As well he should. Lately he’d been off his game and Arabella blamed Gilly Germaine for his lack of concentration. The self-proclaimed philanthropist had managed to get her French manicured hooks firmly into Levon, and he was beginning to act like a love-struck schoolboy who couldn’t concentrate on his studies.
She shook her head, tossed her golf clubs into the back of her aging SUV, and got ready for the drive to Miakoda Falls. It was time to get to the tournament.
Arabella tucked the Tappan figural perfume bottle inside a small black velvet-lined case—the original box was unfortunately missing. Of course, if it had been intact, the bottle would never have been in a box lot. She placed the case on the white linen tablecloth in the space reserved for the Glass Dolphin. She straightened the bidding sheet for the umpteenth time, and then reread the index card with the details.
Clear glass figural perfume bottle by the Herman Tappan Perfume Company, New York, NY, c. 1890. Tappan’s colognes were aimed at the middle class and the prices affordable. He was quite fond of the glass novelty figural bottle, for which he owned two patents in the 1890s. This figural bottle of a small girl wrapped in a wolf skin fur is valued between $100 to $150.
Emily would tell her she was being obsessive, but when it came to antiques, Arabella couldn’t help it. She prided herself on her research and the information she provided. Accuracy mattered every bit as much as authenticity.
It wasn’t until Arabella put the index card back in its holder, satisfied it was acceptable, that she noticed Gilly Germaine had put the Glass Dolphin’s spot next to Larroquette’s Antiques: Pickers & Appraisers. Was this her way of telling Arabella that she was secure in her new relationship with Levon, that she was completely fine with Levon and Arabella remaining friends? Or did she think his donation would outshine hers?
Levon was offering a free estate or household appraisal service: “From basement to attic and every room in between,” which in theory sounded incredibly generous, but actually gave him first foot in the door. It didn’t guarantee him the commission, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Arabella was still debating Gilly’s motives when she heard someone slip into the room. Levon sauntered in, a half-smile playing on his lips. It was one of the rare occasions when Levon wasn’t dressed head to toe in denim, but Arabella knew the Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club adhered to a strict dress code typical of the majority of golf courses: collared shirt and long slacks for men, long shorts permissible but in truth often frowned upon, and collared shirts and long slacks and skirts, skorts, or long shorts for women. No matter how relaxed a club’s dress code might be, Daisy Dukes and denim were definitely taboo.
Nonetheless, Levon had managed to find a golf shirt in indigo blue to set off his eyes, and the khaki pants he was wearing managed to accentuate every square inch of his physique, which was fit and trim from years of lifting and moving boxes of collectibles and antique furniture. His hair, slightly shaggy and soft brown, with the first hint of gray at the temples, was all but hidden beneath a golf cap that matched the shirt to perfection. Arabella wished she didn’t still notice all those details about him—they were divorced, done and done and done again, a reality that by now was more on her than on him—but with Levon it was damn hard not to. Look up “charisma” in the dictionary and you were likely to see a picture of Levon Larroquette. With a half-smile, no less.
“Nice perfume bottle, Bella baby,” Levon said. “It should fetch a decent amount. Gilly will be pleased.”
Arabella knew Levon was trying to pay her a compliment, but she couldn’t help but feel a flash of annoyance. She could care less if Gilly would be pleased. She did care whether the folks at Kids Come First would be pleased. Arabella believed in supporting her community, and from what she’d been reading about the charity, KCF did just that.
She glanced over at the bid sheet for Levon’s appraisal service and noted the estimated value at three hundred dollars, double the amount of her perfume bottle. That ticked her off even more. “Your appraisal offer should also do well. Are you sponsoring a hole too?”
A hit below the belt, given the fact that Arabella knew full well he wasn’t—she’d studied the sponsor page on the golf course website and tournament brochure with the same intensity she’d given the index card.
Levon, however, didn’t rise to the bait. “No. Gilly thought it would be more helpful if I took on the job of Course Marshal.”
