We got into our carts, settled, and set off—Shirley and Myra in one golf cart, Lawrence and myself in the other. I did my best to focus on the landscaping, but out of the corner of my eye I could still see that tangerine ball bobbing along. When we arrived at the first hole and Shirley got ready to tee off, a smiling Myra attempted to give her a few tips. Since Shirley’s only goal was to reach the part of the golf course where we would have a good view of Chuck and Nancy Brown’s house—and as quickly as possible—she paid absolutely no attention to Myra’s advice and shooed her away. Based on our numerous trips to Matt’s house, we figured his cul-de-sac was near the end of the right side of the course. That meant we needed to get to the eighth or ninth hole in order to see what was going on.
The search of the Browns’ would bring our case to a successful resolution. It had been more than a couple of hours since we left the police station. For all we knew the detectives might have obtained their search warrant by now and would already be there. Neither of us could stand the idea of not seeing that conclusion—the fruits of our labor—with our own eyes.
Unaware of Shirley’s agenda, Myra stood off to the side and then watched in mounting disbelief as Shirley took quick swings over and over until she finally made contact with the ball, which veered off down the fairway to the right and into a line of pine trees.
“You should have—” Myra started to say. But Shirley was already running down the course toward the line of trees as if a swarm of bees were hot on her trail.
“We have a cart!” Myra called out. “Shirley!”
“Wow,” Lawrence said as we watched from our cart sitting well behind the green. “Look at her go.”
Myra did not seem quite as impressed with Shirley’s speed or athletic prowess. I don’t know exactly what she was muttering under her breath when she got into her cart, but I can wager some pretty good guesses.
For the next two holes Shirley continued to ignore all of her sister’s attempts to help her, and proceeded to run through the course like a maniac. Myra became progressively…um, let’s say frustrated, as the game wore on. She repeated the phrase What are you doing? with greater and greater frequency, to which Shirley would reply, “You play golf your way, and I will play it my way.” The few times she and Shirley ended up in their cart together were filled with either bickering or hostile silence. By the time we reached the fourth hole, Shirley finally had to slow down as there was a foursome in front of us still on the fairway. While we waited for them to finish Myra laid down the law.
“Either you behave like a civilized human being,” she told Shirley, “or I shall terminate this game immediately.”
“I am hardly behaving like a barbarian,” Shirley replied, tapping her fingers impatiently against the side of the cart as she peered off into the distance.
“You are playing like a deranged monkey. Why are you in such a hurry? If you don’t want to be here, just say so, and we can end this charade.”
“Myra, that is ridiculous. This is exactly where I need—I mean want—to be. And if I am playing too quickly for your taste, it is merely a difference in our basic nature. It is very difficult for me to move at the leisurely pace you prefer.”
“Listen to me, Shirley,” Myra said with quiet but extremely firm conviction. “For once in your life listen very carefully. You will not play golf your way. There will be no more running. No more swinging your club like a maniac. I am not kidding. This is a golf course, not a running track. There are rules and there is etiquette. These are essential elements of the time-honored tradition of golf, and I take both of them very seriously. If you cannot respect the game and its rules, then I will drive us right back to the clubhouse this very minute. Understood?”
Shirley glanced over at her sister. “Understood,” she said after taking in the expression on her sister’s face. “Although it is not in my nature, I will try to slow down and relax.”
The next three holes went fairly well—considering—and Myra started to calm down. Shirley didn’t take more than two or three swings at a time, and she stopped running between shots. But once we made it down the fairway of the eighth hole and came around a large curve that brought us in sight of the green, Chuck and Nancy’s house came into view through the wire fence on the edge of the course.
While Myra took her next shot the rest of us huddled together to regroup. Since there was no sign of a search going on, and it didn’t seem feasible that the detectives could have gotten their search warrant and gone through the entire house by now, our plan was to try and linger here for as long as possible and hope the detectives showed up. It wasn’t a great plan, or especially well thought out, but it was all we had.
Myra’s shot landed her ball on the edge of the green. Lawrence and I got back in our cart, parked over on the sidewalk near the green. We were situated next to the front end of Matt Peterman’s cul-de-sac. The Browns’ house was down at the other end but still clearly visible.
And then it was Shirley’s turn.
“Say, Myra,” she said casually, “I realize that until now I may have been a little shortsighted. Before I take my shot I would genuinely appreciate any advice you could give me on improving my swing.”
“Really?” Myra asked, thrilled. “All right, then. Let’s start with your stance.”
Myra patiently explained the proper stance while Shirley listened with rapt attention.
“Like this?” she asked, once Myra had demonstrated the proper placement of feet, torso, arms, and shoulders.
“No,” Myra replied, starting to sound frustrated. “You aren’t even facing toward the green. Your feet are too far apart. And you need to relax your shoulders.”
A second and third demonstration took place, each ending with the same result: Shirley seemingly unable to follow even the simplest of instructions. “I don’t understand why you are having such a difficult time with this,” Myra said, exasperated after her third attempt.
