AHMM, July/August 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I felt some disdain for Marcello's taste. Just like Bobby, a lamebrain in the romance department. The great loves of Bobby's life all turned out to be lookalikes. Marcello's track record struck me as being on par with Bobby's. Then again, Marcello was a lot less vulnerable to any woman, and I sensed that he had nothing like Bobby's trusting heart.

  Marcello, my main suspect. Marcello, who put the bug in Candy Finn's ear about Bobby's camera.

  Despite that, I waved a guarded hello to him two days later as he passed me on the way to the teaching shed. Couldn't help remembering that months before all this mayhem, I caught him there, locked in a passionate kiss with a student just the wrong side of married. I said, “So sorry,” and backed out as if I, and not they, had transgressed.

  Anyway, this time when I sailed a wave Marcello's way in the late afternoon, he seemed surprised that I made the effort. He nodded, gave me a wondering smile. In the beat that I was turning away, it seemed to me that his smile had morphed into something more authentic.

  Barely an hour later, our part-timer, Riley, strolled down to the shed to hit a bucket of balls in peace. He never got off a single stroke. Marcello lay on the ground, his left temple bashed in.

  About the time this discovery was made, I was already heading home, ready to enjoy a gourmet dinner cooked up by my local fancy grocery, the one I go to on those rare occasions when I get the itch to spend more money than makes sense. Just as I lifted the first forkfull, the phone rang. It was Gray. “You won't believe this,” he said. “Marcello. He's dead. The police are all over the place, just like before.”

  The word dumbfounded is a stupid-sounding word, but that's what I was.

  Gray said, “Sorry to be short, but I wanted to give you a heads up.”

  I wish he hadn't. It would have been better if I could have appeared dumbfounded for Candy Finn's benefit too.

  The next call was from a nasal-voiced Gulf Breeze Police Department functionary. I was invited to come in for questioning that night. Or I might delay until morning, though the edge in the functionary's voice implied that might not be a bright idea. My fancy shrimp dinner went back into the fridge.

  Again I faced Candy. Her office lighting was a dim yellow that made me think of the bug-lights my grandfather used to screw in above his carport. Not cool, the news coming to her attention that for a third time I'd been the last to see a murder victim alive.

  She dragged a hand down her long neck as if to reassure her voice box of some deep truth. “What can you tell me about your relationship with Marcello Reinhardt?” she asked.

  I raised my brows and tilted my head, showing a hint of impatience. “He was a teaching pro at the range, like me.”

  “That's all?”

  “Sorry, but you're looking at the original Bobby's girl. Period.” I felt so stupid, realizing that I'd actually used a teen song from the sixties to describe my love life.

  “You had no romantic dealings with Mr. Reinhardt?”

  Dealings? An uncontrollable sputter erupted from my throat. Good thing I was more than an arm's length away from Detective Finn, for hygienic purposes.

  She popped a tissue from its slotted box on the desk and dabbed at the wood as if an errant drop had landed there. “Care to explain that explosive response?”

  “You'd have to know Marcello's favorite word. Voluptuous,” I deadpanned. “He'd say things like, ‘Oh, my new girlfriend is so nice and pretty, and so voluptuous.'” My front teeth stabbed my lower lip as I smiled. “Let's just say, I'm way too much on the scrawny side to attract Marcello's attention.” Glancing at Candy's not terribly bouncy chest, I wanted to add, same goes for you.

  “The question is, did you wish you could attract his attention?”

  I gave her a definitive, unwavering no. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm outta here.”

  She stood, hesitated, as if wondering if she should keep me after school. Then she gave me a searing look like the ones you see on those true-crime channels coming from nearly omnipotent law enforcement guys. “Before you go,” she said, “is there anything else you'd like to say?”

  I raised by brows wistfully. “Just that up until now, I thought Marcello killed Bobby and Mr. Joe.”

  “So much for that theory.” Candy chewed her cheek and squinted at her notes. “All right, Miss Larkin—you can go.”

  I wanted to click my heels and deliver a stiff-armed salute, but I needed to ask her something. At the door, I turned and gave her an expression of genuine concern. “What's going on here anyway? You got a clue?”

