by Lois Winston
“Did she see anyone else?”
“I didn’t grill her. Figured you’d do that.”
“Good. Keep your nose out of this investigation.”
If I wanted to talk to people about Dudley’s death, I would. I owed it to Dudley and his dog to make sure the police put his killer behind bars. “You sound tired.”
Britt yawned again. “Stayed up all night working the case.”
My ears pricked up. “What do you know?”
“We have a suspect in custody. Forensic samples and fingerprints went to the crime lab in Baltimore a few hours ago.”
“Did you arrest someone?”
“Not yet.”
“Why the heck not?”
“Circumstantial evidence. No murder weapon.”
“Who is it?”
“This is police business, Cleo. You’ll find out when the rest of the world does.”
“You’re holding out on me.”
“It’s my job to hold out on you. Keep that in mind.”
As a kid I’d always hated it when adults said they did things for my benefit. Britt’s statement rubbed me the same wrong way. I didn’t like being kept out of the loop.
If he didn’t have the gun, what were the odds he had the right person in custody? Telling me to stay out of the murder investigation was just like waving a red flag at a bull. Nothing suited me more than charging off to do a little investigating on my own.
I bet there were plenty of folks he hadn’t considered before he’d zoomed in on his current suspect. There’s no way he could have done a thorough investigation in less than twenty-four hours.
Because I did the taxes for most of the people in Hogan’s Glen, I knew lots of dirt that he couldn’t possibly know. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of beating Britt at his own game.
The race was on. May the better woman win.
~*~
When I took Mama to get her car later that morning, the golf course parking lot was crowded. We had to weave through narrow rows of parked cars to get to her big clunker. I handed Mama the grocery list after I installed her in Shamu.
“Just get the things on the list,” I cautioned, narrowing my gaze to make sure she got my point. “No substitutions.”
She gave me her patented look. The one where she slits her eyes, purses her lips—but not for long because she’d get wrinkles—and juts out her chin. The look that says Cleo, you’ve said something monumentally stupid.
“I was buying groceries before you were a gleam in your father’s eye,” Mama said.
Mama never shopped with a list. She bought what struck her fancy. I’d grown up with foods like tuna pot pie, Vienna sausage chow mein, and cheese doodle croutons. There were no limits to what Mama wouldn’t mix or match when it came to food.
Self-preservation demanded I take charge of the cooking as soon as I moved back home. “Mama, don’t get crazy on me today. You’re to buy two pounds of ground turkey, two bags of salad, and lasagna makings. Bitsy and the boys wouldn’t know what to do with your culinary creations.”
Mama slapped her hands against her steering wheel. “Masterpieces. My dishes are masterpieces, and you’re wrong. Boys will eat anything.”
She was probably right, but why take the chance? “Well then, let me be wrong with normal lasagna. I expect very ordinary ingredients for my ordinary main dish tonight. Don’t bring home a gallon of picante sauce just because it’s on sale.”
“You’re so bossy these days, Cleo,” Mama grumbled. “You’re absolutely no fun at all. I know exactly what you need.”
I groaned because I knew what was coming out of Mama’s mouth next. She and Jonette were united on this front, and the last thing I needed was to be reminded of my nonexistent sex life. “I gotta run, Mama. Have fun at the grocery store.”
Mama wasn’t put off by my hasty retreat. Her clarion tones, though intended for my ears only, rang out like the Liberty Bell. “You need to get laid, Cleopatra Jones. And if you don’t do it soon, I’m going to move out. I can’t stand your bitchiness much longer.”
I ignored the elderly gentlemen puttering around their cars, hoping against hope they didn’t have their hearing aids turned on. Heat steamed from my face.
Ever since my divorce, I’ve felt out of step with everyone else. Not that I’d ever marched to the same beat as the world, but at least I’d been on a parallel course. Lately I had come to realize that I was running blind through life without a map.
Fumbling in the dark wasn’t my style. I needed some semblance of order to my world and the only way I could accomplish that was through organization.