Of course she would. As marshal, Levon would be expected to report in to Gilly the entire morning.
“I get to zip from hole to hole in a cart, trying to speed up slow play without offending anyone, while making sure nobody’s drinking too much once eleven a.m. hits and the cart girl comes around—” Levon caught her eye and grinned.
They both knew he was referring to Poppy Spencer. The real estate agent was far from a lush, but when she got into the hard lemonade coolers, she had a tendency to forget there was liquor inside them. The Lount’s Landing Canada Day celebration on July first had a very inebriated Poppy standing on top of a table at The Hanged Man’s Noose and begging for business, her speech slurred and her usually impeccable clothing disheveled. Betsy Ehrlich, the pub’s owner, had managed to talk Poppy off the table without incident, and Emily had driven her home, but no one wanted a repeat performance.
“Sounds like you’ll be kept busy,” Arabella said, trying to block out the thought of Levon at Gilly’s beck and call.
“I’ve got it covered. It’s only nine holes, and it’s a best ball scramble. That should keep the pace under two and a half hours, even with all the duffers that are bound to be out there playing for a good cause. Everyone should be back in the clubhouse by twelve-thirty at the latest. That leaves plenty of time for folks to view the silent auction items and bid on them before lunch at one fifteen. Gilly has everything arranged, doesn’t leave anything to chance. Well, except for the weather, and even that is cooperating.”
Levon smiled, the full-on one he tended to keep in reserve, and Arabella felt something tug inside of her. She had heard quite enough about Gilly Germaine and how amazing she was. It wasn’t as if she was jealous, exactly, more like she felt Levon slipping away from her little by little. They might not be married any longer, but she never stopping thinking of him as a friend, someone who knew her and loved her, blemishes and all. Since Gilly had arrived on the scene, Levon had become more and more distant. This past month he’d been all but absent. Today was the first time they’d spoken in two weeks.
It didn’t help that she’d recently split up with Aaron Beecham.
For a small town cop, he seemed to be on duty more than off. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. It was just that when he was off duty, the Glass Dolphin was usually open, and she couldn’t exactly close the shop for a date. Emily was a fast study, but she had a lot to learn. If a customer came in with a question—
“I should get going,” Levon said, interrupting her thoughts. “Gilly is driving around the course checking that everything’s perfect before everyone heads out to their respective holes. Once she’s back at the clubhouse, I’ll do a final drive about. She’s relying on me.”
I’m sure she is. “I better get going as well. You know what Emily’s like about punctuality. If I’m so much as five seconds late, she’ll start to panic that we’ll be banished from the tournament, or worse, that we won’t get to our hole in time. We’re starting on number two.”
“Just remember not to hit the ball until the shotgun sounds.”
“Gilly’s using an actual shotgun? I thought everyone used sirens or horns these days.”
Levon laughed. “Gilly’s as much of a stickler for research as you are. She read back issues of Golf Digest at the library. In 1956 the head pro at the Walla Walla Country Club in Washington—the state, not the city—fired a shotgun into the air to sound the start of play. Apparently that was the first time, though other tournaments have done it since. Gilly thought it would be more authentic if she used a shotgun, too. You of
all people should appreciate that, Arabella. After all, isn’t that your motto? ‘Authenticity matters?’”
It was, but Arabella didn’t like that Gilly had adopted the same motto. She didn’t like it one bit.
3
Arabella made her way to the parking lot where the double row of golf carts, equipped with golf bags, were waiting to be driven to their respective holes. One golf cart was missing, which seemed odd, but there was still a good thirty minutes to go before the tournament officially started. Naturally, Emily was already there.
“Poppy Spencer donated golf balls with her real estate logo on them,” Emily said by way of greeting. “Every golfer gets a sleeve of three. They’re in the cart.”
“Good advertising. Even if you lose the ball, someone else will find it and notice the logo.”
And it was much more sensible than a jet ski. Why hadn’t they thought about golf balls?