  The gaze she returned betrayed a flash of honest frustration. She quickly resumed her know-it-all manner and said, “Marian, if you truly have nothing to do with these killings, my advice is, watch your back.”

  Outside the building, crossing the street on the way to my car, I took care to look both ways.

  * * * *

  After Marcello left us, I was ready to go too. My brother told me more than once: “You get out of there. A serial killer's on the loose. Don't you get it?”

  Oh, I got it. Initially, I thought the motive was some kind of “love” revenge. Bobby might have dumped his latest girlfriend, as he had me, by taking her upstairs, offering her a Rolling Rock. She was a nutcase, unable to take rejection on top of the insult of a cheap beer.

  But my murder-for-passion theory went poof when Mr. Joe went down. Romance wasn't a question there, and I'm sure Mrs. Joe would attest to that fact were she still alive.

  The profit motive was back. One of us did it. Who stood to gain most? Marcello.

  But now Marcello—athletic, bright and charming, if sometimes an enigma—had been caught off guard too. Could the devil be one of our part-timers; or our keeper, Gray; or even the general himself, Mackal? Or was I back to the jilted lover, romance-gone-bad angle again?

  Who was Bobby's new girlfriend, anyway? I'd never learned a thing about that. And who was this sweetheart Marcello had gone gaga over, according to Gray. And if the femme fatale I'd concocted in my head was the culprit, then why did Mr. Joe also end up on the wrong end of a club?

  The only thing that seemed clear was that Candy Finn had no evidence. Three men bopped in the head. No evidence. They could as well have been hit by meteorites.

  * * * *

  I did the only thing that made sense. I quit.

  Quitting the range wasn't like chucking a regular job. My decision meant nothing to Mackal or to range operation in general. We're all free agents here, and simply pay an annual fee to make use of the facilities. So it's more precise to say that I fired myself, even though my fee was paid up until the last day of December.

  With some reluctance, I took leave of my students—made up a story about better prospects. Ah yes, better prospects, as in landing a job where chances of being clubbed to death might be better than three in six.

  An old friend who managed a golf course in Sierra Vista, Arizona, said come on out. They had room for one more pro, a woman especially, to give help and encouragement to all of these baby boomer retirees.

  The prospect of leaving Florida was painful. My brother and my favorite nephew, Oliver, were here in the Panhandle. And I love the ocean. I need to be near water. In Sierra Vista, the deepest body of H2O I could expect to enjoy would be the treacherous water hazards bordering the fairways.

  My departure was a week off. We were in the first days of December, when the weather in Florida is the best you can ask for. I'd told my landlord, boxed up my sentimental stuff. The rest was ready for the movers. I was antsy, wanting to hit some balls to get rid of nervous energy.

  I went to the range.

  Gray gave me a hug and pulled up a basket of balls, on the house. Two new instructors had put up the fee to teach here. “They seem like okay guys,” Gray said. I nodded, as if glad the world still turned on its axis. My former corner of the world would thrive very nicely without me. And without Bobby, Mr. Joe, Marcello.

  The place was hopping. This did make my heart leap with a bit of joy. For a
while there, after Marcello's murder, the range took a definite hit. No one felt safe. But now it was December. The air was cool and crisp and even the grass on the range seemed greener and more alive than in spring.

  Slots were open on ground level, but I longed to commune with the sky and horizon alone. Three wood, seven iron, and pitching wedge in hand, I trudged up the concrete steps to the second tier. Believing that facing my demons might have some value, I chose the stall Bobby and I shared that last night. I have to admit, though, that I hadn't been dwelling on Bobby as much lately. He was the one who'd ended us, after all.

  I simply kissed the breeze and wished his spirit well.

  Despite recent traumas, my body and spirit were still intact. An almost celebratory mood filled me. I hit ball after ball off the mat, watched their lovely arches, wondered if they'd travel farther in the dry air of Arizona.

  “Hello.”

  I jumped. Craning around, I saw that the voice belonged to a young woman I'd vaguely been aware of several slots down, the only other golfer up top. Blonde, athletic looking.