“I don’t know, either,” Shirley said with uncharacteristic humility. “How is this? Better?”
It wasn’t even close.
“It will do,” Myra replied, her enthusiasm starting to visibly subside.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You don’t sound positive.”
“I am absolutely positive that it will do, all right?”
“And what about my club? Is this the one you would use for this shot?”
“Yes,” Myra snapped. “If I were you and I were taking that shot, the club that you are using would do just fine. Can we just get on with it?”
“Really, Myra, I believe that you are demonstrating the same lack of patience that you accused me of earlier.”
Before Myra could respond, Shirley lifted her club behind her head and whacked her ball right into the shrubbery at the side of the fence.
“Oh, dear,” she said sorrowfully. “It looks as if I still have a lot to learn. Lawrence? Could you be a dear and see if you can locate my ball for me?”
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t bother to look for it,” Myra snapped. “Just drop a ball here and take the penalty.”
“I don’t wish to take the penalty. I wish to have Lawrence find my ball for me and then I will hit it from where it lies. That is the correct expression, is it not? Myra?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Oh, good. I am learning a great deal with all this new lingo and whatnot. Go ahead, Lawrence.”
Lawrence leaped out of the cart, with strict instructions from me to take his sweet time locating Shirley’s ball. Shirley leaned on her club with an air of complete relaxation while sneaking glances across the street as Myra stared at her through narrowed eyes.
“Any luck, Lawrence?” Shirley called out casually after a minute as Myra began to tap her fingers impatiently against the top of her leg.
“Not yet,” he called back, popping his head up through the shrubbery for a second and then back down again.
Myra glanced
over at Lawrence and then back at Shirley, her eyes narrowing into mere slits. “What are you up to?” she asked.
“Up to?” Shirley asked, her eyes wide open with exaggerated innocence.
“One minute you’re playing like a lunatic, and now you don’t seem to care how long we take. What is going on?”
“Going on?” Shirley repeated innocently. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am simply enjoying time with my sister while we play a delightful game of golf.”
“This is not a delightful game of golf! A delightful game of golf is relaxing, refreshing, invigorating!” Myra exclaimed, waving her golf club back and forth. “This has been a nightmare, and my patience is at an end.”
“A nightmare?” Shirley asked, as if dumbfounded. “Whatever are you talking about? I, myself, have been quite surprised at what a satisfying experience a rousing game of golf has turned out to be. In fact, I believe I have done you a grave injustice, Myra. Golf is truly a magnificent sport.”
“Stop! I am not an idiot! I had to threaten to end the game to keep you from running all over this course like a madwoman. But now that we have arrived at the eighth hole, suddenly you have all the time in the world. Time for golfing tips that you couldn’t be bothered with before and can’t seem to understand now. Time to send that dreadful little man off to hunt for your ball instead of taking the penalty stroke the way you did on all the other holes when your ball went into the trees or shrubbery.”
“I think you are overreacting,” Shirley replied with a little wave of her right hand. “These are merely the pitfalls that can occur when a dedicated golf enthusiast such as yourself plays with an amateur.”
“Pitfalls? Now, listen…Oh, Lord. You’ve taken so long that the last party is now down on the fairway waiting for us to finish. Just take the penalty shot so we can be done with this hole and move on.”
“I believe it is my choice whether or not to take the penalty, is it not? And I choose not to,” Shirley declared firmly with a nod of her head, and the orange yarn ball on top of her hat bobbed up and down. “I find that I am becoming quite fond of this game. It is bringing out my competitive nature, and I wish to improve my score on the remaining holes.
“Actually, it is not your choice,” Myra said, as a tone of desperation crept into her voice underneath the fury. “There is a time limit as to how long you may look for your ball—five minutes—and you have exceeded it.”
“A time limit? Why is this the first that I have heard of it?”
“Because until now you have always taken the penalty!” Myra pulled a golf ball out from her jacket pocket. “Take this. Place it somewhere—anywhere! Place it right on the green next to the hole, for all I care, and take your damn shot. I won’t even make you take the penalty.”
“You want me to cheat?” Shirley gasped indignantly. “I must say, Myra, I am quite disappointed to hear that. What happened to respecting the rules of the game?”
“Oh, for the love of—never mind. Trying to explain something to you is pointless. We’ll just let them play through.”
“Play through?” Shirley asked. “What does that entail?”
“We get in our cart, and sit on the side,” Myra explained as she signaled to the group in the cart below to play through. “And then we wait until they’re done. Quietly!”
“An excellent and extremely civilized solution!” Shirley exclaimed.
“I don’t think your sister is very happy,” I said quietly as Shirley ran over and got into the cart next to me.
“Indeed not,” Shirley replied with a shrug. “But I believe that in this case the ends shall justify the means. I thought the detectives surely would have arrived by now.”
“It probably takes some time to get a search warrant,” I said, hoping that was the explanation. I thought they would have been here by now, too. I didn’t need to witness the entire search. All I really needed was to see an indication that they’d found something—even just one thing—to prove that we’d been right, and I would have been satisfied.
