W
hen I got back to the hotel room, I stood out on the balcony for a few minutes before getting ready for bed. The moon’s reflection created a long path across the ocean’s surface toward me. The bright moon even lit up the few low clouds in the sky. A beautiful night, I thought, although standing on the balcony exposed me to an evening sea breeze that seemed unusually cool for this time of the year.
My thoughts surprised me, going back to my ex rather than Rose, my current partner. The divorce had devastated me. I never saw it coming. Too engrossed in my work, I can see now how I took my ex-wife for granted and paid her too little attention. Back then, though, her departure shocked me, and her determination to end our marriage even more so. I thought I had gotten over her, but it was her I suddenly wished could be with me on the balcony.
“Get me a referral?” Tom shouted from his room, interrupting my thoughts.
“Working on it.”
He didn’t say anything else, and I proceeded to my room in the two-bedroom suite. My head had started hurting, and I wanted to go to sleep.
The inevitable happened on the first tee the next morning. Most knew by the time we gathered at the tee box, but with all thirteen of us bunched together, the rest learned that Bob and Eric had been taken to the police station and wouldn’t be playing with us today. All eyes turned toward me with what I hoped was a search for answers and not to steer the blame for all this happening to them.
“What’s going on?” Bill Sanchez asked. “Bob was supposed to be in my foursome.”
“I believe the police took them both in for questioning,” I said.
“Why?” Bill asked, his voice getting sharper.
“Probably because of their issue with Doug. You know they thought he cheated them out of their money,” Tom said, coming to my rescue.
“Who told them?”
“Any one of us, Bill,” Tom said. “We all witnessed the blowup last year. That is everyone but Jim. He wasn’t here.”
“Come on, we all know of the animosity between them. How the police learned about it is irrelevant. All of us should have mentioned it to the police when we were questioned,” Dick Leyes said.
“Dick’s right, so let’s just get on with our golf today,” Frank said.
Luckily, I didn’t have Bill in my foursome, and while James Streelman didn’t want to look me in the eye, Ed White and Mike Powers, my cart mate, appeared to be their regular selves. I wondered about Streelman. Was he mad at me, or was he hiding something?
Golf has several beneficial attributes. Despite claims to the contrary, one does get a fair dose of exercise playing eighteen holes. For golfers like us, riding in a cart doesn’t take away much of the walking. We spend a lot of our time walking around the rough looking for golf balls. Most of us even like to help others find their golf balls and for a few good reasons. One, and I believe most important, we may find a new golf ball lost by someone else that we can keep; two, we might find our partner’s ball for him thus speeding up play; and three, we can keep an eye on him or her to make sure a bad lie doesn’t magically turn into a good one.
Golf also helps to take one’s mind off the stresses of life, and for four hours, it refocuses that stress, anger, and frustration onto the game of golf. It teaches you that some of the simplest things can become obscenely difficult, like keeping your head down through the swing. There must be some life lesson there that perhaps the wisest have figured out.
Finally, golf gets you out of your house and into the fresh air. Usually this is done with others, so the added benefit of sharing your complaints about politicians, the economy, your spouse, or whatever is possible. I have found that most take advantage of this opportunity.
My game took a slide that day, but the others in my foursome also had a tough day. No one brought up Doug’s murder while we were out on the course. We directed most of our comments at the evil streak the course designer had when he laid out the course.
In the club house, however, the topic of the murder resurfaced with the presence of Bob and Eric. Both reported on their experiences with the police without hesitation.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Eric said in response to Streelman’s question. “They tried to interrogate me, but I told them if they kept things civil, I’d answer every question they had. They did, and I did. I had Detective Young. I had to explain the real estate stuff twice to him. I don’t think he’s that smart. Anyways, once I went through everything and told him I’d welcome his scrutiny of the company’s paperwork, he seemed to be satisfied.”
“Did he ask you if you killed him?” Jim asked.