  “Aren't you a teaching pro?” she asked. Her voice was higher than mine, but mellow—the kind of voice that has a pleasant smile in it.

  “I was, but I'm retired now.” I had to work to keep from laughing at my own joke.

  She didn't catch my irony and seemed genuinely abashed. Her eyes, I couldn't help noticing, were movie-star beautiful. Her age was a toss-up. Anywhere between twenty and thirty.

  “Oh, gee, I was hoping you could help me.” She stepped up to the rubber tee on the mat next to my stall and set a ball down. “I just wish . . .”

  I was amazed at the club speed during her practice swing. Much faster, more aggressive than mine. The club burned the air. Then she hauled off and hit a beaut.

  “Nice,” I said. “You wish?”

  She nailed me with a flirtatious eye and gave her rear end a wiggle as she posed with her club in the address position. She took another red-hot practice swing that made the air whistle. “I've been desperately trying to find someone who'll teach me to spin the ball on the green. The way the pros do. They can pitch the ball above the hole, and it spins back just perfectly to below the pin, and then they have a putt for birdie.”

  She pulled a ball from her pocket, gave the club another swing, on plane, and delivered another nice shot for an amateur. “It would sure help my game to learn that,” she said, as she stared the ball down.

  Every last muscle, tendon, sinew in my body tensed. I noticed the shirt she was wearing, the familiar pattern of golf balls outlined in pastel shades, running across her breasts.

  I cleared my throat and worked to look as relaxed as Freddie Couples. “You mean, you want to learn to spin the ball on the green.”

  “Yes, yes. Isn't that what I just said?” Her beautiful eyes gleamed a scary blue. “I've been told women can't do that spin.” She faced me, holding the club at her side. Though I only glanced at her briefly, I saw that she was full of a passionate impatience to hear what my response would be.

  “Nuts,” I tossed out. “Whoever said that is nuts.”

  My heart raced. I examined the grip of my seven iron, as if it were giving me trouble.

  “Awesome.” Her smile broke out wide and gay like a happy sun after a week of fog.

  “I like that shirt,” I said, to further deflect her attention from my nervousness.

  “Aren't you Marian?” she asked, aiming those glittery eyes of hers at me with greater purpose. “Yes, Marian. I heard that you're a good teacher.”

  I held up a modest hand. I had to get out of here. Had to. “Yes, I used to be good.” I tried to sneak an off-putting snort into my laugh, but it sounded more like a polite sneeze. I noticed her arms, the well-defined muscles. This woman didn't have an ounce of fat on her. I said, “Now I'm just another old lady, and I don't teach anymore.”

  “Don't tell me that. Please give me a lesson.”

  “As I said, I quit. But I'll, well, let me check my schedule. Maybe I can fit you in later this week.”

  “Now,” she said. “You're just hitting balls up here, like you've got time on your hands. Give me a lesson now.”

  How I wanted to run away. I gazed at the horizon, pictured Bobby's sand wedge sailing out over the range, end over end. “A lesson now,” I said. “Sure thing.” I manufactured a cheerful, totally supportive, nurturing voice. And she bought it. “There's just one item I need to get. A teaching tool.”

  “Not one of those damn cameras.”

  “Oh, no. It's a club. Designed for the skill you want to learn, that backward spin.”

  “They have a special club for that?”

  “Yeah. It's great. I'm going to get it.”

  Her hands tightened on her own club which she now held in front of her, across her body. Her eyes shot out sparks of incomprehension. “You're going?”

  I flashed my tournament-winning smile. “Just to get this teaching tool out of my car. It's a miracle worker.”

  I started walking in a very casual way toward the stairs and refrained from looking back. My legs carried me down the steps. I passed Gray on the way out. He was talking to Mr. Franklin, one of our old geezers who still strikes a ball pretty well despite being eighty-eight. I thought of breaking in, telling him that the blonde creature upstairs was our girl, but what could I ask him to do? She hadn't harmed me. And Detective Candy had let slip that there was no evidence to link the murders to anyone.

  In the parking lot, I made it to my Malibu. I dumped myself in the driver's seat.