Most of the golfers were milling about, checking their phones, chatting, and sampling the coffee, fruit, and breakfast pastries arranged on a side table. Arabella grabbed a lemon poppy seed muffin. “Where are Luke and Hudson?”
“They’re here. Luke wanted to check out the jet ski one more time, so he took the cart.” She grinned. “I don’t think that’s in the Gilly Germaine rule book, but she wasn’t around to stop him. Neither was Course Marshal Levon.”
That would explain the missing cart, Arabella thought, alternately worried and amused at Gilly’s potential reaction if or when she found out. “What about Hudson?”
“He’s checking out the silent auction table. He donated a signed first edition of his first two books, and a ‘name-a-character’ in his next book.”
Hudson Tanaka was Luke’s best friend; an athletic forty-something guy that Emily obviously thought was a good fit for Arabella. Since her split with Aaron, and Levon taking up with Gilly, Emily’s not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts had been relentless. Tall, short, fat, thin, if the men were old enough to shave and remotely interested in the opposite sex, Emily seemed to think Arabella would be interested.
Emily was wrong. It wasn’t that the men she’d “found” for Arabella were losers. Far from it: they were well educated with decent jobs, or at least a reliable source of income. Hudson Tanaka was a Toronto transplant who had settled in Lakeside to write his third novel. The first two books in his Medieval Knight mystery series apparently sold well enough to afford him a lakefront property. Not in the nosebleed section of Moore Gate Manor, but certainly beyond anything Arabella could hope to afford in this lifetime or the next.
Hudson was also handsome in a storybook sort of way; his slender six-foot frame, long narrow face, and angular chin inherited from his Scandinavian mother—a former magazine and runway model according to Emily—and almond-shaped eyes with the sparkle of black Alaskan diamonds from his Japanese father.
It wasn’t his appearance or his profession that was the problem. It was just that Arabella had sworn off men, at least for the time being. Her marriage to Levon had flopped and her relationship with Aaron—which had seemed promising for a while—had been a bust. The last thing she needed was a third strike in the relationship department. She intended to celebrate her upcoming fortieth birthday unattached and proud of it.
A shot rang out, loud and clear. Arabella jumped at the sound. “That must be the starter’s gun. Levon said Gilly was going to use a real shotgun.” She glanced at her watch. “Talk about a keener. She’s a good twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule.”
“Maybe she’s doing a trial run.”
“Seriously,” Arabella said. “It’s bad enough she’s using a real shotgun when the rest of the world is satisfied with a horn. She has to shoot the darned thing twice?”
Emily grinned at her in that way she had when she’d figured out something you didn’t necessarily want her to know.
“I’m just saying,” Arabella said, knowing that she sounded peevish. “Just saying what?” Hudson appeared at her side.
“Arabella is annoyed that Gilly is using a real shotgun.”
“Well, it is a shotgun start,” Hudson said, smiling. “Besides, we all know what a perfectionist Gilly is. No detail too small.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Emily said.
Arabella gave her friend an imaginary middle finger. “I’m probably just on edge. I’m not a very good golfer. Actually, ‘not very good’ would be a compliment.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Hudson said. “This is a fun tournament for a great cause. Besides, it’s best ball.”
“I’m not even sure what that means.”
“Every cart has a copy of the rules clipped onto the steering wheel. Plus Gilly is bound to go over them before we head out.”
A golf cart pulled in and now there was a tidy double row of eighteen carts.
“There’s Luke now, arriving in the nick of time, ear buds in as usual,” Emily said, but her tone was affectionate.
Gilly came out of the clubhouse, her face flushed. Arabella had to admit that Gilly was stunning in her cool, cultured, and corporate-looking getup. She held a cordless mic in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. She thanked everyone for coming and then turned her attention to the paper.
