusion had nothing to do with the accident.
“Professor Parker?” she called, slurring her words. “Is that you?”
She pulled her glasses out of her long, tangled hair and placed them over her eyes.
“It is you, Professor!” She wagged her finger, grinning stupidly. “Shame on you for missing the faculty meeting tonight. The Beaujolais was splendid. I do adore young wines, they are so . . . Ugh, I . . . I think I’m going to be sick.”
Brainert stared, unmoving, even as she began to heave.
“Don’t just stand there like a lump, Dr. Parker,” the dean gasped. “Hold my hair.”