I stood next to the Gray Beast, holding my car keys as I reviewed my plans for the day. I had a stack of Homeowners Association audits to complete, which is why I couldn’t be spared for routine chores like grocery shopping for our houseguests.
I mentally ticked off my list of things to do. I needed to phone Jonette this morning to finesse the info she’d been withholding. We’d both feel better afterwards. Besides, our being on the outs with each other would only get worse if Bitsy arrived before we resolved our differences.
After I finished with Jonette, I needed to write out instructions for Charla and Lexy to put fresh linens on the beds. Then, if my workday went smoothly, all I would have left to do this evening would be to throw dinner together.
“Cleo?”
That sexy rumble needed no introduction. My hormones danced a little jig and I struggled to maintain my composure. Mama might be right about sex deprivation. Now that I was aware of Rafe, I couldn’t stop wondering how it would be between us. “Hello, Rafe. Big turnout today.”
I couldn’t help but notice the way his big brown eyes smiled at me. Had he heard Mama hollering across the parking lot about my lack of a sex life?
From the corner of my mind came a reminder of my resolve to trust no one, to assume that everyone I came in contact with could be Dudley’s murderer. I had to view Rafe in the same light, even if I was physically attracted to him.
“Today’s our Senior Invitational,” Rafe said. “Mild temperatures always increase our turnout.”
I fanned myself. My core temperature soared with long and lean Rafe standing next to me. His intent gaze made me feel as if I were the most compelling female in the universe.
Heady stuff indeed, now that I recognized my need for a male to pleasure me. A smile percolated up through my protective shield before I could stop it.
Rafe’s bedroom eyes warmed perceptibly. “I wanted to encourage you and Jonette Moore to finish your round for the Ladies League anytime this week. Just let one of us in the pro shop know what time is convenient for you.”
His eyes seemed to be singing a siren song. Something along the lines of “Come to me, you beautiful woman, and I will show you the secrets of the universe.” My body recognized the tune.
I was primed for him to touch me again, greedy for his touch. I’d never felt quite like this before and it didn’t seem to fit the guidelines I’d established for exercising caution. I craved the sensual release that only he could give. And all it would take was a mere touch.
My brain computed the various ways I could inadvertently touch him. It could be something as blatant as an “accidental” stumble or as innocent as pretending to shoo a bug away from his fair head. The possibilities were endless, especially for someone living in the rich fantasy land I currently inhabited.
Common sense was slow to return, but when it did it was something of a shock to realize I didn’t have a hibiscus flower in my hair or a grass skirt swishing around my private parts. Instead, I had on a very practical taupe jacket dress and boring sling-back pumps.
Definitely not sex goddess clothing. Definitely not someone a golf pro would be interested in. Most definitely not someone who was exercising caution. “Uh. Sure. I’ll check with Jonette and we’ll come out soon.”
My keys felt very warm in my hand. I should get in the Gray Beast and leave, but I just stood there
wishing for some way to prolong our conversation. What could I talk to a golf pro about? What?
A coherent thought intruded on my fantasies. Lessons. I needed golf lessons. Caution flew out of my head altogether. “I wanted to ask you about your lesson program.”
“You’d like to take lessons from me?”
His incredulous tone caught me by surprise. Had I missed something about the quality of my game? Did he think I was already good enough to go on the Pro Tour?
Maybe the man needed glasses. I’d been halfway decent before my divorce. Now my game was in the category of exceptionally terrible. I swung too hard, but golfing was so therapeutic I didn’t really care about my score.
What I cared about was spending time alone with Rafe Golden. I envisioned melting into his hands as he adjusted my grip, monitored my hip rotation, and measured my swing plane.
At this point in my sexless life, I didn’t have the slightest problem with paying a man to be attentive to me, even if it was under the guise of golf instruction. “Unless you think I don’t need lessons,” I added demurely.
I could see him struggling not to smile. Then he gave up and laughed out loud. “Lady, I can shave ten strokes off your game in one lesson, guaranteed. I thought you’d never ask. I’ve had my eye on that flat swing of yours for months.”