“Welcome to the Second Annual Kids Come First Golf Tournament. The rules are simple. Each golfer will take a tee shot. The best shot, as determined by all members, will be where each golfer will take their second shot, and so on until you putt out and finish the hole. Please keep pace of play in mind. We have a silent auction with plenty of wonderful items for you to bid on, and lunch will be served promptly at one fifteen. Levon Larroquette will be the Course Marshal.” She smiled, the flush receding when Levon appeared.
“Ah, here he is now. He’ll be taking you to your respective holes. Please make your way to your carts, and remember not to start until you hear the shotgun.”
“I thought I already heard a shotgun,” Arabella said. A few other golfers nodded.
Gilly’s ice-blue eyes turned icier as she stared Arabella down. “Impossible. The shotgun is locked up in the clubhouse. You must have heard a car backfiring. The road is only a few yards off the parking lot, after all, and people tend to speed along there without any regard for the posted limit. Now pitter-patter let’s get at her, shall we? It wouldn’t do to start late.”
“Why do I feel like saluting?” Arabella muttered, but no one was listening. She marched silently to the golf cart she was sharing with Emily while conflicting thoughts ran through her head. Car backfiring, indeed. She’d heard enough gunfire when she was a kid growing up on a farm to know what it sounded like. That sound had been a shotgun, but who had pulled the trigger? Good luck to Levon, if he was hooked up with Miss Trigger-Happy.
4
Even though she was waiting for the sound, the blast from the shotgun made Arabella jump. “That was the shotgun,” Luke said.
“Are you sure it’s not a car backfiring?” Arabella said, eliciting a chuckle from Emily and Hudson. Luke, however, didn’t appear to be amused.
“Remember, silence is golden on the tee.” Luke smiled, but Arabella could tell he was serious.
Hudson raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, pulled his driver out of his bag, and walked, ball and tee in hand, ready to hit.
Both men’s tee shots were impressive; long and straight down the middle of the fairway. They carted it down to the red advanced tees. Emily hit first. It was another decent shot—not the distance of Luke and Hudson, but a solid one hundred fifty yards. By this time, Arabella was getting anxious. Golf wasn’t her thing. She’d only taken it up this spring at Emily’s urging and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it. Never an athlete, Arabella was the kid everyone had picked last for any sort of sports team, and for good reason.
She walked over to the tee box, silently cursing Emily, and tried to remember everything that Robbie Andrews, the Head Pro at the Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club, had taught her in her weekly lessons. Robbie was nicknamed “The Sain
t”—a nod to the prestigious St. Andrews Golf Course in Scotland and Robbie’s reputation as an infinitely patient instructor. But even Robbie’s tolerant temperament had been tested by Arabella’s inability to grasp the basics.
She took a deep breath, determined to get it right. Feet slightly wider than shoulders. Left foot slightly turned out. The ball just inside her left heel. She gripped the club lightly, her fingers interlaced the way Robbie had instructed, and looked for two V’s formed by her thumbs and index fingers. She took another deep breath and a practice swing followed by one more swing for good measure. Finally hitting the ball, Arabella watched it go about fifty yards and land in a sand trap shaped like Mickey Mouse ears.
“I’m sorry.”
“Relax,” Hudson said. “It’s best ball, and we’re here to support Kids Come First. Don’t stress yourself.”
Emily gave Arabella a look that said, “See, I told you he was a good guy.”
“Hudson’s right,” Luke said. “This is supposed to be fun. Let’s go see which ball we’re going to use. We can pick up the other balls along the way.”
The rest of the hole wasn’t much better, even though everyone made a big deal about how Arabella’s putting saved the team a stroke. She had to admit that all those visits to the mini putt when she was growing up were coming in handy.
Arabella had to admit that arriving at the third hole and seeing the jet ski on display was exciting. A man wearing a Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap and blue and black plaid pants sat in a chair behind the tee box and off to the left side. He nodded, but didn’t speak.
“He’s from the hole in one insurance company,” Emily said, stating the obvious. “They told me they were going to send someone. I suppose they’re worried someone might try to cheat.”
A Hole In One Page 2