“Of course. I told him I would’ve broken both his knees. I wouldn’t have killed him, because I still hoped to get my money back.”
Bob stood a few feet away talking to Mike Powers. A few others stood behind Powers, listening but not joining the conversation.
“Nichols was a bit of an ass. He kept acting like he didn’t believe me, but I kept my cool. I’ve watched enough TV to know better. I explained to him that murdering Doug would be illogical. Pulled my Spock card. I think it flustered him, but since I didn’t kill Doug, I don’t care.”
I walked away from the gaggle and bought a pulled pork sandwich for my lunch. A step up from the hot dogs I had for my two prior lunches. Finding an empty seat at Tom’s table, I joined Tom and Frank. Frank had finished most of his large chili dog, and seeing it, I immediately second guessed my choice for lunch. Tom had finished his lunch and had not left enough evidence for me to deduce what he had.
“It appears that Bob and Eric didn’t suffer too much at the hands of the police today,” Tom said.
“And they get to be the center of attention for a while,” Frank said.
“Eric told me something interesting. He’ll probably tell you, too,” Tom said to me.
“What?”
“Eric said that Detective Young gave him his card and said to call him if he could think of anything that might be important. More interesting, he also told Eric that if he couldn’t get in touch with him, he could always just pass the information on to you.”
“Me?”
“I guess it’s because Detective Young knows about your dates with Officer Strong.”
“Come on, Tom, you know those aren’t dates.”
“And whose fault is that? Not hers, she bought you late night pie for two nights in a row.”
“Are you dating the blond cop?” Frank asked, obviously happy to get into the pick-on-Jim conversation.
“I’ve asked Jim to set me up with a friend. She probably has more than one friend, Frank.”
“Jim, have you got any selfies with her? Hot tub selfies go viral pretty quick,” Frank said.
They both started laughing at their own jokes.
“She gave me a ride back to the hotel after the hospital, and we stopped at a diner. Then last night she asked me to me to meet her there again. It’s all case related, and it’s nothing I initiated. And, Tom, she wore her uniform both times.”
“Just means she’s playing hard to get,” Tom said.
“I have a feeling, I’m not going to be welcome in this group much longer,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that. Everyone expects you to be working this with the police. Why do you think Eric approached you in the first place?” Tom said.
“Plus, Tom and I will still like you,” Frank laughed at his own comment.
Pete approached us. The sweat stain around the Borden’s cap had grown a half an inch.
“I need to sit down. Got too much sun today,” he said.
“Are you okay? You look a little flushed. Let me get you some water.” Frank hurried over to where a pitcher of water and several glasses sat at the end of the counter.
“I’ll be fine,” Pete said to us and removed his hat. “Why do most of these cart gals look as old as me? Back home I think there’s a rule that you have to be under twenty-five.”
“I don’t think they can make that a rule,” Tom said.
“Should be able to,” Pete said. He accepted the glass of water from Frank. “Thanks.”
“How’d you shoot today?” Frank asked me.
“Not too good, but I did manage to keep my score under a hundred. How about you?”
“The same. Beautiful course but could do with wider fairways and less water.”
Frank’s comment caused us all to grin. We were all looking forward to finding the course where the ball always landed in the fairway, and with greens that would always roll the ball to the hole.
As we were loading the car to head back to the hotel, I received a text from Eric. “When we get back, I need to talk to you. Starbucks at two-thirty? Don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, see you there.” I sent in a return text.
“Problems?” Tom asked.
“Eric wants to talk to me again. Wants to meet me at Starbucks at two thirty. Told me not to tell anyone, so keep it between us.”
“Will do. Wonder what he wants.”
On the ride back to the hotel, I wondered if I shouldn’t have told Tom. What if Eric’s information was about Tom? I told him about the text because I was determined not to be pulled in circles by someone else’s melodramatics or wild theories. Eric had just come from the police. I hoped he hadn’t held something back that he now wanted me to know on the Q. T. That would irritate me.