My hopes plummeted. He’d been eyeing my flat swing? Not my luscious supple body? I groaned aloud. “That bad, is it?”
He inclined his head toward the pro shop. “Let’s go inside and check my schedule for an opening. I’d love to teach you what I know about the golf swing.”
Hmmm.
I quickly weighed the possibilities. Spend a few minutes with Rafe or drive to work?
My hormones made the decision for me. “All right.” I’d never been in the pro shop in a dress and heels but there was always a first time for everything.
A few moments later I was regretting my decision. Amidst the gray-headed seniors in their colorful golf attire I faded into the woodwork in my dull, taupe-colored suit. I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if I’d worn an evening gown to the swimsuit competition of a beauty pageant.
Just when I was ready to bolt out the door, Rafe put his hand on the small of my back and guided me towards the counter and his assistant, Jasper Kingsland. The sudden electrical stimulus radiating from his touch brought an abrupt cessation of brainwaves as a hundred and twenty volts of pleasure short-circuited my system.
Needless to say, I kept moving forward and thought I was being extremely discreet about not jumping up and down and screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes!” But the golf ball I stepped on pitched me off balance to the right and into a display of state-of-the-art titanium drivers. I’d been wanting to take some of these demos out and hit them.
I was hitting them all right. First with my head and then with my shoulder and then with my hip. Golf balls that had been resting atop the display flew across the room like freshly popped corn. Two seniors went down as one overhead fluorescent light shattered with a loud pop.
The entire Titleist floor display tipped and fell on top of me and the seniors. I envisioned the headline for tomorrow’s newspaper: “Seniors Crushed, Sex Crazed Divorcee Trashes Golf Shop.”
EIGHT
Rafe knelt next to me. “Cleo, are you all right?”
I blinked back tears. What a disaster. I was too embarrassed to move, too humiliated to find out what parts of me still worked. Obviously my brain was fried.
Glancing around the pro shop, I saw that the two felled seniors were scoping out my undies. I shot them my death glare as I assumed a more modest position. Only, my legs weren’t cooperating.
I just wanted to ooze into the tight weave of the bright green industrial grade carpet. I suppose someone had picked this cheery green color because it looked like grass, but frankly it wasn’t doing a thing for me. It wouldn’t suck me down for love or money.
“Cleo? Is anything broken?” Rafe asked.
Only my pride, my self-respect, and maybe the heel of my shoe. “I’m okay.”
I abandoned all attempts to right myself and stared into the very concerned eyes of the hunk hovering over me. The dark brown of his eyes reminded me of thick chocolate melted over perfect vine-ripened strawberries.
I imagined myself feeding him those very strawberries as he lounged beside me in a secluded glade wearing only a smile. In my mind’s eye, he sensuously licked the chocolate off of my fingers, one at a time.
Back in the real world, I tried my best “come hither” smile and willed my arms to reach for this edible chunk of man candy. He must have been receiving me on the same level because he scooped me up in his arms.
“Jasper, check the seniors and see if they need medical attention,” Rafe said. “I’m taking Mrs. Jones back to my office.”
Hallelujah. Privacy.
And a man that could turn me on with just a touch. He had one arm around my waist and another around my legs. My blood sang the Hallelujah Chorus and my heart pounded double time. Virtual fireworks exploded in my head as he threaded his way past rows of golf bags and large buckets of mustard-colored range balls.
I envisioned him kissing me senseless as he settled me on his lap, then we’d have sex on his desk or maybe the floor. Only that green carpet didn’t extend back here.
In this less customer-friendly area of the shop, the floor was bare concrete with a drain in the center of the room. I shivered at the image of being naked on that cold, stained cement. Okay, so the floor was out.
Chair sex suited me just fine.
I rubbed my fingers in a light caress of that downy hair at the base of his neckline and he jumped, dropping me on his desk. Fortunately it was clear of staplers and cups of pens and lamps and things that would hurt to sit on.