  Finding herself stood up, that crazy lady upstairs would be hopping mad. So what. I shoved the key in the ignition.

  But someone will be next, a voice in my head rasped. So—I'd call Detective Candy, describe this gal. I wouldn't be able to prove anything, though.

  I gave the key a turn, the engine rumbled. I was ready to spit gravel, but my foot wouldn't move off the brake.

  I saw Bobby lying on the ground in front of me, Mr. Joe, crumpled in his chair. How I missed his blustery voice. Marcello, sauntering gracefully down the stalls, whistling Spanish serenades.

  That dame upstairs, waiting for me—she was the one. I had no doubt. If I left, she was going to get away with it. I cut the engine, got out, slammed the door, pulled a nine iron from my bag in the trunk. I'd sucker our mystery girl into believing this was a magic club. Soon I was walking past Gray, still stuck in conversation with Mr. Franklin.

  I shouldered the club and pushed through the glass door. Outside, mounting the steps, I thumbed keys on my cell. Detective Candy's voicemail came on. At the tone I said, “Marian at the range. I've got her, right in front of me. No evidence, the only evidence is my guts. I'm gonna push her buttons. We're on the top tier, and I'm asking, pay us a visit. Soon.” As I neared the mystery woman's slot and she smiled at the iron in my hand, I added, “Or I might be next.”

  I put more bounce into my last few steps. “Here we are,” I said, as I allowed her to snatch the miracle club from my sweaty hands. “Now tell me a little about yourself. I have a feeling you went to college on a golf scholarship.”

  “Yes, that's true.” She all but stuck her chest out in pride. “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch. You're obviously no amateur.” I picked up my seven iron. “Couldn't make the cut, huh?”

  Her body tensed, the startling eyes no longer friendly. The monster was beginning to stir.

  If not this question, one of the next ten I had in mind should do the trick. We would have our evidence. Unlike the others, there would be no sneaking up on me. I had the drop on her, wouldn't take my eyes off her for a second.

  She took a vicious practice swing. My teeth began chattering in the kind December sunlight. I'd just signed on for the scariest lesson of my life. Crazy. But what's a life worth? Make that three.

  Worth the risk.

  Heck, maybe I'd even teach her to spin the ball backwards on the green.

  Copyright © 2012 Elaine Menge
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  * * *

  Fiction: ASSIGNMENT IN CLAY

  by Donald Moffitt

  The scribe Nabu-zir was weary after a long day transcribing temple receipts for the monthly god-offerings. The New Year festival was less than a half-moon away, and the flood of grain and other produce had gotten ahead of the overworked staff in the temple's scriptorium. So when Lu-innana, the temple's deputy administrator, had offered temporary jobs to him and a few other outside scribes, Nabu-zir had reluctantly agreed to sign on until after the festival. The kickback to Lu-innana was relatively modest compared to what was demanded by some of the other temple officials, and besides, Nabu-zir needed the work.

  But he wasn't happy to see Lu-innana standing in his doorway at this late hour, when the light was beginning to fade and he still had a rapidly drying stack of clay tablets to get through.

  “What brings you here at this hour, Lu-innana?” he said without getting up.

  Lu-innana didn't answer immediately. He was distracted by the sight of Nabu-zir's serving woman, Nindada, as she tried to slip past him and out the door. But she wasn't quick enough, and he was able to get in his customary grab at her before she was able to escape.

  “The temple should never have sold her,” he sighed. “How much do you want for her, Nabu-zir?”

  “I've told you before that she's not for sale,” Nabu-zir said snappishly. “She's a free woman, and her manumission is written in clay.”

  Lu-innana shook his head. “You're a hopeless do-gooder, Nabu-zir.”

  “Did you have something to say, or did you come here to moon over Nindada?”

  Lu-innana gave another sigh and got down to business. “I have one more job for you, Nabu-zir.”

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?” Nabu-zir grumbled.

  “Kings don't wait.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The lugal himself, the divine Shulgi, has sent for you. He wants to dictate something.”

  “This wasn't part of our agreement. Hasn't he got scribes of his own?”