We both glanced over toward the street that adjoined the edge of the golf course, behind the wire fence. We kept staring for a few more minutes, and I started to wonder if the detectives had thought the whole thing over and decided they’d been right the first time: Shirley and I were nuts. I heard a cart pull up to the green and then Myra greeting the group sitting inside it, but Shirley and I didn’t pay much attention. We were both on pins and needles waiting for something to happen across the street.
“Well,” Myra exclaimed huffily as she came marching up to our carts. “They were very understanding. Much more so than I would have been.” Myra climbed into the cart next to mine, sitting down beside Shirley with a loud sigh. “This is the sort of thing one expects on a public course.” Myra looked back over toward the green. “They’re getting ready to putt. No one say a word—not one single word—until they finish with this hole and drive off in their cart. Then maybe, just maybe, I can leave here today with some shred of dignity still intact.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw two very tan, silver-haired men in their sixties standing next to the green. One man was putting his ball from the outer edge of the green, while the other stood farther away, waiting to take his turn.
As I turned back to look across the street I saw Shirley suddenly sit up ramrod straight and grab the edge of her cart while she stared fiercely through the fence. I followed her gaze. A white Plymouth Valiant was pulling into Chuck and Nancy’s driveway, followed by a police car. Shirley leaped out of her golf cart and dashed toward the wire fence.
“Shirley!” Myra shouted as the cart shook a little from Shirley’s rapid and clumsy departure. “What are you—” Myra clamped her hand over her mouth, looking mortified.
“Hey!” one of the golfers shouted angrily from the green. “You just made me blow my shot!”
“I’m so sorry,” Myra said in a small, embarrassed voice. “My sister, she…” Myra threw her arms up in the air, apparently at a loss for words. I felt for her predicament—I really did. Under different circumstances it might have been a bonding experience. No one knew better than I how she was feeling at that moment. But it was not to be.
Leaving Myra to her fate, I jumped out of my golf cart and ran over to where Shirley stood by the fence, stopping next to her and never taking my eyes off what was taking place down the street. Detectives Owen and Addams got out of their Valiant, parked in the Browns’ driveway, and a few seconds later two young police officers in uniform emerged from the police car beside them. The four of them conferred together for a few minutes and then began walking up the driveway.
“Sorry again!” I heard Myra call out from behind us as a golf cart started up. “And don’t forget to put your drinks on my tab. That’s Myra Homes. Have dinner, too, if you want. And dessert. They make a lovely chocolate torte. Invite your wives to join you. What’s that? Really? Both of you? Just this past year? I am so sorry. Well, at least you have each other. Again, my apologies for my sister. Her first time. Doesn’t understand the rules. It won’t happen again. Enjoy the rest of your game.”
Shirley and I paid no attention to what was happening behind us. We watched breathlessly as the four members of the Springville Police Department made their way up the driveway toward the Browns’ front door. I swear I could feel every step they took.
“Well, I hope you are happy, Shirley,” Myra hissed, coming up behind us. “You have made this one of the most horrible days of my life. Are you even listening to me? What are you looking at that is so…I knew it!” she exclaimed as she spotted the activity across the street. “I knew you lured me here under false pretenses!”
“I do apologize,” Shirley said without turning around. “I knew you wouldn’t let us come if I told you the real reason. Damnation! I should have thought to bring binoculars. Watch, Myra. I want you to see this. Those police officers are about to search that house on the basis of information that I gave them, information that may solve a h
omicide. So if the police are listening to me, Myra, then perhaps I am in the right line of work after all.”
Myra narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, looking back and forth between Shirley and the action across the street, trying to absorb what Shirley had just told her.
I returned my attention to Matt’s driveway when suddenly I heard a “Pssst!” and then Myra let out a shriek and jumped back.
“Sorry,” Lawrence whispered, as he popped up from the ground behind Myra. “I was trying to keep a low profile. I was over at those bushes, you know, looking for your ball, Shirley, and I just now saw the you-know-who people show up at the house of the you-know-who-couple-who-are-named-after-a-color,” he said, panting a little between each word. “Just like you said they’d be, Shirley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dunbar,” Shirley replied. “We had realized that for ourselves.”
“Oh. So I ran all the way over here for nothing?”
“Helpful colleague,” Myra muttered. “I suppose this means that you still have not located that golf ball?”
“Uh, well…”
“Never mind. Shirley, now that the true purpose of this golf game has been revealed, I see no need to continue. You people are a menace. You do not belong on this golf course—or any other golf course, for that matter. You have managed to humiliate and embarrass me and…Oh, Lord. There’s another cart headed down the fairway.” Myra glanced down at her watch. “I was told we were being given the slot immediately before the last reservation.”
“Wonderful!” Shirley exclaimed as we watched the detectives pound on the Browns’ front door. “We can let them play through! I must say, I am very impressed with the entire playing-through concept. Solomon himself could not have devised a better resolution to the inevitable conflict between expert and amateur on the course. This golf game of yours intrigues me more and more.”
The Case of the Invisible Dog Page 29