As soon as contact between us was broken, my brain activity increased to the fifty percent level, just above survival functioning but still locked in terminal stupidity. “What’d you do that for?” I asked.
He barred his arms across his chest. “I didn’t mean to drop you. Sorry.”
I ignored the strong urgency I felt to leap off his desk and back into his arms again. A few more brain cells came back online and I realized I owed the man an apology for ruining his store.
To keep myself from reaching for him, I gripped my hands tightly together in my lap. “I’m sorry too. For destroying your display, for possibly endangering the lives of your senior customers, and for falling at your feet, twice.”
He seemed to relax when I stayed put. “What’s with that, anyway?” he asked.
I assumed he was talking about my clumsiness around him. “Don’t know.” No way was I going to try to explain the NASCAR-like spate of hormones even now corrupting my thought processes.
One of the life lessons I had learned about dealing with alpha males like Rafe was that their egos needed absolutely no artificial inflation. If I told him that his touch melted all my bones, he’d think he was hell on wheels. And then he’d run off and try his luck with another female.
Been there. Done that.
“Rafe? Rafe, honey? You back there?”
Case in point. That lilting voice belonged to Christine Strand, the head of our Ladies League. Over the years she’d irritated me by throwing herself at Charlie. And from the way Rafe flinched, I could tell she wasn’t exactly his favorite person either.
“Wait here,” he muttered. “This won’t take but a minute.”
I used the minute to compose myself. I realized my taupe dress was hiked up a little too high on my thighs to be respectable, so I jumped down to jiggle everything into place.
I’d forgotten about my shoe being on the injured reserve list and the heel promptly came off, causing me to clutch at the desk as my ankle twisted with the broken shoe. Pain arrowed up my leg and took my breath away. I cried out in agony.
Between waves of pain I was struck by the bittersweet realization that I had only myself to blame. If I’d been thinking, I would have kept to my busy sched
ule today. The smart thing to do was to stay away from Rafe until I knew who had murdered Dudley.
The murder had happened here on this golf course. Who had better opportunity to commit a crime here than someone who worked here? I shouldn’t have let myself be swayed by marauding hormones.
The Assistant Pro, whipcord-thin Jasper Kingsland, heard my cry and fixed me up with a bag of ice on my left foot while Rafe took care of Christine and the next foursome of seniors. Jasper cleared off Rafe’s chair and repositioned me to prop my foot on Rafe’s desk.
Did Jasper ever take off that navy-blue Nike swoosh cap? I’d yet to see his hair, but from the fullness of his dark bushy eyebrows, I guessed his hair must be of a similar texture. I pictured a dark unruly mop on top of his acorn-shaped head. The resulting image didn’t look much like a golf pro, more like a monk. No wonder he wore the cap all the time.
The ice brought blessed relief to my throbbing ankle. “I’m having the worst luck lately at this golf course,” I said. “First I stumble over a dead body and then I almost destroy the Pro Shop.”
“The Pro Shop will be fine,” Jasper said, his face tightening into a scowl. “As for Dudley, he only got what he deserved.”
“Oh? Did you have a grievance against Dudley?” My throbbing ankle quickly took second place to my curiosity.
“That man was a crook and I’ll never forgive him for the rest of my life.” Jasper’s spine went steel shaft rigid.
Jasper didn’t like Dudley. It sounded like his dislike ran deep. Was it deep enough to cause him to murder Dudley?
Jasper Kingsland had been the assistant pro here for a few years, moving here after his mother relocated to the area. Because I was an accountant, my thoughts turned to money. His salary couldn’t be much.
Was his beef with Dudley over money? Dudley had been a long-time member of Hogan’s Glen Golf Club. Did he owe the club money? I couldn’t imagine a few outstanding cart fees driving someone to commit murder.
Thing was, I could sit here and guess all day and never come close to the truth about Jasper’s feelings. If I wanted to know Jasper’s issue with Dudley, I had to ask. “Why do you say that?”